The Violin

by Lindsay Pritchard

  On Christmas day in 1871, he entertained family and friends but later succumbed to a bout of pleurisy and left the world in early January, 1872. A man of humble origins he had, through his wit, enterprise, skill and drive, left a legacy of some value. The people of Birmingham turned out in their thousands for the public funeral of one of the great Victorian entrepreneurs and philanthropists. The hearse passed the Victoria Works and every employee, down to the last man and woman, in crisp white aprons, bowed their head paying their last and heartfelt respects to the great man who had been more than an employer.

  *

  Once the formalities were over and the will read, Master Joseph assumed family control. He lacked the finer sensibilities of his father and gave instructions for the art collection to be catalogued, valued and auctioned, realising almost £175,000. He was also aware of his father’s former enthusiasm for squirreling fiddles away. However, knowing little himself as to the authenticity or value of the collection, he commissioned the era’s leading authority, George Hart, from London. His brief was to produce a manifest, and to classify and register the portfolio with recommendations for its disposal.

  Hart was given full access to the Victoria Works and, unsure as to what he might find, presented himself on one Monday morning in early April to the keyholder, a stooped veteran with a long moustache. Amid the din of countless machines shaping magnum-bonums and swan-bills he followed the retainer through offices, warehouses and workshops. They reached an outbuilding at the rear of the works. The long metal key produced a satisfying arthritic rasp telling Hart that this room had been locked for years. The door swung on antique hinges and Hart cried out in astonishment.

  “Fiddles! Fiddles here! Fiddles there! Fiddles everywhere!”

  In the centre of the room was a large warehouse table upon which, in a pyramid of confusion, were upwards of seventy violins, stringless, bridgeless, unglued and enveloped in a fine dust which had clearly settled over decades.

  Hart, dumbfounded by the disorderly profusion of fiddles, pulled a likely one out. He recognised it immediately as a viola by Guarneri, followed by several others of similar quality. He then turned his attention to some shelves, opened a number of cases and found some fine Cremonese instruments together with some raw copies. After some time, Hart stood blinking at the treasure trove, hardly knowing how to begin. A square shaft of sunlight, golden dust in its casement, suddenly lit up the warehouse giving it an ethereal, church-like atmosphere. Hart knew he had found something extraordinary.

  Unsure of whether he had encompassed the whole collection, he asked the functionary whether Mr Gillott also collected cellos. Untutored in music, the man cocked an uneducated ear.

  “Big fiddles! Big fiddles! Are there any big fiddles?”

  Now understanding, the assistant led him through another locked door to a smaller, adjacent warehouse, waving Hart through and sweeping an arm over the room. Here lay the remains of other Gillott collections, started but most likely abandoned. Statuaries, pianos, crockery, porcelain. This room also seemed to serve as the repository of spare parts as there were oily lathes, machinery parts, early prototype presses and so on. The assistant motioned to the end of the warehouse. In stately rows of five, some ten rows deep, stood an assemblage of cellos in cases lined up like a detachment of infantry waiting for the command.

  Hart opened each one in turn – Bergonzi, Amati, Cappa, Landolfi and more. A further prodigious collocation of lovingly crafted instruments, centuries old, waiting for a call to arms. Hart wondered what tales they might tell if they could speak: of their makers; of their players; of the stirring pieces that had resonated through those strings and bodies and into the hearts of centuries of music-lovers.

  Having spent several awed hours making an initial list, Hart asked the assistant, “Remarkable, remarkable! I suppose this is the end of it?”

  “Oh no,” he replied. “I was about to mention that there are a few fiddles back at Mr Gillott’s residence. The ones he especially liked, I suppose. You might want to take a look at them too?”

