In early summer of 1990, having finished my doctoral coursework and completed my master’s thesis on Carl Friedrich Zelter’s Lieder, I started making plans for the following years. I was to pass my candidacy exams—written and oral—later in the summer. I applied to study Italian at Università per stranieri in Perugia, Italy. Yet, what excited me the most was a trip to Champaign-Urbana, Illinois. Several well-respected professionals had told me that, if I really wanted to know more about Lieder, I should study with John Wustman. For years, I was bound by school requirements and didn’t think I was ready to approach him. Finally, I wrote to him, asking to study with him privately. And, he agreed to meet with me.
To treat myself, I first went to see a production of Benjamin Britten’s Peter Grime at Opera Theater of St. Louis. The next afternoon, with the powerful score still ringing in my head, I drove north toward Champaign in my little red Corolla hatchback. Without air conditioning, I rolled down all the windows so to not be toasted by the scorching summer heat. A recording of Schubert’s Winterreise (Winter Journey) performed by Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau and Gerald Moore was playing in a loop.[1]
I had chosen to play “Der Lindenbaum” (“The Linden Tree”), the fifth song in the cycle, as my “audition” piece with Mr. Wustman:
Der Linedenbaum
Am Brunnen vor dem Tore,
Da steht ein Lindenbaum;
Ich träumt’ in seinem Schatten
So manchen süssen Traum.
Ich schnitt in seine Rinde
So manches liebe Wort;
Es zog in Freud’ und Leide
Zu ihm mich immer fort.
Ich musst’ auch heute wandern
Vorbei in tiefer Nacht,
Da hab’ ich noch im Dunkel
Die Augen zugemacht.
Und seine Zweige rauschten,
Als riefen sie mir zu:
Komm her zu mir, Geselle,
Hier findst du deine Ruh’!
Die kalten Winde bliesen
Mir grad ins Angesicht,
Der Hut flog mir vom Kopfe,
Ich wendete mich nicht.
Nun bin ich manche Stunde
Entfernt von jenem Ort,
Und immer hör’ ich’s rauschen:
Du fändest Ruhe dort!
The Linden Tree
By the well, in front of the gate,
there stands a linden tree;
In its shadow, I dreamed
many a sweet dream.
I carved, in its bark,
many a word of love;
In joy and sorrow,
I was always drawn to it.
Today, again, I had to walk past it
deep into the night;
There, even in the darkness,
I closed my eyes.
And its branches rustled
as if they were calling to me:
“Come to me, friend,
here you will find rest.”
The cold wind blew
straight into my face.
The hat flew from my head.
I did not turn around.
Now, I am many hours
away from that place.
Yet I still hear the rustling:
“You would find rest there.’
Fischer-Dieskau & Moore
Partly, I wanted to work on the piece in memory of my father: I had known the tune since my childhood, as it was taught at schools with simplified accompaniment along with my dad’s translation.[2] Even then, I understood the wanderer’s nostalgia, his feeling of isolation and his desperation for peace. Often, I stood by the persimmon tree in front of our house, singing the song and wondering if I would in my later years suffer the same kind of loneliness as the wanderer.
Schubert’s beautiful piano writing was the other reason that I chose the song: Although the vocal line stays mostly unchanged in each strophe—except for a minor phrase, depicting the cold blowing wind—the through-composed piano part was descriptive. It requires technical precision and nuanced touch. As I drove, I was imagining playing it in my session the next day.
At about 20 miles south of Champaign, looking in the rear view mirror, I noticed some dark clouds behind me. Gradually, they looked more and more threatening. I pulled the car over; rolled up the windows; turned the music volume up and sped toward town. By the time I arrived in Champaign, the sky had turned green.
I had the habit of memorizing maps before a long trip. However, in complete darkness and torrential rain, I panicked. It was impossible to identify any small street signs. A large highway sign pointed me south toward “University of Illinois, Champaign-Urbana.” Slowly, I continued driving until there was corn field directly in front of me.[3] Based on my sense of direction, I made a left turn onto a two-lane road. When I saw a brightly-lit sign on the right side of road and a wide driveway, I pulled in. IT WAS A FUNERAL HOME. And, my cassette recording was playing “Das Wirtshaus” (The Inn).
