The Violin

Lorenzo Somis, chapel-master to the King of Sardinia, was recorded in Italy as an imitator of Corelli, but in a style somewhat modernized, after the model of Vivaldi.

He printed, at Rome, in 1722, his “Opera Prima di Sonate à Violino e Violoncello, o Cembalo,” the pieces contained in which are much in Corelli’s manner; some of them with double-stopped fugues, like those of his model, and some without. Somis was one of the greatest masters of the violin of his time; but his chief professional honour, – “the pith and marrow of his attribute,” – is the having formed, among his scholars, such a performer as Giardini.

Stefano Carbonelli, who had studied the violin under Corelli, was one of the Italian Artists who contributed to diffuse the celebrity of the instrument in this country. About the year 1720, he was induced by the Duke of Rutland to come to England, and was received into the house of that nobleman. During his residence there, he published Twelve Solos for a Violin and Bass, which he frequently played in public with great applause. In each of the first six of these, there is a double-stopped fugue; and the rest, it has been observed, have pleasing melodies, with correct and judicious counterpoint. In the progress of his success in England, Carbonelli was placed at the head of the opera band, and soon became celebrated for his excellent performance.

About the year 1725, he quitted the opera orchestra for an employment in Drury Lane Theatre, where he also led, and frequently played select concert pieces between the acts. After continuing there some time, he engaged himself with Handel, as a performer in his oratorios. For several years, he played at the rehearsal and performance at St. Paul’s, for the benefit of the Sons of the Clergy.

In the latter part of his life, he in a great measure neglected the profession of music, having become a merchant, and an importer of wine from France and Germany. He obtained the place of one of the purveyors of wine to the King; and died in that employment in the year 1772.

At the time of Carbonelli’s relaxing in his homage to Apollo, for the sake of becoming a minister of Bacchus, the following lines (which have been admirably set, for two voices, by Dr. Cooke) were made up for the occasion: —

Let Rubinelli charm the ear,And sing, as erst, with voice divine, —To Carbonelli I adhere;Instead of music, give me wine!But yet, perhaps, with wine combin’d,Soft music may our joys improve;Let both together, then, be join’d,And feast we like the gods above!23

Pietro Locatelli, another of Corelli’s pupils, but one who made the boldest innovations upon the manner of that great master, and deviated, exploringly, into remarkable paths of his own, was born at Bergamo, about 1693. Being still a youth, at the time of Corelli’s decease, and full of ardent impulses in relation to the art he had embraced, Locatelli gave way to these, and soon became conspicuous for a boldness and originality which, even in our own days, would not pass unacknowledged. He developed new combinations, and made free use of arpeggios and harmonic sounds. The compositions of this master, as well as those of Mestrino, who flourished somewhat later, and was the more graceful of the two in his style of playing, are supposed to have furnished hints of no small profit to the penetrating genius of Paganini.

Locatelli died in Holland, in 1764. The crabbed passages in which he delighted to display his force, are to be found in his work entitled “Arte di nuova Modulazione,” or, as it is termed in the French editions, “Caprices Énigmatiques.”

We now approach one of those names on which the biographer may fairly delight to dwell, for its association not only with the great and beautiful in art, but with the interesting in personal character, and the romantic in incident.

Giuseppe Tartini, of Padua, the last great improver (save Viotti) of the practice of the violin, was born in April, 1692, at Pirano, a sea-port town in Istria. His father had been ennobled, in recompense of certain substantial benefactions, exercised towards the Cathedral Church at Parenza. Giuseppe was originally intended for the law; but, mixing the more seductive study of music with the other objects of his education, it soon gained the ascendant over the whole circle of the sister sciences. This is not so surprising as another strong propensity, which, during his youth, much fascinated him. This was the love of fencing – an art not likely to become necessary to the safety or honor of one possessed of the pious and pacific disposition that belonged to him, and one engaged, too, in a civil employment: yet he is said, even in this art, to have equalled the master from whom he received instructions. In 1710, he was sent to the University of Padua, to pursue his studies as a civilian; but, before he was twenty, having committed the sin of sacrificing prudence to love, in a match which he entered into without the parental fiat, he was forsaken, in return, and reduced to wander about in search of an asylum. This, after many hardships, he found in a convent at Assisi, where he was received by a monk, his relative, who, commiserating his misfortunes, let him remain there till something better might be done for him. While thus secluded and sorrowful, he took up the violin, to “manage it against despairing thoughts” – an expedient which the devotion of his soul to music must have lent some efficacy to. Not only his solace, but, by a singular turn of fortune, his rescue also, was connected with his violin. On a certain great festival, when he was in the orchestra of the convent, he was discovered, through the accident of a remarkably high wind, which, forcing open the doors of the church, blew aside the orchestral curtain, and exposed all the performers to the sight of the congregation. His recognition, under these circumstances, by a Paduan acquaintance, led to the accommodation of differences; and he then settled with his wife, for some time, at Venice24. This lady proved to be of that particular race which has never been wholly extinct since the time of Xantippe; but as, fortunately, poor Tartini was more than commonly Socratic in wisdom, virtue and patience, her reign was unmolested by any domestic war, or useless opposition to her supremacy.

