I watched him place his fingers on the strings, and understood how he’d been damaged. He told me he had some nerve damage, but as much as I had watched him, I hadn’t seen him do anything that required such fine movement or touch. It was painful to see him try to bend his fingers and place them correctly. Striking the first notes, he slid his fingers along the neck as he drew the bow over the strings. His eyes lit up, and I was so glad I insisted. Hearing a fine violin and feeling a fine violin are very different experiences. He played, his right hand doing fine, the left slow to reposition. After a couple of minutes, he stopped and handed it back to me, a smile on his face. “Wow. So that’s what it’s like to play an instrument made by one of the masters. Play something for me, Cecily. Please?” I took the violin. “I’ve been thinking of getting another violin,” I said. “Later instruments are built different, and that started with Stradivari. His violins were larger and flatter.
