Violin Dealings

Posted By admin on April 2, 2013

Here’s a really beautiful violin. I bought it from an antique dealer. He told me it had come from a house clearance. It was in an old case together with a really nice tortoiseshell-mounted bow. The label looks completely original – somebody famous, and it’s dated 1905.

So it has all the ingredients of a fake. However, we have to check.

The fingerboard was very worn – actually furrowed – which means that somebody played on it a great deal before it was put away. That’s a good sign. It has glamorous wood in the back with a very wide figure, and matching wood in the ribs. The varnish is red-gold and it has rather short corners. Also it’s very neatly made, with widely chamfered, almost flat internal linings, typical of Italian workmanship. The age: well, yes, that’s about right. Patina is hard to copy, and the varnish wear on this violin is just that: genuine wear, not artificially aged. There are no fake scratches or rubbed areas. The button, so often overlooked by copiers, is carefully finished too . . . so far so good.

A significant clue is the purfling. The black lines are really thin, the filling of the sandwich being very much thicker. Now, that’s characteristic of the maker named on the label. So is the scroll, and so are the careful edges. Now then, what next?

Dendrochronology. If that shows the wood in the table dates from after the date on the label, why then of course this must be a fake. I suppose I was hoping for a date of around 1895, something like that . . . so the result astonished me. Peter Ratcliffe’s unambiguous result is that the wood of the treble side dates from 1646 to 1723, and the bass side from 1651 to 1727. The wood is absolutely indistinguishable from that used by, for example, Carlo Bergonzi and Guarneri del Gesu. Had this front been on a classical violin, dendrochronology would not have been able to tell the difference.

OK, now here’s what the label says: Leandro Bisiach, Milanese fece in Milano, anno 1905. I should add that the label is contemporary with the instrument – nobody’s stuck it in later.

Well, did Bisiach have old violin-making wood? Yes. He was probably the only “modern Italian” maker so equipped.

Leandro Bisiach was a pupil of Riccardo Antoniazzi, who was himself a pupil of Enrico Ceruti, the last of the line of the great Cremonese makers. Bisiach was an excellent businessman, as well as a meticulous researcher and maker. Bisiach’s workshop later employed Antoniazzi, as well as his four sons, and Sgarabotto, Ornati, Garimberti and Sderci, among others. It’s widely recorded that Bisiach was the sole successor to the great Cremonese tradition of violin making. The real clincher, though, is that Leandro Bisiach had acquired workshop contents that had belonged to various old Cremonese masters (see Pardo Fornaciari, Arte Liuteria). To quote from the dendrochronological report:

“The overwhelming nature and type of wood that correlated with the front of the Bisiach, i.e. wood used almost exclusively by classical Italian makers of the early to mid 18th century, strongly suggest that Leandro Bisiach had been fortunate in acquiring old stock of tonewoods from predecessors, possibly via the Antoniazzi line. As a result, the piece he used on this violin displays a typical growth ring pattern found on spruce bellies of many Italian classical instruments. This situation is by no means the norm as most so called Modern Italian violins, or Italian violins of the very early part of the 20th century tend to have been made within 15 to 25 years of their dendrochronlogical date.”

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Tags: Bisiach, dendrochronology, Italian, Leandro, Violin

Posted By admin on January 3, 2013

Here’s a rather bad photograph of two astonishing cellos. I think I might make an advertisement based on these instruments, and I’m experimenting with camera angles and so on: I’d like the final image to be good and striking. But until then this’ll have to do.

One of these has had only one owner: Henry Lascelles, 2nd Earl of Harewood (1767-1841). The other, also the property of the 2nd Earl, must have been secondhand when he owned it. These instruments have been in store at Harewood House from some time before 1841. They have survived, untouched, and one of them might as well be new, for it has no significant wear at all. Both cellos are in their original cases (one has the Earl’s initials on a silver plaque) and both retain their original necks, fingerboards, bassbars and pegs. Neither cello has ever been fitted with a spike. I have not yet cleaned them and they are pictured in a grubby state, but I wanted to show them exactly as they were found.

