Much Like This Old Violin - Story / Parable

With the scrape of a planer and the patient detailing of an awl, and then, finally, with the loving caress of beeswax under chamois, the violin was laid to rest on the craftsman’s table. The craftsman stood back, admiring his work, which was lying on a bench that would be clean except for the shavings of others of his creations. It was a beautiful new spring day and the light that filtered through dusty windows bounced first off new green leaves that grew just outside.

“Ah, violin,” said the man in a satisfied tone, “you are special. You are perfection born on this perfect spring day.” The man took the violin by the body with two hands, like a new mother lifting her baby out of bath water. He wrapped it lovingly in clean cloth and set it carefully in the corner. The man who had ordered the violin would be by in a few days to pick it up. 

The craftsman’s name was Antonio Stradavari. He lived in Cremona, Italy in the middle 1600’s until the middle 1700’s; by all reports a long, happy and fulfilled life. He began creating violins in about 1664. Unlike many artists, he saw success in his lifetime, in fact almost immediately. He was celebrated for the sound of the instruments he created, their response and warmth of tone. He was, and is, really, the master creator of stringed instruments. All others are judged by his perfect rule.

This particular violin has a wonderful history; of healing, of longing, of tragedy and triumph. Now, in the early years of the twenty-first century, it is played by the finest violinist in the world. Its sound is simply perfect, the pitch exquisite and the tone impeccably manipulated in the hands of this true master. And it has always been appreciated for its sound by those who knew; who possessed, or more accurately were possessed of a fine ear for music. But there is something in music that can tell even the musically untrained something about himself, and that is a part of its magic. Let me illustrate.   

There was a man, a hard, hate-filled man, a general under Napoleon Bonaparte, who one night wept for the man he had become. It happened that there was a concerto towards the end of the revolution, the year being 1798. This man was a guest of honor, and as such he sat high in a balcony overlooking all, and being seen by any who desired. The violinist that evening was a small, smiling Italian man. The general was a man who, although a brilliant strategist, was not given to introspection naturally. But upon hearing the lonely tune played by the very violin that Stradaveri had created many years before, his thoughts turned to his family away in France. How he loved and missed them! His mind naturally wandered to other families – particularly the enemy families he had butchered. As the music played, he thought of the men and boys he had killed without a hint of remorse or hesitation. As the piece reached its crescendo, he thought back on the events of that very day; his ordering of the execution of a father and mother that had been a part of the resistance, creating a home of orphans. The parents had died bravely, in front of their children. He had watched it all and their streaked blood on the wall of their home now left similar streaks his mind. In the dark of the theater, he simply sat in the seat of honor and sobbed like a child. He vowed to continue his duties, but tempered with humanity as much as is possible during wartime.

Just as music can be a poultice that can draw out the hatred in a man and make him confront it, it can have a deadening effect on emotions raw from excess. There was the case of a British woman, forty years later. She had lost her husband and two sons at sea three months before she was persuaded to a dance in her community. That evening, for the first time since the tragedy, she smiled. The dark circles under her eyes receded as childhood and adolescent memories flooded back to her, resurrected by the tune that played on the same violin that had helped the Napoleonic general towards humanness. Friends who had been fearful for her well-being came to her that evening with looks of relief and she heard herself say in response to their earnest question, “Yes. I am doing much better. Thank you so much for asking” - when just that morning she had contemplated suicide. The music that was so expertly played that evening provided the beginning of healing for this woman, like the careful cleansing of a wound. In part because of the events of that evening which were influenced in no small part by the music she heard, she was soon able to return to a normal life. Her prenuptial self-confidence seeped back into her like honey into hot tea and she revisited her lifelong dream of going to America. Within two years, she fulfilled this dream and with family money she purchased a new apple and pear orchard in New England. During particularly difficult days, she would hum the tune that had helped her that evening, now so long ago. As days turned to seasons and then to years, she never forgot that tune and the instrument that provided it, and the happy melody and memory was on her lips when she passed away thirty years later, her visage a peaceful gaze.

The man who had played the tune that evening was a happy Italian man, Antonio Cibella by name, who was oblivious to the specifics of the magic he had caused. He did not know the woman, or of her; she had not even been seen by him. He did not know the transformation that the General under Napoleon had experienced; only that one of his great grandfathers had reportedly played the violin to perfection before royalty before passing it to him years later. But it is of no matter; he was well aware of the magic that could be generated, created by this instrument, for he had owned this violin almost the whole of his life. It had been passed down from generation to generation in his very family from almost the moment of its creation. He had seen it change the mood during the parting song on this very evening from one of happiness and carefree frivolity to a sense of longing and melancholy more conducive to saying goodbye to such a happy event. All this by the playing of an old Italian folk song. The transformation, when affected, always made him smile.

