“The practice is now closed and will remain so until I return from holiday in a week. My neighbour has already agreed to take my patients over that time. Ask him to call there tomorrow.”
A familiar voice boomed from behind the door: “I’m sure Dr Watson will make an exception for this visitor.”
My heart leapt. “Holmes!” I cried “How splendid that you are here!” Holmes came into my consulting room. He was still thin to gaunt in form, but his eye was as piercing as ever. To my considerable surprise, he was carrying his violin case.
“I never saw you look better,” said he. “And I can strongly recommend to you your planned trip to Venice for your twentieth wedding anniversary.”
The Continental railway timetable was open on my desk and Holmes had attended our wedding, but even so, the ease with which he deduced what was to have been a surprise for my wife took my breathe away. I confessed to him as much.
“And what brings you to London?” I asked.
“I have an appointment in a few minutes with an Italian musicologist called Alberto Gentili. That is why I have also brought my violin. He has kindly agreed to call here so that we can talk. As my much-valued chronicler, you are of course free to join us if you wish.”
I must confess my jaw dropped at Holmes’s presumption in organising a meeting with a complete stranger at my house without asking me first, but assented to his wishes as I have always done. This example of his presumption was, in any case, shortly to be followed by one of much greater magnitude and personal impact.
“So what does this Italian musicologist want to see you for?” I asked.
“I confess I have no idea, except that he telegraphed me to say that he was coming to London on a matter of the greatest importance and wanted, before anyone else, to speak to me.”
A few minutes later, the maid brought in Dr Gentili, a tall, elegant man in his mid-fifties, who spoke excellent English. After introductions, he came straight to the point.
“In the autumn of last year, the administrators of a boarding school in Piedmont run by the Salesian Fathers discovered in their archives a large number of old music manuscripts which they wanted to sell to pay for building repairs. They called upon the National Library in Turin to value the material and the library passed the matter to me as I am professor of music history at Turin University. I have frequently been asked to perform such a task, and frequently the manuscripts prove to be no more interesting than family song books or old, hand-written copies of works already in wide public circulation. I asked for a list and suggested that the material be sent to Turin so that I could inspect it carefully. When the crates arrived, I opened the first one up.” Dr Gentili stopped as though overcome by an overwhelming emotion. “Inside were innumerable volumes of autograph manuscripts of an Italian composer of the early eighteenth century called Antonio Vivaldi.”
By this time my friendship with Holmes dated back over forty years, but on this occasion, for the first time in our long collaboration, there was a look of unalloyed joy on his face. There was a seemingly unending pause as my friend appeared as overcome by emotion as Dr Gentili had been. Finally Holmes asked as though in a trance “And what did you find in this trove of Vivaldi manuscripts?”
“Music without measure. Concerti and sonatas for all manner of instruments - violin, bassoon, violoncello, oboe, flute - playing as a soloist and in every conceivable combination - secular vocal music, sacred vocal music, operas - we did not even know he had written any vocal music or operas.”
“Do you have any examples of the music with you?”
Dr Gentili reverentially drew a manuscript out of his brief case and handed it to Holmes. Even though I am no musician, one look at the torrent of notes poured out over the staves took me back twenty years to the moment when Holmes had first introduced me to the unbridled exuberance of Vivaldi’s music.
Holmes took his violin out of its case. Was it the dust from the autograph, or was it a well of feelings that I had never before seen tapped that had made his eyes go bright? When he started to play from the manuscript, the notes came out in a bewitching stream of melody. The incomplete Brandenburg case had been one of the last cases on which I had collaborated with Holmes before my second marriage. The piece, of which Holmes now gave the first performance for perhaps two hundred years, took me back to the time of my wooing.
When he finished, Gentili and I sat in awed silence. It was Holmes who spoke first.
“I note this piece has a title - L’amoroso or ‘The Lover’.”
