The romances of real life are generally allowed to be far more amazing than anything fiction can create. Perhaps though, when all is said and done, the most sentimental or interesting happenings are not those which lie concealed in reality or myth, but in the unwritten something which clings about the antique treasures we prize—“Those certain things” which Oliver Wendell Holmes calls “good for nothing unless they have been kept for a long while.”

That old oak chair is more precious than a modern production, not because the wood is better or the make more solid, but for the misty reminiscences of lace and buskin, Cavalier and Puritan, in which it is steeped.

This exquisite brocade is valued not so much for its rich texture as for the memory of the shapely shoulders of a Du Barry, or a Castlemaine, which it once graced.

This china vase: this tapestry: this antique ring—we have but to look at them and they tell us many an unwritten story, impossible to repeat, and appealing to us alone. Of all the mute romancers carefully preserved from time’s destructive grasp, none can tell such tales as do the grand old fiddles. Those constant yielding companions of generations passed away have served as confessional boxes for so many centuries that each curve and bend teems with a secret. Take this masterpiece of Andrea Amati for instance (p. 114). Made in Cremona by a man of the mature age of fifty-two or thereabouts, the impulsive hazard of his youthful efforts had long since passed away: definite aim had developed his gifts, and ripe experience had given his hand an exquisite cunning. Little did he think as he sat in his sunny Cremona workshop, smoothing the back of this violoncello, bending the ribs, letting in the purfled edges, while he chatted now and again with a neighbour who dropped in, that he was building a monument to his own memory.

THE ‘KING’
Violoncello by Andreas Amati, 1572.Sent with its fellows to the French court, this violoncello arrived, with the painted armorial bearings of Charles IX., exquisitely pure and fresh in colour, upon its back and sides. It was relegated to the King’s “Chapelle,” or private oratory, doubtless occupying a humble position in the band where the Duiffoproucart viol was prominent: feeling the touch of fresh fingers, as the old ones lost their skill: seeing the intrigues of the court life: hearing the cries of, “The King is dead! Long live the King!” observing each phase of human love and folly, and watching the vagaries of Princes for over two hundred years. Truly your tales would outrival Balzac himself could you speak, and your royal title—“the King”—is but a well-deserved panegyric.

At the time of the French Revolution, in 1790, this violoncello is said to have been still in use at the court of the unfortunate Louis XVI. On the 6th and 7th of October in that year the mob destroyed the whole magnificent “set”—consisting of twenty-four violins (twelve large, and twelve small), six tenors, and eight basses—to which it belonged. Two of the violins of this number were afterwards recovered by Viotti’s pupil, M. J. B. Cartier, and one of the small violins belonged to George Somes, Esq., in 1884. These fiddles, and this violoncello—“The King”—are apparently the only members of the “set” that survived the reckless vengeance of the mob. When one realises how easily such delicate constructions are ruined in sacrilegious hands, their preservation in the midst of the pandemonium, which reigned supreme at that time in Paris, is miraculous.

After the Revolution a glimpse of the whereabouts of “The King” is afforded us by a pencilled note written by the father of its present owner on the back of the frame, containing the interesting slip of paper which has accompanied this violoncello for at least a hundred years. On the paper itself the following inscription is written in French characters:—“Basse faitte par erndre ermati LuthiÉr  cremonne eu italie en 1572. envoyez par le pape 3: À Charles 9 roi de france pour sa chapelle.—avec ses amories et se devise, pietate justicia.” Turning this little framed document over, the three faintly pencilled words, “Duport had it,” seem to imply that “The King,” during the Napoleonic era, was the property of Berteau’s gifted pupil, Jean Pierre Duport, known generally as “Duport l’ainÉ.” If this was the case, then this violoncello went with him to the court of Frederick the Great at Berlin. It is more probable, however, that it fell into the hands of Jean Pierre’s brother, Jean Louis Duport—one of the finest violoncellists of his day—as he became a member of Napoleon’s band and professor at the Conservatoire of Music. Another pencilled note in the same hand, at the back of the frame, stating that “A Hollander brought it to Betts in 1812, and he sold it to H. W. Curtis”[22] (afterwards Sir William Curtis) still further points to Duport, the younger, as its owner, for Duport was in sore straits at one time. This accomplished artist, it may be remembered, also held an appointment at the court of Frederick the Great, but when the defeats of AuerstÄdt and Jena placed Prussia in the position of a suppliant at the feet of Napoleon, Duport returned to Paris utterly ruined. If the violoncello had belonged to his brother it is possible that Jean Pierre may have ceded it to the more accomplished Jean Louis, and the latter brought it to Paris in 1806, where his misfortunes induced him to part with it to a dealer. The next we hear of “The King” is on the death of Sir William Curtis, when it figures in the catalogue of his musical instruments—which were sold by auction on 3rd May 1829—as: “Lot 9, a violoncello by Andrea Amati Cremonencis Faciebat, 1572. A document was given to the proprietor when he purchased this instrument, stating that it was presented by Pope Pius V. to Charles IX., King of France, for his chapel. It has been richly decorated, the arms of France being on the back and the motto ‘Pietate et Justitia’ on the sides. The tone of this violoncello is of extraordinary power and richness.” The Rev. Canon A. H. Bridges, Rector of Beddington, either bought it at the above sale, or from Sir William Curtis’s survivors. On the death of Canon Bridges, in 1891, it became the property of his son, the present owner, John Henry Bridges, Esq., of Ewell Court, Surrey.

THE ‘KING’
Violoncello by Andreas Amati, 1572.

Some connoisseurs describe “The King” to be nothing but a curiosity at the present time. This is hardly correct, for, in spite of its having been very much knocked about in the past, it still retains a sweet quality of tone which makes it a delightful drawing-room instrument. Like Amati’s fiddles “The King” is of small dimensions; indeed violoncellos at this early date were nothing but extra large tenors, and it was not until makers turned their attention to evolving violoncellos out of the viola da gamba that the former began to take a prominent place in the ranks of stringed instruments. The transition itself from gamba to the early form of violoncello took place in the second half of the sixteenth century but—“Who effected the change?” Was it Duiffoproucart in Lyons, Andrea Amati in Cremona, or Gasparo da Salo, looking forth over the sunny plains of Lombardy? The correct reply is perhaps—“All!” Duiffoproucart reduced the size of the huge German geiges so as to furnish what Rousseau in his “Dictionnaire de Musique” defines as “les instruments de remplissage.” Previous to the dispersion of viols into various sizes, they were universally large both in Italy and later in France and England. “The first viols in use in France,” says Jean Rousseau—the eminent violist—in his “TraitÉ de la Viole” (Paris, 1687), “had five strings, and were very large ... of such dimensions indeed, that the PÈre Mersenne says that a young Page de Musique could be shut within to sing the treble part, while the bass was played upon the self-same instrument”—an arrangement which certainly could not contribute to the happiness of either the little page, or the bass-viol, and the diminishing process which necessarily did away with such a forlorn practice was certainly welcome to all the actors in the trio. Owing to the breaking up of the viols into various sizes, orchestras grew in proportion, so that we find in the Etat de France for 1645, that the “Musique de la Chambre de Monsieur” (Louis XIV.’s brother) boasted “Nicolas Fleury” and “Pierre Montigny” as players of the Haute Contre,[23] “Pierre Noinne” and “N... le Vert” as players of the Taille Basses,[24] while “Francois Martin” and “Guillaume Mercer” disported themselves on the “Taille Haute.”[25] In the beginning of the following century, further names of instruments de remplissage, appear in the Paris Opera orchestra: for instance “2 quintes”[26] “2 tailles,”[27] and “3 haute contres.”

This was the result of Duiffoproucart’s creation of the small viola da gamba, a size which broke into many degrees and kinds. Then Andrea Amati made a further step in the right direction by making small-sized bass instruments in the same form as the violin, which had at that time assumed the shape now so familiar. The moot question—“Was it Andrea Amati in Cremona, or Gasparo da Salo in Brescia who first made violoncellos in the form of the violin?”—is of course unanswerable at this space of time. Da Salo was a man of progress, ready to fight for his opinions. He made some fine double-basses and grand tenors which are sought after to this day, and Herr August Reichers, the Berlin violin-maker, possessed a small-sized violoncello by this maker in 1884. If this instrument was not a cut-down bass-viol, or an exceptionally large tenor, it is apparently a solitary example of a violoncello by Da Salo, but even though its existence be allowed, the numerous violoncellos made by Andrea Amati must necessarily admit him to be—if not the inventor—at least the earliest known luthier to make violoncellos.

Although Da Salo may be looked upon as no enthusiast where violoncellos were concerned, he was not neglectful in the matter of other bass instruments. Signor Dragonetti possessed no fewer than three fine basses by the Brescian maker, of various sizes, and Mr Hart, in 1875, owned a small double-bass of Da Salo’s which had been brought from Italy by Tarisio, and was looked upon as the ne plus ultra of its kind. A Da Salo viola da gamba, catalogued as of the year 1570, was to be seen among the sumptuous display of musical instruments shown at the Special Loan Exhibition held at Fishmongers’ Hall in the summer of 1904.

