In a search after an elucidation of this so–called lost art, three facts
immediately present themselves: first, this varnish was employed by the
very earliest of the Italian makers as well as the later; second, its
use was common only in Italy; third, it ceased to be applied to violins
after A. D. 1750–1760.
In texture this varnish is extremely supple; it will yield to pressure,
but breaks or scales off under a sudden blow. It is entirely
transparent, and of all shades of brown, red, and yellow. The vehicle in
which the gums and colors are dissolved is an oil. Applied to a violin,
it compacts the tone together, without rendering it shrill or harsh, and
gives additional beauty to the wood. That its ingredients were
indigenous to the Italian soil is out of the question. It is well known
that much of the maple used by the violin–makers of that day came from
Turkey. Imported to Venice, it was employed in the construction of oars,
etc. The extremely curly pieces, owing to their liability to fracture
under rough usage, were consequently rejected, to be appropriated by the
violin–makers. Venice and Genoa held great command over the entire
Eastern trade, and undoubtedly through these ports came the various gums
and coloring substances of which this varnish was made.
Turning to other countries of Europe—Germany, France, and England—and
examining the productions of their most celebrated violin–makers
contemporaneous with the Cremonese school, scarcely a trace of the
Italian varnish is to be met with. In German instruments, the varnish is
distinguished by extreme hardness, a glassy lustre, and an absence of
all delicate shades of color. The vehicle or menstruum, moreover, is
alcohol. In France, the coloring was sometimes good, but in general too
pronounced. The varnish of the old English makers lacked transparency.
In both these countries the vehicle was oil, but the varnish in quality
and texture differed essentially from the Italian.
Three questions occur: first, was this manufacture a secret? second, how
was this secret lost? third, are there any writings or clues for perusal
and examination? Answers to these questions should clear up the mystery
of this so–called lost art.
To begin, then, with the first question, was the manufacture of this
varnish a secret? There is no reasonable doubt that it was, but only in
a certain way. For a period of about two hundred years, from the time of
Gaspar da Salo to that of the Bergonzi, the varnish was common to every
Italian violin–maker. Cremona had no monopoly, for the knowledge and use
of it extended to Padua, Venice, Rome, and Naples. It is impossible,
therefore, during this long time to say that the selection of
ingredients or the methods of preparation employed in the manufacture of
this substance, so well known and widely used, were in any sense a
secret. But a little later quite a change is observable. From a hundred
Italian instruments of this later date, only a notable few can be
selected as possessing the true varnish; and that this marked
characteristic in the case of these few is not the result of mere chance
is apparent from the fact that the artists who made them have
consistently applied it to all their productions. From about 1745 to
about 1760, then, the manufacture of this varnish may be properly called
a secret, as being confined to a chosen few.
A bitter rivalry had always existed between the Neapolitan, Venetian,
and Cremonese schools. Alessandro Gagliano, probably a pupil of
Stradivarius, had established himself at Naples. Dominico Montagnana and
Sanctus Seraphino were the masters of the art in Venice. The Cremonese
makers seem to have relied on their sonorous, well selected wood, their
established principles of construction, and their ancient reputation;
the Venetian, on the beauty of their wood, and careful finish; and the
Neapolitan, on their exceedingly low price.
As a knowledge of the varnish became at last confined to a few,
instances are not wanting of the persecution of such by their less
fortunate fellow–workmen. It is quite evident, that, apart from any
considerations of beauty, the importance of the varnish as an acoustic
element was well recognized.
The second question now presents itself: how was the secret lost? A
careful and repeated examination, extending to a vast number of objects,
reveals the fact that the varnish of the Italian violin–maker of the
time of Stradivarius and before him was common to the painter, the
varnisher, and the gilder as well. Let an ancient piece of Italian
furniture—a chair, a cabinet, the case of a spinet or harpsichord—be
examined, and, provided it has escaped modern retouching, the varnish
might be by Stradivarius himself. Generally it is colorless, then the
quality and texture are the indications; but occasionally it is of
brilliant hues, and then it proclaims itself to the eye at once. Let
specimens of a later date, say 1760, be examined; here is no such
varnish. This is smooth, fairly lustrous, hard, and durable. The chair
of 1725 presents a surface broken and worn away; that of 1760, one
comparatively smooth, and fairly able to endure further vicissitudes of
time.
Between the years 1740 and 1760, great changes in the manufacture of
varnish were introduced. The old soft gums and their menstrua, capable
in themselves of dissolving them, were discarded in favor of newer and
more complicated processes, producing a result more durable and
unchangeable under exposure and rough wear.
