Violin scholar Michael Basing had already established most of the provenance for the legendary Stradivari so why was its billionaire owner keeping him captive, and could the instrument unlock a secret of his own?

At the height of the Terror Armand Bezaint had a portrait made of his two most prized possessions; his young mistress, the daughter of a nobleman he had sent to the Guillotine and the violin with which she had hoped to buy her father’s pardon. Vanity has its price however and six months later Bezaint himself knelt for the executioner. The painting had been produced at his trial as evidence of his corruption, but of the girl and the violin there was no trace.

Were it not for the painting Bezaint’s name would only merit a gruesome footnote in the history of that brutal time. It is of no great artistic value, but then Bezaint intended it as a trophy and had instructed the artist to make it close to life on pain of death. The girl shows a certain fragile melancholy in the downward tilt of her head and no more. It is the violin that has kept the piece in the public’s eye.

Transcripts of the trial state that the instrument was made in Cremona by Antonio Stradivari and to experts the violin pictured had a deep fascination. If rendered correctly to scale — and they assumed so from the artist’s escaping execution — then its small size dated it to the early years of Stradivari’s career. However, the highly figured wood and deep red varnish are those of his prime, decades later. Known as the Magdalene and presumed lost to the Paris mob it presented an enigma for which there seemed no solution.

Michael Basing’s association with the Stradivarius had begun as a child when his brilliance as a violinist had earned him the loan of one from a patron. Like many prodigies however that early promise had faded and while still a talented player he was better known as a scholar. Still in his twenties he had made a name for himself in period performance with his string quartet, and for a series of groundbreaking publications on Stradivari.

While he now owned a fine Steiner instrument Michael had never forgotten his childhood Stradivarius, and hoped once more for a wealthy patron’s kindness; one who was prepared to restore the violin to its original construction (most had been extensively modified to suit the nineteenth century’s tastes). With this in mind he had travelled to Switzerland to meet a potential patron, the notoriously reclusive billionaire Robert Dicken.

The house while large had an austere external appearance an effect continued inside by markedly minimalist décor. White predominated and most fixtures were glass giving a distinctly clinical ambience to every room. Michael’s footsteps echoed loudly as he was led to his interview with Dicken, while those of the well dressed young man who escorted him were remarkably silent. Rubber soles he thought obviously otherwise the cavernous rooms would ring with echoes all day and night.

Dicken’s study had none of the accoutrements you would associate with the name. It was white and quite empty bar for a glass-topped desk, and two chairs in one of which the old man sat rigidly, as if the chair’s steel tube construction extended into his spine.

Dicken invited him to take a seat in a voice barely above a hoarse whisper, and there was something about the way he said ‘Michael’, an insinuating, intrusive familiarity, that forced Michael to suppress an involuntary shudder.

‘I have a proposition for you Michael’ again he almost shuddered, ‘That I believe you will find attractive - possibly irresistible’, Dicken paused, ‘Martin you can come in now’.

Another young man entered carrying a glass case which he set carefully on the desktop. Michael examined the contents as best he could while the secretary’s body obscured his view. It was a violin, obviously of some vintage but remarkably well preserved.

‘No it can’t be!’ he cried when the whole became visible.

‘Oh but it is’ Dicken said, a fragile smile playing over his lips, ‘Would you care to examine it?’. His secretary opened the case, passing the violin to Michael who let it rest in his hands judging its balance and the texture of its woods while he looked for the obvious touches of the faker. They were not present and on the surface it seemed indeed the Magdalene as if plucked straight from the canvas hanging in the Louvre.

A small cough was necessary to clear his throat, ‘You have provenance?’

‘I believe so’ Dicken said ‘that’s why I brought you here. I have many documents in support of my claim, but only you have the knowledge to prove their veracity’

Michael demurred, there were many with far greater expertise than his.

‘But can they play like you?’ it was a rhetorical question, he knew they could not.

‘Why should that be an issue?’ Michael asked barely able to take his eyes from the violin.

‘Because I know your price’ an unpleasant note had re-entered Dicken’s voice ‘Prove this is the Magdalene and it will be yours to use’. He folded his hands on the desk an expression close to triumph forming.

