Mr. Finkle
Sunday, December 23, 2007 at 11:28PM Dear Horace,
Thank you for your Christmas card. I appreciate your remembering me around Christmas, and I know you are quite busy. This only makes the card that much more meaningful. I also appreciated your little note. Your handwriting is quite good for someone who only types on the computer. In my day a young man's character was judged in part by the quality of his handwriting.
I know it is rare these days to get a personal letter by U.S. Post, but this is what I am used to. Perhaps it will be the last personal letter you, or anyone you know, will ever get. You might consider submitting it to the Smithsonian one day.
Your questions surprised me. For some reason I thought your mother had explained these things to you quite some time ago. Perhaps it would have been better if I had simply telephoned, but my mind works slowly these days and it took some time to figure out what I wanted to say, so this seemed the better way. You may be in the habit of opening your mail over the trash can, as I do. However, your answers will take some time, so I suggest you lean against the kitchen counter and rest yourself a few moments while you read.
First of all, the easy one. I had a brother once named Horace. He was a World War II veteran, and rather eccentric. He was eight years older than I, and never had any children of his own. When your mother was pregnant with you she had every intention of naming you Johnny, but Horace wrote (in another one of those annoying epistles!) passionately urging that you be named after him. "I will die without an heir," he said. "Please give me a namesake." He promised to give you his life's savings in his will. He died when you were two, and as for his life savings, we found that he had quite lost his mind to what doctors now call Alzheimer's but at the time we only knew as senility, and someone has swindled him out of all he had. He was a nice man, though. Horace is a good name, although I know in can be shortened to an ugly epithet that you were likely subjected to in grade school. I trust as you get older you will appreciate it more.
Your mother could have answered this question as easily as I have. My guess is that she referred it to me because she knows I like to tell stories about dead people more than she does.
As to the other question. Although you know me now as a sophisticated city girl, when I was a child I lived in a small town named Cairo in the American South. (I don't know why I am in the habit of saying American South; many countries have southern regions but there is only one South, by my accounting.) My father was the town lawyer, and we were fairly well off -- especially after the oil money came to town. I attended a small private school, and led what I can now only call a sheltered life.
One day at school, our teacher announced that a professional pianist would be performing for the entire student body. The teacher handed each of us a card. It read, "Howard Finkle, Concert Pianist." To the left of the name was a stately treble clef, elegant and assertive as bold handwriting. It was a business card. Now, Horace, I know that in these days of electronic printing business cards are commonplace, but in those days they were the exception, so this item was to us quite an artifact.
We filed into the school gym. Finkle eschewed the stage, instead rolling the baby grand piano into our midst. We sat in a circle around. He wore a golden tie and a fine, dark blue suit of a quality unknown in Cairo. He spoke a few words to us, and then sat down to play. He played only classical music, but when I heard the first note, I no longer believed there was any other kind. He played for almost an entire rapturous hour, then closed the lid on the keys, thanked us, and left without ceremony. Later the teacher told us that Mr. Finkle was new to town, and would be giving lessons to children interested in learning the piano.
Perhaps you can imagine the uproar that ensued. Every child at our school returned home that day and begged his or her parents for piano lessons. I expect the scenes played out in every home as they did in my own: My parents sat at the kitchen table, expressions of skepticism on their faces, saying to me, "Martha, you took piano lessons two years ago. You never practiced. No one has touched the piano in the year since you stopped." "But Momma, Daddy, please," I implored. "Mr. Finkle is different. He is a great teacher. Oh, you have to let me. You just have to."
A few days later Momma called Mr. Finkle and asked him to add me to his list of privileged students. It was a very long list. All of the -- how shall I put this -- well-bred children signed up. Mr. Finkle, it seemed, was an instant status symbol in Cairo.
Excitedly I waited for my first lesson. When the day finally came, I tucked a few of my old lesson books under my arm and walked the four blocks to Mr. Finkle's house. (I know this may be a bit of a shock to you, Horace, but in my day parents thought nothing of letting their nine year-old daughters walk unaccompanied four blocks. Don't ask me to explain it. It was a different time.) Mr. Finkle was living in Dr. Sartoni's house, renting it while the distinguished doctor took a 6 month sabbatical in Italy. The doctor's home was always known as the most elegant in town, but somehow Finkle's presence enhanced even this aura of fineness.
I went in, and waited in the foyer some minutes as Mr. Finkle completed the prior lesson. The student, Tommy, a grade ahead of me in school, left, and Finkle let me in. Finke taught in a remarkably elegant velvet smoking jacket, though he never smoked during his lessons. I presented him my lesson books, but he set them aside. "Martha, I want to see what you can do." I stared at the keyboard, unsure how to proceed.
"Ah, my dear Martha, it is as I suspected. Your teacher taught you scales, taught you to read notes and keep the beat, but you have never learned how to play a song, have you? I want to teach you music, not scales."
And music is what he taught me. He told me to put my lesson books away and he gave me sheet music to practice with. Every week I went, my heart beating eagerly, half because I loved music and half because I had a hopeless crush on the instructor.
Mr. Finkle, rumor had it, came from New York. He had a regular job with an orchestra, the story went, but unfortunate circumstances forced him to give up the job. He was a friend of Dr. Sartoni, and had moved to Cairo for a respite. He was as popular with the adult community as with the children. The adults admired his musical talent and understood that he had led a remarkable career in New York, although, like the children, they lacked knowledge of some of the particulars. One community grandame created a considerable stir when, on a trip to Florida, found a record of Schubert recordings that featured our dear Mr. Finkle as a soloist. The record made the rounds in town for quite some time, adults and children alike crowding secretly around record players to marvel over his interpretations, even though most of them knew next to nothing about classical music.
