This evening Talia and I are quite hungry, but Giovanna and her friend are less so. They decide to share a pizza. When the waiter comes to take our order, we ask for three pizzas and an extra plate and drinks. The waiter doesn’t bat an eyelid. In fact, he is most obliging. I have seen this before in Italy. It is so normal to provide whatever the customer requires in a restaurant. Often a request to remove or add an item to a dish, or to provide a simple basic dish not on the menu, such as ragù for a child, is met with pleasure and without fuss. In England, many restaurants are over anxious to press unwanted food on you in an effort to make more money. Cooking something that doesn’t appear on the menu is unheard of. This probably has something to do with a deep cultural difference. Until recently, eating out in a restaurant in England has been seen as something of a luxury – a treat, rather than a necessity.
*
Travelling affords me time to myself. I have time to reflect on life and its meaning. I am enormously fascinated by this subject. It is a fascination that goes back to my infant years. I remember my maternal grandmother telling me at a very tender age that I was ‘philosophical’. I have never been philosophical in a dry, academic sense though. It is much more practical, like my teaching. I want to know how the life process works and how we can achieve success easily and more effectively.
Like everyone else, I want to be happy, and on the whole I am happy and content. Through music, I have achieved enormous pleasure and joy. Practising privately in the seclusion of one’s own room can be meditative, therapeutic, restorative, healing. Teaching is deeply satisfying because it is possible to communicate all of this to my pupils. I watch them grow in confidence and joy as they progress, knowing that I am enabling them in the process.
Performance is quite different. It is risky, precarious and unpredictable. There are great highs and great lows: elation when things go well, and post mortems, guilt, blame, anger and sadness when things go badly. Performance can be competitive, open to analysis and therefore criticism and judgement, rather than just being and celebrating life.
The Maestro has a sensible didactic approach. He says we should practise technique by itself and then we should play music. When we play music, we should think about the musical interpretation only, enjoying the music for itself, and forget about technique. In other words, it is no use worrying about my right wrist movement whilst I am trying to make the music sing. It is confusing to think about both things at once. Eventually the technique will become second nature and it will just happen, leaving the mind free to concentrate on art, on making the music sound beautiful.
However, it is sometimes difficult to achieve. In the lesson, anxious to please, I find myself conscious of the right hand and distracted from my art.
I start work today on the first of six partitas by Filippo Sauli. I am working from a newly published edition, in which my teacher has transcribed the partitas. The first partita is in D minor, which after G minor is my favourite key. I sometimes worry that I adore the melancholy of minor keys. I hope it doesn’t mean that I am a sad person. I just find they resonate with me. They are so expressive, reflecting not just sadness and suffering but also tenderness, intimacy and a sense of spirituality.
I also love the names of the Baroque dance movements that make up this suite: Allemanda, Sarabanda, Corrente, Bourée, Giga, Minuetto. The Sarabanda, my preferred dance, is to be played lightly. Apparently, I play it too heavily. Also, I have to play the Corrente, the Giga and the Minuetto much faster. I hope I will be able to manage this next month.
v
Occhiali da Sole. Sunglasses.
This is our first day in Cavalese and I am engaged in buying yet another pair of sunglasses. This time they are for my son, who has just returned from the piste. After an awkward moment skiing, he fell over and crushed the glasses in his jacket pocket. I have to sort out the problem as I am the ‘language expert’. It is my main function to be useful as an interpreter.
I have long given up any hope of finding pleasure in skiing. The boots feel like lead and I am afraid of injury to my hands. I am happy pottering around the town, window shopping and stopping for a leisurely cioccolata con panna, hot chocolate with cream. When I have had sufficient of these pleasures, I return to the hotel for a rest or a spot of undisturbed practice. I am quite happy during the day being left in peace, knowing that my husband and son, who are always energetic and fidgety, are being occupied by something they enjoy. In the evening, we come together for delicious food and a glass or two of local wine. It is an excellent arrangement.
