The Bow, Its History, Manufacture and Use / 'The Strad' Library, No. III.

by Henry Saint-George

In treating of the somewhat complex and, in many details, highly-disputed subject of the functions of the bow, I shall prefer to handle the question in the abstract rather than to launch myself on the choppy sea of "technique"; a sea abounding in shoals, reefs, undercurrents and whirlpools; extremely difficult to navigate inasmuch as that no two charts agree. Consequently when the mariner launches his boat the danger to himself and his passengers is considerable. In plain English the difficulty of explaining all the well-nigh imperceptible differences of movement in bone and muscle required for the various styles of bowing is so enormous that he who attempts to do so on paper lies under the grave danger of being misunderstood, and the student under the scarcely less grave one of misunderstanding. The danger is reciprocative, just as, to return to my nautical simile, the peril of the helmsman is shared by each passenger if he by mischance steers upon a submerged rock.

Therefore, dear reader, I will survey the whole prospect from a secure coign of vantage upon the mainland, and trust my impressions thereof may prove of some slight service to you. As I have disclaimed all intention of making this portion of my work a handbook of bowing technique it seems superfluous to add that my observations are addressed more to the teacher than the student. I use these words in their accepted and arbitrary meanings for the sake of distinguishing between two separate classes. Of course, from the higher standpoint, a good teacher is always a student. If it were not so the following pages would be written to no purpose.

Some years ago a certain eminent M.D. collaborated with a more or less well known singing master in a work on the Larynx. The musical world talked of little else but vocal chords and soft palates for many months, and the musical press was teeming with correspondence in which the pros and cons of such studies were hotly discussed, many of the antagonistic writers opining that the knowledge of the anatomy of the throat would be of as much service to a vocalist as that of the hand to a violinist. Which reasoning sounds at first glance quite complete, yet, on examination, it will be observed that there is no such close analogy as these writers appeared to think. To begin with, in singing the mind only occupies itself with the sound produced. To learn singing is to practise mimicry. We cannot determine the position of the vocal chords before producing the note. Our consciousness begins at the other end; the mind conjures up a certain ideal sound which we attempt to realize vocally; if the desired timbre is produced the laryngeal action is correct. With the violin thought commences with the means. The hand is trained; we say set the fingers so, and the thumb so. Now practice; when the action is perfect the tone will be right. Briefly in singing we strive for the tone and the action follows, in the violin we strive for the action and the tone follows. Thus it is clear that a knowledge of the structure of the hand is of distinct value to a violinist—in particular, a teacher—while, on the other hand, the knowledge of the anatomy of the throat can be little more than interesting to the vocalist.

A knowledge of the structure and functions of the various parts of the hand on the part of a teacher would smooth over many disheartening experiences of his pupils. Just as it is of value to study the mental characteristics of a pupil so, also, is it of value to thoroughly examine his physical peculiarities. I wonder how many violin teachers have noticed, or have profited by so noticing, that no two hands are alike, or that thumbs are of different lengths and set on in various degrees of opposition to the fingers. It is seldom that such apparently unimportant details are observed by teachers, the majority of whom make all their pupils hold the bow alike, long thumbs or short thumbs it makes no difference. I remember having for a pupil a young lady who had been taught to hold her bow at the extreme tips of her fingers. Naturally she gained no facility and every attempt at semiquavers sent the bow flying across the room to the imminent danger of the teacher's optics. I surmised the cause of this eccentricity and was ultimately able to verify my conjectures. The master who had been so conscientious in making her hold the bow in this strained and ungainly position was blessed with an abnormally long thumb; the pupil's thumb was short. What came natural to the one was a strain on the other.