His residence at Venice was rendered memorable to him, by the arrival of the celebrated Veracini (the younger) in that city. The performance of this “homme marquant” awakened a vivid emulation in Tartini, who, though he was acknowledged to have a powerful hand, had never heard a great player before, nor conceived it possible for the bow to possess such varied capabilities for energy and expression. Under this feeling, he quitted Venice with prompt decision, and proceeded to Ancona, in order to study the use of the bow in greater tranquillity and with more convenience than at Venice, as he had a place assigned him in the operatic orchestra, of that city. In the same year (1714), his studious application enabled him to make a discovery – that of the phenomenon of the third sound– which created a great sensation in the musical world, both in his own time and long afterwards, though it has led to no important practical results. This phenomenon of the third sound is the sympathetic resonance of a third note, when the two upper notes of a chord are sounded. Thus, if two parts are sung in thirds, a sensitive ear will feel the simultaneous impression of a bass or lower part. This effect may be more distinctly heard, if a series of consecutive thirds be played on the violin perfectly in tune. “If you do not hear the bass,” said Tartini to his pupils, “the thirds or sixths which you are playing are not perfect in the intonation25.” This mysterious sympathy, by which sound is enabled to call up a fellowship of sound, may be fancifully expressed in a line from the old poet, Drayton: —

“One echo makes another to rejoice!”

His diligence and exemplary devotion to his art, while at Ancona, led also to another prominent occurrence in his career – the appointment, in 1721, to the distinguished place of first violin, and master of the band, to the church of St. Anthony, of Padua. To St. Anthony, as his patron saint, he consecrated himself and his instrument, with a species and a constancy of attachment, that may find not only their excuse, but their credit, in the nature and sentiment of the times he lived in. His extending fame brought him repeated offers from Paris and London, to visit those capitals; but, holding to his conscientious allegiance, he uniformly declined entering into any other service, and was, like St. Anthony himself, a pattern of resistance to temptation.

By the year 1728, he had made many excellent scholars, and established a system of practice, for students on the violin, that was celebrated all over Europe, and increased in reputation to the end of his life. Great numbers of young men resorted to Padua from different countries, in order to receive instruction from him in music, but chiefly in the practice of the violin.

In the early part of his life, he published “Sonate a Violino e Violoncello, o Cembalo, Opera Prima.” This, and his Opera Seconda, of Six Sonatas or Solos for the same instrument, and another work entitled “XVIII Concerti a cinque Stromenti,” were all published by Le Cène, of Amsterdam, and prove him to have been a truly excellent composer. Such, however, was the ascendancy of Corelli’s name, and so ambitious was Tartini of being thought a follower of the precepts and principles of that master, that, during the zenith of his own reputation, he refused to teach any other music to his pupils, till they had studied the Opera Quinta, or Solos, of Corelli; and the excellence of this foundation was made manifest by the result. His favorite pupils were Bini and Nardini. These, as well as others of Tartini’s élèves, formed, in their turn, scholars of great abilities, who contributed to spread his reputation and manner of playing all over Europe.

Tartini’s own first master was an obscure musician, of the name of Giulio di Terni, who afterwards made a fitting change of position, and descended into the pupil of his own scholar – a circumstance related by Tartini himself, who used to say that he had studied very little till after he was thirty years of age26. At the age of fifty-two, Tartini made a marked alteration in his style of playing, from extreme difficulty (or what was then so considered) to grace and expression. His method of executing an adagio has been represented by his contemporaries as inimitable, and was almost, in their idea, supernatural – an impression to which the idea of the patron saint must have not a little conduced.

