There once was a man who was a master violinist, considered by many to be the greatest violinist who had ever lived. His performances were so moving, his playing so flawless, that those who listened often said that his music changed their lives. The violinist traveled from town to town, performing freely everywhere he went. When he arrived in a town, all the people of the town would come out to listen, and even the town drunkard would listen quietly as he played. He became so famous that kings would invite him to play in their palaces, and he received great honors in every place.
During one such visit, the violinist received a gift from a grateful king – a beautiful violin built by a highly skilled craftsman in his city. This city was known for the quality of its wood, taken from old trees high in the surrounding mountains. The violin was carefully crafted from this wood and finely lacquered. It was lined with gold trimmings, and its pegs and scroll tipped with diamonds. The violin was a work of art as much as it was an instrument of music, and all marveled at its beauty. The resplendent gold and dulcet tones perfectly matched the quality of the violinist’s skill, and it was the honor of the city for him to use this instrument in his performances.
In the course of his journeys, the violinist came to another town, and gave his customary performance using the beautiful violin. Everyone in the town cheered for him as he finished, moved deeply by his magnificent music. But after the cheers died down, a man of that town, and a violinist himself, spoke up from the crowd. “A fine performance,” said the man, “certainly you are skilled.” “But,” he continued, “it is no surprise that you can play so beautifully on such a beautiful instrument! I could play just as well if I had so fine an instrument as that.”
A few people in the crowd laughed at this man. “You are a good violinist,” they said, “but you are nowhere so good as this master!”
“You have seen my violin,” the man responded, “it is old, and made of inferior material and craftsmanship. My violin has no gold or diamonds, and is even cracking in places. Do you really think his music would sound so pleasant if played on such an instrument?”
The crowd began to wonder if perhaps he was right. The master’s instrument was truly the finest they had ever seen, and certainly better than the violin this man played.
As the crowd was murmuring about this, the master violinist spoke.
“Bring me your violin, sir,” he said.
The man brought his violin to the master, confident that he would not be able to produce such beautiful music on this instrument. But when the master held the man’s instrument, he looked at it only for a moment before handing it back to the man. “This instrument is too fine for me to play,” he said.
“Too fine?” said the man in disbelief.
“Yes,” said the master, “it is far too fine for me to show you my skill. Here is my request: find me the worst violin you have in your town and bring it to me. My only requirement is that it is still able to make music.”
The whole town was entertained by this challenge, and began searching for the worst violin they could find. After a while, a poor man came forward holding an old, worn-down violin. He seemed a little embarrassed as he explained about the instrument.
“I have kept this in my closet for many years,” he said, presenting it to the master violinist. “It once was very precious to me, but I have not played it in a long time. It is made from cheap wood, and is now misshapen from the heat and cold. The strings are brittle, the bow is warped and its hair fraying. However, I believe it will still produce music, such as it is. It would be my honor for you to play it, if you wish to try.”
Many of the people in the crowd laughed when they saw the violin. The man who had challenged the master smirked as he looked on. It seemed to all the people as a joke. Despite his remarkable skill, no one believed even this master could play beautifully on such a poor instrument.
The master violinist thanked the poor man, and gladly received the cheap, old violin. He looked it over for a few moments, closing his eyes as he ran his hands along its warped frame. Finally he looked at the poor man with a smile. “There is still music in this precious instrument of yours,” he said, “sit back, and listen.” Then he tuned the instrument, lay it on his shoulder, and began to play.
Although the tone was different from before, the music was no less beautiful. Indeed, it seemed that the music from this worn violin was somehow even more moving than what he had performed with his own. To hear the beautiful music play from this old, broken instrument was like seeing the signs of spring after a long, hard winter. It was like the sound of a field of flowers blooming, or the sound of the valley coming to life. It was the sound of new life overthrowing death itself. In the hands of the master, the poor man’s violin had not only produced a masterpiece, but had become a masterpiece.
As the violinist played the final note, tears filled the eyes of all in the crowd. It seemed improper to clap or cheer. The people could only stand in reverent silence, in awe of the skill of the master before them.
Lowering the old violin from his shoulder, the violinist motioned for the poor man to come. “Yes,” he said, handing it back to him, “there is still much music in this precious instrument of yours.” The poor man received it back nervously, for he knew that his instrument had become one of the most valuable items in the town.
The man who had challenged the master stepped forward from the crowd, his head lowered. “I owe you an apology,” he said, looking at the ground, “for my insult to your skill. You are not only a master, sir, but the master. Surely no one in the world plays as masterfully as you.”
The violinist stood up before the man, and put his hand on his shoulder. “Friend,” he said, “do you know why the music was so beautiful on the poor man’s worn instrument?”
“No,” said the man, “I do not understand. Had I not heard the music for myself, I would never have believed it.” The crowd around him quietly nodded in agreement.
“I love to play with my beautiful violin,” said the violinist. “It was a gift of honor, and it gives me great joy to play it. It certainly produces wonderful music. But, in the beauty of the violin, not all are able to see the one who plays it.”
“However,” he continued, speaking now not only to the man but to the entire crowd, “with this poor man’s instrument, no one looks at the violin, but only at me. Then they begin to truly hear my music for the first time, for they hear not the instrument, nor only the notes, but me playing it. My music is the same, and my playing is the same. But I am most truly heard through broken instruments.”
[Painting by Thomas Eakins; Wikimedia Commons]
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