‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  Sleep but twice in the singing wood
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  My spell I weave so well
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  But dare sleep thrice’  and take of my wood
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  My song shall be thy knell
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  For an eye for an eye,’  a tooth for a tooth
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  A soul I shall take for a soul.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  Gypsy song’ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ 
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‘ ‘ ‘  If it hadn’™t been for the persistent endeavours of Andrea’™s good friend, Antonio, he would never have undertaken the three day journey.’  Time was too precious.’  His ‘˜babies’™ were, he felt, unhappy without his presence.’  He reigned in his horse beside a glade for a noonday snack.’  The late spring sun was fierce that day – the sky cloudless and a blue that reminded him of his Juliana’™s eyes.
‘ ‘ ‘  ‘œAntonio,’ he thought in imaginary conversation, ‘œyour reason for bringing me this long way better be good’  – or…’ he decided it would be better not to finish the thought.
‘ ‘ ‘  Andrea’™s violins and cellos were known throughout the musical world.’  He poured into them as much love as any mother would give to her sons and daughters.’  Yet here was Antonio saying that he could improve upon them.’  How?’  It was this curiosity that had finally got the better of him.
‘ ‘ ‘  The small town of Bergamo came in sight as he crested a hill.’  The Alps beyond were a blue haze.’  Andrea spurred his horse to a trot.’  He must reach the town before night.
‘ ‘ ‘  The friends greeted one another boisterously as Italians are so want to do.’  The thumping of palms on backs, kissing of cheeks, laughter and shouting lasting many minutes.’  Suddenly Andrea’™s excitement changed as if by magic.’  He looked at his friend earnestly – seriously, not saying anything.’  Antonio, knowing only too well the reason for the change in his friend’™s behaviour became serious also.
‘ ‘ ‘  ‘œTomorrow morning, Andrea.’  At first light we set out to the hills.’  There is something I must show you.’  You must see.’’  Then just as they had become serious they began again their enthusiastic’  questioning of the welfare and doings of one the other after their long absence.
‘ ‘ ‘  The morning air was cool and refreshing on Andrea’™s face as their horses approached the foothills on the narrow, obviously seldom used path on which they travelled.’  For three hours more they continued up the slopes arriving at noon at a pine forest of obviously very ancient trees.’  They were completely alone
‘ ‘ ‘  ‘œHere, my friend.’  Here is the reason I brought you to Bergamo.’  The hills of Orobi.’  And this hill in particular.
‘ ‘ ‘  Andrea examined the trees they were approaching.’  Normally one would not expect to find Maples among the conifers, but here they were – here and there between the spruces.’ ‘  They were fine, old trees – many, Andrea thought, as old as a hundred years or more. ‘˜A fine wood indeed, he thought, ‘˜and this is the reason his good friend had brought him all this way?’™
‘ ‘ ‘  ‘œHere we rest, my friend.’
‘ ‘ ‘  Since his arrival, Antonio had refused to divulge,’  not even by a hint, the reason for his insistence on Andrea’™s coming.
‘ ‘ ‘  ‘œMaybe you are prepared to tell me why you brought me all this way?’  Is it just this wood?’  These trees?’
‘ ‘ ‘  ‘œI still cannot tell you, dear Andrea, but I hope you will not be sorry you came,’ was all Andrea could wean from his friend.’  He decided that patience would be the only way.
‘ ‘ ‘  A little farther into the wood, Antonio sat in a shade and began to unpack a lunch he had brought.’  A bottle of sanguine wine, savoury local sausage and crispy rolls became truly a banquet.
‘ ‘ ‘  After they had eaten, Andrea again turned to Antonio: ‘œThis is all very lovely but what now?’  I cannot bear this secrecy any longer.’  Why, my dear Antonio have you brought me here?’  Why?’  Why?’’  His last why being the strongest plea he had yet used.
‘ ‘ ‘  I’™m truly sorry, Andrea but I cannot divulge that yet.’  Please patience – just a little longer.’  Just a little longer.’
‘ ‘ ‘  Alright, Antonio – what now?’  A nap after a lovely meal?’
‘ ‘ ‘  ‘œPrecisely, Andrea.’  What better than a short rest after such a lunch?’
‘ ‘ ‘  Andrea, calming his agitation, resigned himself to his friend’™s whims.’  Setting his back to a stout maple he closed his eyes and allowed the peace of the place to envelope him.
‘ ‘ ‘  A light, early afternoon breeze had sprung up and its whispering reached Andrea’™s ear.’  He would use this moment of utter peace.’  Gradually it dawned upon him that he was not just hearing the gentle sound of the wind.’  It took on a new significance.’  Could it be that he was hearing something akin to music? – No, more – a composition!’  It could not be! Surely!?
‘ ‘ ‘  Andrea listened attentively.’  The sounds were not only beautiful but had an aura about them almost hypnotic.’ ‘  To make sure he wasn’™t just imagining them he continued listening more carefully.
