The Violin

                I stood in the Burlington Violin Shop and smiled at the man who was holding out my bow, inspecting it.  Satisfied with its appearance, he handed it to me with a nod.  I smiled at the new straight white hairs that stretched limply across the bow, waiting for me to tighten them, draw them across the strings to release the sound within a violin.  That bow had cost me a years worth of slave labor for my mother.  Straight and sturdy, it seemed deserving of a beautiful instrument. 

                A beautiful instrument, however, was something I did not have.  I had the cheapest level of violin, a practice violin.  A violin for beginners.  I had had the same violin for two years, ever since I had traded in my ¾ violin for a full size violin.  It was pretty enough to look at, with the grain running vertically up and down the instrument in tiny honey-colored lines.  I was not impressed by the sound, however.  When I tried hard, mentally focusing on my posture and technique- elbow under, wrists and shoulders relaxed, thumb and little finger bent, bow held loosely- I could sometimes coax a clear sound out of it.  Usually, though, a scratchy, squeaky sound covered my attempts to make beautiful music like a layer of dust that could not be brushed away. 

                I gazed longingly at the rows of violins hanging from the ceiling, ranging from full size all the way down to tiny violins that looked like toys for a doll.  Some appeared new, with a shining, smooth layer of varnish slickly coating the violin like honey; others were old and antiqued.  I wanted a violin that, when people pointed to it and asked if it were mine, I could nod yes proudly instead of shrugging in a neutral sort of way.  I loved the way professional violinists seemed to be a part of their instruments.  I wanted to have a violin that I could merge with, sinking into the instrument so that I could make beautiful music without the dusty undertone. 

                My mother paused while she was taking out her checkbook.  She looked at me, following my gaze.  “Do you want to try a few out?” she asked.  I shrugged, trying to act like I didn’t care, but my eyes must have sparkled.  Mom turned to the woman behind the glass counter, which held rosin, shoulder rests, metronomes, and other violin essentials.  I smiled behind her and listened as they talked about trying out violins, discussing price and quality.  My eyes followed the woman’s hands as they fluttered through the violins like little birds, a finger resting on a scroll, then moving on.  In the end, three select violins lay on the counter in front of me.  The woman took two, gestured for me to bring the third and my own, and led me into a small practice room complete with a stand, chair, mirror, and piano for tuning.  My mother sat on the chair while I adjusted my stand and slipped my shoulder rest onto the first violin. 

                “You should play scales to test out the instruments,” the woman was saying.  “It’s hard to adjust to a new violin, and scales are the easiest way to test the sound.  Your mother can give you input on how it sounds from someone else’s point of view, but what really matters it what you think.  It should feel natural for you to play, not awkward.”  She smiled.  “You’ll just know when you have the right one.”  The woman walk towards the door.  “Just come get me if you need anything.”

                I looked into the small f-shaped hole in the side of the violin I held.  Reading the small tag that was pasted to the bottom, I could see that the violin had been made in Czechoslovakia in 2000, just three years earlier.  I lifted my bow to the strings and began to play.  After several scales and an attempt at playing Vivaldi’s Concerto in A minor, I set the violin down.  My mom shook her head, and I agreed with her.  The violin wasn’t all that much better than the one I had, at least in my opinion. 

                I picked up the next.  This one was beautiful, a deep reddish brown, with worn spots that made it look antique.  Looking into this one, however, I learned that it had only been made earlier this year.  The antiquing that the creator had done was wonderful; I had been convinced for a minute that I had held an old violin.  I smiled, hoping that this beautiful instrument would have an equal sound.  I began to play. 

                After several more scales and another attempt at Vivaldi, I looked at my mother.  She nodded.  “I like that one.  It sounds like a viola.” 

                I frowned.  Something didn’t seem right.  I played the violin, not the viola, and as beautiful as the it, something seemed wrong about the instrument.  I wanted a good violin, not a violin pretending to be a viola. 

                I sighed, set the beautiful violin down, and picked up the last.  This one was almost honey colored, like my old practice violin, but with a red tint.  It also had places where the varnish had worn away, but they were not as obvious.  It was covered in an array of nicks and bumps form years of being shuffled around.  Looking into the violin, I confirmed what I thought- the violin was old.  Over a hundred years old- it was made in 1886.  I lifted the instrument and began to play. 

                At first I squeaked and scratched, just like my old violin, and disappointment settled in the pit of my stomach like a rock.  But as I warmed up to the instrument, playing seemed to get easier.  My fingers floated along the strings- out of tune sometimes, but my fingers kept right on dancing over the fingerboard.  My bow settled into the strings, as if it were saying, “This is where I belong.”  Slowly, as I played, the dust cleared.  I looked up at my mom and grinned. 

                “This is the one.  I just know it.”