The particulars that have been preserved respecting his scholar, Pasquale Bini, are not without interest. Recommended to him at the age of fifteen, by Cardinal Olivieri, Tartini found him a youth after his own heart, possessing excellent moral dispositions, as well as musical; and he accordingly cherished a very marked regard for him. This young musician practised with such assiduity, that, in three or four years, he vanquished the most difficult of Tartini’s compositions, and executed them with greater force than the author himself. When he had finished his studies, his patron, Cardinal Olivieri, took him to Rome, where he astonished all the Professors by his performance, – particularly Montagnari, at that time the principal violinist there; and it is generally believed, that Montagnari was so mortified by the superiority, as to have died of grief! When informed that Tartini had changed his style and taste in playing, Bini returned to Padua, and placed himself for another year under that excellent and worthy master; at the end of which period, so intense had been his application, that he played with a degree of certainty and expression truly wonderful.

“Nil actum reputans, si quid superesset agendum,” —

On a certain occasion, in recommending a scholar to him, after his return to Rome, Tartini expressed his sense of Bini’s powers and character, and gave evidence of his own modest and ingenuous disposition, in the following words: – “Io lo mando a un mio scolare chi suona più di me; e me ne glorio, per essere un angelo di costume, e religioso.” – “I recommend him (the applicant) to a scholar of mine, who plays better than myself; and I am proud of it, as he is an angel in religion and morals.” Such praise has its value enhanced by the source whence it proceeds; for it was truly “laudari a laudato viro.”

The death of Tartini occurred at Padua, on the 26th of February, 1770, to the general regret of the people of that city, where he had resided nearly fifty years, and not only was regarded as its most attractive ornament, but, owing to the serious and contemplative turn of his mind, had attained the estimation of being a saint and a philosopher.

Of the general character of Tartini’s compositions, Dr. Burney, who appears to have studied them closely, has given the following judgment: – “Though he made Corelli his model in the purity of his harmony and simplicity of his modulation, he greatly surpassed that composer in the fertility and originality of his invention; not only in the subjects of his melodies, but in the truly cantabile manner of treating them. Many of his adagios want nothing but words, to be excellent pathetic opera-songs. His allegros are sometimes difficult; but the passages fairly belong to the instrument for which they were composed, and were suggested by his consummate knowledge of the finger-board, and the powers of the bow. As a harmonist, he was perhaps more truly scientific than any other composer of his time, in the clearness, character and precision of his bases, which were never casual, or the effect of habit or auricular prejudice and expectation, but learned, judicious and certain. And yet I must, in justice to others, own that, though the adagio and solo playing, in general, of his scholars are exquisitely polished and expressive, yet it seems as if that energy, fire, and freedom of bow, which modern symphonies and orchestra-playing require, were wanting.”

The applicability of the latter remark is, of course, considerably greater in these days than in the Doctor’s time. Another and more recent critical opinion is subjoined: —

“Tartini’s compositions, with all the correctness and polish of Corelli’s, are bolder and more impassioned. His slow movements, in particular, are remarkably vocal and expressive; and his music shows a knowledge of the violin, both in regard to the bow and the finger-board, which Corelli had not been able to attain. His works, therefore, though no longer heard in public, are still prized by the best musicians; a proof of which is, that some of them have been recently reprinted for the use of the Conservatoire of Paris. He has frequently injured their effect, to modern ears, by the introduction of trills and other ornaments, which, like the flounces and furbelows of the female dress of his day, have become old-fashioned; but, at the same time, his compositions are full of beauties, which, belonging to the musical language of nature and feeling, are independent of the influence of time.”