The old fashion of ornamenting all articles of furniture, whether of
ornament or utility, with carvings, had given place to a more sober
style. Broad, unrelieved surfaces, depending on the intrinsic beauty of
their material, were found a relief to the eye tired with unraveling the
mazes of complex carving or painted arabesque. The old, soft, badly
wearing varnish no longer sufficed for protection and covering of such
surfaces; hence the new processes, and, for such utilitarian purposes,
superior results. The hard copal gums, hitherto undissolvable or only
partially so, were found to yield entirely on proper heating and fusion.
In 1750, a patent, covering a period of twenty–five years, was granted
by the King of France to one Simon Martin, a fan painter, for a process
of making varnish from amber, by driving off the succinic acid by means
of heat, and the subsequent combination of the residue with oil. From
that day to the present, various improvements in this art have gone on
uninterruptedly. The field of discovery, the gates to which were opened
by such pioneers as Simon Martin, being once entered, the problem of
durability, hardness, and unchangeableness was soon solved. But with
the laying aside of the old receipts, the Italian violin varnish became
a lost art. The knowledge of its composition, naturally confined to the
general manufacturers, was forgotten. There is no doubt that some of the
Cremonese and other makers knew how to prepare it, but, as has been
shown, its use was not confined to them. The new ingredients—the copals,
amber, etc.—would naturally supersede the old as articles of import, and
so by degrees those who possessed the secret—for a secret it was
certainly regarded by its latest possessors—would find increasing
difficulty in obtaining the old constituents. Moreover, the days of
violin–making in Italy were over. England, France, and Germany were
eager competitors; the stolid build of the first, the gaudy color of the
second, the baked wood of the Mittenwalder, or artist of the Black
Forest, and the general cheapness of all, held the market. And so it has
happened that the art of the old varnish is not lost, but buried in the
dust under the wheel of progress. For two hundred years it was in the
hands of a nation; and though now a desire for this forgotten knowledge
is confined to only a few, it would be absurd to say that persistent
inquiry must fail to unravel a skein of so many ends.
The third question now presents itself: Are there any writings or clues
for perusal and examination? There are many. An ingenious Frenchman, who
long ago wrote a treatise on varnish, has given the following excellent
list of authors who have treated upon this subject:—
“Alexis,” Piedmontese [real name of author, Hieronymus Ruscellaī]:
Secrets des Arts; Milan, 1550.
Fiavoranti: Miroir Universel des Arts et des Sciences; Bologna, 1564.
Auda: Recueil Abrégé des Secrets Merveilleux; ——, 1663.
Zahn, Jean: Oculus Artificialis, etc.; Nuremberg, 1685.
Morley, C.: Collections; London, 1692.
Coronelli, Vincent: Epitome Cosmographique; Venice, 1693.
Pomet: Histoire Générale des Drogues; Paris, 1694 (reprinted, 1736).
Buonanni, Phillipe: Traité des Vernis; Rome, 1713.
Here is a succession of treatises, the earliest written about the time
of Gaspar da Salo, and the latest during that of Stradivarius. Here are
hundreds of genuine receipts. Is any one of them the right one? Patience
and perseverance are necessary, much fitting of old names to their new
nomenclatures, and many tiresome comparisons. But these once made, the
desired result may be obtained, and the new varnish may possess the old
coveted lustrous softness and suppleness. And the colors? the brown, the
red, and the yellow?—hidden under quaint and obsolete names, they are
all indicated by one and another of these authors, and all are soluble
in the one vehicle, forming a colored oil varnish, clear and
transparent, which, however long kept, will let fall no sediment.
There is still another branch of this subject which has never, or very
rarely, been specified, and this is the _ground–toning_. In all Italian
instruments the wood appears to be permeated with a color varying in
intensity from pale yellow to almost orange. This color is quite
distinct from that of the varnish; for, however faded by exposure and
other causes the latter may be, the ground–tone almost always retains
its color. The violins with red varnish afford the finest examples of
this ground–toning. On such, its tawny yellow is the most intense, and
offers a splendid foil to the superimposed color, toning and giving life
to it. How it was composed or applied, whether as a wash or stain, or as
a distinct varnish, none of the authors give any information. But from
their miscellaneous lists of the drugs, dye–stuffs, and coloring matters
common to the Italian markets, it is quite possible that a selection
could be made which would fulfill all the required conditions of color
and stability.
But though supplied with the ground–tone, another element is needed
before the exact reflex of the Italian varnish can be reproduced; and
that is the natural color of the old wood.
The problem of the old varnish is solvable by any one who deems the
reward worth the trial of patience and perseverance, two elements most
effective in the task of interlining the broken sentences of tradition.