A Different Tune

(An allegory)

A hush fell over the audience as the conductor lifted his baton. Softly at first, and then rising in volume, the strains of the symphony flowed through the concert hall. The members of the orchestra played in harmony, each note rising from the instruments to linger in the air.

Backstage, tucked deep under a dusty stack of old props, a discarded violin listened to the beautiful music. An ache festered in its hollow interior—a longing to be able to produce lovely notes like the ones drifting past the velvet stage curtains. But alas, the wooden body of the violin was warped, and the only sounds that came from its strings were dull twangs.

The violin’s earliest memories were of a cheerful workshop along a quaint cobblestone alley. The owner of the shop, a jolly woodworker with a charming grin, displayed all manner of objects in the plate glass window in the front of the shop. There were wooden puppets, long wooden spoons, boxes with hinged lids, even a rocking horse. But his specialty was violins, and those were not kept in the window to fade in the sun. Instead, the violins were lined up on a narrow shelf on the back wall, ranging from tiny doll-sized instruments to full-sized concert violins. The woodworker spent a long time on each violin; choosing the wood, fitting each piece together perfectly, carving and polishing until it was as smooth as glass. He added the strings, carefully tightening and adjusting them until only the purest, sweetest music was created by drawing a bow over the finished violin. Only then did the woodworker place it on the shelf.

One stormy evening, he noticed a tiny smudge on one of the violins. He lifted it from its spot on the shelf and propped it against the workbench to clean in the morning. But that night, torrential rain caused a flash flood, and the nearby river crept over its banks. Seeping under the heavy door of the shop, the muddy water soaked everything in its reach, including the violin. The next morning when the woodworker came downstairs, he found toys and crates and bowls and spoons all floating in the slimy mess, along with the lone violin. With a cry of dismay, he sloshed through the water and fished out the violin. He inspected the dripping instrument, probing the warped wood, the sagging strings, the mud imbedded in the grain. He sighed and placed it on the workbench, then went to work cleaning up what he could. Once the water receded, he scrubbed all the mud from his floors and set everything in order again. Still the violin lay on the workbench, warped and forgotten, or so it thought.

Once the woodworker had his shop back in shipshape condition, he turned to the forlorn violin. Gently he cleaned all the grime from its surface, making sure to get all the dried slime from its hollow body. Then he polished it with a soft rag and linseed oil, but it still looked bleached and worn. He tightened and adjusted the strings, then drew a bow softly across. Listening to the sound, he smiled and set the violin to the side. The next day, he started packing a large order for the local symphony. He covered the bottom of a crate with a layer of packing material, then ever so carefully packed each violin in a velvet case and fitted them into the crate. The last one to slip into place was the warped and bleached violin. He patted it and then tucked it into a velvet case of its own and slid it down the side of the crate. The top was nailed down and the crate sent to the concert hall.

That had been a long time ago, and the violin still smarted when it recalled the way it had been tossed aside as soon as the eager conductor unpacked the rest of the violins. “Whatever were they thinking?” he had muttered, eyeing the buckled wood and misshapen bridge. He shrugged and shoved it into a corner. The rest of his order was there, so he forgot all about the extra oddball.

Ever since, the violin had only gathered dust. Every once in a while, a new member of the orchestra “discovered” the violin and pulled it out, only to drop it in amusement after plucking a string and hearing the dull note it produced. The violin tried to quit hoping for more. After all, at least it got to hear the beautiful music wafting from the stage every time the orchestra performed. But its strings still vibrated with longing to produce beauty of its own.

One afternoon, as dust motes floated in the slanted sunlight from the skylights high above, the violin heard footsteps tapping over the creaky floorboards. They came nearer and stopped, and the person spied the violin sticking out from under a shelf. “What’s this?” he murmured as he tugged it out of hiding. He whipped out a silk handkerchief and wiped the dust from the wood. Holding the violin to the light, he squinted at the strings. He tightened this one, adjusted that one, and then tucked the violin under his chin. Lightly he drew a bow over the strings, so quickly the violin felt dizzy. A tune swirled around the heavy backstage curtains, and the violin listened in awe. True, it didn’t sound like the violins in the orchestra, but it was. . . interesting. It certainly didn’t screech or twang. The person kept playing until the sunlight dimmed and the orchestra members started taking their seats on the stage. Then he placed the violin on a shelf and looked at it thoughtfully for a moment. “Don’t give up,” he whispered to the trembling violin. “There are other people out there who will help you create the beauty you long for.”  Then he stepped past the curtains and disappeared. The violin never saw him again, but every once in a while, it caught glimmers of the same spirit in people who stopped by the violin on the shelf. There were only a few, but those few looked past the cracks and splits and coaxed its best from the warped wood and shaky strings. And in those moments, the violin sang its heart out, grateful for every moment of beauty.