The Musician

The silence of the Musicians bedroom is rent by the loud ringing of an alarm clock. Swiftly she rises from the floor upon which her thin mattress lies, and smothers the sound with a delicate hand. The room is dim; the rays of the pale spring sun shine in to create a shaft of light in which shimmering dust dances.

The Musician eats her solitary breakfast on the kitchen counter, before leaving the house for her job at the local supermarket, where she has now worked for almost two years, ever since completing secondary school.

The Musician thinks of her time at secondary school.

She remembers the disappointment of her parents when she performed so poorly in her examinations, with the exception of music. She recalls the hours she spent in those music rooms, which to her felt more like home than her own house. It was there where she had learnt the countless pieces which now play ceaselessly in her head, when she is not playing them aloud, on the tattered old violin which was given to her by the school, due to the promise they saw in her. “Promise” she thought bitterly, as if a future was possible for her in the world of music. She had talent yes, extraordinary talent in fact, this was clear to those who heard her play, but she knew that she had no hope of being admitted to any serious symphonic organisation without any qualifications from a musical university. She is stung by the memory of her application to the “Guildhall School of Music and Drama” in London, as if they even could have considered a student who would require a full scholarship and yet had not a single ABRSM grade. ABRSM grades cost money, money she has not.

The Musician does not like to think of the future in music she most desires, although she often finds herself dreaming of playing in a symphony orchestra: London, Berlin, Prague. It is a dream so beautiful, a dream so unobtainable.

The Musician returns from work and, after her solitary dinner, she takes out her violin, worn with age, and with much use. It is to this instrument that she turns for solace on these lonely evenings, into the world of sleeping beauty, the nutcracker, the carnival of animals, and how many other magical places that she ventures, in the hopes of escaping her own melancholy, and uninspiring existence.

Tonight, upon taking her bow in hand, she finds it following the familiar path of Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto in D minor. She is enswathed in the sound that she creates, and suddenly, she sees herself seated, surrounded by countless other musicians. Suddenly it is not the sound of one solitary violin which plays upon her ears, but the music of an entire orchestra, surely a hundred orchestras, soaring and flowing and rising and falling, surely all is music, surely the other senses stand no chance in competing with its beauty, its fullness, its finality, and are pushed aside as mere trifles as it envelopes her entire being. And as the piece rises to a crescendo in the voice of a thousand instruments, The Musician finds herself alone, her bow stands still upon its tightrope strings, before it is dropped by a delicate hand, as The Musician falls to the floor and weeps.

The silence of the Musicians bedroom is rent by the loud ringing of an alarm clock, this morning the delicate hand does not extend to quell the din. The Musician looks at the ceiling, rain hammers on the window, there is no beam of sunlight today. As the Musician listens to the cacophonous noise she finds no trace of the resolve which usually heaves her from her bed and drags her to work. She feels as if her life is void of purpose after last night, when she felt what it was to play as she had always dreamed of playing, without the possibility of this in her future the time, which would otherwise be intervening between now and that day, seems empty. If not intervening, what is it? If the horizon ahead is blank, what incentive has she to struggle on towards it?

The alarm dies out, and The Musician remains still, her head is filled with a heavy, parasitic nothingness. A chime, rings out through the house. She raises herself on one elbow to see that the clock now reads noon, she has been lying there for five hours. Another chime and The Musician now realises that it is the sound of the door bell, somebody from work here to check on her no doubt. However, upon wrenching open the door she finds a stranger standing there in very official dress. The stranger introduces herself as a Mrs Hall, the attorney of the Weber family who live next door.

“I regret to inform you that the elder Mr Weber passed away last weekend”

Why she is being told so, The Musician cannot fathom.

“Were you aware that you were to be mentioned in the late Mr Weber’s will?”

At this she is truly bewildered, she had never so much as spoken to the man, and could not even recall his face.

“Well here is what he left to you, please sign these forms and send them into my office. Good day.”

And having thrust a cardboard box into The Musicians hands, the stranger departs.

Still absolutely perplexed, The Musician carries the box into the house and sets it down on the table. Upon opening the box she is confronted by the sight of a small black book atop a pile of brown paper. Inside the book’s cover there is a letter, The Musician opens the letter and reads:

To the enchanting Musician of No. 24,

I am aware that you do not know me, and so I am sure that this shall come as a surprise. I shall begin by informing you that from the age of 26 to 43, I was a member of the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra, having spent most of my life in Austria.

Needless to say, in my time I have heard many a talented violinist, however, never have I heard anything equal to that which I have heard at times through the adjoining wall between my own and your house, the Music that I have heard has truly enchanted me, and I believe that you have great potential as a violinist. It is for this reason that I have decided to bestow upon you my address book, which you shall find full of the names and addresses of influential musicians all over Austria, with who’s help, I am sure, you may find your way, as I did, into the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra, and the wider world of musical prestige.

I hope that you shall consider taking my advice, as you have a talent which deserves to be heard by the world, and which is currently being wasted.

Enclosed you shall find a check for £20,000. I hope that it shall be sufficient to give you a good start should you follow my advice.

Yours Sincerely

Julian Weber

The Musician can hardly believe what she is reading, it seems like something that could only occur in the wildest of dreams, but indeed as the envelope falls from her hand a check slides out of it onto the table. Underneath the brown paper The Musician is shocked to see a violin, a beautiful violin, which she recognises at once as a Hornsteiner

Surely it is madness. Surely to leave everything behind in such a way would be delusion. But as The Musician thumbs through the book, she sees the names of so many well known violinists that she herself has studied, and suddenly it feels so possible, so romantic, so meant to be, and her mind is made up. She has seen something upon the horizon, and her course is set.

Epilogue

The Musician sits in the Golden Hall of the Musikverein, the sun shines through the high windows. In her hand is the Hornsteiner, upon its strings dances the bow and around her the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra pours out the sweet sound of Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto in D minor.