A Musical Encounter | 琴房奇遇记
Written by: Xiao Chunduan | 肖淳端
Translated by: Sun Shulang
Editor’s Note:
This article is excerpted from Haha! Britain — a charitable bilingual publication co-produced by The Mothers’ Bridge of Love (MBL) and River Cam Breeze. The book is a lively collaboration between 42 Chinese authors living in the UK and 36 university-based volunteer translators. With wit and warmth, the stories capture the everyday realities of Chinese communities in Britain, offering an honest look at the cultural clashes, humour, and adaptation that arise in the space between Chinese and British ways of life. Haha! Britain has been warmly endorsed by several well-known figures in UK-China relations, including Stephen Perry (former Chairman of the 48 Group Club), Luise Schäfer OBE (former British diplomat and Chamber of Commerce chair), Professor Hugo De Burgh (former BBC editor and academic), and British scholar Martin Jacques. The book’s title was handwritten by celebrated British-Chinese artist Qu Leilei, its cover illustrated by bestselling Chinese author and poet Feng Tang, and the postscript contributed by Xue Mo, a prominent voice in contemporary Chinese literature.
Illustrated by Tian Tian
As a child, reading Pipilu and Luxixi*, I fervently wished to own a “little doctor”. With such a tiny, all-knowing companion, I wouldn’t need to worry about failing exams due to my laziness. Instead, on the exam, I could simply pop the “little doctor” in my ear who would answer all the questions for me with great ease. I would then achieve outstanding grades and win the admiration of my teachers and parents – Haha! And so, I scoured for expired canned goods, always reluctant to open those that were still within their shelf lives. Such wishful thinking has been going on for years, during which I’ve taken many exams. I’ve never found a little doctor to help me on the exams, but the memory of my childhood innocence warms my heart. Time dulls my fantasies and diminishes the surprises in my life as my days in England stretch on in monotony. While I hesitate to boast about my modest academic progress, I have gained valuable insights into culture and life. The most thrilling experience was my encounter in the piano room, and before I fully wake from that dream, I’d love to share it with you.
My university boasts a renowned art centre; the largest in the UK outside of London. It houses two large concert halls, two theatres, a cinema and a music centre. Approximately 250,000 people visit it annually, and world- class orchestras and renowned artists frequently perform there. Chances are that you will brush shoulders with a world-famous maestro while visiting. Compared to performances back in China, the tickets to concerts here are really a great deal. To promote music to the public, the music centre often hosted free concerts, usually held at noon, and known as “musical lunches”. Given my tight budget, I became a regular at these events.
The other thing that drew me to the music centre was the pianos. There was one performance hall and nine piano rooms, seven of which were accessible to students and staff. The piano rooms at my undergraduate school back home always drew me in, despite their high fees and shabby interiors. I was willing to spend money to play there, often making the long trip back and forth from my dormitory. Now that I’m in the UK, surrounded by well- equipped piano rooms I can access anytime, I can’t let this opportunity go to waste. Playing the piano became my solace amid the burdens of tuition and living expenses in this capitalist society.
The pianos were spread over two floors, with the stone rooms downstairs being the best. The temperature in the stone rooms was lower than it was elsewhere, and as soon as you stepped inside, you were enveloped by a refreshing chill. Touching the stone walls felt like touching ice. Whenever I was anxious, I would rush into these stone rooms, which would calm down my mind at once. Even with double doors, one could still hear the sounds from other rooms. The music centre was a hub of talent. Huddled in a stone room, I could always hear the exquisite sound of a coloratura soprano or a magnificent piano cadenza from the other side of the wall. At such moments, the beginner’s pieces I was playing suddenly paled in comparison, and I often found myself holding my breath, listening intently, and totally getting lost in the music. Once, while I was playing Für Elise, the saxophone player from the next room started to accompany me from the next room. Oh, how tender and charming Für Elise sounds on a saxophone! I couldn’t help but slow down to play to his rhythm. Hearing the fine sound and brilliant rhythm of the saxophone, I was so captivated that I started to wonder about the person on the other side of the wall...He must be a young gentleman, handsome and elegant. Alas! Had I not been so shy (this is certainly a product of my Chinese culture), I would have popped in to see his face. But perhaps this was for the best, leaving a beautiful image in my mind.
The pianos at the music centre were quite good, but they were not the best. The best piano on campus was in the church next to the music centre. It was a baby grand piano, not only stunning in appearance but also flawless in tone. When all the lights in the hall were on, sitting in front of that piano made you feel so elegant, as if you were at your own personal recital. Every time I passed by and found the hall unoccupied, I would excitedly run in to play the piano, feeling nothing but gratitude for this heavenly gift. However, I didn’t expect that one day my “little doctor” would appear out of nowhere.
That day, I pulled back the long curtains to reveal a blue sky and budding trees, prompting me to turn off my computer and step outside for a walk. Bathed in warm sunlight and inhaling fresh air, I felt rejuvenated, as if I had just completed a forty-nine-day retreat. Embracing nature, my feet instinctively took me toward the art centre. As I passed the church and found it empty, a sense of secret delight washed over me.
