Song of Sorrow
One Violin. One curse. One hundred years
R.P.G. Colley
First Movement: Maker of Violins
Sometimes I think I can see him, a silhouette in the distance. I lean forward, narrowing my eyes, trying to see through the haze of heat rising from the road. I want to call out his name, want him to see me. But no, it’s not him; it never is.
I was brought up in the countryside, some hundred kilometres south of Leipzig. The lane at the end of our little house divided into two. At the point the two lanes intersected was a raised patch of grass, and on that grass was a small, granite cross. Whenever the weather and time allowed it, I used to sit on the grass and lean against the cross and stare into the distance, pulling up tufts of grass and plucking the daisies. And all the while, gazing down the lane, waiting. Forever waiting.
Twenty-one years later, part of me is still waiting.
1. A small town in Germany, October 1871
Leopold returns home early from his workshop, flinging open the front door. I am slicing an onion, trying to blink away the sting while humming the opening bars of ‘Zadok the Priest’. He stands there with his little peaked hat with a feather in it, panting, bringing the cold from outside with him. Something about the unusual gleam in his eyes unnerves me. He says my name in a tone I am unaccustomed to. My knife hovers above the chopping board. I know my husband has something to say; I hope something good, but a little stab of anxiety pierces me. ‘Yes, what is it, Leo? Say it, whatever it is.’
‘Oh, my love.’
And now I am truly worried. Leo does not employ affectionate names unless there is something that is truly ailing him.
I place the knife carefully on the tabletop as he reaches for me, his arms outstretched. ‘Oh, my love, my love.’
‘Stop with this nonsense, and tell me what’s wrong.’
‘Oh, ye of little faith. Nothing is wrong. On the contrary, for once in our lives, God is smiling on us, and filling us with His radiance.’ He is speaking quickly, the words tumbling out. ‘After all this time, it has happened. Why, I feel His bountiful–’
‘Leo.’ I am almost shouting. ‘Is this about the violin? In heaven’s name, just tell me.’
Now he stops as if remembering I don’t yet know what wondrous event has enthralled him. His grip on my hands tighten. ‘Yes, the violin. Hannah, my dearest, I’ve done it. It’s perfection. I know it.’
I try to smile, try to look pleased. The delicious moment of expectation is punctured for we’ve been here many times before. Every time my dear, deluded husband finishes a violin, he thinks it is perfect, that it is the best he’s ever made.
‘Oh, Hannah, it’s perfect; it’s the best I’ve ever made.’
‘Yes, Leo.’
‘This one will sell, my love, and it’ll make our fortune. I can feel it here,’ he adds, thumping himself in the chest. ‘It’ll change our lives. Why, Hannah, stop a moment.’
I hadn’t realised that I had resumed my chopping of the onion and indeed was hacking at it with much gusto. My poor husband, he lives his life on dreams. He is the very epitome of optimism. He forgets the catalogue of disappointments and false hopes that have marked his working life hitherto. We hardly survive on the proceeds of his trade; the rent is overdue, and the shadow of debt hovers near us constantly. Violin-making is a precarious occupation. A violin will sell only to the parents with aspiration and usually even those are happy to buy any old rubbish for their children. Every violin maker is after the Holy Grail, a violin that a top violinist from a great orchestra will fall in love with and prepared to pay handsomely for.
‘I’m sorry, Leo. You were saying?’
He spins round, struggling to contain his excitement, flutters around me like a moth. This violin, he declares, waving his arms about, is the one he was destined to produce, the one that will put his name on the map, the one that will make him the most sought after violin maker in all Germany. I have carrots to chop, potatoes to peel, a hungry six-year-old to feed; I have little time for this daydreaming, yet I say nothing, wouldn’t dare to interrupt. He takes a seat at the table, drums his fingers on the surface, rises to his feet again, still talking of our glorious future, the house we will live in, the views of the lake from the veranda, the sounds of birds in the trees, far away from this dirty town and its filthy streets and feral children. He often refers to this house that exists only in his imagination. He has every room mapped out, from the grand dining table to the four-poster beds: from the grandfather clock to the tiled floor in the hallway. Are all men like children?