This week I plan to go to Padua for my lesson on Wednesday, since Monday, being January 6th, is a public holiday. Epiphany, or Twelfth Night, celebrates the successful conclusion of the journey of the Magi and brings the Christmas festivities to an end. On this day, many Italian children receive presents from Befana – a kindly witch.
I locate the only travel agency in Cavalese by looking through the Yellow Pages and I make an early visit only to find it shut for the holiday. On Tuesday, I go first thing to ask about trains to Padua. There is a connecting bus from Cavalese to the nearest station, but I need to arrange my train ticket in advance. It seems that I am able to take a train, originating from Bolzano, from Egna-Ora to Verona, where I will have to change for the train to Padua.
The helpful young lady behind the counter is a little flummoxed when I tell her that I want to go tomorrow. She speaks with her colleague and then she comes back to talk to me. I elucidate the importance of my trip to Padua and the difficulty I had in coming any earlier since they were closed for the holiday. The young lady speaks again with her colleague. After some deliberation, she tells me that if I return at six-thirty this evening they will make sure they have the ticket ready. The agency usually requires a day or two’s notice to make a booking. I hadn’t appreciated how small Cavalese is. The agency is a branch of a bigger organisation with the main office elsewhere. People come to Cavalese for skiing holidays in winter and rarely require assistance to travel to other towns. Normally, once they are stationed in the mountains, they stay there.
During the early evening, we join the exodus into the streets for the customary passeggiata before dinner. It doesn’t seem to matter that it is dark and icy cold. The town is in festive spirit. Tree skeletons sparkle with pinpricks of white light. Inside the stable of the life-size nativity scene, the three kings are paying homage to baby Jesus. Outside the presepio, in the snow-covered sunken garden, there are other visitors dressed in local period costumes and bearing gifts. The female pastoral figures wear long skirts, scarves and shawls. They are at the other end of the social scale from the kings. The rustic theme is continued in the building, which is adjacent and at right angles to the stable. It is decorated with dangling sheaves of wheat and maize.
Nearby, the street is offered a magnificent display of art. The illuminated exterior of the Palazzo della Communità is covered in colourful frescoes. Once the palace of the bishops who held the power base of the practically autonomous Val di Fiemme, it is still a symbol of power and authority. Today, local affairs are predominantly run from this building.
I take a few photographs of the presepio, the Palazzo and the majestic campanile, which is also dramatically lit up. I am using a tiny discreet camera that uses advanced film. A Christmas present, it is supposed to be the latest in technology and almost idiot proof. Despite the minimum of fuss in preparing to take a picture and the miniature size of the machine, I still feel self-conscious and uncomfortable taking photographs. It is a new experience for me, trying to capture moments of interest and importance. Whether I will manage to distil the essence of a feeling or an emotion is another matter. Here, I am trying to catch something of the atmosphere that will remind me and set off a chain of thoughts. I am so much more at ease with music and words that I am not convinced that this will be anything other than an occasional experience.
*
At a quarter to six in the morning, I leave the Hotel St Valiér by an emergency
exit door in one of the recreational rooms. None of the staff are on duty yet and I arranged with the headwaiter yesterday that I would leave by this door as the front entrance is still locked from the night. I walk through the garden and around the side of the building to reach the road running at the front of the hotel. I turn right and walk towards the bus station. It takes only a few minutes, but it is eerily quiet. The only sound is my feet crunching the snow underfoot. I tread carefully, deliberately, but with a new confidence. No longer am I afraid of sliding and slipping, falling and hurting myself. I always used to concentrate on what might go wrong and I was terrorised by a walk in the snow. Now, instead of thinking about the possible icy patches, I focus on placing each foot firmly and I imagine it sticking there. Thinking positively seems to influence my feet. I feel secure and I am secure.
