The Rainaldi Quartet Read Online Free PDF Page B

superb. It was as close to perfection as he ever got. It was so perfect, in fact, that he could not bring himself to part with it. And he never did. On his death, in 1737, it remained in his workshop. Neither Francesco nor Omobono, the sons by his first wife who continued the violin-making business, parted with it and after their deaths the violin passed to Paolo Stradivari, Antonio’s youngest son by his second wife. Paolo wasn’t an instrument maker, he was a cloth merchant. He inherited a number of violins, either made entirely by his father or finished by his two half brothers, among them the violin we now know as “Le Messie”. ’
    â€˜It wasn’t called that then?’ Guastafeste said.
    â€˜No, the name came later. Paolo gradually sold off the violins and in 1775 he disposed of the final dozen or so, including Le Messie. The buyer was a nobleman from Casale Monferrato named Count Ignazio Alessandro Cozio di Salabue. Count Cozio, a passionate, almost fanatical, collector of violins, is the first of the three key historical figures in this story. He had a huge collection which he built up over many years and catalogued assiduously – Stradivaris, Guarneris, Amatis, Bergonzis, Ruggeris, Guadagninis, instruments by every leading violin-maker of the time. But towards the end of his life Cozio ran into financial difficulties and was forced to sell off his collection. A large part of it was bought by an itinerant violin dealer named Luigi Tarisio, the second key figure in the story. You are with me so far?’
    Guastafeste nodded. He stirred his coffee again, but didn’t drink any of it. He was watching me intently.
    â€˜Tarisio was a fascinating character,’ I continued. ‘He was a carpenter by trade but he also played the fiddle – for country dances, weddings, that sort of thing. Like Count Cozio, he had a passion for Cremonese violins. Without Tarisio a good number of the Stradivari, Guarneri and Amati violins we know today would have been lost. This was the 1820s. The old Cremonese makers had fallen out of favour, at least in Italy. Few people wanted their violins.’
    â€˜Really?’ Guastafeste was astonished.
    â€˜It’s hard to believe now, but no one regarded them as valuable. Stradivari had been a highly respected, wealthy luthier in his lifetime, but after his death his reputation declined and he faded into relative obscurity. Who knows why? Fashion, taste, the fickle nature of humanity. Today we live in an age of mass-produced shoddy goods. We look back to earlier times and see the craftsmanship, the quality of what was made, and we pay a fortune to own it. But back then people wanted the new, they didn’t want some old violin by a dead maker.’
    Guastafeste sucked in his cheeks. ‘What I wouldn’t give to have been around then. To have picked up a few Stradivaris for next to nothing.’
    I chuckled. ‘That’s exactly what Tarisio thought. The Italians may not have wanted old Cremonese violins, but Tarisio knew there was a market for them elsewhere, in France and England. So he scoured northern Italy, travelling around dressed as a pedlar, playing his fiddle and keeping his eyes open for old violins – and it’s surprising how many Cremonese instruments were owned by poor farmers or peasants. Or he’d go to the monasteries and churches where there were instruments for the chapel orchestras which were often neglected and in a poor state of repair. He’d offer to buy them for a song, or he’d do carpentry work for the church and ask for the violins in lieu of payment. Then he’d fix up the violins and take them to Paris where he sold them to the great violin dealers Chanot, Aldric and – our third important figure – Jean-Baptiste Vuillaume.’
    â€˜Vuillaume?’ Guastafeste said. ‘I think I may have heard of him.’
    â€˜Quite probably. Vuillaume is one of those towering