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The Violin




illustrated by Robert g. Jerore


The Violin

    It was an average size theater, capable of seating two hundred persons. Tonight it was filled to capacity. The variety of entertainment presented during this evenings program was very enjoyable. There had been two vocal solos; a small singing group; an orchestral presentation; twin pianos duet, and a flautist. The twenty minute intermission which allowed a comfort break was over, and the second half of the evenings program was near completion, except for a female violinist who was last on the program.

    Auditorium lights overhead dimmed.; muffled sounds emanating from the audience diminished except for an occasional cough. Dark red, velvet curtains slowly opened accompanied with faint clicking of a few worn rollers as they moved along the rail, from which the curtains were suspended. The crowd hushed...another cough.

    From the left wing of the stage a lone figure emerged, illuminated by a small spot light beaming down from overhead. He strode toward a Grand piano stationed at left-center of the stage. Placing sheets of music against the upright rest on the piano, he seated himself on a frail looking bench, raising slightly to adjust his tuxedo tails. Not satisfied, he raised and seated himself twice more, before looking beneath the key board. There he tapped lightly with his foot, on the pedals of the piano. Adjusting a small lamp above the music rest, he fingered through the sheet music assuring himself everything was in readiness. Finally, he nodded slightly toward the right side of the stage. 

    Behind the opened curtain at the right wing, a young woman appeared, carrying a violin and bow. Clapping of the audience began the moment she appeared. She was wearing a light blue, strapless gown that flowed like water around her lithe body as she moved. Another spotlight followed her; its beam causing tresses of her long blonde hair to gleam like spun gold; clapping continued. At center stage she turned toward the audience...bowing slightly, acknowledging their enthusiastic greeting. Slowly, the applause faded, there was quiet except from somewhere in the audience again a light cough.

    Turning toward the pianist she nodded. At first his fingers touched the ivory keys lightly, then grew more intense as he played the lead to her chosen song. Raising the violin, she placed it beneath her chin, nestling it against her slender neck. It felt cool there. Drawing the bow across its strings lightly; she persuaded the violin to speak, as only a violin knows how. Sweet strains poured forth from the instrument filling the auditorium with a near human-like quality. Crying softly at first...resembling a plea of pure loneliness. It moaned as though deeply wrought in sorrow, calling out to a lost lover, yet knowing there would be no response to its cries. Softly, its soulful anguish began to fade. 

    Her slender fingers gripped the violin tightly, pressing the strings more firmly, the music began to change. The instrument’s lament ranged from a lonely melancholy moan to an assertive voice, wantonly demanding further release. She wanted not to give in to the urges she was being drawn toward, but she played on, swaying slowly to and fro, hesitating very briefly, before allowing the violin to press onward.

    With a firm hand she manipulated the taut bow relentlessly on tightly drawn strings, her slim body twisting slightly back and forth...keeping with the music tempo for several moments. As music pressed on complying and demanding, a forceful pace increased. Steadily the prominence of the violin seemed to gain control over the violinist. Its sorrowful wail no longer to be a part of the score. Its voice changed to an appeal of necessity. The bow was drawn on strings with forceful urgency. Knowing she was about to lose control, she gripped the violin with greater consideration. In the background the piano had increased its rhythm, the pulse of music was broadening.

    Reaching deeply into her reserve, she pressed on in an extreme flurry of movement, forcing the instrument to greater heights. The tempo had reached a frenzied pitch that neither she nor the violin would be able to sustain much longer. The audiences sensed an ending was near. At last the violin screamed outward a piercing note, holding it for what seemed an eternity, before dropping to a near muted sigh. As though a oneness, the breath of the audience released in a culminating gasp of relief. The pianist pounded two sharp chords indicating an absolute ending, then it too faded softly to silence.

    The performance was complete; it was a frantic finale. The audience was standing, the auditorium resounded with an outpouring of clapping hands and cheers. A climatic chill rushed down her spine, and loosened itself upon her. She held her position, inhaling deep breaths, then emitting them slowly. She changed the violin and bow to her right hand, then although they were still not visible to her in the darkness, she bowed again and again to an audience on the main floor, then to each balcony. Finally, not to be forgotten, she raised a moisture ladened arm toward her accompanist, extending the audience overture to him also.

    Applause slowly ceased; she exited to the right wing from which she entered; each step a cautious step. Behind the curtain, she handed her violin and bow to a waiting stage attendant, and collapsed onto a wooden chair. A cool glass of water was handed to her; she sipped it slowly. 

    From the auditorium, approval began again. Regaining her composure, she arose and once more made the trip to center stage, her pianist joined her. They took several more bows. The lights brightened above her and the audience. A young man appeared from the right wing as the clapping slowly dwindled. He carried in his upraised hands a large offering of white roses. A smile broadened on her lovely face, as she graciously nodded to him and accepted them. Showing signs of approval, the clapping increased once more. She bowed again one more time, then left the stage walking directly to her dressing room. Her violin preceded her and had been placed in an opened, velvet lined, leather case.

    Carrying the flowers to a dressing table, she opened the wrap, and lifted out a few long stem roses. Approaching the violin she gently caressed its surface before placing the roses on top of it. She whispered in a wavering, emotional voice, “These roses are for you. The audience approval and climatic ending I received, was more than I anticipated.”


Recommended Comments

Bob, you kept my attention as I read to the very end. Superficially, the ending comes across as anticlimactic, but really, there's a sense of appreciation, detectable (and appreciable) to an empath. Well done!


PS -- I'll move this to the Prose forum where it rightfully belongs.

(Ah, never mind I see it's in a blog. I'll see if I can promote it to the Front Page or at least feature it here in the blogs.)

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Thanks Tony for making a new location for it. I wasn't certain as to where it rightly belonged.

As for the story line... the violin in this narrative is basically the prime subject "Personified".  The young lady is but an instrument who allows her violin to express itself to the utmost. I didn't want to spend too much time describing the fact the violin in this story, is capable of experiencing/voicing itself even though it still sounds as only a violin can. But... she knew. 

I indicated as carefully as I could, without making it seem like a physical relationship. The young violinist was mentally and emotionally caught up in a frenzy she was experiencing. The last sentence is her exhausted "Thank You." for the experience.




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