Corelli's Mandolin

by Louis de Bernières

That evening the doctor himself demanded a concert, and he and Pelagia found themselves outdoors in the yard whilst the captain spread a sheet of music upon the table, and both illuminated it and prevented it from being carried away by the breeze by placing a lantern on its upper edge. Solemnly he sat down and began to tap the striking plate with the plectrum. The doctor raised his eyebrows in perplexity. This tapping seemed to go on for a very long time. Perhaps the captain was trying to establish a rhythm. Perhaps this was one of those minimalist pieces he had heard about, which was all squawks and squeaks and no melody, and perhaps this was the introduction. He looked at Pelagia, and she caught his glance and raised her hands in incomprehension. There was more tapping. The doctor peered at the captain’s face, which was rapt in deep concentration. The doctor always found that in incomprehensible artistic situations like this his backside inevitably began to itch. He shifted his seat, and then lost patience, ‘Excuse me, young man, but what on earth are you doing? This is not quite what my daughter led me to expect.’ ‘Damn,’ exclaimed the captain, his concentration utterly destroyed, ‘I was just about to start playing.’ ‘Well, about time too, I should think. What on earth were you doing? What is it? Some ghastly modern twaddle called “Two Tin Cans, a Carrot, and Dead Harlot”?’ Corelli was offended, and spoke with a distinct tone of lofty disdain, ‘I am playing one of Humme...

...l’s Concertos for Mandolin.’ The first forty-five and half bars are for the orchestra, allegro moderato e graciozo. You have to imagine the orchestra. Now I’ve got to begin all over again.‘