Three hours, three boxes of archival scores (annotated in Colin Graham and Britten's handwriting), and a stack of uncatalogued photographs later, the archivist suggested that we break for lunch. And here's where the real festivity began. Ayla and I traipsed into Aldeburgh to get something hot to drink - the rain was coming down sideways! - and ended up at this local pub. When she sends me the photos I'll be sure to put this one up, because the bar was housed in what I can only assume was some kind of general store. You know, with the painted windows advertising their wares? And they sold, in the order in which they appeared on the window: "fancy goods, sponges, photographic, toilets." Wow.
The inside of the pub was nearly as festive as the outside. Being the only two patrons in there, we were served by the barman and a guy named Barry, who referred to himself as "the local drunk getting drunk as a skunk." He kept patting us on the shoulder and asking if everything was okay. Um, we just ordered a pot of tea, dude. And it's fine. Barry would stagger back and forth, and the dog on the floor would grouse a little and come over and sniff my umbrella and then grouse back to the bar. Then, Barry and George decided to come over and talk to the foreigners with their pot of tea, and we got to go through the fun "where are you from?" conversation. Now Ayla is an expert at dealing with strangers, she is so smooth you wouldn't even know she's trying to escape. I'm not so smooth, so I let her do the talking. We finish our tea and fantastic lunch and hike back up toward the library, via the parish church yard where Britten and Pears (and Imogen Holst) are buried. It's a little surreal to walk through this town and the church yard and the high street and think to myself, "This is where Britten spent a large part of his life. This is where the two of them would walk down and get groceries." It's a tremendously special thing to stand where those before you have stood. So we hiked back up to the library, I finished my photocopying and had a marvelous conversation with another librarian, who just happened to be a Poulenc scholar and she just happened to have written a huge chapter on Mamelles, and in that chapter she went to the library in Paris that housed the original program from the Paris premiere, and she basically saved my ass from trying to figure out if I was nuts, or if scholars had failed to figure out if Mamelles premiered with Boheme or a ballet. Whew. Then, the curator showed us all around the library and opened up Red House for a little private guided tour. It's closed until June, so it was very quiet, just the sound of the rain and our bootie-covered feet (to protect the floors and rugs) shuffling through the house where Britten and Pears lived. The chairs where they sat. The desk where Britten composed, his spectacles and manuscript paper still lying on the desk. The photos and artwork. My favorite photo was in the windowsill by the windowseat overlooking the garden. It was a picture of Britten sitting in the windowseat, the tapestries unchanged, the light a little dim, just as it was when I was standing there. The photo of Peter Pears with one of the dogs on his lap, having a fantastic laugh. Since Pears was also an art collector, Ayla got to see a lot of modern art and talk with the curator about the building and the preservation/restoration efforts. A totally worthwhile use of our time, and completely worth getting the early train there. When we finally caught the bus back to Saxmundham just after 6pm, soaking from the rain and freezing our tails off, I could only feel happy and satisfied. Not only had I put my hands on the primary source material from which my dissertation has sprung, but I got to touch things that the public has never seen, that scholars have never seen. I got to leaf through scores and see photos and walk through Britten's living room and study, and run my hands over Peter Pears' piano. As Ayla was saying to me, the English have a very good sense of place when it comes to history - this is something that America is working on, but it's hard to convince people that a house not lived in is worth preserving when space is at a premium. Here, history is just sitting there, waiting to be seen. Churches, cathedrals, even in the tiny streets of London that are so inconvenient for driving, it's just waiting. What a treasure.
So we got back to Saxmundham, had pub dinner in front of a fire, and got back on the train to London at 7:32pm. Spent the night at Ayla's, drinking tea and warming up from our journey and recovering from an extremely long day. I spent the morning working on my dissertation edits and sent what I hope will be the final draft to my advisers. I answered every question, integrated every section, checked my sources and citations, and even managed to find a great quote for the front page. I think it's done. Please let them think it's done too.
It's just before 11am, so I've got to get dressed and out of here in the next hour and a half. I'm meeting my old adviser from Exeter. From one musicologist to another. Nerd lunch :)
Pictures to follow!
