When you step into the world of provenance research, you quickly learn that unravelling the history of an object can feel like detective work. The search for names, dates, and stories can lead down twisting paths—each one potentially a rabbit hole, rich with historical detail but devoid of concrete answers. It’s a delicate balance between following genuine leads and avoiding the abyss of endless research. This is particularly true when tracing the ownership of something as precious as a Stradivari cello. In one such case, we were tracking down the mysterious origins of the Harrell, du Pré Strad cello.
Our journey started with a fragment of a note found in the Hill archives:
“This cello was brought to us in 1950 by a refugee from Vienna and was thought to be an Amati, its previous history shrouded in mystery. We finally purchased it for £800. Rembert Wurlitzer and Sacconi carefully examined this instrument and fully agreed that it was the work of A.S.”
The mention of a ‘refugee from Vienna’ led us to a ledger entry from 1953, stating that the cello had been purchased from someone named Hofmansthal, residing at 73 Carlton Hill NW8 London. We had a name and an address, but little else to go on.
Intrigued, John Dilworth reached out to the City of Westminster Archives Centre to dig further. In his inquiry, John requested any information on a Mr. F.V. Hofmansthal, who appeared to have sold the cello. He pointed out that the name might actually be von Hofmannstahl, a name more commonly associated with a prominent Austrian family known for its cultural and literary achievements.
The search took on a sense of urgency when we realised how rare the Hofmannsthal name was in London. We broadened our search, reaching out to the Hofmannsthal Foundation. Could this enigmatic seller be connected to the famous family of Hugo von Hofmannsthal, the renowned Austrian poet and playwright?
Our first response from the foundation only deepened the mystery. Could it be Raimund von Hofmannsthal, the son of Hugo, who sold the cello? The suggestion, while plausible, was met with scepticism by Raimund’s son, Octavian von Hofmannsthal, who had no knowledge of any cello sale within his family.
Despite the growing sense of anticipation, we had hit a wall. That is until we received a reply from Tim Reid, an employee at the Westminster Archives who had been combing through the electoral roll from 1953 and struck gold. Listed at the same Carlton Hill address was not a man, but a woman—Frieda Hofmannsthal.
The name Frieda von Hofmannsthal was a breakthrough, but it opened a new line of questions. Who was she, and what was her connection to the cello?
The Hofmannsthal Foundation confirmed our hunch: Frieda Marguerite von Hofmannsthal, born Frieda Gallia in 1892 in Troppau, Schlesien, was distantly related to the famous literary family. Her story, however, was marked by war, displacement, and survival. After marrying Richard Hofmann von Hofmannsthal in 1914, she lived through both world wars, remarried after Richard’s death, and eventually became a British citizen in 1952 after fleeing from Vienna during the Nazi occupation.
As Frieda's life came into focus, more questions surfaced. Why had she reverted to using the Hofmannsthal name after marrying Karl Diamant? How had the cello come into her possession? Could it have belonged to her first husband, Richard, or perhaps her second husband, Karl? We uncovered more of her life’s puzzle, but the cello’s earlier history remained elusive.
After a month of research, it became clear that we might never fully trace the cello’s provenance through Frieda’s lineage. As much as we wanted to continue digging, we had other volumes of research waiting to be completed.
And yet, the mystery of Frieda still lingers in my mind. Her story, interwoven with the dark threads of war and exile, remains a haunting footnote in the history of this remarkable Stradivari cello. Sometimes in research, you must accept when it’s time to close the case—but there’s always the chance of reopening it. For now, Frieda’s story is where our search for the Harrell, du Pré cello rests, waiting for the day when we might follow those tantalising clues just a little further.
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