Diary of a Miracle

Monday, 3 p.m.: Danish-born Pianist Gunnar Johansen, 63, gets a phone call at the University of Wisconsin, where he has been artist-in-residence since 1939. Boris Sokoloff, manager of the Philadelphia Orchestra, is on the line. Conductor Eugene Ormandy and Pianist Peter Serkin have disagreed on the interpretation of Beethoven's Piano Concerto in D Major, which Serkin was to play with the Philadelphians in Manhattan's Philharmonic Hall the following evening. Could Johansen fill in? Johansen has never even heard the piece, a little-known transcription by Beethoven of his only violin concerto. He dashes next door to the music library, glances at the score, agrees to do it. What he does not know is that twelve other pianists have already declined the job.

Monday, 10 p.m.: Johansen arrives in Manhattan, barely making a 6 p.m. flight from Madison. On the plane, he has made his first real study of the score. He has had plenty of experience. Trained in Berlin by Egon Petri, he played concerts in Europe for four years before moving to the U.S. in 1929. He has made five previous New York appearances, notably a 1966 performance of Busoni's challenging Piano Concerto. But now the magnitude of what he has undertaken overwhelms him. At a hotel, he recites "a prayer to Ludwig for help," and drops off to sleep.

Tuesday, 9 a.m.: Johansen arrives at Philharmonic Hall to check the piano, decides that he needs a different one. He goes to the nearby Steinway building, chooses a piano, has it sent to the hall, then settles down for five solid hours of furious practicing. Then back to Philharmonic Hall for rehearsal, on the way gulping down a luncheon of carrot juice at a health-food store.

Tuesday, 4 p.m.: Johansen and Ormandy meet each other for the first time. "Did you practice the cadenzas?" asks Ormandy. "What cadenzas?" replies Johansen. His score does not happen to include them. At this point, Ormandy says that he is having a heart attack. But the one-hour rehearsal goes on, with Ormandy concentrating on the passages where piano and orchestra play together. A messenger is dispatched to obtain a score of the cadenzas. Later Johansen practices backstage, then hurries to the hotel for his tails, which are due back from the valet. No tails. Back to Philharmonic Hall for more practice. Several of the Philadelphia musicians offer to lend Johansen their tails. None fit. Says Ormandy to his men: "Why aren't you on your knees praying?"

Tuesday, 9:30 p.m.: Johansen strides coolly onstage in a grey business suit. After the orchestral opening, his first solo entrance is firm, clean and smoothly phrased. He reads carefully from the score, but otherwise nothing in his playing betrays the tension onstage. After the first movement, Ormandy leans over to whisper: "Bravo." Johansen ripples out silvery pianissimos in the slow movement, builds the finale with structural logic and power. At the finish, the audience--which has been told only thai Peter Serkin is "indisposed" and knows nothing of what has gone on--gives Johansen a warm ovation. Ormandy--who knows all too well what has gone on--gives him a hug and kiss. Backstage, Ormandy describes the feat as "a miracle."

Tuesday, 11 p.m.: Johansen is acclaimed a hero. The full story is out now, and reporters and admirers besiege him. Calm as ever, Johansen makes plans to return to Wisconsin at week's end. He has his teaching there and his own record label, Artist Direct, on which he has recorded the complete piano-solo works of Bach and Busoni. He also has his projects--flying airplanes, working on a steam-powered automobile, planning an academy of arts and sciences in California. But first, Manager Sokoloff motions him over to a corner for one last detail: signing the contract for tonight's engagement. Until now, there has been no time for it.

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