“Yes,” replied Gentili, after a long pause as he in turn came to from the reverie into which we had all sunk. “Many of Vivaldi’s pieces bear the name of a dedicatee - Morzin, who was Josef Haydn’s first patron, or Bancardi, for whom he wrote a bassoon concerto - or they have descriptive names. There are four concerti named after the seasons, two different ones for flute and for bassoon called The Night and two different ones for violin and for flute called The Storm at Sea. But there are hundreds of pieces without name or title that are of equal merit.”
“So may I ask, Doctor Gentili, why you wish to speak to me? You have made a musical discovery of unsurpassed value on which I congratulate you from the bottom of my heart. Surely the only question is how to progress to the academic study and publication of this treasure trove?”
For answer, Gentili turned over the manuscript of the concerto from which Holmes had just played an extract. Even with my untrained eyes, I could see that the last movement was incomplete. The piece simply broke off in the middle of a phrase. Holmes looked stunned. He took out a magnifying glass and examined the binding that held the manuscript together.
“The rest of the music has been ripped off and the torso of the concerto roughly bound with other works. By the looks of the glue in the binding, this took place about forty years ago,” he said soberly. “This is indeed a grave loss.”
“In fact, in fact,” assented Gentili. “In each bundle of manuscripts, the first item starts halfway through a movement and the last item breaks off before the end of a movement. The piece you have just played is the last item in a bundle.”
“And what is your explanation for that?”
“Each bundle is marked with a letter of the alphabet: A, C, E, G and so on. That suggests to me that a larger collection was divided in half at some point and that what we have here is only one half of the complete collection of Vivaldi’s manuscripts. This means there must be a parallel collection of manuscripts of equal size and quality waiting to be discovered, assuming it has not already been discovered, or been destroyed in the years since the binding took place.”
Such was the momentous nature of Dr Gentili’s deduction that it took a few seconds for its full import to sink in, even to Holmes. But when it did so, I had never in all my long years of collaboration with my colleague seen him so excited. “We must strain every sinew to find it!” he cried. “We have an opportunity here that will make the world of music ring!”
There was another pause before Holmes asked.
“Who else knows about your discovery?”
“I have told no one. From the beginning, my concern about these manuscripts was that someone else would come to hear of my find, would acquire the autographs and sell them among private collectors, which is the way to maximise the return on their sale. This would be a danger whether the discovery were made by another historian, or by a government official: my country’s government is keen to sell national assets to finance its weapon-building programme. It would be a tragedy for scholars of music not to have all the manuscripts in one place where they can be studied together and where we can obtain an understanding of Vivaldi’s working methods. I want to protect all these manuscripts in the National Library of Turin. And that is why I am here in London. I am an expert in musical style and structure. Tracing manuscripts, looking at watermarks and delving in archives is not my
métier. Would finding the remaining autograph manuscripts be a commission you would like to accept? If you would undertake this commission, I would ensure that your name appeared as the inceptor of this project although I could not promise you a financial reward.”
“My work, I have often said before, is its own reward and never has this remark been more apposite than now. Watson, our next stop is Venice and it is indeed a fortunate coincidence that you have the tickets already booked.”
Before I could say anything, Dr Gentili said, “I knew you and your friend would not fail me.”
When Dr Gentili had taken his leave, I turned to Holmes who had already lapsed into a world of his own as he studied the autograph that Dr Gentili had left us. “Holmes, how in the name of all that’s wonderful, do you think I can get my wife to accept your proposal?”
“You have already said that your trip to Venice is something she knows nothing about,” replied Holmes absent-mindedly as he was already absorbed in analysing the Vivaldi manuscript. “Tell her you have a chance to change the course of history, and I am sure she will regard your brief absence as a sacrifice worth making.”
The next morning found Holmes and me on the boat-train from Victoria and the morning after that, we were crossing the lagoon to Venice. Holmes was as indefatigable as ever and we were soon in front of Dr Corso, head of the Venetian city archives. Holmes asked if he could see the wills and any other documents of members of the Vivaldi family.
