THE ORCHESTRA AND ITS INSTRUMENTS
[Illustration: KING RENÉ OF ANJOU WITH HIS COURT MUSICIANS]
THE ORCHESTRA
AND
ITS INSTRUMENTS
BY
ESTHER SINGLETON
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
THE SYMPHONY SOCIETY OF NEW YORK
1917
COPYRIGHT, 1917
BY HARRY HARKNESS FLAGLER
THE · PLIMPTON · PRESS
NORWOOD · MASS · U·S·A
_To_ F. W. C.
_Friend of many years_
_Whose sympathy_
_Crowns all my efforts_
PREFACE
The purpose of this book is to give music-lovers and young musical
students a more intimate acquaintance with the Symphony Orchestra and its
instruments than they, perhaps, possess.
The instruments are described one by one; and, finally, the Orchestra,
which is, itself, treated as an instrument on which the Conductor may be
said to play.
Attention should be called to the description of Lully’s famous
Orchestra and to the interesting group of artists who played in it,
such as Descoteaux, the tulip-fancier, described by La Bruyère in his
_Caractères_, and Marin Marais, one of the greatest _virtuosi_ of the
Seventeenth Century.
It is often said that the virtuoso-conductor did not appear until the
Nineteenth Century. I think the facts given here will prove that Lully
was the first of the “star-conductors”; and that our Symphony Orchestras
may be said to have their origin in the “Twenty-Four Violins of the
King,” one of whom is represented in the illustration facing page 160.
It should also be noted that the illustrations have all been photographed
especially for this work,—many of them from rare volumes and old prints.
I wish to offer my grateful thanks to Mr. Walter Damrosch for having so
kindly read the page-proofs and to Mr. Harry Harkness Flagler for the
interest he has taken in the preparation of this book.
E. S.
NEW YORK, _October 4, 1917_
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
PRELUDE 3
I. THE VIOLIN 9
II. THE VIOLA 47
III. THE VIOLONCELLO 55
IV. THE DOUBLE-BASS 67
V. THE WOODWIND FAMILY 72
VI. THE BRASSWIND FAMILY 103
VII. PERCUSSION INSTRUMENTS 119
VIII. THE ORCHESTRA 132
IX. THE CONDUCTOR 274
X. THE HARP 279
XI. THE PIANOFORTE 290
INDEX 303
ILLUSTRATIONS
King René of Anjou with his Court Musicians _Frontispiece_
From the Breviary of King René, written and illuminated in the
Fifteenth Century by some of those appearing in the picture.
Preserved in the Bibliothèque de l’Arsenal, Paris.
First Violin, Symphony Society of New York, Alexander
Saslavsky _Facing page_ 10
A Little Savoyard in Paris with _vielle_, or hurdy-gurdy (old print) 14
St. Cecilia 18
From the Adoration of the Lamb by Jan and Hubert van Eyck,
in the Cathedral of St. Bavon, Ghent. St. Cecilia is playing
the organ, one of the Angels a harp (of the “Irish” type) and
another a violin without “bouts” and with crescent-shaped
sound-holes. Note the peculiar and archaic shape of the bow.
This picture was painted in the Fifteenth Century.
Violin by Gasparo di Salò 22
Violin by Maggini 24
Cremona in 1830 26
From an engraving by Caporali.
Violin by Antonius and Hieronymus Amati 30
The Hellier Stradivari 34
Bought by Sir Samuel Hellier of Womborne, Staffordshire,
England, from Stradivari about 1734. It was made in 1679,
but its history between these dates is unknown. The Hellier
Stradivari is one of the most famous examples of Stradivari’s
work and is one of his very rare _inlaid_ violins. The bows are
of an old model, as their points plainly show, made before the
days of Tourte.
Violin by Guarneri del Gesù 38
Used by Paganini in most of his concerts. Now in Genoa.
Instrument-maker’s Workshop (Eighteenth Century) 40
From the Encyclopaedia of Diderot and d’Alembert.
François Tourte, “the Stradivari of the bow” 44
First Viola, Symphony Society of New York, Samuel Lifschey 48
_Viola d’amore_ 50
Owned by the University of Edinburgh. Note the beautiful inlay
of the tail-piece and neck, the carved female head instead of
scroll with the eyes strangely veiled. The sound-holes of the
“flaming-sword” type are beautifully and gracefully cut. This
instrument lacks the “sympathetic strings,” with which it was
originally strung.
Gaspard Duiffoprugcar 52
_Viola da Gamba_ 54
Made by Gaspard Duiffoprugcar, with picture inlaid in the back.
First violoncellist, Symphony Society of New York, Engelbert
Roentgen 56
_Viola da Gamba_ 60
Owned by the Museum of the Brussels Conservatory of Music. The
back is of rosewood. The inlay, neck, scroll and tail-piece
(carved in the shape of Mercury’s caduceus) are of ivory. The
instrument is an exquisite work of art. It is of later date
than the _viola d’amore_ facing page 50, as the crescent-shaped
sound-holes show.
Gentleman of the Seventeenth Century playing the _viola da gamba_,
or _basse de viole_ 64
First Double Bass, Symphony Society of New York, Morris Tivin 68
Lutemaker’s shop and Two Men playing the Double Bass. Date 1568 70
First Flute, Symphony Society of New York, George Barrère 74
Frederick the Great playing a flute concerto with his orchestra at
_Sans Souci_ 78
By Chodowieki.
First Oboe, Symphony Society of New York, Henri de Busscher 84
_Cor Anglais_, Symphony Society of New York, A. Bianco 90
Bassoon, Symphony Society of New York, Ugo Savolini 94
Clarinet, Symphony Society of New York, Gustav Langenus 98
Contrabass Clarinet, Symphony Society of New York, Richard Kohl 102
Horn, Symphony Society of New York, Josef Franzl 106
Trumpet, Symphony Society of New York, Carl Heinrich 110
Trombone, Symphony Society of New York, R. Van der Elst 114
Tuba, Symphony Society of New York, Luca Del Negro 118
Tympani, Symphony Society of New York, Karl Glassmann 122
Percussion, Symphony Society of New York, Hans Goettich 126
Drum, Xylophone and Triangle, Symphony Society of New York, Samuel
Borodkin 130
Theorbo 136
Made by Giovanni Krebar of Padua in 1629. The body is of ivory
and the neck and peg-box of ivory engraved with a view of
Venice, incised figures dancing and fencing and a garden scene.
The pegs show that there were eight bass notes, or diapasons;
a single string to each note, five double strings on the
fingerboard and one, the highest of all and single, called the
_chanterelle_, or melody string.
Three _Chitaroni_ 140
The first is a theorbo, or bass lute, with a long upper neck
to give length for the bass strings. It is five feet long.
Notice the three sound-holes joined together (rosaces) and
the mother-of-pearl ornamentation. This lute is strung with
six pairs of strings on the fingerboard: each pair is tuned
in unison. Seven single, or diapason strings (or open basses)
are stretched from the upper peg-box. The _Chitarone_ in the
centre, also richly inlaid with mother-of-pearl, has also
three connected sound-holes, six pairs of unisons upon the
fingerboard and eight diapason, or open bass, strings on the
neck. It is six feet long! The third _chitarone_ has six pairs
of unisons and seven diapason (or bass) strings. The neck is
ornamented with checker work.
Claudio Monteverde 144
Car of musicians. _Triumph of Maximilian_ 148
By Albrecht Dürer, about 1518.
Car of musicians. _Triumph of Maximilian_ 150
By Albrecht Dürer, about 1518.
Car of musicians. _Triumph of Maximilian_ 152
By Albrecht Dürer, about 1518.
Chamber music in France, in 1635 156
By Abraham Bosse.
One of the Twenty-Four Violins of the King, 1688 160
Jean Baptiste Lully 164
Engraved by Gérard Edelinck.
Marin Marais 170
The most famous player of the _viola da gamba_ of the
Seventeenth Century and Lully’s assistant conductor.
Arcangelo Corelli 178
Concert 182
Domenico Scarlatti at the _gravicembalo_ (harpsichord);
Tartini, violin; Martini, flute; Locatelli and Lanzetti.
Rameau 184
Portrait by Restout, engraved by Benoist. Bibliothèque
Nationale, Paris.
Johann Sebastian Bach 186
Portrait by C. F. R. Lissewsky (1772) in the Joachimstalschen
Gymnasiums, Berlin.
Handel 188
Portrait by Thomson.
Handel conducting the Orchestra 190
Handel at the _cembalo_ (old print).
Gluck 194
Portrait by Duplessis.
Haydn 200
Portrait by Gutenbrunn painted in London in 1770. Engraved by
Luigi Schiavonetti.
