Literature
The violin
This is where he played me for the last time. It's a strange thing. I am roughly made from the same material that his casket was made from. Fir, brass, and ivory and ebony. I have strings, of course. I don't have a velvet lining. My case does. Maybe that counts. Red velvet, soft as the finest silk. My curator says the velvet was made from the same roll of fabric that went into the curtains of the master bedroom. Maybe that's true. I don't know much about fabric, even if I spend most of my time resting in fabric.
Most violins of my age have been lost. House fires, decay, de-lamination, even bore worms. Wood worms? I don't remember the proper word. Tiny little worms that eat wood. I was preserved. I had my varnish redone. New strings more times than I can remember. I passed through so many hands. He was my last master. And I am grateful to have served him.
His fans called him the wonder. Or miracle. The word translates so poorly into English. And this IS an English museum. So I do my