But, fortunately, we need not rely entirely upon catalogues, description, and speculation for an idea of Da Salo’s skill as a gamba-maker, for, here beside us, in their neat glass house, two examples of the fine old Brescian repose in calm tranquillity, like veterans silently ruminating over many campaigns. They both face us with the quaint C-shaped sound-holes, so dear to the hearts of the old viol-makers, and both display upper tables of remarkably well-chosen even-grained pine wood. One of them is strung with seven strings, but the seventh is a later invention, for the earliest viols had five strings, then six, and it was not until the last part of the seventeenth century that Sainte Colombe (some say Marais) added another to the six. A true unaltered seven-stringed viol is hardly ever to be met with now. A solitary and excellent example, however, was lent by M. Galley to the Special Loan Exhibition at South Kensington in 1872. This was a remarkably handsome gamba and had remained untouched, with the exception of an attempt to attach sympathetic strings. A further adjunct to be found in this Da Salo gamba before us is the scroll, which curves round in a unique manner like a wisp of twisted ribbon: this never felt the touch of Da Salo’s hand. It may be the work of Barak Norman, for a similar, indeed identical, scroll crowns his gamba now in the Donaldson Museum, but certainly it is not Da Salo’s work. In his day sculptured human and animal heads were de rigueur, and, like his contemporaries, he carved these himself, or employed special artists to do so. In Germany the followers of Jacobus Stainer of Absam—whose favourite ornament was a lion’s head—freely adopted this practice, but the custom died out first in Italy, where viol-makers discovered that such a system was far from remunerative.

Close to this gamba of Da Salo’s with the spurious scroll, his second example exhibits his skill as a wood-carver, in the exquisitely chiselled head of an old woman, which surmounts the neck. The varnish is slightly darker on this gamba than on the one beside it. Age is no doubt responsible for this and not the maker himself, as it is also for the black Da Salo fiddles of which some connoisseurs speak with a degree of scorn. It may be noticed that there is but one line of purfling round this gamba. This was such an ordinary custom with Da Salo that comment is unnecessary. It is clumsily let in, lacking the grace and finish expended upon this difficult art by Cremona makers. The Amatis above all others excelled in the neatness of their purfling, and the customary three lines is always to be met with in their fiddles as well as in those of Stradivarius. The latter, however, on one solitary occasion reverted to one line of purfling in the violoncello upon which Bernard Romberg played for many years. This instrument is unique in many ways, for the gifted Cremonese maker made the back and sides of plane wood and poplar, material which he employed occasionally in the early part of his career, but which he had discarded at the date (1711) he made the violoncello.

Speaking of wood, by-the-by, the proper selection of timber was held to be a matter of great importance by the ancient luthier. M. Fetis, in his “Antonio Stradivarius,” has given some interesting information regarding the source from whence the old viol-makers obtained their wood. He says that maple was sent from Croatea, Turkey and Dalmatia to Venice in the shape of galley oars, and that the Turks, ever seeking to outrival the Venetians, and consequently frequently at war with them, took care to choose wood with the handsomest wave, knowing well that it would break the more easily. It was from among this selection that the viol-maker had to gather his timber. In his own country there was certainly little difficulty in obtaining wood, but, where would he get such maple as came to him from Dalmatia? Secretly he welcomed this

“... thing devised by the enemy”

and turned it to good account. The illustrious Da Salo was very partial to pear wood as well as sycamore, which he cut slab-ways from the tree, as did most of his contemporaries. Stradivarius preferred maple to any other wood, but he went with the times and also employed the woods favoured by his brethren, such as poplar, lime, and even grained pine. A species of red pine, common to the Tyrol, and known to the Italian makers by the name of “Azarole,” was more in favour with the Cremona luthier than Swiss pine. Only the south side, the side exposed to the drying rays of the sun, was used. Indeed, this precaution is one which has been observed by makers for over three hundred years, knowing well that it is one of the first aids towards solving the problem: Given: A log of wood. Make: A fiddle. The timber must be blameless, free from knots or blemish, and—above all—free from worm, a fate which has destroyed whole forests of pine if the trees are cut at the wrong season of the year. Also the tree must have arrived at a maturity of ten years, and the question of sap flowing through the outer part of the tree must be duly considered. Speaking on this subject, Mr Davidson[28] remarks that, owing to the sap passing through this part of the tree, the wood abounds in saccharine matter and is quickly susceptible to decay. In trees which have arrived at maturity, there is no distinction between the sap and heart wood, the wood being of the same texture throughout and almost uniform. The proper time for cutting trees is when the sap ceases to flow, and experience has determined the month of December to be the best time for this purpose, as the wood which has been cut during this month has been found to have always been of superior quality to any cut during the other months. Monsieur l’AbbÉ Sibre, author of “La Chelonome ou le parfait LuthÉrie,” which was published at the beginning of the nineteenth century, voices the merits of wood cut in December and January long before Mr Davidson, and adds the admonition that the wood must be cut from between the bark and heart of the tree. The wood being cut as required from the healthy pine or maple, it is sawn into planks, and,—though the fiddle-maker’s hands are madly twitching to commence operations on it,—subjected to a drying process to be effected by sun and air for at least six years. If at the end of that period of time the luthier is still enamoured of his timber, then he may clamp it and cut it and scrape it into the violin or violoncello of his fancy. Monsieur Simoutre, the French violin-maker and author of some patent improvements which, in common with all innovations connected with bow instruments, have had no lasting effect, contends that the best pine wood comes from Silesia, from La Valteline, Les Grisons, Le Simmenthal in the Bernese Alps, from certain sheltered parts of the valley of the Lac de Joux, in the Canton de Vaud, Switzerland, and from the southern slopes of the Jura Bernois. Modern violin-makers generally employ maple cut from trees growing on the southern slopes of the Carpathians and also in some parts of the Eastern Alps, but where this is not procurable, it has been found that it is not absolutely necessary to range the Alps or the Carpathians in search of suitable wood, for many a fine violin and violoncello have been made from the wainscot or beam of an old-time cottage or mansion. J. B. Vuillaume used to roam over Italy and Switzerland frequently for the sole purpose of picking up choice bits of pine which had probably formed part of a beam or support in some residence for hundreds of years. Out of these purchases he undoubtedly made some of his finest instruments. His example has recommended itself to many other makers, and only the other day we heard of a contemporary English maker whose best violins and violoncellos have been formed from an old beam obtained from a house near Eltham. Such practices as these certainly place lutherie within the range of everyone so inclined, for, who is there in these days that does not possess a likely piece of old furniture? some familiar escritoire, or table, or panel, out of which a possible rival to Cremona’s chefs-d’oeuvre may be conjured by the aid of gouge, chisel, bending iron, and glue pot. In spite of the time-saving effects which the appropriation of the family heirlooms for this purpose would effect, how much more appealing and poetic were the methods of the ancient luthier, who went straight to the forest for his wood. Can one picture Stradivarius storing up old beams, and tables, on the roof of his house in Cremona? Can we imagine Guarnerius roaming about the country seeking likely bits of wood in cottages, or the Amatis, or Da Salo, the maker of these gambas, resorting to such a commonplace expedient. No! a thousand times. They went straight to the forest for their timber, wandered through the misty depths of clustered pines, pondering in the deep silence upon many a knotty point of their craft. Or they stood at times on the rocky borders of the wood, where the trees looked down upon the valley from whence the sound of the rushing brook could be faintly heard. From a point of vantage they watched the trees being felled: hearkened to the tone they emitted as their torn limbs bounded from rock to rock: counted the number of circles to ascertain the age of a likely tree: examined the colour with care to judge of its health. If they were satisfied with these various preliminary tests, they bought what they required, stored the planks on the sheltered side of their workshop or on the roof of the same, and watched the hot Italian sun do its work of drying. Not only did the most eminent makers of the past carefully store their own wood, but if they became possessed of a particularly handsome piece they did not scruple to patch and piece it together, so that no scrap of the treasure should be wasted.

THE ‘VASLIN’
Violoncello by Antonius Stradivarius.
Dated 1725.

Gasparo da Salo, as we have already said, was an adept in the choice of wood, and he was fortunate in lighting upon some particularly even-grained pine. In these days his work is looked upon as rough, or, to put it more gently, primitive. The recent researches of Il Cavalieri Livi—the keeper of the Brescian state archives—have, however, proved that this was far from the case in his lifetime. Until the results of the Cavalieri’s investigations were published in the Nuova Antalogia on the 16th August 1891, nothing definite concerning this maker’s life was known. Thanks to the Brescian income-tax returns and other authentic documentary evidence it is now proved that Da Salo’s real name was not Salo at all but Gasparo di Bertolotti, that he rejoiced in a grandfather named Santino di Bertolotti who was a lute-maker at Polpenazze, that his father was one Francesco Bertolotti, a painter familiarly called “Violino” by his friends, and that his son, Gasparo, the future violin-maker, was born at Salo, a small town on Lake Garda, not many miles distant from Brescia. Unfortunately the date of Da Salo’s birth still remains unknown, owing to the loss of the pages from the parish register where it should appear, but the income-tax returns for 1568 state him to be twenty-six years of age at that date, and those for 1588, forty-five, thus locating his birth approximately in the year 1542. It is presumed that he learnt his art from his grandfather first, and later from a Brescian viol-maker of the name of Gerolamo Virchi, who stood sponsor to Gasparo’s son, Francesco. The earliest efforts of the great Brescian master apparently did not find favour with his fellow-countrymen, and, this being so, he became discouraged and contemplated trying his fortunes in France. A certain Father Gabriel saw the gifted man’s dispirited efforts, and also observed his intentions. He was reluctant to see one of his flock go forth to a foreign country, and to prevent such a calamity came forward with a loan of £60. Curiously enough this small sum changed the bent of Da Salo’s life. He remained, and encouraged by the faith of the good priest set to work with such definite aim and earnestness, that as a result he soon established himself in a house with a shop in the Contrada del Palazzo vecchio. This event occurred in the year 1568. He paid £20 rent per annum for this establishment, valued his stock of musical instruments at about £60, and styled himself Magistro di Violini. In 1579 he exhibited the added title of Magistro di Cittaris, and in 1583 called himself Artefice d’instrumenti musica. Twenty years after his first establishment in the Contrada del Palazzo vecchio, he changed his residence to the Contrada Cocere, where he claimed to be the owner of violins finished and unfinished valuing quite £200, and where he had acquired the ostentatious title of Magister instrumentorum musicorum. The year 1599 found him purchasing another house in Brescia, situated in the Contrada di St Pietro di Martero, and between 1581 and 1607 he owned land adjoining Calvagese, near Salo. It was at Calvagese that Da Salo’s son, Francesco, found his bride, the Signora Fior. He also followed the captivating profession of his father, until the latter’s death on the 14th April 1609, when he apparently lost heart, for from that time he ceased to be a luthier. Probably he sold the excellent business to Da Salo’s gifted pupil, Gio. Paolo Maggini, who had worked as an apprentice in the Brescian master’s workshop for quite eight years, and was then a bachelor of thirty or thereabouts. In any case, whether he became possessed of the business or not, the esteem which had previously been bestowed upon his instructor fell to his share. On the whole he deserved all the support he gained for he not only equalled Da Salo as a maker but surpassed him in everything save the ugly stiff sound holes which, for some unaccountable reason, he retained.

