Alice in Orchestralia, Chapter IV

          The Bass Viol led Alice through a door at one side of the auditorium and down a corridor that brought them to a room behind the stage. There they found the four instruments who had just finished their rehearsal. They were busily engaged in removing the powdered rosin that had accumulated on their strings, carrying on meanwhile an animated conversation. So absorbed were they in their own affairs that they did not see Alice and the Bass Viol enter the room.
          “Stop here for a moment,” whispered the Bass, halting just inside the door. “Do you see that handsome amber-colored violin - the one who is talking to the ‘Cello? He is the leader of the quartet and the Principal First Violin of the orchestra. We call him the Concertmaster. Distinguished-looking fiddle, isn’t he?”
          “Yes,” Alice agreed; “but he looks rather conceited.”
          “Well, perhaps he is,” the Bass chuckled. “You see, he comes of one of the first families of Cremona - the Stradivari - and he’s very proud of it.”
          “Cremona?” said Alice. “Where is that?”
          “Cremona,” replied the Bass, “is a little town in Italy where all the finest violins come from - the Stradivari, the Amati, the Guarneri, and many others. Now the Second Violin - that modest looking brown one - is not from Cremona: he’s a Tyrolean. He’s a thoroughly good sort - plenty of tone and all that; but he hasn’t got the grand manner of the Cremonese. It’s the same with the Viola; he’s a nice fellow, but not an aristocrat. He claims to be a Gagliagno, but the fact of the matter is that his pedigree has been lost, so nobody knows whether he really is or not.”
          “Maybe that’s why he’s so sad,” Alice suggested.
          The Bass smiled.
          “Possibly,” he admitted; “but I’m afraid that doesn’t account for the fact that all the other violas are sad, too. I think sadness must run in the family. Now, it’s different with the ‘cellos. They’re nearly always in high spirits, even those who have lost their pedigrees. This one is particularly high-spirited. He’s French - a Vuillaume - and has the true Gallic temperament. He’s well thought of in the community; but, of course, he isn’t a ‘Strad.’ However, I’d better introduce you to them, or they’ll be going home.”
          The Bass escorted Alice across the room, and addressed the First Violin.
          "Tony," he said, "allow me to present a young friend of mine who has come to pay us a visit: Mr. Stradivar, Miss--er--"
          "Alice," said that young lady, politely.
          The Violin bowed ceremoniously. Although his bearing was proud, his manner was gracious and polished. When he spoke it was with a slight foreign accent and in a remarkably clear and resonant voice - a voice so melodious that he seemed almost to be singing.
          "We are honoured," he said gravely. "The young lady is a musician?"
          "Not yet," said Alice, "but I hope to be some day. I'm learning to play the piano."
          "Ah!" said the Violin, "the piano. A useful instrument but veree mechanical - veree. You should learn to play one of us."
          "I should like to, very much," said Alice timidly; "but I'm afraid it would be awfully difficult. I don't see how - "
          "Excuse me," the Bass interrupted. "Do you mind if I present these other gentlemen; I'm rather pressed for time. Mr. Stainer, the Second Violin; Mr.--er--Gagliano, our Principal Viola; Mr. Vuillaume, First 'Cello. Gentlemen, Miss Alice."
          The fiddles bowed and Alice curtsied. Ordinarily Alice hated to curtsy; none of the little girls she knew ever did it. But her mother, who was very old-fashioned, had insisted that Alice must learn to curtsy, and now she was rather glad she had, for it seemed just the proper thing to do on this occasion.
          "And now," said the Bass, "I must be off. I'm late for an appointment already, so I'll just leave the young lady in your charge - you'll take good care of her, I know. I warn you, she's a wonder when it comes to asking questions; so be prepared to tell her the stories of your lives. Good-bye - see you later." So saying, he waddled across the room and disappeared through the door, leaving Alice a trifle ill-at-ease among so many strangers. But the quartet were very kind, and did their best to make her feel at home.
          "If you will tell us what it is you would like to know about us," the First Violin suggested, "we shall be happy to inform you to the best of our ability."
          "Thank you very much," said Alice; "but, oh, dear! There are so many questions I want to ask that I don't know where to begin."