Mozart 208
Portrait by Cignaroli in 1770.
Beethoven 218
Portrait by Lebronne. Engraved by Höfer.
C. M. von Weber 232
Portrait by Schimon.
Schubert 238
Water color sketch by W. A. Rieder.
Mendelssohn 242
From a pencil-drawing by Bendemann in 1835. Autographed by
Mendelssohn.
Berlioz 246
Lithograph by Fischer in 1863. Autographed by Berlioz.
Liszt 252
From a photograph taken in Budapest in 1875.
Wagner 258
Photograph taken in Munich.
Tschaikowsky 266
Photograph taken in Petrograd.
Saint-Saëns’s Festival Concert, Salle Pleyel, Paris, in 1896 268
Saint-Saëns at the piano; Sarasate, violin; and Taffanel
conducting the Orchestra of the Société des Concerts du
Conservatoire. Drawn by J. Grigny.
Debussy 270
Photograph taken in Paris.
Orchestra of the Symphony Society of New York 272
Walter Damrosch conducting.
Orchestra of the Eleventh Century 274
Development of the capital of a column in St. George’s,
Boscherville, Normandy.
Page from Conductor’s score 276
Beginning of Second Movement of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony.
Richard Strauss conducting 278
Minstrels playing harp, flute, and pipe and tabor 280
From an illuminated _Ms._ of the _Romaunt of the Rose_, owned
by the British Museum. Fifteenth Century.
Harp of the Fourteenth Century (King David) 286
From a _Ms._ of the Fourteenth Century.
Violinist, singer, and lady at the virginal 292
From Playford’s _Banquet of Music_. Printed in the Savoy for
Henry Playford at his shop near the Temple Church (London,
1688).
Concert with harpsichord 296
From Peter Preller’s _Modern Music Master_ (London, Eighteenth
Century).
THE ORCHESTRA AND ITS INSTRUMENTS
THE ORCHESTRA AND ITS INSTRUMENTS
PRELUDE
We have just arrived in the Concert Hall, have taken off our wraps and
are comfortably seated in our chairs waiting eagerly for the concert to
begin.
The Orchestra is entering from the doors at the sides of the stage.
Here come the Violins. They all sit in a group together. These in front
of us and on the left of the Conductor’s stand are the First Violins;
these on the right of the Conductor’s stand are the Second Violins. These
ten men who seem to carry very large violins are the Violas and they are
taking their seats by the side of the Second Violins. Opposite them ten
Violoncellos are taking their seats by the side of the First Violins.
Behind the Violoncellos stand the Double-Basses.
In the meanwhile, the players of the Woodwind have entered and have
seated themselves in a row facing the Conductor,—the Clarinets by the
Violas; then the Oboe and Cor Anglais (English Horn); and then the
Flutes. Behind the Flutes are the Bassoons; and behind the Oboes and
Clarinets are the French Horns. In the back row are Trombones, Trumpets,
Drums, Triangle, Cymbals and other Percussion instruments. On the right,
behind the First Violins, is the Harp.
They are all here now, each instrument in its own group, or family.
We cannot understand what any great city is like if we do not know
something about the people who compose that city. Take New York, for
instance; or London, or Paris, or Boston, or Washington, or Chicago, or
San Francisco. Each city has a personality of its own; and so we speak of
New York, or London, or Paris, or Boston, or Washington, just as if we
were talking of an individual.
It is exactly the same with an Orchestra. Though composed of a collection
of individual instruments, the Orchestra has an individual character of
its own. It is a _personality_ that speaks to us in the beautiful and
inspiring language of music; and, therefore, after we learn about the
instruments and what part each instrument has to play in forming this
little orchestral city, as it were, we shall then turn our thoughts to
the Orchestra itself.
The Orchestra is composed of three groups, or families, and one accessory
group. Each of these three groups forms a choir of its own, of four
parts,—soprano, alto, tenor and bass.
The most important group is that of the stringed instruments, or
“Strings,” as this family is called. The Violins sing the soprano;
the Violas, the alto, or tenor; the Violoncellos, the bass; and the
Double-Basses, the deeper bass. All of the “Strings” are played with the
bow.
The family next in importance is the “Woodwind,”—instruments consisting
of a long tube made of wood through which the performer blows. Some of
these are held horizontally, others longitudinally. These also play in
four-part harmony, as it is called,—soprano, alto, tenor and bass.
The Brasswind family comprises the Horns, the Trumpets and Trombones.
It forms another set of four voices—soprano, alto, tenor and bass. The
performers blow through the tubes of these instruments. These instruments
are usually spoken of as the “Brass.”
Last of all come the instruments of Percussion,—that is to say
instruments that are beaten, or knocked, or struck, or thumped, or
shaken, such as the Drums, Triangle, Cymbals and Tambourine. This group
is also called the “Battery.”
With these three separate choirs grouped into three separate families,
each with its special characteristics and accomplishments, the composer
is able to do many wonderful things. For example, he can let any choir,
or any instrument in that choir, sing a melody while the other choirs
accompany it with lovely harmonies, or dispute with it, or start up
another melody in opposition to it, or even make comments, pleasant or
ill-natured, on it, as it were. Then, in addition, the composer has the
“Battery” of beaten instruments to accent the rhythms, or to add sharp,
bright, penetrating notes; dull, soft, deep thuds; mutterings and crashes.
The Harp does not belong to any family, or group.
The other instruments are very indifferent about him. Perhaps they regard
him as an interloper. The Harp is not a regular member of the Orchestra:
he is only an occasional guest. Although a stringed instrument, the
Harp does not belong to the “Strings.” He comes from another line,
another race,—from the minstrels and bards. The Harp has a poetic and a
passionate utterance all his own, which is of an entirely different kind
of poetry and passion from that of the Violin tribe.
Applause! Here comes the Conductor! He bows, walks to the stand, bows
again and steps upon the platform. Now he turns and looks at the
audience. His quick glance sweeps the whole house—from top gallery
to parquet—and takes in everything, everywhere. He has now commanded
the attention he desires. Everybody is getting quiet. We did not
notice—perhaps because we were contributing to it ourselves—that there
was a general rustle and chatter and movement. Now that there is a hush
over everything we notice the contrast. But the Conductor is not quite
satisfied. Some persons are still talking in the box above us. He looks
at them and waits for them to finish. He does not have to wait long. They
notice the reproof and their chatter ceases suddenly. Now all is quiet.
The Conductor turns and faces his men. He lifts the little, white stick
that was lying beside the score on his desk, raps on the desk to command
attention from his men and raises his right hand.
What is the first number? Let me see the programme. Thank you.
Mendelssohn’s _Overture to Midsummer Night’s Dream_. Such lovely opening
chords! How silvery, delicate, faint and far-away are those soft, gentle
harmonies that melt into one another like the tender hues of sunset
clouds! They are, indeed, “the horns of Elfland faintly blowing.”
As we hear them we are transported into another world,—a world of fancy
and delight. We enter Fairyland ourselves!
Listen to the Violins! Can we not see the tiny flower-fairies, myriads
and myriads of them? Here they come,—tripping, dancing, twirling,
winding, flying, floating, laughing, singing and running lightly in
rhythmic steps to the gay melody on the Strings. The horns call again;
and again the fairies come, myriads and myriads more of them,—tripping,
dancing, twirling, winding, flying, floating, laughing, singing and
running lightly in rhythmic steps to the gay melody as did the first
merry troupe.
Again the Elfin horns! Could anything be more enchanting than those
lovely, melting harmonies of the fairy sentinels and little body-guard of
Queen Titania?
We seem to have left the Concert Hall now. We are in a beautiful English
forest glade where the grass is very green and where the beech trees
throw out upon the sward great, long, gnarled and snaky roots covered
with emerald moss. And here, on a bank canopied o’er with luscious
honeysuckle and sweet musk roses and eglantines, and where the nodding
violets and sweet-smelling thyme make us drowsy with their delightful
perfume, we see Titania and her tiny Elfin train gather. They charm away
the spotted snakes with double tongue, thorny hedgehogs, weaving spiders
and beetles black, so that their Queen may sleep in peace. Off they go
on various errands, leaving near the softly-breathing Titania a little
fairy sentinel standing on an eglantine and holding a sharp spear of
grass. Again we hear the delicate, silvery horns of Elfland; and, with
the last lingering chord, the Enchanted Forest vanishes.
These subtle harmonies touched our imaginations and evoked that lovely
picture!
The Conductor lays down his _bâton_. All is over!
* * * * *
We have often read in Fairy Tales how only those who had tasted dragon’s
blood could understand the language of birds and animals.