I hesitate to remind Leo that Herr Hauff, our landlord, is due at the end of the week, expecting his rent. We are almost three months in arrears, and all I have is a fortnight’s worth. The worries gnaws away at me, leaving me exhausted. We risk being evicted, but I have no wish to puncture Leo’s balloon of happiness so again I hold my tongue. I also hesitate to ask, but ask I must, whether Hans, his agent, has seen this latest work of art and, if he has, what he makes of it.
‘No, no, not yet. He’s coming here tomorrow morning. We must make sure the house is clean for his visit.’
Of course, when Leo says we must make sure, what he really means is I must make sure. I smile and shake my head. I don’t mind.
Leo sees this. ‘What?’ he says, a trace of irritation in his tone. ‘What’s so funny?’
‘I’m sure Hans will love it, Leo. Have no fear.’
2.
I stand at the stove waiting for the water to boil in order to make Hans Lüpertz his coffee. Leo paces up and down unable to contain his agitation while Hans puts on his glasses and inspects the violin.
‘Well?’ says Leo. ‘What do you think?’
Hans holds up his hand as if to say, ‘Patience.’ Leo paces to the window and stands there, sulking, staring out into the street, his hands behind his back, his fingers twitching. The morning sun makes a silhouette of him. I can see the weight of expectation pressing down on him. Our future may depend on this. We all know it, but Hans can say nothing but the truth. If the violin is not quite perfect, then he’ll say so, as indeed he has many times before. Then he’ll leave, and it’ll be down to me, as always, to comfort my husband, to share his disappointment and slowly, gently, restore his strength so that he can try again. It is, alas, a familiar scenario.
It certainly looks like an impressive instrument; the body is of a dark red colour; its varnish simmers and radiates. Hans glides the bow gently over the D string, then the others, one by one. He plays a short Bach sonata, one he always uses as part of his assessment. I search his face for a clue. He places the bow on the table and plucks at the strings with his fingers. He inspects the bars, retunes it slightly. The water boils. I reduce the heat under the pan. I do not move, too conscious lest I break the spell. Hans gently places the instrument on the kitchen table and rubs the back of his neck. A slight shake of the head. I hold my breath. I can’t bear to see my husband’s anguish; instead, I watch the water simmering, the steam rising while I await the verdict.
‘My God, Leo,’ he says.
‘Yes? What? What is it?’
‘Leopold, my dear friend, I do declare that this time you are right – this is as near perfection as an earthly man can attain.’
I spin round. Leo is still as a statue, struck dumb as if unable to comprehend. He looks at me from across the room, his eyes pooling with tears, and my love for him seeps through my every fibre. He looks smaller somehow, as if Hans’ verdict has frightened him. He turns to his friend. ‘Are you… are you sure?’
Hans removes his glasses, and I notice the indentation on the bridge of his nose. He opens his mouth to speak, but then he, too, sees the emotion pulsing through my husband. Our excitement is catching; he understands what this means to him, to us. He approaches Leo and places his hand on his shoulder. ‘Yes, my friend. You have produced an instrument that an angel would gladly play.’
For a moment, I fear my husband may faint. He grabs a chair and sits at the table. He wipes away his tears with the back of his hand. I also sit, my legs weak. Leo and me, we are so used to disappointment, to always being second best, that this does not seem real. I take his hands in mine. ‘I’ve never doubted you, my love.’
‘I know.’
‘I knew this day would come.’ I look up at Hans. ‘Thank you,’ I say. I have no need to fear Herr Hauff’s visit now. He will have his rent, all of it, if not this week, or next, then certainly soon.
Hans joins us at the table. The three of us gaze at the violin lying there, the polished wood catching the light. To my untrained eyes and ears, it’s just another violin that feels and sounds the same as all the others Leo has made over the years. But Leo and Hans know different.
‘It is truly a work of art, Leo,’ says Hans. ‘I cannot remember a time I have seen such perfection in a violin.’
Leo has recovered himself. He laughs and smiles; he slaps his knee. The two men talk in raptures; they speculate on what might happen to the violin, on the journey it might take. We all know that a good violin will travel farther and see more of the world and will live longer than any of us mere mortals. Hans will formulate a plan, he says: make sure he can get the instrument in front of some of the best violinists in the country. ‘Have you dated it?’
Leo shakes his head. ‘I was waiting for you,’ he says.