          "Then, suppose I begin at the beginning and tell you everything about us that I think would interest you."
          "Oh, yes - please do," said Alice.
          "And if you think of any questions as we go along," the Violin continued, "don't hesitate to ask them. That will make it easier for me to tell you just the things you want to know."
          "Now, to begin - we are called 'stringed instruments.' That is because our tone, or sound, comes from the vibration of strings stretched very tightly over a resonant sound box. Do you know what 'vibration' means?"
          Alice shook her head doubtfully.
          "Then I will try to explain it. Suppose you lie in a hammock and let somebody swing you. You go first to one side, then to the other - right, left; right, left - just like that, don't you? If the hammock is a big one you swing slowly; if the hammock is a little one, or if it is stretched very tight, you swing faster; and if they push you hard you swing farther to the right and left, don't you?"
          Alice nodded her assent to this proposition.
          "All right, then," the Violin continued, "that is vibration. But it is very slow. Now, can you imagine a hammock swinging from side to side so fast that your eye cannot follow it - three or four hundred times a second?"
          Alice's eye grew big. "O-oh," she said, "it would make me dizzy!"
          "It would indeed," said the Violin; "but, of course, no hammocks can swing that fast. However, a violin string is like a hammock - fastened securely at each end, with the middle free to vibrate, or swing from side to side; and that is what happens when you pluck it or draw a bow across it. But because the string is so short and stretched so tight it vibrates very fast - so fast that it makes a sound. Now, the tighter a string is stretched, or the shorter it is, the faster it vibrates; and the faster it vibrates, the higher the sound it gives out." He plucked his second string. "That," he said, "is the A above Middle C, and it vibrates four hundred and forty times a second."
          "Why," said Alice, amazed, "I didn't know that anything could move as fast as that!"
          "Pooh!" said the Violin, "that's nothing. The next A above this one vibrates twice as fast - eight hundred and eighty times a second, and the A above that one vibrates one thousand seven hundred and sixty times a second. Because each time you go up an octave the number of vibrations is doubled."
          "But how do you play the high notes?" asked Alice.
          "By shortening one of the strings - generally the first one, called the E-string - so that it vibrates more rapidly."
          "But I don't see how you can shorten it," Alice objected. "It's fastened tight at both ends."
          "That is true," said the Strad; "but it can be shortened, just the same. I will show you how."
          He plucked his first string, producing a sharp but musical sound. "That," he said, "is E - the second E above Middle C. The entire string is now vibrating, from the bridge to this little ridge of wood, which we call the 'nut,' at the upper end of the fingerboard. Now, just place the first finger of your left hand on the string here, close to the nut, and press down hard."
          Alice did as she was told, whereupon the Strad again plucked his E-string, this time producing a higher tone than before.
          "There," said the Strad, "you see? That tone is F - a half tone higher than the open string; and you produced it by shortening the string."
          "But I didn't shorten it," said Alice; "I only pressed my finger on it."
          The Strad smiled and patiently explained: "Pressing your finger on the string shortens it, to all intents and purposes. It can only vibrate between the bridge and the point where your finger presses it against the fingerboard; so the part of the string that vibrates is shorter - and the rest doesn't count."
          "Now I understand," said Alice, greatly interested. "And I suppose that if I press my second finger on the string it will give a still higher note?"
          "Exactly," said the Strad; "your second finger will play G or G-sharp, your third finger A-flat or A, and your fourth finger B-flat or B. It you wish to play higher than that you must slide your hand along the neck to a higher position - that is, nearer the bridge. In that way you can reach all the notes, right up to the end of the fingerboard."
          "Isn't it very hard to know just where to place your fingers?" Alice inquired. "There doesn't seem to be anything to guide you."
          "It is difficult," the Strad admitted. "It takes a lot of practice; but it can be learned, just as a blind man can learn to find his way about his house - and then, of course, it seems quite easy."
          "Now," he went on, "I want to explain to you about harmonics. They are very important, because they will help you to understand the wind instruments when you meet them."
          "Suppose you place your finger here on my E-string, exactly halfway between the bridge and the nut - so; and, instead of pressing down hard, merely touch the string lightly."