The piano was positioned in the northeast corner of the hall, separated from the outside lawn by floor-to-ceiling windows. The lush green grass beyond was so inviting that my fingers instinctively began to play “The Happy Farmer”. I was never a diligent student; for instance, when my teacher insisted on warming up with scales, I ignored the advice and followed my own inclinations. While my classmates started with pieces like John Thompson’s “Hanon Studies”, I couldn’t wait to dive into Richard Clayderman’s works as soon as I learned to read music, practising diligently on my own. After a few lessons, I found the pace of my teacher’s instruction too slow, so I decided to teach myself. As a result, my piano technique remained weak and I found it difficult to elevate myself to the next level.
However, I did enjoy some compositions, such as Bach’s “Minuet in G Major” and Schubert’s “Moment Musical in F Minor”. They never grew old and always remained fresh. Each time I played them, I came across some new challenges. For example, their final notes need just the right touch: too soft, and the ending seemed abrupt; too loud, and it felt exaggerated. A tiny variation in legato, staccato, speed and dynamics could make a huge difference in the performance. Pondering over these nuances, I finished the “Minuet in G Major”, which aroused a few crisp claps from the silence. I looked around and saw a pair of hands and a head sticking out from behind a screen. “Very good!” the person said.
I smiled back and continued practising. Having been in England for half a year, I had grown accustomed to the friendly compliments of the locals. The British might be one of the friendliest nations in the world, often giving higher praise than deserved. “Very good” could only be equated to something like “not bad” or “alright” in Chinese.
Realising the importance of improving step-by-step, I started practising scales on the keyboard. Speed! Dynamics! As these thoughts swirled in my mind, I climbed the scales faster and faster, hitting the keys with increasing intensity. Suddenly, I noticed a shadow approaching. Looking up, I saw a well-dressed elderly man, strong and healthy, though on crutches. His serious expression made me a bit uneasy, so I asked timidly, “Would you like to use the piano?”
The old man came to me and said, “Do you segment your scales while you play them?” Though his tone was not quite warm, his eyes were sparkled with kindness.
“Um? Hmm... I’m not sure, I’ve never thought of it.”
“Watch this...” The old man transferred the right crutch to his left hand, freeing his right hand to play a scale on the keyboard with great rhythm, then played it again in my hurried way, “Have you noticed the difference?”
I gave a silly grin.
“Which one sounds better?”
“The first one, it has more character,” I replied. The old man could not stand the fact that I played the beautiful piece in that terrible way, so he rushed over to stop me.
“Well, you played Bach quite well earlier, and you have a good sense of music. But focusing only on speed and dynamics in scales will make the practice dull, and that is not what music is meant to be.”
The old man then opened the piano lid and began explaining the articulation principles of piano to me, using many unfamiliar physics terms. However, I grasped the gist: to use softness to counter hardness, much like the brilliance of Tai Chi’s “using four ounces to deflect a thousand pounds”, effortlessly redirecting one’s opponent’s powerful attack with a gentle push.
Figuring the old man must be a master, I asked him to play a piece. He happily agreed, throwing his crutches aside and removing his wrist supports before sitting down to play. His hands moved swiftly across the keys, covering an expansive range with breathtaking speed, creating a majestic and intricate tapestry of sound. I was totally stunned by his powerful performance. When he finished, I was so awestruck that I forgot to applaud. Only after regaining
my senses did the word “top-notch” come to my mind.
The old man asked, “Would you like to learn piano from me?” Wow…I was speechless.
Later, I learned that the piece he played that day was a Chopin rhapsody. The old man had graduated from the University of Oxford and his children earned their degrees at the Royal Academy of Music. They are all accomplished musicians and perform concerts from time to time.
There is more to the story, but I’ve decided to end it here, on this happy note. Pun intended.
* Pipilu and Luxixi is a beloved Chinese children’s literature series by the renowned author Zheng Yuanjie, following the imaginative adventures of the siblings Pipilu and Luxixi as they explore fantastical worlds and learn valuable life lessons.
About the author
Dr. Xiao Chunduan is a literature PhD and is a professor at Jinan University’s College of Foreign Languages. She supervises doctoral students in overseas Chinese literature and conducts research at the Overseas Chinese Literature and Chinese Media Research Center. Recognised as a distinguished young scholar and part of the “Double Hundred Talents” at Jinan University, she has also been a visiting scholar at the University of Cambridge.
Dr. Xiao holds several professional roles, including:
Director of the British Literature Division of the Chinese Association for the Study of Foreign Literature;
Member of the World Ethnic Literature Professional Committee of the Comparative Language and Culture Association;
Director of the Guangzhou Association of Overseas Returnees from Europe and America;
Additionally, she has worked as a translator for London ECI and has translated programmes for television networks like the BBC.
Both the Chinese and English editions of Haha! Britain can be purchased at the following platforms:
· BOOK FAN