THE DECLINE OF TONE
As we have seen, tone had an auspicious beginning about 1550; suffered a
rather lengthy relapse, but began to recover during the latter years of
the next century; took a new lease of life about 1700; and was in full
maturity and vigour during the first half of the eighteenth century. It
then suffered a second relapse, more extended and more serious than the
first, which all but terminated its existence.
A plentiful number of theories have been advanced, all more or less
ingenious, to account for the decline of tone after about 1750. The
known facts are few and simple. On the one hand we have the sons,
pupils, and followers of the masters, while on the other we have the
fact that they failed to secure such consecutive tonal excellence--to
put it very mildly. To the many theories to account for this another may
be added without any great harm. As the decline was in tone, let us look
at it from that point.
In purely mechanical affairs progress follows experience and the passing
of time. That no such progress followed in this case would seem evidence
enough to eliminate the mechanical, or violin-making, factor, and
substitute tone-ideals in its place. This, however, by the way. So great
were the last three tone creators that there is some excuse for their
sons, pupils, and followers failing to equal them. Between 1750 and 1800
there was, doubtless, little demand for fine-toned violins from the
makers who were then alive, owing to the large number of master violins
handed down from the earlier half of the century. The living makers
might well have been forced to compete among themselves for such trade
in low-priced violins as they could get. With them it was probably not
so much a matter of tonal art as of bread and butter--or macaroni. We
are aware that, in all ages of violin making, a demand has existed for
the low-priced instrument, numerically in excess of the demand for those
of higher price and better tone. Overshadowed, therefore, by the great
masters this may well have been about the only demand upon the builders
of that time. The question of high tone quality does not enter largely
into this demand, but the question of price is vital.
Here, then, we have conditions which would appear to foster a decline in
high standards of tone, especially when we consider that the models, as
perfected by the masters, even without any special regulation or
adjustment, produced a tone which satisfied the bulk of players of that
day, just as the same fiddles, now ranking as “old,” satisfy the bulk of
players of the present day. Some few makers of that and succeeding
times, however, did not appear content to forego ideals. If they did not
succeed in reaching the highest standards, they at least kept the
wavering flame from dying altogether. We have, for instance, Thomas
Balestrieri in 1750, J. B. Guadagnini in 1780, François Fent, 1780,
Januarius Gagliano, 1770, Nicholas Lupot in 1820, J. F. Pressenda in
1840, and J. B. Vuillaume in 1870, to mention some of the best known,
and not those of more recent times. Thus builders were always turning
out fiddles, some of which fell little short of the highest standards,
from 1750 down to the present day, for, as will be seen in the chapters
devoted to modern violins, some of the instruments produced in these
days, regulated to ideals in the old-fashioned manner, uphold the
highest standard.
But if grand tone was not extinguished its creators were, and are,
sufficiently few in number to warrant the statement that tone has
suffered a serious decline. Especially is this realised when the few
really great toned fiddles are compared with the number, less notable
from this standpoint, produced since 1750. But there is nothing to be
gained by labouring this point. It would appear to have been fully
appreciated early in the last century, when we find the celebrated
experimenter Felix Savart busily engaged in demonstrating, by mechanical
methods, the reason for tone; and efforts at a general revival have
continued ever since. The fact that tone cannot be seen, while the
violin containing it is visible enough, has stimulated curiosity to
discover a supposed “lost secret,” which in reality was the method I
have named, probably abandoned for the reasons and in the manner already
suggested, by all save a few. And it is not difficult to imagine these
few, clearly appreciating their advantage, keeping the method of tone
regulation and control very much to themselves and, by producing fairly
consecutive tonal excellence (while the more numerous contemporary
makers were doing the reverse), spurring the investigators to fresh
efforts and the scientists to new explanations. Some of these theories
dealt with acoustics and are extremely complicated and interesting, but
it has never occurred to me that art has anything in particular to do
with science, and I certainly do not believe the old masters knew
overmuch, if anything, about the scientific side of tone. If the results
they achieved have since been found of a highly scientific nature,
there is good reason to believe they were unaware of it at the time. We
read in Messrs. Hill’s “Antonio Stradivari,” p. 189: “That Stradivari
was guided ... by a knowledge of science as applied to the construction
of instruments, we do not for one moment believe.” And to this I would
add that neither was he so guided in his creation of tone. Savart, in
his efforts to unearth the “secret” by the use of some sort of
mechanical means, was the first to “attune” the plates and thus produce
the best mechanical method yet devised; a method having nothing to do
with ideals, but much to do with science. Its outstanding feature is
that it produces with uncanny regularity a type of tone which, like the
process, may be characterised as mechanical. It is only fair to say of
this method that it does, on occasion, result in a tone of much
brilliance. Just why it should do so is probably a puzzle to those who
employ the process. If they were aware of the reason for this occasional
good tone, they could doubtless make it the rule instead of the
exception. The reason, however, lies beyond the scope of the method
employed, as we explain in the chapter devoted to varnish and tone. None
the less, tone produced by “attuning” the plates is not by any means to
be derided, although the general results attained do not warrant the
high claims made for the process. Among others who laboured towards a
revival of tone were the copyist, who let tone take care of itself; the
old wood theorists, who considered that tone-quality lay in old wood,[E]
and the varnishers, who believed that the “secret” of tone is in
varnish.
Curiously enough, amongst those who have so laboured, the elucidation of
the problem seems never to have been approached from the standpoint of
Tone itself, and they have not regarded tone as an expression of ideals,
but a sort of natural result following upon some peculiar or particular
virtues to be found in wood and varnish, the maker of the violin being a
kind of human machine achieving tonal results by rote and rule. Wood,
construction, and varnish do, indeed, seem to indicate the possible
avenues through which investigation may be carried. In them undoubtedly
lies the reason for tone which, if discovered, would still leave the
process by which it was achieved as profound a difficulty as ever. We
view the paint upon a pictured canvas without special interest. We know
it is paint and leave it at that. Aside from the ideals of the artist we
know it possesses no virtues leading towards the creation of a work of
art. We have no illusions regarding a combination such as this. If we
desired to produce a similar picture we are quite aware that similar
paints placed upon canvas of equal size would not be enough. We fully
appreciate the fact that colour and canvas are but the means through
which ideals are rendered visible, yet, when we turn to the violin, we
find this truth abandoned. By the token here expressed all the virtue
lies in canvas and paint. To achieve an artistic result is to use a
cloth similar to that of, say, Rembrandt (of the same age, if possible),
cut to the same size, and apply thereto similar colours--carefully
gauging the thickness all over with a micrometer! With all this care we
get a picture, but not a Rembrandt. As everything has been done that
Rembrandt did, and the result is not exactly what we desire, we take
refuge in the only hypothesis left, and agree that a picture so produced
must wait for perfection until it is as old as Rembrandt’s. To produce a
picture by any such means appears ridiculous, yet it is exactly the
means by which it is sought to produce an ideal of tone in the violin.
It is not considered that materials and construction are merely the
means through which the tone ideal of the builder finds expression, but
through some mysterious influence (not yet discovered!) the materials
are expected to create some magnificent quality of tone at which the
builder must be prepared to stand aghast.
* * * * *
Having now become fairly well acquainted with the old violin, and
reviewed the progress of its tone through the past three hundred and
sixty-six years, we may consider we have arrived at a point where the
modern violin can be admitted, with the object of defining its position
from a tonal point of view; first making an investigation into the
relationship existing between a new fiddle and tone.