Mr. Cibella had had his own experiences of late with fates fickle turns. Just seven days earlier, the bakery that supported his family burned to the ground under suspicious circumstances. The bakery had done well for many years and Mr. Cibella could have, many years before, paid his benefactor in full. However, the Cibella family was a large one, with twelve children aged eighteen to 4 years of age. He gave generously to his church and contributed materially of his time and resources to the community. Indeed, with his wonderful bakery, splendid family and musical talents, he was a beloved figure. There had been times when a tickle in the back of his mind seemed to tell him to pay the benefactor, a Mr. Tosk of a nearby town, what he owed in full. All reports were that Mr. Tosk’s reputation was not a kind one, that he would take advantage given the opportunity. But alas, it was simply not in Mr. Cibella’s nature to think anything but the best about anyone unless he had experienced the person’s poor behavior himself. He had experienced none of the poor treatment that others reportedly had. What Mr. Cibella failed to realize is that he had never, even once, given Mr. Tosk any reason at all to give him a problem. His contract was almost fulfilled, a fact of no small consequence to a man such as Mr. Tosk who, as often as not, had increased his fortune by collecting on loans that had defaulted.

“What if the bakery were to burn down,” Mr. Tosk wondered late one night as he pondered Mr. Cibella. And burn it did. Seven days later, the day after Mr. Cibella had played his prized violin at the community dance, Mr. Tosk paid a visit to the Cibella homestead. 

“Mr. Tosk,” Mr. Cibella laughed nervously, “I will get you your payment. I have been prompt in all my payments to this point. Please be patient with me and you will get your money with interest.”

Mr. Tosk was unmoved. “Mr. Cibella, I am not a kind man. I am not a charitable man. I am a businessman. And while it pains me in a sense to see you in such a position, particularly with so many children dependent upon you and your abilities,” he gestured to an adjacent room where twelve children sat behind a partially closed door, “the terms of the contract must be fulfilled. And by the terms of the agreement, my men, who have made the journey to your home from theirs and whose payment depends upon the successful disposition of the contract, are waiting to take from you what you owe me which is,” here Mr. Tosk couldn’t restrain a tiny smile, “everything.”

Mr. Cibella’s face fell. The men marched in, pushing past him brusquely. Piece by piece he saw his life’s work walk out the door. A table he had made with his very hands, furniture that was used every night, his wife’s plates that they had received on their wedding twenty years previously. Mrs. Cibella watched bravely until the children’s beds walked out the door. She could stand it no longer, and she ran outside towards the barn. Mr. Cibella turned to follow her. The children were still in the room, the elder doing their best to comfort the younger. But he heard a hollow bang and it made him turn and his heart sank hard. One of the men had his violin in his hand.

“Please,” the man said as he knelt on creaky knees. “I am an old man. You have my home, my land, what is left of my life’s work. Please leave me this violin, which came with my great-grandfather from Italy and has been in my family for generations.”

Mr. Tosk laughed a scornful laugh. “You Italians! You’re all the same, given to wine and a party, but when it comes to paying your debts, you fail miserably. Yes it is tragic that your bakery, my bakery, really, burned down; but where are your savings? Have you no thrift?” He paused. “No, I’ll take the violin. You will have no time to play it now anyway. You will be much too busy trying to find a way to feed such a brood as you have. I own your property now. Rent is due the first of the month, not a day later, Mr. Cibella. Don’t be late.”

With that, he strode out of the bare room, leaving only one pot that would serve to feed Mr. Cibella’s family.

On the journey back to his estate, the experience was processed by Mr. Tosk, as they always were. He was impressed in his heart, black as it was, with the bravery of the Italian. He had seen many others react much differently. Once or twice the reaction had cost the debtor his life on the spot. But what was almost as impressive was the Italian’s affection for a worthless instrument. 

“The debtor let his home and land, his only means of survival, go without a whimper, but he sobbed like a baby when I took his violin. Either he is a fool or it must be worth a great deal.” He reviewed his dealings with Mr. Cibella and decided that although he was frivolous in a sense, he was not a fool. Therefore the violin must be valuable.

Mr. Tosk felt little of the value of music or of items sentimental at all; the man was simply not given to such things. He went so far as to search the inside of the violin for hidden treasure. When he found none, he shrugged and placed it in the corner of his office, behind a bureau.

A few weeks later, the school which Mr. Tosk’s only son attended happened to hold a concert to celebrate the accomplishments of one of its students. The celebrated student played with great virtuosity a violin that he had learned to play over several years hard work. The class was enthralled and the teachers were moved and impressed. When the young virtuoso was finished and the crowd erupted with loud applause well deserved, he bowed deeply and reverently looked up towards heaven and, with a tear in his eye, thanked God for His gift to him. This day was important to the boy, for it gave him his first taste of public appreciation; but not his last. This boy’s name was Antonio and his life was about to change. For although his family had just arrived from Italy to Great Britain earlier that year, later that very month his family would leave for the New World, where much tragedy would ensue. Within two months of his small family’s arrival in New York, his mother and then his father and then his younger brother would all succumb to disease. He, in the best of remaining luck however, and in a strange turn of events, would be adopted by a wealthy gambler and his wife whom we will meet later, and would live to a happy age.   

