The Mandolin Lesson (8 page)

The New Year starts with a number of complications. I have quite a bit of professional work to undertake: three performances of
Otello
with the Royal Opera and a solo recital of mandolin music with piano accompaniment.

I also have rehearsals for these engagements. The opera is less of a problem. There is just one rehearsal I must attend at Covent Garden and two performances in January. The third performance is at the beginning of February. The recital, on the other hand, requires hours of rehearsal time spent with my pianist. The performance is also at the beginning of February, just a few days after the last
Otello
.

I want to do and will enjoy all of this work, but it is the nature of concert work to be unpredictable. It either comes all at once like this or not at all. The freelance musician is either stressed by too much to do or is bored waiting for the next opportunity.

My real problem is not only trying to fit in a few days away in Italy for my lesson, but also trying to manage all the conflicting requirements. In particular, I have been addressing the issue of changing my hand position. The seed for this change began at Brescia over four years ago. Now beginning on the mandolin course, I have to face up to this challenge once and for all.

One friend wisely said that one must take what is helpful from the experience and disregard what is not useful. This is certainly true at one level, but I have embarked upon a course of study based on certain technical principals. I have to embrace those principals with trust. I have a choice: either I trust my teacher and change my technique, believing that I will then progress to the finer details of style and interpretation, or I walk away. It is not possible to deal with style and interpretation, the actual music, the artistic process, without first having an appropriate technique.

The real difficulty for me at present is that I need some space to concentrate on changing a habit: the habit of holding my right wrist in an arched manner. Instead, I must learn to keep it straight and in contact with the instrument. Intellectually this posture makes sense, but emotionally it is difficult to come to terms with since any habit is hard to change.

At the same time, I have to perform music professionally. I am absorbed, even obsessed, with thinking about the hand position whilst I am practising. But I realise that I mustn't think about it whilst I am performing or else everything will go wrong. I cannot get out of my professional obligations. I just somehow have to get through this period. Some days are brighter than other days, and I feel that I am making progress and that my hand position is evolving. On other days, I feel the strain and impossibility of what I am trying to achieve, and my mood becomes one of despair.

This month, the old-fashioned train is not operating. I don't yet know if this is a permanent change of plan. The Eurostar, however, has a new timetable and is affordable this month.

My trips are beginning to attract a lot of attention from everyone that knows me: my family, friends, colleagues and so on. Everyone is interested in the fact that I am making these trips with such regularity. They are interested in the eccentricity of travelling by train. I explain my motives time and time again. Cheap airfares require an overnight stop on Saturday. I need the cheapest available fare, but I also need to be at home on Saturdays when my son has his lunch leave from the choir school and also so that I can attend Evensong on Saturday afternoon, so that I can support him by hearing him sing

Some people look at me blankly. They don't understand my passion for the mandolin and its music. They don't understand my desire to improve my skill and the fact that I am prepared to travel across Europe to do it. Even less they understand about cathedrals, the English choral tradition and what it is like to be a chorister parent. Other people are utterly amazed by the madness of my undertaking, but like the glamour, romance and, perhaps, the novelty factor. Fortunately, I also have a nucleus of supportive and understanding friends who value the importance of what I am doing. They know it is unique, special and worth doing.

*

On the train to Paris, I sit next to a lovely French lady who tells me that she lives in London during the week where her husband works. At the weekends, she travels home to Paris to be with her daughter who is still at school. I tell her about my study of the mandolin in Italy. Perhaps, there are other people like me, who have or who are growing roots in two cultures, and who commute between them.

*

In Paris, there is an incident in the waiting room at the station whilst I am waiting for the overnight train. Last month, I was pleased to discover the waiting room since it is supervised. This month, I head directly for the waiting room after having eaten, knowing that it will be safe and warm, only to find that it is without a station official.

I sit down and read. Suddenly, a man begins a great commotion. He shouts and his behaviour is threatening and violent, and probably all the more so to me because I don't understand his language. I try not to notice the disturbance, feeling that this is the best course of action. After a while, the man leaves. Everyone starts to chatter with relief.