Michael was struck dumb. This would make his career as an academic and a performer even if the violin proved a forgery. Others had already founded their reputations on successfully debunking Magdalene pretenders.

‘How quickly can the papers be shipped to London?’

‘That will not be possible’ Dicken said ‘At this stage I demand total secrecy. If the violin should prove a forgery I would not want my name attached to it. You will work on the provenance here in this house’.

‘But there are certain tests, x-rays…’ Michael started.

‘Those can be carried out later when our position is more certain’ interrupted Dicken his tone becoming firmer ‘let Martin show you the rooms we have set aside for you to work and live in’.

Michael began almost immediately. Dicken had provided a suite in an annexe largely set apart from the main house so there were few distractions beyond the arrival of meals and occasional visits from the old man. He had been denied a telephone or any means of contacting the outside world adding to his eagerness to complete the job.

When he did stop it was only to play the Magdalene. Its tone was as he expected quite sweet like the Amati violins it so closely resembled, but tempered with the decades of craft that Stradivari had amassed between its model and its construction. Largely unplayed it did not suffer from the effects of centuries’ use as so many Strads do. From the first few days Michael lost his heart to the Magdalene and was sure that the provenance would hold without laboratory testing.

Whoever had assembled the supporting documentation for Dicken had done a thorough job. There was no explanation why Stradivari had made such an archaic piece, or to whom it was originally sold. That would remain a source of continued speculation for years to come — Michael already had his theory.

Its first recorded owner - a member of the French de Breos family - had purchased it from a Milanese church in the eighteenth century. It had passed to his ill-fated grandson, and then to Bezaint. From his death there were no records until it appeared in the will of a Victor Delvigne who had taken in Augustine de Breos, Bezaint’s mistress. It had remained in their possession until 1943 when confiscated by occupying forces it was removed to Germany. There the trail ended with no hint of how Dicken had acquired the violin.

Michael passed his findings to Dicken via his secretary with a request for the additional information that would allow him to complete the provenance. The work had taken a little under two weeks, and while requiring the assistance of Martin (who spoke excellent French), it was not apparent why Michael had been essential; but for missing last section the provenance had been fairly straightforward. Dicken sent a note back with his reply: the missing documents were with his lawyers who were checking the legal status of Dicken’s purchase, and Michael would be obliged to wait until that had been completed.

Waiting for the lawyers proved interminable, and during the ensuing weeks Michael turned more and more to the Magdalene for comfort. Alone in his annexe he quickly exhausted his repertoire of solo pieces he knew by heart but Dicken provided him with any score he requested. Gradually Michael rediscovered a passion for playing he had not known since puberty.

His mind full of music Michael was slow to notice the changes occurring in his body. At first he attributed his sore nipples to friction caused by bowing. When they began to swell he put it down to lack of exercise, he was gaining weight in several places. More alarmingly he had begun to lose body hair, and hardly needed to shave but then his situation and its stresses might be the cause.

He would often awake feeling like he had been asleep for much longer than the clock told him. Cut off as he was from all forms of communication with the outside world he only had a vague idea of the date. When Dicken’s staff brought his meals they were even evasive about the day of the week. Someone however allowed this discipline to lapse and a score he had requested arrived in its packaging with a postal date that showed — to his amazement — that he had been a virtual prisoner for more than six months.

When his next meal was brought Michael refused to eat demanding an interview with Dicken. He was denied, and although he continued to fast he did not appear to be hungry. It occurred to him that they might be feeding him somehow while he was unconscious so he began an attempt to stay awake that proved futile. Sleep always came. Still he continued to demand an interview with Dicken.

It was several weeks later that his demand was met. By that time he had stopped shaving all together, he had pronounced breasts and his penis seemed to have shrunk, it certainly no longer had an erectile function. The clothes he had brought with him had disappeared replaced when laundered by new nondescript items that accommodated the changes.

Michael had retreated into music even more and was slightly resentful when two staff led him from his rooms to Dicken’s study, leaving the Magdalene behind. It had been so long since he had had more than the most cursory conversation that he struggled to frame the question he most wanted to ask.