At the school that day, just as in any school on any day, there were many children of different talents and characters and futures. The mean man’s son, whose name was Ewan, was jealous of Antonio’s success and decided that he, too, must learn to play the violin so that he could reap similar rewards. He requested one that very day from his nanny-caretaker, who obediently passed the request on to Mr. Tosk. Mr. Tosk remembered about the violin in the corner of his office, now covered with dust. He retrieved it, gave it to his son’s caretaker and told her to dust it off and give it to the boy. As she was walking out the door, he said, “You must find the best teacher for my son; I will have nothing but the best”.

The woman turned and rolled her eyes, although that reaction would have been interpreted as being the height of disrespect and would have meant the loss of her job had she been seen, and went out to hire such a teacher.

The nanny was a young woman, but she was wise. She knew that in 19^th century England, she was lucky to have a job at all outside of the factories. She enjoyed most children, even those as spoiled as young Ewan. But she did not enjoy Ewan at all. He seemed bent upon making her life miserable by asking her to make him dishes that he knew his father had warned her that he disliked, just for the satisfaction of seeing the displeasure on his father’s face when he related the experience. And there was the time he placed a burr under his own saddle, so that when the horse bucked him off he could blame his innocent caretaker. And then there was the time in the lake, but you get the idea.

This woman, named Mary Black, knew a maker of instruments in her town. She went to him and asked him if he knew of a worthy instructor for the Ewan, knowing full well that a failure to provide a suitable man would be justification for her dismissal.  Her friend knew of a few. Over the next few days, she interviewed them at Mr. Tosk’s home overlooking the sea. However, she found none that she felt would please both Mr. Tosk and Ewan. It was difficult to find the proper balance between a deep knowledge of one’s craft and the ability to teach it to a demanding youngster. It seemed to her that all the potential teachers of the instrument had one or the other; that is; the most qualified in terms of virtuosity were the least inclined to patience with young Ewan. And those with boundless patience (some of whom seemingly enjoyed the paces Ewan put them through), had the least in terms of teaching acumen. For Mary, it was a difficult time. Mr. Tosk would ask for a periodic update regarding the progress she was making in the finding of a suitable instructor for his son, and each week she would reply that none had been found, for which she received a scowl and a raised eyebrow. Once he went so far as to say, “There are many women in this town, Mary, who want to work.”

Mary knew that her time was getting short. She must find a suitable instructor or risk the loss of her job. She put out fliers in a neighboring town, although she had little hope of getting a response from so poor an outpost.

However, she was pleased when the very next day she opened the imposing front door to find a young but well-kept man in a dark frock coat.

“My name is Markus,” he said in a soft-spoken voice. “I am answering the ad for a teacher of violin.”

He said this as if he were asking a question.

“Yes, of course, do come in”, Mary said demurely, as she stepped aside to allow him in. 

“Do you have a last name, Markus?” she asked as they sat in the tea room.

Unfortunately for Markus, and even more unfortunately for Markus’ family, tragedy had befallen his family almost without fail for the past seven months. First, his father’s bakery, over which he had labored for over twenty years, had burned to the ground through no fault of his own. This in turn caused him to default on many notes and payables, damaging terribly the family name in the region. Finally, the stress of this turn of events (for the man had a large family), caused this man to take ill and pass away, not one week before Markus knocked at the door of Mr. Tosk. Markus Cibelli did not know the owner of the home, only that he needed work. And if he had heard the name, it is doubtful he would have recognized it as belonging to the man who had indirectly killed his father. His own name itself had been rather tarnished as a result of the recent events. So when he was asked for his name, he demurred, saying only that his friends called him Markus. Mary felt uncomfortable with this, but owing to the rather desperate situation she was in, she decided it best not to push it. After all, the man was handsome and presented himself well. He was obviously no criminal. 

Markus claimed to be able to teach violin to youngsters, having 11 younger brothers and sisters, most of whom had learned the instrument at his hand. He told her that he loved the instrument more than almost anything. 

“Why do you not carry an instrument, when you profess its love”, she asked.

The young man hesitated, looking down between his feet at carpet that cost per square meter what his family now made in a week. “It has not been our fortune to keep an instrument. My family had at one time had many instruments, but times have been difficult in this past year.” He raised his head and looked into the eyes of the pretty young caretaker. “It is enough for me to teach another. In this manner I can both enjoy its playing and have the satisfaction of showing another the same.”

Mary liked the response, and if the truth were known she liked the young man as well. They spoke a while longer of his methods, the time and payment he would require. She liked all she heard.

“Well,” she said, “let me get young Ewan. He will need to approve of you as well.”