The maestro himself, as some took to calling him, was seen all over town in the company of some of Cairo's finest ladies. This caused me no end of jealousy, sometimes even to the point of tears. Finkle's taste in female companionship was as discerning as it was in music. I would like to think that eventually I would take my place among Fulsom county's most beautiful and sophisticated ladies, but at age nine I had maturing yet to do. He could be nothing more than my teacher.
Mr. Finkle remained with us for only four sweet months. I will now relate the circumstances of his leaving -- and no, Horace, I have not forgotten your question; your answer is coming shortly. By early November, now known for his exceptional skill, Finkle was approached by several local church congregations to lead their Christmas concerts. He signaled an initial willingness, but when he learned that most of our local churches were fundamentalist and he was being asked to play some of the most stalwart hymns in our repertoire, he declined. After an initial reticence, he at last explained himself. "I cannot participate in your religious celebrations because, you see, I am not Christian. I am a Jew, and not an exceptionally good Jew at that, though I would never go so far as to say that I have abandoned by beliefs. On the other hand, it would be disingenuous of me to pretend to be Christian. 'Jingle Bells' I can play. Maybe even 'Silent Night' if the mood is light enough. But it would be improper for me to lead you in anything more serious. My apologies."
His apologies were not well accepted. When the townsfolk realized Mr. Finkle was not Christian, they began to withdraw their children from lessons. The best local ladies permitted themselves to be seen with him less and less often. My parents broached the question of withdrawing me from lessons also, but facing an outburst of tears, they backed off.
Horace, I am embarrassed at the behavior of my neighbors, to be sure, but I would be remiss if I led you to believe that the honorable man was ostracized. Nothing of the sort happened. He simply ceased to be the center of attention is all.
At last Mr. Finkle announced to his remaining students that he would be leaving town. I was, needless to say, devastated. As a child who naturally thought the world revolved around her, I had thought my loyalty to him created a bond between us that would never be broken. In my last few weeks I learned as much as I could. Christmas week was nearing, and I practiced at home harder than ever, perhaps with the foolish hope that if I showed enough promise as a pupil, he would change his mind. He and I never spoke about his social situation until the very last lesson.
In our town, citizens maintained a Southern sense of dignity in our interactions with each other, meaning that we pretended not to be curious about each others private lives even as we prodded into every secret. I knew some things about him, therefore, that I never revealed that I knew; but in the end I had to know the answer to the question burning in my child's heart and understood that I would only find out if I asked.
Midway through the final lesson, I burst out: "Mr. Finkle, I hope we are not chasing you out of this town!"
He paused, his fingertips resting on the piano keys. "Oh, of course not, my dear Martha. It is simply that last summer I lost my job in New York, and this fall it was offered back to me. After some soul searching, I decided to accept. I like it here in Cairo, but I cannot pursue the career I want to in a town this small. That is all."
"Mr. Finkle," I said, "You told the people in town that you do not believe in Christmas. If you do not believe, how do you live during the Christmas season? I mean, everyone else is celebrating. You must feel so left out!"
"Sometimes I do, but often I don't. I often find it within myself to celebrate along with the Christians. Up to a certain point of course."
"How can you do that if you do not believe?"
Mr. Finkle got up, and walked over to a bookshelf where he kept a large collection of sheet music. He ran his finger along the shelf, finally selecting an item and sliding it out. He walked back to the piano and stood by the bench.
"Martha, when I was your age I lived in a strict Jewish household. I was learning the piano as you are now, and I heard a piece of music I thought was the most beautiful I had ever heard." He took the music and placed it on the piano. I read the words on it: "Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring."
"It is still one of my favorites. I think the man who wrote it is one of the greatest composers of all time. He believed the sentiments of this work, and wrote many other sacred Christian pieces. Since I love the man who wrote this, I love his beliefs -- through him. I will always remain a Jew, but I will also have deep respect for the beliefs of those I care about. When I think of Christmas, I think of "Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring," and pieces like it, and love Christmas through the hearts of the composers who create such unearthly harmonies. This is what music is all about, at least for me."
I left there in tears, and went to visit him one more time before he left town, but that is the main part of my story. Mr. Finkle, I am told, went back to New York and resumed a distinguished career. As a concert musician, I am not sure he ever gave lessons again, and I sometimes flatter myself thinking I was his last student. But I don't know that.
This then, is the answer to your second question. I have no idea why I waited so many years to tell this story to you. You know your Grandma Meyers has never been at a loss for words, but for some reason I have always held this one close to my heart. Now you know.
And so, when you come to your aunt's house on Christmas, you will for the twenty-first time hear your old Grandma labor out "Jesu, of Man's Desiring" with her bony fingers on the old piano, knowing why I hardheadly insist that all of you listen to it. God, I hope your aunt remembered to get the thing tuned this year. Last year's performance was horrible, but it wasn't all my fault. I have been reminding her to call the piano tuner since September.
I look forward to seeing you when you get back from school. Hugs and kisses.
Your Grandmother,
Martha
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Reader Comments (9)
Thanks for writing.
I am sorry I haven't gotten back to you sooner, but I wanted to let you know that I have submitted material to Hospital Drive in the past, and was turned down. In fact, the journal did not even do me the decency of sending a rejection email.
I don't plan on submitting to them ever again, for that reason.