Few of my readers have failed, probably, to hear or read of “The Devil’s Sonata,” that forms so singular a “passage” in the experience of this remarkable man, and is to be met with in Records, Musical, Literary, and Pictorial. Monsieur De Lalande informs us that he had, from Tartini’s own mouth, the following singular anecdote, which conveys an account of it, and shows to what a degree his imagination was inflamed by the genius of composition. “He dreamed, one night, in the year 1713, that he had made a compact with the Devil, who promised to be at his service on all occasions; and, during this vision, every thing succeeded according to his mind; his wishes were anticipated, and his desires always surpassed, by the assistance of his new servant. At length, he imagined that he presented to the Devil his violin, in order to discover what kind of a musician he was; when, to his great astonishment, he heard him play a solo, so singularly beautiful, and executed with such superior taste and precision, that it surpassed all the music he had ever heard or conceived in his life! So great was his surprise, and so exquisite his delight, upon this occasion, as to deprive him of the power of breathing. He awoke with the violence of his sensations, and instantly seized his instrument, in hopes of expressing what he had just heard; but in vain. He, however, then composed a piece, which is, perhaps, the best of all his works, and called it the Devil’s Sonata; but it was so inferior to what his sleep had produced, that he declared he would have broken his instrument, and abandoned music for ever, if he could have subsisted by any other means.”

This remarkable legend, under its obvious associations with the fearful and the grotesque, is so inviting for poetic treatment, that I have ventured on the following attempt: —

TARTINI’S DREAMGrim-visag’d Satan on the Artist’s bedSat – and a cloud of sounds mirific spread!Wild flow’d those notes, as from enchantment’s range,“Wild, sweet, but incommunicably strange!”Soft Luna, curious, as her sex beseems,Shot through the casement her enquiring beams,Which, entering, paler grew, yet half illum’dThe shade so deep that round the Arch-One gloomed:And listening Night her pinions furled – for lo!The Devil’s Soul, O!27 breathed beneath that bow!Tranquil as death Tartini’s form reclin’d,And sealing sleep was strong his eyes to bind;But the wild music of the nether spheresWas in a key that did unlock his ears.Squat, like a toad or tailor, sat the Fiend,And forward, to his task, his body leaned.His griffin fingers, with their horny ends,Hammer the stops; the bow submissive bends:His lengthy chin, descending, forms a viceWith his sharp collar-bone, contrariwise,To grasp the conscious instrument, held onWith ’scapeless gripe; – and, ever and anon,As flows the strain, now quaint, and now sublime,He marks, with beatings of his tail, the time!Snakes gird his head; but, in that music’s bliss,Enchanted, lose the discord of their hiss,And twine in chords harmonic, though all mute,As if they owned the sway of Orpheus’ lute.Satan hath joy – for round his lips awhileCreeps a sharp-set, sulphuric-acid smile;And, at the mystic notes, successive sped,Pleas’d, winketh he those eyes of flickering red,And shakes the grizzly horrors of that head!List! what a change! Soft wailings fill the air:Plaintive and touching grows the demon-play’r.Doth Satan mourn, with meltings all too late,The sin and sorrow of his own sad state?* * * * *Night flies – the dream is past – and, pale and wan,Starts from his spell-freed couch the anxious man.Is it a marvel greater than his might,Those winged sounds to summon back from flight?To clutch them whole, in vain fond Hope inclin’d,For Memory, overburthen’d, lagged behind,Partly the strain fell ’neath Oblivion’s pall,But it had partly “an un-dying fall;”And, in that state defective, to the lightBrought forth – it lives – a relic of that night!

The next name for notice, in connexion with the Italian School of the instrument, is that of Francesco Maria Veracini (the younger), a great, but somewhat eccentric performer, who was born at Florence, at the close of the 17th century. Unlike his contemporary, Tartini, whose sensitive and modest disposition led him to court obscurity, Veracini was vain, ostentatious, and haughty. Various stories have been current in Italy about his arrogance and fantastic tricks, which obtained for him the designation of Capo pazzo. The following anecdote is sufficiently characteristic of him.

Being at Lucca at the time of the annual “Festa della Croce,” on which occasion it was customary for the principal professors of Italy, vocal and instrumental, to meet, Veracini put down his name for a Solo Concerto. When he entered the choir, to take possession of the principal place, he found it already occupied by the Padre Girolamo Laurenti,28 of Bologna, who, not knowing him, as he had been some years absent, asked him whither he was going? “To the place of first violin,” was the impetuous answer. Laurenti then explained that he had been always engaged to fill that post himself; but that if he wished to play a concerto, either at vespers or during high mass, he should have a place assigned to him. Veracini turned on his heel with contempt, and went to the lowest place in the orchestra. When he was called upon to play his concerto, he desired that the hoary old father would allow him, instead of it, to play a solo at the bottom of the choir, accompanied on the violoncello by Lanzetti. He played this in so brilliant and masterly a manner as to extort an e viva! in the public church; and, whenever he was about to make a close, he turned to Laurenti, and called out, Così si suona per fare il primo violino– “This is the way to play the first fiddle!”