As she was standing, Markus said, “May I see the instrument?”

Mary blushed. “Oh, I am sorry. Of course the instructor will want to approve of the instrument. I will return presently.”

She politely curtsied and went off to get it.

Markus watched her disappear at the end of a very long hall. He wondered if he would ever marry, and if he did, if it would be a woman like her. No, it was too much to think of now. He had his father’s family to feed.

He was in deep thought when Mary reappeared, having come from another direction.

“Here it is. I am sorry it is in rather difficult shape; not even a case.”

She stopped when she saw Markus’s eyes, wide and immediately tear-filled.

Markus reached his hands out reverently, like he was being handed a long-lost cousin. He stroked the fine, aged wood, looked on the bridge and saw his great grandfather’s initials. It was almost more than he could bear.

“Is something the matter, Mr. Markus?”

“It’s just…”

There was no answer for a full minute as Markus struggled to remain composed. He knew that it was very possible that his employment here was dependent upon his anonymity, yet he didn’t know what to say. It was the violin that not only he had learned on, but his brothers and sisters, his father, his father’s father and generations beyond that. It was made in a small town in Italy in 1644, before Stradaveri was well- known; one of the first 100 made by the grand master of stringed instruments.

“It’s a beautiful instrument, Miss Black. I would be honored to again teach on it.”  

His insides tumbled at his response; he had said “again”. Maybe she would think he meant that the honor would be more about the act of teaching than the instrument.   

She looked at him quizzically, her woman’s intuition sensing something more than his immediate enamoring with this instrument, which was really not in the very best of condition. But all she said was, “Of course, Mr. Markus. I’ll fetch Ewan.”

While she was away, he thought of all the time he had spent with this instrument; of the hours he had spent practicing, his fingers raw and bleeding at first, then callused and talented, gliding over the strings, placed perfectly; it’s high, smiling sigh and sad drone so often mimicking his own feelings through the years. He thought of the happy times his father’s family had experienced around the fire in the evening, with father and mother dancing happily as he and his younger siblings clapped and played. In those evenings, it seemed his parents looked years younger, a fire dancing in their eyes that was not just the reflection of the glowing embers in the cook-place, but a deeper glow that in his late teens he was just beginning to appreciate as tenderness gained from years of hard work, mutual admiration and respect.

He was deep in this reverie of generations when he was startled to attention by footsteps coming down the hall.

When Ewan saw his prospective teacher, he immediately liked him, but decided, consistent with his nature, to show nothing but disdain for the earnest man.

“Ewan,” Mary said plaintively, “this is Mr. Markus.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ewan. You want to learn the violin, do you?”

Ewan regarded him coldly, as a superior might regard a misbehaving subordinate.

“I do. And I suppose you think you’re the man to teach me?”

Markus smiled. He had seen this act so many times before in his own siblings, a million different variations of the same attitude, that he wasn’t worried at all.

“I know I can teach you. Do you think you’re man enough to learn?” Markus knew he was on shaky ground here; the boy obviously had the final say in this case. He had taken a chance.

Ewan smiled a wry, mischievous smile. “I can learn if you can teach.”

“Well, then” Markus said with a smile, “if you can practice, you can learn. Shall we give this a chance next Thursday at 3 pm?” He extended his hand.

“We shall,” Ewan said with a smile as he shook Markus’ hand.

Mary reported later that very day that an instructor had been found, and that lessons would start immediately. Mr. Tosk, who was in no mood to hear news of any kind from home, simply grunted and went back to his work. Had he asked a certain question, had he simply inquired after the name of the instructor, this would be a very short story indeed as it pertained to Markus. For under no circumstances would it have been acceptable for an unknown, even a supremely talented unknown, to instruct his son; it would be even worse for the son of a former creditor of his to be in his home. Unlike the relationship between the former Mr. Cibella and his son, Ewan was most certainly neglected by his father; they both knew it. But Ewan, when he was provided tangible things, would have the best, make no mistake. And no amount of women’s intuition (which of course played a big part in the hiring of Markus), would have saved his or possibly even her job, particularly if it were known that the name of this new intruder into his home were none other than the eldest son of the old debtor, Mario Cibelli, who had passed on to hell as far as Mr. Tosk cared.

In a better world, Ewan would have been a better student. In a better world, he would have taken complete advantage of the capable and caring teacher, not to mention the priceless instrument that he neglected as certainly as his father had done him. It was only a matter of two months before Ewan announced to Mary that he would no longer admit Mr. Markus into his presence. The news broke Markus’ heart, for although Ewan had been more than a little challenging, Markus had enjoyed teaching again. But aside from that, he could not see how he would ever play his beloved instrument again. To make matters worse, the complicated social mores of the day prevented him from even attempting to court Mary Black, with whom he had become deeply infatuated. Markus left the Tosk home that last day very discouraged indeed. 