It is precisely the same with regard to Orchestral music. Only those
whose ears are educated can appreciate all its meaning and its beauty.
When we taste dragon’s blood, so to speak, we understand the language
of music and enter into a new world of delight that is closed to the
uninitiated.
The Orchestra throws open for us magic casements that look upon a realm
beyond that of everyday reality; and the more we know of the Orchestra,
the greater will be our power to enter that sphere of enchantment.
Therefore, our first step will be to inquire into the history and
capacities of the instruments that give the Orchestra its very existence.
CHAPTER I
THE VIOLIN
_Charm of the violin; voice of the violin; parts of the
violin; construction of the violin; bridge, bass-bar and
sound-post; ancestry of the violin; the vielle, or viole;
evolution of the violin; corners and bouts; the sound-holes;
birthplace of the violin; Brescia; Gasparo di Salò; Maggini
and the characteristics of his violins; Efrem Zimbalist’s
Maggini; Cremona; the Amati family and their violins; Antonio
Stradivari; house of Stradivari described by Haweis; the
Stradivari violin; the Guarneri; Joseph del Gesù; Carlo
Bergonzi; Jacobus Stainer of Absam; importance of wood for
violins; Joachim’s opinion of the Stradivari violin; strings of
the violin; the fingerboard and “positions”; harmonics—natural
and artificial; portamento; the sordino; the right hand’s work;
bowing; pizzicato; position of violins in the Orchestra; the
First Violin; Lavignac on the violin; Berlioz on use of violins
in the Orchestra; François Tourte, the Stradivari of the
bow; evolution of the bow; Corelli, Tartini, Tourte, Viotti,
Paganini; Tourte’s model; the bow of to-day._
There is something very fascinating about a violin. This graceful,
delicate instrument, which is a marvel of strength, notwithstanding its
frail appearance, is beautiful to look at and its voice is lovely to hear.
It is often said that the voice of a violin is so greatly admired because
its tones offer the nearest approach to the human voice; but if you think
the matter over you will, perhaps, agree with me that the tones of a
beautiful violin do not resemble those of a human voice and that they are
infinitely more beautiful in quality. There is a mellowness, a softness,
a richness, a liquidity, a glossy clearness and a warmth peculiar to
the violin and very far away from anything that the human throat can
accomplish.
Let us think of the violin’s voice as something individual; and as
something delightful and dear to us because it is an individual voice
and not because of any fancied resemblance to a high soprano. Indeed,
very few of the greatest singers could ever produce such velvety,
sweet, poignant, vibrant and insinuating notes as we hear from a
luscious Stradivari, a sweet Amati, or a rich Maggini under the bow of a
master-violinist.
Everything about a violin appeals to us. There is something so mysterious
and ingratiating about the little instrument, neat and trig and curved
at the waist, with lines as clean as those of a high-bred race-horse and
nerves as tense with excitement, ready to be set quivering at the touch
of the bow.
Moreover, the very fact that age improves it, and that the longer it
lives the sweeter and richer and lovelier it becomes, gives us almost a
feeling of awe towards the violin. This delicate little instrument defies
Time and disaster. In that it is superior to man himself: the violin is,
therefore, almost superhuman!
How many hands have touched this precious treasure! What scenes has it
passed through! How many countries has it visited! How many thousands
have listened to its voice!
The violin has outlived them all, generation after generation. If it
could only tell us all its experiences and adventures since it was taken
down from its nail in a Cremona workshop and pronounced ready for the
purchaser who had ordered it!
[Illustration: FIRST VIOLIN, SYMPHONY SOCIETY OF NEW YORK
_Alexander Saslavsky_]
Romance, romance, romance, and nothing but romance, clings around old
violins, just like the scent in an old Chinese rose-jar. You cannot get
rid of the aroma. And, moreover, you do not want to. This atmosphere of
the Past gives enchantment to a violin as it does to a Ming vase.
Then there is something very thrilling in the fact that the violin has a
charmed life. Nothing can hurt a violin very much. If it is smashed into
a thousand bits, a clever repairer can put all the pieces together again;
and the instrument is little the worse for the shock.
Then, too, a valuable old Cremona seems to defy theft. If a thief runs
away with one, he has trouble to get rid of it, because few are willing
to buy it from him. The pedigree of every famous violin is known; or, in
other words, the name of every one of its owners is on record. A fine
instrument can be identified eventually.
All violins may look alike to you now; but not after your eyes have been
taught to know them. No two violins were ever made that were exactly
alike; although, of course, all those that were made by any one maker
have, generally speaking, the same characteristics. These characteristics
are what one has to learn, in order to become an expert, or a
connoisseur. All the celebrated makers gradually developed a “model,” as
it is called; and experts and connoisseurs can tell almost at a glance
from what workshop any instrument came. Not only the model, or pattern,
or shape, as we might call it, declares the maker, but every maker had
a special varnish. Every maker also had a special way of carving the
scroll, or head, and of cutting the sweeping _f_-holes that give the
violin so much expression.
And what would the violin be without these graceful _f_-holes?
It would not only lose its tone, but much of its beauty. These
sound-holes are of the utmost importance. Their shape, width and position
have all been determined through years—centuries indeed—of experiment.
The whole system by which the sound-waves are set in motion in the
_inside_ of a violin and the way they cross each other and issue forth
from these sound-holes is strange in the highest degree. It is a miracle!
Altogether, the violin is a very charming, fascinating, mysterious,
romantic, delightful, and lovable instrument.
* * * * *
Although the violin may appear to your eyes as a very simple instrument,
it is really a very complex one.
If I asked you to describe a violin you would probably tell me that
it has a back and front, sides and strings. Perhaps you might mention
the bridge and, perhaps, you would not think about this small article.
Perhaps, too, you might mention the _f_-holes on either side of the
bridge. And there you would stop.
You know very little about a violin, or you would speak of the _belly_
and not the “front” and of the _ribs_ and not the “sides.” And you have
not mentioned anything _inside_ the violin. Perhaps you think it contains
nothing!
A violin consists of _seventy_ different pieces.
Fifty-seven belong to the construction and thirteen are moveable fittings.
The back (sometimes in two pieces), the belly (sometimes in two
pieces), the blocks (six), the ribs (six, sometimes five), the linings
(twelve), the bass-bar, the purfling (twenty-four pieces), the nut, the
fingerboard, the neck, and the head and scroll (sometimes called the
lower nut).
The thirteen moveable fittings are: the tail-piece, the loop, the
button, or tail-pin, the screws, or pegs (four), the strings (four), the
sound-post and the bridge.
The wood used is of three kinds: maple, or sycamore, for the back, neck,
ribs and bridge; pine, or soft deal, for the belly, blocks, linings,
bass-bar and sound-post; and ebony for the tail-piece, fingerboard, nuts,
pegs and button. The purfling, that narrow edging that outlines the shape
of the instrument on both belly and back, is made of thin strips of ebony
and maple (sometimes, but not often, whalebone is used).
The parts are put together with the finest glue and invisible joinings.
Finally, comes the varnish, which is of the utmost importance.
The violin is, indeed, as a lover of this instrument[1] has said, “a
miracle of construction; and as it can be taken to pieces, put together,
patched and indefinitely repaired, it is almost indestructible. It is, as
one might say, as light as a feather and as strong as a horse. The belly
of soft deal and the back of hard sycamore are united by six sycamore
ribs supported by twelve blocks with linings. It appears that the quick
vibrations of the hard wood married to the slower sound-waves of the soft
wood, produce the mellow but reedy _timbre_ of the good violin. If all
the wood were hard, you would get the tone light and metallic; if all
soft, it would be muffled, or tubby. There is every conceivable variety
of fibre both in hard and soft wood. The thickness of back and belly is
not uniform. Each should be thicker towards the middle. But _how_ thick
and shaved thin in what proportion to the sides? The cunning workman
alone knows.”
And now let us consider carefully the three important and highly
mysterious organs of the violin. Yes, I am calling them organs. Perhaps
I had even better say organs and nerves. These are the bridge, the
sound-post and the bass-bar. The two latter are invisible. The bridge,
a delicately cut little arch of maple, or sycamore, higher on one side
than on the other, perforated curiously but according to a form learned
through the experiments of centuries, has been called the “_tongue of the
violin_.” The treble foot of the bridge stands firm and rigid on that
part of the belly made rigid by the sound-post. The bass foot of the
bridge rests on that part of the body, or belly, which vibrates freely,
these vibrations being increased and regulated by the bass-bar. Through
this bass foot of the bridge the vibration of the strings is communicated
to the belly and thence to the mass of air in the violin. The treble foot
of the bridge is _the centre of vibration_. The action of the bridge,
however, really depends upon the sound-post.
