The Song of the Violinist: By Mary Palladino

“The snow falls, the wind howls, and the moon rises to console the stars.”

Few could see the cold imagery of the mind. Many are blind; they ignore the inside storm. They only look at what they want to see- the outside: Vibrant colors and the melodies that the Violinist creates.

In a sleepy little village some time ago, in an old cottage on the hill, there lived a man. Every soul in the village knew of this man. He would go into the less sleepy parts of town and play his violin. His playing was so entrancing that the ears that heard his song would stop what they were doing, and get lost in the song of the Violinist; it sounded like something out of a dream of serendipity.

Not only was he a violinist, but also an artist. He would paint the most beautiful pictures of surreal landscapes, eye opening shapes and colors, and photographic portraits. If you were to step into his Gallery, you would feel the

stares of eyes going down your spine. Often the villagers would ask the Violinist, “Why do you play? Why do you paint?” He would answer,

“I do these things out of love. It makes me feel alive.”

One day, a visitor came to the village. She had heard all about the Violinist, and had traveled from afar to see him. As it turns out, she was a host of one of the biggest arts competitions of the time, and the Violinist was invited to compete.

“Who, me?” The Violinist asked, astonished. “Truly, I am not who you are looking for. I am not rich or famous. How can this be?”

“I know who I traveled to see.” The host replied. “Paint something spectacular. Compose something extravagant, then come find me.”

The villagers expressed their excitement for the Violinist; they wanted him to join the competition. With all this support, how could he not?

That night, the Violinist went through his many papers of compositions. He was proud of a lot of them, and thought about which one he should use for the competition. “Summer Rain in F Major?” “Twilight Symphony in E flat Minor?” He just couldn't decide. After a while, he decided to examine his paintings instead. His walls were packed with paintings, and his Gallery contained even more. But, like his songs, the Violinist could not decide. He thought and thought, and then it hit him- He should create something new. He would compose a new creation of love, or paint another sky for someone far away. He pulled out his violin, and played a few scales for inspiration. He wrote some notes on his sheet. He played some more, but stopped in the middle. His song was not turning out the way he wanted it to. He did not want to get frustrated, so he set down his violin, and picked up a canvas. He sketched out a quick idea, and started to paint. However, the colors did not look like how he imagined them in his head. He tried again, but it got worse. “Maybe I just need some rest.” The Violinist thought to himself. And that is exactly what he did.

The following day, the Violinist went into the village and tried to play his songs like he used to. His hands shook, and the rod was at war with the strings. The villagers looked on with confusion. “What is happening to our talented violinist?” They asked amongst themselves. “Does he not work well under pressure?”

The pressure was nothing to the Violinist. No one could view the storm on the inside. Days went by, and the Violinist slowly got worse. Crumpled papers piled, and innocent canvases were slaughtered. Three villagers, meanwhile, knew there was something wrong with their hero.

“This is ridiculous.” the arrogant villager grunted. “The Violinist is losing his luster.”

“Nonsense! Shame on you!” The beamish villager gasped. “Our violinist is simply not feeling well.”

“Perhaps…” The introspective villager mused, “he is still grieving.”

After a pause, the beamish villager nodded in agreement. “I miss her too.”

That night, the Violinist went into his Gallery, something he had not done in a while, and he looked upon a painting with disheartened eyes. It was a painting of a woman. If one didn't know better, they would say it was a goddess. She had blonde hair, chestnut eyes, and no one deserved her. Until sleep would finally overcome his dejected mind, The Violinist wept tears of a broken song.

When the Violinist woke, he noticed he was no longer in the walls of his home; he was lying in lush verdure. Wind softly blew, the sun was lagom, flowers waved to the sky, and all was peacefully silent. Confused, the Violinist stood up and viewed his surroundings. These were not the valleys of the village, he realized, but something about them was very familiar. As he looked longer, it occurred to him that this place looked like a world from his artworks. He remembered this painting from not long ago. “Where the Melody Resides”. But why was he brought here, he wondered to himself. Who brought him here?

His stream of consciousness trailed off when his ears caught a faint sound of delicate notes in the air. It was coming from the woods, and seemed to be calling his soul. Of course, his motive was to answer this summon and follow this selcouth song. The music became more mystical with each step. When he finally reached the heart of the wood, he found a woman, his lost Darling, playing her cello as she did years ago. How she was good at playing that gorgeous instrument in her lifetime, and for the Violinist to hear it again was a blessing- a sorrowful joy. How beautiful she was, playing her passion perfectly. She was like a goddess from above. Euterpe, Hera, or perhaps Athena. The Violinist closed his eyes and breathed it all in, for it would be a long time before he would hear the Melody of the Cellist again. Her song was calling the Violinist back to life, the life he had long ago, and the life he longed for.

Before he knew it, everything was gone. He was back in his Gallery as if nothing happened. But the song in his heart remained. His Darling was hanging above him, with a cheery smile on her face that whispered, “Write.” And he did.

He wrote down every note he heard in his vision, and he painted everything he saw. His pencil glided across the paper as he composed; his brush danced across the canvas, leaving lambent colors in its path. A song of the Violinist might not be worthy for the world, but a song of the Cellist is. He performed the Cellist’s song in the street for the host to hear, and he had truly never felt more alive playing it. The village came down, and the host was in awe. She has never heard, and will never hear anything like it. The Violinist played “The Cellist’s Ballad", and he presented his artwork, “A Goddess and her Cello”, with pride in the competition. But did he win? I cannot tell you. I can tell you however, that the Violinist was wrong; every note he ever played, every piece he ever painted, did make the Cellist happy. They were fit for her because love was weaved in the canvases, and written in his songs.

Over time, the Violinist’s time in the village came to a close. He was missed by many, but the villagers were happy, knowing that the Violinist and the Cellist were reunited. Some say at night, if you listen with your heart, you could still hear a violin playing under the moonlight. Listen harder and you might also hear a cello. Very few people know this, but everyone in that little village knows: Maestros don't die, they become music. Their legacies will not die either; the Violinist’s son has come to the village, and he now plays his viola for all to hear, in honor of his late father and mother. Indeed, wherever this family goes, the melody will follow.