But this story is not about Markus, Mary Black, Ewan or Mr. Tosk. It is about the violin that now sits neglected in a closet in an attic in the upper floor of the Tosk home, which, as you can imagine, is cavernous. For fourteen years it sat in the dark attic. Fortunately, it was wrapped in a blanket by a caring maid and then put between two blankets, which helped insulate it from the humid summers and cool winters.

In this fourteen years, however, much happened. It just so happened that Markus embarked upon a journey that eventually landed him in the New World, in New York. What’s more, one of his shipmates on that journey was none other than Mary Black, who had finally been fired by the elder Tosk for insulting the younger Tosk, who, at the insistence of hormonal cravings, made a pass at Miss Black that was not appreciated. She slapped him, and it cost her job. She had just enough saved for a new start in a new world. And who better to share this new experience with than the young teacher from a small town? Markus Cibelli proposed a month into the new world on a bright late summer day. She accepted and they were quickly and happily married three weeks later; he a poor violin instructor and laborer and she a maker of a comfortable if sparsely decorated home on the outskirts of Manhattan Island. They lived there for many, many years, farming and canning, saving and taking in extra work. Building with their own hands what many others could have purchased, the couple built an existence that could at least be called comfortable. The music they made was wonderful. Every night, almost without fail, one could hear Markus playing a sonnet, or a lullaby, or a dance number. For early on, Mary had decided that the purchase of an instrument would be almost a necessity. She used some of her money on their first Christmas to give Markus something she knew he would cherish forever. A violin, of course. Not the violin, but a fine instrument just the same. For years, it enhanced their happiness, gave a tune to their sorrow. They, alone or with friends, laughed and clapped and sang along with the sweet music that Markus’ capable fingers made. It was their entertainment; it was the soundtrack of their lives together. There were no children, a tragedy of no small occurrence to this man who had eleven siblings and this woman, who had spent so much time in the service of families so blessed. In the end, they became each other’s children; mending wounds of heart and hand, kissing away tears and watching the sun set, well into the sunset of their lives. The year was now 1870. 

The violin had a more difficult time. It’s fourteen year sentence came to an end when a 30-year old Ewan came looking for treasures, anything of value, to offset the mound of debt that he had accumulated his adult life, ever since his father passed away in a fall that some said was not an accident. He found the violin, still in almost exactly the same shape he had remembered it being in. Now, being only slightly wiser in a worldly way than he was as a child, he hoped that an old violin might be worth enough money to pay off at least one debtor. Unfortunately for Ewan, he did not know how valuable it was. He took it to a man to whom he owed a small sum of money (who just happened to play a keen violin), Oliver Tart by name, and offered it as payment. Oliver was in luck, for he saw immediately that this was one of the famed Stradavari violins. They had not been made, even then, for two hundred years. Worse yet for stringed instrument players, the special secret that made his instruments sound so rich, so warm, so expressive, had died with Stradavari himself. Those who were strictly collectors did not mind this of course. It simply made their instruments even more valuable. Oliver knew it’s value. He also knew that it was worth much, much more than Ewan owed him. Yes, it was his lucky day. He erased Ewans relatively small debt, all the while making a great show of grumbling of his tremendous generosity, erasing such a debt with such a paltry sum as a poor violin. The debt was erased, Ewan was satisfied that he had gotten off easy and Oliver was made wealthy from the exchange, just in time for his pilgrimage to America.

Every night, on the 3 month voyage from the old world to the new, Oliver played. He entertained the poor, sickened passengers until they one-by-one filed below deck for yet another restless night of pitching and rolling, of children crying and the sounds of the physically ill. But Oliver always stayed above; for as the passengers thinned out, the rowdier deck hands would file around him with requests for the bawdy songs of the day. Of course, Oliver being more comfortable around this type of company than the other knew them all. This fact earned him many times his share in wine and whiskey. There was nothing he liked better than to be the fiddler at a party. The laughter, the rowdy men, the vulgar stories followed by laughter and more music provided a rhythm as welcome to Oliver as the pitching and rolling of the ship was to an old salt. And to Oliver, a much more familiar one as he had not before been on a ship of any sort. The environment was tough, however, on the instrument. The salt air did wonders to damage its already faded stain and it became a bit dented from the beating it took on the deck of the ship. It still sounded remarkable, but it did not look the same.

One night when they were still a fortnight away from the promised land, Oliver had finished playing, having sent the last drunkard to bed. Drunk himself, he teetered and almost fell as he walked towards the edge of the ship to relieve himself, bashing the prized fiddle and giving it its greatest scar yet. In the dichotomy of a drunkard’s actions, he now carefully placed the fiddle on the deck of the great ship as he steadied himself to do that which he had come to the edge of the ship to do. But Mother Nature, particularly Mother Ocean, has a cruel way with the unprepared. Just as Oliver began to relieve himself, still humming the last song he had played or would ever play, a rogue wave hit the edge of the ship broadside and unceremoniously and without fanfare dumped poor Oliver into the frigid Atlantic Ocean. No one saw or heard him go over, and when he hit the water, the cold cocoon of water sobered him up for a matter of seconds before his broken mind convinced him that he could breathe in the salty nectar and he became another victim of the crossing.