In the history of the violoncello, it is a puzzling and curious circumstance, that no viola da gamba by Maggini is extant.[29] His violins, violas, violoncellos and double-basses have resisted the onslaught of over three hundred adventurous years, and, this being so, one cannot help wondering why his gambas have not also withstood time’s ravages. The obvious reply seems to be that, “He made none!” However, whether he did or did not, his attitude certainly had no effect on the position occupied by the violoncello at that time. The general feeling about the instrument was akin to the sentiments expressed by the Comte de Rabutin in his “Epistles”:

Not being liked, and yet appearing among them, musicians were confronted with a difficulty which they solved by placing this “white elephant” in the obscure position of playing the fundamental bass in the music of the Church.

As regards the lack of Maggini violas da gamba, circumstantial evidence may be right after all. The man was a genius, and, true to his instincts, sought after new methods rather than personal gain. He threw aside the useless and picked out the good, and, this being so, it is not surprising that he should prefer to turn his attention to the budding violoncello, rather than the pristine viola da gamba.In the delightful monograph of this maker’s life—already mentioned—among the excellent summary of the instruments made by him, there is an interesting description of a quartet of instruments generally known as the “Dumas Set,” from its having once belonged to a family of that name. In an ancient chÂteau near Lyons the members of the Dumas household passed through the terrors of the first Revolution and saw the establishment of the Empire. They were enthusiastic musical amateurs—friends of Beethoven—and inspired by a genuine love of chamber music they collected together four magnificent examples of Maggini’s skill. Of the four instruments—i.e. violin, viola, violoncello and double-bass—which comprise the “set,” the violin and viola are of the most characteristic and perfect type, although the violoncello is also excellent. According to Lady Huggins’s description of the last, “it has two lines of purfling, but no ornamental device. The bottom circle of the sound-holes is smaller than the top. There is the same under-bevelling of the inside edge of the sound-holes, as in Maggini’s other instruments, the same arching of the model. The wood of the back and the sides is cut on the slab” (parallel with the growth of the tree—a favourite practice with the ancient viol-makers). “The back is joined, also the belly, the latter having the wood the ordinary way of the grain, the coarse grain being outside.” As we look at the instrument, the thought involuntarily rises in us—“to Maggini we owe our modern violoncello.” What a curious mixture of the “old” and the “new” is to be found in this instrument. The back cut on the “slab”—in accordance with the long-standing custom—and the belly cut in the improved manner. Maggini, although a great innovator, and the first to cut the wood in the new way—i.e. wedge-ways from the tree—was evidently in a state of uncertainty when he made this violoncello. To balance matters he mingled the divers ways, yet, in spite of his hesitation, he came nearer to gauging the most equitable proportions for the violoncello than any other maker of his time. It would be of great interest if it were possible to discover by what means Maggini and his predecessors arrived at their conclusions. Whether it was in the manner of old Mrs Tibbins, who made a fiddle by means of a blunt knife, a piece of glass, and a bent file, or, on the principles of Monsieur Felix Savart. If the ancient luthier planned his work on the latter’s scientific basis, then he was accurate in every detail, for no more satisfactory experiments on the construction of bow instruments have been attempted. The idea of these experiments was suggested by a guitar-shaped violin made by Stradivarius and owned by the elder Chanot. Imagining that so eminent a maker would not have constructed such a violin without good reason, Monsieur Savart—a doctor of medicine—threw up his profession for that of science and interested himself in organising a series of tests in the first half of the nineteenth century. As a result of his labours luthiers were at last confronted with the astounding assertion that an arched surface vibrates less readily than a plane one: that there are points where the vibrations are greatly reduced, and that the aggregate vibration is least at the sound holes and at the corner blocks of a violin or violoncello.

Starting from this groundwork, M. Savart constructed a violin entirely made of flat surfaces and straight lines with narrow rectilinear slits for sound holes (so as to cut as few of the fibres of the wood as possible) and no tailpiece, the drag of the latter on the tender part of the belly being considered detrimental to the instrument. The most astonishing part of this fiddle was that it passed the test of comparison with a Stradivarius victoriously. The members of the AcadÉmie des Sciences formed a council and, assisted by such eminent musicians as M. Berton, Catel le Sueure, and Cherubini, sat in solemn judgment. The merits of the instrument were considered by them at several meetings, and the gifted violinist, M. Lefebvre, was requested to play alternately upon a chef-d’oeuvre of Cremona and the Savart “box-fiddle,” in an adjoining room. The decision arrived at by these gentlemen was that the square fiddle was every bit as good in tone—if not better—as the Cremona violin. Of course this was most flattering to the inventor, yet it is a question whether such excellent results would have taken place had the Savart fiddle been in less skilful hands. The great violinist Remenyi maintained that he could produce just as good a tone out of an eight-shilling fiddle as out of a 1000-guinea one. Monsieur Lefebvre’s handling of the “box-fiddle” was doubtless superior to the fiddle itself and,—as Voltaire said of Duport’s violoncello playing,—he made the council of impulsive Frenchmen believe in miracles “by making a nightingale out of an ox.”A few years previous to Monsieur Savart’s researches M. Chanot—a naval officer, and a member of the distinguished family of violin-makers of that name, being compelled to leave the navy on account of his staunch Royalist predilections—had turned his attention to constructing guitar-shaped fiddles and violoncellos. These were also subjected to similar tests by the members of the AcadÉmie des Sciences and—as in the case of the Savart fiddle—pronounced to be superior to the instruments of Cremona. There were independent experts, however, who considered them faulty in tone and only to be regarded as curiosities. In the midst of diverse criticisms, these instruments found a market for a few years, the violins and violas fetching 300 francs, while 500 francs was the price demanded for the violoncellos. Those who desire to pursue the subject of vagaries, will find much to interest them in Mr Davidson’s “The Violin,” and Mr Heron Allen’s “Violin-making as it was and is”; sufficient for present purposes is it to know that such grotesqueness as eighteen stringed violins played with a bow and producing the combined effect of the violin, viola, violoncello and double-bass: the combination violin and violoncello with piano which can be played by one person: the melephone, which was nothing more than a concertina enclosed in a species of violoncello, and other such fallacies, have been relegated to the land of oblivion. Certain it is that the ancient viol-maker never dreamed of such horrors. Once in a way he attempted such a mild invention as a detachable neck, which could be unscrewed and placed inside the instrument through a door in the ribs, like the viola da gamba in the Donaldson Museum, but otherwise his methods, like his varnish, were so simple that he made no fuss about them. He saw no necessity for rushing into print, or taking out patents, or wrangling, or arguing. The traditions of his graceful craft were transmitted by word of mouth and practical demonstration to his pupils, and the pupils, living in an atmosphere of lutherie, sucked in the unwritten lore as naturally as the earth absorbs rain. What need to cry out the sky is blue, when all the world can see it!

