Harmonious Blend of Music and Lives

As an amateur violinist, I can testify to the full-bodied delight of sitting in the middle of a string quartet. When intonation, sonority and spirit meet in that magical mushroom cloud three feet above four music stands, the experience can be transcendent, whether the music be the religious musings of a Haydn, the romantic gushings of a Schubert or the pagan paprikash of a Bartok.

Consider, therefore, the good fortune of Arnold Steinhardt, who for 35 years has sat as the first violinist of the world-renowned Guarneri Quartet. It is a remarkable tenure, by any labor standards--to work with the same three men, the cellist David Soyer, the violist Michael Tree and the violinist John Dalley, in more than 3,000 concerts without a change of personnel. Consider, in addition, the good fortune of these men to have such an able chronicler in Steinhardt.

“Indivisible by Four,” to be sure, contains plenty of the jokey anecdotes one expects in a musical memoir. Here is George Szell, the imperious maestro of the Cleveland Orchestra accompanying Steinhardt to his Army physical and raising an eyebrow as his new assistant concertmaster passes by with a specimen. “Imported or domestic?” Szell asks in his clipped German accent. There is the 22-year-old Steinhardt, at his first rehearsal with the Cleveland Orchestra, being approached by what he first thinks to be a welcoming party of musicians, only to find that “Sam Salkin, first violin, tried to sell me a watch; Ed Matey, second violin, offered me mutual funds; Irv Nathanson, double bass, wondered if I needed instrument insurance; and Angie Angelucci, French horn, tried to sell me a Plymouth.”

But “Indivisible by Four” is equal parts anecdote and exploration, the work of a quester, his body swaying to music, his mind trying, as scientists and poets have for centuries, to know the dancer from the dance. What is it about the music and the men, Steinhardt wonders, that can account for the Guarneri’s stunning success?

He begins his quest in science, comparing the lengths of Guarneri recordings of Schubert’s “Death and the Maiden” quartet made at different points in the quartet’s career, seeking to deduce some principle linking tempo to temperament. He recounts the musical arguments over interpretation, arguments involving history, logic and whatever other intellectual weapons the foursome have at hand.

Yet as Steinhardt recognizes that the answer lies not in mathematics but in metaphysics, he begins to speak with breathless energy. “Whose voice is more important, John’s or mine?” he wonders, midway through a performance of the Schubert. “We sleepwalk through it, letting our subconscious do the work. Watch out for that arpeggio in the second half! Ah. At least, better than Jerusalem last week. But they loved us in Jerusalem. We had to play an encore. Will we have to play one here in Albuquerque? Stop it, you idiot. Your mind is wandering. A woman is grappling with Death and you’re thinking about encores.”

Much of the fascination of Steinhardt’s account lies in the human simplicity of his fellow musicians. He pulls aside the curtain, and we discover that these geniuses are ordinary Joes. The public panache of a Bernstein, the private torment of a Menhuhin, are lacking in these four suburban guys, who just happen to play the “Grosse Fugue” instead of five-card stud. And that, perhaps, is the magical secret to this long-lived marriage.