You were my best man, we agreed it over quenelles de brochet and Corton. You thought it unexpected, and accepted so gladly, I was pleased. Do you remember, when we could hear Böhm conduct Fidelio at the Met or Serkin in the sonatas, that we chose Carnegie Hall? It was natural for us, for Beethoven's bicentennial; like sorrel soup in May out in your garden. I fear you must have known, it was an explosion of resistance that saw my father take your place, on the pretense, he'd expected it: the ladies of the moment were disturbed. In the way they read my Ansel Adams of the farmer behind a screen door, and made me take it down - her care-drawn face so beautiful in the filtered light - your mild and quiet elegance frightened them as if a property of mine, as if reproving them. Yet another signal to abhor what I admire, as I did, them; not done to show me weak, but then to what effect? Why should they want the promise that was left?
Now I am not free to praise your quiet soul, your brave and sparkling intellect, still far from you, anonymous, without remembered shame. Oh, show to me your sketches, my best man.