"The situation here is not as ideal as it is at Vassar, where the music building is filled with pianos," he continues, "but if you're talented and really driven you find the means."

Christoph Wolff, chairman of the department, addresses the piano issue more specifically. "We do have quite a number of pianos, although not all of them are in the best of shape," he says, adding. "We are about to improve the situation and rebuilding is in effect."

In fact, David Cybulski, who is in charge of piano mainte ance at Harvard, has rebuilt eight of the University's 60-plus pianos this year. But the rebuilding process is extremely slow--taking time away from his equally important duties in piano tuning and upkeep--and over Cybulski's five years here he has completed only 12 instruments in all.

Cybulski's short answer to questions about the inaccessibility of the University's concert grands perhaps best reflects the department's attitude toward serious musicians. "There is no way you can keep something fine while letting everyone play on it," he says. "Music is simply not a very democratic art."

The plaque above her desk reads "Life is like a piano--what you get out of it depends on how you play it." Her note pads bear the legend "quarter note," and her stationary is covered with small flowering G-clefs. Last December, in what she describes as "the most important thing that's ever happened to me," she soloed with Zubin Mehta and the New York Philharmonic, and this summer she will travel as far as Tokyo to give her third recital in the city's most prestigious concert hall.

Yet Mayo Tsuzuki is majoring in Engineering and Applied Sciences, and the hours she once spent at the piano she now spends in the basement of the Science Center disentangling the mysteries of A.M. 110. She insists she gave up any ideas about becoming a concert pianist before she came to Harvard. But her almost wistful ambivalence about that decision, her commitment to future performing, and even the mementos that crowd her Canaday room, all speak of regret that she cannot at least continue to practice regularly. She admits that if she had arrived here last September resolved on pursuing a professional career in music, the inaccessibility of good practice facilities coupled with her heavy academic obligations would probably have shaken her resolve.

In another way, however, Tsuzuki says coming here has strengthened her determination always to have some sort of music in her life. "Coming to Harvard gave me the option of dropping piano altogether," she says, adding. "Not until this year, when the choice was finally mine, did I realize how important to me it really was."

Nevertheless, this musician who says her parents would never have allowed her to quit the piano before she finished high school has not had a piano lesson in more than a month. "When I was little my friends used to come over and say, 'Mayo, come out and play,' but my mother would say, 'No, she has to practice,' "she recalls. "Now I can only practice if I have a concert coming up.

"Sometimes I wonder if all that hard work was a waste--I lost the chance to learn about so many other things, and I didn't come here with a very worldly mind."

Certainly a year in the Yard has improved her knowledge of the world, but music--if sometimes only on note pads and stationary--remains in her life. "I want to try to keep performing as long as I can," she says, adding. "I hope Harvard doesn't get too much in the way."

Kenneth Bookstein spent most of his summer at Interlochen Music Festival breaking into the women's dormitory. His motives were really quite innocent, however--he simply wanted to practice on the building's nine-foot grand. Now one Harvard pianist ponders Bookstein's reputed eight-hour practicing binges here: "He must have made some sort of deal with the department secretary who controls the keys."

Bookstein is simply an extremely dedicated musician. "I intend to become a concert pianist," he says, and he will allow nothing to stand in his way. "I've been known to practice until five in the morning," he continues. "I really find it quite pleasant concentrating for such long periods of time--sort of like running the marathon." He adds with a grin, "Of course the chair helps."

Unlike Tsuzuki and other pianists like her who have felt compelled to let their music take a back seat in this academic environment. Bookstein says he has become a more serious musician since he came to Harvard. "Maybe it's that I'm surrounded by more serious players," says the native of tiny LaJolla, Calif. "Maybe it's the change of atmosphere."

A music major, Bookstein voices the sentiments of many Harvard musicians when he says he came here because he wanted to expose himself to the world of liberal arts before jumping into one-track conservatory life. He elaborates: "I really worked out a lot of my technical problems before I came here. This year I tried to concentrate more on expanding my repertoire." Hence, eight hours of daily practice.

Bookstein's criticisms of the pianist's life here are minimal, partially because he seems to have both the guile and the dedication to surmount all obstacles. He plans to give at least six recitals next year, and his strenuous practicing schedule shows no sign of letting up. But the bulk of his musical education, like that of other serious performers at Harvard, will take place outside the classroom. "I'm not here to learn piano performance," he says. "Harvard does not offer piano performance."