Chapter XIV: Violin Treatment

The notion that the more a fiddle is knocked about the better it is, is similar to the theory that the more you knock about a horse the better he goes.

A good horse will take a great deal of spoiling, and so will a good fiddle. Your well-bred beast, even when broken down, if you turn him out to grass and attend to his ailments, will recover marvellously, and so will a violin, if you glue him up, readjust his nervous system, keep him dry, and coax him a bit.

The delusion that a fiddle is all the better for being maltreated is due to this:--Many people observe that their old, battered, disorganised fiddles, which went into the skilful repairer’s hands sounding like tin kettles, come out with the true Cremona timbre; but that, my deluded friend, is not in consequence, but in spite of the knocking about to which your favourites have been exposed.

The fiddle-doctor has attended to your violin’s internal economy, and gently healed its bruises, killed the wolf or fiddle stomach-ache from which it was suffering, glued tight the rattling back, ribs, belly, fixed the loose sound-bar, and readjusted your Cremona’s very soul (_l’âme du violon_), which is the sound-post and so it fares well; but remember, ’tis better to keep a fiddle in repair and use than allow it to get out of both, and go a mere wreck to the workshop.

I am not forgetting, when I say “use,” that the incessant and continued playing upon an instrument is said to result in its getting what Joachim calls “played out,” and that collectors have been great benefactors by withdrawing choice instruments from wear and tear, giving them thus long periods of suspended animation; but, as a general rule, so long as a violin lasts--and how long it will last is still a vexed question--fair wear and tear and attention is just as good for a fiddle as work, exercise, and cleanly habits are good for man and beast.

Neglect is _never_ good; knocking about is _never_ good!

Lay it to your heart, O young player!

What is that precious thing committed to your care? You have brought it home from the auction-room--your Amati. There was a conspiracy to keep down the bidding. An influential dealer wanted to buy it cheap, having already half sold it in advance for twice as much as he meant to give; he went up to £40 at the auction and stopped, but you were the dark horse and made another bid; he winked at the auctioneer, supposing it to be a bogus bid; the man with the hammer paused and looked at the dealer, who shook his head; for once the dealer had been too clever and lost his Amati for a £5 note. It was knocked down to you.

You get it home; there is something wrong about it; the timbre of the A string is unequal--sweet, but too weak--it has a crack in one rib.

You don’t expect a trumpet-sound like that of a Joseph, or quite the bell-like ring of a Strad, but you do mean to have a quality like the ripple of water--a round, soft, and incomparably sensitive and _intime_ tone, not to be surpassed by Strad and never reached by Stainer.

Of course your early Nicolo has got to be overhauled. He has got a crack--perhaps more than one. Why, he is already more than two hundred years old, and may have a mark of the young Stradivari’s chisel about him. Of what attention is he not worthy! Take him to a subtle violin medicine-man, who will at a glance see what he has got to deal with, and will sit down before him and think!

He will then take him up, handle him, tap him, pull him to pieces with excessive care and reflection. When you get him back, you may still be not quite satisfied, but wait. _Your_ treatment has to begin where the fiddle-doctor’s ends.

The convalescent home comes after the hospital--your house is the convalescent home.

The glue must dry; the changed sound-post must grow to the newly-directed strain and tension of the vibrating boards; the refixed flanks must learn to deal with the air column, and the filled-up crack, by constantly thrilling with the rest, must have time to forget that it ever was a crack!

Be not impatient. Play upon it gently at first, and by-and-by draw out its tone; lay it aside and watch that no harm comes to it; let it lie open, with a soft silken wrapper on the strings--near, not too near the fire; it must not get hot, but, like good claret, just the temperature of a comfortably warm room.

Think of it in winter as you would think of your pet canary; don’t let it get chilled at night; let it be in your own bedroom, or wherever there is an atmosphere and temperature fit for a well-cared-for “human.”

’Tis half human; ’tis caressed by your hand; it lies close to your cheek; ’tis breathed on by you when you press it, in moments of rare inspiration and musical trance, between your chin and your left breast, where its vibrating back actually _feels_ the pulses of your own heart. The waves of sound that you generate from it are saturated with the magnetism of your touch; the trembling pressure of your fingers comes from the shaking of your own life-blood as it beats in the mysterious valves of the heart, and seems to mingle with those more than atmospheric, those _psychic_ waves which travel out upon the air in a flow of magic sound conveying your inmost self to the inmost selves of others!

So this half-human thing must live with you and be cared for by and fare with you, and be kept in good humour.

See that no clot of dirt be in its case, no speck of rosin to vex and fret the smooth amber-coloured back. Take it out lovingly; polish it with soft handkerchief; keep it shining wherever the varnish still shows up, and scrupulously clean elsewhere.