‘Why are you doing this to me?’ he haltingly asked.

Dicken gave him a cold smile. ‘You are aware of the painting Bezaint’s Prize of course’

‘Of course’ Michael said ‘But I know it as Bezaint’s Folly’. What was the old man trying to say?

‘The French would not sell it to me, the last piece in the Magdalene’s provenance’ he said deliberately ‘therefore I decided to recreate it’. Michael could not make sense of what his words. Recreate a painting? He hardly noticed that Dicken was still speaking ‘…it hasn’t occurred to you yet that you are a close physical match for Augustine de Breos?’

The horror of Dicken’s words took a few seconds to penetrate Michael’s mental fog. ‘You mean to turn me into’ he paused it was too fantastic to fully comprehend ‘me, Augustine de Breos?’

‘Yes’ Dicken said revelling in Michael’s comprehension ‘You’ll need some surgery but you will become her living replica. My Augustine to play my Magdalene’

‘You can’t!’ Michael cried ‘I won’t do it’

‘You will’ Dicken said without emotion ‘remember I can take away something you love more. I think we’re finished here’

From then on Michael’s transformation was overt. He was told when he was to be taken, and what would be done to him. He had minor surgical changes to his face, his hairline was altered, his vocal chords shortened and small implants added to his breasts. He continued his love affair with the Magdalene his only means, he told himself, of dealing with the pain he felt inside, and out. Larger breasts required an adjustment to his bowing technique that occupied him for several weeks, taking his mind from the inevitable final surgery.

A nurse had been added to the staff to help him care for the vagina. Michael could not yet think of it as his, though his hold on a male identity was eroded a little more each day. After the surgery he was not returned to his annexe but to a new set of rooms decorated, in stark contrast to the rest of the house, according to eighteenth century fashion. They dressed him in Augustine’s clothes, and no one ever mentioned Michael. Martin, Dicken’s secretary, now became his tutor in all things always addressing him as ‘Augustine’.

Over the weeks that followed the nurse disappeared along with most of the staff, and the last shred of Michael. Martin alone remained a constant companion who helped her dress in the morning, undress at night, carried for her and filled the time when there was no music; the two of them always conversing in French.

The secretary may have served a monster but he was a cultured man who noticed, even before Augustine, a change to her playing beyond mere technique. There was a gloss, a new brilliance that transformed even the most formal classical piece. Sometimes it appeared as an added sadness, more often a skipping ecstasy that seemed to sing through her. The effect was breathtaking, and all the more tragic.

‘Augustine wake up’ Martin shook her shoulder.

‘Is it morning already?’ she said tumbling through the fine silk bedclothes.

‘No, your Master calls’. Augustine began to dress but Martin stopped her ‘He wishes you naked, but bring your violin’. The last words were spoken to the wall he could not bear to look at her.

Together they padded to Dicken’s bedroom Martin in his rubber soles, her barefoot. Augustine was shaking though it was not cold, she knew what lay ahead and he had found no way to prepare her for it. She paused at the doorway, looked at the violin in her hands and seemed to collect herself. The door opened to her soft knock and Dicken marshalled her within, leaving Martin in the corridor.

Dicken sat on the bed his face alight with pleasure. ‘Play for me child’ he ordered and Augustine obeyed. Outside the door Martin listened to the halting performance and hung his head.

‘Brava!’ Dicken cried, rising to lead Augustine to his bed. He did not permit her to enter it but bent her over the side so that her hands, still clutching the Magdalene, spread out over the mattress. A pause, a moment’s relish of his creation and he brutally entered her. The rhythm of the penetrations was carried by her stifled cries to the waiting Martin who prayed for them to end.

Augustine would not hold his hand as they returned to her room, instead she hugged the violin and bow to her naked breast. Martin had to prise them from her hands as he put her back to bed, and tenderly stroked her cheek until her sobs gave way to sleep.

In the morning she greeted him as she always did without a hint of the night’s betrayal. Martin helped her dress carefully avoiding the bruises Dicken had left. They breakfasted together then Augustine turned to her music. A cloud seemed to pass over her during the first few bars but only fleetingly as she gave herself to the major key.

