A Voice for a Silent Violin (continued)

"If you play the violin, John, you've got to see mine. It was given to me by a Ticuna Indian."

In 1962 Elizabeth Cudney, hostess of a guest house for Wycliffe Bible Translators in Lima, Peru, was talking to John Funk, a machinist based in Yarinacocha in the central part of the country. She left the room and reappeared shortly, carrying the tiniest violin John had ever seen. It measured only 18 inches from scroll to base, with an extremely short neck in relation to its body, yet it bore the marks of craftsmanship. Both the violin and its extra-vagantly arched bow were sturdy.

"Isn't it gorgeous? But there isn't a note in it. Four violinist have tried to play it, but in vain."

John examined the violin carefully. "This violin will play," he said with a wry smile and quiet confidence. "Will you give me permission to work on it?"

John had the credentials for the job. As a young man he had studied violin under Alfred Lorenz, first violinist in the Philadelphia Orchestra. He was also a skilled craftsman.

Handing the violin over to him, Mrs. Cudney unfolded its story.

A Ticuna Indian in the tiny village of Cushillococha in Peru's northeast Amazon was especially talented in making musical instruments. Meyaecu (Francisco Fernandez Celina) had already made several guitars and a mandolin.

One day a stranger came to Cushillococha with a delicately carved instrument such as Meyaecu had never seen. It produced hauntingly sweet tones as its owner moved a bow across its strings. Intrigued, Meyaecu studied every detail, carefully measuring the instrument by tying knots in a string. After the stranger left, the Indian set about making a violin of his own, though he had no drawings and no model to copy. Meyaecu assembled his tools: a broken machete, a couple of broken chisels, and the razor-sharp scale from a paiche, a 200-300 pound fish.

Meyaecu selected a fine specimen of marupa, a white wood from a common Amazonian tree. He would make the entire instrument from this one piece of wood. With his machete he carefully cut a thin slice that would be the top of the violin. Then he chiseled out the rest of the body--like a tiny dugout canoe. He artfully cut out the f-shaped sound holes in the top and glued the piece onto the hollowed body, using an adhesive he made from a cochi fish. Then he carved the neck and scroll of the violin, boring peg holes with a red hot nail. From hard "blood wood" he formed the bow, calling upon his uncanny memory for the details.

When he finished, Meyaecu sanded the instrument glass-smooth with a tree leaf that imitated 400-grit sandpaper. He then stained the violin with berry juice and gave it a high-gloss finish with gomalaca. Finally, he strung both the body and the bow of his beautiful instrument with chambira, a fiber from a native palm tree.

But something was wrong. Running the bow over the strings of his violin, Mayaecu was unable to get a sound. With a mixture of pride and sorrow, Mayaecu showed the product of his craftsmanship to Lambert Anderson, a linguist who, with his wife, had been living in the village, learning the tonal language and teaching God's Word.

"Don't worry, Meyaecu, there must be something we don't know about the way these instruments are made. But we'll find out, and some day your violin will sing just as beautifully as the other."

Meyaecu thought, "If I can't make my violin play, I'll give it to Lambert's friend, Mrs. Cudney, who gave us our church bell. It will tell her how much we appreciate her gift. And who knows? Maybe she can make it sing."

John listened with interest to the account and then explained to his hostess, "I will have to make some important changes in the violin, but I'm sure it will play without any alterations to its basic design." John replaced the chambira fibers with regular violin strings on the body and with horsehair on the bow. The violin body lacked a sound post, a tiny wooden rod wedged between the top and the back that transmits the vibrations of the strings from the bridge through the rest of the instrument. So John constructed a tiny s-shaped tool that enabled him to get that sound post through the f-holes and position it accurately.

This, at last, gave a voice to the violin. The tone was thin, lacking the depth, richness, and volume it should have had, but in compensation, a sweetness and softness to the tone, especially in the upper registers, offered a haunting beauty all its own. This particular tone quality resulted from the lack of a "bass bar" but John recognized that if he attempted to insert one, the violin would no longer be Mayaecu's.

Instead he concentrated on playing the instrument accurately, achieving the best tonal quality possible. Accuracy was especially difficult because the slightest touch on any of the pegs instantly knocked the violin out of tune. John persevered until he could bring forth lovely melodies. To make the playing more comfortable, he later added a chin rest.

On his next visit to the guest house, John took the little violin with him. "Now, Mrs. Cudney, I want you to listen to the violin that you said does not have a note in it." Tucking the tiny instrument under his chin, John played a hymn, "I Am Not Worthy" on the F string.

Moved to tears, Mrs. Cudney said, "John, I can't keep that violin any more. You gave it a voice. It belongs to you."

A few weeks later John was asked to show and play the violin as part of the 100th anniversary of the city of Iquitos in northeastern Peru. Later, he played it often before Peruvian dignitaries and ambassadors; and in the States, before church groups and in Wycliffe programs.

The skill and expertise of two men came together in an instrument that became a symbol of cooperation and mutual respect. The silent violin finally found a voice and blessed many with its harmonious strains.

The violin was donated to The Museum of the Alphabet by John Funk's widow, Doris, and daughter, Grace, in August 2007.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Not on the brochure; a Lorraine postscript:

I am not worthy the least of His favor,
But Jesus left heaven for me;
The Word became flesh and He died as my Savior,
Forsaken on dark Calvary.

Chorus:
I am not worthy this dull tongue repeats it!
I am not worthy this heart gladly beats it?
Jesus left heaven to die in my place
What mercy, what love and what grace!

I am not worthy the least of His favor,
But "In the beloved" I stand;
Now I'm an heir with my wonderful Savior,
And all things are mine at His hand.

I am not wortly the least of His favor,
But He is preparing a place
Where I shall dwell with my glorified Savior,
Forever to look on His face.