The Violin

by Lindsay Pritchard

  “We’ve hardly got enough room as it is,” complained John, gently. “Kids all sleeping top to toe, a queue for the wash bowl every morning. Not to mention we’ll have to feed her,” John said, although he knew, and Ellen knew, that he would have to help. She knew – good man that he was – that he would not let her mother suffer alone.

  “She hardly eats more than a bird now. And she just needs a place to sit. She’d be no trouble. And we could make her up a little bed afore the fire?” she entreated.

  John agreed with a rueful nod of his head, which indicated that it was difficult but he knew it was something they had to do.

  *

  After a simple supper of soup, cheese and bread, John took his paper round to Anthony the scrivener. He was the only man locally who had been schooled. When papers needed translating into everyday action or some writing had to be done – a will, an agreement, a necessary letter – Anthony was the person to whom people would go. Some had elementary reading and writing but for anything more complex, or for matters relating to figures, then Anthony would oblige for a few coppers.

  He lived in a small, low-ceilinged lean-to attached to a short run of colliery houses. When John stepped inside his door, he could stand although he brushed the flat roof. Anthony, at six-and-a-half feet tall, spent his life indoors bent from the waist. He was a startling sight. As well as being around a foot taller than most of the under-nourished local citizens he had a shock of thick black hair, sideburns, mutton chops and a full beard framing his entire face.

  To add to the impression of a Wild Man, he only had one arm although few dared to ask why as that might have seemed an impertinence. But with his one good arm he supplemented his small scrivener’s income, remarkably, by collecting, chopping, carrying and delivering wood in order to feed the fires that both kept families warm and cooked their food.

  Anthony knew John, having helped him before and he knew him as a man of integrity. They were accustomed to an occasional smoke and chat in front of the fire.

  Anthony quickly scanned the document.

  “It’s a contract. It’s between you and Benjamin Outram. He agrees to lend you thirty pounds to buy a horse and cart and you agree to pay him back interest and capital. I suppose he’s told you that much?”

  “Yes,” said John, “two shillings and sixpence a week interest and the capital to be paid back one quarter each year for four years.”

  “That’s right,” said Anthony, “and did he mention anything about you not making the payments?”

  “Not really,” said John.

  “Well, it says here that if you miss any payment, you will be taken to be in default, the whole amount will be immediately repayable and he will come after you with the full force of English law. You prepared to accept this risk?”

  “Well, I’m sure I can make a go of it with hard work. Enough to pay him his interest, get us our vittles and clothes and put a little aside to repay the loan,” said John, a little diffidently.

  “Two and sixpence a week don’t sound a lot,” said Anthony, “but that’s near enough six pounds a year, without anything paid back. You happy with that?”

  “Beggars can’t be choosers,” said John, somewhat ruefully. “I’ve tried most other things and working at the pit or the leadworks barely keeps a man afloat. My aim in life, modest as it may be, is just to keep us fed and clothed and to get the children an education so they won’t end up like their father.”

  “What if you can’t make a payment because you’re ill?” asked Anthony.

  “Just a chance I have to take I suppose. I can’t afford to be ill. I would have to manage somehow,” said John, fingering his cap nervously at this unconsidered contingency.

  “Well, that’s all the conditions to it. If you’re happy to go ahead, there’s a place here to make your mark then this has to go back to Outram.”

  Having concluded the business, Anthony invited John to have a glass of beer and a pipe before the fire. They sat in two roughly-fashioned, upright wooden chairs. After yarning for a while over the inconsequentials of life, John ventured to ask him about his background.

  “That’s a story for another time,” said Anthony mysteriously, “what is now the past was once in the future. And I have more footprints behind than there are in front of me.”

  Anthony’s wise sayings and profundities were too deep for a coal vendor.

  John, a simple man not given to philosophising, simply nodded as they sat and smoked a while in companionable silence.

  *

  John quickly started his business; HANDYSIDE, PURVEYOR OF COAL AND PEAT. He would collect a load of coal and make his way up the winding lane to his customers. He would then cut peat with a narrow flat spade from the uplands around the town and supply the toilers at the lime kilns. Then an opportunity cropped up, suggested by one of the labourers. Perhaps he could also ferry the lime produced at the kilns down to the local markets? In that way he would have a paying load up the hill, a paying weight of peat to sell, and a consignment of lime for market on which he could make a turn. As a manifestly honest man, John was trusted to strike a fair bargain. In many cases he would supply the coal and peat for nothing and make the cost back on the lime he sold down at the market, delivering a fair return to the kiln-dwellers.

  With trade going well, he was easily able to fund Outram his interest, feed the family better fare as well as putting money aside to repay his loan. He considered branching out by getting another horse and cart and employing someone to operate it.

  For a year or two, business flourished. Then one day some work began on the hill. Large scale work. Engineering work. It soon became clear what was happening. Outram was setting up a tramway. A single track line of about a mile bottom to top, it was a brilliantly simple idea. Loaded wagons descended the hill using a combination of simple gravity and a man-operated brake system with empty wagons counter-balancing loaded wagons. Because of scale, the carrying costs were reduced to a fraction. Progressively, the funicular took over. John’s former customers switched regretfully from horse and cart to the cheaper mechanical system.