Later he held her hands in his and said ‘He will call for you again tonight’

‘I know’ Augustine said ‘but it is nothing compared to all this’ glancing at her violin and the sheet music scattered over the floor ‘You can’t own anything you don’t really understand’.

Dicken called for her every night although his body could not always match his desires. Some nights he would merely ask her to play for him; on others he would beat her with the bow or submit to whatever fresh degradation he devised. By day he left her alone, ignorant of the sublime heights her playing now reached.

‘You’re early’ Augustine said ‘What’s that bow you’re carrying for? Mine’s fine’. She was already naked, and kneeling among sheets of music. Martin knelt in front of her.

‘Augustine’ he said ‘I have something I’ve been waiting to tell you, something very important. My real name is Martin Delvigne, my family has been searching for the Magdalene for sixty years and has followed it across continents, my father gave his life for it.’

‘You mean to steal it?’ she asked
‘Retrieve it’ he corrected ‘When we discovered Dicken was buying up the documentation required for a provenance we knew that he had the Magdalene. I worked my way into his organisation until I was closer to him than anyone’

‘Why didn’t you do anything?’ Augustine slapped his face ‘How could you let him do this to me?’

‘I couldn’t simply take it a man with Dicken’s power would have tracked me down and destroyed my whole family. His obsession with you has allowed me to replace his most trusted aides without his noticing. Tonight we will take back the Magdalene but Augustine we must kill him first.

‘I thought you might like the pleasure. You go into his room naked so he will suspect nothing. This bow’ he picked up the one he had carried in ‘has a wire garrotte inset along its length’. He showed her how it could be removed and how to use it.

‘What about the other staff?’ she asked

‘Already gone’ Martin said ‘There is nothing to stop us’

Augustine was shaking like she had on the first night as they walked to Dicken’s bedroom. ‘I don’t think I can do it’ she said.

‘Michael’ Martin said ‘If there is anything left of you this man, this monster must be killed’

‘He must’ she said ‘but there is nothing left of Michael to answer’

Dicken was lying on the bed his drug fuelled penis standing upright from his withered body. Augustine left a wave of revulsion wash over her. She knew what he expected and climbed on the bed. This was one of his favourites. She lowered herself down on him, tucked the violin under her chin and played Tartini's 'Devil's Sonata' fucked him. His eyes closed as Augustine rocked faster, his head rising from the pillow. This was her chance she removed the garrotte slipping it around his neck. Dicken wide-eyed began to struggle, wasting his last breaths on curses.

‘It’s done’ she said ‘What do we do now?’ She felt empty there was a corpse in the other room, one whose last ejaculate was slowly running down her leg.

Martin had long prepared for this day. There were modern clothes for Augustine, a car and passports. By morning they had passed over the frontier with France.

‘What happens to me?’ she asked him ‘What happens to the Magdalene?’

‘’I think we should stop calling it that’ Martin said ‘Augustine was no whore she was engaged to a Hillaire Delvigne although her family disapproved. The violin she gave for her father, her body she gave for Hillaire; though it did not save them from Bezaint. That’s why we took her in and kept the violin in their memory

‘It’s time that it was returned to the world and it is yours to use. We cannot undo all Dicken has done to you, but we will help you whatever life you choose’

Augustine was silent. Michael was gone and she was not sure that he had been there in the first place. A child driven by the desires of others might not understand desires that came from within. What they now called Augustine she realised had always been there. She stared ahead at the road and wondered what lay around the next bend.

Michael Basing’s return as Augustine caused something of a stir. She would not be drawn on where she had been, but slipped back into her life as best she could. Three months later the Delvignes asked her to authenticate a Stradivarius and the Magdalene was revealed to the world. In her hands that name would indeed be forgotten and experts began to refer to the Augustine.

The changes to her playing Martin had noticed translated to the concert stage, and she became one of the world's foremost chamber soloists. Particularly admired were her ferocious performances of Tartini’s ‘Devil’s Sonata’. Audiences would often joke that her disappearance masked some Faustian pact they would never know that when she played it she was reliving the last desperate seconds of Robert Dicken’s life.