It was among such surroundings that the mighty Stradivarius learnt his art in the workshops of Nicolo Amati, grandson of Andrea Amati, who made “The King.” The atelier of this maker was a very nest of talent in the middle of the seventeenth century, for Nicolo Amati’s renown attracted all the most enthusiastic young aspirants of the art. It is easy to imagine the grand spirit of emulation, and even rivalry, which must have existed within the four walls of Amati’s premises in Cremona. An unrivalled master of his art at the time, bestowing care and thought on every part of his work, there is no doubt that he did much towards advancing the construction of the violoncello in the matter of experimenting with thicknesses, but he did not alter the dimensions of the violoncello which was at that time about 31 inches in length, if not longer. The majority of Amati violoncellos have been cut down, so that it is difficult to judge of their original size, but it is probable that they originally measured over 31 inches in length. The paramount influence of the Church in musical matters was responsible for the large dimensions of the violoncello at that date; it was looked upon as useful to reinforce the double-bass, or “bass-violin” as it was then called, for the big viols had already gone out of use in Italy in the middle of the seventeenth century. In “The Familiar Letters of Abraham Hill” (London 1767), his brother, Thomas, writing to him from Lucca, 1st October 1657, speaking of the instrumental music he had heard there, says that it “is much better than I expected. The organ and violin they are masters of, but the bass-viol they have not at all in use, and, to supply its place, they have the bass-violin.” According to Maugars in his “Reponse fait À un curieux ...” (1639) the viol was going out of use in Italy, quite twenty years before the above date. “Regarding the viol,” he remarks, “there is no one in Italy now who excels on that instrument, and even in Rome it is still little cultivated: I am very astonished at this, seeing that they had formerly one Horatio de Parme, who was a marvellous player.” The writer of these lines was himself a magnificent performer on the viola da gamba. He visited Rome, where he found the gamba, the theorbo, and harpsichord the most fashionable instruments, and, in spite of the numerous violins and violoncellos being made by Nicolas Amati in his busy workshops in Cremona, these latter were considered to be what Lord Chesterfield would have called “ungentlemanly instruments.” If by chance any enthusiastic amateur was rash enough to adopt the violin, he was careful to hide the fact from his friends for fear of being thought disreputable. This antipathy to the fiddle was just as keenly felt in England, when the encroachment of the new-fangled four-stringed instruments began to endanger the position of the viol. Anthony Wood, writing in 1653 at Oxford, says in reference to this: “Before the Restoration, gentlemen played three, four and five parts with viols. They esteemed a violin to be an instrument only belonging to a common fiddler, and could not endure that it should come among them for fear of making their meetings vain.” This prejudice against the violin is even felt to-day by many people. We ourselves remember an old lady’s astonishment when we confided to her that we could play the violin: “Why!” she exclaimed, “I thought such instruments were only played outside public-houses.”

The degree of excellence attained by such men as the AbbÉ Maugars, Hoffman, Sainte Colombe, and Marais, on the viola da gamba was certainly detrimental to the development of the violoncello. Maugars spent four years studying the gamba in England in 1620, and when he visited Rome, in 1639, his performances at the house of Signora Leonora Baroni, a famous Italian singer—who was herself no mean performer on the harpsichord and gamba—gained him the highest eulogies, which he recounts with no uncertain voice in the pamphlet already referred to (p. 138). In the face of the prodigies performed by gamba players, makers were content to follow the times and allow the violoncello to retain its large proportions. Even Stradivarius, who made the violin what it now is, did not occupy himself with the dimensions of the violoncello, but adopted the measurements of his contemporaries.

A complete account of this maker’s violins and violoncellos is to be found in Messrs Hill’s valuable monograph “Antonio Stradivari, his Life and Work.” In the chapter devoted to a rÉsumÉ of Stradivari violoncellos, they make the interesting assertion that no violoncello by Stradivarius is known to them previous to the year 1680. The earliest dated instrument of the violoncello type known to them was made by the great Cremona master in his twenty-third year, 1667, and, although it has been considerably altered, it apparently originally contained many of the features of the viola da gamba and violoncello. They are of opinion that the instrument was primarily strung as a gamba, which was doubtless the case, for at that time it was customary to make gambas in two forms—i.e. with flat back and true viol-shaped upper bouts curving high into the neck, and also in the violin form. Christopher Simpson, the most renowned English gamba player of his day, gives excellent representations of both these forms of gambas (p. 80) in his “Division Viol” (Second Edition, London, 1667). He recommends the violin shape as superior to the viol form for playing divisions on a ground as “the sound should be quick and sprightly, like a Violin; and Viols of that shape (the Belleys being digged out of the plank) do commonly render such sound.”

Another violoncello by Stradivarius, which shows similar signs of alteration, belonged to Mr Leo Stern in 1902. Its proportions, although cut down by Dodd, are still of the largest, and the presence of a fifth hole in the head for a peg indicates that it was originally strung with five strings. No doubt this was originally an extra large viola da gamba of the form recommended by Christopher Simpson. Messrs Hill also give the interesting piece of information that they are acquainted with a viola da gamba by Stradivarius, or, to speak more correctly, with the material which once formed one. The often over-generous hand of the modern maker has employed itself in adding fresh wood in all directions with a view to transforming the instrument into a violoncello. Brought from France to Italy in its original state, it may possibly be the viol made by Stradivari in 1684 for the Comtessa Cristina Visconti, the patterns of which are preserved in the “Della Valle Collection.”

Still referring to Messrs Hill’s book we find that Stradivarius made about thirty large-sized violoncellos between the year 1680 and 1700 and that it was not until the latter date that he shows any signs of turning away from the violoncello of large proportions. Two instruments which bear evidence of this important change of construction are the Cristiani (1700) and the Servais (1701). The first of these measures 30-1/2 bare inches in length, while the Servais measures 31-1/8 inches, but even these proportions were large as compared to the violoncellos he made ten years later. The Cristiani is of particular interest at the present moment as it has recently become the property of the nation. It originally belonged to a charming lady of that name who gained repute as a professional violoncellist in the forties of the nineteenth century. Felix Mendelssohn paid her the compliment of playing her accompaniments at her concert at Leipsic, and dedicated one of his “Songs without Words” to her. She was not a great executant by any means, but the violoncello at that date did not count so many women players as it does in these days, and, then again, she was possessed of much personal beauty, so that her critics judged her in the same manner as they did the handsome Madame Catalani, of whom it was said that:

Mdlle. Cristiani’s violoncello—after her death at Tobolsk, in Siberia, in 1853—fell into the hands of M. Benazet, a Baden-Baden amateur. Through the medium of Messrs Gand & Bernadel, it became the property of the eminent violoncellist, Herr Hugo Becker, in 1884. Ten years later Messrs Hill bought it, and still later Mr Charles Oldham, a well-known ophthalmic surgeon of Hove, Brighton, purchased it from them. At the latter’s death, on the 24th January 1907, he bequeathed the “Cristiani” violoncello, together with the famous inlaid “Rode” violin (1722), a violin of the Amatasie period dated 1687, and the handsome inlaid viola made by Stradivarius for Philip IV., of Spain, in 1696, to the nation. These four instruments have been confided to the care of the British Museum, but it is to be devoutly hoped that the authorities may find some clause in Mr Oldham’s will, by which they may avoid the necessity of placing them under a glass case. There is no more melancholy object than the violin or violoncello which is relegated to a museum and compelled to silence. The handsome violin by Stradivarius in the MusÉe of the Paris Conservatoire, and Paganini’s violin in Genoa—standing under a glass case like an eight-day clock—are melancholy examples of such a useless practice. It would be of much more practical use to art, if wealthy connoisseurs would follow the example of Mr John Rutson, and leave their valuable collections of musical instruments to some musical institution for the use of gifted pupils unable to purchase a suitable instrument for their public dÉbut and early appearances. It is undeniable that, as a rule, genius is poorly endowed with this world’s goods, and often lacking in opportunity; thus it is that many a gifted violinist or violoncellist has been balked of success for lack of a good instrument to play upon.

After the year 1700, Stradivarius made some fine violoncellos, the most superb of all at the present time, being the instrument he made in his seventy-sixth year. This grand example is dated 1720, and, besides its intrinsic merits, it has a special interest, having been the favourite instrument of Signor Piatti. Many were the hands through which it passed before finding a safe haven with the gifted Italian violoncellist to whom it was presented by Colonel Oliver in 1867. Like Ole Bull and his Gasparo da Salo, Piatti was enamoured of the violoncello the moment he saw it, on a visit to Dublin, during the first year of his sojourn in England in 1844. Its memory lived in his mind for years, and he longed to possess it. The most consummate of storytellers and most genial of men, Piatti was never weary of recounting the romantic manner in which his violoncello crossed his path from time to time, and how he wished to purchase it, but was debarred from so doing by want of sufficient capital. However, it was a case of “Kismet.” He did eventually become its proud possessor, and like a pair of lovers they found no hardship in overcoming obstacles together. The career of this instrument is traced by Messrs Hill from the year 1818, when it was brought to this country from Cadiz, by a wine merchant named Mr Dowell. For 300 guineas it passed into the hands of the Rev. Mr Booth, who—like Mr Dowell—was an Irishman. The purchase was effected through the medium of Paul Alday, an Irish violinist, whose name is responsible for the story that he was once so lost in the labyrinths of a seemingly endless cadenza at a concert, that an exasperated member of the audience exclaimed: “Well, Mr Alday, are you going to play all night!” Ten years after Mr Booth became the possessor of the violoncello, another change of ownership took place at a sale by auction at Messrs Cramer & Beale’s where a well-known Dublin violoncellist, Mr Piggot, purchased it. The sum paid by the latter is unknown to Messrs Hill, but from some notes kindly supplied us on the subject by Comtessa Lochis—Signor Piatti’s daughter—through the medium of Mr Whitehouse, the statement that “it was sold for £100 to a professor of Dublin,” may allude to the price paid for it by Mr Piggot. After Mr Piggot’s death, in 1853, Sir Robert Gore Booth, an amateur violoncellist, undertook the sale of the instrument for his deceased friend’s widow, and, bringing it to London, invited Piatti to come and see it. As soon as Piatti beheld the violoncello, he recognised it to be the exquisite instrument he had seen in 1844, and never forgotten. Great was his chagrin at being unable to purchase it, but at the time it was impossible. By his advice, however, the violin-maker, Maucotel, went to see it, and managed to obtain it at a bargain for £300, and shortly after Colonel Oliver bought it of Maucotel for £350. To Piatti—already a frequent visitor at Colonel Oliver’s house—the Stradivarius violoncello was a still further attraction, especially as he could play on it whenever he felt inclined. He used to care for it like a child, and at length, on a memorable day in the year 1867, he was at the Colonel’s house, occupied in comparing the Stradivarius’ merits with that of a violoncello by the brothers Amati and another by Montagnana, when Colonel Oliver suddenly inquired—“Which do you prefer?” Piatti at once indicated the Stradivarius without hesitation. His astonishment and embarrassment were unbounded when in reply to this conclusion, the Colonel said laconically: “Take it home then!” But nothing would induce the simple-minded virtuoso to accept the Colonel’s offer, and after thanking him, he left the house hurriedly, fearing that his great longing for the violoncello might make his refusal “tremble in the scale.” Scarcely had he arrived home, however, when the violoncello was brought to his door, and from that day to his death remained with him always.