A man next to me begins to engage me in conversation. All at once, I am involved in a complex discussion and it dawns on me that there is little difference between this man and the one who has just left. How could I have got caught up in this conversation? He says that he had worked at the opera in Verona, but further questioning reveals he sold soft drinks and ice cream. He has a friend in London. The friend works in a restaurant. He wants to visit me in London. I smell danger. The conversation has gone too far. I tell him it will not be possible. He asks me why? I say, truthfully, because I have a jealous husband. With this final remark, I declare that I have to leave and I depart with amazing confidence. When I feel it is safe, I glance over my shoulder to check I am not being followed. He said that he was staying in Paris, so he will not be travelling on my train. I feel safe when I board the Venice train.

My sense of security is quickly shattered. When I arrive at my compartment, there is a discussion going on between an elderly lady and the carriage steward. I have a top couchette again and I briskly arrange my belongings and make up my bed. At first, I am pleased that it is not too crowded. There is another man in our compartment, but that is all. We are half full. There are sheets and pillows on the other beds, so I imagine that there will be other passengers later.

The steward goes away and then returns. More discussion ensues. Finally, the debate is resolved and the lady is moved to another compartment. Apparently, there had been some misunderstanding about her booking. Being elderly, she required a bottom bed and she had been allocated a middle bed. It is not clear to me why she cannot have the bottom bed in our compartment. There is no reservation ticket on the door for the bottom bed.

Abruptly, I realise that I am about to spend the night travelling alone with a man who is a complete stranger. I make polite conversation with him in an attempt to disguise my internal agitation. He is Italian, so language is not a problem. He has a shoe factory in France and is returning to Padua on business. He seems nice enough, but then criminals can be deceptively nice. This man is probably honest and honourable, but how am I to know?

I weigh up the pros and cons of whether to speak to the steward about this situation. I don't want to make a scene. He told the elderly lady very firmly that reservations for couchettes couldn't be changed. He will probably think I am being silly. Perhaps I am.

I am reticent to become embroiled in conflict with the steward. Instead I face the fear, imagined or otherwise, of unwanted attention or personal attack. I console myself that I am less vulnerable high up on my top bed. He is on the other side on the bottom bed. There is a notice above the door warning passengers to lock the door in order to avoid being prey to robbers, but I am disinclined to lock the door. I don't want to be locked in with a complete stranger.

The night is uneventful, except that my sleep is disturbed by anxious thoughts. I feel responsible for putting myself at risk and yet I didn't knowingly choose to travel alone with a stranger. It is unwise to say the least, but it is one of the disadvantages of travelling unaccompanied during the winter months. I am just thankful that it is morning and I am safe.

*

At my lesson, the scales lull me after my difficult night. The ones in sixths, octaves and broken thirds are especially calming. I manage them quite well. They were also my favourites whilst studying the violin.

*

My journey home is easier. There are more people in my carriage. My apprehension disappears. I relax and fall asleep.

*

In Paris, I awake with a migraine. This is so often the pattern. The attack begins not during a period of stress or tension, but afterwards in the calm that follows.

I ache to be at home in my bed. I am so uncomfortable in the seats of the new Eurostar lounge at
Gare du Nord
. They are not designed for ill people. I wish that I lived in Italy so that I didn't have this extensive journey to do. I begin to wonder about the wisdom of what I am doing. I am making enormous sacrifices for my art and at present I am not convinced that I have the strength to continue.

I receive a postcard from Delhi. It says: ‘
Quando ci vediamo
?' ‘When shall we see each other?'

It is Ugo. He is in India touring with
I Solisti Veneti
.

I do not know the answer to his question. I have successfully completed all my professional engagements, but now there are other complications. Ugo doesn't return to Italy until halfway through February. At the end of the month, my son has his half-term holiday and I must, of course, be at home for that.