The bus station is deserted. I am alone and it is dark and silent. I look around uneasily. It could be a set in a thriller film. It could be the scene of one of my anxiety dreams. I try to think of how the bus will look when it comes. I was expecting it to be parked here already. I hear the murmur of an engine. It isn’t a bus. It is a dark saloon car. It stops. I feel very uneasy. The passenger door at the front opens gingerly. My heart races. A teenage girl wearing headphones and carrying a rucksack slowly emerges. I begin to feel calmer. A bus arrives, but it isn’t my bus. I begin to feel anxious again. I am also feeling quite cold. Another bus arrives. This time, it is my bus.
The bus is really a coach. Inside, it is warm and comfortable. I sink into the generous seat. The descent down the mountain to the valley where the nearest local train station is takes about an hour. The bus driver has the radio on softly. It is a strange sensation being driven in comfort around the slow bends which wind though snow-laden woods, whilst listening to Italian songs and chatter on the radio. The skiers, Italian and foreigners alike, are not yet out on the slopes and I am slipping into the everyday routine of Italian life – only this time, I am commuting from the most extreme rural perspective I have witnessed so far.
Occasionally the bus stops and people climb up the stairs at the front to board. There is always the exchange of some greeting with the driver. “Buon giorno.” “Ciao.” “Salve.” Some of them are young and obviously on the way to school. Sometimes we stop and we are surrounded only by the woods, and people seem to appear from behind the trees. I am not sure where their homes are. Some must have a long walk to the bus stop.
In the valley, we are on the flat again, but I am mystified at first by all the name signs. I am looking for the station of Egna-Ora, but I see signs for Ora-Auer and Egna-Neumarkt. We are in Trentino – Alto Adige, Sud Tirol, and the Austrian influence is everywhere. All the signs display the German equivalent. In Italian, Egna and Ora are two different places, but the train station is positioned between them and is, therefore, called Egna-Ora. However, the German equivalent would be Neumarkt-Auer. With all these possibilities, I am confused and I check with another passenger to see whether we have arrived at the station I require. I am told that we are just five minutes away.
At the station, shortly after seven, the ticket office is closed and there are no staff to be seen. I feel in my pocket for my ticket, checking I have it safely. I am glad that I arranged it in advance. I wait till almost the last minute before I leave the relative warmth and shelter of the station building. On the platform it is bitterly cold and I hear German being spoken by a family standing nearby. Everyone else looks dressed for business.
The journey to the Veneto takes us through the stations of Trento, Rovereto and Ala. I look eagerly out to view the winter landscape of Sartori’s life.
At Verona, I have just missed the Venice train that will take me to Padua and I have to wait almost an hour for the next one. This is the problem with travelling. A journey may theoretically only take a certain number of hours, but all the extra time waiting for connections adds to the total journey time. I do not arrive at Padua until midday. My journey has taken approximately six hours.
At the Conservatorio, the Maestro and the other pupils are all amused to hear of my journey this time. My account is prefaced by the fact that I did not even fly to Italy. I flew instead to neighbouring Austria. From Innsbruck, I transferred by coach to Italy and the last leg of my journey to Cavalese was undertaken by taxi. I look around and watch the smiles and looks of incredulity as I explain that I have travelled today from a ski resort in the mountains. This time, it was expedient to combine a family holiday with the mandolin lesson. I have the impression that they think I am quite a character. Maybe I am.
I enjoy very much playing the Sauli partita and I am given the next one, in F major, to prepare for the next month. After only three hours in the class, I have to make my excuses and begin the return journey to the mountains.
It is a very long and tiring journey home. I read a bit. From Verona, I close my eyes and try to rest. A female doctor sitting opposite is interrupted by her mobile telephone. I hear her giving advice about a sick child. The phone is cut off and she waits a bit before continuing her conversation. Why do return journeys drag so? This morning I was so excited to be going to the Conservatorio and now I can’t wait to get home.