‘Then do it now; let’s mark this auspicious occasion.’
Leo finds his fountain pen. He takes a label and dips the nib of his pen in the inkwell. He writes his name with a flourish: Leopold Schilling. He pauses. ‘What’s the date?’
‘The twelfth October.’
Leo nods and writes 12.10.1871. He passes the label to the agent.
‘The twelfth October 1871,’ says Hans with a shake of his head. ‘Imagine where this will be a hundred years from now.’
‘Nineteen seventy-one,’ I say.
‘It doesn’t seem possible, does it? It seems so far away.’
Leo rubs his hands. ‘So, do have anyone in mind?’
I’m still contemplating the year 1971 when I detect a slight shift in the air. Hans clears his throat. He places his hand on Leo’s sleeve. ‘Something’s come up, Leo.’ He glances awkwardly at both of us. ‘You see, I have to leave town for a while. I don’t know how long for,’ he adds, anticipating our first question. ‘I’ve had word from my sister. She’s not well.’ He pauses, pulls on his goatee. ‘I must be frank here. I think she is dying. She has consumption. The doctors say it’s only a matter of time. Her useless husband has fled the scene. She has no one else.’
‘I’m sorry to hear this,’ I say.
Leo mutters something similar. I catch his eye. We both quickly turn away, for we are both aware of the selfish undercurrent in our condolences. We listen with painted expressions of concern as Hans describes his sister’s misery. ‘I have to ask you to be patient, Leo. I might not be back for weeks, maybe months. It’s in God’s hands.’
‘Of course, of course. We understand.’
Yes, we understand, but all I can think of is the arrival in a few days of Herr Hauff demanding his rent, supercilious smiles and polite words masking his irritation.
The door swings open, and a flurry of life and vibrancy charges in – our six-year-old son, Eduard. He climbs up onto my lap. ‘Mummy, Mummy, I found something…’
I breathe in his wondrous scent. He may wear hand-me-downs, but they are clean hand-me-downs. I may not be able to dress my son in anything grander, but I will not let that excuse the lack of cleanliness. We all have standards. Eduard squirms on my lap; he has something exciting to tell me, he says. ‘What is it, darling?’ I ask.
‘I found a dead bird. A blackbird, Mummy, outside.’
‘Dead, you say?’ says Hans, pulling on his lapel.
‘Oh yes,’ says little Eduard. ‘Totally dead.’
Leo guffaws. ‘As to what? Partially dead?’
‘Don’t be silly, Daddy.’
Hans leaves. He kisses me on the cheek and hugs Leo, congratulating him again on the violin. ‘This time next year,’ he says loudly, ‘you’ll be drinking champagne on that veranda of yours.’
Leo laughs. It occurs to me that I never made Hans his coffee.
Five minutes later, we are standing outside in the street, forming a circle around the dead bird. It is not a blackbird, but a crow. Eduard had led us outside, almost skipping in excitement but now, as we stand over the pitiful thing and look down upon it, we are silent. Leo shakes his head. Eduard is holding his breath. Its feathers move in the breeze, a dash of blood congealed on its beak. The day has clouded over. I shiver. Today we had reached a line, and now we were on that line, anticipating the better life that was there waiting for us. Leo’s violin had brought us here. I should be happy. I should be grateful. I reach for my husband’s hand, seeking his touch, his reassurance. I look down at the crow, and despite everything, a shadow passes over me, a shadow as black as the feathers on the dead crow.
3.
My parents were poor. So are we. But while Leo and I have just the one mouth to feed, they had six. There was simply no money to be had. My father worked occasionally as a blacksmith, but he’d gained a reputation for shoddiness and laxity. No one employed him after a while. My mother worked for many years as a midwife, but one day, without explanation, she gave it up. Money, or the lack of it, drove my parents apart. The arguments were unbearable. Then one day when I was six years old, the age Eduard is now, Father simply walked out on us. We never saw him again. My mother cried and never stopped crying. It is my abiding memory of her – a woman destroyed. I thought he loved me, she’d say again and again. I was fifteen when she died, and she was still saying it. I thought he loved me.
