The deeper challenge, strangely, was not external.
As his skill improved, Ethan began to understand how much farther there was to go. At the community center he had often felt astonishing. At Bellcroft he sometimes felt promising, sometimes behind, sometimes both in alternating measures. Ms.
Sterling called this the first healthy crisis of serious study. “It is useful,” she told him after he nearly cried over a stubborn passage. “Small children want proof they are special. Musicians eventually want proof they can tell the truth. Those are not the same hunger.” Ethan did not fully understand then, but he remembered the words.
In mid-July he visited Arthur Levin’s widow, Miriam, for the first time since the funeral.
She lived in a narrow duplex full of books, ceramic bowls, and the faint scent of onions cooked slowly with butter. Ethan had brought flowers bought from the grocery clearance bin. Miriam waved them away affectionately and asked him to play in the front room where Arthur used to mark parts with a blue pencil. After he finished the Bach Sarabande, she wiped her glasses and said, “He made you listen before he made you sound pretty.
That was his best habit.” Then she went to a small writing desk and took out a folded envelope. Inside was a check for four hundred dollars and a note in Arthur’s blocky handwriting: “For the first expense no scholarship covers.” Dana protested when Miriam later passed the envelope to her. Miriam only replied, “Arthur liked purpose better than flowers.”
The expense turned out to be transportation for the fall, plus a proper dress shirt and shoes for concert attire.