Fig. 1.—RAVANASTRON
A description of an instrument bearing a great similarity to the ravanastron, which is depicted on a tall, handled cup belonging to the collection of Greek and Etruscan vases made by Lucien Napoleon, Prince of Caneno, is to be found in Mr J. M. Fleming’s “Violins Old and New” (London, 1883). His authority is a reproduction of the instrument, which he states to have found in an illustrated catalogue of the Prince’s valuable collection, published by subscription at Milan, in 1836. The scene in which the instrument figures is printed in red on a black ground, and reveals a man reading to a couple of youths who lean upon knotted sticks, while they listen with great earnestness to the narrative. On each side of the principal figure is an object which is technically termed, by authorities in these matters, “thecæ”—indicating the profession of the reader. It is the form of one of these “thecæ” that closely resembles the ravanastron, and, in addition, has a bow placed across the strings startlingly modern in appearance.
Fig. 2
ANCIENT EGYPTIAN GUITARS
Looked at from a conjectural point of view, one might hazard that this picture perhaps furthers the cause of the Indian ravanastron’s antiquity, when we bear in mind that the music of the Sanskrit period closely resembles that of the Ancient Greeks. The Greeks in their turn—it may be remembered—borrowed their music from Egypt: the Arabs from Persia: the Chinese from India: Japan from China: and so on in a merry-go-round of reiteration. This borrowing system has originated numberless theories of derivation, but one cannot get away from the fact that Egypt was the mother country of musical instruments with stretched strings and possibly (?) of the bow also. The resemblance between the ancient Egyptian guitar (Fig. 2) and the ravanastron (Fig. 1) has easily led to the supposition that those most accomplished instrumentalists of ancient times must have discovered the art of producing sound by friction, although they have left no proof of any such invention. But—we live in an age of discovery—the most effete origin of the bow may yet be unearthed, for the world’s dust heaps are far from being completely ransacked. Only the other day a contemporary newspaper announced that “Dr von Lecoque, a scientific emissary of the Persian Government, has arrived safely at Srinagar [Kashmir], after a journey through remote parts of Asia. He has brought with him a quantity of highly interesting paintings upon stucco, the background in many cases being of gold-leaf, as in Italian work, and a number of manuscripts in ten different languages and one wholly unknown tongue. Dr von Lecoque’s discoveries probably constitute the greatest archæological find since the days of Layard and Rawlinson.”
Pending the appearance of further revelations concerning the origin of stringed instruments played with a bow, there is no harm in quoting the following Oriental tale which to some extent tends to strengthen the invention of the bow and gut strings in India. The story is to be found in a Persian work entitled the “Tute Nama”[4] (“Tales of a Parrot, or Parrot Book,”) written by a Persian author named Nakhshabi, A.D. 1329, who adapted the romance—be it noted—from a Sanskrit work, now extant. The frame or leading narrative of the book deals with a merchant who had a beautiful wife, but, desiring to increase his wealth by establishing trade with other countries, he resolved to travel. His wife, with sweet and womanly affection, clings to him, and endeavours to dissuade him from his purpose. But for reply, he expatiates to her upon the evils of poverty and the advantages of wealth in a manner that would delight the heart of “Major Barbara’s” cynical father “Andrew Undershaft.” “A man without riches,” says he, “is fatherless, and a home without money is destitute.” Again: “He that is in want of cash is a nonentity, and wanders in the land unknown.” Other similar aphorisms greet his gentle wife’s persuasions, and at length the matter ends in his departure. Before leaving, however, he goes to the bazaar and purchases, at a great cost, a wonderful parrot that can discourse eloquently, and a species of nightingale called a “sharak,” which can imitate the human voice in a surprising manner. These he presents to his spouse as a parting gift, charging her that she shall consult the birds and gain their joint consent before transacting any matter of importance.
Time passes; the merchant’s wife has bemoaned her lord’s absence and conversed with the birds, until, one day, a handsome foreign Prince goes by the beautiful lady’s residence, and chances to meet the glance of her languishing eyes. In true Persian fashion, they instantly fall in love with one another, and the usual female Mercury of such romances is employed to arrange a lover’s meeting. Before keeping her appointment with the Prince, however, the merchant’s wife seeks the counsel of her two birds, as in duty bound. The “sharak” forbids her to see the Prince at the first suggestion, and is rewarded for her vigilance by getting her neck wrung. The parrot is next questioned, but seeing the fate of his companion he prudently temporises, and commences to tell a tale of such flattering interest that his mistress forgets to be angry, and listens, eager and absorbed.
Night after night, the parrot—in the manner of Sharazad, who narrated stories for “A Thousand and One Nights”—eloquently romances, thus cutely preventing the lady’s contemplated intrigue, until the merchant’s return makes it impossible. On the fourteenth night the clever bird entertains his mistress with the following ingenious theory of the invention of musical instruments:—
“Some attribute ... the discovery to the sounds made by a large stone against the frame of an oil-press, and others to meat when roasting, but the sages of Hind [India] are of opinion that it originated in the following accident. As a learned Brahmin was travelling to the court of an illustrious raja, he rested about the middle of the day under the shade of a mulberry-tree, on the top of which he beheld a mischievous monkey climbing from bough to bough, till by a sudden slip he fell upon a sharp-pointed shoot which instantly ripped up his belly, and left his entrails suspended on the tree, while the unlucky animal fell breathless upon the dust of death. Some time after this, as the Brahmin was returning, he accidentally sat down in the same place and, recollecting the circumstance, looked up and saw that the entrails were dried and yielded a harmonious sound every time the wind gently impelled them against the branches. Charmed at the singularity of the adventure, he took them down and, after binding them to the two ends of his walking-stick, touched them with a small twig by which he discovered that the sound was much improved. When he got home he fastened the staff to another piece of wood, which was hollow, and by the addition of a bow which was strung with part of his own beard he converted it into a complete instrument.[5] In succeeding ages the science received considerable improvements. After the addition of a bridge purer notes were extracted; and the different students, pursuing the bent of their inclinations, constructed instruments of various forms according to their individual fancies; and to this whimsical accident we are indebted for the tuneful ney, and the heart-exhilarating rabáb, and in short all the other instruments of wind and string.”