Made by Italian craftsman Antonio Genova in 1768 for the young Austrian Prince Wilhelm. The violin was never given to him because rather than offend Austria’s master luthier ‘Marciano’, Wilhelm’s mother hid this “Italian” violin and instead, presented Marciano’s.
Later, this violin was found by a servant of the house and sold nefariously to a music shop in Weil. From there, the violin found its way from player to player, making each of them wildly rich! But each, in a different way.
One musician became famous and retired the violin. Another became rich in love and the violin was shed. And so it was for decades until finally, the violin ended up in the hands of an eight year old boy who was stricken with cancer and destined to pass. He was pale and thin. So weak and shaky that he struggled sometimes with tying a shoe. He loved to play the violin, but his own, humble little violin was at home from the hospital, now many states away.
His grandfather had purchased this violin many years ago for a pittance from a beggar or gypsy during his time in Europe during WWII.
His grandfather had purchased this violin many years ago for a pittance from a beggar or gypsy during his time in Europe during WWII.
Grandfather brought the worn and patched violin to the hospital where the little boy just stared at it, as if it was a brand new, gleaming Stradivarius with real unicorn-mane in the bow.
Grandfather helped put on the smallest chinrest and put the violin to the boy’s shoulder.
And then, the little boy played.
He played his favorite song. A very simple song anyone could master, except that the sound spilled out of the violin like a river of luxurious, rich tones that filled the room and as importantly, the minds of all who were there.
He played for an hour, at which time he folded the violin and bow back into it’s timeworn case, and fell asleep.
The family members in the room stirred from their reverie, and went about their day.
The following day, when the boy’s mother arrived at the hospital, she heard the soft, hopeful strains of ‘Rigoletto’ coming down the hall. A group of variously robed, bandaged and splinted boys and girls sat around her son’s door. Listening to the soft, but impossibly high notes in the lovingly played nocturne.
When she crept into his room, there he was. Legs folded, sitting on top of the blankets….playing that old violin, a rosy flush in his cheeks and hands as steady as a surgeon’s.
Science never explained the event, but the family was sure it was the violin.
And you and I know better, too:
They were indeed rich.