[Illustration: A LITTLE SAVOYARD IN PARIS WITH VIELLE, OR HURDY-GURDY]
The sound-post has been called “the _soul of the violin_.” It is a little
pine stick, a few inches long, about the size of a large cedar pencil.
It is placed upright about an eighth of an inch to the back of the right
foot of the bridge.
“Through it pass all the heart throbs, or vibrations, generated between
the back and the belly. There the short waves and the long waves meet and
mingle. It is the material throbbing centre of that pulsating air-column
defined by the walls of the violin, but propagating those mystic
sound-waves that ripple forth in sweetness upon ten thousand ears.”[2]
The bass-bar (or sound-bar) has been called “_the nervous system of the
violin_.” It is an oblong piece of wood glued lengthwise to the belly. It
runs in the same direction as the strings and acts as a beam, or girder,
to strengthen the belly against the pressure of the left foot of the
bridge. The bass-bar has to be cut and adjusted to meet the requirements
of every violin; and only long experience can determine how _long_, how
_thick_ and exactly _where_ the bass-bar should be made and placed. The
fraction of a line makes all the difference in the world.
The bass-bar is the only member, or organ, of the violin’s body that
has undergone any change since the days of Antonio Stradivari. Owing to
the increased pitch (higher tuning) of the present time, the tension,
or pull, of the strings equals _eighty_ pounds! Think of it—this
frail-looking, delicate, little violin stands a strain of eighty pounds!
In Stradivari’s time this tension was sixty-three pounds. So in modern
times it has been found necessary to strengthen the bass-bar by giving it
extra depth in the centre and adding to its length.
Now we know exactly what happens. This tremendous strain of the strings
(equalling eighty pounds) is resisted first by the arch of the belly;
then by the ribs, strengthened by the upright blocks and linings; and,
lastly, by the supporting bass-bar.
Another change that has been made in the last century is the lengthening
of the neck. This was done on account of the increased technique of
modern performers. The scroll, or head, remained unchanged.
The scroll is very indicative of the maker. Any expert by looking at
the scroll can tell its maker. Truly we can repeat the words of Mr.
Gladstone: “to perfect that wonder of travel—the locomotive—has, perhaps,
not required the expenditure of more mental strength and application than
to perfect that wonder of music—the violin!”
* * * * *
The violin is three hundred years old, and it is the only musical
instrument that has remained unchanged during that time! It has seen
viols, lutes, spinets and harpsichords go out of fashion; it has seen
many wind-instruments disappear and new ones take their places; it has
seen a few developments in the harp; and it has seen the birth of the
piano. But the model of the violin that was brought to perfection by the
old makers of Cremona, particularly Antonio Stradivari, is so beautiful
in form and so exquisite in tone that it has been impossible to improve
it.
The violin did not spring into existence under the clever hands of the
Italian workmen. It had been developing for a hundred years before the
Cremonese makers added their finishing touches. What they did was to take
the model that already existed and improve it; and their improvements
were so great that they practically made a new instrument of it.
The violin has had a long ancestry. It would take several hours to
describe all the peculiar instruments from which it could have been
derived. We should have to go back thousands of years, to ancient Egypt
and Greece and Phœnicia and even to India. And everywhere we would come
across an instrument that is best described as a long box of wood over
which a string is stretched, or, in some cases, several strings are
stretched.
We date our violin from the Thirteenth Century, a time when many great
changes were taking place, when great cathedrals were being built and
when Dante was living. Perhaps it would be better to say that the
_characteristics_ of our modern violin begin to appear about that
time—six hundred years ago—when the Troubadours began to flourish in
the south of France, in beautiful Provence, the land of roses and
nightingales.
The Troubadour, who was a poet as well as a musician and who wrote the
words of his songs as well as their melodies, played upon a _viole_, or
_vielle_. Another name for it is guitar-fiddle. The instrument was a kind
of guitar, fiddle and hurdy-gurdy all in one, as you will see if you
look at the picture of the _Little Savoyard in Paris_ facing page 14,
made in 1827; for the hurdy-gurdy of the wandering player is a survival
of the old _vielle_. Its body was pear-shaped and over it five strings
were stretched. The _vielle_ was a queer instrument indeed; sometimes it
was played with a bow; sometimes it was plucked with the fingers; and
sometimes it was played by turning a wheel. It was chiefly used by the
Troubadours to support the voice, so it was an accompanying, rather than
a solo, instrument. Gradually the _vielle_ was made larger; and during
this same Thirteenth Century, when there were many new ideas springing up
in the world, somebody got the idea of cutting out the sides of the long
instrument to form a kind of waist. And this waist was the first step
towards our modern violin.
In the Fifteenth Century—two hundred years later—something else
happened,—something of importance for the whole future of music. People
began to make bowed instruments corresponding to the various kinds of
human voices; consequently, these were the treble, or discant, viol; the
tenor viol; the bass viol; and the double-bass, or violone.
The next thing that happened—also in this Fifteenth Century—was the
invention of corner blocks, which followed naturally from the cutting of
the waist, although it took a long time to think of it. You will notice
if you look at the illustrations facing pages 22, 24, 30, 34, and 38,
that a violin has two sharply projecting points on each of its sides,
one at either extremity of the _f_-holes at the waist of the instrument.
These sharp corners mark the position of triangular blocks _inside_
the violin. These blocks are glued to the back and to the belly of the
violin and the ribs of the violin are glued to the blocks. These blocks
are the very corner-stones of the construction of a violin; and they add
very much to the strength and the resonance of the instrument.
[Illustration: ST. CECILIA
_By Jan and Hubert van Eyck_]
If you look at the violins and other bowed instruments in many old
Italian and Flemish paintings you will see that they have only single
corners, as, for instance, the large viol the Angel is holding in the
picture of St. Cecilia facing page 18. Nobody seems to know whether
single, or double, corners came first; but after a time only double
corners were used.
The use of these double corners produced something else that was new.
This was the curving of the ribs at the waist forming a hollowed-out
place called bouts; and these bouts gave the right hand of the player
more freedom to move up and down with the bow. Up to this time the
position of the performer’s hand was stiff and cramped unless there was
a tremendously high bridge to carry the strings. So when the ribs were
curved and the bouts cut, the player’s hand could move more easily and
naturally.
But even so, the shape of the violin was not fully determined. These
bouts were made according to the idea of every individual maker. They
were small and deep in some instruments, long and shallow in others. They
were often of enormous size and out of all proportion to the general form
of the instrument. Pictures of these old models look very queer to us now.
About the beginning of the Sixteenth Century long and shallow bouts
were universally used and the violin began to take the simple and
graceful form with the double corners with which we are familiar. But,
notwithstanding all these improvements, we have not yet arrived at
our perfect violin. The sound-holes, those two curved openings called
_f_-holes, on either side of the bridge, were not yet in their proper
place.
These _f_-holes were subject to a great deal of experimenting. Strange to
say in the old _vielle_, or _viole_, of the Troubadours they were often
very nearly in the place they occupy to-day, that is to say partly in the
waist and partly in the lower part of the instrument; but the invention
of the bouts displaced them, and, sometimes (indeed very often),
they appear right down at the very bottom of the instrument near the
tail-piece, as you will see if you look at the picture facing page 70.
Makers had an idea that the belly should be left as strong as possible
and that the cutting of these _f_-holes made it weaker. At first they
used a round sound-hole, like that of a guitar, right in the middle of
the instrument. Then they made a pair of crescents, or large C’s turned
face to face, as you will see if you look at the Angel playing in the
picture of St. Cecilia facing page 18; and they liked this so much that
they used these C’s for a hundred years (in the Fourteenth and Fifteenth
Centuries). Then came the “flaming-sword” as in the _viola d’amore_
facing page 50; and then the _f_-hole. But at first the _f_’s were placed
back to back. Finally, about 1580, the Italian makers cut their _f_-holes
front to front.
By the middle of the Seventeenth Century, about the time that our own
country was being settled by the English and Dutch, the violin was ready
for the great makers to improve it in beauty of outline and qualities of
tone.
The violin is, therefore, almost exactly the age of our own country!
* * * * *
The birthplace of the violin is in one of the world’s loveliest spots—in
the fertile plain of Lombardy, in the northern part of Italy, where the
eyes of the traveller that have feasted on emerald meadows and sapphire
lakes look upward to the snowy Alps, where grew the pines, maples
and sycamores from which the old makers obtained the woods for their
instruments. The very trees were saturated with beauty as they grew on
the mountain slopes. Is it any wonder that the instruments made from such
wood should sing?
