In my own private mythology, the date of my conversation with Arthur Rubinstein—October 19, 1966—has a particular significance, in that it marks the beginning of my career as an interviewer. I was not yet twenty-five at the time, so my impression of his recital in Budapest has to be taken with a grain of salt. For me, his playing was gray, devoid of any expression. I saw an old man toiling away at the keyboard; the sounds he produced simply failed to come across as music. I am sure I am being unjust, but that is what I felt at the time.

In the artist's room, I saw at close range that he was made up for the stage: his eyebrows were drawn in black pencil, his hair appeared to have been curled artificially. The interview itself, though brief, was of course fascinating. Rubinstein exuded the air of Parisian salons of the past, where witty conversation was spiced with bons mots. We talked in English with Rubinstein mixing in some German and French expressions, when he was lost for the right word.

O

Arthur Rubinstein (AR): Ravel and I were good friends. Debussy I did not know. I was introduced to him, he reached me his hand without so much as looking at me. I was very young. I did not interest him.