The Mandolin Lesson by Frances Taylor Page A

Italy in order to take more time over this study, instead of being in continual transit.

7

    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.
    â€œYou 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