Well, I should spank myself for not keeping up with this when I got to Mantua. Pete keeps reminding me that blogging is about as important an activity as I can carry out on the web – certainly more important than Facebook. I think the problem was a) I was very tired and very cold, and b) I lost a beautifully constructed, thoughtful post when my MacBook crashed uncharacteristically whilst I was sitting, shivering, at a bar outside the Teatro Sociale. Somehow the combination made me languish. In Ferrara, it had been 28 degrees; two hours away in Mantua it was 14 degrees. I wore all the (summer) clothes I brought every day, just changing what went on top. I’m sure the archivisti thought I was a bag lady. Also, I was working so hard and for so long at the archive during the day, I became computer-averse in the evenings, preferring instead to read Terry Pratchett’s excellent Unseen Academicals. I even got to the point of fetching pizza a taglio and a beer into my hotel room instead of going out to eat. After two weeks, being on your own in a restaurant can get pretty old. So blogging just fell away.

But that’s not to say that Mantua was a drag, quite the opposite. Every morning I got to walk past the ex-convent of Sant’Orsola, the very community that I had come to the city to investigate. Its tiny church is octagonal, and I felt I was getting closer to Margherita d’Este when I entered through its huge wooden doors. And I found out stuff there that I couldn’t have imagined in my wildest musicological dreams, even if it just left me dangling, wondering where to look next for my personal Grail, Luzzasco Luzzaschi’s music library. But at least I now know how and why it left his hands.

I did have time, though, to muse about the differences between Mantova and Ferrara, and to think through how those differences might have come about, especially considering how entwined their cultures were during the Renaissance. Mantova seems such an industrious, upright community, characterised by its cramped and often dark medieval centre surrounded by vast seventeenth- and eighteenth-century architecture. Everyone there is impeccably dressed and, it seems, concerned about appearing prosperous and busy. And there’s so little greenery in the centre – what there is can be barely glimpsed behind walls. Parks on the outskirts of the centre, sure, but no such frivolous use of space in the hub. Ferrara, on the other hand, has the wide open market square, the moated castello, trees, gardens…

I wonder how different they would be if Ferrara hadn’t been hit by terrible earthquakes throughout 1571? Much of the medieval centre was damaged or destroyed, and the events forced the city’s architects to think anew about quake-proof structures and planning. Many of the subsequent buildings were broader and not as tall, the roofs flatter, the streets wider. Would this also encourage the population to be a little more relaxed? Who knows, but it was something to think about in my work-addled haze.

An added benefit to the stay in Mantua was a brief visit with my friend and fellow Margherita-phile, Molly, and the opportunity to play with her beautiful little girl in one of the outlying parks. It’s always a pleasure to share down time with my academia friends and talk a mostly unintelligible mixture of mom-chat and geek-speak. It’s not as unusual as it used to be, for sure, to be a mother and a scholar, but the meeting of two such, especially that share a research interest, is still a rare enough occurrence to be noteworthy and special. And reassuring when you know that other children are also growing up drawing pictures on the back of scrapped, heavily red-lined versions of journal contributions.

So, goodbye Ferrara. I wasn’t disappointed, no matter the outcome of yesterday’s meeting with the abbess. I have my canon, and I hope it will be worth chasing up. And I think there is still stuff to do here, but it’s waited four hundred years, it can wait a bit longer.

It was so worth visiting this city. I was reminded, oddly, of Austin, Texas. Oh, maybe the punctuation there is ambiguous. I was reminded oddly of Austin, Texas. There was a slogan a few years back, plastered over the billboards in the airport that read, “Keep Austin weird.” Well, Ferrara, you have your weirdness. After I left the gallery and had lunch in one of the leafier squares surrounding the castello, I went to look at the books and found this guy busking on his theremin.

I’d seen him a little earlier in the day playing the saw, and he was a whole lot better at the theremin. I almost bought one of his CDs, as he was really good – I mean, really technically good. But the music was saccharine, sub-Mantovani stuff. Still, I would have loved to have known how he managed to synchronise what sounded like quite free chord changes in the accompaniment with the notes he was playing. Either he was incredibly well rehearsed, or his complicated looking instrument was a theremin-driven sequencer-type-thingy.

And while I was staring at him, these people in doublets, hose and black velvet caps and capes rushed past me. So, like Alice after the white rabbit – Reader, I followed them. They disappeared into the castello, and by the time I caught up with them they had just started doing this:
Flags in Ferrara
What I really loved was the fact that the trumpeters are all girls, and that there were some younger members of this troupe. Can you imagine a US/UK twelve-year-old dreaming of becoming a flag-tosser? (Don’t think about that too long, or an alternative meaning might occur that would fit some of our more zealous “patriots”….)