The one on the left, the upside-down one, dates from some time around 1755. It’s by John Johnson. It’s interesting that it was not new when the Earl first had it, but secondhand at the time. After all, even aristocrats can be cautious about spending too much on a first purchase. Its back length is 747mm, which is quite modern, but the neck is around 18mm shorter than is normal today, giving a string length of 672mm. The neck is detached from the body, but one can see that the neck angle is a little shallow, and the fingerboad is slightly wedge-shaped. It has been made in the old English way, and the neck dowel protrudes through the top block. There is a locating peg at the top and bottom of the table, but not of the back. The neck is of beech, but the head is plain maple: there is a rather odd graft, but not because the neck is later: see how it exactly fits the case. It was made that way, as many cellos were then. It has had some impact damage, and there are two cracks in the table, which were repaired in the 18th century. It might be that Henry Lascelles had an accident.

It’s tempting to imagine that the Earl liked the instrument enough to purchase a new one, for the second instrument, the one with a bridge and strings, is the real find. That’s the original bridge and original strings. It has its proper label – Thomas Dodd, at the Covent Garden address, which dates it to between 1798 and 1809. It was certainly made by Bernhard Simon Fendt, who worked for Dodd at that time. It’s much the same size, with a back length of 744mm, but the neck is the same length as that in use today, and the string stop is 399mm. The fingerboard is still noticeably wedge-shaped, though. It has had very little use and is in perfect condition: it is, after all, only secondhand. The varnish is almost unworn. That’s not a crack in the lower bouts – it seems to be a run of coffee, or maybe chocolate.

Now, I’m in a state of shock about these. I’ve never seen such perfect cellos dating from this period. Of course I’d prefer to keep them in their present state, with their flush necks and so on – they’re real museum exhibits. But I’m a dealer and I can’t afford to keep them myself. Therefore I’m going to try my best to sell them with their small bassbars, just as they are: I don’t want to be accused of cultural vandalism. But if they remain unsold I’ll have no option except to make them ready for modern usage – because then they’ll certainly find buyers very quickly.

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Tags: cello, Dodd, Fendt, Harewood, Johnson, original, Smith, transitional

Posted By admin on August 4, 2012

It seems to me that there are a great many people who are passionate about playing the cello, but who struggle with the physical size of the instrument . . . more commonly, with the left-hand stretches needed. Some, in their fifties, having played a normal-sized instrument all their lives, suddenly throw in the towel and purchase a seven-eighths size, and presumably live happily ever after.

I’ve had increasing numbers of requests for a “lady’s cello”. I dislike the expression; it reeks of sexism and is somehow patronising, as though the players of such instruments are not to be taken too seriously. But that’s ridiculous: there are many very fine players who simply do not have huge hands, and others who are just small. They shouldn’t have the handicap of feeling uncomfortable with their cellos. And yet it is astonishing how few players realise that instruments can, to quite a large extent, be tailored to their needs. A recent client found her ideal instrument, it was perfect in every way except that she found that the string stop – hence the stretches – a little too long for her, and the neck rather too thick. She was amazed to learn that both these things can easily be modified.

There are two ways to shorten the (playing) string length: the first is to move the bridge up, with the soundpost en suite. That’ll certainly do the trick, but it’s a rather brutal method. I don’t like to have the bridge moved more than, say, three millimetres on a cello. It looks wrong if the bridge is too high up the table, and anyway the acoustics of a cello are furiously complicated: compromise the bridge position at your peril.

Much better is to work on the other end of the string – the tuning-peg end. This does not need an expensive new neck: an extended nut at the top of the fingerboard is all that’s necessary: it’s cheap and effective. A centimetre extra is generally quite enough. It shortens the strings without altering the sounding body of the cello at all. It’s practically invisible yet makes a vast difference to the comfort – and therefore ability – of the player. Of course it’s true that it slightly alters the places where the player expects to find, for example, fourth position, but in practice players very quickly adapt.