The violin, alone and wet on the deck, was found by the third watchman, a man named Erastus. Erastus hated ship life and was determined that this would be his last voyage. He did not fit in with the rowdies on deck and had not, after two years, ever really become used to the movement of the ship. As his watch ended, he saw the violin laying precariously close to the edge of the ship. He went to it and picked it up and looked around for its owner. When Erastus heard among his crew members that the violinist was missing, he kept quiet about his find for fear that it would be determined that Oliver had disappeared during his watch, a fact punishable. The violin was put away, hidden deeply in his chest, and the weary passengers crossed the rest of the way in wretched musical silence.

In the New World, Erastus needed all the money he could get. He had no interest in music. He carried the old violin and bow with him only to find a buyer at one of the myriad shops on the first day after he had secured tentative lodging. He walked alone in the street, the weathered violin in his hand, taking in sights and sounds that were both exciting and threatening. He saw no merchants that offered any hint that they might be interested in an old, beaten violin. He had some money but not much – he had hoped to sell this old instrument for enough to pay for a few days food and lodging.

As he waited for traffic by a street in New York City, Erastus glanced around and saw a sign in front of a building:

Mr. Thornton’s Auction Block and Hotel

Auctions Every Night

You got it? They want it!

7pm

Erastus walked into the building. An elderly man milled around inside a dimly lit hall.  

“Excuse me, sir, are you…”

“Yes, yes, I am Mr. Thornton,” the old man interrupted impatiently as he tottered around the dim room, “leave it on the table and write your name – you CAN write your name, can’t you – and be here tonight at seven sharp. Yours might go first and it might go last I don’t know and I don’t care and I don’t want to be responsible. You leave 20% to the house - that’s the way it is. You take the rest.”

“Well, how much do you think I could…”

“Get for it?” The old man straightened and strained his eyes in the low light. The reflection from the sunlit street glinted off the violin dully, but sharply enough to highlight a scar. To the old auctioneer, the instrument looked battered and travel-worn, and indeed it was.

“From here, I’d say not much. Maybe a couple of dollars. Bidding starts where it starts, son. I have no guaranteed low. Lots of important folks in town tonight for the symphony, lot of rich people, my hotel is booked, and they’ll know its worth, so I wouldn’t expect much. Just come back here tonight and we’ll just see. Now if you don’t mind, I have work to do.”

“No, of course not… thank you, sir… I’ll be here this evening.”

Erastus walked out into the sunlight unsure if he was relieved or not. He paused outside the building and looked back. “Oh, well,” he thought, “it’ll probably fetch enough to get me room and board until I can get some work.” And with a smile, he walked off to find something suitable to eat.   

For Markus and Mary, it was to be a special evening and the day was filled with the sweet anticipation of a wonderful time together. Although they were not given to extravagance, one thing they had always done was celebrate their anniversary. Unfortunately their anniversary on this particular year had been marred by illness for them both and they were unable to go out. This evening the rain check was to be cashed. They would be headed into the City to stay overnight and treat themselves. They prepared, dressing in their best clothes and playing and laughing with each other in the easy way that made their friends both blush and envious.

The sun set as they arrived in New York proper, throwing long lines of brilliant red and pink and orange across the skyline. They halted their carriage across from the place where Markus had made a reservation by mail 30 days before, Mr. Thornton’s Hotel, and Markus jumped down to begin to walk to the other side to help his wife down. He noted that there were many people milling around the outside of the building and that many were entering into the side that said above it “Auction”.  

He saw the sign that told about the auction at 7pm. Markus enjoyed auctions; in his experience, it had been a fine way to get needed goods and services for his small farm for pennies on the dollar.

“Look, Mary,” he said as he helped his wife down from the carriage, “an auction. Maybe we can take a look inside and see what they have?”

Mary smiled. “Of course, my dear. Whatever you want.”

“Are you too hungry?” Markus asked, hopefully.

“No, certainly I can wait. Let’s go in and see.”

And with that they walked hand in hand across the street. It was exactly 7 pm.

Markus and Mary stood near the back of Mr. Thornton’s crowded auction hall. It was not a large hall – only about 75 feet from where Mary and Markus stood to the front – where an old violin lay.

Markus saw it before Mr. Thornton picked it up, but as he did, a charge went through him. It reminded him of a violin he had known and loved so many years before. He remembered his father and now mother long dead; the evenings by the firelight, his siblings so far away, those that were left. He remembered Ewan Tosk and a young Mary Black, his beloved companion; he knew then, as clearly as if he had been told by the violin itself, that somehow, in the unknowable mathematics of a world more unsheltered from the ebbs and flows of life than our modern, he was in the presence of the instrument he had loved and remembered for so many years.