It was on this grand Stradivarius that Piatti delighted audiences week after week, and month after month, at the Saturday and Monday Popular Concerts, (now, alas!—be it said to our shame—dwindled out of existence for want of support) and it was on New Year’s day, 1901—six months before his death—that he played his Swan Song (the “Danza Moresca”) before a party of friends at his daughter’s house, with all his accustomed skill and brilliancy. Although it is not part of our subject here to detail the lives of violoncello players, yet we cannot leave this artist, so beloved in England, without mentioning the touching tribute to his memory, which is celebrated annually by his resting-place, in the private chapel of the Lochis family. The funeral, which was a public one, attended by the Prefect, the Mayor, and representatives of the leading Musical Societies of his native town of Bergamo, took place on the 22rd of July 1901. In spite of the tempestuous weather, hundreds of townsfolk and people from the neighbouring provinces turned out to do homage to their esteemed countryman. Four professors, from the Music School at Bergamo, played the Andante from Schubert’s Quartet in D minor, according to the last wishes expressed by Piatti, and a week later again visited the Lochis Chapel, where they made a solemn compact to meet each year, and perform the same Andante on the anniversary of the master’s death. Thus is the memory of the great artist, whose lovable nature made him a boon companion and cherished friend, reverently preserved.

Signor Piatti’s violoncello at his death passed into the hands of his daughter, Countess Lochis, who, although realising that it was a precious relic of her father, still felt that it would harm the instrument if she kept it without being played upon. She therefore accepted the offer of Herr Robert Mendelssohn, the Berlin banker, and sold it to him for £4000. Herr Mendelssohn, who is the nephew of the composer of that name, is himself an excellent amateur violoncellist, and, in conjunction with his brother, owns a fine Quartet of Strads. During the latter years of Signor Piatti’s life he had offered him £2000 for the violoncello, but had, on the sum being refused, asked Piatti to name his own price. But the Italian violoncellist stubbornly refused to part with the instrument although he no longer played in public. However—as we have seen—the violoncello did become the property of Herr Mendelssohn, who has the distinction of paying the largest sum ever given for a violoncello.

No better or more complete account of Stradivarius’ violoncellos is to be found than in Messrs Hill’s monograph already referred to. The merits of such famous instruments as the “Duport,” the “Mara,” the “Romberg,” the “Bata,” the “Vaslin,” etc., are skilfully described, as well as the sums paid for them, and it is therefore hardly fair to repeat the many facts there stated, but before leaving the subject we are sorely tempted to repeat the well-known romantic episode which occurred in the career of the Stradivarius violoncello known as the “Bass of Spain.” It is our English dramatist, Charles Reade, who recounts the adventure in one of his letters to The Pall Mall Gazette, of the year 1872. This was the date—it may be remembered—of the Special Loan Exhibition of Musical Instruments at the South Kensington Museum. Connoisseurs occupied themselves in scouring Italy to gather together all the most important and interesting specimens they could lay hands on, and it was at this exhibition that the violoncello—then the property of M. Galley—of which we here have a picture—was shown (p. 124). Charles Reade, who had learnt pretty well all that could be known about fiddle-making from a certain “Henri”—a past master in the art, but a rampant little revolutionary, whom he met, by chance, at one of his favourite Bohemian restaurants in Soho—wrote some brilliant criticisms on the examples of ancient Italian lutherie there displayed. In these articles,[30] the author of “Peg Woffington,” took the opportunity of expounding his theory of the Cremona varnish—the most successful explanation of the concoction ever attempted—and amongst much fiddle lore, gives the following account of the vicissitudes of the “Bass of Spain,” made in the year 1713. It was formerly in the collection of Mr John Adam, later in that of the Duc de Camposelice, and was in the possession of Mr Franklin Singer in 1902:—

“Nearly fifty years ago a gaunt Italian called Luigi Tarisio arrived in Paris one day with a lot of old Italian instruments by makers whose names were hardly known. The principal dealers, whose minds were narrowed, as is often the case, to three or four makers, would not deal with him. Monsieur Georges Chanot, younger and more intelligent, purchased largely, and encouraged him to return. He came back next year with a better lot; and yearly increasing his funds, he flew at the highest game; and in the course of thirty years imported nearly all the finest specimens of Stradivarius and Guarnerius France possesses. He was the greatest connoisseur that ever lived or ever can live, because he had the true mind of a connoisseur and vast opportunities. He ransacked Italy before the tickets in the violins of Francesco Stradivarius, Alexander Gagliano, Lorenzo Guadagnini, Geofredus Cappa, Gobetti, Morgilati Morella, Antonio Mariani, Santo Maggini, Matteo Benti of Brescia, Michel Angelo Bergonze, Montagnana, Thomas Balestrieri Storioni, Vicenzo Rugger, the Testori, Petrus Guarnerius of Venice, and full fifty more, had been tampered with, that every brilliant masterpiece might be assigned to some popular name. To his immortal credit, he fought against this mania and his motto was, ‘A tout seigneur tout honneur.’ The man’s whole soul was in his fiddles. He was a great dealer, but a greater amateur. He had gems by him no money would buy from him....“Well, one day Georges Chanot, senior, who is perhaps the best judge of violins left, now Tarisio is gone, made an excursion to Spain, to see if he could find anything there. He found mighty little. But, coming to the shop of a fiddle-maker, one Ortega, he saw the belly of an old bass hung up with other things. Chanot rubbed his eyes, and asked himself, was he dreaming? The belly of a Stradivarius bass roasting in a shop-window! He went in, and very soon bought it for about forty francs. He then ascertained that the bass belonged to a lady of rank. The belly was full of cracks; so, not to make two bites of a cherry, Ortega had made a nice new one. Chanot carried this precious fragment home and hung it up in his shop, but not in the window, for he is too good a judge not to know the sun will take all the colour out of that maker’s varnish. Tarisio came in from Italy, and his eyes lighted instantly on the Stradivarius belly. He pestered Chanot till the latter sold it him for a thousand francs and told him where the rest was. Tarisio no sooner knew this than he flew to Madrid. He learned from Ortega where the lady lived, and called on her to see it. ‘Sir,’ says the lady, ‘it is at your disposition.’ That does not mean much in Spain. When he offered her to buy it, she coquetted with him, said it had been long in her family; money could not replace a thing of that kind, and in short, she put on the screw, as she thought, and sold it to him for about four thousand francs. What he did with the Ortega belly is not known—perhaps sold it to some toothpick trade. He sailed exultant for Paris with the Spanish Bass in a case. He never let it out of his sight. The pair were caught by a storm in the Bay of Biscay. The ship rolled; Tarisio clasped his bass tight, and trembled. It was a terrible gale, and for one whole day they were in real danger. Tarisio spoke of it to me with a shudder. I will give you his real words for they struck me at the time, and I have often thought of them since:

“Ah, my poor Mr Reade, the Bass of Spain was all but lost.

“Was not this a true connoisseur? a genuine enthusiast? Observe! there was also an ephemeral insect called Luigi Tarisio, who would have gone down with the bass; but that made no impression on his mind. De minimis non curat Ludovicus.

“He got it safe to Paris. A certain high priest in the mysteries, called Vuillaume, with the help of a sacred vessel called a glue pot, soon re-wedded the back and sides to the belly, and the bass being now just what it was when the ruffian Ortega put his finger in the pie, was sold for 20,000 francs (£800). I saw the Spanish bass in Paris twenty-two years ago....”

Under the impression that this Stradivarius violoncello he so much admired at the South Kensington Exhibition of 1872 was the “Bass of Spain,” Charles Reade begins his next letter, dated 27th August 1892, with a eulogistic account of its beauties. In reality the instrument was not the “Bass of Spain,” but the fine violoncello made in the year 1725 which we see in the picture before us (see p. 124). There is no doubt about the handsomeness of this violoncello. The scroll is most elegant, the purfling perfection, the varnish transparent orange colour. The front table is made of a well-chosen piece of pine, but it is much cracked, and these cracks have not been too skilfully mended. Its length is the same as that of Signor Piatti’s violoncello, 29-7/8 inches, but the rest of the proportions are a little different. In the hands of M. Vaslin, this violoncello experienced the trials of a fidgety master. It was for many years the faithful companion of this excellent French violoncellist, who obtained it from a Florentine banker through his friend and fellow-artist, M. Girard, the violinist. M. Vaslin found no fault with his violoncello, until the latter part of his life, when he felt convinced that something was wrong with its neck. Times out of number the neck was altered by some of the best luthiers of the day, but still the aged violoncellist was not satisfied, and at length resorted to the expedient of tinkering it up himself. At length, in 1869, M. Galley saved it from further torture by persuading M. Vaslin to sell it to him. The bargain was not completed until M. Galley had handed over his own Stradivarius, valued at £400, at the same time paying £600 in cash.