Anyway, there were a few ‘acts’ to the display, including a duo where they threw four flags between each other. This was like mega-juggling. And then this dude came on holding two flags, with his friend behind holding three. I had to move to get a better angle on him, so here is just the culmination of his act. FREESTYLING! WITH FLAGS! FIVE OF THEM! Mr Woo, eat your heart out.
Freestyling with flags
But the weirdness wasn’t over yet. I came out again in the evening to post yesterday’s installment, and found this happening in the via Garibaldi:

Che spettacolo di drag queen! In the pouring rain!

I retired to the bar opposite the Curia where I sat drinking my mojito granita (seemed like a good idea at the time, but never again…) and uploading my blog. I kept thinking that this city doesn’t seem to have lost any of the d’Este hunger for life and spectacle. OK, so the reason they had to set up so many oratori and conservatori for the poor is that they spent most of the taxes on parties, and the famine was so bad in 1590 that people were dying in the streets while Alfonso was still getting his cultural kicks. But there is still a sense in the city that collective fun is good for everyone. Sure there is an economic benefit in all this – for instance, free wifi means people like me sit around in the cafes, and maybe the central cafes pay a heavy subsidy to the city. But still it’s the city that takes responsibility for providing it, and it’s the community collectively that encourages the flag-tossers and drag queens to strut their stuff. Good on them. It’s a great town, and I’m glad I came. Never mind the cincini (“no-seem-ems,” as my mom calls them). I’ll know next time to wear repellent and keep my windows closed at all times. Addio, Ferrara, and arrivederci.

What a day. The long and the short of it is that the Mother Abbess of the Monastero di Corpus Domini didn’t let me see the archive, although I’m not sure all is lost. She was very beautiful and gentle, but when I asked if I could come in she just slowly shook her head, saying that there wasn’t anything in the archive that I needed, and that it wasn’t possible to consult it. I asked if that was just for now (because, I told her, although I’m leaving Ferrara tomorrow, I could come back sometime in the spring) or for forever, and she said, “Mai.” So I thanked her, said I was sorry to disturb her, and then gave her a copy of Sacred Hearts, Secret Music that I had brought along. She took it and turned it over in her hands, and just as I was about to leave she asked for my address so that she could contact me if things changed.

I knew when she turned me down that it wasn’t exactly true that there was nothing in the archive – I could, after all, give her the reference to the buste I wanted to see. But I had been led to expect such a response from a sweet PhD student that I met at the Curia on Monday – she said that the nuns have an attitude; and what she meant was not just a clausura of the body but also of the mind. Nevertheless, I think I understand why the abbess wouldn’t let me come in. She is responsible for a community that has existed, more or less enclosed, for nearly six hundred years. It is up to her to ensure that the tenor of its life is not disturbed and that its reputation is protected. She knows nothing about me, or what I might write or reveal about her convent. I can feel profound sympathy for this. If someone I didn’t know, who made stupid mistakes when she tried to speak my language and who didn’t know how properly to address me, knocked on my door and asked if she could rifle through my family’s stuff, would I let her in? No, I probably wouldn’t. I just hope that our music speaks for itself (and that she doesn’t find anything in the booklet notes to offend – she spoke excellent English!), so that she might, in the end, invite me back.

But there is also such a thing as Providence. Weird, but good and helpful, things happen to me on research trips. There was the time in 1996 that I arrived at an archive, the day before I was due to leave Italy, and found it closed, even though I had rung them only a couple of days before to make sure it was open. I returned to England without seeing the book of madrigals I needed. I went back some five years later, just because I had a morning to kill, to look at the book I’d wanted to see. And I found something incredibly important in it that I wouldn’t have been able to identify had I seen it in 1996, because at that time I didn’t have the skills. And of course if I’d been successful in getting into the archive back then, I wouldn’t have tried again in 2001. Providence. Maybe it’s just not the right time to visit Corpus Domini.

