THE NIGHT I MET EINSTEIN
When I was a young man, just beginning to make my way, I was invited to dine at the home of a distinguished New York philanthropist, Lady Jane Vanderbilt. After dinner, our hostess led us to an enormous drawing room. Other guests were pouring in. My eyes set on two unnerving sights: Servants were arranging small gilt chairs in long, straight rows. Up front, leaning against the wall, were several classical musical instruments. Apparently we were in for an evening of symphony music. I use the phrase “in for” because e music meant nothing to me. I am almost tone deaf. I was born with poor hearing and became almost totally deaf in my left ear at age eight when I contacted a mastoid infection in my left middle ear. Only with great effort can I carry the simplest tune.
In those days, symphony musicians had long hair, hence, I called their stuff ‘long hair;’ they played violins, piccolos, trumpets, clarinets, and such. The drummer’s clash the symbols, and pound on the timpani drums, gongs, gourds, triangles, cow bells, and so forth. Over and over all evening long, no vocals--guitars or drum sets, just instrumentals. It’s all guaranteed to wave me to sleep and then wake me up at the crescendos. I avoided attending symphony concerts as if my life depended on it. Very few times have I been forced or trapped, as in this situation, to be here in the first place.
So, what I have learned to do (out of desperation) is bide my time until the tuning stops, the conductor raises both arms, stops the tuning, brings his arms down which starts the musicians. With the audience now comfortably seated, I start fixing my face in what I hope has an appearance of intelligent appreciation of the music. I close both ears from the inside and tuck my palm under my chin for support-usually my right palm as I am right handed. Next, I begin the process of what I call “first stage dream- hand submergence.” Practiced as I am, it takes but a few moments, and those nearby who happen to look my way observe only a contemplating lover of the arts with his eye lids hanging partly open. On this occasion there must not have been enough crescendos.
Suddenly, the audience was on their feet clapping. It was intermission. I had slept through the first half. I quickly stood up, embarrassed and afraid I had snored or worse? Just then I heard a gentle, accented voice on my right say.
“You’re not fond of Ravel?” I knew as much about Ravel as I did about nuclear fission. But I did know one of the most famous faces in the world, with his well-known shock of untidy white hair and piercing eyes. I was standing next to Albert Einstein.
DR. KARL WALLACE D.D.S.