The vile notion that a coat of rosin does good, and may be left with advantage like a festering mass on the belly underneath the strings, is a most grievous delusion!

Why suffer the corrosion of the varnish with a foreign substance to remain there more than on any other part of the wood?

Rosin is for the strings, not for the belly, and the strings are for friction, and are intended to be scraped through and worn out and replaced, but the belly is for vibration and is never intended to wear out.

Your rosin is life to the strings, enabling them to speak, but ’tis death to the wood, stifling its pores and striking it dumb!

Never touch your violin with oil, or spirit, or colouring. Only a skilled repairer can venture to do that, and even he will not always be wise.

I have seen really good old instruments too much cleaned or daubed over ruthlessly with muddy brown varnish, much, as Ruskin says, he saw men with knives and mops of paint at Venice scraping away and splashing over with raw blue the vast old faded skies of Paul Veronese!

A spick and span mania seizes at times upon restorers of all schools.

A relative of mine had a Spagnoletti restored to him by a cleaner, but so repainted as to be worthless.

Have not half the cathedrals in the land been disfigured by whitewash, starched and bleached just like so much dirty linen, and the old frescoes obliterated like so many disfiguring stains; and even now, in these more enlightened days, how many old carvings have been replaced by modern routine-work sculpture, whilst the walls, façade, and floor of grand old St Mark’s at Venice have been smeared over with Salviati’s modern mosaic. Thus have I seen a Maggini botched and browned over so completely with bad German varnish as to leave only faint traces here and there of the original coating.

Never in the matter of varnish dare to _replace_ what time has stolen; that loss of old varnish is a tribute paid not ungrudgingly to “the Vandal years,” who have spared the life and been unable materially to injure the fabric of the rare old instrument. Above all, thou favoured guardian of a Cremona, never let it get near damp, or suffer from any other mouldering or corrosive influence.

A friend of mine, finding that the worm had got into his violin _case_, which contained a Guadagnini, proceeded to saturate his case with benzoin, and before it was properly dry replaced the precious instrument, with the result that the old varnish was brought up in blisters all over the back, which is now one crinkled mass, as rough to the touch as a nutmeg-grater. The varnish was completely ruined, and what is worse, the violin has never sounded like itself since; a clear proof to my mind that the varnish affects the tone, or at least that damaged varnish impairs it.

It is not at all an uncommon thing to find a violin, which has been left unplayed upon for some months, sulky when first taken out.

Do not be rash or fidget with the bridge or soundpost. Warm the fiddle up gently; rub it lightly with all due care, and play on it without taking any notice of its temper; go on for a couple of hours; you will find, to your surprise, that it has recovered all its own sweetness and charm, and will be ready to charm you with the delightful sensitiveness of its response. All that was really wanted was for the temporarily disused channels of vibration to be again filled with sound--the pores--the desiccated hollows to be once more shaken up in the old way. The instrument has really gone to sleep--some of its nerve currents have got sluggish--that is, the desiccated powder molecules have stuck in the pores and must be set rolling again. But, like one just awakened, the fiddle takes a little time to be “all there,” as the idiom runs.

Something similar may be observed in a large hall. When, after the atmosphere has been quiescent for some time, speaking first begins, the speaker will not be heard well; the atmosphere is stiff, and only when the whole of it has been set in vibration--and that takes a little time--does it become sensitive and sufficiently elastic to be capable of transmitting the slightest inflections of sound.

There is, again, an electric as well as an atmospheric and molecular state of the air and all other vibratory substances, but this is a side of acoustics extremely little understood, and can only be dealt with empirically by speakers, singers, players, and especially handlers of violins, who will instinctively make use of some laws which they do not understand, and which indeed do not yet seem to have been correctly formulated.

I feel that something ought to be said about the position of the sound-post, though frankly I would rather not say anything.

Whatever advice one gives is certain to be wrongly and mischievously applied.

Technically, the sound-post should be a little behind the right foot of the bridge, if you look from head to neck, which is of course the left foot if you look from neck to head. It ought also to be straight--if it is aslant--unless the surface of the ends be cut on a slope. Of course it clings but partially to back and belly, whose throbs it is intended to blend; a little too near the bridge will often produce a light hard tone; a little too far will tend to a loose, muffled, or tubby quality; a little to the right will brighten the right string at the expense of the left, and _vice versâ_. Get it exactly in the fit place, and you attain the utmost sensibility and equal sonority of which your violin is capable. But so capricious are the vibrational laws, and so subtle are the peculiarities of each violin’s nervous system, that the position which at first has failed to yield good results will ultimately be found to have won its way to the heart of your violin, the instrument adjusting itself to what was at first an uncongenial treatment of its nerves, until the nerves learn to sympathise, and even rejoice, in special directions of pressure and tension induced by the sound-post. When this happens, better let well alone and don’t attend to outside advice of experts.