Auf einen Totenacker
Hat mich mein Weg gebracht.
Allhier will ich einkehren:
Hab’ ich bei mir gedacht.
To a graveyard,
my path has led me.
Here, I will stay over,
I thought to myself.
Without blinking, I turned the car around. As fast as I could in the stormy condition, I traced my way back to the main roads. The storm blew over quickly. Flooded streets caused several detours. Eventually, I found the motel and settled in for the night.
Next morning, still trying to shake off my nightmarish experience the day before, I walked down the hallway of Smith Hall and knocked on Mr. Wustman’s door. I didn’t know what I was expecting, but definitely not the image standing in front of me. The gentleman who answer the door greeted me with a kind smile, charismatic yet commending. He wore khaki pants and casual shoes. I noticed his eyebrow right away—as thick and wild as my dad’s. There was an instant connection. A sense of comfort came over me.
I played the Schubert as well as I could. Mr. Wustman calmly said: “You played too fast and you have no sound.” Foolishly, I was glad that he didn’t say I was playing too slowly. But, his comment of “no sound” puzzled me. As if he read my mind, he said: “I am not talking about loud or soft. Music must have sound. . .” After working for about half an hour, he asked me to organize my thoughts. We discussed the important things in music making. Quickly, an hour passed. I asked for a second meeting. He said, “Yes.”
Although he didn’t ask me to make any technical change in our session, something in me was awakened. After returning to Kent, I went into my usual practice room and put my hands on the same piano. The sound came out of the instrument, like a powerful creature becoming alive after a long nap. Life was never the same from that day on.
I went to see Mr. Wustman with only one thing in mind: to learn. I didn’t know to be afraid. I didn’t know how ignorant I was. I was determined enough that the storm-and-the-funeral-home encounter didn’t cause me to have second thoughts. (Bad omen?) After returning from Italy, I moved to Illinois.
[1] Die Winterreise: Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau, baritone; Alfred Brendel.
[2]
Treated as a folk tune in strophic form, in our music books, the opening phrase of the third strophe was kept in major
key. “Lindenbaum” was translated as “bodhi tree,” perhaps an interpretation of mistranslated Japanese:
井旁邊大門前面, 有一棵菩堤樹.
我曾在樹蔭底下, 做過甜夢無數. 我曾在樹皮上面, 刻過寵句無數. 歡樂和痛苦時候,
常常走近這樹, 常常走近這樹.
彷彿像今天一樣, 我流浪到深更.
我在黑暗中經過, 什麼都看不清. 依稀聽到那樹枝, 對我簌簌作聲: 朋友來到我這裡,
你來找求安靜, 你來找求安靜.
冷風呼呼地吹來, 正對著我的臉.
頭上的帽被吹落, 不忍轉身回看. 遠離開了那地方, 依舊念念不忘. 我常聽見簌簌聲,
你會找到安靜, 你會找到安靜.
[3]For those who are familiar with Champaign-Urbana: I got off Interstate 57 and turned south onto Prospect Ave. Instead of turning left onto Springfield Ave, I kept on going. . .. I believed that I went as far as Windsor Rd.
Late August, traveling with my family. . .
Decades later, staying at a bed and breakfast near Dajia River with all its amenities, I felt a deep sense of melancholy. There is a Chinese saying: 景物依舊, 人事全非 (The scenery is still as before, but people and conditions have all changed.) In this case, even the sceneries had changed a great deal. A 7.3 magnitude earthquake on September 21, 1999 not only destroyed multiple sections of the Cross-Island Highway but also reshaped central Taiwan geologically. Typhoon Mindulle ruined attempts to repair and reopen the roadway. Today, the section between Guguan and Lishan is indefinitely closed to regular traffic.