‘ ‘ ‘  The sounds were so soft, so hauntingly beautiful he felt to remain with them on and on. He wondered if he had had too much wine. He forced himself to his feet calling as he did so:’  ‘œAntonio!’  You hear?’  Can it be? Why could you not tell me?’’  But Antonio was in a deep slumber. When he did finally awaken to Andrea’™s repeated calls he seemed to do so most reluctantly.’  Finally . . . .
‘ ‘ ‘  ‘œYou hear too, Antonio?’  Why did you not simply tell me? ‘œ
‘ ‘ ‘  ‘œOh, Andrea I was in such a deep sleep.’  Give me a moment to catch my thoughts.. What did you say?’  Music?’  Yes, Yes Andrea.’  But I could not tell you.’  I had to be sure that I was not just imagining it and that you would hear it also.’  I wanted that you discover it for yourself.’  I enquired of people. An old violin maker in Bargamo told me that the great Master had a secret supply of wood but nobody knew from where.’
‘ ‘ ‘  Antonio stopped as if he had to find himself once more – then continued excitedly. ‘œI happened to be hiking here.’  By chance I rested near this spot.’  At first I thought it could not be true – the music, I mean – until I was sure.’  Then I noticed the cut trees.’  At once I connected them with the Master and decided I must advise you, Andrea.’  I’™m convinced that this is the wood.’  You can see also by the trees selected.’  Such good, old wood.’  Much heart-wood.’
‘ ‘ ‘  Antonio stopped, then continued almost as if to himself: So very strange the Master’™s sudden disappearance.’  Suddenly poof – gone!’  As if into the thin air without a word to anyone!’’  Then to Andrea: What are you doing?’
‘ ‘ ‘  But Andrea was entirely engrossed following the clues of the cut trees as to diameter and likely age.’  The cut were some maple – some spruce.’  Whether the story of the Master be true or no he had never come across such lovely timber before.
‘ ‘ ‘  ‘œAntonio, listen.’  I shall mark – you shall cut.’  I’™ll pay you well, be sure.’  But don’™t trust the cutters. You must come with them.’  Promise.
‘ ‘ ‘  Wordlessly Antonio made a sign of a cross on his breast.’  They understood one another as brothers.
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‘ ‘ ‘  At his small but well equipped workshop Andrea was patiently, lovingly cutting the heart-wood of the spruces and maples into thin boards.’  They felt warm to the touch – particularly the maple boards which would form the back plates.’  Each touch, each effort upon the fine boards for Andrea was a caress.’ ‘  He returned the wood’™s warmth with a love as if it were alive.
‘ ‘ ‘  Two years was the time he gave for the wood to season and be pressed to shape.’  Gradually, step by critical step, the first three violins took shape form and finish.’  The cutting of the ‘œF’ holes in the spruce tops and attachment of the sound posts. The side-ribs that held top to back carefully, lovingly creating the body. Then came the hard-wood finger boards with handsome scrolls and string-plugs. Each part formed with a deep love for perfection.
‘ ‘ ‘  Five years after the meeting with Antonio the first three violins were ready.’  A joy to behold.’  Feather-light, they were like magic to the touch – the varnish glowing like burnished gold.
‘ ‘ ‘  Two of the greatest virtuosi were waiting impatiently for the day of trial.’  One, Giovanni, living only several hours journey from the work-shop would visit to see, to watch his instrument take shape and form. ‘œMust it take so long?’’  Andrea had mentioned an additional composition in the wood that should give the violin a voice that should match those of the great Master-Maker himself.
‘ ‘ ‘  ‘œI, too am impatient for the day of trial, but it is imperative to have patience in order to achieve perfection.’  This instrument’™s music in the hands of a master, I hope, shall make the world gasp.
‘ ‘ ‘  ‘œBut it is ready, persisted Giovanni, is it not?’  Just a bridge and strings and we shall hear how true your words are, Master Andrea.’
‘ ‘ ‘  ‘œIt’™s now June, my dear Giovanni.’  Five summers have come for this beauty to be what it is but my heart tells me not to hear it speak for one summer more.’  My one great hope is that you and I shall be amply rewarded.’  The violin must wait now to receive its soul.’
‘ ‘ ‘  ‘œPerhaps, my dear Andrea, the instrument may receive a soul but I fear that I may loose mine until then.’  Arivaderchi, my friend.
‘ ‘ ‘  Of course there were many other instruments in various stages of process, but the real test for Andrea would be the day of the first trial.’  Would there be a difference?’  Andrea had his doubts.’  Doubts notwithstanding, Andrea waited the one year more, the three violins suspended near his bed-side.
‘ ‘ ‘  The year passed quickly for Andrea who was lovingly creating more and more instruments from the wood Antonio sent him.’  He penned a letter.