It is seldom wise to encourage an amateur, or any but a skilful hand, to trifle with the position of the sound-post. If it _must_ be moved or has fallen down, why then by all means take the advice of an expert; go to the doctor.

The same sort of advice may be given about the position of the bridge. Granted that you have a bridge which suits your instrument (and the importance of this I have elsewhere dwelt upon), then consider whether ’tis worth while to move your bridge at all. The two little side slits in the ∫ ∫ indicate approximately the position of the bridge; let a violin-doctor determine the right height, which, remember, must be modified according to its position, and the slope and elevation of the finger-board. But here again there is a vague and subtle margin for readjustment; the importance of the bridge’s position is of course directly related to the whereabouts of the sound-post, as the bridge is a prime factor in dealing first with the vibrations transmitted by the sound-post from belly to back.

There are violins which gain brilliancy by the bridge leaning a little forward, but this is of course dangerous, as a little more, and down comes the bridge. The theory of course is for the feet of the bridge to grip equally at all points the surface of the belly--flat and close, and with equal pressure. Now, if the bridge leans forward, the grip of the back part of the feet is slightly lifted, whilst the pressure of the front part is accentuated, and if it leans backwards, precisely the reverse takes place. Yet so capricious are fiddles, that some do not seem to like to have their bridges quite straight, and so they have got to be humoured.

Without grave cause I should advise not meddling with bridge or sound-post after they have been readjusted by a good repairer. He may not have been quite right; he may not have had the time or patience to deal with your _malade imaginaire_ of a fiddle--for amongst fiddles as amongst people, there are _malades imaginaires_ which baffle the profession--but your fiddle-doctor will be probably more right than you--fussy, irritable, discontented, inexperienced amateur, and, if you leave off tampering with the works, the fiddle will very probably adjust itself and get all right.

Then of course you must remember that whenever you touch the bridge you touch the elevation of the strings above finger-board. Put bridge back, you slacken the touch for the player by bringing the strings close down on the finger-board; put it forward or tilt it, and you lighten the touch; make it harder for the fingers by lifting the strings higher from the finger-board.

And now a word about your finger-board. This is generally made of ebony; the old masters used various brownish woods, choosing, of course, the harder ones, which they often inlaid beautifully. Sometimes even they used ivory; you may perhaps have noticed that on some violins you have a difficulty in stopping fifths, or indeed any chords, in tune. This, unless you are a mere blunderer, comes from the state of your finger-board. You may not have noticed it, but you will observe that the strings, by constantly being squeezed by the fingers against the smoothly-arched surface of the ebony, have worn channels in the wood, but channels of unequal depths; the consequence is that the same pressure, forcing two strings down on unequally raised surfaces, fails to produce that relatively equal pressure necessary for producing your true fifth; the string also being sunk, it does not get the full benefit of the finger’s pressure, as the shock of impact will be broken by the higher level of the finger-board on either side of the sunken string.

In this way the tone _quality_ as well as the _intonation_ suffers from what so constantly eludes observation--a worn finger-board.

Of course a new finger-board, or the restoration of an old one, is a very easy matter, and can in no way affect, except for the better, any violin.

It may safely be said that no violin now in use has either its original finger-board or, for the matter of that, its original neck. Strings of very ill-assorted thickness are also responsible for imperfect fifths.

The management of the pegs sometimes presents difficulties to the novice. Rosewood, ivory, and boxwood have been tried, but ebony seems to be the favourite, though many incline, as I do personally, to rosewood, which is less dense, and thus, in contact with the maple-head (which is again less dense in fibre than the rosewood), offers a less hard and violent contrast than does the iron ebony to the porous maple.

But the all-essential thing is for the pegs to be nicely fitted, and it is a vile practice to rosin the pegs to make them stiffer, or to rub them with lead-pencil or whitening to make them turn more easily.

If your peg sticks, it is either because it does not fit the hole, is not smooth, or because you have rammed it in too far in order to resist the pull of a string, probably coiled round and round the pegs in a tangled, twisted mess.

There never should be a need for this over-ramming in of the screw, nor would there be if, when you pulled up your new string to pitch, you immediately let it down, drew the stretched part tight, and then screwed up again, when you would find, instead of ever so many coils, you had reduced the number to one or two, which would at once lift the strain from your screw, and make it needless for you to force it in till it stuck and almost refused to move at all.