In this district and in the Tyrol little colonies of lute-makers and
viol-makers had lived and worked for centuries, supplying Europe with
such instruments as we find represented in old illuminated manuscripts
and described in song and story.
Two towns became especially celebrated for their violins,—Brescia and
Cremona.
Brescia was famous for two makers: Gasparo di Salò and his pupil,
Giovanni Paolo Maggini.
Gasparo di Salò’s real name was Gasparo Bertolotti. He was born in 1542
in the little town of Salò, on the shore of the Lake of Garda, about
twenty miles from Brescia.
Brescia was in those days a pretty town, hidden behind fortified walls
with the usual belfry, palace and Cathedral soaring above them. The
Cathedral was famous for its music and its fine orchestra. The monks
were very friendly with the instrument-makers, who had carried on their
art and trade from generation to generation ever since the beginning of
the Fourteenth Century. In Brescia Gasparo di Salò settled and became
well known for his viols and violins. He probably had many orders from
the monks, with whom he was evidently on good terms; for when he was
ill, at one time of his life, they took care of him. He made most of his
instruments from 1560 to 1610, when he died.
His name is of great importance in the history of the violin. The violins
of Gasparo di Salò are the earliest that are known. They are very rare,
however. The most famous di Salò was owned by Ole Bull, the great
Norwegian violinist. It is now in the Museum in Bergen, Norway. Instead
of the ordinary scroll it has an angel’s head, which is said to have been
carved by Benvenuto Cellini, the gifted silversmith.
“The violins of Gasparo di Salò are of somewhat large build with
strong curves and varnished with a dark brown varnish; but their shape
corresponds little with that adopted by the great Italian makers. The
middle bouts are cut very shallow; the corners project but little and
are strongly rounded, while the sound-holes are large and parallel
to each other—a feature which is peculiar to the Brescian School.
Gasparo selected for his bellies wood of an extraordinary uniformity of
regularity of grain.”[3]
[Illustration: VIOLIN
_By Gasparo di Salò_]
By him the present form of the violin was definitely fixed, as you will
see by looking at the Gasparo di Salò facing page 22. His tenors and
double-basses are superior to his violins and are much sought after.
Maggini was a native of Brescia and worked there from 1590 till 1632,
when he is supposed to have died of the Plague. His early violins
resemble those of Gasparo di Salò; but gradually the sound-holes grow
narrower and by the end of his life Maggini produced violins that were
pure in outline and beautifully finished. Moreover, they are famed for
their grand, deep, _melancholy_ tone. Maggini had learned to be extremely
careful in selecting the wood. In early days the Maggini bellies were cut
across the grain like Gasparo di Salò’s; but, after a while, Maggini cut
with the grain like Amati. His sound-holes grew more delicate, but they
were bevelled inwards (an idea that the Cremona makers rejected). Maggini
violins are also distinguished for their clear, golden-brown varnish
and for their purfling, which is usually _double_. Very often Maggini
indulged his fancy for ornamentation by twisting the purfling into a
graceful clover-leaf pattern on the backs of his violins.
Maggini violins are very rare. The last one to come to light was
discovered by Efrem Zimbalist about a year ago. The way it came into his
possession is as romantic a story as was ever told about a violin.
Zimbalist happened to be at Lake George. A policeman came to him one
day and said: “Mr. Zimbalist, I have an old violin that has been in the
garret for about seventy or eighty years. I have just been offered
a hundred dollars for it and I want you to tell me if I shall take
it.” “Bring the violin to me,” said Zimbalist, “and I’ll try it.” The
policeman returned with a dark, dirty old instrument, unstrung and in bad
condition. It was not prepossessing, but Zimbalist strung it and tried it.
“I’ll give you,” he said to the policeman, “a hundred and fifty dollars
for it now; and if I find that it is what I think it is, I will give you
a hundred and fifty more.”
Zimbalist brought the violin to New York and took it to a repairer, who
worked over it and at length brought it back to its original state.
Delighted with the violin, Zimbalist sent the policeman five hundred
dollars. Soon afterwards the violin repairer offered Zimbalist five
thousand dollars for it. The old, black, neglected violin had turned out
to be a beautiful Maggini.
* * * * *
Not very far away from Brescia is the town of Cremona on the river Po.
Cremona! The very name gives us a thrill! The town, though small, was an
artistic centre. Its school of painting was nearly as famous as that of
Bologna, and in its stately Cathedral just as beautiful music was heard
as in the Cathedral of Brescia. The wealthy prelates and learned monks
encouraged and trained musicians of the first rank; and naturally there
was a great demand for fine instruments. Cremona had long been a rival of
Brescia in the production of viols and violins and now that Maggini had
made so many improvements, the Cremonese makers were quick to follow, so
quick indeed and so skilful that Cremona went ahead of Brescia and became
the centre of violin-making for the whole world from 1560 to 1760—two
hundred years! And it is thrilling to realize that in this little town,
in three workshops side by side, on the Piazza San Domenico, _all the
great violins of the world were made_ and in friendly competition by the
three families of Amati, Stradivari and Guarneri.
[Illustration: VIOLIN
_By Maggini_]
The Amati family was of good position. Their name goes back in the
records of Cremona to the year 1097. The first one of interest to us is
Andreas Amati, who was born in 1520 and who died in 1611. He may have
been a pupil of Gasparo di Salò and then again he may not. At any rate,
his model differs very much from Gasparo’s and marks a great advance,
although it still retains the stiff, upright Brescian sound-hole. Andreas
Amati chose a smaller model with belly and back very high. His outline
was very graceful; his scroll beautifully cut; his varnish of an amber
color; and he was noted for his _careful selection of wood_. Very few of
his works have survived. His sons, Antonio and Geronimo (Antonius and
Hieronymus as they are also known), improved on their father’s style. To
them is due much of the reputation of the Amati violin; for they reduced
the outlines to beautiful curves; were careful about the wood they used;
and they perfected a rich, clear varnish. These brothers worked together
and apart and produced a model that for artistic design and _sweetness of
tone_ has never been surpassed.
Then came Nicolò Amati (1576-1684), greatest of them all. He was the
son of Geronimo. First he copied the family model and then developed
a style of his own, producing an even more graceful outline, a richer
and _deeper_ varnish and a greater power and clearness of tone, without
sacrificing the peculiar sweetness and charm that is characteristic of
all the Amati violins. Nicolò, as a rule, made rather small violins, but
he also made some large ones. These are known as the “Grand Amatis” and
they are very highly prized to-day.
“Most of the Nicolò violins before 1645 are of the smaller pattern,
but after this date down to 1684, the year of his death, the eye of a
connoisseur will notice an increase in size, a finish in workmanship and
a more delicate purfle (never double). The model is still somewhat high
in back and belly, but with an increasing tendency to get flatter; the
side grooving is less pronounced, whilst the corners are noticeably drawn
out into finer points full of character, arresting the eye, lightening,
as it were, the model and giving the whole physiognomy of the instrument
a piquancy hitherto unattempted.”[4]
In his workshop on the Piazza San Domenico Nicolò Amati had many pupils
and apprentices. Among them were the Guarneri brothers and Antonio
Stradivari.
Everybody has heard of Stradivari, or Stradivarius, for he is often
called by the Latin version of his Italian name. Stradivari was the
greatest of all violin-makers; and his violins are to-day as valuable as
jewels.
[Illustration: CREMONA IN 1830
_By Caporali_]
What Stradivari really did during his long and industrious life was to
take the model of Nicolò Amati and improve it, searching ever to get
_intensity of tone without sacrificing sweetness_. In other words, he was
doing just what Nicolò Amati had done before him; and he applied all his
life, all his energies and all his thought to this purpose.
“Stradivari’s main improvements consisted of (1) In lowering the
height of the model, that is, the arch of the belly and in altering
this flattened curve to a more uniform arch, so as to afford greater
resistance to the pressure of the strings. (2) In making the four corner
blocks more massive, in an improved method of dove-tailing the linings
at the blocks, and in giving a quarter curvature to the middle ribs, the
result of which is to make the curves more prominent in the outline and
to increase the tension of the parts. (3) In altering the setting of the
sound-holes, giving them a decided inclination to each other at the top,
thus following the general upward diminution of the pattern and in fixing
the position of the sound-holes relatively to the corner blocks. (4) In
making the scroll more massive and prominent, thus rendering it less
liable to split at the peg-holes and forming more of a counterpoise in
the hand of the player.”[5]
Antonio Stradivari came from an old Cremonese family, members of which
held public office as early as 1127. There is not much to tell about his
life. He was born in 1644 and died in 1737 at the age of ninety-three.
