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....”