thought. When Edgar had finished school, he had
left home to live and work with a piano tuner in the City, an eccentric old man
who believed that a good piano tuner must have knowledge not only of his
instrument but of “Physics, Philosophy, and Poetics,” so that
Edgar, although he never attended university, reached his twentieth birthday
with more education than many who had.
There were other similarities
as well, he thought. In many ways our professions are alike, rare in that they
transcend class distinction—everyone becomes ill, and concert grands as
well as gin-palace uprights get out of tune. Edgar wondered what this meant for
the Doctor, for he had learned early that being needed was not the same as
being accepted. Although he was a frequent visitor to upper-class homes where
the owners of expensive pianos often engaged him in talk about music, he never
felt welcome. And this distinct sense of estrangement extended in the other
direction as well, as he often felt awkwardly refined in the presence of the
carpenters or metalsmiths or porters whom he frequently contacted for his work.
He remembered telling Katherine about this feeling of not belonging soon after
they were married, one morning while they walked beside the Thames. She had
only laughed, and kissed him, her cheeks reddened by the cold, her lips warm
and moist. He remembered this almost as well as he remembered what she had
said, Believe what you may about where you belong, all I care is that you are
mine.
As for other acquaintances, he found friendship in common
interest, of the kind that now, steaming toward Rangoon, he felt toward the
Doctor.
It is unfortunate that the Doctor has not written about the
piano itself, he thought, for
it
is the hero of this entire endeavor,
its absence an obvious omission in the narrative thus far. He was amused by
this thought: Carroll made the army read his natural histories—it would
only be fair if they were forced to learn about the piano as well. In the midst
of his creative rapture and growing sense of united mission with the Doctor, he
rose, took out an inkwell, pen, and paper, lit a new candle for the first one
had burned low, and began to write.
Gentlemen,
I write to
you from on board our steamer bound for Rangoon. It is now the fourteenth day
of our journey, and I have been very much entertained by the view afforded by
our route, and by the most informative briefings provided to me by your office.
It has come to my attention, however, that little has been written about the
very purpose of our endeavor, namely, the piano. Thus, for the purpose of
History as well as the general education of those in the War Office, I feel it
necessary to record this story myself. Please share it with anyone you wish.
Should you care for any further information, gentlemen, I would be more than
happy to provide it.
The History of the Erard Piano
The history of the Erard piano could naturally be told with two
beginnings, that of the history of the piano, and that of the history of
Sebastien Erard. But the former is long and involved—fascinating
naturally, but too much a challenge for my pen, for I am a tuner with a love of
history, not a historian with a love of tuning. Suffice it to say that
following its invention by Cristofori in the early eighteenth century, the
piano underwent great modifications, and the Erard, the subject of this letter,
is indebted, as all modern pianos are, to this tremendous tradition.
Sebastien Erard was from Strasbourg, a German, but he went to Paris in
1768 when he was sixteen and apprenticed himself to a harpsichord maker. The
boy—to put it simply—was a prodigy, and soon he quit his
apprenticeship and opened his own shop. The other Parisian craftsmen felt so
threatened by the boy’s gift that they launched a campaign to have him
close his shop after he designed a
clavecin mécanique,
a
harpsichord with multiple registers, with quill and cowhide plectra, all
operated by an ingenious pedal
left home to live and work with a piano tuner in the City, an eccentric old man
who believed that a good piano tuner must have knowledge not only of his
instrument but of “Physics, Philosophy, and Poetics,” so that
Edgar, although he never attended university, reached his twentieth birthday
with more education than many who had.
There were other similarities
as well, he thought. In many ways our professions are alike, rare in that they
transcend class distinction—everyone becomes ill, and concert grands as
well as gin-palace uprights get out of tune. Edgar wondered what this meant for
the Doctor, for he had learned early that being needed was not the same as
being accepted. Although he was a frequent visitor to upper-class homes where
the owners of expensive pianos often engaged him in talk about music, he never
felt welcome. And this distinct sense of estrangement extended in the other
direction as well, as he often felt awkwardly refined in the presence of the
carpenters or metalsmiths or porters whom he frequently contacted for his work.
He remembered telling Katherine about this feeling of not belonging soon after
they were married, one morning while they walked beside the Thames. She had
only laughed, and kissed him, her cheeks reddened by the cold, her lips warm
and moist. He remembered this almost as well as he remembered what she had
said, Believe what you may about where you belong, all I care is that you are
mine.
As for other acquaintances, he found friendship in common
interest, of the kind that now, steaming toward Rangoon, he felt toward the
Doctor.
It is unfortunate that the Doctor has not written about the
piano itself, he thought, for
it
is the hero of this entire endeavor,
its absence an obvious omission in the narrative thus far. He was amused by
this thought: Carroll made the army read his natural histories—it would
only be fair if they were forced to learn about the piano as well. In the midst
of his creative rapture and growing sense of united mission with the Doctor, he
rose, took out an inkwell, pen, and paper, lit a new candle for the first one
had burned low, and began to write.
Gentlemen,
I write to
you from on board our steamer bound for Rangoon. It is now the fourteenth day
of our journey, and I have been very much entertained by the view afforded by
our route, and by the most informative briefings provided to me by your office.
It has come to my attention, however, that little has been written about the
very purpose of our endeavor, namely, the piano. Thus, for the purpose of
History as well as the general education of those in the War Office, I feel it
necessary to record this story myself. Please share it with anyone you wish.
Should you care for any further information, gentlemen, I would be more than
happy to provide it.
The History of the Erard Piano
The history of the Erard piano could naturally be told with two
beginnings, that of the history of the piano, and that of the history of
Sebastien Erard. But the former is long and involved—fascinating
naturally, but too much a challenge for my pen, for I am a tuner with a love of
history, not a historian with a love of tuning. Suffice it to say that
following its invention by Cristofori in the early eighteenth century, the
piano underwent great modifications, and the Erard, the subject of this letter,
is indebted, as all modern pianos are, to this tremendous tradition.
Sebastien Erard was from Strasbourg, a German, but he went to Paris in
1768 when he was sixteen and apprenticed himself to a harpsichord maker. The
boy—to put it simply—was a prodigy, and soon he quit his
apprenticeship and opened his own shop. The other Parisian craftsmen felt so
threatened by the boy’s gift that they launched a campaign to have him
close his shop after he designed a
clavecin mécanique,
a
harpsichord with multiple registers, with quill and cowhide plectra, all
operated by an ingenious pedal
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