When he married in 1667, he left Amati’s workshop and opened his own
a few doors away. When Nicolò Amati died, he left Stradivari all his
tools. By this time Stradivari had bought a house, No. 2, Piazza San
Domenico (No. 1, Piazza Roma from 1870 until it was pulled down), and
there in the top loft, or garret, he worked so industriously that the
people of Cremona had a proverb “rich as Stradivari.” No authentic
portrait of him is known. According to tradition, he was tall and thin.
In winter he wore a white woollen cap and in summer a white cotton one
and he always wore a white leather apron over his clothes when he was at
work.
Mr. Haweis, some years ago, went on a special search for the house of
Stradivari and found it, after much difficulty; for the people of Cremona
had forgotten all about the man who made their town famous. However,
he succeeded in discovering the house. He takes us directly into this
romantic spot: “I stood in the open loft at the top of the house where
still in the old beams stuck the rusty old nails upon which he hung
up his violins. And I saw out upon the north, the wide blue sky just
mellowing to rich purple and flecked here and there with orange streaks
prophetic of sunset. Whenever Stradivari looked up from his work if he
looked north his eyes fell on the old towers of S. Marcellino and S.
Antonio; if he looked west the Cathedral with its tall campanile rose
dark against the sky; and what a sky! Full of clear sun in the morning,
full of pure heat all day and bathed with ineffable tints in the cool of
the evening when the light lay low upon the vinery and hanging-garden,
or spangled with ruddy gold the eaves, the roofs and frescoed walls of
the houses. High up in the air with the sun his helper, the light his
minister, the blessed soft airs his journeymen through the long warm days
worked Antonio Stradivari.”
Stradivari is supposed to have made two thousand instruments! He also
made lutes, mandolins and guitars and every detail of his instruments,
including the pegs! In those days princes and other rich amateurs ordered
their violins; and they would come themselves, or send some important
deputy, to the instrument-maker to talk it all over, and, often, indeed,
to give the measurements of their arms and bodies so as to get a violin
that should be exactly suited to the performer. In those days the best
concerts took place in private homes; and the wealthy patron of art
liked to own many fine instruments for his own little orchestra to play
upon, and still choicer ones for guests, who, in those troublous times
of war, rarely took their own valuable instruments travelling with them.
Stradivari, like other makers, was frequently asked to supply “a chest of
viols,” or a “set of instruments.” He was, therefore, very busy, filling
orders all the time. Meanwhile, he was thinking out, as he filled his
orders, the great problem of how to get a more carrying and penetrating
tone without sacrificing beauty and sonority. To give an idea of the work
he used to have, the King of Poland, in 1715, ordered twelve violins for
his court orchestra; then Cardinal Orsini (afterwards Pope Benedict XIII)
ordered a violoncello of Stradivari in 1685; and in 1687 the Spanish
Court ordered a set of stringed instruments that were ornamented with
ivory purfling. One of these found its way into the hands of Ole Bull
and was afterwards sold to Dr. Charles Oldham of Brighton.
Stradivari, in his early period, followed the Amati style, with, however,
a freer sweep of the scroll. He began to sign his violins, that is to
say to put a label, or ticket, inside of them, about 1700; and from that
date to 1725 he created his master-works. He gradually diminished the
arch under the bridge and, finally, produced the _flat_ model. Stradivari
only ceased to work in the last year of his life. For those great violins
that are now known by special names, the “Messiah,” the “Pucelle,” the
“Viotti,” the “Bossier,” the “Dolphin,” the “Hellier,” and so on, that
are now worth fortunes, the maker was paid from fifty to two hundred
dollars apiece!
What would old Stradivari say could he know the prices that are given
for these violins when they change hands! He would be amazed beyond
measure; but his delight would be greater if he could hear the rich tones
that are given forth from his instruments mellowed with age. Moreover,
violinists did not play in Stradivari’s time as they play now. Could the
old Cremonese maker see and hear the violins that he made and learned to
know and love as they took shape beneath his skilful touch in the hands
of Fritz Kreisler or Efrem Zimbalist—what would he think!
[Illustration: VIOLIN
_By Antonius and Hieronymus Amati_]
An authority tells us that: “After 1690 his individuality began to
assert itself, his model became more graceful and flatter, the _f_-holes
elegant and reclining, the centre bouts gracefully drawn out, as also
the corners; the scroll is bold and striking; the purfling rather
narrow; and the varnish beautiful golden, or light red. It was at the
end of this period that he made the violins known as the ‘Long Strads,’
so called from their narrowness between the _f_-holes, giving them a
lanky appearance, the size varying, and the varnish amber, or light red.
The year 1700 brings us to his best period, the model flattish, the
wood cut on the quarter and thickest in the centre under the bridge,
the curves gentle and harmonious, the wood of the blocks very light,
often formed of willow, the scroll perfect in its symmetry. The graceful
_f_-holes, the transcendently glorious amber-colored, or ruby, varnish
are all characteristics of this epoch of the greatest master’s greatest
power. His last instruments have the purfling pointed across the corner
instead of following it round; and it is not uncommon to find it running
completely through the corner. His ticket runs ‘Antonio Stradivarius
Cremonensis faciebat Anno 17—’. His years of experiment resulted in a
neatly compacted instrument with light edges, accurate corners, round
arching, broadly treated but exquisitely graceful sound-holes and scroll
and a varnish soft in texture which shades deliciously from orange to
red. From 1703 until about 1709, the year of those famous violins, the
‘Pucelle’ and the ‘Viotti,’ Stradivari seems to have settled upon certain
points of construction from which he rarely afterwards departed. In 1711
he made the fine violin known as the ‘Parke;’ in 1713, the ‘Boissier,’
which belonged to Sarasate; in 1714, the ‘Dolphin;’ and in 1715, the
‘Gillot’ and the ‘Alard,’ which experts look upon as the master’s finest
creations; and in 1716, came the ‘Messiah.’ No detail of his work was too
unimportant for the master’s vigilant observation. That he personally
designed the pegs, finger-boards, tail-pieces, inlaid patterns, bridges
and even the minutest details of his violin cases, is attested by the
numerous drawings of these in the Della Valle collection while the
several sketches for bow tips and nuts reveal the interesting fact that
he also made bows. Generally speaking, the so-called Lost Cremona Varnish
was in the writer’s opinion no secret in Stradivari’s lifetime, but the
common property of the lute-makers of the day, who compounded it from
the materials used by the great painters of the epoch. Stradivari’s
own recipe was inscribed on the fly-leaf of a family Bible, but his
descendant, Giacomo Stradivari, destroyed this.”[6]
Two sons carried on their father’s work, but they produced nothing
remarkable.
There were five of the Guarneri who were distinguished violin-makers. The
first was Andreas, who worked with Stradivari in the workshop of Nicolò
Amati. He afterwards developed an original style. The important member
was Joseph del Gesù, so called from the “I. H. S.” he added to his name
on the labels of his violins. Just why he did this nobody seems to know.
As he was the son of Gian Battista, he may have humorously wanted to
say he was greater than his father. Joseph, or Giuseppe, Guarneri was
born in 1687 and died in 1745. His latest productions, from 1740 till
his death, are his best. Whether he was a pupil of Stradivari, or not,
matters little. His real master was old Gasparo di Salò; for he revived
the bold, rugged outline and the powerful tone of the early Brescian
maker, as you will see if you compare the violins facing pages 22 and 38.
Joseph del Gesù was searching after _tone_; and he got it. He seems to
have led a wild life; and there is a story that once he got into trouble
and was locked up in prison and that the jailer’s daughter brought him
wood and tools so that he could make violins. These violins are called
“Prison Josephs”; and, judging from the number of them in the world,
Joseph del Gesù must have stayed a long time in prison and have been very
industrious while there.
Paganini had a Joseph del Gesù and preferred it to his Stradivari. He
always played upon it; and when he died, he left it to the Town Hall in
Genoa, where it is still to be seen. It is represented facing page 38.
One more and we shall have finished with the Cremonese makers. This is
Carlo Bergonzi, Stradivari’s favorite pupil. Carlo lived next door to
Stradivari; and when the latter died, he moved into Stradivari’s house
and lived with the latter’s son. First Bergonzi copied the Stradivari
model and then he tried for power; so he endeavored to combine the model
of Stradivari and that of Joseph Guarneri. The model that he produced is
bold, broad and massive and gives a strong, rich, full tone. Bergonzi
worked twenty-five years; but only about sixty authentic instruments of
his are known. Bergonzi was born in 1712 and died in 1750.