Such things need to be done thoughtfully. If the string length is much shorter than standard then different tension strings may be necessary, for example.

And I know someone who found it painful to play in the high positions, because simply pressing the strings down upon the fingerboard was physically tough for her. Well, fingerboards can be raised, or bridges lowered, just a little, to make things easier. Overdo it, of course, and the strings will rattle against the fingerboard. But a combination of slightly thinning the neck, slightly moving and lowering the bridge, and having an extended nut can transform an uncomfortable brute into something that’s a pleasure to play.

Now, for those who just want a physically smaller – yet still full sized – cello, here are some examples in stock at the time of writing.

The first is an English cello by Thomas Smith of London, bearing its original label dated 1789. The body is 737 mm, which is a little less than normal, and the string stop, when it has been set up, will be 655 mm: comfy or what? It’s still in the workshop, so I can’t show images just yet. But here are two more.

This glamorous instrument is French, 19th Century, and has a body length of 732 mm (about an inch less than standard, using old measurements) and a string length of 678 mm (about half an inch shorter than standard.)

Here’s a fascinating old English cello, circa 1810. It was made rather crudely, and may have been a “church bass”, for such things were common two hundred years ago. It has been thoroughly re-worked now, however, and is perfectly suitable for modern playing. Its body is only 729 mm long (again, about an inch less than standard) but the widths are narrow too. The string length , however, is almost normal at 692 mm. At present it would therefore suit sombody small but with normal-sized hands – but this, as explained above, can so easily be altered.

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Tags: ladies, lady's, small cello

Posted By admin on January 23, 2012

Around 1980 Cyril Jacklin told me he used to take the boat-train to Paris, before the war, to visit Sartory and buy bows directly from him. Eugène Sartory died in 1946, aged seventy-five. He’d worked for Charles Peccatte and Lamy before making on his own account. Cyril was, of course, amazed at the ludicrous prices that Sartory bows were fetching at auction – good ones were then going for over a thousand pounds, whereas only five years earlier they’d been less than £500.

During my fourteen years at Sotheby’s I witnessed the inexorable rise in price of Sartory bows, culminating in my very last sale there, which was in June 1991. That was the sale which included five brand new violin bows by Sartory, and another new gold-and-tortoiseshell bow by Émile Français. How so? Well, I don’t think I’m betraying any secrets now if I state that the owners of these bows also possessed a pretty-much unknown, and very fresh, violin by Stradivari, and these bows were just part of their investment. They had never been used and, when I first saw them, were still in the maker’s original box. Astonishing.

The Stradivari, incidentally, was unquestionably genuine and had a certificate from the aforementioned Émile Français. Despite quoting an eye-wateringly high, world-record price for the violin, the owners were wise and kept it as an investment. But they were pleased with my estimates for the bows, which by now was over £4,000 each, and they duly arrived in London. There is a superb photograph of five new Sartory bows in the catalogue. One of them, a gold-mounted “Exhibition” violin bow, sold for £15,950. This is over twenty years ago, remember.

Why do I mention it now? Because I’ve just got an excellent viola bow by Sartory for sale. Viola bows are pretty rare. Because I keep records of this sort of thing I know that, between 1977 and 1991, Sotheby’s had 125 violin bows, 41 cello bows and only 11 viola bows by Sartory. This is a nice straightforward example, stamped in the right place and under the lapping as well, and with a completely un-interfered-with head. It weighs 72 grams.

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Posted By admin on November 22, 2011

I went to a performance at the English National Opera last weekend. Above the safety curtain, and part of the permanent structure of the place, is a large sign which says COLISEVM. And it set me to thinking about the use of V instead of U.