My friend’s name always carries instant recognition. All extant documents were soon brought to us and a clerk was placed at our disposal. We were reassured when it appeared that the number of documents was large, but less so when the clerk said that there was no will extant from Antonio Vivaldi. My friend sat down and went through what there was. His knowledge of opera meant that Holmes spoke quite serviceable Italian, which had already been of use to us in the case of “The Red Circle”. Almost immediately, I saw a look of excitement as he looked through the will of Vivaldi’s brother, Francesco, and found a receipt in respect of a payment for “Concerti ed altri brani da mio fratello, Antonio” from a Venetian senator, Jacopo Soranzo.
“Now we need to find documents relating to Senator Soranzo,” commented Holmes. As the clerk took back the Vivaldi documents, he stamped the folder that contained them to show the date that they had last been accessed. Holmes looked to see the sequence of stamps and noted that while there were none in the thirty years before, the documents had been accessed for review only four months previously.
We reviewed files relating to Senator Soranzo and found a reference to a sale of music to a Count Giacomo Durazzo. Once again, the file had been taken out only four months previously and never before for many years.
“Someone else is evidently on the trail,” said Holmes, concern etched deep on his features.
There were no personal or family documents on the Durazzo family in the archive, but a review of an Italian encyclopaedia revealed that Giacomo Durazzo had been the Venetian ambassador to Vienna in the mid-eighteenth century, where he had been a patron of the operatic composer, Gluck.
“Venice, Vienna, music. Our chain is almost complete!” exclaimed Holmes. “All we need to do is track down the descendants of Giacomo Durazzo. But I fear that there is every reason to think that someone else has got there first, that Count Durazzo’s family vault will be empty of manuscripts and that his collection of Vivaldi autographs, such as it is, will already have been broken up and sold to collectors. Reassembling it will be like reassembling a shattered stained-glass window.”
The Durazzos turned out still to be a wealthy family based in Genoa with only one surviving member who could be in possession of the documents. Further research showed that the current Count Durazzo was one of two brothers whose father had died in the 1890s. Holmes speculated that it might have been then that the collection of manuscripts had been divided between the brothers in the rough way referred to above, and that the monks had obtained their half of the manuscripts on the death of the other brother. Holmes sent a letter to the surviving Count Durazzo, asking to meet him. As we were under tight time constraints, Holmes wrote in the letter that we would travel to Genoa and asked that the modern-day Count Durazzo send a letter to the main post office in Genoa to await collection.
Immediately after posting the letter, we crossed Italy and stayed the night at the Hotel Astoria in Genoa. We waited impatiently in our hotel, going every few hours to the post office to see whether a response had been received. After two days, we received a letter from Count Durazzo, saying that he would meet us and inviting us to his house at half past ten the next morning.
With the diplomatic background of the Durazzo family, it was unsurprising to find that the austere-looking nobleman before us spoke faultless English. Holmes explained that our mission was to look at the Count’s manuscript collection. The Count sat staring at us for several seconds before saying “I am, of course, aware of your name, Mr Holmes, and of that of your friend, but I must advise that you are not the first person to have asked me recently about autograph manuscripts in the vaults of my family.”
“And,” asked Holmes in a voice which conveyed little hope, “are these manuscripts still in your possession?”
“The man who asked me about them was called Gentili.” I was about to turn to Holmes to ask him whether he could explain Dr Gentili’s behaviour when Durazzo continued. “Gentili is a Jew and I do not treat with Jews. You and your friend, however, are free to search my family vaults. I have no interest in anything you might find.”
I could see my friend hesitate as he thought how to respond to this outrageous statement, but in the end we were taken to the vault by a manservant of the Count, where we found the autograph manuscripts intact.
We parted company from Count Durazzo, promising to revert to him, and headed to Turin.
I could see that even Holmes was bewildered by our switchback ride between hope and despair, and he was silent as we sat on the train. We had telegrammed Dr Gentili to tell him of our impending arrival. He was on the platform in Turin waiting for us as our train drew in and took us to his home.
