406
PARTISAN REVIEW
records produced in Eastern Europe were sold in soiled gray envelopes,
and the photos on the covers were bleary and smeared, with misplaced
blocks of color.
The salesgirls realized that they'd stumbled onto something excep–
tional; it even seemed to me that they were smiling with glee, which
happened exceedingly rarely. I must have walked in just after this
unusual delivery, since all nine symphonies were still awaiting pur–
chasers. I knew they'd be snatched up immediately, all nine sym–
phonies, all nine portraits of von Karajan.
It
never occurred to me that
this was clearly a popular, hence inexpensive, series of recordings.
Much later, when I became familiar with the commercial customs of
the West, I understood that this handsome conductor's recordings of
Beethoven's complete symphonies-or Wagner's overtures-could be
picked up in almost any Western European music store.
I also knew that I didn't have much time: other customers would
soon appear, some rich lawyer or doctor might take the whole set on the
spot. I had to make my choice right then and there, and I had just
enough for one record. I couldn't possibly purchase the entire set; that
was out of the question, given my modest income.
The Complete Symphonies of Ludwig van Beethoven Under the
Direction of Herbert von Karajan
must have been relatively inexpensive
in the West, but here in the East its price was steep, much higher than
that of recordings from Poland, Czechoslovakia, or the Soviet Union, as
if crossing the Iron Curtain called for a prohibitive tariff. I could afford
only one symphony out of the nine.
To my shame, I knew next to nothing back then about Beethoven's
symphonies, only that they ranked among the absolute masterworks of
world music. I had nine records in front of me and I had to pick one. I
had to take my chances right then, that moment. I suspected that some
symphonies might be less wonderful than others, that I might prefer
some to others; even genius occasionally nods .
I had only a few minutes. I asked the salesgirl to show me the records.
But I couldn't listen to them. I couldn't spend the next eight hours in the
bookstore listening to all nine symphonies.
It
wasn't done. Besides,
some rich doctor or lawyer with cultured tastes might suddenly appear,
smelling of eau de cologne, and snap up the whole set.
I scrutinized the beautifully packaged records as if I could pierce the
music's mystery through layers of cardboard and paper. Looking back,
I think the torture I endured then must have been one of fate's benign
amusements; destiny plays tricks on us at times. Perhaps it grows bored