At Egna-Ora, I have half an hour to wait for the bus and the lacerating cold is unbearable. There are no refreshments at the station, which is isolated, but a small road leads into the station and there are a few buildings at the beginning. One is a bar and I order a cappuccino. It is the wrong time of day, mid-evening, for a cappuccino, but I am frozen and I need a warm milky drink. I mention this to the lady behind the counter and she is most hospitable. I sit down and read the local paper provided, whilst I drink slowly to while away the time and keep warm.
When I finally reach my hotel at just after nine, the evening meal has finished. The headwaiter has kindly saved me a plate of cold meats, cheeses, grilled vegetables, salad and bread, together with some wine. I am grateful for this feast. I sit in the empty restaurant with my family, sharing the day’s events whilst I hungrily devour my supper. I am absolutely exhausted and it is no time before I am soundly asleep.
vi
On the train to Padua, I am sitting opposite Ugo in a compartment of six seats. We met on the platform at Brescia whilst we were waiting for the train.
Ugo is very chatty this morning, asking me lots of questions about the mandolin scene in England. I don’t feel completely awake yet for detailed conversation. Suddenly he stands up and takes down his briefcase from the overhead luggage rack. He rummages around inside the case for a moment and takes out a booklet.
“Have you seen this before?” he asks me.
“No,” I tell him, “I know of this and strangely I have been trying to trace it.”
The booklet, a photocopy of the out-of-print original, is entitled Mandolin Memories by Samuel Adelstein – a nineteenth century American mandolinist. I know this document is of interest to me, but I’m not exactly sure why.
“Leggi, leggi,” Ugo encourages. Read it, read it.
I settle back in my seat and begin.
The language is old-fashioned, sometimes rambling and a little clumsy to my twentieth century ears, sometimes beautifully crafted and exquisitely evoking the charm of a long-forgotten era. The text rumbles along, describing the rise in popularity of the mandolin in America during the close of the nineteenth century. Previously the mandolin had been almost unknown outside its native country, Italy, and even then it had been dormant for some time.
In fact, Adelstein is describing the renaissance, the first renaissance, of the mandolin. He doesn’t mention that during the Baroque period it had enjoyed great popularity, which had extended far beyond Italy to other important European cultural centres: Paris, Stockholm, London and so on. This has all become known only recently as part of current research undertaken by mandolinists and musicologists during the last twenty years. I am part of a second renaissance of the mandolin, which is happening now and taking place a hundred years after the first.
I look out of the window. We are edging along the southern shore of Lake Garda. The late winter sun shines brilliantly. I love the houses: blocks randomly stacked together in ice cream colours of strawberry, pistachio and lemon, and sensuous villas in the pale creamy yellow of old ivory. I try to take in and hold every detail; the ravishing light, the water shimmering and its colour changing like mother-of-pearl. The water is always a perpetual source of fascination to me. I could stay here and watch forever; the whole scene is so ineffably beautiful.
My eyes return to the text and I am startled by two sentences:
‘From the beginning the writer had applied the down and up bow of the violin to the mechanism of the plectrum movement on the mandolin. Not being satisfied with the result of this self-taught style of playing, and at that time there being no one of acknowledged authority on this most important point (of which more will be said later), the writer determined to go to Italy, the home of all true knowledge pertaining the mandolin.’
So, here is the connection. Here is the importance. History repeats itself. Adelstein was originally a violinist and travelled to Italy in 1890, just over a hundred years ago, in order to find out more about how the mandolin should be played. He travelled all the way from America, making his way to Italy via Paris. In Italy, he met the leading mandolinists of the day, including Carlo Munier and Raffaele Calace. He attended their concerts and studied under their supervision. Of these great exponents, Adelstein says that they ‘were astonished and expressed surprise that one should come so far for instruction.’ How many times have I heard the other students at Padua say exactly the same thing?
Here I am walking in the footprints of Samuel Adelstein.
The Mandolin Lesson Page 20