  Locking up the warehouses, they made their way to The Grove on Westbourne Road. The retainer handed Hart over to the housekeeper who took him up to Joseph’s bedroom, unlocking a side room, formerly perhaps a dressing room. A long mahogany glass case ran down one side of the chamber. Sliding a door, Hart saw a series of violin cases. Just when Hart had considered he had seen the finest of the collection, he now saw that Joseph had kept his particular favourites close. He found a Guarneri dated 1732, a 1715 Stradivarius, plus further Amatis and others. In amongst them was a fine-looking instrument with a tiger-striped back, noted as a John Johnson of 1750.

  *

  Hart spent three weeks cataloguing and classifying the entire collection, certifying authenticity where he could and putting cautionary notes against those he considered might be copies. He went to see young Master Joseph with his findings and to discuss what was to be done.

  “I must say, Mr Gillott, that your father was, perhaps, the most prolific collector of such instruments that we have ever seen. Of course he might be seen as a little indiscriminate, but amongst the stones he also found jewels. We will never know what might have happened to this cornucopia if he had not rescued them for his vault. We have much to thank him for.”

  Joseph barely acknowledged the point.

  “Well, collecting was his passion. He was not schooled in music or instruments, nor then indeed am I, so there is little joy in keeping the collection. In fact, it is taking space that we need for storage so my inclination is to put it to the market. We have realised the paintings so we may do something similar with the fiddles, do you think? I have my eye on several hundred acres of land at Catherine de Barnes as a spot for a new hall. There is an old Tudor pile there with a moat. I have a fancy to knock it down and build again. The fiddle money should come in nicely. Have you any estimate as to how much we might realise?”

  Hart shook his head.

  “It will depend on what happens at the auction. I can verify most but there will be doubts over the bona fides of some instruments. And, naturally, if there is a flood of pieces in a particular auction, that is likely to depress returns. But I am confident that discerning buyers will always turn up and bid well for genuine artefacts.”

  They agreed that Hart would talk to Sotheby’s in London. He felt confident that in view of the importance of many of the violins, he would be able to negotiate a keen rate.

  “Yes, yes, a keen rate then shave another half percent off it!” said Gillott.

  It was agreed that Hart would himself take a fixed fee for the work he had undertaken thus far and would also take a small percentage of the auction receipts.

  *

  On May 29th 1872, with Joseph Senior not long in his grave, Sotheby’s held an auction.

  “The finest collection of Italian, German, French and English violins, violas and violin cellos ever to be assembled. The Joseph Gillott collection.”

  The lords of the London fiddle trade showed up in force as did a number of hopeful amateurs and aristocrats. A certain caution was exercised. There had been a number of scandals over copies in recent years and dealers did not want to leave with burnt fingers. And the sheer volume of instruments kept prices prudent. However, when Lot 414 was announced – a beautiful, finely proportioned and tiger-backed fiddle – a number of hopefuls bid up the price.

  The gavel came down.

  “Sold to Mr Hill of New Bond Street for six hundred and fifty-five pounds!”

  On the short carriage ride back to his premises, along with a number of other violins, Arthur opened the case of the John Johnson violin, congratulating himself that it was still in its original leather and red velvet surround. He smiled as he lifted the lining and found the two letters written in longhand script that his father had told him about.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Although there were opport
unities a-plenty for the likes of the Gillotts in Victorian Britain, many were attracted by the tales of the prodigious riches of Australia. Originally populated by the low-life and delinquents who had been shipped there for their transgressions, there were now tales in the newspapers of fortune-seekers and settlers returning to the motherland with wealth amassed through mining, ranching and trading.

  The Farquharson family’s roots were deep in Berwickshire. In 1830, George Farquharson stepped into the unknown on a free passage to the colony. With a little money as seed corn, and with an astute and cautious Caledonian attitude to investment and risk, he soon built up large sheep stations in Victoria, starting the first meat-canning business with the help of an Englishman called Hunt, who had been pioneering the technique.