Leo loves me; he wouldn’t leave me, no matter how bad things become, no matter how little money we have. He loves me too much to leave. Yet the niggle of doubt worms its way into me – my mother had thought the same. My father leaving destroyed my mother and scarred us, his children. For the first few weeks and months, we awaited his return. A knock on the door, the sound of a horse pulling up outside. I sat on that mound of grass, leaning on that granite cross, waiting for my father to return. I missed him so much, that smell of tobacco and hay, the scratchiness of his beard, the touch of his calloused hands as he lifted me up and threw me into the air. And after a while, I couldn’t picture him any more. His features had blurred, become obscured. Even now, so many years later, when I think of my father and try to conjure a memory of his face, the image that comes to mind is that of the Jesus that adorns the stained-glass window in our church. His face is long, his eyes a bright green, kind, beseeching. It is the wrong image, for my father was anything but kind. A kind man does not walk out on his wife and his children; a compassionate man does not break the hearts of his own flesh and blood. My Leo would never leave me, however desperate our situation. He is too loyal; he loves his son too much; he loves me too much.
And yet, we argue, all too often. And money is at the root of our quarrels. I lie in bed at night, and I see history repeating itself. Leo still hasn’t forgiven me for losing my job. He reproaches me for it often. I should have never lost that job, he says. It didn’t pay much. What cleaning job does, but it made a difference. I didn’t mean to break that precious vase, I say time and again. How was I to know it was a family heirloom, worth more than I could possibly imagine? I regret it too, I tell him. Of course I do, but I don’t regret seeing the last of my employer. Baron von Finck is a man larger than life. Everyone bows to his command. There is not a single man in this town who does not quake on meeting the baron. No one ever says no to the baron, no one. But I did. I said no. I worked as one of his cleaners. But he had other designs for me. I said NO. My job depended on submitting to his demands; the welfare of my family depended on my job. Yet despite this, I still refused his demand. There are some things in life more important than money. I do not regret it. And so, I was dismissed. I could not tell Leo why, so I made up a silly story about breaking a precious vase, an heirloom.
4.
Leo is at work, already working on a new violin. Nothing special this time, he told me, just a run-of-the-mill instrument. The problem is, and one he never acknowledges, is that there is precious little demand now. People have greater needs, more pressing worries than to concern themselves with a violin. But as always, I hold my tongue. Instead, once he has gone, a jaunt in his step, I ponder our new problem while I see Eduard off to school. We have a violin that “an angel would gladly play” and no means to sell it. Leo can’t sell it; he doesn’t know the right people, wouldn’t know how to talk to them even if he did. That is why we have an agent, a man who travels to Berlin, who knows and meets the men who matter, the conductors, the composers, the violinists, their patrons. Hans flits between the two worlds – the black-tie world of the capital and our far-flung town. Soon after Eduard has gone to school, Hans appears at the door. He’s on his way to his sister’s, he tells me. He just wanted to say goodbye. He asks if he can see Leo’s violin again.
He stands at the window, allowing the light to play on the enamelled surface of the instrument’s body. He handles it and coos over it as if it were a baby.
‘Is it really that special?’ I ask.
He looks at me aghast as if I’ve just uttered the most terrible blasphemy. ‘Oh yes,’ he says. ‘It is very special.’ He places it carefully on the kitchen table. ‘I’ll confess, Hannah, I never thought Leo had it in him.’
‘He’s worked hard enough.’
‘Work makes a good craftsman, a producer of adequate work, but it doesn’t make an artist.’
‘So why? Why, if his other violins have been adequate, how has he been able to produce something so…?’
‘Perfect? Beautiful? That, Hannah, I do not know. I am a businessman, not an artist.’
‘Can you sell it for him?’
‘Oh yes. And for a high price, trust me. Eye-wateringly high! But…’ He takes a seat at the table.
I don’t want to hear the ‘but’. ‘Can I make you a coffee?’ I ask, merely to play for time.
‘No, thank you. I can’t be long. Hannah, please sit.’
I do so. He has something to tell me.
‘My dear, what I’m going to say flies in the face of what I do as Leo’s agent, as a businessman. But we go back a long way, don’t we, the three of us? I see myself more as a friend than an agent, to both of you. And I know things aren’t easy for you.’ He waves his hand dismissively at our surroundings, and my face reddens with shame. The image of our landlord flashes through my mind.
