Luthier Hill looked up at us from furrowed brows. “You don’t know, do you?”

“What?” asked my dad, curious.

“This is an 1800s German violin. Neuner and Hornsteiner. Delicate. Would probably be worth triple if it didn't play so softly. It’s made for a young soloist - can't compete in an orchestra."

At nine years old, my concept of the 19th century was hazy at best. But the idea I was preceded by a line of children, likely my age, playing sweet, quiet notes to themselves in spite of what might’ve been going on around them fascinated me.

Had they also found comfort in this friend whose life as a tree, then a block of wood, then an intricately carved violin, was as long and rich with history as theirs?  

Perhaps.

Gwenyth Wilbur, the luthier that made my current gorgeous, boisterous, fiery red creation, had been given the abandoned ¾ violin the hopes that it could be brought back to life. It had survived the second world war only to end up cracked down the middle, forgotten and gathering dust among the shelves of an unnamed school in Nova Scotia.

Given her talent, she was able give it a second wind.

I would later research its origin: Mittenwald, in the newly minted and rapidly industrializing nation of Germany. Tucked into the base of the Swiss Alps, it was a place where violin making wasn’t just a trade, but a way of life. In the 19th century, the Bavarian town was alive with craftsmanship passed down through generations. Among the most well-known names were Neuner and Hornsteiner, who had partnered up and built a legacy that would stretch far beyond their quiet mountain village. Made with warm-toned varnish, tonal integrity, carefully selected spruce and maple, and soft, graceful curves, their violins were built with intention.

By 1880, the two had become fixtures in Mittenwald’s lutherie scene. Though their shop produced many instruments with the help of other local makers, there was a consistency to their work; something rooted in tradition and care. Even their ‘student’ violins were crafted with a kind of reverence for sound. Clear. Balanced. Not flashy, but dependable. Meant to be played steadily, not displayed.

Maybe that’s what I love most about mine, that in a time and place where chaos may have been louder than music, someone still made this little violin with tenderness. And someone else, a child maybe, found comfort in it long before I ever would.