Music for Madness

Musical training is a more potent instrument than any other, because rhythm and harmony find their way into the inward places of the soul.--Plato, The Republic

In Michigan's Wayne County General Hospital, the truth and efficacy of Plato's dictum was once again demonstrated. In the hospital's auditorium a pale, empty-eyed patient, a schizophrenic for the last eight years, brilliantly ran through a 45-minute piano program. In the audience were 300 members of U.S. music teachers' associations. The concert over, they thundered applause.

Strange Voices. The pianist was known to the music teachers only as "Horace F." As a boy, he had been precocious and unpopular, tagged as a sissy. His early indications of musical ability--plucking out tunes on a banjo--were fostered by a fond mother, who sent him to a succession of women piano teachers. Pianist Ossip Gabrilowitsch, then conductor of the Detroit Symphony, saw the boy's talent, encouraged him to attempt concert work. In time, Horace himself became a teacher. With the exception of a few private concerts, he never played in public.

In 1936, his friend Gabrilowitsch died. Horace began to complain of blind spells. One night in 1937, he rushed into his parents' room, crying that someone was trying to hurt him. He began to forget who he was, said he heard strange voices. In a short time, he had regressed to utter infancy; he could not walk, talk, or feed himself.

Remembered Prelude. Eighteen months ago, the hospital's psychiatrist. Dr. Ira M. Altshuler, began bombarding Horace with music. Every day he got an hour of Chopin, once his favorite composer. Gradually he began to improve. Placed on a bench before a piano, he poked tentatively at the keys. In a few days he was playing, at first haltingly, then with more authority and feeling. As his musicianship progressed, other faculties returned. He again learned to feed and dress himself, even to speak a few words.

Horace's concert was his big test. He walked on stage woodenly, stiffly, seemingly unconscious of his surroundings. His first piece, a Beethoven sonata, was performed competently, but with odd distortions. The audience applauded politely. Then he launched into a Chopin nocturne, played it with shimmering virtuosity. At the concert's close he had lost enough of his stiffness to shake hands with his congratulators.

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