Mary sensed that something had changed with her husband. He had straightened and tensed and as he took a step towards the front of the room, she let go of his arm, a question on her lips as Mr. Thornton spoke from the front of the room.

Mr. Thornton almost put the violin down, as poor a shape as it seemed to him. In reality, the scars it bore were superfluous and, as he would soon learn, affected none if it’s quality of tone. But he convinced himself in the quick unheard banter of reason that we are all party to within ourselves that a deal was a deal and that that young man had brought it in and that maybe he could make a few pennies on the deal if nothing else and then get on to things more interesting to the wealthier crowd he was expecting and, from the look of their dress, had.

So he held it up with a smile as Erastus, who had just entered, watched from the rear of the hall.

“What am I bidden, good folks,” he cried. “who’ll start the bidding for me?”

There was a pause in the audience as a pretty young woman smiled and nudged a young man next to her. The young man raised his hand and said “One dollar”.

“One dollar,” Mr. Thornton repeated with a look of disdain, “one dollar and who’ll make it two?”

From the back corner another hand eased up. A man’s voice said, “Two here.”

Mr. Thornton was silently pleased. A decent crowd. This was more than he thought he’d get already. He continued. “Now two, only two?”

A pause in the crowd, some murmuring.

Markus took a few steps forward while Mary remained unmoved. Mary now sensed that he was keenly interested in the violin. For a moment, she was surprised. Then, just as the dew distilled over night on the flowers in their yard, an idea began to form in her mind. Could this be?

Mr. Thornton continued. “Two dollars and who’ll make it three?”

For Markus the spell was now broken and he purposefully began to stride to the front of the hall.

The original bidder’s hand came back up and Mr. Thornton, pleased enough and anxious to move on to bigger and better, said, “Three dollars once, three dollars twice, going for three…”

Before he could say, “sold to the man for three dollars” which would have sealed the deal and allowed him to move on to the lovely dining table that was next up, he became distracted by a grey-haired man who, with all the authority of a constable, stepped forward and picked up the violin and the bow.

The crowd murmured and glances were exchanged as Mr. Thornton took a step back. Had the violin been stolen and was this the rightful owner? This had happened once before to disastrous consequences. He held still. Even Mary was taken aback by the bold display that her husband of so many years had made, his nature not being to make such.      

Markus lifted the violin once again as it’s creator had done before on the day of it’s creation, like a child being lifted from bathwater by his loving mother. He wiped the dust from it and proceeded to tighten the loose strings. He looked onto the bridge and saw the initials inscribed there and he smiled and almost said a fond “hello”. He plucked a string here and there and a great silence filled the hall as he took a stool and sat upon it.

He looked out into the crowd and with a glistening eye played a tune from his childhood, a sweet, lilting and yet lonely tune that had been played by his own father the very night before this violin had been so cruelly removed from him. For several minutes the tune continued. No one stirred and no one spoke and it was, to all those in the crowded hall, from the wealthy banker, to the sponsor of the symphony to Erastus and Mary, a singular moment, a breathtaking repose.

All too soon, the music ceased and the last, sweet note vanished into the air. No one breathed and no one moved as Markus took the violin away from his chin and placed it down again as softly as he had picked it up, and took a few steps back away, now almost surprised that he had done what he had, but immensely happy that he did.

Mr. Thornton, as humbled as anyone in the room and yet somehow annoyed at the intrusion, stepped forward and said, “What am I bid for the old violin?” as he now more reverently picked it up and held it up with the bow for all to see.

For those who have been touched by music in their lifetimes, the following may be easy to understand. For those who have not, let me say that there can be a spiritual communication with music that goes unfelt in any other medium. In this instance, the spiritual communication was felt – it is what stilled the crowd as much as anything; the excellence of the master’s feel for the piece itself, the emotion communicated by the highs and lows of the instrument. It is about voice inflection, pronunciation and the “twinkle in the eye” – all almost intangibles in the art of voice communication. But to one steeped in the language of music and business, this also became the opportunity of a lifetime.

From the rear of the room, a white-mustachioed man in a black overcoat and a top hat stood and said dramatically in a booming bass voice, “One thousand dollars!” 

The crowd thrilled. For a moment, Mr. Thornton said nothing. Erastus’ heart skipped a beat.

And then Mr. Thornton gathered himself and with only a moment’s pause, as if he had known all along that it was worth many times its original asking price, he said, “A thousand dollars! And who’ll make it two?”

Another man stood, similarly dressed, just a few feet from Mary and, as he stared at the first brash bidder, simply said, “Here”.

Mary’s jaw dropped. Erastus’ stayed down. Mr. Thornton didn’t miss a beat this time.