  The death of his business was slow and painful. John worked doubly hard to service his remaining patrons, but he was a beaten man.

  As well as his failing enterprise, further problems mounted as if fate had suddenly conspired against him. His mother-in-law had moved in and it was clear that she was not long for the world. One of the youngest children had developed an infection and needed to be looked at by a doctor, an expensive undertaking. Amidst these troubles one evening, with his muscles aching from work, his clothes stained with sweat and his head a-buzz with adversities, he sought out Anthony for a beer and a pipe. But there he only accrued a further obligation. He found Anthony in a damp, unlit room, cold with no fire. He was covered with rough blankets on his truckle bed by the wall.

  “What’s happened my friend?” he asked, trying to disguise his anxiety.

  Anthony barely stirred.

  “Heart. Heart giving out. Time takes all. I suffered from rheumatic fever some years ago. The doctor said it would weaken the heart and come back to hamper me later.”

  John, through gentle questioning, established that Anthony’s heart would not beat in rhythm and that this was making him severely breathless. He had been aware of it for some time but now was finding it difficult to function. His small income from wood deliveries had evaporated. The fire had not been lit and it had been some days since he had had food.

  John bustled about reassuring Anthony.

  “We’ll soon have this fire lit. I’ll get Mrs Handyside to put you up some soup and bread. You’ll be up and going in no time at all.”

  Anthony sighed, closing his eyes.

  “You’re a good man John. Thank you for your kindness but I fear that the thread of life on Clotho’s spindle is nearing its end.”

  “I don’t know anythi
ng about that but at least we can keep you warm and put a bit of food in your belly. I’m going to get Dr McHenry up from the town to take a look at you.”

  Anthony shook his head slowly.

  “No point now. We cannot command the moment to remain. And the doctor? You know that’s half a crown you can’t afford?”

  “I’ve got to get him up to see one of the little ones anyway. With a bit of persuasion I can get him to take a look at you as well, see if there’s anything he can give you. I’m sure he can supply something to help you,” said John briskly. “Don’t you worry old chap. Soon have you up and chopping wood again.”

  Anthony reached out his one arm and grasped John’s hand.

  “I know you’re a man with many troubles of your own. But you are an honourable man, upright and principled. So I accept your help with profound gratitude.”

  Dr McHenry came the next day and gave him a remedy for the child.

  “I’ll forecast that the little demon will be up and annoying his parents again within no more than twenty-four hours.”

  He also left some medicine for Ellen’s mother.

  “That will keep her peaceful.”

  On his visit to Anthony, his demeanour was much more serious and thoughtful as he made his examination.

  “I know I have no need to tell you to rest,” he said, “as it is clear that your heart is struggling. There are some medicaments I will leave for you but they will do no more than moderate your symptoms for a while. I will look in again after a week or so.”

  Dr McHenry spoke to John outside.

  “His heart is failing. In these circumstances the formula I have given him will delay things for a little while and he will have some time when he is able to sit up, eat and have sufficient breath to talk. But there is no remedy and the trajectory in such a case is inevitably downwards. I know you will do what you can for him with warmth and food. Make sure he drinks – a little beer will not go amiss. Call me if there is any deterioration and I will do what I can for him.”

  “Thank you, Doctor. I am very obliged to you. May I beg one further favour? I know that there were three patients but I was hoping this one florin would suffice?” he asked, hopefully.

  The doctor closed John’s hand over the coin.

  “My calling is to help people, not to profit. I have other patients who can easily afford treatments. I ensure that their contributions even out the cost to those who do not have so much. But you can assist me if you will?”

  He pulled a sixpence from his pocket.

  “Be sure and buy something for that little one of yours. I have rarely seen such a delightful child.”

  And, leaving John with the coin, he swished his cape, picked up his medical bag and set off down the hill.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The Handyside business declined as the lime makers switched to the cheaper and more efficient tramway. A few loyal customers stayed with John out of respect for his honesty, service and hard work, but funds dwindled and he was barely able to make his repayments. He contemplated selling the horse and cart but that would barely cover his debt, and would wipe out his income altogether. He thought about other work but there was a surfeit of pairs of hands and he did not want to admit defeat to himself and his family.

  He borrowed more money from Old Outram at an extortionate rate, promising himself that it was just to tide things over until business picked up again. He did not tell Ellen who would have been mortified by the risk.

  He worked almost ritualistically to supply his diminishing number of customers and spent more time attempting to find new trade or to persuade former clients to return. But to no avail.

  In the meantime, with Ellen occupied by her mother and the children, he gave what assistance he could to Anthony – stoking the fire, bringing him a little food and drink. Dr McHenry’s tincture had helped a little and Anthony, perhaps sensing that his time was at hand, felt that he had to unburden himself of his story. Over several evenings he unfolded his remarkable narrative.

