THE SOUL OF A VIOLIN
THE SOUL OF A VIOLIN
S
STRADIVARIUS was at work in his dingy workshop, putting his very heart into the violin he was making. The wood had come from the North and was well seasoned. It seemed to throb and pulsate with life under his hands, reflecting and answering every sound that floated in through the open window. When the violin was finished, Stradivarius placed the instrument in its oil bath as tenderly as a young mother bathes her new-born babe. The red-brown varnish spread on smoothly, filling every pore of the wood without stiffening the vibrations that were tosound through the world for centuries, and under loving fingers tell in a volume of tone the heart story of each successive owner of the violin.
Here I have been for years, hanging in my green bag from a rusty nail in the attic, forgotten and neglected by man, my only friends and companions the fairies that come and dance in the moonlight on the attic floor. It was they who told me of the happy bride that awaited her bridegroom’s coming in the quiet old house beneath me. One day I was taken out into the sunshine and told I was to play at her wedding. I put my best into the tones that greeted the bride when she entered the church, and I think tears of happiness fell as she passed along the dim, cool aisle to meet her lover.
The old church chimed out its wedding bells, and my sides nearly burst with joy sending back the merry sounds. That night I had much to tell the fairies, for again I was in my green bag on my rusty nail in the peaceful, musty attic.
Again, after many years, I have been awakened. A sad-faced old lady took me out of my bag and put me into the hands of a youth, saying: “This, my son, is the violin that was played at my wedding.” I breathed a sigh of gratitude, for his touch was a caress, and I saw the soul of my old master looking through his eyes. And joy of joys, when he pulled his bow across my strings, I sent up a prayer of thankfulness that we were together again. My dear, dear master that created me and made me laughwhen he was merry, and cry when he was sad! All the long years of waiting were forgotten as the youth tucked me under his arm and descended the creaky old stairs. Never again shall I be neglected, but shall live in light and sunshine, vibrating happiness in this world, and foretelling the wonders and beauties of the world to come, where there are no green bags, no rusty nails or long, tiresome intervals of waiting for my master’s hand to play upon my finger board and make my sounding posts dance with joy.
My master’s soul told me of his journeys to other planets, and of his longing to return to earth to fulfill all his dreams and do the good he had left undone, and how with my help he now hoped to reach the heart of man. Together we would inspire the youth toplay the songs of love and happiness, and the plaintive song of sorrow that would show the way to the higher life, to the soul, to God.
Thus we journey together on the crest of melody’s wave, reaching the highest as well as the most lowly, for where is the soul dumb to the language of music, and not the better for the understanding of it? We have borrowed the youth’s hand and heart to express a message from another world, bringing hope to the hopeless, love to the lonely, and peace and quiet to the restless.