The Mandolin Lesson by Frances Taylor Page B

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.
    â€œ
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.
    â€œThis 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