You should be able, when your fiddle is at your chin, to nip the peghead between the first and third joint of your forefinger, and adjust the pitch to a nicety and in a moment; but then the resistance of the screw must be so nicely balanced with the tension of the string as to allow of its moving easily when gripped, and keeping in its exact place when left.

It is a very strange thing that, whilst all sorts of mechanical contrivances for moving violin screws have been suggested, and even tried and adopted for guitars and double basses, the violin retains its simple and primitive screw; nor would any one who lays claim to a decent position in the trade dream of advising a departure in this, or indeed in any other respect from the custom of the Cremona school and its successors.

Concerning the stringing of your violin, beyond the hints I have given with regard to the accumulation of evils round the peg, there is not very much to be said.

The quality, manufacture, preservation, and price of strings has already been dealt with; and here, as in everything connected with violins, there must be fine and sympathetic adaptation of strings both to the performer and to his instrument.

A young girl will naturally incline to thinner strings than a strong man, just as she will usually prefer a lower bridge, which will reduce the resistance because of the reduced distance between the strings and the finger-board.

Some players will prefer a thick first or third string, according to the quality of tone they are able to elicit; some a smooth or rather thin patent fourth in preference to the usual more roughly-coiled and thicker G string, which, however, is preferable for orchestral playing; but, as a rule, buy your strings according to gauge, if you can’t trust your eye, in a good shop, and you will not be disappointed.

Remember, as I have previously intimated, that any great inequality in the relative thickness of your strings may be quite as much responsible for your imperfect fifths as an old channelled finger-board. Use plenty of rosin, and let the string be seasoned with it right up to the bridge, but not much, if at _all_, below the top of the finger-board. The rosin must be well rubbed in before you attempt solo work, as any excess of what I may call raw undigested powder will produce a most vile screeching.

The tone of a fine violinist never reminds you of the cat-gut and rosin. In the pure disembodied tone of Piatti, Joachim, or Sarasate we entirely lose the sense of all beggarly elements; they have suffered a change into “something rare and strange.”

The rough-and-ready way of testing false strings by setting them in vibration, holding by each end, and twitching till the double line is seen, and if a third line appears condemning the string as false, is a method often, not _always_, reliable. You can never be quite sure till you have put the string on. If false, you _may_ get a true length out of it by trying another part; but, as a rule, if one length of a string is false, it is bad all through. A player, especially a soloist, should always have a length or two of stretched and tested firsts in his case, or, better still, in his waistcoat pocket, before he goes on the platform, unless he can ensure the presence of a second reliable instrument at hand in case of a sudden breakage.

Strings have every kind of vice short of downright falseness. You need not put up with wheezy or dull, or any sort of impure vibration, and beware of laying the blame on the violin when the string is the offender.

Of course, if the sound-bar or the back or belly of the violin is loose, or the sound-bar askew, that will account for a good deal. By tapping all round the front and the back, just where these join the ribs, you can easily discover by a certain jar or rattle whether and where something is loose; it may be one of the blocks or linings.

Test the fiddle and you may acquit the strings; test the strings and you may acquit the fiddle.

You may sometimes experience a difficulty in playing the A or D string without striking the E or G; this may be due to your own clumsiness, but it may also be due to the curve of your bridge being too flat, or someone or more of the strings having eaten too deeply into the bridge.

If your hand perspire much--and all hands perspire--your strings, especially your E string, will rag out. It is difficult to say exactly at what stage in the ragging process it is advisable to change your string. It is strange, but true, that the tone of an old ragged string is not materially impaired. I have sometimes fancied that such thorough tough and seasoned strings are even improved in spite of age and infirmity. Certain it is that the smoothest string will go without warning, and the raggedest will sometimes hang on down to a mere thread.

Paganini perspired frightfully, so much so that he always carried a dry shirt in his violin case, and a gentleman noticed that when he opened his case to take out his violin for a public solo, his strings were in rags.

I have sometimes observed that, oddly enough, a second or third string is less durable after it has ragged than a first; the wearing of the threads which compose the thick strings seems less hard and tight than those of the thin chanterelle, or the resultant material is softer and gets soaked and cheesy, and like cheese is readily cut through by the nails.

Lastly, the amateurish and falsely-assumed economical habit of slackening all the strings each time the violin is replaced in its case is a delusion and a snare; it only worries your instrument’s nervous system.

Slacken your _bow_, not your strings.

The violin gets accustomed to the normal strain, and adjusts itself to it, and resents being deprived of its due tension as much as an athlete would resent his dumb-bells being removed.

The strings are quite as likely to break by being constantly fidgeted up and down, and the violin is much more likely to get demoralised by the wearing action and reaction of a varying strain, than if you let it alone with all its strings at their accustomed pitch.