So, I mosied over to the Biblioteca Ariostea and sidled past Lodovico’s bones to have a look at a book, just for daft. And then, finding myself still with plenty of time, finally took myself off to the Pinoteca Nazionale. What wonders awaited me there! Nothing less than a sixteenth-century painting of Saint Cecilia, complete with a very legible, and I now know very viable, canon. And, of course, there is a connection with a convent – the painting was obtained from the (male) canons regular who had responsibility for one of Ferrara’s most renowned musical convents. I had to borrow a pen from one of the staff, so I could scribble the canon down on some scrap paper; while the rain has tipped down this afternoon, I’ve been playing with it in Sibelius. Its rubric is, “Qui intelligit, legat.” Well, quite. Maybe when I have a better understanding of what awaits me in Corpus Domini, I might have a better chance of getting in to read it.

So today I was a tourist, and it was market day in Ferrara. It was really foggy when I left the hotel in the morning, and the city seemed completely different. I love the idea of markets being held in exactly the same place for hundreds of years, even if the stuff on sale is different. The temptation to buy is difficult to resist, but in the end my major purchase was an outrageously expensive pair of woolly clogs that are supposed to be really good for your back. Not a moment too soon, as I’m getting to the point at which the pain of walking for more than a couple of hours is unbearable. And they really work! Money well spent.

But back to the day’s discoveries. Didn’t find out much new at the Palazzo Schifanoia, although it was as impressive as I thought it would be. Leonora Sanvitale lived there after she came to Ferrara, and delightful it must have been. There were some lovely 15th cen. antiphonals on display, and I was surprised how clear the notation was. Much easier than Solesmnes – give me an old-fashioned illuminated manuscript any time. Then on to the Palazzino of Marfisa d’Este. Now this was impressive. The whole house was kitted out with 15th and 16th century furniture, and the wall paintings were incredibly well preserved. And I was surprised/pleased to learn, via a placque on the wall on the other side of the road, that it was literally next door to the now-destroyed convent of San Bernardino, where the nuns were to be punished in the refectory if they sang polyphony without a license. (‘Scuse me, madam, can I see your polyphony license? No? Well, you know the penalty’s a week’s worth of meals off the floor. Shouldn’t have been singing then, should you, Madam?) Maybe Marfisa enjoyed Vespers there – wouldn’t surprise me.

Missed the National Gallery, though… again. Maybe I can whizz round it on Sunday morning before I go. But if I could, I’d just like to go back to Marfisa’s gaff – I’m a complete sucker for Renaissance gardens that have been left to go slightly to seed. Invariably you find yourself treading on marjoram and wild strawberries. And it had an orangery with a little loggia next to it – on the ceiling were these rockin’ putti, each with a different instrument in its chubby little hands. Hmm, wonder what happened there?

Had thought about returning to the Biblioteca Ariostea, if only because I really liked the look of all those old vellum-bound books. But I found it kinda creepy trying to study with a dead dude in the corner (Ludovico Ariosto is buried IN THE LIBRARY! On the second floor!!), although come to think of it, it’s not completely different to being in the old BL Manuscript Room. So instead, I’ve been resting for most of the afternoon, as I’ve hardly got any sleep for the last two nights. On that subject, the bed is now sprayed, and I have been given full instructions on how to avoid Ferrara’s special little micro-mozzies that like to bite you all over. Phew. Not bedbugs after all. My back will need the rest, too, as I’m sure I’ll be leaving Ferrara with loads of books that I didn’t come with. Saint Augustine said, “The World is a book, and those who do not travel read only a page.” Those who do not travel don’t have to, they don’t have to shut their eyes and ears to temptation. I’ve been trying to resist, but the siren lure of the stores with cool tomes on Ferrarese dialect, or the convents that were active in the city up to the eighteenth century, is drawing me in inexorably. No, no, let me go! But like the Ferrarese fog, they just wrap themselves around you.

This kind of needed an entry on its own. What would I do without it? I can chat to my loved ones, check my email and my buddies’ statuses on Facebook , note that it’s going to pour with rain tomorrow (and I don’t have any suitable shoes), find train times, and refer almost constantly to my pocket Italian/English dictionary. But the best thing, the Very Best Thing, is that it takes pictures. Nice ones of lovely urban wildlife like this cathedral gecko, but so much better – so, so, so much better – is that it takes pictures like this, and this:

Nobody minds. The librarians and archivists say, “Have you got a camera?” and I say, “No, but I have my phone.” They are slightly incredulous and give you that Italian look that means, “crazy foreigner.” But then I snap away! I can enlarge the teeny-tiny writing so I’ve got a marginally better chance of making out the abbreviations. I can print out the partbook and transcribe at my leisure. Useless publication but interesting dedication? Don’t transcribe it in the library! One snap and it’s on file. First the laptop and now this….

