029 [son et lumière
[The screen, grainy black, white and sepia, shows a tiny garret room. Bare floorboards, a music stand, a bed and, on the floor, one Robert Chase tending to a broken violin.]
Of course, choose now to wear through. Now. I haven't the money for bread, and I'm wasting centimes on strings. [He releases the snapped catgut cord from the violin's tailpiece, briefly gripping one frayed end between his teeth as he pulls the other through, only to discard them.] Can't play, can't earn. Can't earn, can't play. Can't eat.
[Rifling through a paper envelope on the floor beside him, he unravels the new string. Only one more tips out onto the rough floorboards.]
Damn it. All the fuss and I'm a surgeon despite myself.
[It is with a doctor's care that he threads the new string into position, drawing it up over the bridge and fixing it to its peg. Then, fingers curled around the scroll and base cradled against one raised knee he descends into quiet focus, testing all four strings for tautness and tune.]
Might as well sell the violin, Robert. Take his money back. Better yet, pawn it off to a collector and buy some cheap, hollow plank. Who else would hear the difference.
[He sighs, shifting to his knees and lifting the violin to fit between his shoulder and chin, handling it with the kind of care most people don't show to their children.]
Buy a piano. Wonder how often their strings need changing.
[The increasingly flickering screen slowly fades to solid black on the image of Chase reaching for his bow, and, against a gramophone crackle, the sound of it being put to work.]
Of course, choose now to wear through. Now. I haven't the money for bread, and I'm wasting centimes on strings. [He releases the snapped catgut cord from the violin's tailpiece, briefly gripping one frayed end between his teeth as he pulls the other through, only to discard them.] Can't play, can't earn. Can't earn, can't play. Can't eat.
[Rifling through a paper envelope on the floor beside him, he unravels the new string. Only one more tips out onto the rough floorboards.]
Damn it. All the fuss and I'm a surgeon despite myself.
[It is with a doctor's care that he threads the new string into position, drawing it up over the bridge and fixing it to its peg. Then, fingers curled around the scroll and base cradled against one raised knee he descends into quiet focus, testing all four strings for tautness and tune.]
Might as well sell the violin, Robert. Take his money back. Better yet, pawn it off to a collector and buy some cheap, hollow plank. Who else would hear the difference.
[He sighs, shifting to his knees and lifting the violin to fit between his shoulder and chin, handling it with the kind of care most people don't show to their children.]
Buy a piano. Wonder how often their strings need changing.
[The increasingly flickering screen slowly fades to solid black on the image of Chase reaching for his bow, and, against a gramophone crackle, the sound of it being put to work.]