My father in the middle, my mother left and I sit on his right
My father
After all this, what do you make of a father who, although he did not want his son to be a musician, could think of nothing better than to send him to music theory lessons from the age of four or five? To salve his conscience he used to explain that a little music, amateur of course, never hurt anyone and that only an idiot could not tell an ascending scale from a descending scale. And then, of course, a bit of musical culture would always help you to appreciate symphony concerts and great soloists when you were older, wouldn’t it?
And that is why one day I was packed off to Mademoiselle Bouet de Montagnac. Yes, that was her name! A very old-fashioned French lady, as thin as a rake, short, and cannot have weighed more than six stone. She was also extremely ugly; to me as an unruly, mischievous lad, this was rendered attractive only by the fact that she had a moustache and beard like a navvy. She held a first prize from the Paris Conservatoire, adored her pupils and gave them an education which was of the greatest benefit later. Musical dictation in one part and in several parts, singing from music in several clefs, sight-reading, intonation — everything necessary for someone who wanted to enter this fine career. She also asked her pupils’ parents not to give them an instrument until after they had a solid basis of theory. She reckoned a minimum of four to five years for this whereas nowadays people start on their chosen instrument right away and are happy to polish up their theory later. I will not be so bold as to say which method is better.
My father at the double bass
My mother
At that time my mother never missed an opportunity to take me to the marvellous quintet concerts (piano, 2 violins, cello and double bass) at the Hôtel de la Paix in Lausanne where my father played. You have to smile when you realise that this kid of six or seven, fascinated by the music of Rimsky, Borodin or Fritz Kreisler, was even more fascinated by his father, tall, blond, with his carefully trimmed and impressive moustache, playing beneath a palm tree. How he was to be envied for being able to play beneath a palm tree.
...and I
I used to dream about this at night; I could still hear the admirable and adorable cellist Henri Plomb playing the many solos which the regulars never tired of asking him to play. That is how my decision came to be taken, quite firmly, even at that early age. That, and nothing else, was what I would do when I grew up although I did not know then that I would never once, in all my time as a musician, play beneath a palm tree, be it one which stood in a pot or one which grew on a Pacific island.
Finally, and to conclude this chapter, in the long-established tradition of sons who never (hardly ever) do what their fathers want, that is why I became a musician. If you like, I will tell you next time about how and under what circumstances.
(To be continued)
Edouard Gros