Stradivari, famously, did it the opposite way round: the vast majority of his labels say Stradiuarius; only after 1730 do they use a “v” instead of a “u”. And the Hills noted that there are some genuine labels which spell the Christian name Antonins instead of Antonius. This is a further complication, the use of the letter “n” instead of “u”. The Hills explained this by suggesting that, with old-fashioned moveable type, the type-setter had simply got the letter upside-down.

The reason I mention it now is because I have a violin in stock made by Carlo Taneggia, for so he is recorded by Carlo Chiesa, and Chiesa is a very considerable scholar. However I know of a Milanese violin made in 1731 in absolutely original state, still with its original stained fruitwood fingerboard, tailpiece and three of its pegs. I found it for Sotheby’s in 1990, and it was Lot 197 of their sale that year. The label inside is unquestionably genuine, and reads Carolus Antonius Tauegia fecit in Via Lata Mediolani Anno 1731. That’s TAUEGIA. I’m not fussed about whether he uses the letter “g” once or twice, by the way – Shakespeare spelt his name several different ways, and Francesco Rugeri also used different spellings. But the u/v thing is interesting. I had thought that the very clear “u” in the label mentioned was actually a “v”, and I catalogued the violin as by Tavegia. I suppose Chiesa, who has more information than I, reckons it’s an “n”.

Tavegia/Taneggia was a primarily a bucket maker, resident in Contrada Larga (the violin-maker’s street) in Milan. According to Chiesa he lived there all his life, so Via Lata in 1731 really is new information.

It shouldn’t really matter, for Taneggia was definitely not a gifted maker. Neither were any of the Testore family, though. The snag is that they sound good, and, being Italian and of a certain age, are today very expensive. My violin has been dendrochronologically tested, and the wood dates from around 1710. That fits nicely with Tavegia’s dates of 1681 – c1745. It is undergoing restoration as I write this, so I don’t know how it will turn out or how much I’m going to ask for it at this stage.

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Tags: Milanese, Taneggia, Tanegia, Tavegia, Testore, Violin

Posted By admin on October 18, 2011

Somebody recently asked me for a ⁵/8 size violin – which I don’t possess – and it set me to thinking about the sizeist bullying that many players are subject to. There really shouldn’t be any hard and fast rules about sizes. Play what’s comfortable and you’ll play better. I know of a professional violinist in a major orchestra who uses a viola bow – he says he gets a more powerful tone as a result. And I know of the opposite, a viola player who uses a violin bow – she says she finds it less tiring. Who am I to disagree? Nobody notices unless it’s pointed out to them.

So this ⁵/8 size violin . . . no, a ½ size or a ¾ size wouldn’t do: it had to be exactly right for the child. And yet young piano players don’t get half-size or whatever pianos to learn on; they just have to get on with it. If they can’t reach, well, they play something that doesn’t demand such big hands. It used to be the same for violinists, too, for most of the 18th and 19th century virtuosi learnt their craft on full-sized violins. Child’s violins are largely an invention of the early 20th Century – this is quite different from the small-sized violin called the violino piccolo used by Bach, for example in the first Brandenberg concerto.

With violas the problem continues into adulthood. There’s a school of thought which says you can’t be serious about playing the viola unless you have an instrument of at least 16 in. (or 40cm.) body length. And yet I’ve sold three excellent small English violas, by Forster, Banks and Kennedy, to satisfied but surprised clients. All of them shared the common difficulty of finding some of the left-hand stretches uncomfortable, and all wanted a small instrument that sounded good. Their surprise stemmed from the fact that the instruments sounded so good.

Violas are, by their very nature, compromise instruments. In the seventeenth century there were two types of different sizes; altos (about 15 in.) and tenors (perhaps 17in.): today’s 16in instrument lies somewhere between the two.

Here are a few commonsense facts about small violas.

1) They are normally more powerful than larger instruments. Think. Small violins, like those by Guarneri, tend to be even more powerful than normal-sized ones by Stradivari. Violins are just as loud as cellos, and louder than double basses. Acoustic volume is not dependent upon physical volume. A tiny shepherd’s shawm, with a similar reed to that of an oboe or a bassoon, is far louder than either of these.

