Old Violins by H. R. Haweis

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!