We must not imagine that these makers of whom we have been talking were
the _only_ ones at work in Lombardy during these two hundred years. If we
take the pains to look at any books on violin-making we will be amazed at
the long, long list of Italian makers of lutes and violins. There were
about as many of them as there are makers of pianos in the United States
to-day.
There were also many German instrument-makers at work, particularly in
the Tyrol, where the pines were so plentiful; but the only one of any
great reputation is Jacob Stainer, who was born in the little town of
Absam near Innsbrück in 1621. He may have gone to Cremona, which was not
far away from his home, and have worked there, or he may have just had
some models. At any rate, his violins are more like those of Cremona than
are those of any other German maker.
Stainer’s violins bear a rough resemblance to the Amati violins; but they
are very much higher, and the _f_-holes are shorter and are very thick
and clumsy. Stainer made twelve violins for the Electors of his country;
and these “Elector Stainers,” as they are called, are his most famous
productions. He died in 1683.
It is said that this old maker used to walk through the wooded slopes
of the Tyrolean mountains with a hammer in his hand and that he would
knock the trunks of the trees and listen to the vibrations. When he
found a tree that suited him, he had it cut down to use in making his
instruments.
[Illustration: THE HELLIER STRADIVARI]
The question of wood was of the greatest importance. “The wood must be
cut only in December and January and only that part must be used which
has been exposed to the sun. You may cut up planks before you find a
piece suitable for a really fine back, or belly. Witness the grain of a
Stradivari or Amati violin; mark the almost pictorially beautiful health
and evenness of its wavy lines, free from all knots, irregularity of
growth, studded with symmetrical and billowy veins where the rich sap
once flowed. And when the wood is cut it must be tempered and dried, not
with artificial warmth but with the slow and penetrating influence of a
dry, warm Cremona climate. For no customer, no market could the process
be hurried. And the application of the varnish required corresponding
care. It was to be perfectly wedded to the rare wood—a companionship
destined to last for ages—to outlast so many generations of men and
women, was not to be enterprised or undertaken lightly. In the spring
when the air got clear and bright and the storms were past, the subtle
gums and oils were mixed slowly and deliberately: hours to stand,
hours to settle, hours for perfect fusing and amalgamation of parts;
clear, white light gleaming from roads strewn with the dazzling marble
dust of Lombardy; clear blue sky, warm dry air, and the skill of an
alchemist,—these were the conditions for mixing the incomparable Cremona
varnish. So deliberately was it prepared and laid on, just where the wood
was fit to receive it—laid on in three coats in such a manner as to sink
into the dessicated pores and become a part of the wood, as the aromatic
herbs and juices become a part of the flesh that is embalmed for a
thousand years. All through the summer did that matchless varnish, which
some say contained ground amber and which, at any rate, was charged with
subtle secrets, sink and sink into the sycamore and deal plates, until
now, when age has rubbed away its clear and agate crust in many places,
the violin is found no longer to need that protection, for the wood
itself seems to have become petrified into clear agate and is capable
throughout its myriad pores and fibres of resisting the worm and even
damp and other ravaging influence of ordinary decay.”[7]
When Joachim was asked why he preferred a Stradivari to any other violin,
he replied: “A Stradivari is a mine of musical sound into which the
player can dig and bring out hidden beauties of tone.” And then he went
on to say: “While the violins of Maggini are remarkable for volume of
tone and those of Amati for liquidity, none of the celebrated makers
exhibit the union of sweetness and power in so pre-eminent a degree as
Giuseppe Guarnieri (del Gesù) and Antonio Stradivari. If I am to give
expression to my individual feeling, I must pronounce for the latter as
my chosen favorite. It is true that in brilliancy and clearness, even
in liquidity, Guarneri is not surpassed by him; but what appears to me
peculiar to the tone of Stradivari is a more unlimited capacity for
expressing the most varied accents of feeling. The tone seems to well
forth like a spring and to be capable of infinite modification under
the bow. Stradivari’s violins affording a strong resistance to the bow,
when resistance is desired, yet responding to its lightest breath,
emphatically require that the player’s ear shall patiently listen until
it catches the secret of drawing out their tone. Their beauty of tone
is not so easily reached as in the violins of many other makers. Their
vibrations increase in warmth the more the player, discovering their
richness and variety, seeks from the instrument a sympathetic echo of his
own emotions: so much so that these violins seem to be living beings and
become, as it were, the player’s familiars—as if Stradivari had breathed
a soul into them in a manner achieved by no other master. It is this
which stamps them as creations of an artistic mind, as positive works of
art.”
* * * * *
We have talked about the construction of the violin and of its great
makers; now let us turn our attention to the actual playing of the
instrument.
The four strings—G, D, A, and E—are made of catgut[8] and the lowest—the
G—is wound with silver. These strings do not run exactly parallel but
taper gradually from the bridge to the nut. The nut is a tiny, raised
bar of ebony at the extreme end of the fingerboard; and on the nut the
strings rest on their way to the pegs. Through each peg a tiny hole is
bored. The string passes through that hole and is looped around itself;
and then the peg is screwed up, or turned, until the proper note, or
pitch, is found. The violin is tuned in fifths.
These four strings give what are called the open notes—G, D, A, and E.
The lowest note possible to get from the violin is this open G.
On the piano every note is ready and waiting for us to touch. Not so on
the violin. Every note (except the open ones) the performer has to make.
He has only four fingers to make these notes because his thumb simply
helps the hand take its various _positions_. Generally speaking, there
are seven positions; for the three still higher ones are rarely used.
With each position, the hand is shifted a little higher on the neck of
the violin; and the thumb and wrist gradually turn, the thumb from and
the wrist towards the face of the player. As the hand creeps up upon the
instrument, the fingers come closer together and the notes lie nearer to
one another on the strings. The flexible little finger can be extended
still further in each position while the position of the wrist and thumb
is still retained.
As each finger presses the string tightly and firmly, the player shortens
the vibration (or length) of the string and gets a special note. He
learns to know his fingerboard and where all the notes lie on the strings
with their intervals of whole tones and half-tones; and just what finger
to place on these notes if he wants to play in the first, third, or
fifth, position,—and so forth. The violinist rarely plays in any one
position; but lets his wrist move up and down and his fingers fly all
over the fingerboard, playing in all the positions just as he pleases.
The player has to have a very accurate knowledge of the fingerboard;
and then, beyond that knowledge, a very correct ear so that he may play
in perfect tune, or good _intonation_, as it is called. A beginner on
the violin finds this task even harder than to learn to draw a firm,
straight, even and liquid bow. He has to listen to every note he produces
and test it, as it were, until, after a time, he learns the fingerboard
and his fingers drop on the right spots automatically. Of all musicians
the players of strings have the most sensitive, accurate and the best
trained ears.
[Illustration: VIOLIN
_By Guarneri del Gesù. Owned by Paganini_]
On the strings certain other notes are produced called harmonics. At
certain places on a string there are nodes, as they are called, where,
by lightly touching the string with the finger, over-tones are set
vibrating. These are very strange and curious. They sound ethereal and
flute-like. There are two kinds of harmonics: natural harmonics and
artificial harmonics. The natural harmonics are found on the open strings
at certain definite places. There are _five_ of these on each string.
The artificial harmonics are produced by stopping the string with one
finger and touching it lightly with another. These harmonics are harder
to master; and they are a great worry to a violinist, because if his
violin gets out of tune (drops a little from the heat of a concert hall,
perhaps) the proper harmonics cannot be played. The question of harmonics
is one that belongs to the science of acoustics and it is a very hard one
to understand.
The strings are different in character and quality of tone. The G is very
rich and mellow; D and A (particularly D) are sweet and warm; and E is
very penetrating. The French call the latter _chanterelle_ because it so
often sings the melody.
One peculiar charm about the violin is that though each of these strings
has an individual character they “carry over” into each other so
beautifully that a good player can pass from one to another smoothly and
evenly. He mixes them, as it were, into a lovely whole. In passing from
one position to another the violinist often _delicately_ slides with his
finger up to, or down from, a note. This effect is called _portamento_;
and it is one of the charms in violin-playing. Do not think that with his
first fingers, the artist slides along the string until he finds the note
he wants. Nothing of the kind. He slides up the string with one finger to
_nearly the place_ he wants and then drops another finger firmly on the
right note. But this _portamento_ is done so beautifully, so lightly and
so swiftly that we never hear a slur, but are only conscious of a lovely
and graceful effect.
When the composer wants to produce a very soft and veiled impression he
writes on his score for the strings _con sordini_. The _sordino_ is a
little brass, or wooden, article that looks like a comb. It is placed on
the bridge, teeth downwards, to add weight and to deaden the vibrations.