“Two thousand, and who’ll make it three?” He couldn’t disguise the glee in his voice. A fine night indeed.

A pause and discussion. The first thousand-dollar bidder regarded the second who regarded him back as the second’s wife admonished him.

“William, you get that violin for our Antonio if it takes three thousand dollars. He is talented and he works so hard.” 

William took his cold blue eyes off his competitor and looked at his spouse. Having won a small fortune from gambling and increased it through astute business transactions, he was a shrewd judge in this type of venue and he knew that if he went up, he’d have it. “But three thousand dollars, Susan?”

“I mean it, William. That’s a Strad if I’ve ever heard one. Now you GET IT!”

His wife said this with such venom that it moved this self-made man to say to Mr. Thornton with a boldness that he did not necessarily feel within himself, “Three thousand!”

The man standing by Mary dropped his head and moved to the back of the room.

From the front of the room the whole crowd heard Mr. Thornton say, “three thousand once, and three thousand twice and going and going and gone!”

A wild cheer erupted from the crowd, most of whom had never seen such a spectacle and none of whom had expected it.

The first man who had bid, who had been cut off in his bid for the violin by Markus’ virtuosity, now stood and raised his arms. “Wait, wait now! I had that…” and he was silenced by boos and hisses. He quickly gave up with a question to his wife who had been so moved, “But what changed it’s worth?” to which Mr. Thornton quickly replied in a triumphant voice (and Erastus replied in a hushed and reverent soliloquy) “T’was the touch of the Master’s hand!”

EPILOGUE

Markus and Mary sought out the high bidder later that evening, and, although they had no hope of purchasing it from him, managed to get the man and his wife to listen to him long enough for Markus to tell him his story. The old gambler was unmoved and even skeptical until he was shown the initials of Markus’ forefather on the bridge, but the wife was moved to tears. He offered to take the elder couple to dinner in a nearby restaurant, many times as expensive as Markus and Mary had been in years, maybe ever.

It was soon discovered that William was the major sponsor of the fledgling New York Philharmonic; a personal friend to both Ureli C. Hill, one of it’s founders, and Carl Bergmann, the very man who was to conduct the symphony the next night. They spoke of music until the women began to be bored and then they passed the time talking of their paths to the New World and about William and Susan’s adopted Italian son, Antonio, who had coincidentally come from the same small town where Mary had cared for the young Tosk a lifetime ago. He was apparently very accomplished in the violin, playing first chair in his adopted father’s adopted orchestra. The term “virtuoso” had been mentioned, and Markus smiled. Whether he was or not, it sounded like the beloved instrument was going to a home where it’s value was already established and where it would be cherished.

“William,” Susan paused, her voice breaking, “how can we keep this man’s family keepsake?”  

Markus held up his hand.         

“Susan, we were not blessed with children of our own. You have a son who apparently loves the instrument. I cannot think of a better home for this member of my family. I will never be able to share it with my progeny, and that is what is meant to do; to be passed on and cherished.”

Susan smiled. William, upon seeing the sincerity of the elder man, said to him, “Sir, if it does not offend you, would you accept my invitation to each and every performance of the Philharmonic? It would be my pleasure and it’s the least I can do for you.”

Markus was overjoyed and Mary was as well, mostly for her husband. And for the next fifteen years, they were regular attendees at the shows. And they applauded the loudest and longest when on that very stage, a young man who was said was to be the adopted son of a major sponsor of the Philharmonic, played in their honor a familiar melody on that violin from the Old World, that sounded just like the tune Markus had played that had finally established the value of the old, well-traveled violin.    

The Touch of the Master's Hand

'Twas battered and scarred
And the auctioneer
Thought it scarcely worth his while
To waste his time on the old violin,
But he held it up with a smile.

"What am I bid good friends?" he cried.
"Who'll start the bidding for me?
One dollar! Only one? And who'll make it two?
Two dollars, once. And three!

Three dollars, once, And three dollars twice
And going, and going, But no---
From the back of the room a grey-haired man
Came forward and picked up the bow.

And wiping the dust from the old violin,
And tightening the loose strings
He played a melody pure and sweet
As caroling angels sing.

The music ceased, and the auctioneer
With a voice that was quiet and low
Said, "What am I bid for the old violin?"
As he held it up with the bow.

"One thousand dollars, and who'll make it two?
Two thousand dollars, and three!
Three thousand dollars, once And
Three thousand dollars twice.
And going, and going and gone! said he.

The people cheered, but some of them cried,
"We don't quite understand what changed its worth."
Swift came the reply.
"'Twas the touch of the master's hand."

And many a man with life out of tune
And battered and scarred with sin
Is auctioned cheap to the thoughtless crowd
Much like the old violin.

But the Master comes, and the thoughless crowd
Never can quite understand
The worth of a soul, and the change that is wrought,
By the touch of the Master's hand.