A few years ago, in a junk shop in North London, I found a square piano masquerading as a display table. At first I thought it might be a harpsichord, covered as it was by a faux Tiffany lamp, a stuffed owl, and various other bric-à-brac. I felt a feverish excitement as I moved the items aside and smoothed my hand over the patina of the lid. Feigning nonchalance with the junk shop owner, I asked casually how much he wanted for the ‘table’ but my heart was going like the clappers. Oh, how I desired it!
Underneath the clutter it turned out to be a Broadwood square piano, made, as the inlaid satinwood name board told me, in 1790. 1790! Mozart was still alive in 1790.
The piano stood in my dining room, until I didn’t have a dining room anymore and it moved with me to a flat. I would open it up like a magic box and show it to visitors with the pride and awe of someone who possessed a rare jewel, all the while not quite feeling that I deserved to own this piece of history.
Dussek at the piano, 1795. Portrait by Henri-Pierre Danloux
Just now I have been dusting it and photographing it. I look intimately at the detail, the calligraphy inside to guide the tuner, the ‘railway track’ inlay banding, the mahogany case on its French stand – a sign of this being the ‘Elegant’ model – the tuning pins, the paterae at each corner covering large bolts, the soundboard, the dampers, the precisely curved bridge. These words, all these terms give me a frisson, so too the craftsmanship, the engineering, the precision. There is a smell which takes me somewhere far back, a scent of beeswax, of linseed, of must, and of – what, people? I have an undeniably sentimental view of my piano. I imagine the person – family? – for whom it was made; the people who lived with it and played it; the people who could conceivably have played it (did anyone invite the ailing Wolfgang Amadeus to pop over from the opening of La Clemenza di Tito in Prague to have a tinkle of their spanking new ivories? And do I hear the footman announcing Mr Haydn at the door?); I envisage the people who sat and listened to the latest tunes being played expertly (or amateurishly but enthusiastically); I touch the keys which are so smooth and cool and I know that I am placing my fingers in the prints of those who have conjured music over centuries.
There are ghosts in that piano.
I also feel strangely moved when I look at the instrument and diddle chromatically up and down the ivory and ebony, all the while fantasising what stellar musicians or composers might not have visited the house where this instrument stood, maybe even leaning over a shoulder to play a few notes themselves. The pride of the person who bought the piano, taking delivery of it and setting it up in the music room or in their drawing room, quite likely showing it off – a beautiful and luxury item – to visitors who come to call.
But amid my sentimentality there is the practical consideration that the piano is currently unplayable, nor am in a position to get it restored. If it is indeed restorable, then how marvellous to get it playing again; and if it is not restorable, then at the very least it is an exquisite museum piece. Somebody else may enjoy giving residence to some of the musical ghosts who I am sure stay very close to it. I certainly have. Perhaps an instrument is only ever on loan, and must be passed from one generation to the other, and, like houses, we do not own them, we merely hold them for a while.
I grew up in a house in London that was built in 1708, and on the 300th anniversary of the building of that row of houses I performed a recital in the drawing room of number 16 Cheyne Row.
I sang songs to the accompaniment of a resonant harpsichord, songs that might plausibly have been heard during the history of the house. It might be fun to imagine that at some point, perhaps after the third or fourth generation of residents at number 16, one of them sought to purchase a dangerously modern new instrument – a Broadwood Square piano. But this too is all simply make-believe.
When I put my fingers on these antique ivories, I hear underneath the unstrung sounds and dull clanks other music very faintly, as the ear might pick up harmonics or overtones. There are melodies still quite unknown and heard just as hints, testifying by whispers to the ages of music made during the life of my piano. These echoes are almost out of reach but if I stretch out my hand I am nearly within touching distance. There is a sensation of tactile reality and of experiencing the music as lights and colour; sketchy figures and instruments are distinguished only as shades but I have tried to take hold of them, to call to them and ask them to play for me.
Within this synaesthetic fantasy world I have delighted in playing around with musical colour and texture, to try and capture the shadows and phantoms of my instrument. Time Slip 1 is what I have come up with. I hope the ghosts approve.
Time-Slip 1 written, performed and produced by Suzy Robinson (Broadwood Square Piano N° 1461, soprano recorder, alto recorder, and keyboard).
Suzy Robinson soprano 