One instance of a Strad, once my own property, comes to my mind. It had something wrong with the interior that necessitated opening. The violin was of good reputation for its tone of fine quality, quantity and ease of emission. There was no help for it; much against my inclination the separation of the upper table from the ribs would have to take place, either by my own hands, or those of some other person, the rectification being impossible from the exterior as it sometimes may be. With all necessary care, guided by past experience, the opening was safely accomplished, and after a very interesting examination of the interior, which to an ordinary observer would have seemed but peering into a dirty old wooden box, having nothing perceptibly different from any other, was in what would be called a fair state of preservation. I took the calipers in hand, expecting to learn something, but found all the original thicknesses had been lost under the hands of numerous repairers.
The supposed system or rule followed by Stradivari—that is, according to what critics and writers have declared was his habit—was certainly not demonstrated in this instance: in fact the eyesight alone was sufficient to perceive that whatever theory the master had believed in as necessary for the production of his inimitable quality, or whatever rule as to gauging should be followed in order to obtain enough power and freedom of emission were, in the present instance, we will not say ignored, but quite imperceptible; and why? because the fiddle at one time had been what we moderns—with our ideas of regulation and fitting—would term "too thick in the wood." The instrument had undergone much affliction from various physicians, but, judging from various little details of evidence, been at almost all times highly prized. Here and there were the studs or buttons of various kinds of pine stuck by repairers of different nationalities and degrees of skill, some placed with apparent good intention, others without reason at all, while several parts bore indications of studs having at one time rested there and been afterwards removed by succeeding repairers. Now all these men had a thought of doing their work properly, and in finishing off their studs with gouge or glass-paper, had whipped off around each spot some of the precious wood of Stradivari, with a general result of a series of hollows and gentle prominences not at all pleasing to the eye of the believer in the thickness theory, but nevertheless instructive.
Other instances in which the master's work—while still good and serviceable, with much evidence of unskilful repair, or want of proper attention at the time of accident, have come under my notice, enough, long ago, to have, as the saying is, "knocked into a cocked hat," all that has been put forth regarding the mathematical precision of the thicknesses over the different parts of a violin by Antonio Stradivari. One or two further remarks may be interesting on this part of our subject. The fact must not be lost sight of that the pupils of the now well established master of his art in Cremona were working either at that place likewise, or in the large cities of Italy, and had become famous, or were soon to be so and themselves surrounded by learners of the art. All these had been initiated in the secrets, if any, of their craft and in the particulars which distinguished them from others, or we may say, they were of the Stradivari school, showing in a more or less degree the same species of tone which the master had brought to maturity, and which he retained with consistency and never swerved from to his latest day.
It is quite a reasonable supposition that most, if not all, of the personal pupils were taught by the master, or had the way pointed out to them by which they might, with the right ear for discrimination of tone quality and enough of industry, impart to their works the identical qualities of those of their teacher. But what are the facts left for our consideration in connection with caliper measurement? the pupils admittedly of his teaching, among whom we may mention Lorenzo Guadagnini, his son Joannes Battista, Alexandri Gagliano, one or two of his sons and Carlo Bergonzi, as the best known, each adopted their own, or shall we say, left no more evidence for us of having a set rule for thicknesses than their master. The nearest approach to the asserted system of Stradivari, that of a gentle declination of substance in the wood down to the edge, was made by Lorenzo Guadagnini in his extra sized violins; but then the tone, wonderfully fine, is not Stradivari, but Guadagnini. Carlo Bergonzi's system, if we may for a moment call it, was quite unlike Stradivari, and yet connoisseurs have frequently credited him with having got "the same beautiful quality of tone." From these few references it will be sufficiently plain that the grand secret of tone quality must not be sought for with the aid of calipers, so we will dismiss this part of our subject and proceed to other considerations.
Besides those who have pinned their faith to the thicknesses, there are those who take up with the "air mass" theory. I am afraid the arguments in favour of this last will not bear even so much knocking about as those just considered.
We have in the first place to take into account the fact of the larger modern bar taking up more room than the old obsolete one of, not only Stradivari, but all the other masters of his time and before. The upper and lower end blocks have been enlarged in many instances to obtain a better hold on the upper and lower table. These alterations have been each of necessity, not of ignorance or mere whim, and moreover have proved efficacious for the end in view. The restorers, or regulators who have performed these operations must—according to the "air mass" theory—have been acting quite "in the teeth" of it and Stradivari's regulation, further there is not one fiddle in a hundred—perhaps not that—which has been in use for a generation but what shows a sinking one side or the other, or, when the modelling is full, a depression in the middle of the upper table, and very frequently a greater fulness at the back where the sound post touches and presses from the inside. These alterations, individually or collectively, alter the "air mass" of the interior, and the violin thus, according to the theory, contains within itself the elements of its own early dissolution, so far as fine quality is concerned. Facts, however, go to prove the contrary, and with the modern regulator's efforts to obtain the best amount of a good thing known to be present, it is quite probable that Stradivari himself never heard his instruments to such advantage as they may be now, notwithstanding the unreasonably high pitch to which violinists are obliged to conform their tuning.
There was another theory promulgated many years back by certain people of some degree of eminence in their own walk in life. A grand discovery was announced, that the excellence of the violins of Stradivari consisted in the tonal difference between the upper and lower tables peculiar no doubt to that master. This sort of committee of scientific experimenter, violin dealer and author, did not—while centralising their efforts on the violins of one master—say whether the same relationship existed between the back and front of a Nicola Amati, Maggini or Gasparo de Salo, they made something of a slip when they mentioned the violins of the great Joseph Guarnerius as showing the same tonal difference.
It would have been very interesting to have heard of results after further trials by the same experimenters upon upper or lower tables of violins by now not very much less celebrated makers, who, although of the same class or school, were living—for those times—far away from the central luminary of the Cremonese art. What would have been said of Montagnana of Venice? a star of the first magnitude, curiously near in quality and quantity to the great centre to which he was willing to pay obeisance and throw out a reflected light; of Gobetti, perhaps more "Straddy" than any other Italian, Gofrilleri, Seraphino, two or three of the Tononis, besides other lights of lesser magnitude, with exceedingly fine qualities, but perhaps open to the charge of intermittency. Further, several of the Milanese school,—offshoots of the Amati and Stradivari,—of Lorenzo Guadagnini, a master of his art in all its details, if ever there was one, his son Joannes Battista, steadier in his working, but more uncertain in his results—shifting from place to place, may have had some connection with this—and the occasionally fine artificers of the same place, Landolfi, the Grancinos and Testores and later on Balestrieri of Mantua and Storioni of Cremona. These men, always good, and when circumstances were favourable, great in their art, often grand in their individuality and power, were, by these modern scientific interrogators placed aside or quietly ignored, apparently either as unworthy of their recognition, or of such inferior renown as not to come within the scope of their investigations.
A close and searching inquiry into the causes that enabled different masters of their art to bring about the desirable end of their labours, that of imparting a distinct quality and individuality of tone, might have enabled them to get at least a hint as to the means whereby Stradivari gratified the tastes of his patrons at the time and connoisseurs in general of the present day. As indicated before, the Venetian masters were—probably by the same means—able to put before their patrons that kind of tone most in agreement with the luxurious surroundings of the Venetian nobility, or offered and found acceptable to the musical public generally there.
A prolonged, earnest examination of the peculiarities of tone attached to the violins of the makers of the chief seats of violin making, has led to the inference that the difference in kind or degree was not from individual choice, but chiefly owing to outside influence.