
A Violinist’s Violin, Part One
July 5, 2023
In 1972, after one of our Guarneri String Quartet concerts, Mischa Schneider, cellist of the Budapest String Quartet and our longtime friend and mentor, came backstage to greet us. Looking thoughtful, he turned to me. “Arnold, your wiolin is veek. Maybe I can do zumzing,” he volunteered. Mischa, who was born in Vilna, Lithuania, had never lost his charming native accent, but most amusing was his tendency to mix up V’s and W’s. Far from amusing, however, was the fact that Mischa was right. As much as I loved the legendary growl and luster of my Guarneri del Gesù violin, its relatively small (veek) sound seemed to get lost in the large halls we often performed in. Legend had it that the instrument had once been painted black and hung on a wall, but then was recognized as something special and revarnished cheaply around 1900. Perhaps that explained the violin’s drawbacks.
Several weeks later, Mischa rang to tell me that the Budapest Quartet’s first violinist, Josef Roisman, who had recently retired, was thinking of selling his violin. “He iss vaitink for your call.” I had never met Roisman, only admired him from afar.
“Steinhardt,” Roisman said on the phone (he would always address me by my last name), “come to Washington, try the violin, and then we’ll talk.”
I took mental inventory of my Budapest Quartet encounters as the train from New York City pulled out of Pennsylvania Station and headed south. I first heard the Budapest in live performance as a music student. I sat in the balcony of the Metropolitan Museum’s Grace Rainy Rogers Auditorium and listened to the quartet’s remarkable precision and the effortless sheen that pervaded the group. Yet each musician managed to play with his personal and individual style untamed.
Roisman, a small, slender man with a domed forehead and thinning hair, had caught my attention in particular. He played with a gliding and compelling elegance, and his sound, which floated up to where I sat, was refined yet somewhat husky. Did it come from the violin or the violinist?
Roisman greeted me cordially at the door with a pipe in his mouth. Pola, his wife, made tea for us, and then he handed me the violin. It looked like no other violin I’d ever seen—extremely broad, patterned flatly at the top and bottom like a cello and with unusually large F-holes, a deep, burnished brown-gold top, and a back whose wildly swirling grain almost made me dizzy. I gingerly took the instrument and played it for Roisman and his wife in their living room. That unmistakably rich and throaty sound I had heard in Roisman’s hands for so many years poured forth. I played on and on, bewitched.
“Steinhardt,” Roisman said, seeing how affected I was, “I will sell the violin to you someday, but not just yet. I still enjoy playing quartets for fun with my friends. Give me a little time.”
I left Roisman’s apartment without the violin but beside myself with excitement. In the not-too-distant future I would be playing a miraculous-sounding instrument. The meeting with Roisman gave me pause, however. How did he feel listening to me, a veritable stranger, playing his beloved violin? And what was it like to contemplate giving up his partner in music-making for the past thirty years? The thought dampened my ebullient mood for only a moment and then was gone. I was, after all, a young man, more concerned with my own future than Roisman’s past. The idea of any sort of ending—of health, of life itself, or for that matter how I would feel when my playing career comes to an end and I must hand my violin over to someone else—was too distant, too theoretical for me to consider seriously.
Several months later Mischa called to tell me that Roisman had died suddenly, on October 10, 1974, and that Pola, following the wishes of her late husband, would sell me the violin. Again Pola served me tea in the Roisman’s apartment, which now felt strangely barren. Death in an instant had stolen Pola’s husband from her and snatched his silken playing from the ears and hearts of music lovers. As we chatted, I could see Roisman’s violin case resting on the sofa. Roisman was in his coffin, and the violin, now temporarily masterless, was in its own. When tea came to an end, Pola retrieved the violin case with tears in her eyes and handed it to me. It contained the violin, a fine Albert Nürnberger bow, and papers of authenticity. Not daring just yet to look too closely at these treasures, I closed the case, hugged Pola, and prepared to leave. She held on to me. “I’m sure Joe would want you to have this as well,” she said, handing me a dozen or so pipes housed neatly in a rack. I do not smoke, but I left the apartment feeling that some of Roisman’s spirit was accompanying me.
