The Countess of Stanlein Restored: A History of the Countess of Stanlein Ex Paganini Stradivarius Cello of 1707

Rating:
Summary: The Art of the Luthier Revealed
Review: If you are like me, you have never before heard of the word "luthier." Nicholas Delbanco defines the word as "one who makes and repairs bowed string instruments." It is an old, old word, and much of the craft of the luthier "feels nearly medieval in it hierarchy of apprentice, journeyman, laborer, master craftsman." Delbanco knows that we don't know the word, and we don't know the craft of the luthier, but after reading his book, _The Countess of Stanlein Restored: A History of the Countess of Stanlein Ex Paganini Stradivarius Cello of 1707_ (Verso), we can at least appreciate in small the stratospheric levels of expertise in the luthier's craft. The visit to this world is exhilarating.

Delbanco tells of the history of the cello, one of a few dozen that Stradivari built. It eventually came down to Bernard Greenhouse, who has owned the cello for almost forty years. He says, "I've traveled the world with that instrument. It's been my companion for 40 years. It was my career, my friend." He played in the Beaux Arts Trio, two hundred times a year. He was never separated from his dear instrument. But as he got older, and concertizing became less pressured and less frequent, he thought he owed his instrument and posterity a favor. In 1998, he turned it over to the luthier, René Morel in New York City, who took it apart and reworked it, over almost two years. Morel says, "To start with, we take it apart. Even so fine a lady as the Countess of Stanlein must be opened for examination; you insert the knife carefully, carefully just here into the glue - you must know how to do it - and then you just go _pop_!" You can believe he was that cavalier about it, if you like. Delbanco details the incredibly complicated steps in the renewal, and Greenhouse's fretting about being without his old friend and fellow performer. The restoration complete, the instrument was just as good as he wanted it, which is unexcelled.

A charming little book, telling of the mastery of the luthier and the musician, _The Countess_ is obviously written with love by a fan, but the awesome story of the history of the cello and its dismemberment and resurrection is full of quietly told facts. It is a fine work for general readers who know nothing of this world, and it is a delightful introduction to two elderly artists at the top of their form, and whom it is hard not to love.

Rating:
Summary: The Art of the Luthier Revealed
Review: If you are like me, you have never before heard of the word "luthier." Nicholas Delbanco defines the word as "one who makes and repairs bowed string instruments." It is an old, old word, and much of the craft of the luthier "feels nearly medieval in it hierarchy of apprentice, journeyman, laborer, master craftsman." Delbanco knows that we don't know the word, and we don't know the craft of the luthier, but after reading his book, _The Countess of Stanlein Restored: A History of the Countess of Stanlein Ex Paganini Stradivarius Cello of 1707_ (Verso), we can at least appreciate in small the stratospheric levels of expertise in the luthier's craft. The visit to this world is exhilarating.

Delbanco tells of the history of the cello, one of a few dozen that Stradivari built. It eventually came down to Bernard Greenhouse, who has owned the cello for almost forty years. He says, "I've traveled the world with that instrument. It's been my companion for 40 years. It was my career, my friend." He played in the Beaux Arts Trio, two hundred times a year. He was never separated from his dear instrument. But as he got older, and concertizing became less pressured and less frequent, he thought he owed his instrument and posterity a favor. In 1998, he turned it over to the luthier, René Morel in New York City, who took it apart and reworked it, over almost two years. Morel says, "To start with, we take it apart. Even so fine a lady as the Countess of Stanlein must be opened for examination; you insert the knife carefully, carefully just here into the glue - you must know how to do it - and then you just go _pop_!" You can believe he was that cavalier about it, if you like. Delbanco details the incredibly complicated steps in the renewal, and Greenhouse's fretting about being without his old friend and fellow performer. The restoration complete, the instrument was just as good as he wanted it, which is unexcelled.

A charming little book, telling of the mastery of the luthier and the musician, _The Countess_ is obviously written with love by a fan, but the awesome story of the history of the cello and its dismemberment and resurrection is full of quietly told facts. It is a fine work for general readers who know nothing of this world, and it is a delightful introduction to two elderly artists at the top of their form, and whom it is hard not to love.

Rating:
Summary: close, but no cigar
Review: It is easy to be excited by the promise of this little book. Its austere but stylish cover displays an old, rare, beautiful instrument. The instrument was created by a sublime craftsman. In recent years it has been played by another, and now it has been restored by a third. The cello has an intriguing name and the cover notes suggest a history to match. Alas, seduced readers will be left unfulfilled. The story is simpler than the promised romance. Ardent admiration is obvious in descriptions of the knowledge and skill of the craftsmen, but little of any depth is revealed. Even the illustrations disappoint. It's a beautiful package and will look well on any shelf. However what might, with more control, have been a delightful article in Vanity Fair is, instead, bloated, swollen and grandiose.