The devious and romantic ways in which fine instruments have become the property of famous artists would fill an interesting volume in themselves, as would also the swindling practices of which they have been the innocent cause. The famous violoncellist, Herr Karl Davidoff, became possessed of his grand Stradivarius entirely through the medium of his magnificent talent. His instrument was originally the property of Count Wielhorskey, a Russian amateur violoncellist, who had a passion for collecting musical instruments. For some reason or other it suddenly dawned on this Russian nobleman that it was impossible to play on all the instruments in his store at once, and that they could not improve standing like waxwork figures under glass cases. So, he conceived the brilliant idea of instituting a competition, the winner of which was to be rewarded with the Stradivarius violoncello. Karl Davidoff was just then touring in Russia and he heard of the Count’s challenge. At once he entered himself as a competitor, and, being then at the zenith of his glory, it was only natural that he should carry off the prize easily. He kept it until the end of his life, but it bears many a mark of his rough usage.

The above-mentioned Count Wielhorskey also owned a fine-toned violoncello, which he usually alluded to affectionately as “the Amati.” This instrument, we believe, was in reality a Ruggieri, but to the Count it was always “the Amati.” It belonged originally to a Florentine lady of noble birth of the name of Renoncini, and through the instigation and enthusiasm of a certain Italian named Francesco Ciandi, himself a violoncellist in the orchestra of the Italian Opera House at St Petersburg, was brought from its southern home to the Russian court. The Emperor Nicolas presented it to Count Wielhorskey knowing him to be passionately devoted to violoncello playing. It became the Count’s favourite instrument, and he scarcely played on any other until old age cramped his fingers and forced him to give up playing entirely. Then, as in the case of the Stradivarius, being averse to sticking it up under a glass case, he presented it to Franz Knetch, solo violinist in the court orchestra, who recounts the gift in his diary under the date 30th October 1850: “To-day Count Wielhorskey presented me with ‘the Amati’ violoncello.” He also became greatly attached to the instrument and bequeathed it to his sister, who, after his death, was anxious to give it to a museum. But apparently it was again saved from the waxwork type of existence, as Herr Ludwig Grutzmacher, the far-famed violoncellist, played on it for over forty years, and called it “My Amati.” The present owner of this fine instrument we believe is a wealthy gentleman in Hamburg.

One of the finest violoncellos made by Nicolo Amati came into Herr Klengel’s possession after a good many years of obscurity. The story runs that a young Russian student at Leipsic, discovering his finances to be in a very exhausted condition, bethought himself of a violoncello which had been in his family for many years, but about which he knew nothing. Thinking that the old instrument might possibly have some value, he boldly took it to a pawnbroker’s on the chance, and demanded a loan of £5 on it. The pawnbroker in his turn was unable to estimate whether the violoncello was worth such an amount, and, to be on the right side, consulted some experts before giving a reply. The experts quickly realised that they had a very fine Nicolo Amati violoncello before them, and through the medium of the pawnbroker offered the young student £200 if he would sell the violoncello outright. The sum was agreed to by the delighted young Russian. Twenty-four hours after he sold it, Herr Klengel became its owner for about double that sum. Profits in the fiddle trade are certainly swift, but they are not always honest.

Speaking of pawnbrokers, by the way, it is not often that they meet their match in shrewdness. One of the neatest swindles ever perpetrated took place in New York a few years ago, and victimised a well-known, “three-balls” gentleman to the extent of over £30. According to The New York Sun, it was one day in May 1902, that a well-known pawnbroker of Allen Street was visited by a shabbily dressed man who asked for a loan on his violin and bow.

“I vas a blayer from Poland,” he said, “and my fiddle vas most waluable. I vouldn’t lose it for anything.”

The pawnbroker offered him something like a guinea on it, and the young violinist accepted it, saying at the same time: “Don’t wrab it up. Chust hang it ub der for I vil come and taig it out to-morrow.”

The fiddle according to his request was not wrapped up, but placed on a shelf behind the counter. The next day a man with long black hair streaming over his shoulders, and wearing gold-rimmed glasses, entered the pawnshop to inquire the price of some silver-ware. He turned it about, found it was not what he wanted, and, chancing to see the fiddle, asked if he might look at it. The violin and bow were handed to him for inspection and he began to examine them critically.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, “at last I haf foundt von of dem! Gott in Himmel! but it is a grandt one.”

“A grand what?” asked the pawnbroker.“A real genuine Rubinsky violin,” replied the enraptured foreigner, and whipping it quickly under his chin began suddenly to play.

The more he played the more the pawnbroker became convinced that the instrument was extraordinarily valuable.

“If you will sell dis fiddle to me,” said the player, pausing, “I vill gif you tree hundredt dollars for it.”

“I can’t do that,” said the pawnbroker, “because it is not mine to sell. It was only pledged yesterday.”

The violinist thereupon demanded the address of the owner, but the pawnbroker, seeing the chance of a “deal,” said he could not do that, but, instead, he himself would see the proprietor of the fiddle and ask him if he would sell.

“Ferry vell,” said the Polish virtuoso, “here is dwenty dollars to bint the pargain. Eef he vill sell, I vill bay the pallance ven I kome to-morrow.”

“Mein Gott!” said the owner of the violin when the pawnbroker visited him the same evening and approached him on the subject of buying the instrument. “I could not pard vid the violin for less than two hundert dollars. It kost me fife hundert tollars in Polandt.” The two men sat some time bickering about the sum expected and the sum offered, and at length the pawnbroker laid down $200 and departed with the delightful intention of asking his customer $280.

The next day passed, however, without the expected visitor putting in an appearance.

Also the day following passed in the same manner, and the next and the next.

At last the pawnbroker felt a twinge of anxiety. He flew to the address given him by the would-be purchaser and found that no such person was known there. A visit to the house of the former owner of the violin also proved fruitless, for the bird had flown.

The pawnbroker, it is said, did not seek sympathy, well knowing that none is extended to his fraternity, but he occupied himself for some months in trying to straighten his accounts. We could easily light upon numerous tales of swindles in the fiddle trade without difficulty, but as our time is now short, we will content ourselves with quoting this one anecdote, and return to Cremona and its luthiers.

Contemporary with Stradivarius, Italy claimed many fine fiddle-makers, indeed, as a matter of fact, there was scarcely a town in Italy that did not possess some adept at the art. In Cremona itself there were many who lived almost at the threshold of Stradivarius’ house. Next door to him were the Begonzi family, and adjoining them was the house of Andreas Guarnerius. Then, but a few steps away in the busy square of St Domenico—now the Piazza Roma—Ruggieri, Amati, and Storioni had their workshops. They must have been a hardy lot to remain and compete with the gigantic industry and talent of Stradivarius, but they came through the ordeal in some cases grandly. Andreas Guarnerius, for instance, was a steady workman, who made several violoncellos, though nothing calculated to “strike one all of a heap.” One of his best violoncellos was that which was preserved for many years in Mr Gillot’s collection, but even this did not command a higher sum than £73 (including a nameless Italian violoncello), at the sale by auction which took place after Mr Gillot’s death in April 1872. Another violoncello by the redoubtable Andreas belonged to Beethoven’s patron, Prince Joseph Francis Maximilian. This instrument, with several other interesting gambas and lutes, was found in the old chapel of the deserted castle of Prince Lobkovitz in the last days of October, 1872, curiously enough but six months after the sale of Mr Gillot’s Guarnerius. The instrument discovered in the chapel was considered so excellent that it was selected to be shown in the Cremonese section of the Vienna Exhibition in that year.

Peter Guarnerius, brother of Andreas’ son Joseph, also worked in Cremona during the latter years of Stradivarius’ life. He made some especially good violoncellos, large and broad in model, with original, well-cut scrolls, and excellent purfling and varnish. He got hold of some grand timber, which he used for the bellies of many of his violoncellos; wood wide in grain, but beautifully even. We saw a handsome violoncello by this maker but a few days ago in the hands of Miss May Fussell, who has employed it for all her concert work since 1894. The tone is full and rich.

In the same city another eminent maker, the eldest member of a large family of luthiers, Francesco Rugger, was a worthy rival of Stradivarius. He occupied a prominent position as a maker, and inscribed himself on his tickets “Francesco Rugger detto il Per, Cremona, 16—” Various definitions of the true significance of the il Per adopted by Rugger have been put forth. Some claim that he thereby announced himself as the “eldest” or “father,” others that it alluded to his partiality for pear-tree wood as material for his instruments. Read literally, one might easily imagine that the “il Per” belonged to some catch phrase or proverb, possibly a nickname by which the maker was familiarly known to his friends. All the old fiddle-makers adopted some trade-mark—generally extracted from the calendar of saints—Rugger’s “il Per” might therefore have been a familiar sobriquet which acted for him in this capacity.