Hans pulls on his goatee. ‘I don’t know how long my sister will survive, God willing, a long time, but I may be away for a while. I don’t think you can wait that long. So, although it pains me to say this, I have a suggestion. I know Leo wouldn’t do this; he has too much pride.’ He reaches out for my hands and squeezes them. ‘There is one other man in this town who has the contacts I do, who travels regularly to Berlin, a man who can find a buyer and sell this violin.’
‘You do?’ As soon as the words leave my lips, I know who he is referring to. ‘No, no, I can’t.’ I snatch my hands away from his. ‘I can’t.’
‘Hannah, my sweet girl, what choice do you have?’
‘No, we’ll wait for you to come back – however long it takes.’
‘But I told you it could be months. Perhaps a year or more, who knows? The doctors don’t.’
‘No. We’ll do whatever it takes to survive, but I am not taking Leo’s finest work and entrusting it to that vile man.’
‘Hannah, be reasonable; you have to be realistic; the baron is…’ He stops short taken aback at the look of shock on my face. ‘Oh dear,’ he says. Now it is his turn for his cheeks to flush red.
‘What is it, Hans? What have you done?’
‘Well, you see, I saw…’ He takes a breath.
‘You’ve told him? About the violin?’
He nods. ‘Yes, I’m afraid I have. But, please, Hannah, why do you fret so? Can’t you see? He could help you. I can’t. Not now. OK, he may charge a greater commission than me but…’ He glances around at the dismal kitchen. ‘Beggars can’t be choosers.’
‘You’re calling us beggars now, Hans?’
‘No, no, of course not.’ He trips over his words, perhaps inwardly cursing his tactless choice of phrase. ‘He’s coming to see you, this very afternoon.’
My heart pummels me from inside. ‘Here? The baron? In this house?’ I shudder at the thought.
‘He wants to see the violin for himself. I know, Hannah, you lost your job there. I know there’s… how should I say, bad blood between you, but he’ll help you.’
I shake my head fervently, lost for words.
Hans leans forward, puts his heavy hand on my knee. ‘Trust me, Hannah; it’ll be fine. You’ll see.’
His voice was so soothing, so sincere, that for a moment, the briefest of moments, I almost did see.
5.
Baron von Finck is certainly a handsome man: I have always thought that. His hair has retained its blackness, his carefully manicured moustache, the piercing stare of his eyes. His eyes are a strange green-yellow colour, with an intensity like that of a tiger stalking its prey. His suit is impeccable, shiny black, perfect creases. He is much revered around town and, it has to be said, much loved. He donates to the church, has sponsored many an apprentice. Is it only me who can see through this façade and through to his blackened heart? He stands in my kitchen, looking distinctly uncomfortable; he is not used to such surroundings. He refuses my offer of a seat. He stands near the window, his hands behind his back, his hat and cane on my hat stand. ‘Can I see it, then? Hans Lüpertz positively fell over himself extolling its virtues.’
I place the violin case on the table, conscious of the slight tremor in my hands, and step back as he, wary as a cat, steps forward. He unclicks the latches. His eyes widen upon seeing the instrument. ‘May I?’ he asks without taking his eyes from it.
‘Of course.’
He lifts the instrument from the case and holds it at arm’s length in front of him. He spends a while simply looking at it. His expression gives nothing away. He turns it upside down; he even smells it. Part of me wants him to fall in love with it because only I know how much the violin means to my husband. And, of course, the baron’s patronage could change our fortune. But another part of me wants him to reject it. The thought of our survival being dependent upon this man is too much.
The baron takes the bow from the case, runs his finger along the horse hair. I notice the wedding ring on his finger. I knew he’d once been married but that his wife had died many years previous. He places the violin carefully under his jaw and holds the bow above the strings. He closes his eyes, then gently sweeps the bow over the strings. I recognise the tune, a Beethoven sonata. He doesn’t play particularly well, although probably better than Leo, and, if aware of the fact, stops abruptly mid-passage. He holds his breath, the violin suspended between his shoulder and neck. Then, just as abruptly, he starts on another piece, something by Schubert. This is better and despite myself I find myself closing my eyes and absorbing the music. My father springs to mind, this indistinct figure from so many years ago. I recall the rough touch of his hands more than his face, the gruff voice, the hearty laugh. He used to call me Hannie. What made him leave? One day he was there; the next he was not. Why did he never come back? I can still, after all this time, feel that sense of longing, the emptiness inside of me. Was he never curious to see his children, to see them growing up? Did he not miss us? The abrupt silence brings a stop to my reverie.