A Violinist’s Violin, Part Two, to follow.

Budapest String Quartet: Josef Roisman and Alexander Schneider, violins, Boris Kroyt, viola, Mischa Schneider, cello
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Comments
Dear Arnie , I was absolutely bewitched and entranced by your tail of your first meeting and your following acquisition of your second violin after that, Jesu. And always loving a good mystery. I don’t mind being hung out over a cliff waiting for the rest of the story. You also set a good example for me, since I always have a trouble writing a story that isn’t finished yet and posting it and end up taking a month to communicate where I am and what I’m doing to my fans and friends. I will keep my eyes peeled and my breath held tightly until I hear from you next time. With warmest regards, Judith Mitrani.
Oh how my late husband, Richard Watson, would have loved this story!! He died this May 8th, was a violist, music lover, raconteur, always a huge Guarneri Quartet fan (especially when we got to attend their rehearsals at the University of Maryland) and also a Marlboro Festival devotee. Thanks, Arnie!.
I loved reading this beautiful story in your books and can’t wait for part two to come out!
Great but Sad Story!! I had dinner with Mr. Schneider but was too young to realise his position in classical music. Budapest Quartet is my favorite!, (LOL)
Very moving story. It tells us we hold our fine instruments in trust, to tradition and the next generation. Roisman had it right, as usual.
God Bless your wonderful account and these memories of the instrument sound and – your two experiences in Roisman’s house……… and of course the pipes……….. Beautiful account. Reading this brought back a flood of so many incredible times with great musicians in my “youtt” :) Continued warmest wishes Yves
Wonderful. thanks so much
Dear Arnold, How good to find you again in the “field of Strawberries”. So vivid, and pulsating. I can almost hear the “refind yet somewhat husky” sound of the newly acquired violin and sense the excitement of the young violinist.
Love, Hava
So poignant Arnold. But don’t you still play the Guarneri?? Xox. K
Hello Arnold,
Your story echoed within my heart, since I just sold the double bass I played for the past 65 years (in NYC Ballet Orch. and then the New York Philharmonic) to a very talented bassist,a former student of mine. I didn’t really want to sell it, but he plays so well, and is a lovely person, and it is GOOD to pass an instrument along to someone who appreciates it and knows its history. Thank you for this! and I often remember the lovely Dvorak Quintet I played with you and your wonderful colleagues in the Guarneri Quartet.
With fond greetings,
Orin
Loved this story brought back memories of my violin teacher Edgar
Ortenberg who would play with the Budapest quartet as second violin
I never heard his violin as he played the paino as he taught
I remember yours (and Jo Roisman’s) violin very well. I always thought it was so sublime and deep and found places in the music that the composers didn’t realise their notes contained. All best.
She held on to me. “I’m sure Joe would want you to have this as well,” she said, handing me a dozen or so pipes housed neatly in a rack. I do not smoke, but I left the apartment feeling that some of Roisman’s spirit was accompanying me.
Will Part II tell us what happened to those pipes?
dear arnold
your writing is as fine as ever, as if you were playing
the words with your best bow; it’s a gift to us in a forever
sense…. sandy
Dear Arnie,
Lovely story, as usually
Big hug
Maru
Prof Arnold, thanks for sharing this intimate story. Your picture reminds me of me in my wool cap always practising, playing outdoors esp where I didn’t have to listen to people critiqueing, complaining, etc. I love to show you a pic of my viola with the varnish cracked to the max. including scroll. thanks for those glory days at Sherwood Hall LJ you were always REGAL! Douglas Gunderson LJ CA viola, piano, organ, guitar, etc
Thank you for this beautiful story. I felt like Pola Roisman when I parted with my mother’s beloved Cuypers violin after her death.
And your rendering of Mischa Schneider’s accent is exactly how I remember it as a little girl in my grandparents’ living room: “Do you play the wiolin too?”
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