The function of the thumb is that of a pivot; a fulcrum. The bow is a lever resting thereon, and its pressure on the string is regulated by the first and second fingers on the one side and by the third and fourth on the other. It would thus appear that the best place for the thumb would be exactly between the second and third fingers. But it is not given to every thumb to drop naturally into this position. And here is to be noted the germ of facility in bowing. Every thumb closes naturally on a certain spot; it may be on the second finger, or on the third. If the former it can be made to rest on the third or even the fourth without apparent effort, but minute observation will detect an infinitesimal strain when the thumb is taken beyond its natural resting place. Therefore I maintain that the best position for the thumb is to be determined by examination of the hand and thumb, and will differ slightly in each individual player. It is curious to note how many teachers, some of extreme eminence, take such pains to perpetuate their own bad habits in their pupils under the impression that they are teaching a perfect and superior technique. I am afraid that it sounds somewhat of a heresy to speak of great players and teachers having "bad habits"; the expression is, perhaps, rather strong, but what I refer to is the "personal equation." Such a player has a tendency to part his fingers, another elevates the fourth finger in certain passages, this one has a peculiar movement of the elbow, etc., etc. All these divergencies from rigid and pedantic technique being the result of their several physical differences. When these men prove themselves great artists and attain high positions as teachers their advice is sought on matters of technique. Finding themselves oracles they first consult the oracle by aid of looking glasses, analyse in this way their own actions, and then the one who parts his fingers lays it down as a law that the fingers should be parted, and the one with the peculiar movement of the elbow will not rest until all his pupils have acquired the same eccentricity. I will quote another example of this sort of thing that came under my own observation some years ago. It deals with the left hand, but displays the spirit so well that I feel it is not out of place in this connexion. A thin, delicate lad, with fingers "like needles"—as a brother violinist described them to me—was sent to a German professor whose digits resembled nothing so much as the handles of table knives. This was an excellent violinist, or rather "geiger," for the Germans make this distinction, but owing to the size of his fingertips he could only play semitones in the third position by removing the finger stopping the lower note while putting down the higher one. If he retained the second finger on E on the A string, third position, the third finger would fall too sharp for F natural. This seemed to him such an unalterable law of nature that he made the lad do the same, notwithstanding that the boy could have stopped quarter tones with ease had they been wanted!

Had this man made even a superficial study of the hand he would have been spared much profanity and the pupil much heartache and disappointment. Tuition is twofold. There is direct teaching and there is development. The seed is sown and then the soil is watered and tended in the manner calculated to nourish and develop the particular plant to the best advantage. Again, the gardener does not plant his roses in damp shady corners or his ferns in sand.

Teachers require to use more of the gardener's judgment. They must cease to look upon their pupils as defective copies of themselves and must not fit them out with technique as soldiers are with clothing. The technique should be made for the particular player. A violinist with an ill-fitting technique is about as elegant as a short man in clothes intended for a tall one, or vice versa. Many cases of bad or defective technique are directly attributable to the teacher's want of perception of "fit."

Thus we see players whose natural movements are bold and free trussed up in a small and finicking technique, and others whose bent is towards neatness, struggling manfully with a cumbersome "large style." I have heard a "gentleman" defined as "a man who wears clothes that belong to him." Similarly we may say that a good violinist is one whose technique belongs to him. Every movement should come naturally, it should be as much a part of his personality as his tone of voice or the glance of his eye, and it should be the teacher's aim to develop this personality and not to stifle it as is too often the case. Of course great judgment is required in this development, or the personality will become marked mannerism, than which nothing could be worse. True art always displays a certain reticence; excess at either end of the gamut of emotion is avoided. Calmness is not coldness, and passion carried too far becomes caricature. Tone must be developed also, but it should always be borne in mind that exertion is not power; a mistake too frequently made. How often do we see a well meaning but physically weak player trying to tear the tone out of a violin by "main strength." Such efforts are useless, particularly when practised on a fine violin. A really good instrument is of too sensitive an organisation to respond to bullying. Teachers cry out to their pupils sometimes "lay it on!" "pull it out!" and other contradictory sounding phrases with the same meaning, and occasionally such admonitions and encouragements bear good fruit, but there is always the danger of "effort" being engendered thereby. There should be no effort in art. Effort, too, defeats its own ends. It weakens; exercise strengthens. Therefore let the strength with which to "lay it on" or "pull it out" be gradually and naturally developed by constant and gentle practice. The muscles will gain strength thus, and the result will be a full round tone, capable of every inflection and free from everything like harshness.

Power should be implied rather than displayed. The instrument will then respond freely and fully as a woman to the caress of a strong manly arm.