Rating:
Summary: close, but no cigar
Review: Though I admire and look forward to Nicholas Delbanco's fiction, it always seems to be his non-fiction work that delights me the most: the Provencal travel portraits in *Running in Place*, the fictive non-fiction of *The Lost Suitcase*, the affectionate documentary eye of *The Beaux Arts Trio* all make fine and lasting use, I think, of his exacting language and sharp senses.

Along comes this book, which again finds Delbanco handily making journalistic use of his gifts for words. A combination of history, reportage, memoir, biography, and technical explanation on virtuoso Bernard Greenhouse's Stradivarius cello (named, after a previous borrower, the Countess of Stanlein), this short read--which appeared originally as an article in Harper's--is a marvelous (and surprisingly exhaustive) explanation of the cello's past and its recent and extensive restoration.

The chronological account of the instrument's ordeal (and Greenhouse's ordeal in relinquishing it to his luthier, an engaging portrait in and of itself) provides a scaffolding against which Delbanco builds a fascinating explanation of the history of cello-making, instrument repair, and Greenhouse's career with the instrument. Most interesting to me, however, is the cello's own biography--its past lives and incarnations, over centuries, in the hands of famous and unfamous musical figures. Delbanco moves through these histories, data, and narrative with enviable, trademark fluidity.

I've played the cello now for more than 15 years. And though I'm no professional, I feel confident in saying that I'm familiar with a great deal of the "cello lit" currently in print (books, to name a few, by Pleeth, Potter, Walden, Cambridge's fine reference). And while the cello community is rightly grateful for these authors, Delbanco's modest addition to the genre is really worth celebrating, I think. It's a *story*, after all, with virtuoso surprise guest stars, emotional conflict, even a fair amount of suspense (as Greenhouse, fearfully, must test his cello after its repair). This crafty narrative trajectory only makes the writing tighter, the subject more engaging, and the reader perhaps more covetous of the work of art that is a Strad (I certainly hope to play on one before I pass).

The book should appeal, as a result, to both cello devotees and neophytes, and will hopefully receive attention from even the passingly curious. I heartily recommend it.

Rating:
Summary: A Cello's Biography
Review: Though I admire and look forward to Nicholas Delbanco's fiction, it always seems to be his non-fiction work that delights me the most: the Provencal travel portraits in *Running in Place*, the fictive non-fiction of *The Lost Suitcase*, the affectionate documentary eye of *The Beaux Arts Trio* all make fine and lasting use, I think, of his exacting language and sharp senses.

Along comes this book, which again finds Delbanco handily making journalistic use of his gifts for words. A combination of history, reportage, memoir, biography, and technical explanation on virtuoso Bernard Greenhouse's Stradivarius cello (named, after a previous borrower, the Countess of Stanlein), this short read--which appeared originally as an article in Harper's--is a marvelous (and surprisingly exhaustive) explanation of the cello's past and its recent and extensive restoration.

The chronological account of the instrument's ordeal (and Greenhouse's ordeal in relinquishing it to his luthier, an engaging portrait in and of itself) provides a scaffolding against which Delbanco builds a fascinating explanation of the history of cello-making, instrument repair, and Greenhouse's career with the instrument. Most interesting to me, however, is the cello's own biography--its past lives and incarnations, over centuries, in the hands of famous and unfamous musical figures. Delbanco moves through these histories, data, and narrative with enviable, trademark fluidity.

I've played the cello now for more than 15 years. And though I'm no professional, I feel confident in saying that I'm familiar with a great deal of the "cello lit" currently in print (books, to name a few, by Pleeth, Potter, Walden, Cambridge's fine reference). And while the cello community is rightly grateful for these authors, Delbanco's modest addition to the genre is really worth celebrating, I think. It's a *story*, after all, with virtuoso surprise guest stars, emotional conflict, even a fair amount of suspense (as Greenhouse, fearfully, must test his cello after its repair). This crafty narrative trajectory only makes the writing tighter, the subject more engaging, and the reader perhaps more covetous of the work of art that is a Strad (I certainly hope to play on one before I pass).

The book should appeal, as a result, to both cello devotees and neophytes, and will hopefully receive attention from even the passingly curious. I heartily recommend it.