2) This is still true for the lowest string, the C string. All else being equal, the C string of a small viola is, actually, louder than that of a large viola. That’s the big surprise.

3) Of course a smaller viola will sound less like a cello than a bigger one. That’s the inevitable consequence. But it’ll still sound different from a violin, and be able to play the viola repertoire.

Viola by Fendt

Now I’ve got a yet another small English viola. It’s by Bernhard Simon Fendt, made between 1798 and 1809. Its body is 15 ³/16 in. (385mm.) long, with a string length of 13 ⁷/8 in. (351mm.). It has, in common with most instruments made by Fendt, a one-piece table with wide, not particularly straight grain on the bass side. It’s in excellent condition, and still retains a one-piece bottom rib. It’s going to sound wonderful.

It was made while he was working for Thomas Dodd, and has a huge original label inside:

Actually the label’s not like this: it’s impossible to photograph and this is the best I could do. The real label has a large image of a bass with its bow in the middle.

Purely coincidentally, just now I have a violin and a cello by B.S. Fendt for sale as well.

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Tags: Dodd, Fendt, viola sizes

Posted By admin on September 12, 2011

Little is known about the Tyrolese maker, Mathias Alban of Bozen. That’s Tyrolese, not Italian. It is not known who taught him – there have been several guesses – but sometimes his varnish suggests that he might have been trained in Italy.

Before World War I, the Italian town of Bolzano was part of the Austro-Hungarian county of Tyrol. It was called Bozen. The population spoke German. Bozen did not become Italian until 1919, when it was annexed by Italy at the end of the first World War. At the time of its annexation Bozen had a population of 30,000 German-speaking people.

In the 1920s the city, along with the rest of the province, was subjected to an intensive Italianization programme under orders from the fascist government of Benito Mussolini. The German language was banished from public service, German teaching was officially forbidden and German newspapers were censored with the exception of the fascist Alpenzeitung. The regime massively favoured immigration from other Italian regions. The aim was to outnumber the local German-speaking population by tripling the population with Italian-speaking immigrants drawn from the old provinces.

Mathias Alban was born on the 28th March 1621 in St. Nikolaus in Kaltern, close to Bozen. Both places were part of the Holy Roman Empire at the time, for this pre-dates the formation of Austro-Hungary, which took place in 1867. He died on the 7th February 1712, according to most authorities, in Bozen – still in Austria. That’s a very long life, and it used to be thought that there were two makers of the same name, father and son. George Hart, writing in 1875 states that the father’s work “is somewhat like Stainer’s, but higher and heavier in construction.” He then goes on to say that the son “has shown but faint marks of having been tutored by his parent in the art of violin-making.”

He is considered (in older textbooks) to be second only to Stainer in importance in the Tyrolese school of lutherie. Fridolin Hamma, as recently as 1948 , included Mathias Alban in his book on German violin makers.

Italian violins, though, are far easier to sell, and far more expensive than Tyrolese examples. Since the early 19th Century, therefore, Alban’s original labels have been removed and fake labels, in Latin, have been inserted. By 1850 most books about violins refer to him as “Matthias Albani” – a rather curious mixture of Germanic given name and Italian surname. And since 1919 frankly Italian labels have been put in. This accounts for the astonishing variety of labels illustrated in the textbooks – at least a dozen different examples are illustrated in the common dictionaries of violin makers, and I found nine more in old auction catalogues. All these labels are completely different – some are printed, some are written in ink. Those that are printed have completely different fonts. Those that are written have completely different handwriting. They’re all fake, of course. Genuine labels from this maker might well have been in German, in common with the labels of most other contemporary German-speaking makers, and less likely to have been in Latin.

I can remember selling a violin which was considered to be by this maker at auction, and which was described as Tyrolese. It had a label inside: Matthias Alban, geigenmacher in Bozen. I saw it again a few months after the sale, now described as an Italian violin, and with a label which read Matteo Albani fece in Bolzano. Now that’s just silly.