The baron holds the violin still, feeling its vibration, the hum of the fading notes on the strings. I watch him breathe deeply, his eyes narrowing. He, too, is caught in a place far away, a reverie of his own. The silence curdles. He shakes his head. He is back in the present.
He places the violin back in its case, clicks the case shut and stands, his fingers tapping the edge of it. I hardly dare move. The last notes still ring in the air around us. The baron is a different man outside of his home. Here, in my kitchen, he seems less sure of himself. It is almost as if the instrument has humbled him.
‘Herr Lüpertz was right,’ he says finally. ‘Not that I ever doubted him. This is indeed a fine instrument. Very fine.’
‘I know.’
He throws me a look, one that says how would you, of all people, know? I blush.
He straightens, runs his fingers through his hair. The moment has gone; the spell cast by Leo’s violin broken.
‘I travel to Berlin this weekend,’ he says in a booming voice. ‘I know I could find you a buyer for this. Someone prepared to pay handsomely for it.’
‘What is handsome, Baron?’
‘Maybe a thousand. Possibly more.’
My pulse quickens. A thousand? That would earn my husband more than all his previous violins combined. The number keeps reverberating through my head. A thousand. People would kill for that, I am sure of it. Wait until I tell Leo this. I could already envisage the delight on his face.
The baron clears his throat. ‘And for that, I would ask for a third.’
‘A third?’ My little daydream pops in an instant. ‘A third? Surely, you can’t…’
‘Yes?’
‘But… but that’s far too much. Hans only charges ten per cent.’
‘Yes, and where is your dear Hans? Hmm? He’s not here, is he? I am. Sixty-six per cent of a thousand is a lot more than a hundred per cent of nothing, Frau Schilling.’
‘I am aware of that but…’
‘Think about it. I take your violin now, you’ll have a receipt. I return from Berlin and you’ll be over six hundred richer. Just like that,’ he says, clicking his fingers.
I don’t need to think about it. ‘No. No, not just like that. It took Leo weeks to make and perfect that instrument. I know, I’ve lived with it.’ Oh, I have. The hopes and the moments of doubt. I lived with the emotional toil it takes out of a man like my husband. And before that, the years and years it took to learn his craft. And I’ve been here, I’ve stood beside him every step of the way. And now, because the baron can sell it, he thinks he can demand a third of its value, just like that, with a click of his fingers.
He considers me for a few moments. ‘You may live to regret this, Frau Schilling.’
In that, he is probably right. ‘I doubt it,’ I say.
‘You’ve always been very stubborn.’
The slither of memory flashes up in my mind – his narrowing eyes, his arm around my waist, his swollen lips reaching for mine. ‘I know what’s right.’
‘Being right doesn’t put food on your table nor keeps a roof over your head.’
His words stab me in the chest. I clench my heart, determined not to be swayed by the logic, the common sense in what he says.
‘I’ll say goodbye.’ He shakes his head again, as a parent might at an unruly child. He reaches for his hat and cane. He stops, turns to me and tapping the end of his cane, says, ‘My offer still holds. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’m not due to go to Berlin for another three days. That’ll give you time to think things through, to discuss them with your husband. Come see me if you change your mind, and I sincerely hope you do. But, if by then, you still refuse my offer, then so be it, I won’t bother you again.’
He opens the front door just at the moment Eduard comes rushing in from school. His sudden appearance takes the baron by surprise. He looks down at Eduard, Eduard up at him, puzzled expressions all around. An unnatural silence hangs in the air. He looks over at me, tilts his head. It’s as if he wants me to confirm that this child is indeed mine. I say nothing.
‘Excuse me,’ he mutters, pushing past Eduard.
‘Who was that? asks Eduard. ‘He was creepy.’
‘Don’t say such things. It’s rude.’
Eduard steps back, surprise on his face and I realise I am shouting. ‘Anyway, you don’t know anything about the man. It’s not nice to make assumptions.’
‘Sorry, Mummy.’
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