You will often see each of the Strings take his _sordino_ out of his
waistcoat pocket and place it on the bridge of his instrument during the
performance of a composition. Very few compositions are played with the
_sordino_ all the way through.
The left hand of a violinist is, to a certain degree, _mechanical_ and
trained to get accurate intonation, perfect position and tremendous
dexterity. His right hand has another kind of work to do. The bowing of
a violinist is what _breath_ is to a singer and what _touch_ is to a
pianist. The beauty and delicacy of tone and the astonishing effects of
scattering showers of notes about are all the work of the loose wrist,
strong and flexible arm and yielding fingers that hold the bow and draw
it across the strings.
[Illustration: INSTRUMENT-MAKER’S WORKSHOP
_Eighteenth Century_]
The rich, velvety, smooth and peaceful _legato_; the detached or short,
sharp strokes; the hammered; the jumping; and the harp-like effects,
the _arpeggios_ (or open chords) swinging back and forth, are all
accomplished by the bow. Once in a great while, we hear a strange and
weird effect caused by rapping the string lightly with the stick of the
bow. But this is only a kind of trick that composers sometimes introduce.
Liszt calls for it in his _Mazeppa_; Saint-Saëns in his _Danse Macabre_;
and Strauss in _Also Sprach Zarasthustra_.
More often the violins (and other stringed instruments) play
_pizzicato_,—that is the violinist rests his thumb against the
fingerboard and plucks the strings with the tip of his forefinger.
Beethoven makes an effective use of this in the _Scherzo_ of his _Fifth
Symphony_ and so does Tschaikowsky in the _Scherzo_ of his _F-minor
Symphony_.
In the Orchestra violins are classified into First and Second, as we have
seen, the First Violins sitting on the Conductor’s left and the Second
Violins on his right hand. They sit two and two, each couple sharing a
desk. The First Violins sing the high Soprano and the Second Violins the
mezzo-soprano. The First Violin in the whole Orchestra is called the
Concert-meister, or Concert-master, or simply the First Violin. Very
often he plays an elaborate solo passage.
Before the days of modern Conductors the First Violin used to be the
Conductor of the orchestra, or, we might say, the Conductor played the
violin and led the Orchestra at the same time. But although the First
Violin has no longer this double duty, his importance in the Orchestra is
very great. On him depends the _attack_ and phrasing of the first violin
and to a certain extent of the entire string Orchestra.
With regard to the position of the violin in the Orchestra let us
hear Lavignac: “The violin,” he says, “is preëminently a _melodic_
instrument,—the splendid _sparkling soprano_ of the stringed tribe, the
richest in varied effects, the most agile and the most impassioned of
orchestral elements.”
And now having understood its value as an individual, let us turn to
Berlioz to get an idea of its team-work.
“Violins are capable of a host of apparently inconsistent shades of
expression. They possess (as a whole) force, lightness, grace, accents
both gloomy and gay, thought and passion. _The only point is to know how
to make them speak._ Slow and tender melodies are never better rendered
than by a mass of violins. Nothing can equal the touching sweetness of
a score of first strings made to sing by twenty well-skilled bows. The
violin is, in fact, the true female voice of the Orchestra,—a voice at
once passionate and chaste, heart-rending yet soft, which can weep, sigh
and lament, chant, pray and muse, or burst forth into joyous accents
as none other can do. An imperceptible movement of the arm, an almost
unconscious sentiment on the part of him who experiences it, producing
scarcely any apparent effect when executed by a single violin will,
when multiplied by a number of them in unison, give forth enchanting
gradation, irresistible impulse and accents which penetrate to the very
heart’s core.”
* * * * *
Until the bow was perfected there was no brilliant violin-playing as we
understand it to-day. It took a long time for the bow to develop. There
was a “Stradivari of the bow”; and the name of this person so valuable to
the art of violin-playing is François Tourte (see portrait facing page
44). All bows are made on Tourte’s model. A real Tourte bow commands a
high price.
To understand what Tourte did, we shall have to go back to the early days
of the violin and see what kind of a bow the old players used.
The earliest bow with which the _viole_, or _vielle_, and the early
violin was played was shaped just like the bow from which an arrow is
drawn,—a cord stretched from end to end of a stick. It was a very clumsy
affair. In the Thirteenth Century when the violin began to develop as
we have seen (see page 17), the bow began to change, too. The first
improvement was to make one end blunt and to use hair instead of a cord.
The head, or tip, was still sharply pointed. Nothing happened until the
time of Corelli, the Italian composer and violinist (1653-1713), who
did so much to improve violin-playing. He and others of his time used a
straight, short bow, which was not at all elastic, although it was made
of light wood. This was a distinct gain, as was also the novel idea of a
screw by which the hair could be regulated.
The next change took place in the time of another Italian violinist,
Tartini (1692-1770), the one who wrote the _Devil’s Sonata_, the melody
of which he said the Devil played to him one night in a dream. Tartini
used a longer bow than Corelli. It was also thinner and more elastic; but
the head of it was still scooped like the ancient ones.
Then, at the end of the Eighteenth Century, François Tourte (1747-1835),
worked away making bows, as his father had done before him, until he
developed the modern bow. It appeared just about the time of the French
Revolution. Like Stradivari, Tourte continued to work till the end of his
life. He worked all day in his workshop in Paris, No. 10 Quai de l’École,
and on Sundays and holidays he sat on the banks of the Seine fishing,
just as they do to-day, and occasionally caught a tiny little fish to the
envy of excited rivals around him.
With the stiff, straight, heavy, unelastic bow, the violinist could,
of course, produce very few effects. Tourte’s improvements almost
revolutionized violin-playing. It is said that Viotti, another Italian
(1753-1824), and perhaps up to his time the greatest violinist that had
appeared, gave Tourte the benefit of his ideas.
It is only by the use of an _elastic_ bow that a violinist is able to
produce his wonderful effects. Bowing is to the violinist what breath
is to the singer and touch to the pianist: _it is only through the bow_
that the violinist is able to express his emotions and ideas. So until
Tourte’s time there was no real _Art of Bowing_, although Tartini wrote a
little book on the subject.
[Illustration: FRANÇOIS TOURTE
“_The Stradivari of the bow_”]
The world was slow to adopt Tourte’s bow; and it was not until Paganini
(1784-1840), the Italian wizard, came on the stage that a revolution in
violin-playing took place. Paganini used every imaginable movement of
the bow and developed the flexibility of the wrist. Then a new School of
violin-playing arose and violin-playing gradually developed into what it
is to-day.
“Tourte’s first experiments are said to have been made from the staves of
old sugar hogsheads from Brazil. This is not unlikely. Probably the best
slabs of Brazil-wood employed for this purpose had acquired a certain
additional elasticity from the combined effect of exposure to tropical
heat and the absorption of the saccharine juices.
“It is certain that the greater elasticity which he secured in the
stick by the choice and preparation of the wood, enabled him to carry
out to the fullest extent the method of _bending the stick of the bow
the reverse way_, that is, inwards, and thus to realize what had long
been the desideratum of a violinist,—a _bow which should be strong and
elastic without being heavy_. By thus increasing and economising the
resistance of the stick, he liberated the player’s thumb and fingers from
much useless weight. By a series of patient experiments he determined
the right curvature for the stick and the rule for tapering it gradually
towards the point so as to have the centre of gravity in the right
place, or, in other words, to ‘balance’ properly over the strings in
the hands of the player. He determined the true length of the stick
and the height of the point and the nut, in all which particulars the
bow-makers of his time seem to have erred on the side of excess. Lastly
he invented the method of spreading the hairs and fixing them on the face
of the nut by means of a moveable band of metal fitted on a slide of
mother-of-pearl.”[9]
Tourte’s violin bows are from 29 to 29½ inches long; a viola bow is 29
inches; and a ’cello bow is from 28½ to 28¾ inches. The stick of a violin
bow is made of Brazilian snake wood, or lance wood, reddish and slightly
mottled. It is cut straight, following the grain of the wood and then it
is slightly bent by the application of heat. The hair, fastened into the
tip by a plug, is inserted into the nut of the bow (made of ebony, or
tortoise shell); it can be made tighter, or looser, by turning the screw
in the nut. There are from 175 to 200 hairs in a bow and these are taken
from tails of stallions. White hair is used for the violin, viola and
violoncello and black for the double-bass. Rosin is rubbed on the bow to
increase its friction.
A violinist takes just as much care of his bow as he does of his violin.
When he has finished playing, he wipes his violin carefully with a silk
handkerchief before he places it tenderly in the case; then he _unscrews_
his bow and places it in the rests in the top of the case.