Stradivarius

Your soul was lifted by the wings to-dayHearing the master of the violin:You praised him, praised the great Sebastian, too,Who made that fine Chaconne; but did you thinkOf old Antonio Stradivari?—himWho a good century and a half agoPut his true work in that brown instrument,And by the nice adjustment of its frameGave it responsive life, continuousWith the master's finger-tips and perfectedLike them by delicate rectitude of use.Not Bach alone, helped by fine precedentOf genius gone before, nor Joachim,Who holds the strain afresh incorporateBy inward hearing and notation strictOf nerve and muscle, made our joy to-day.Another soul was living in the airAnd swaying it to true deliveranceOf high invention and responsive skill:—That plain, white-aproned man who stood at workPatient and accurate, full fourscore years,Cherished his sight and touch by temperance,And since keen sense is love of perfectnessMade perfect violins, the needed pathsFor inspiration and high mastery.

No simpler man than he: he never cried,"Why was I born to this monotonous taskOf making violins?" or flung them downTo suit with hurling act a well-hurled curseAt labor on such perishable stuff.Hence neighbors in Cremona held him dull,Called him a slave, a mill-horse, a machine,Begged him to tell his motives, or to lendA few gold pieces to a loftier mind.Yet he had pithy words full fed by fact;For Fact, well-trusted, reasons and persuades,Is gnomic, cutting, or ironical,Draws tears, or is a tocsin to arouse—Can hold all figures of the oratorIn one plain sentence; has her pauses, too—Eloquent silence at the chasm abruptWhere knowledge ceases. Thus AntonioMade answers as Fact willed, and made them strong.

Naldo, a painter of eclectic school,Taking his dicers, candle-light and grinsFrom Caravaggio, and in holier groupsCombining Flemish flesh with martyrdomKnowing all tricks of style at thirty-one,And weary of them, while AntonioAt sixty-nine wrought placidly his bestMaking the violin you heard to-day—Naldo would tease him oft to tell his aims.

"Perhaps thou hast some pleasant vice to feed—The love of louis d'ors in heaps of four,Each violin a heap—I've nought to blame;My vices waste such heaps. But then, why workWith painful nicety? Since fame once earnedBy luck or merit—oftenest by luck—(Else why do I put Bonifazio's nameTo work that 'pinxit Naldo' would not sell?)Is welcome index to the wealthy mobWhere they should pay their gold, and where they payThere they find merit—take your tow for flax,And hold the flax unlabelled with your name,Too coarse for sufferance." Antonio then:

"I like the gold—well, yes—but not for meals.And as my stomach, so my eye and hand,And inward sense that works along with both,Have hunger that can never feed on coinWho draws a line and satisfies his soul,Making it crooked where it should be straight?An idiot with an oyster-shell may drawHis lines along the sand, all wavering,Fixing no point or pathway to a point;An idiot one remove may choose his line,Straggle and be content; but God be praised,Antonio Stradivari has an eyeThat winces at false work and loves the true,With hand and arm that play upon the toolAs willingly as any singing birdSets him to sing his morning roundelay,Because he likes to sing and likes the song.

Then Naldo: "'Tis a petty kind of fameAt best, that comes of making violins;And saves no masses, either. Thou wilt goTo purgatory none the less." But he:"'Twere purgatory here to make them ill;And for my fame—when any master holds'Twixt chin and hand a violin of mine,He will be glad that Stradivari lived,Made violins, and made them of the best.The masters only know whose work is good:They will choose mine, and while God gives them skillI give them instruments to play upon,God choosing me to help Him." "What! were GodAt fault for violins, thou absent?" "Yes;He were at fault for Stradivari's work."

"Why, many hold Giuseppe's violinsAs good as thine." "May be: they are different.His quality declines: he spoils his handWith over-drinking. But were his the best,He could not work for two. My work is mineAnd; heresy or not, if my hand slackedI should rob God—since He is fullest good—Leaving a blank instead of violins.I say, not God Himself can make man's bestWithout best men to help Him. I am one bestHere in Cremona, using sunlight wellTo fashion finest maple till it servesMore cunningly than throats, for harmony.'Tis rare delight: I would not change my skillTo be the Emperor with bungling hands,And lose my work, which comes as naturalAs self at waking." "Thou art little moreThan a deft potter's wheel, Antonio;Turning out work by mere necessityAnd lack of varied function. Higher artsSubsist on freedom—eccentricity—Uncounted inspirations—influenceThat comes with drinking, gambling, talk turned wild.Then moody misery and lack of food—With every dithyrambic fine excess:These make at last a storm which flashes outIn lightning revelations. Steady workTurns genius to a loom; the soul must lieLike grapes beneath the sun till ripeness comesAnd mellow vintage. I could paint you nowThe finest Crucifixion; yesternightReturning home I saw it on a sky.Blue-black, thick-starred. I want two louis d'orsTo buy the canvas and the costly blues—Trust me a fortnight." "Where are those last twoI lent thee for thy Judith?—her thou saw'stIn saffron gown, with Holofernes' headAnd beauty all complete?" "She is but sketched;

I lack the proper model—and the moodA great idea is an eagle's egg,Craves times for hatching; while the eagle sits,Feed her.""If thou wilt call thy pictures eggs,I call the hatching, Work. 'Tis God gives skill,But not without men's hands: He could not makeAntonio Stradivari's violinsWithout Antonio. Get thee to thy easel."