Another characteristic story respecting this performer is the following: —

Pisendel, a native of Carlsburg, and one of the best violinists of the early part of the eighteenth century, piqued at the pride and hauteur of Veracini, who thought too highly of his own powers not to disdain a comparison of them with those of any performer then existing, determined, if possible, to mortify his conceit and self-consequence. For this purpose, while both were at Dresden, he composed a very difficult concerto, and engaged a ripienist, or inferior performer, to practise it till he had conceived the whole, and rendered the most intricate passages as familiar to his bow and finger as the more obvious and easy parts of the composition. He then took occasion, the practitioner being present, to request Veracini to perform it. The great executant condescended to comply; but did not get through the task without calling into requisition all his powers. When he had concluded, the ripienist, agreeably to his previous instructions, stepped up to the desk, and began to perform the same piece; upon which Veracini, in a passion, tore him away, and would have punished on the spot his perilous presumption, had not Pisendel actively interfered, and persuaded him, were it only for the jest of the thing, to “let the vain creature expose himself.” Veracini became pacified, the ripienist began again, and executed the whole even more perfectly than his precursor, who stamped on the floor with rage, swore he would never forgive Pisendel, and, scarcely less abashed than tormented, immediately quitted Dresden.

Veracini would give lessons to no one, except a nephew, who died young. The only master he himself had was his uncle, Antonio Veracini, of Florence; but, by travelling all over Europe, he formed a style of playing peculiar to himself. Besides being in the service of the King of Poland, he was for a considerable time at the various courts of Germany, and twice in England, where he composed several operas, and where Dr. Burney had the opportunity of witnessing and commenting on the bold and masterly character of his violin performance. Soon after his being here (about 1745), he was shipwrecked, and lost his two famous Steiner violins, reputed the best in the world, and all his effects. In his usual light style of discourse, he used to call one of these instruments St. Peter, and the other St. Paul.

As a composer, he had certainly a great share of whim and caprice; but he built his freaks on a good foundation, being an excellent contrapuntist; and indeed it is probable enough that these very freaks, if tested by a contact with some of the fiddle capriccios and pots-pourris of our own day, would fall very much in the measure of extravagance, and leave us to wonder at what constituted a wonder in the more sober musical times of Burney and Hawkins. The peculiarities in his performance were his bow-hand, his shake, his learned arpeggios, and a tone so loud and clear that it could be distinctly heard through the most numerous band of a church or theatre29.

Pietro Nardini, a noted Tuscan Violinist, was born at Leghorn, in 1725. Instructed by Tartini, he soon became his most distinguished pupil; – nor as such only was he regarded by that great master, who, besides loving and admiring his rising genius, found in him a congeniality of character and sentiment, that served to establish a firm mutual friendship. In this instance, as in that of his other favourite pupil, Bini, we may remark the exemption of Tartini’s mind from that sordid spot of jealousy, that too often dims the lustre of professional talent. Attached, in 1763, to the Chapel of the Duke of Wirtemberg, Nardini soon evinced abilities that made him conspicuous. On the reduction or suppression of that establishment, a few years afterwards, he returned to Leghorn, where he composed almost all his works. In 1769, he went to Padua, to revisit Tartini, whom he attended in his last illness, with attachment truly filial. On his return to Leghorn, the generous offers of the Grand Duke of Tuscany determined him to quit that city, and enter the Duke’s service. Joseph the Second, when he visited Italy, was greatly struck with the execution of this distinguished virtuoso, and made a curious gold snuff-box the memorial of his admiration. In 1783, the president, Dupaty, being in Italy, listened to him with a rapture which occasioned his exclaiming, “His violin is a voice, or possesses one. It has made the fibres of my ear to tremulate as they never did before. To what a degree of tenuity Nardini divides the air! How exquisitely he touches the strings of his instrument! With what art he modulates and purifies their tones!”