The Master's Touch by S. D. Gordon

Review and Herald Publishing Association · Takoma Park Station, Washington, D. C. · Aug 18, 1910

The Master's Touch

By S. D. Gordon

One morning a number of years ago in London a group of people had gathered in a small auction shop for an advertised sale of fine old antiques and curios. The auctioneer brought out an old, blackened, dirty-looking violin. He said: “Ladies and gentlemen, here is a remarkable old instrument I have the great privilege of offering to you. It is a genuine Cremona, made by Antonius Stradivarius himself. It is very rare, and worth its weight in gold. What am I bid?” The people present looked at it critically, and some doubted the accuracy of the auctioneer's statements. They saw that it did not have the Stradivarius name cut in it, though he explained that some of the earlier “Strads” did not bear the name, and some that had the name cut in were not genuine. He assured them that this instrument was genuine. Still the buyers doubted and criticized, as buyers have always done. Five guineas was bid, but no more. The auctioneer pleaded and perspired. “It is ridiculous to think of selling such a rare violin for so small a sum,” he said. But the bidding seemed hopelessly stuck there.

Meanwhile a man had entered the shop from the street. He was very tall and very slender, with very black hair, middle-aged, and wore a velvet coat. He walked to the counter with a peculiar sidewise step, and, without noticing anybody in the shop, picked up the violin, and was at once absorbed in it. He dusted it tenderly with his handkerchief, changed the tension of the strings, and held it to his ear lingeringly, as if hearing something. Then, putting the end of it up in position, he reached for the bow, while the murmur ran through the little audience, “Paganini.” The bow seemed hardly to have touched the strings when such a soft, exquisite note came out as filled the shop and held the people spellbound. As he played, the listeners laughed for very delight, and then wept for the fullness of their emotion. The men's hats were off, and they all stood in rapt reverence, as if in a place of worship. He played upon their emotions as he played upon the old, soiled, begrimed violin.

By and by he stopped. And as they were released from the spell of the music, the people began clamoring for the violin. “Fifty guineas,” “sixty,” “seventy,” “eighty,” they bid in hot haste. At last it was knocked down to the famous player himself for one hundred guineas, and that evening he held a vast audience of thousands breathless under the spell of the music he drew from the old, dirty, blackened, despised violin.

It was despised until the master player took possession. Its worth was not known. The master's touch revealed the rare value, and brought out the hidden harmonies. He gave the doubted little instrument its true place of high honor before the multitude. May I say, softly, that some of us have been despising the worth of the man within? We have been bidding five guineas when the real value is immeasurably above that, because of the Maker. Do not let us be underbidding God's workmanship.

The violin needed dusting and readjusting of its strings before the music came. Shall we not each of us yield this rarest instrument, his own creation, to the Master's hand? There will be some changes needed, no doubt, as the Master Player takes hold. And then will go singing out of our persons and our lives the rarest music of God, which will enthrall and bring all within earshot to the Master Musician.—S. D. Gordon, in “Quiet Talks on Service.”