  In the 1840s, now firmly established as a new world aristocrat, he married Mary Armytage, a local girl descended from good British stock. Together they produced what George proudly called his ‘thirty-seven feet of sons’ as their six boys grew tall and strong, nourished by sunshine and meat. The business thrived, supplying the growing demand in Britain as George’s canning process was timely and lucrative. He cornered the market in shipping lamb and beef on the long voyage back to Europe.

  Then George, with Scottish shrewdness, moved into finance and land deals. He bought parcels of apparently worthless land and then developed small settlements, which increased exponentially in value. Naturally, for the sons of colonial dynasties, education back in Britain was a requirement. All six were schooled at Eton.

  The eldest, Wellesley, went to Cambridge, became a rowing blue then settled in London as a barrister. The second son, Basil, was a quieter, more thoughtful boy and – with the security of a trust fund income – turned his hand to poetry and contributing meditative musings for pamphlets and periodicals. The third and fourth boys, Humphrey and Cyril, were raw-boned games players but undistinguished scholars. After school they were absorbed back into the Australian meat-packing business as managers. The fifth boy, also George, following school quickly became engaged to a lass called Virginia from a highly religious and God-fearing family. He took holy orders and then disappeared to Westmoreland, living in a very agreeable country parsonage and making it his business to save as many local souls as would commit to attend church regularly.

  The final son, Wilfred, was less robust and ambitious than his father and brothers. He was a middling student but demonstrated a facility for music, enjoying the structure and discipline of learning and practice. In his interview for Oxford University, he fortunately chanced upon a young Dean with whom he shared an almost pathological knowledge of the Classics. Entrance was a formality and Wilfred spent three easeful years playing music and achieving an ordinary ‘gentleman’s’ degree.

  The attractions of farming, canning, sheep-rearing, finance and business back in Australia did not provide any draw for him. He therefore resolved to try his hand at teaching, as he was not a man who could settle into a leisured existence. He applied for and succeeded to a position as a junior schoolmaster at a boys’ private boarding school in Sussex called Beauchamp College. An old ivy-covered mansion house set in extensive grounds, it was fed from the local preparatory schools with the sons of merchants and minor aristocracy. With no great academic pretensions, it nevertheless turned out confident, disciplined alumni with a fair smattering of Classics and decent principles ‘to set them up for life’ as the headmaster was wont to remark.

  Some boys went on to university, others were absorbed into banking, the law or groomed to take over family businesses. Old Beauchamp boys were sprinkled round the professions, banks and businesses of the land, they usually married well, became good shots, and were very agreeable company at a hunt ball or country house weekend.

  From his first days there, Wilfred knew he was in the right milieu. The school was a city-state in itself. A comfortable bubble away from war, struggle, poverty and the teeming lower classes. It was enclosed in miles of sandstone walls. The buildings were square and regular. A team of groundsmen trimmed lawns and privet into precise submission. There was little need to venture into the outside world such as the local village of Wentnor since all requirements were met within the school. Actual life did not intrude into this dream world.

  Wilfred liked the order, predictability and discipline to school life. The school year was divided into three equal terms. The boys were allocated to four houses – Carter, Winksworth, Rosebank, and School. The former three were named after old boys and benefactors. Each had its own hierarchy, colours and local traditions. The timetable and subjects had been established for decades. The staff hierarchy was immutable with due recognition for seniority of service. The traditions, quirks and local language of the school were upheld with no sense of irony, and the boys respected the authority of the masters without question. For any indiscretions, such as late work or insubordination, corporal punishment was administered.

  Yes, Wilfred had found his place in life. Order and precision characterised his day. A morning bath, cold, to set the blood running. A close shave and a clip of the military-style moustache. A dab of brilliantine to keep the hair orderly throughout the day whatever the weather.

  Wilfred would never be seen outside his lodgings without his Oxford gown and mortarboard. Meals would be served in the Great Hall where he would eat at the Masters’ Table. A school bell would punctuate the day as he moved seamlessly through lessons. He would train recalcitrant boys – and they all started life as undisciplined young puppies – through the concentrated application of Greek and Latin primers spiced with occasional sharp reminders to any daydreamers.

