Memories of Winter Serenade
Winter in years past, Peter and I often took a ten day holiday during the Christmas and New Year holidays. We drove out of the city heading to whichever destination Peter had chosen for us that year. As the traffic thinned out, I would lean forward and slip the Four Seasons disc into the player. That officially signaled the start of our winter holiday. The first movement began. It was ‘Summer.’ However, as hard as I tried, I could not picture that movement as summer. Ever since I was young, I had created my own image of that piece and this was not it to me! As we traveled, we passed snow covered fields and trees limned with frost. The distant mountains which lay ahead of us, were outlines of mauves, blues, and greys.’ The cold winter roads seemed to shimmer as did the movement in the music.
In my mind’s eye the music told the story of a winter day in Milano. As a teenager, my father had taken us to La Scala Opera House. I cannot recall which opera was performed, but Milano left an impression upon me and the majesty of La Scala did so as well. In later years we went to the northern part of Italy quite often. Vivaldi came from Venice and it was not until much later that we visited that city as well. But my image of this piece was firmly stuck in Milano. It seemed to belong there and nowhere else in my humble opinion.
Sometimes in the mid or the latter part of the seventeenth century, at day’s end, a young man gets off the horse drawn trolley. He lives across off the circle of the gates to the Duomo by the columned arcades. It is cold and it is blustery. The wind is blowing hard. Icy rain pelts the pedestrians as they hurry home after a long day at work. The young man is bundled warmly from head to foot, protecting himself against the incremental weather. It is frigid! A heavy knit woolen scarf is carefully wrapped around his head, neck and shoulders. A heavy cloak covers him. His head is bent down, trying to avoid the onslaught of the icy rain that hits his face. He hurries, practically running. Others do so as well. The wind howls. The rain turns to sleet as it hits the cobbled pavement. He slows down as he almost loses his balance. The wind whirls round and round, making a demented howling sound as it does so. It sweeps leaves and other debris that are on its path along with it. “Whooo! Whoo!” it rages and screeches.
He is a clerk at an office. He earns a modestly sufficient salary with which he supports a wife and a young child. As he hurries through the darkening evening streets, he pictures his young wife and child waiting for him, anxiously peering out of the window. Just that thought gives him a feeling of warmth and reassurance. He ignores his feeling chilled almost to the marrow. He ignores his frozen nose, toes, and fingertips. He smiles to himself as he edges closer to home. The sleet turns to snow. The wind blows harder. He propels himself against the stormy weather in his effort to reach his home soon. The musical movements change. Eventually we hear the actual Winter excerpt. It has taken a great of effort to reach his home in this weather.
At last he reaches the door to his building. He unlocks the door. The strong winds violently flings it open. It rudely hurtles him into the foyer. He straightens himself. He turns and with great effort, he firmly pushes the door shut. He shakes the sleet and snow off his clothes and boots. Wearily he climbs the five long flights to his home. As he reaches his floor, he sees his wife at the doorway. She greets him with a happy smile on her face. She is holding their child. The child leans forward eagerly in its mother’s arm, extending a chubby hand! “Papa! Papa!” the tot pipes out with glee. The man smiles happily and hugs his little family. They enter their abode. She puts the child down and helps her husband take off his outer apparel. She leads him to his armchair. He sits back with a grateful sigh. She removes his boots and puts his feet into fleecy slippers which had been warming near the potbellied stove.
The child crawls into the father’s lap. He puts his little arms around the father’s neck and contentedly places his head against his chest. The father enfolds the child into his arms, contentedly. His wife sits on a tabouret by his feet, leaning her head against his knees.
The room is warm and quiet. The inviting aroma of cooking food wafts from the kitchen. They enjoy their togetherness. He is safely out of the winter storm. They sit contentedly. Soon they will get up to have their evening meal.
In the meantime I sat on my armchair listening to The Four Seasons. I leaned my head back and closed my eyes. In my mind I had imagined the movements of the young man every step.
The music is done. The story has ended. I open my eyes and stare into space. Our Christmas trips have ended. There are no more trips accompanied by Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. Slowly I get up and continue with my chores.