“Here is something for you to try- a superb Montagnana which has not been played for close to a century.” I was handed a cello as Mr. Hill went to show the shop to Mr. Dane. Voluptuous and richly covered with a gold-orange varnish, it was in a striking state of preservation. It was hard to believe that it had been made in 1739. Beautiful as it was, it had barely sound at all. No wonder! Silent for so long, it had lost its capacity for speech. Puzzled and eager, I struggled to bring life into it. I don’t know how long I tried or how long Mr. Dane and Mr. Hill stood listening. / “How do you like it?” I was suddenly interrupted. / “Fascinating,” I said, not stopping playing, and continuing as they left the room. I looked at it again and again and played as if possessed, until Alfred Hill returned once more, this time alone. / “Mr. Dane,” he said, “did not want to interrupt you. He had to catch his boat back to the United States. This Montagnana is his gift to you. / Stunned by the news, I carried the cello to my hotel. There, still in a haze, I locked myself in the room and spent the rest of the day and, with a mute on, the better part of the night playing and studying my new companion. The next day and for moths to come, I desperately tried to awaken my “sleeping beauty,” and when I began to succeed, I felt a joy akin to that of the prince in the fairy tale. << less