It is at this point that I become aware of a huge difference between the English and Italian scholastic year. The Italians do not have the same arrangement of holidays that we do. At Christmas and Easter, we have long holidays of two or three weeks. My son's holidays are always delayed by a week because he has to sing in services up until Christmas Day and Easter Day respectively. In Italy, there is only a short holiday of a few days for both these Christian festivals. In addition, the concept of a week's half-term holiday three times a year just doesn't exist. Naturally, being a Mediterranean country, Italy enjoys a long summer holiday of at least three months, whereas in England we have only six weeks. Our overall holiday time is probably about the same, it is just distributed differently.

I suppose I had read about this somewhere in my study of Italian culture. At my Italian evening classes, we often receive articles to read about Italian life. Somehow these facts hadn't registered with me and it is only now as I am trying to practically live part of my life in Italy that they are doing so.

I am unable to book a train ticket in the few days I have available this month. It is unfortunate but cannot be helped. I don't want to miss a month because a month is quite a long enough gap as it is. All the other students have lessons weekly. If I lived in Italy, I could have lessons weekly. But I don't live in Italy, and I have just discovered that the course finishes for the summer on June 1
^st
. This means I will only be able to squeeze in another three, possibly four, visits. The course starts on November 1
^st
and finishes on June 1
^st
. The entire academic year for the mandolin course is only seven months. I am shocked that the course appears to be so short. It is going to be quite a challenge to fit in the requisite lessons. Our courses begin in September or October and complete in mid-July. It would be lovely if I could spend some nights in Italy in order to take more time over this study, instead of being in continual transit.

It is March and I have accepted an invitation from Giovanna to stay with her at Brescia for a few days.

I fly from Heathrow to Venice. I take a bus to Mestre station and then catch the train to Brescia. Giovanna collects me by car from Brescia station.

It is absolutely wonderful to be part of an Italian family again. Giovanna's parents always make me feel so welcome and Giovanna's mother cooks wonderful food. The pace is so different. There is the siesta hour, or hours, which I adore. I was astonished at first when Giovanna's mother told me to rest after lunch. I thought that I had perhaps misunderstood her instructions. It is so relaxing to have a little rest. It suits my personality perfectly, but at home I usually feel guilty if I take a rest. In Italy, it is just an accepted part of the culture and it is a great comfort having permission to take a nap in the afternoon.

Giovanna and I talk a great deal; we always have so much to discuss about music and life. We also play duets together in the evenings after dinner. We are so happy to be reunited again. We work on our music and when we feel we are ready, we ask her parents to come and listen. This evening, Giovanna's brother calls in. He lives locally with his wife. We have three people in the audience for our concert and they are all totally delighted. Even Giovanna's black cat, Caligola, seems to enjoy the music.

*

At the
Conservatorio,
I have to take an exam. I have to play some short pieces and answer some questions in order to confirm which year I am in on the course. I have prepared a sonata by Lecce and two preludes and a cadenza by Munier.

During the lesson, Ugo tells me that Gianluigi is taking the same exam and has prepared the same Lecce sonata as I have. He asks me to look at another sonata that I have studied. He thinks it would be better if we don't play the same music.

As I play through the music, my teacher gives precise instructions, reminding me where to take a breath between notes and where to ensure they are linked, where to slow down the pulse and where to fasten it up, in order to create the greatest possible dramatic effect. It is a curious business playing a plucked instrument. We use the fingers independently all the time, so that the act of lifting a finger off the string stops the vibrations. Sometimes, it is even necessary to place the fingers over the strings – not in any particular place – just to deaden the sound of a chord. Using the fingers independently, continuously, is strange for me. On the violin, I was trained to leave fingers down wherever possible to help intonation. In a violin scale, we leave fingers down in case we return quickly to them. It prevents wasted energy finding the exact spot to place the finger down again.