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‘ ‘ ‘ 
‘ ‘ ‘ 
‘ ‘ ‘  ‘œMy dear Giovanni,
‘ ‘ ‘  You shall be pleased to know that I have fixed the date of the trial for the ninth of June.’  I hope that this day will suit you also. I shall be delighted to see you.’  Only you and I will be present.’  May God’™s blessing be with us on this auspicious occasion.
‘ ‘ ‘  Sincerely, in much hope and some trepidation. Andrea.
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‘ ‘ ‘  At the break of dawn on that day a heavy knock on his workshop door startled Andrea.’  He had just finished stringing one of the violins with the very best gut and pitched them. He deliberately did not try to evoke from it a sound.’  This he wished Giovanni to do. It was hard for him to contain his excitement.’  He knew that the sound would be good – but would there be something more?’  This question came and went constantly.
‘ ‘ ‘  ‘œMy dear Giovanni, I did not expect you so early – but welcome.’
‘ ‘ ‘  ‘œEarly!? It’™s late!.’  I just could not sleep.’  I hired a special coach.’  Please let me feel it – touch it.’
‘ ‘ ‘  Andrea handed him the instrument in silence his heart doing acrobatics.’  Not wishing to let sight interfere with the quality of the sound, he turned his back to the virtuoso, closed his eyes and waited.
‘ ‘ ‘  Giovanni did not immediately play but spoke to the instrument in his hands: ‘œSo long I have waited for this moment now you shall be patient a short while as I look upon you. Ah! You are truly beautiful!. So full of life.’  And where there is life there must also be a soul.’  Now come – speak to me.’  Sing!’
‘ ‘ ‘  Placing a silk handkerchief between the instrument and his chin, he tested the accuracy of the tuning, slightly adjusting the ‘˜D’™ and ‘˜E’™ strings’™ tension.’  Another moment then taking a deep breath, he drew the bow down.
‘ ‘ ‘  The workshop was filled with sound.’  A grand arpeggio from the bass to the highest treble.’  The air vibrated.’  There was something strangely different in the resonance.’  Something even richer than the sounds Andrea was accustomed to hear. There was a certain additional vibrance in the sound.’  He held his breath. The quality of sound came as a little shock to both Giovanni and Andrea. Giovanni continued with a tender passage on the theme of Brahms’™ concerto for violin and his skin came up in goose pimples.’  The roots of his hair prickled.’  He stopped – somehow out of breath or was it soul for the sheer beauty of the sound.
‘ ‘ ‘  Andrea was ecstatic. ‘œPlay.’  Play on, dear Giovanni.’  For such a moment I have prayed all my life!’
‘ ‘ ‘  Once again the wonderous music filled the room rising to a crescendo then dying away to a whisper that was more felt than heard.
‘ ‘ ‘  ‘œBravissimo, dear Giovanni. More. More!
‘ ‘ ‘  ‘œAndrea.’  My dear, Andrea. It is more than I ever dreamed.’  This is a creation of perfection.’  You are the true artist, not I.’  Wonderful.’  Truly magnificent!’’  Giovanni’™s enthusiasm shone from his face.
‘ ‘ ‘  ‘œNo, Giovanni.’  You are the artist, I the craftsman – and in your hands is the first Singing-wood violin.’
‘ ‘ ‘  That same day Andrea penned a letter to his friend:
‘ ‘ ‘  ‘˜My very dear Antonio,
‘ ‘ ‘  It is today six years exactly since that wonderful day in the wood.’  The trial of the first violin did not only go magnificently, it was beyond all expectations.’  Giovanni played Brahms.’  I wish you could have been here.’  It was a grand event.’  Of course it is all thanks to you.’  Perhaps you will come down south.’  We shall not only have wine, sausages and fresh rolls, but you shall also hear the delectable sound of a Singing-wood violin for such I have named them.’  You must come!
‘ ‘ ‘  Your ever best friend,’  Andrea.’™
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‘ ‘ ‘  Almost a month elapsed without word in answer when Andrea received an envelope postmarked Bergamo. Enclosed he found the very letter he had sent to Antonio.’  With it was a note:
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‘ ‘ ‘  ‘˜To Andrea.’  My sincere regrets; Antonio did not return from a trip some six months ago to the hills – ‘˜Wood for my friend, Andrea’™ he told me when he left. Since then, we, his friends have heard nothing.’  We fear the worst for he was not one not to send word.’™’  It was signed Luigi.
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‘ ‘ ‘  Tears stood bright in Andrea’s eyes as he read.’  They rolled down his cheeks and fell unheeded upon the violin he was holding.’  ‘œNo sound is worth this price!’ he cried aloud and his voice broke.’  ‘œ No sound is worth such a price,’ he repeated sobbing uncontrollably.’  ‘œFarewell, Antonio ‘“ my dear friend.’  Farewell and may God be with you, my dear, dear friend.”