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Tags: Alban, Albani, German, Italian, labels, Tyrolese

Posted By admin on August 16, 2011

This is a high-tech treat.

What you’re looking at is a CT scan of a violin by Nicolo Gagliano, circa 1750. I sold it recently, but not before it had been given the most careful condition report imaginable. There was a little squiggly mark in the lower back, and internally there was a large patch covering roughly half the lower bouts, going from side to side. The worry was whether it was woodworm damage. I thought that it probably was, but still nothing to worry about.

Woodworm dislike the light, and tend to burrow within the thickness of the back (only occasionally the front: I suppose maple tastes better). So the characteristic little hole that is seen usually means that the wood is hollow underneath, sometimes for several inches up and down the grain. But here the burrow, if that’s what it was, was across the grain and about half an inch of it was visible. Now, if the woodworm had attacked the wood before it was fashioned into a violin back, that’s understandable: once inside a nice thick chunk of wood the worm can turn any which way, and so the finished instrument might have random, though seldom significant, worm damage.

By the way, it is not too uncommon for old-master makers to use wormy wood – Stradivari did, in 1707. I’ve seen three different Strads of this date, all of which used glamorous, though damaged, wood. Stradivari’s original repairs, underneath the varnish, are clearly visible.

Back to the Gagliano. First it was radiographed (X-rayed), which seems positively old-hat these days. It showed nothing significant.

Have another look at the CT scan. It starts with the bottom block and slides up, past the soundholes and soundpost; the corner blocks are evident, then, above, the fingerboard suddenly appears. Be patient as it passes up the neck, because the pegbox and the pegs show very well. Look at the detail: the holes for the strings are clearly visible within the shafts of the pegs . . . and that’s what we wanted, really, because these holes are much the same size as a woodworm run, and, as you can see, there aren’t any runs in the back of the violin. If you look carefully you can just make out the patch I mentioned, halfway up the lower bouts. Surprisingly, it’s not visible at all in the X-ray image.

You have to have friends in pretty high places to do this: the equipment costs the thick end of a million and the expertise to use it isn’t cheap either. So therefore huge thanks to Highcroft Veterinary Hospital and to Nic Hayward from Veterinary Diagnostics for doing it as a favour.

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Tags: computerised tomography, ct scan, Nicolo Gagliano, scanning, violin Gagliano

Posted By admin on July 5, 2011

Here are a few quirky things.

The first is a poster for one of Paganini’s concerts in London. It’s fascinating on various levels. Paganini was a superstar by 1832, and his concerts were invariably sold out. Such was his skill that it was said he was in league with the devil – and some of the more gullible even claimed to have smelt sulphur during his performances. Look how the concerts were mixed up – a Mozart sinfonia, a Weber overture and plenty of singing as well as regular fireworks by Paganini. One of his sets is to be played on one string only.

This particular poster is framed, and stuck on the back is a nice letter from Arthur Hill (of W.E. Hill & Sons) dated 3rd May, 1935. I bought this poster in a general auction, and it was accompanied by a beautiful trade card from John Betts, the Real Musical Instrument Maker. This latter dates from circa 1800.

Now here are some beautiful oak violin cases.

Heavy and easily scratched – impractical, of course, and I seem to accumulate them faster than I can sell them. Old cases can be very interesting, though – I have one made for Charles Brugère, with his name nicely engraved in italic on the lock, for example, and another sold by Auguste Sebastien Philippe Bernardel. Mahogany cases (again, I have too many) tend to be older, but one in particular interests me, because it certainly dates from 1813.

