God Needs Antonio

by George Eliot

Your soul was lifted by the wings today

　　Hearing the master of the violin:

　　You praised him, praised the great Sabastian too

　　Who made that fine Chaconne; but did you think

　　Of old Antonio Stradivari?--him

　　Who a good century and a half ago

　　Put his true work in that brown instrument

　　And by the nice adjustment of its frame

　　Gave it responsive life, continuous

　　With the master's finger-tips and perfected

　　Like them by delicate rectitude of use.

　　That plain white-aproned man, who stood at work

　　Patient and accurate full fourscore years,

　　Cherished his sight and touch by temperance,

　　And since keen sense is love of perfectness

　　Made perfect violins, the needed paths

　　For inspiration and high mastery.

　　No simpler man than he; he never cried,

　　"why was I born to this monotonous task

　　Of making violins?" or flung them down

　　To suit with hurling act well-hurled curse

　　At labor on such perishable stuff.

　　Hence neighbors in Cremona held him dull,

　　Called him a slave, a mill-horse, a machine.

　　Naldo, a painter of eclectic school,

　　Knowing all tricks of style at thirty-one,

　　And weary of them, while Antonio

　　At sixty-nine wrought placidly his best,

　　Making the violin you heard today--

　　Naldo would tease him oft to tell his aims.

　　"Perhaps thou hast some pleasant vice to feed-

　　the love of louis d'ors in heaps of four,

　　Each violin a heap--I've naught to blame;

　　My vices waste such heaps. But then, why work

　　With painful nicety?"

　　Antonio then:

　　"I like the gold--well, yes--but not for meals.

　　And as my stomach, so my eye and hand,

　　And inward sense that works along with both,

　　Have hunger that can never feed on coin.

　　Who draws a line and satisfies his soul,

　　Making it crooked where it should be straight?

　　Antonio Stradivari has an eye

　　That winces at false work and loves the true."

　　Then Naldo: "'Tis a petty kind of fame

　　At best, that comes of making violins;

　　And saves no masses, either. Thou wilt go

　　To purgatory none the less."

　　But he:

　　"'Twere purgatory here to make them ill;

　　And for my fame--when any master holds

　　'Twixt chin and hand a violin of mine,

　　He will be glad that Stradivari lived,

　　Made violins, and made them of the best.

　　The masters only know whose work is good:

　　They will choose mine, and while God gives them skill

　　I give them instruments to play upon,

　　God choosing me to help him.

　　"What! Were God

　　at fault for violins, thou absent?"

　　"Yes;

　　He were at fault for Stradivari's work."

　　"Why, many hold Giuseppe's violins

　　As good as thine."

　　"May be: they are different.

　　His quality declines: he spoils his hand

　　With over-drinking. But were his the best,

　　He could not work for two. My work is mine,

　　And, heresy or not, if my hand slacked

　　I should rob God--since his is fullest good--

　　Leaving a blank instead of violins.

　　I say, not God himself can make man's best

　　Without best men to help him.

　　'Tis God gives skill,

　　But not without men's hands: he could not make

　　Antonio Stradivari's violins

　　Without Antonio. Get thee to thy easel."