  With his aptitude (one could not say fondness) for music he would coach some of the boys in the rudiments of the piano and the violin. There was something almost mathematical in the precision required in learning music, reading, practising and playing. Perhaps, he mused, the best exponent of composition was Bach with his intricate and melodious cycles and runs. Tidiness and symmetricality were the watchwords.

  Similarly, he found comfort in the routines and predictabilities of chapel, which were reassuringly entrenched in the timetable: Mattins, Evensong, Founders’ Day, End of Term service. The rhythms of the day, the week, the term, the year, were inexorable and incontestable and Wilfred knew that he had found his place. He could see himself at the college for all his days with the occasional betterment of his position as older colleagues died or retired.

  Occasionally Wilfred would be called upon – as he styled it – to ‘wield the bow’ in order to demonstrate technique to the boys or to take a lead at a concert. He played absolutely correctly, berating himself for even a minor mistake that had probably been missed by the listener. However, he played mechanically with no great passion. Music was not in his soul. This, nevertheless, would be redeemed by the quality and clarity of his violin. It had been bought, expensively, for him by his family from a London dealer on his acceptance at Gonville and Caius College. The purity of the tone transcended his orderly and methodical technique. Perhaps this conferred a lustre of inspiration on him that his soul did not merit.

  *

  One day, after around ten years as a schoolmaster at Beauchamp College, he was called in to the panelled study of the headmaster, Dr Hammersley-Pope.

  “Ah, Farquharson. Do sit down. Since we are post-prandial may I offer you a glass of something?” he asked, waving at a trio of cut glass decanters on a carved oak sideboard.

  Wilfred declined, privately considering that drinking during the day, or indeed drinking alcohol at any time, was a sure way to loss of control and dissipation. He looked past the headmaster through the mullioned windows, which overlooked the school cloisters. It was not often that he would be called in for a private chat, perhaps twice in his time at the school. This meeting, being somewhat out of the ordinary, made him a little anxious. There was some preliminary small talk about academic matters. Then the doctor said, “Nothing untoward, old boy. Just a small
favour I would like to request.”

  Wilfred calmed. It was not, as he had feared, anything to do with incompetence or professionalism. He relaxed his posture. If there was something he could help with at the school he was ready to serve.

  “I know that part of your remit is to teach music to the boys.”

  Wilfred gave a single nod and a wintery smile.

  “Indeed, one or two of them have displayed talent, which is a credit to you. I know that Hocking Minor has, in fact, established quite some reputation in the musical world in London.”

  “Yes, indeed Headmaster. Hocking was technically very proficient and worked at it.”

  “Well, you know my daughter, Florence?”

  Wilfred acknowledged her existence. He had seen her at various school functions during his time at the school. She had transformed from a plump, fidgety girl to a young lady on the cusp of womanhood, around seventeen years, he reckoned.

  “Well, she is passionate about music. Of course it can be very engaging for a young lady to be accomplished in the art and an asset towards a good marriage. There is, of course, no question that it will in any way be a career.”

  “Of course,” concurred Wilfred.

  “But it is one of the fine arts and will stand her in good stead should she ever be called on to perform socially, as it were. Mind you, it will take a firm hand on the tiller to keep her at her musical studies. She has the basics but now needs a disciplined tutor. I think you would be ideal for her. So I am asking as to whether you might fit her in to your schedule?”

  “I will indeed be happy to tutor her, Headmaster. Can I suggest that I assess her current knowledge and abilities and recommend a course of instruction? Perhaps two to three hours in the music room per week. And of course there will be practice pieces to learn in her own time. Leave it to me. Within a year I can assure you she will be no virtuoso but she will be adequately accomplished. I shall enjoy the challenge,” said Wilfred, pleased at this additional personal link with the headmaster and an opportunity to cement his worth to the school.