Technology could go one better, of course. It could come up with an interface between the word processor, the graphics programme and the Lexicon Abbreviaturarum (aka Capelli) that just reads the document for you and sends it directly to your book manuscript. Come on Mr Jobs, you know you want to.

Another day, another bug. No, really – I seem to have attracted something that is eating me alive in my hotel bed; not just mosquitoes. I hope not bedbugs, but I have a terrible feeling that they are. My face looks like I have chickenpox because I even have bites on my eyelids. Lord knows what all these nice archivisti and religiosi must think of me. But such is the lot of the intrepid musicologist, braving even the fiercest of insects to bring our musical heritage to life. So, I stay on, even though when I get home I will have to freeze for four days everything that can’t go through the washer and dryer. Pass me the DDT and the cortisone, honey – but maybe I ought to ask for a different room….

I still have to hang out in Ferrara for a few more days, as the abbess at Corpus Domini isn’t taking visitors until Saturday. It took all my courage to ring on the doorbell of the convent. Lord only knows why, what are they going to do to me? They’re nuns, for crying out loud. But I hate intercoms even when I can speak in English, so they are immeasurably more painful when I have to speak in Italian. And it was only slightly better when they let me in: I still had to peer through a little hatchway and speak to this tiny lady who I could barely see, and who told me politely and all smiles, but very firmly, that there was no way I was coming in until the abbess said I could. At least she couldn’t see me very well, either, or she’d have assumed I was going to bring plague into the convent and sent me packing without even the promise of Saturday.

Yesterday afternoon, before the full horror of my affliction was apparent to me (the bites can take hours or days to appear, so it wasn’t until the evening that I could count over fifty red lumps of varying sizes) I did my usual trawling round the city, nosing around the many museums that once were houses for my ladies, both courtly and conventual. I loved the Casa di Romei, which was bequeathed to the nuns of Corpus Domini and was incorporated into the convent in the sixteenth century. And, lo, there was a mini-exhibition of pottery and tableware that had been excavated at S Antonio in Polesine. Fantastic – the nuns were so organized that their bowls had indications on them to show where they were to be used: CA for cantina, R for refettorio, and my favourite, the little bowl used in the dispensary. I so wanted to take a photo, but couldn’t.

However, I did take a photo of this lovely lady who sells stuff made by monks and nuns at her shop, La Badessa. She said if Celestial Sirens ever came to perform in Ferrara she’d do loads of publicity. I wanted to buy everything in the shop, from liqueur to smelling salts and shampoo via the curious looking tisanes made by the Camaldolese. Eventually I bought some Benedictine unguentum salutis for my fellow nun-aholics. I probably ought to go back today and get something blessed for my bites.

what it was to be a musicologist in the good old days. I mean a time when there were no computers, no internet, no scanners. I can vaguely remember my student days, when microfilms were as good as it got, and you had to use those peculiar photo-developer printers, dodging all the while the noxious, immediately stain-inducing substance that made your fingers stink, and then quickly transcribe the music before the printout faded. But in the end, it was actually cheaper to travel to Italy and stay in youth hostels, transcribing (in pencil) madly for as long as the library was open, than it was to get all the films together (although there was never any realistic prospect of going to Gdansk, if that’s where the book you needed was). That first trip I must have carted shedloads of manuscript paper over, ruling it up in the evenings before my next library visit (“Sono studentessa inglese. Sono qui a Verona/Parma/Bologna/Cremona per fare richerche… sto preparando mia tesi dottorale…” always ten times harder when you had to get into the library by intercom). And when I got home, there was the eighteen-month anxious wait for the Gdansk films, all the while wondering if the books I sent in lieu of payment – this was barely post-glasnost after all – ever made it through Polish customs.

Yesterday I went to the library in Southampton with my little box of films, and lo, what wonders I beheld. For now the microform reader scans into the computer attached to it, and you can save everything onto your memory stick. Take the scans home, print them out, and transcribe them into your WYSIWYG music notation software. This morning I logged onto OPACs all over Italy and found at least six reprints of a book that I thought had only been published in 1589. I don’t suppose I would have thought this possible twenty years ago.

But – and I find this somehow reassuring – I will still be thrown back into that uncertain, weird world of the European archive as I’m planning a trip in October to rustle around monastic/conventual records. I’m sure the Biblioteca del Monastero di Corpus Domini is about as far from the interweb as it is possible to be. And despite my swagger, I still feel deeply trepidacious about what I might find, and whether I will be able to cope with it. It’s a bit like being pregnant for the first (or actually, any) time. You know that something will happen, has to happen, you’re just not quite sure what….