I took down the violin I made in the past two months, and walked towards the farmland outside. The violin shined in the sunlight, and I admitted, unwillingly, that it looked good. But I knew it was a mockery (笑柄) of my failure to find beauty.
“What makes a violin beautiful?”
I first asked this question as a three-year-old child and now again as a teenager. When I listened to a violin for the first time, I was so astonished by its beauty that I imagined a fairy living in the wooden frame. But fairies faded when I grew older. I wanted a reasonable answer to the question.
I referred to Professor Ruan, my violin teacher, who introduced the violin to me 14 years ago. This 85-year-old man rhapsodized about (热烈赞美)the legend of Antonio Stradivari. “His violins are the most beautiful works human has ever crafted.” “Make a violin with your own hands," Professor Ruan suggested, "When you play it, you'll know.”
However, when Professor Ruan introduced to me a violin workshop, what I saw was far from my expectation. In front of me was a fat worker, shirtless and sunburned, soon to become my master. What shocked me most was that the “master” knew nearly nothing about music. His rough hands had been tending crops, not instruments, for most of his life.
Two months later, standing outside the workshop, I was disappointed. Yes, I just finished or copied a Stradivarius violin. But I didn't find beauty in it. Then I remembered Professor Ruan's words, "When you play it, you'll know.” So I closed my eyes, and focused on where my fingers and strings touched. Music flowed suddenly so beautifully that for a moment I doubted my own ears. Slowly I opened my eyes, and with surprise found the fairy of my childhood fantasy dancing to my music — the two-year-old daughter of the master.
Professor Ruan was right. I didn't find beauty until I played music with the violin, because beauty isn't in the instrument itself. It's just here, deep down, in ourselves.
