Vladimir Horowitz: The Prodigal Returns

"I had to go back to Russia before I died," explains the last romantic

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This most extraordinary of artists has led a far from ordinary life. It has been marked by the psychic dislocation of revolution and separation from his family; by several psychologically troubled retirements from the stage; by difficulties in his relationships with his wife and his late daughter. He can be a shameless ham who deflates his own posturings with a sly wink or a puckish smile. Or he can be morose and withdrawn, complaining bitterly about real or imagined physical ailments. He can be selfish and difficult, even by the generous latitudes granted to performers of genius. He bemoans the fact that younger pianists do not seek him out in a spirit of collegiality, but his sometimes aloof and always unpredictable demeanor discourages such contact.

For years Horowitz has repressed or altered the memories, refusing to speak about--or, when pressed, discussing in only the vaguest, most idealized way--such personal or painful subjects as his early life in the Soviet Union and the death of his daughter Sonia. "So many myths about me, all of them lies," he says. But now, in contemplation of returning home, the barriers have been breaking down. "I remember everything," he says. Speak, memory:

Russia, 1904. Horowitz was the youngest of the four children of Samuel and Sophie Gorovitz. The assimilated Jewish family lived in a handsomely appointed house on, appropriately, Music Street in Kiev. Samuel (who has been known in the West as Simeon) was an engineer who spoke fluent French and German and was sometimes given to wild impulse; after hearing a Pablo Casals concert one day, he rushed out and bought a cello, which he never learned to play. "My father used to say that we are all good at some aspect of music," Horowitz recalls. "It could be listening, playing, composing, studying. But we all feel a kinship to music."

Sophie was the musical one, a large woman with luxuriant hair and kind eyes. She was an excellent amateur pianist; it was her taste that dominated the household, and not only musically. "As I look back, I realize that my mother set a tone of politeness and good manners. She loved flowers. And this was a period in our lives when music became a source of inspiration and wonder. Ours was a happy home." Both parents had great hopes for their children. "They wanted us to shine like suns."

Young Volodya's attraction to music was demonstrated in dramatic fashion. He was listening to Regina practice one day, and kept time by beating his fingers against the window. The impromptu accompaniment abruptly ended when his tiny fist went through the glass. Fortunately, he escaped without serious injury. "Imagine a child of three with such strength," he marvels, savoring the memory. "But it was so. I still remember it."

Piano lessons and enrollment at the conservatory followed at a leisurely pace, for the family saw no need to rush a prodigy to the stage. Horowitz (the spelling was Westernized after he moved to Germany) was a brilliant sight reader and was endowed with a capacious memory; he devoured the piano literature and steeped himself in opera scores as well. The Revolution of 1917 abruptly put an end to his relaxed, privileged existence. The Horowitzes had survived the Czarist pogroms of 1905 with their lives and possessions intact. The more thorough Bolsheviks tossed the pianos into the street and made bonfires out of the music books.

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