The Two Violins

Stories for Another Day

Once there was a man who had two sons. One day when his sons had reached the age where they were ready to go out into the world and fend for themselves, he called them to him.

To the eldest son, Wallis, he gave a golden violin whose sound was so beautiful that it lifted the hearts of all who heard it, no matter how unskilled the player. To his younger son, Cal, he gave an old, battered violin that sounded worse than a rusty door swinging in a gale, unless it was played by the most skilful of players.

Wallis took the golden violin and began to play, and in no time an audience gathered around him. He began to give concerts and before long, hundreds of people were coming to listen to him play. The sound of the violin delighted them, and they begged him to play more and more.

The younger son, Cal, also took the violin his father had given him, but after only a few notes people covered their ears and walked away. Cursing the violin and his unwelcome gift, he threw it into a cupboard and left it there.

Years went by, and Wallis made a great deal of money playing his violin for large audiences. Feeling sorry for his younger brother, he shared his earnings with him. Cal took the money happily and spent it on lavish parties and expensive holidays.

One day Wallis’s father said to him, “Your kindness to your brother is not kindness at all. Don’t you see how he spends what he has not earned, and takes as his own what he has no right to?”

The eldest son said, “But I have more than I need and I have the golden violin as well.”

His father said, “I gave each of you a gift according to your abilities. It is time that Cal used his.”

So Wallis went to his brother and said, “I’m not giving you any more of my money. From now on, you must earn your own.”

Cal said, “You can’t mean it! You have so much and I have so little!”

But Wallis stood firm. Cal shouted angrily, “I don’t need you or your money! I’ll show you!” He strode away. First he went to his friends, who had been more than happy to eat and drink at his parties, but when they saw that he had nothing more to give them, their faces closed and they walked away.

Next he went to his father. “Father, I need money for food and for rent. Please give me what I need.”

His father said, “My son, I have already given you all that I can.”

Cal went away, bitter and angry. He tried to find work, but he had no skill for anything apart from spending money, and no-one would pay him to do that. He sold his clothes and everything he had, but the money they brought was gone quickly. He would even have sold the old violin but no-one would take it. Finally everything was gone, and he was thrown out into the street.

Sitting in the gutter, he looked at the violin and said to himself, “Well at least if I play it, someone may give me money to stop playing!” He took out the violin and began to play.

The sound was so dreadful, he could hardly bear it himself. The other beggars pushed him out of the street and shopkeepers chased him away with brooms and buckets of cold water. He went out into the country, still playing, but the sheep and goats in the fields ran away from him, and farmers came after him with rakes and hoes, claiming that he was turning the cows’ milk sour.

He went further, still playing, deep into the wild forest. The animals hid, and the birds in the trees flew away in a cloud, screeching. Still he played, on and on. He played out his misery, his jealous rage against his brother, and his anger towards his father. Hour after hour, day after day, week after week, he played, and gradually his fingers learned how to hold the bow and press the strings so that the true voice of the violin was allowed to speak, in all its loveliness. The sound of the old, battered violin changed and became melodious and beautiful.

Entranced, the young man’s anger and desolation melted away, as he drew from the violin the sounds of the forest, the wind among the leaves, the birds and their song. He left the forest and made his way back to the town, playing the music of the sunrise, and the swaying of corn in the fields. When the people of the town heard him, they stopped what they were doing to listen. They sang and danced and wept and sighed. When he paused to rest, they pleaded for him to go on.

When he had played until he was so exhausted that he could not play another note, he felt a hand on his shoulder. It was his father.

Cal put down his violin and fell on his knees. “Father!” he said. “How can I thank you enough?”

His father lifted him to his feet and said, “Your brother Wallis is a good and kind man who works hard and shares what he has with anyone in need. But your gift is for music. The music you play will comfort the sorrowful, bring people back from the brink of despair and fill joyful hearts with thanks.”

Cal took up his violin and began playing again, a new song, whose every note spoke of his gratitude and happiness. And so he played every day, for the rest of his life.