          Alice did so, and the Strad passed his bow across the string, producing a high flute-like tone, very soft and clear.
          "That," he said, "is a 'harmonic.' It is caused by dividing the string into two equal parts with a light touch of your finger which leaves both parts free to vibrate. The tone produced is an octave higher than the open string. Now, if you touch the string at the proper place, it will also vibrate in three, four, or even five, equal sections. producing still higher 'harmonics'; and as these 'harmonics' are very clear and penetrating they are very often used. But I have explained them to you chiefly because, as I said before, they will help you to understand how the wind instruments produce their tones. Now I will tell you something about the box, which is very important, for a fiddle without a bow would be almost entirely useless. As you have seen, my strings can be plucked with the finger, like those of a guitar or banjo; indeed, they are sometimes played that way in the orchestra - pizzicato, we call it - but that is only for special effects. Most of the time my strings are set in vibration by rubbing them with the hair of a bow, the hair being covered with powdered rosin to increase the friction.
          "There are many ways of using the bow. It can be drawn slowly and evenly, so that it produces a long, sustained tone, or it can be moved very rapidly back and forth, in what is called tremolo. It can strike the strings with abrupt hammer-strokes, called martellato; it can dance upon them gracefully in spiccato; it can caress them in smooth, flowing legato passages - and do many other things, too numerous to mention." The Strad illustrated each method of bowing as he described it, greatly to Alice's admiration.
          "Why, it looks quite easy," she said; "I believe I could do that."
          "Try," said the Strad, smiling indulgently as he handed her the bow.
          Alice took it and endeavored to imitate the manner in which the Strad had held it, but found, to her dismay, that the light and slender stick of wood seemed to grow suddenly heavy and clumsy in her hand; and when she attempted to draw it across the strings of the fiddle it trembled ludicrously and brought forth only a succession of miserable squeaks. The Strad laughed good-humoredly.
          "It's not so easy as it looks, you see. Now you can appreciate how difficult it is for all the fiddles in an orchestra - fifty or sixty of them - to bow together in perfect unison, as if they were parts of a machine, as they do in all good orchestras."
          "It's wonderful!" Alice exclaimed. "I don't see how they ever do it. But tell me - why are there so many fiddles in an orchestra?"
          "In order to obtain the proper balance of tone," replied the Strad. "Our tone is softer and less penetrating than that of the wind instruments, so if there were not a great many of us we would be overpowered by the wood-wind and brasses. In a well-balanced orchestra the 'strings,' as we are generally called, outnumber all the other instruments by about two to one - that is, there are about sixty 'strings' to about thirty wood-wind, brass, and percussion instruments. So it's easy to see that we are by far the most important branch of the family." The Strad drew himself up, a trifle pompously, and Alice said to herself: "There, he is conceited." Aloud she asked innocently: "Is that what makes you the most important - that there are so many of you?"
          "Certainly not!" said the Strad indignantly. "We are the most important because our tone is the most aggreable to listen to, and because we have a greater compass than any other group of instruments and can play more complicated passages. Also we can play longer without getting tired, and we have the greatest range, from very soft to very loud. But perhaps the chief reason is our enormous emotional range - if you understand what that means."
          "I'm afraid I don't," said Alice.
          "It means," the Violin explained, "that we can express more different emotions than any other group of instruments. We can be gay; we can be sad; we can laugh; we can weep; we can threaten; we can plead. We can make you think of fairies dancing in the moonlight, or of desolate mountains swept by icy winds; of shepherds guarding their flocks, or of demons riding madly through the night. Of course, no one of us alone can do all this. My duty is usually to play the brilliant or romantic or tender passages. If the composer wants to express sadness he generally gives the principal part to the violas; and if his theme is bold and vigorous, it is most often the 'cellos who play it, while fear and anger are best expressed by the ominous low tones of the basses. The basses, though, can be quite comic at times. They are so big and clumsy that when they attempt rapid, graceful passages the effect is often quite funny. You should hear them imitate elephants dancing the minuet, as they do in 'The Carnival of the Animals,' by Saint-Saens.
          "Oh, I should love to!" said Alice, laughing.
          "Now that I come to think of it, you may> hear them - this very evening," said the Strad. "There will be a concert by the full orchestra and 'The Carnival of the Animals' is on the programme. We shall expect you."