  “My given name is Antonio Renard. I was born in Paris in 1810. My mother, although she is all but forgotten now some forty years on, was young, beautiful, talented and famous and had her day in the sun. I used to badger my grandmother to tell me about her, although it must have been painful for her.

  “My mother would entrance the Paris Opera House with her virtuosity on the violin. She travelled to Vienna, London, Prague, Milan. She was feted everywhere. I am told that she was of surpassing beauty but, as a girl born out of poverty herself, took her fame and radiance lightly, and was a modest and kind girl. There were many suitors but she was wedded only to her music.

  “There was a brief engagement to her agent, Henri Boulleau, but when it was found that she was pregnant by another, unknown man, the union was dissolved. She never told who the father was, not even to her mother, her father having died in the revolution, although I am told he was no loss.

  “The child was born – myself – on March 23rd, 1810, but Marie, my mother, did not survive. Apparently she looked on me and fed me but once only and died soon after. If only I could remember that look. I saw her likeness once. She was a beautiful woman and kind. It is the biggest regret in my life that I never knew her.

  “My grandmother took it upon herself to care for me as there was no one else. There was some money but with the income from her performances gone and the Paris apartment expensive, it was soon nearly all spent. Former friends disappeared to the four winds. After all, who wants the encumbrance of a dead woman’s bastard child? However, with my grandmother’s health declining, I was sent away to school in England – it was felt right that I should be sent away – with the few resources left and with the help of an unnamed benefactor. I believe it was Henri Boulleau but I shall never know. Apparently he had loved my mother but she must have felt that he offered to marry her out of charity. Perhaps this was one last service he was able to render to her.”

  Anthony’s voice weakened as John listened to this unexpected history. After a draught of beer and a short interval with his eyes closed, Anthony continued his story.

  “The school I was sent to in the country near London was strict but thorough. I was only seven but it soon became my home. I shall never know why I was sent away there but it was the right place for me. Away from the prurient interest there would have been in the bastard child of the famous Marie Renard. The school taught me reading, mathematics, Greek, Latin, poetry, literature. The masters were disciplinarian but they had a vocation to give every child the learning they themselves had. I was not a brilliant student but I did have one special aptitude.

  “To me, music came easily. That was my mother’s talent coming out in me I suppose. I was playing Bach on the piano aged eight and the school organ for daily prayers and services by the age of ten. I also showed some flair for the violin. My mother’s gift to me perhaps, from beyond the grave. My grandmother received regular reports on my welfare although I saw her but rarely. My home was school in England. Shortly before she died, when I was about twelve, she sent my mother’s violin to me and I was able to play it. I cannot tell you how that felt. It was as though she was speaking to me through the violin and all of the music she had played was stored inside it. I could almost feel her presence looking over me. A silly thought I know, but it sustained me through much.”

  John looked quizzical. Anthony understood his bemusement.

  “Of course, that was when I still had two good arms!” he said with a wry smile. “That violin would almost weep when I played certain pieces. When my grandmother sent me the violin there was a letter from her. She told me that this was my mother’s violin of course, but also that it had a history of its own. It had been bought by my mother’s patron, a French count. It was purchased at a reputable dealer in Paris. Its origin was from a luthier in London, John Johnson, but that it was rumoured to have been heard by Handel and played by
a young English maestro called Thomas Linley. I have no idea if any of this is true, but certainly my grandmother wrote that my mother had played it at many famous venues. It had been heard by crowned heads. She even said that the great Paganini might have tried it, although that may be the ramblings of an old woman romancing in her old age.

  “However, what is certainly true is that the violin had travelled and been widely admired as my mother was able to coax from it almost its own voice. By the way, that is why I am called Antonio. My mother’s favourite composer was Signor Vivaldi.”

  John looked nonplussed.

  “Perhaps you haven’t heard of these people, my friend, but you have been going about your work I imagine, trying to keep your business and family together. No time,” this with a gentle smile, “for the rarefied atmosphere of classical music!

  “School for me was finished at the age of fourteen. My schooling completed I was turned out into the world with a sound education, the clothes I stood up in and a violin in a case. What was a lad to do? For a while I scratched a living playing on street corners in London. One day, I must have been around fifteen years old, a man stood listening to me as I played. When I had finished, he threw a few coppers into a hat along with a card. He looked at me and told me to go and see him at his offices off the Haymarket, which I duly did. He worked for a shipping line. He wanted a boy to clerk on the packets that sailed from Liverpool to New York, the Black Ball Line. The journey was about two months either way.

  “You would be surprised at the clerking work that was necessary. Records of passengers, inventories of goods – wool, spices, tea and the like – medical records, details of accidents, dispensation of oatmeal, flour, sugar, tea for those in steerage, records of wages paid and deductions for discipline. Even records of the water kept in casks and dispensed.

  “Well, I was young and free. I was book-learnt and quick with numbers so he set me on and I made my living. It was not easy. The road from Liverpool to New York, as they who have travelled it will tell you, is very long, crooked and rough and eminently disagreeable. The boat afforded some means for Irish to go and seek opportunity. The poor devils travelled in the bottom of the boat where it was crowded, dark and damp and smelt of old food, whiskey and stale people.