Читать книгу Stradivarius - Donald P. Ladew - Страница 3

PRELUDE

THE NORTHERN ITALIAN TOWN OF CREMONA - FALL 1685

The Maestro slid back from his bench and stretched. He pushed his cloak away from his face and ran callused fingers through thick coal-black hair. The afternoon sun washed the medieval town of Cremona with crimson and orange. It poured through the two arched windows on the west side of an ancient tower built by invading armies from the north. In the distance the river Po turned gold. The autumn sun brought little warmth to the Maestro’s hands.

The tower wasn’t really a tower, but in Cremona where buildings were stacked so close one could have leapt from one to the other, it stood apart. In the vaulted room the slowly shifting beams of light changed from rose to amber: lucent, liquid, filled with fine particles of wood that swirled in the afternoon air.

This was a supreme moment. There had been other such moments, each unique.

The Maestro picked up the violin and smiled. The wood, so intimately his, was true. He had endowed it with his art, his skill, his love. Now the result, many times magnified, flowed back to his callused hands.

He tucked it between shoulder and chin, took it away, repeated the movement, pleased with it.

Around the shop master carvers, artisans, apprentices, stopped their efforts and held their breath. Antonius Stradivarius, the Maestro of Cremona, picked up a bow, touched the horsehair with amber-colored resin, put it back down.

The drama of the moment reached every corner of the room. With birth there is always anticipation, hope and magic. No Italian with an ounce of passion could allow such a moment to pass unmarked.

He plucked each string in turn. The four liquid notes hung in the air, reverberating as though cast from the most perfect bell. They sang with extraordinary power.

He picked up the bow again and held it over the strings. He paused, let his eyes scan the shop. Here his friends, his men of genius, transformed wood into instruments whose voices were alike unto the voices of saints.

He closed his eyes and brought the bow close to the strings. The Maestro chose a simple, country song: lush, romantic, melodic. As he played, he smiled, his worn face beautiful to behold.

The power of the instrument reached beyond anything he’d ever created. The violin’s voice filled the space effortlessly. When the song ended every man and boy let out a sigh, then stood as one and cheered.

The Maestro bowed. A look of surprise covered his face. He could not believe he had created such a wondrous thing.

“My friends, I shall name this one...Hercules.”