This I know because it exactly fits the outline of the 15 3/16in. viola by Thomas Kennedy that I bought recently. I was delighted that it came in its original case. Incidentally, the viola is clearly inscribed on the inside of both the front and the back: Thos. Kennedy, Maker, 16, Wellington Street, Middlesex Hospital, London, 1813. The address is interesting, for at that date Kennedy was working at 16, Nassau Street, Middlesex Hospital. I conjecture that the name was briefly changed to that of the hero of the day – Wellington’s spectacular victories in Spain date from 1810 (Bucasso), 1812 (Salamanca) and two in 1813 (Vitoria and Nivelle).

Oh, look at this. I’ve often seen tiny miniature model violins, but never this good.

The miniature brass mute and an ordinary full sized one. I haven’t cheated; that’s not a viola mute.

The case is a perfect copy, the bow tightens up as it should, the pegs turn, there’s a soundpost and a bassbar inside . . . even a miniature box of rosin and a tiny violin mute, all to scale. Unbelievably, the purfling is inlaid – though one needs a powerful lens to see it.

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Tags: Betts, cases, Kennedy, miniature, Paganini

Posted By admin on May 17, 2011

This violin was catalogued in a specialised violin auction (Gardiner Houlgate, March 2011) as “Late 19th Century . . . ” with no further attempt to narrow down the attribution. It was estimated at £100/150 and was in a very neglected state. I was pleased to get it for £448.40p.

It ’s much earlier than that. There’s a good graft joining the new neck to the pegbox, and every detail screams mid 18th Century. The utterly extraordinary soundholes are unforgettable, which is why I remembered the same ones in Millant’s book about Vuillaume – plate 3 shows the table of a violin by the famous Jean-Baptiste’s great-grandfather – Claude Francois Vuillaume. There were apparently no less than four members of the family called Claude Francois during several generations. The one in question, the second of that name, was working between 1730 and 1770.

Here’s how it looked when I got it home – absolutely filthy. This is just a snapshot – but I’ve bought a new camera and I’ll do a far better image when it has been restored.

Now, I remember having doubts about Millant’s plate 3. The violin shown there has a Vuillaume brand, but is such an exaggerated Stainer-type thing that I wondered if it might not be from Mittenwald, say, and merely have a fake brand? But Millant states that these violins are invariably oversized – which would be unusual for Bavaria, and more normal for Mirecourt at this time.

I never expected to see one, but in in the spring of 1987 one turned up at Sotheby’s, and it became Lot 157 in our sale of the 30th April. In those days we only illustrated the backs of the less-expensive instruments, but even so one can recognise the dark brown varnish (again, like Bavaria) and the very short corners. Also that one was identically oversized, like my one (both 36.3 cm.), and that one had the same curiously-positioned very large pins in the back – to the right of the end-pin and to the left of the button, both being well inboard of the purfling. In the workshop, with the table off, we noticed that the linings extend both over and into the corner blocks, and that the centre bout ribs are butted up against the top and bottom ribs, giving the impression of pushing the corners out, rather than being mitred together at the corners. All this is very French. Millant must have been correct.

Millant’s example only shows the table, but the one in the 1987 sale shows the whole back, including the scroll. Mine, though, has a carefully carved animal’s head. God knows what it’s supposed to be – in could be a lion, but Gardiner Houlgate had it as a griffin. (A griffin should have a bird’s beak, though: this doesn’t. Forgive the pedantry.) Whatever, it isn’t quite the same as the usual Bavarian carving – it’s rather better. Also this example has curious slab-cut wood for the back and ribs. I suppose one could call it bird’s-eye maple, but in truth it hasn’t the usual small knots that one expects – rather it’s burr maple, and maybe from the root. The single piece isn’t big enough for the whole back, and the lower bouts have wings on both sides, and the upper treble bout also has an extra slice. All wings are original, and the maker’s studs joining the pieces are visible through the soundholes.

At first I though to have it restored in baroque condition, then I thought to leave it alone – after all, the (modern) neck is perfectly sound . . . but now I’ve decided to get it back into its original state, after all. It’s so unusual and odd – it’d be a shame to try to make it more conventional.

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Tags: ancestor, griffin, Millant, Violin