The work of this maker is quite after the Amati type, though in advancing this statement we do not for a moment intend to charge him with being a copyist. Delicacy, finished workmanship, a graceful sound-hole, transparent varnish well laid on, these are the chief characteristics of Rugger’s work. Like Stradivarius, he at first went with the times, modelling his violoncellos on a large scale (31-5/16 inches in length), but he appears to have seen the error of his ways before his contemporary, as previous to 1700 he made small violoncellos measuring but a little over 28 inches in length.

An exceptionally fine violoncello of Francesco Rugger was the cause of a lawsuit some years ago, on account of its falling a victim to false labelling, whereby it purported to be the work of Antonio Stradivarius. This handsome instrument belonged at one time to King George IV., who was an enthusiastic amateur violoncellist but scarcely an adept. There is a story told that when King George was Prince of Wales he played the violoncello one day before Handel, and desiring to hear what the great man thought of his performance inquired, “How do you think I play?” It was impossible to reply to such a question truthfully, coming as it did from a royal interrogator, so the wily Teuton had to temporise, “Like a Brince, your Royal Highness,” he answered with warmth, “like a Brince!”

The Duke of Cambridge was the next owner of the pseudo Stradivarius, after which it passed into the hands of Mr Corsby, by whom it was sold to Mr Shuttleworth. In 1877, the same instrument was sold by auction among the collection of musical instruments put upon the market by the death of Mr Parera of Manchester. It figured in the catalogue as an Antonio Stradivarius, and realised the sum of £370.Several eminent artists have employed Francesco Rugger’s violoncellos for concert work. Ladislaus Zelenka, professor of the violoncello at the Conservatoire at Odessa, and former pupil of Herr Hugo Becker, possessed a very fine violoncello by this maker. Mr Bertie Withers has also an excellent “il Per” instrument dated 1679, and the favourite violoncello of the eminent English violoncellist, Mr W. E. Whitehouse, is a very handsome, small-sized Rugger, in a high state of preservation.

Pietro Giacomo Rugger, who was at work in Brescia at the same time as Francesco of the same name, pursued his labours in Cremona, was another member of the family who made violoncellos of modified dimensions. There are so many points of similarity between his instruments and those of Johannes Baptiste Rugger, who worked both at Cremona and Brescia, that conjecture credits them with joining forces. The violoncellos of Giacomo are distinguished by beautiful varnish and elegant sound holes, but the scrolls lack breadth and boldness. Signor Piatti owned a fine characteristic example of this maker’s work which passed into the possession of Miss Muriel Handley. It is dated 1717. The gamut of prices realised from time to time by this violoncello is one of the many revelations of the caprices of fiddle dealing. Before Signor Piatti became its owner, it had been sold for £30, Piatti parted with it for £500 (!), and after that it was insured for £800.

Milan boasted a favourite pupil of Nicolo Amati, Paolo Grancino, an excellent violoncello-maker, who, doubtless, was one of those who found the competition too much for him in Cremona and sought fresh fields. His instruments are reminiscent of his master, the wood and workmanship good, but the tone is hardly suited to a concert hall. A better craftsman was his son, Giovanni, who also practised his art in Milan in 1703.

In Naples there was Alessandro Gagliano whom the Prince Joussupoff, in his “Luthomonographie” (Frankfort, S.M., 1856), announces to have been the son of a marquis of that name. According to this author, Gagliano, at the beginning of the eighteenth century, was compelled to flee from Naples, in order to escape the vigilance of the police, who were endeavouring to capture him on account of a murder he had committed. The hunted man withdrew to a forest in the neighbourhood of Marghanetto Borgo, and while there, passed the weary hours—for want of better occupation—in carving violin-shaped instruments on the trunks of the trees. Discovering by this means that his hand was apt at such work, he adopted the profession of violin making, and as soon as the police had grown weary of the pursuit boldly established a workshop in Naples. We cannot vouch for the veracity of this story; fiddles have a trick of creating romances, but Gagliano’s sojourn in the wood is generally considered to have been the cause of his excellently chosen pine, and good quality sycamore.

Alessandro’s son, Nicolo, made some remarkably good violoncellos resembling Stradivarius’. The varnish is much darker than his father’s.

Venice claimed one of the best makers of violoncellos of his time, in Stradivarius’ pupil, Domenico Montagnana. The “mighty Venetian,” as Mr Charles Reade called him, found the market too much monopolised by his master, and after a short trial in Cremona removed to Venice. He soon attained great popularity there, and during the latter part of Stradivarius’ life sent out magnificent basses and violoncellos from his workshop. His knowledge of thicknesses, material, and varnish, which he brought with him from the great Cremona school, placed him head and shoulders above his Venetian contemporaries. The gentle curves of his model, the grandly cut scroll—which even surpassed the beauty of his master’s work—and, above all, the rich tone, are the qualities which combine in making Montagnana’s violoncellos perfect instruments. The late Mrs Lewis Hill was the owner of one of the finest known violoncellos by this maker. It belonged for many years to the French musician and composer, FÉlicien David (born 1810, died 1876), and after his death it was sold to the well-known French violoncellist, M. Francois of Douai, who retained it for some years and then sold it to an amateur, Signor Parenti, who ultimately sold it to Messrs Hill & Son. In 1902, Mr W. H. Squire purchased it of that firm on behalf of Mrs Lewis Hill, in whose possession it was employed to complete her fine Quartet, consisting of two Stradivarius violins, an Amati viola, and this violoncello. The instrument is a typical example in every way, the proportions being untouched, and is now the property of Mr W. H. Squire, to whom it was bequeathed by Mrs Hill.Rome claimed David Tecchler as the maker, par excellence, in Stradivarius’ time. He continued to be the most prominent maker of that city of dried bones and priests, for quite half-a-century, and gained repute as a maker of handsome basses and violoncellos—the latter mostly large sized. He also gained experience in Venice, and Salzburg, gathering his knowledge of good timber from the first, and an unfortunate stiff sound-hole from the second.

Returning to Cremona towards the latter years of Stradivarius’ life we find a new and excellent maker—his pupil, Carlo Bergonzi—firmly established near his master. At one time he was deemed Stradivarius’ best pupil, whereas the Cremona master’s son, Francesco—whose work has been frequently attributed to Bergonzi—in reality surpassed his. The beauty of form and rare quality of tone which characterise Bergonzi’s violoncellos bear testimony to the great school in which he was trained. He believed in putting plenty of wood in his instruments, a practice which has allowed them to withstand the wear and tear of centuries of usage better than those of many of his contemporaries. The Manchester violoncellist Herr Carl Fuchs—a favourite pupil of Davidoff—had a grand Bergonzi violoncello, a couple of years ago, and the instrument usually employed for concert work by Mr W. H. Squire is also a fine example of this maker, which he purchased from the widow of Herr G. Libotton.

While all these makers were occupied in developing the instrument itself, there were other influences working to bring it to more worthy uses. The rapid progress in violin playing, and the establishment of a clearer and better method of fingering, had its effect on the violoncello. With a surer system of shifting came a firmer grip of the hand and a more sonorous tone. The old violists could think of no other way of balancing the incongruity of sound which existed between the “shrieking violin” and its duller companion, than by the use of double the number of bass-viols to prevent its “outcrying” the lower parts. Never employ the violin, cautions Thomas Mace, “but with the proviso, viz. Be sure to make an equal provision for them by addition and strength of basses so that they may not outcry the rest of the music (the basses especially).” A thorough musician, and an artist, jusque au fond, Corelli was one of the earliest composers to realise the ineffectual use of the bass-viol with the violin; and did not scruple to discard its services for that of the violoncello. Besides his employment of it in his numerous sonatas for due violini e violoncello, etc., he also adopted the custom of an accompanying violoncello for his solo performances. For a long time this rÔle of travelling about and accompanying violinists, was played by violoncellists, who—although they were not always exact in their execution or accompanying—by this means, at least, raised it out of its low position in the orchestras. The possibilities of the instrument for solo purposes began to suggest itself to performers, and the shortcomings of the gamba more comprehended. As early as 1691, tentative efforts to bring the violoncello forward as a solo instrument were being made, and a method, or treatise, on the art of playing the instrument in this manner was written by a gifted artist in Parma in that year. Among the many works in connection with this subject which we have perused, we lately came across a rare pamphlet describing three interesting old musical instruments—i.e. a harp, a carved violin, and a carved violoncello—preserved in the Museum Artistico Estense in Modena. This little brochure came from the pen of Count Valdrighi—one of the most industrious and indefatigable of musical historians—and was printed for private circulation only. It is altogether a most fascinating little pamphlet, and, although numbering but fifteen pages, lacks none of the flowing metaphor and grace so indelibly associated with Italian literature; moreover the description of each instrument is supported by excellent photographs. The exquisitely carved violoncello of which we have a picture before us (p. 174), owes its rich ornamentation to Domenico Galli of Parma, a wood-carver of great repute at the end of the seventeenth century and the beginning of the eighteenth. According to Count Valdrighi, Galli made this sumptuous violoncello for Frances II., Duke of Modena, and presented it to him together with a treatise on the violoncello as a solo instrument entitled Trattenimento musicale sopra il violoncello a solo ausaciato all’ Altezza Serima de Francesco II. duc di Modena Reggio. The title-page of this interesting MS., which is preserved in the BibliothÈque of the Estense Museum, is gracefully decorated by Galli himself, and the date, 8th September 1691, furnishes us with the information that this work is the earliest known attempt at a method for the violoncello. The wealth of carved ornamentation on Galli’s violoncello and violin were designed with a special purpose. Thus, while the exquisite little figure of Orpheus which adorns the centre of the back of the violin alludes to the peace enjoyed by the people of Modena under the temperate government of Frances II. and also to the musical tastes of the Duke, the violoncello dabbles in politics and religion. Hercules slaying the hydra is meant to depict the character of the Duke’s nephew, while the figure of Minerva with the cloak of Pallas about her shoulders represents Mary Queen of England, who had assumed her father’s rights. The lions are symbolical of Mary’s father, James II., at that time an alien under the protection of Louis XIV., Le Roi Soleil, portrayed by the sun supported by two figures, over the carved form of Hercules. Besides the main point which Galli strove to represent—namely, a strong desire that the Catholic party might be victorious and the house of Este restored to the throne of England—the violoncello is covered with delicately carved representations of all things appertaining to the mineral, vegetable, and animal world. Flowers, fruits, shells, nymphs, satyrs, form a thickly encrusted background to the main theme. The fairylike execution of these is amazing, and worthy of a Grinley Gibbons. If fault were to be found it lies alone in the over-generous details of the design, yet the whole is so skilfully wrought that this cannot be looked upon as a defect. Not a petal of the flowers, not a line in the delicate shells, not a lock in the sirens’ hair that is not perfect, and well fitted to be the satellite of the main scheme. The ribs of the violoncello are as profusely covered with similar embellishments as the back.

