Sebastian’s Violin
Sebastian
slid along the icy walkway to his cottage and rushed inside.
The room smelled of sawdust and violin varnish.
His father looked up from sanding the neck of a new violin. “What’s all the excitement about?” he asked.
“Ivan has a new violin just his size,” said Sebastian. “If I had one, too, he and I could play together at the Easter dances. I could play the songs Grandfather taught me.”
Sebastian’s father frowned. “Why didn’t you decide this last fall, when I had time to make a half-size violin for you?” he asked. He opened a carved wooden cabinet and took out an old violin case. “Let’s try the full-size one Grandfather left you.”
Sebastian took the shiny violin from his father. Proudly he fitted it underneath his chin. He stretched and stretched his arm. But his fingers could not grasp the scroll.
“You still need a half-size one,” said his father. “When I have finished the violin I’m working on, I can begin making yours. Meanwhile you can learn to bow with Ivan on his violin.”
Sebastian hung his head. He wished his father could begin his new violin now. He plucked the old violin’s strings: E, A, D, G. His grandfather would have had time to make a half-size violin if he were still alive.
Father put his arm around Sebastian. “Let’s go choose the wood for your violin.”
Together they went outside to the shed where blocks of wood were stored and aged. Some of the blocks had been cut before Sebastian was born, even before his father was born, when Sebastian’s grandfather was a little boy.
Sebastian lifted a heavy block of hard curly maple. “How’s this one for the front of the violin?” he asked.
“Fine.” His father pointed to a block of soft spruce and said, “This will be perfect for the back.”
The days became warmer. Every afternoon after school, Sebastian asked his father, “Have you started making my violin yet?”
Sometimes his father grew impatient and said, “Sebastian, you know I must glue this violin together before I can start yours. And I can’t rush, or it will be ruined.”
Then Sebastian would sit near the stove and watch his father work. If only he could help his father, he thought. Then his violin would certainly be ready in time for Easter. But all he was allowed to do was pile up the wood chips and sweep the floor. Someday, he told himself, he would be a violin maker just like his father and grandfather.
Finally the day arrived when he saw the pattern for a half-size violin on his father’s workbench.
“How long until it’s finished?” asked Sebastian.
“About a month,” answered his father. “Just in time for Easter.”
Sebastian watched happily as his father carved out the front and back pieces of his new violin. “When the tone is just right,” said his father, tapping them, “you may help me glue the pieces together.”
Sebastian hugged his father. At last he would be allowed to help!
He and Ivan practiced the songs for the Easter dances almost daily now, taking turns on Ivan’s violin.
After Sebastian and his father glued the violin pieces together, they applied special glue to the family label. It read, in Latin, Johann Brodsky, son of Gregory, son of Thomas. Sebastian thought how wonderful it would be if someday his name were on the label, too.
“Now,” said his father, “we’re ready for Grandfather’s secret varnish. It’s so flexible and alive that it feels like skin. That’s why it’s so famous.”
His mother came to the door and saw them working together. “Oh, Sebastian,” she said, kissing him on the top of the head. “I think you are going to be the best violin maker our family has ever had!” Sebastian beamed with happiness.
One afternoon Sebastian ran home through the wheat fields, where the farmers were plowing and planting seed. Easter was coming, and day by day the coats of varnish on Sebastian’s violin were drying. He ran into his father’s workshop. “When can we put on the strings?” he asked his father eagerly.
Sebastian’s
father stopped work and came over to him. “Something
has happened,” he said. “I thought I had one more
set of strings, but I had to use them on the last violin.
I’ve ordered some more, so they might arrive before
Easter.”
Sebastian’s heart fell. He felt like crying. Sometimes his father had to wait months for new strings. Again Sebastian thought longingly of his grandfather, who had seemed able to solve any problem. “If only Grandfather were still alive,” said Sebastian sadly, “he could find strings for me.”
“I’m sorry, Sebastian,” said his father, pulling him close.
Finally, the last coats of varnish dried, and Sebastian’s father fastened the ebony fittings on the violin. “It’s ready to play,” he said, “when the strings arrive.”
But the strings did not arrive.
Early Easter morning Sebastian dreamed he was playing his new violin. He awoke and sadly realized that Ivan would be playing without him. Outside, the sun was rising and the birds were singing. Sebastian grabbed the new embroidered shirt his mother had left at the foot of his bed and dressed underneath the down comforter. Then he tiptoed across the cold wooden floor into the next room.
Suddenly he stopped. There, on the table, next to the Easter bread and colored eggs, was his new violin. It was perfectly fitted with strings. Sebastian turned and saw his parents standing in the doorway.
“Where did you get the strings?” he cried.
“You gave me the idea,” said his father. “These are the ones from Grandfather’s violin.”
Sebastian laughed. “Grandfather did find strings for me!” he said. He put the new violin to his chin and began to play.
As the sun’s light filled the cottage, Sebastian’s father and mother danced to the music.