          "I shall come, with pleasure," said Alice. "But," she added, turning to the Second Violin, who up to this time had remained modestly in the background, "you haven't told me what you do in the orchestra."
          The Second Violin appeared embarassed.
          "Why, m-my task," he stammered, "is rather a humble one. Generally all I have to do is to fill in the harmony, or to help my friend here, the First Violin, to carry the melody. Occassionally I have a solo passage, but not very often. As a rule my duties are comparatively unimportant."
          He seemed so modest and unassuming that Alice could not help feeling a little sorry for him.
          "I'm sure," she said, wishing to cheer him up, "that you are just as important as any of the others, even if your part isn't so - so showy."
          "You're quite right," interposed the 'Cello; "this chaps' humility is simply preposterous. He's as necessary to the orchestra as any of us, but just because he's called 'Second Violin' he thinks he doesn't amount to a hill of beans. He ought to cultivate a little decent vanity."
          "It wouldn't be of any use," said the Viola, gloomily. "If he did he'd only become a first violin, and then where should we be?"
          The Strad looked as if he were somewhat nettled by the Viola's remark, but he apparently decided to ignore it, for presently he smiled, rather haughtily, and said, with the evident intention of changing the subject:
          "There is one more point to which we should call the young lady's attention: I refer to the sordino, or mute."
          He held up, so that Alice could see it, a queer little black object which looked somewhat like a very short comb with only three teeth.
          "This," he explained, "when placed on the bridge of a fiddle, makes its tone sound softer and thinner and rather sad." As he spoke he fixed the mute upon his own bridge, and instantly his voice sounded more gentle and subdued.
          "Oh, I love that!" Alice exclaimed. "Why don't you use it all the time?"
          "Because you would soon grow tired of it, as you do of too much sugar. Besides, it weakens my voice too much; I shouldn't be able to hold my own against the other instruments." He removed the mute, and his voice again became strong and clear. "There, that's better, after all, isn't it?"
          "Well, I s'pose so," Alice conceded. "But your voice sounded so soft and sweet with the mute."
          "It's strange," observed the 'Cello, "how many people like their music soft and sweet. I can't understand it. Lots of them admire my soft, rich low tones and don't care at all for my brilliant upper register, which is really the best part of my voice. Their ears are too delicate - they ought to wear ear muffs when they go to a concert."
          "They should, indeed - if there are any 'cellos on the programme," said the Viola, plaintively. "You really are a noisy lot - always trying to play louder than the rest of the orchestra combined."
          "Oh, shut up!" snapped the 'Cello. "What do you know about it? You haven't the spirit of an asthmatic mouth organ. If I couldn't play louder than a whole section of violas, I'd---"
          "Gentlemen! Gentlemen!" interposed the Second Violin, "you're out of tune. Tony, will you give the A?"
          The First Violin plucked his second string, and the 'Cello sulkily turned one of the pegs that projected from the sides of his head until his own A-string was in tune with that of the Violin.
          "As usual, he's much too sharp," grumbled the Viola.
          "Well, well," said the Strad, mollifyingly, "he's not the only one at fault: you must admit you're a trifle flat. Now, tune up, and let's have no more of this discord, or our guest will have a poor opinion of us."
          The Viola did as he was told, and harmony was restored, much to the relief of Alice, who had feared for a moment that the antagonists might come to blows. As they now appeared to be once more on friendly terms, she decided to take her departure, for she was anxious to visit the other instruments while there was still time.
          "Thank you very much for all you have told me," she said to the quartet. "I shall try not to forget it. And now, if you will tell me how to find the place where the wind instruments live, I think I had better go."
          "We are sorry that you can't stay longer," said the First Violin, "but we shall hope to see you in the audience this evening. Meanwhile, if you'll allow me, I shall be happy to see you as far as the next village, where you will find the flutes and clarinets and all their relatives of the wood-wind family. It isn't far - we can walk there in a few minutes."
          "It's very good of you to take so much trouble," said Alice; and saying good-bye to the other fiddles she accompanied the Strad out of the auditorium and down the road that led to the home of the wood-wind instruments.