I need to practise. I need to remember everything my teacher has told me and I need to rehearse the music, making the necessary adjustments. It is like reciting a piece of poetry. One must set the right pace, breathe in the correct place, emphasise important words. There are no practice rooms available. My teacher tells me to bring my mandolin and music. I follow him out of the room into the entrance hall, out of the glass door into the courtyard, up some steps and in through a door. We are in a corridor behind the concert hall of the
Conservatorio
. Beyond, in the annex, there are other steps and corridors, and other rooms all in use. Along the wall to the left runs a bench, probably intended for instrument cases during concerts.

“You can sit here and practise for a while,” my teacher tells me. And I do.

*

I am nervous waiting outside the room for my exam. On the wall is a large portrait of Cesare Pollini, after who the
Conservatorio
is named. Underneath are chairs and sofas, nineteenth century in style, upholstered in wine coloured velvet. I don't know whether they are authentic or reproduction, but they add a sense of richness to the ambience. An administrator sits behind a big, dark wooden desk. Behind her a pool of golden light falls on the floor from a standard lamp. The room has a high ceiling and dark panelled door at one end, through which I must pass to my examination. It is all rather imposing and adds to my sense of unease.

Doubts flicker through my mind. It is a nuisance I am not playing the Lecce I prepared. It was in a comfortable key, G major. I can hardly comprehend that I am about to take an exam in which I will play something I have only spent a couple of hours preparing. On the other hand, I find this Italian quality of spontaneity so attractive.

Gianluigi emerges from the examination room. His face relaxes into a smile of relief.

When I am invited to enter the room, I am startled to see that there are five professors, including my own teacher. They look formal and serious.

My teacher introduces me, explaining that I am English and commuting from London for my studies. This breaks the ice a little and I settle down to play the pieces. As soon as I start to play, I think about the music and forget my nerves.

The music is followed by questions from the professors. They want to know what else I have studied. They ask me about musical history. They ask me about my piano playing. They have the photocopies and translations of all my certificates before them. They want to know what I covered in my study of harmony. They confer between themselves and study the prospectus for the violin diploma course I followed. I feel like a criminal being cross-questioned.
Why don't they understand that I successfully coach pupils to pass exams in violin, theory and aural training? I couldn't do this without passing my own exams. Are my certificates invalid, meaningless?

*

My teacher is very happy. The exam went well. I satisfied the examiners and passed the exam with
otto voti
, eight marks. It doesn't sound much, eight marks. Apparently, it is eight marks out of ten and it is very good. I convert my marks to eighty per cent, since it makes more sense to me.

I am quite pleased with myself. My teacher is delighted that I am such a quick learner, that I was able to assimilate the new information about the pieces in a short time. Then, he explains that my exam has confirmed my position in the fourth year. My feeling of jubilation is checked by the sudden realisation that if I am in the fourth year of a seven-year course, I have another three years of study after the end of this year. My project of studying mandolin in Italy was only to be a year or two at the most. Suddenly, I am embarked upon an extensive mission.

I voice my doubts about continuing with the incessant travelling by train. To continue for another three years after this academic year seems an unbearable undertaking, despite the charms and pleasures that Italy has to offer. I never have time to savour them. It would be different if I had somewhere to stay.

However, my teacher has a plan.

*

In the afternoon, there is a knock at the door.

“
Avanti
.”

A pre-Raphaelite apparition enters the room. I have seen this apparition once before, at distance, but I have never met her. She is tall, thin and beautiful. She is wearing a suit in pale aquamarine that enhances her long copper hair, which falls in ringlets about her shoulders and down her back.

“This is Maria Cleofe Miotti,” says my teacher, introducing her to me.

Maria Cleofe was on tour with Ugo in India. She is a former pupil of his and she was performing in the double mandolin concerto by Vivaldi. She would like to study English and would be happy for me to stay with her when I visit Italy for my mandolin lesson.

We chat together. She lives in Bologna. I am not sure about the journey by air, but I will make some enquiries. She writes her telephone number down in the back of my diary. She also writes down the name ‘Ette'. All her family and friends call her Ette and in future I should do the same. I promise to ring her soon after my return to England.