On the evening of 8 November 1990, I took a call from one of my recently met colleagues at London’s Regents College, one David Andrew, like me an American affiliate at the College, both of us teaching and looking after students from our home institutions studying abroad for the first time, mine from Kentucky and his from New Hampshire.  David was calling from the Barbican to say he had an extra ticket for Alfred Brendel’s performance of the Brahms piano concerto no. 1 on the second half of the program; if I left my Balcombe Street flat soon, I could make it there in time for the second half of the program when Brendel would play; David would meet me in the lobby of the Hall with the ticket.

It didn’t take me long to decide to go.  I’d enjoyed talking with David over the previous two months as all the American affiliates struggled to understand what was going on at Regents College under the leadership of John and Gillian Payne, wealthy Brits who had bought the College when it seemed likely to fail under its previous administration; David was the only affiliate who’d been at Regents the previous year, witness to the extravagance that had brought Regents to the brink.  The Paynes were not academics, had made their fortune manufacturing boxes abroad, and were under the misapprehension that we American profs reported to them, not to our home administrators.  Remarkable and hilarious contretemps ensued, with David providing historical context. 

Besides, Brendel and Brahms together was a Big Deal, so off I went, to sit next to David, keyboard side, second row.  My, my.  It turned out David knew Alfred Brendel from Brendel’s previous visit to the University of New Hampshire.  David had been on the Celebrity Series committee that booked Brendel, had picked him up at Logan Airport, and driven him to his accommodations in the New England Center, then undergoing some renovations.  At the hotel check-in desk, this worried Brendel, who was reassured by the clerk that the noise would not be bothersome.  Brendel’s reply (reported by David complete with Austrian accent):  “Yes, but I don’t have ordinary ears.”  Somewhat nonplussed about what to do next, David suggested Brendel might rather stay at his Portsmouth home, complete with a Steinway model L.  “Oh, could I?” was Brendel’s reply.  And thus began David’s few days of happily serving as Brendel’s valet, and an acquaintance that continued when David arrived in London.

By the time my parents and sister came to London to spend Christmas 1990 with me, David and I were much more than colleagues, and David invited me to be Brendel’s date for dinner at his Hampstead flat.  I went with my mother dress shopping for the occasion, and she bought me an elegant black frock with a lace collar at one of the august, massive London department stores (perhaps Selfridge’s?) for my Christmas present.  And on 29 December 1990, I made my way to David’s flat, nervous about making a good impression on the Great Man, given that I was NOT, like David, a musician who could speak intelligently of the canon.  I need not have feared.  David had tipped Brendel that I was a Shakespeare professor, and Brendel, also a serious man of letters, charmingly directed the conversation in that direction.

The enormously talented and gracious Alfred Brendel died at age 94 in his London home on 17 June, which would have been my mother Virginia’s 102^nd birthday.  This Saturday, 21 June, would have been David’s and my 30^th anniversary; we married five years after what I later realized was our first date there at the Barbican 35 years ago.  The previous month I had taken myself out to the then best French restaurant in London, Tante Claire, for my 38^th birthday in October, and while I’d had a splendid solo meal, I remember thinking as David insisted on escorting me back to my flat on that November night after the Brendel Brahms how nice it was to be making my way through the London streets, not alone, but beside this clever, handsome man.  At my door, I thanked David for a lovely evening.  We shook hands and parted.  But, as it happens, not for long.

Rest in peace, Mr. Brendel.  And thanks for the memories.