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.