CARVED VIOLONCELLO BY GALLI.
Modena, 1690.

Truly “a thing of beauty is a joy for ever,” and time only increases its loveliness when it is cherished. Galli’s chefs-d’oeuvre will always find admirers, as indeed will all the gracefully decorated musical instruments of past centuries. Look at this gamba de luxe, one can call it nothing less, close beside us. Where will you find more faultless inlaying in ivory and tortoise-shell? Most pleasing to the eye, is it not? Yet its very beauty exemplifies one of the greatest pitfalls of the older luthiers. To the ancient maker, ornamentation was as irresistible as was the Lorelei’s golden hair to the sailors of the Rhine. Most Italian makers had realised the deleterious effects of inlaying and carving before Stradivarius’ time, but many of the great Cremona master’s German contemporaries were still caught in its delusive toils. Dwelling in Hamburg there was an unequalled stringed-instrument maker named Joachim Tielke, who fashioned his lutes of real ivory and ebony, inlaid the necks thereof with gold, and silver, and mother-of-pearl, while the pegs were formed of the finest tortoise-shell. These lutes were destined for the slim hands of the satin-clad dilettanti of the day, who boldly faced the many difficulties and intricacies of the instrument for the sake of its beauty. According to Mattheson,[31] if a lutanist attained the age of eighty, one might be certain that he had spent sixty years in tuning; a tedious operation, as the lute never remained long in tune. An older writer, Thomas Mace, in his “Musick Monument,” London, 1676, discussing the shortcomings of the lute, seriously advises that it should be kept, in the daytime, between the rug and blankets of a bed which was constantly used. It is hardly surprising that the exasperating sensitiveness to atmospheric changes to which this instrument was subject was at once the delight and despair of its votaries, and that makers observing these difficulties should attempt to please their patrons by ornamenting other less fragile instruments in lute fashion. Tielke of Hamburg at all events transferred his lute decorations en bloc to his gambas, as this instrument and some others reveal.

The gamba of this make which is before us has unfortunately been fitted by some vandal with a machine head, but otherwise is as perfect as when it left Tielke’s hands over three hundred years ago. No doubt, the original pegs were of ivory tipped with a dainty jewel to correspond with those which were let into the neck. Before it became the property of the South Kensington Museum it was owned by Mr Simon Andrew Forster, the joint author of the well-known “History of the Violin.” Two excellent pictures of this instrument are included in this volume, and also the information that Mr Forster purchased it from Mr John Cause, the artist, who had lent it to the directors of the “Ancient Concerts,” held in the Hanover Square Rooms in the spring of 1845. These concerts were organised to take place in this obsolete concert hall by a small body of aristocratic music lovers headed by the Prince Consort, and it was under his auspices that the second concert of the season was not only devoted to the sixteenth-century music, but was performed on the ancient instruments themselves. M. Fetis, at that time director of the Brussels Conservatoire, supplied a number of old instruments from the MusÉe of the Conservatoire, and the orchestra on the evening of the 16th April 1845, presented,—what The Illustrated London News terms,—“a grotesque sight.” There was a “Violino Francesi,” says the above authority, a “viola da gamba” (now before us), a “viola d’Amore,” and a “viola da Braccio,” a “Theorbo,” “violino,” “guitar,” “harp,” and an “organ,” played respectively by Messrs Loder, Hatton, J. F. Loder, Ventura, Dragonetti, Don Cubra, T. Wright, and Lucas. The complete programme of the concert may be seen in full in The Illustrated London News for 19th April 1845, suffice it here to say that the two piÈces de rÉsistance comprised a concerto, played on Antique Instruments, and composed by Emile del Cavalieri (1600), and an anonymous fifteenth-century Romanesca, performed in a like manner. Both Queen Victoria and the Prince Consort, appeared to be highly delighted with the concert, and at the end, invited Mr Hatton to play a solo on his viola da gamba in the tea-room.

Since this galaxy of musical instruments of the past astonished Londoners, we have had many other interesting attempts at recalling the ancient viols to the concert platform, but notwithstanding the success of these appearances, there is no danger of the gamba ever getting the upper hand of the violoncello again. The latter has steadily taken its place as the leader since the first half of the eighteenth century, when the great Italian luthiers busied themselves with its graceful form, and the performances of Franciscello first enchanted Scarlatti in Rome, and then astonished all Italy. From that time until the present, makers and players have gone hand in hand. Franciscello’s marvellous achievements inspired others to emulate his powers of attraction, among others Antonio Vaudini, who was Tartini’s great friend and travelled about with him for some time, for the sole purpose of accompanying him. This eccentric association of the high and low instruments belonging to the string quartet led to violoncellists adopting the system of fingering employed for the smaller instrument. The old way of holding the bow in the manner of the viol players—i.e. as double-bass players frequently hold it now—was also discarded for the violinist’s method. Then Antonionetti of Milan and Lanzetti, violoncellist to the King of Sardinia, published some sonatas for the violoncello, which, according to Monsieur Vidal in his “Instruments a ArchÉt,” reveal that the capacities of the instrument to the extent of an octave and a half were known to them. Curiously enough, at this point the zeal shown by the Italians in developing the violoncello somewhat cooled, and the important invention of employing the thumb was left for the Frenchman—Berteau. A few years before this violoncellist’s death in 1756, Michael Corrette published his “Methode, theorique et pratique, pour apprendre en peu de temps le Violoncello ...” Paris, 1741, a work which was the first of its kind. He still adhered to the system of fingering the diatonic scale by stopping whole tones with successive fingers, and his remarks relating to the several systems prevailing among violoncellists, together with his instructions, for three ways of holding the bow, are indicative of the unsettled state of technique at that time. This condition of uncertainty among players continued until towards the end of the century when Jean Louis Duport published his carefully written “Essai sur le doigtÉ du violoncelle, et sur le conduite de l’archÉt.” This was the first method in which the correct mode of fingering—i.e. a finger for each successive semitone—appeared. Duport’s system was too sound to be anything else than universally adopted, and each successive writer of violoncello schools—Romberg, Dotzauer, Grutzmacher, etc.—have retained the fundamental principles laid down by Duport. To-day there is little executed by violinists that virtuosos of the violoncello cannot accomplish, if they are inclined,—but,—talking about the obvious is always tedious especially at the end of a long day, and we feel that it is nearly time to bid you adieu. So much has already been written by eminent writers on the subject of makers and players subsequent to Stradivarius—of the German, French, and English schools—that it would be superfluous to give a descriptive list of them here. The question as to whether Jacobus Stainer and Joseph Guarnerius del Jesu made violoncellos will always be one of the many subjects to argue about. Yet, apparently they have left evidence that they did make violoncellos. This and other doubtful points may be found adequately discussed in such works as Laurent Grillet’s “Les AncÈtres de Violon,” George Hart’s “The Violin,” Anton Vidal’s “Les Instruments a ArchÉt,” Von Wasielewski’s “Die Violoncelle,” Luigi Farconi’s “Il Violoncello, il violoncellesta e Violoncellesti,” etc., and to those who seek to dig deeper for themselves, there is the British Museum, and the many Museums, and storehouses, of information, to be found in every country.

Our chief aim during these chats has been to seek out the uncommon rather than to preach, therefore we will end as we have begun, and before parting call your attention to the handsome violoncello belonging to that gifted artist Herr Paul Ludwig, made by a maker of the name of “Chioddi” of whom we can find no record, and as we bid you a regretful adieu, present you with the history of two eminent women gamba players, and the first violoncello prodigy known in this country.

The fog has cleared and we may now dash through endless slush to our respective homes. The pleasant hours are over, let us hope for future meetings, but if this may not come to pass, the memory of to-day will be ever cherished by us.

“Female violinists are rare, the violin being we do not know why deemed an unfeminine instrument....

“Female violoncellists are rarer still, and we have never met with one. A young German lady, Mademoiselle von Katow, is delighting Paris by her performances.”—The Spectator, 14th April 1860

VIOLA DI BORDONE.
A variety of the Viola da Gamba peculiar to Germany and
favoured by amateurs in the Eighteenth Century. This
instrument is in the South Kensington Museum.