He congratulated us on our discovery and set about explaining his extraordinary actions. “When Count Durazzo refused to see me, I had to find someone whom he would be prepared to see. Mr Holmes, your name is like no other for opening doors. I could not tell you that I had followed the trail of the manuscripts from Venice to Genoa as you would not have been convincing as the discoverers of that trail if you had merely heard of it through me. It is rather like the way you, Mr Holmes, withheld the fact from Dr Watson here that you had survived the fight with Professor Moriarty at the Reichenbach Falls, to ensure that his reporting of “The Final Problem” carried complete conviction of your death.”
“Dr Gentili,” said Holmes, with the rare smile he gave when he recognised a figure of comparable calibre to himself. “You did yourself an injustice when you said forensic investigation of music was not your métier. On the contrary, you have great perseverance and psychological insight. These qualities, combined with your knowledge of music, mean that you will rise high in your profession as a music historian. You might even consider criminal detective work as an attractive sideline.”
“I trust that at least some of your prophecy will come to fruition,” said Gentili, with a faint smile, although he did not explain precisely what he meant by this remark.
After a pause, Holmes said “We must now see how we can fund an appropriate buyer for the purchase of the remaining manuscripts.”
“That too is being arranged,” said Gentili. “I have had contacts with two public-spirited local industrialists, Signore Foà and Signore Giordano. Tragically, both men had sons who died in infancy and they are between them prepared to put up the money to buy the manuscripts to commemorate their sons. They want to have the music published with pictures of their infant sons on the front co
ver. The publication will be called the Mauro Foà and Renzo Giordano Edition.”
In spite of his apparent indifference, long and complex were the negotiations that followed with Count Durazzo, so it was not until 1930 that the complete set of manuscripts could be brought together. The works, almost all in autograph, comprised eighty secular cantatas, forty-two sacred works, twenty operas, one oratorio and no fewer than three hundred and seven instrumental pieces.
Holmes and I travelled out to Turin to be in the library to see the crowning of Dr Gentili’s work as the bundles of manuscripts arrived from Genoa.
The date was set for the afternoon of 30 June and by special permission Holmes and I had a chance to examine the new manuscripts on the morning. Holmes had brought his violin and opened one of the bundles from the Durazzo collection. He eagerly plunged in a hand and pulled out the autograph of a violin concerto. He was just about to play from the score when I heard him say “How strange!”
The autograph of the concerto bore a dedication at the top: “Per i Brandenburghesi” (“For the Brandenburgers”). Holmes put down his bow to look more carefully. “Well!” he said eventually, as he drew himself up, “This is a violin concerto which Vivaldi has written for the court of Brandenburg. The solo part is designed for him and the fairly simple string parts are for the customary four-part ensemble. How strange that there was no sign that Vivaldi had worked at the court of Brandenburg when I examined the archives there. I shall have to give this matter some thought.”
That afternoon, when the announcement of the acquisition of the trove of Vivaldi manuscripts was made, Holmes and I were front-row guests. We had expected Dr Gentili to make the speech to mark the announcement and were very surprised to learn from a library official that Dr Gentili was indisposed. The speech to mark the occasion, we were further surprised to discover, was not given by any of the academic or library representatives but by the Prefect of Turin, who wore a military uniform. My Italian was not of a level to understand what he said, but I noted that he repeatedly used phrases like “eroe Italiano” and “il mare nostro”. Holmes meanwhile was cast deep in thought and was only awoken from his reflections when at the end, the assembled gathering broke into a stirring song which I learnt afterwards was called “Giovinezza, giovinezza, primavera di bellezza”. I could work out that this meant “Youth, youth, springtime of beauty.” I also knew that Vivaldi had written a concerto about spring, but the melody to which the words were set sounded of an altogether different era and the line “Fascismo è la salvezza della nostra libertà” seemed quite out of place.
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