Fiddle

Fiddle By Dan Thomason

It’s a clear night as the notes from my fingerboard sail out over the countryside. They join the stars as the fiddler saws out a hornpipe. He is not the most skilled who has ever played me, but he has a good sense of rhythm and can throw some nice flourishes into the tune. I think about my journey thus far. I was made in Bavaria in 1842 by a violin-maker of solid but undistinguished reputation. After he had created me in his special mold he put me on display in his shop

window. I had a clear view of the townspeople as they walked to and fro, some occasionally stopping to gaze upon me and my fellow violins. I was purchased by a local physician who was determined that his son learn to play the violin. Peter was a studious young man, but unfortunately a bit lacking in musical talent. We had several lessons with a dour old man, who eventually pronounced doubts about my master’s abilities, and the quality of the instrument (that being me). Thus I was put away in a closet. Eventually I was given to Cousin Albrecht who had decided to go all the way across the Atlantic. Soon we would be in America! We sailed across the ocean with lots of other people and their luggage. My new master was not much of a fiddler, in fact he only took me out of my case once or twice and played some simple and wobbly scales. I suspected that he only brought me on the trip because I was a somewhat valuable possession. Not long after we landed in New York I found myself in another shop window. This time I was in a Pawn Shop with an assortment of items; from silverware to gold pocket watches, teapots to bowie knives, all having been sold by their owners for some quick cash. Now I had a view of the busy New Yorkers as they walked or rode by on horseback or in carriages. I began to notice a change in the people I observed. More and more of them were dressed the same! They were mostly young men walking up and down the street, clothed proudly in blue. I learned from conversations in the shop that these men were called “soldiers.” The items in our window changed from time to time, and the shop keeper rearranged us when he felt it necessary. One day he placed a photograph in the window, which I grew to know quite well. It was the remarkable face of a man, lined with care and framed in stiff black hair above and a beard below. It looked as though it were meant to be a formal portrait, yet the small black bow tie was a bit crooked, and his hair was loosely combed above his large ears. Serious dark eyes stared from beneath heavy black eyebrows, and his mouth was set firmly but showed no emotion. Heavy, uneven lips lay beneath an expanse of skin below his nose which was set apart from the rest of his face by wandering creases. I

could say that I had seen lots of faces as they gazed into our window, but I never saw one that looked quite like that. One day a young man in a blue uniform stopped in front of the Pawn Shop. I watched him as he as he gazed at the portrait. His eyes moistened and then his face changed slightly as he made a decision and walked into the shop. I was fairly certain that he had decided to purchase the portrait, but to my surprise he bought me instead! I was soon carefully snapped into my case with my bow, and before long I was traveling on horseback. I wondered where we were going. The young man appeared to have no intention of playing me, so I thought I might have been intended as a gift for someone else. After about a week of being shuffled around with cases and bags of various kinds I felt myself being carried by the soldier and then placed upon ground next to him. I heard voices speaking in muted tones, and after a while he lifted me and held my case in front of him. When it was snapped open I was greeted with a most surprising sight. There was the face I had grown to know so well from the photograph in the Pawn Shop window! It was high above, and now the man wore a tall, black stovepipe hat. “Well, let’s have a look at it,” he said as he lifted me from my case with incredibly long fingers, and took out my bow as well. “I always wanted to play the fiddle,” he said jovially to the soldier, who was standing straight and tall as he held my case firmly before him. “I want you to have it, Mr. Lincoln Sir,” said the soldier. Then the tall man in the black hat placed my chinrest under his whiskers. I hovered near his long neck as he swept the bow above my strings without touching them. He opened one side of his rubbery mouth and let out a pretty good imitation of a fiddle. He hummed the melody of Turkey in the Straw with an exaggerated twang as he bent his legs and danced a brief jig, his feet slapping the ground far below us. Some other soldiers that were standing around laughed and clapped at his antics. “Sergeant, that’s about all the good I can get out of a fiddle.” Then he turned to another man. “Lieutenant, I believe you are on your way to Virginia. Find a fiddler, and give this to him – compliments of the President of the United States.” The man snapped to attention and saluted. “Yes Sir!” he said. The next time my case was opened it was by a very young man, just a boy in fact.

We were in a canvas tent, lit dimly by a single candle. He was dressed in an ill-fitting soldier’s uniform, which looked as though he had been wearing for a long, long time. He lifted me from my case with a look of wonder in his eyes, as though he had never seen such a treasure. He tightened the bow and plucked my strings, while gently but firmly adjusting my tuning pegs. Then he played a soaring melody as fingers and bow danced in time. Soon the opening of the tent was filled with the faces of soldiers wondering where such music could be coming from. I can’t say how long I was at the encampment, but almost every evening the boy soldier brought me out and played me for his fellows. He could play anything from a rousing reel to a sacred melody which could bring a tear to the eye. The other soldiers would dance and clap, or play along on bones or spoons. We lifted everyone’s spirits as best we could while they waited to go into battle. Then one day the wait was over and I never saw the fiddling boy soldier again. That was years ago. Since then I have been played by many hands, like those of the fiddler who is now finishing up his hornpipe with a delightful series of triplets. I doubt that anyone ever suspects that I have survived such a remarkable journey, but no matter what is played on me it always sounds like a song of freedom.

The End