At the outskirts of Budapest there was a tavern, small likeable, famous for two beautiful Hungarian women, dancing agile folk dances in their red boots spinning like a spindle and often with bottles of wine on the heads. There were also two of their companions performing reckless acts using a stick, pranks with a quirt. They incited guests to try for themselves…The Gypsy orchestra was an average one, except for a violinist, who sensing the atmosphere glued the chords upon the souls of the visitors....When everybody else got fatigued, he carried on playing, changing the violin bow, tirelessly wiping the sweat, he continued playing.

No, he cared not for the events, tumult, but only for the melody; to unite it with the feelings... Baksheeshes were falling for his music from Hungarians, Slovaks, Vlachs, Serbs... from all who happened to be there.

The wish for hearing some melody was never expressed to a chubby head of the orchestra...He has never shown in public that it bothered him at all…However, when the profits were shared, he would usurp the greatest share, and sometimes he would share it evenly, sometimes at the scales known only to him, but the violinist was never rewarded. Once he had heard the tavern owner advising the head of the orchestra not to do so, but, he had also heard him reply "just let the fool play, we are fine like this." As if someone slapped him over the face, the violinist staggered. That night he played less than usually, his hands were shaking, he did not feel the atmosphere, his stomach troubled him; he sweated and was totally absent-minded.

In the following days his music was magnificent, though at first somewhat pensive, doleful and then it became more and more sad, ticklish... His melody glued upon the feelings of orchestra, dancers, guests… The tavern became more and more empty, as if it had somehow diminished, more and more common drunkards were coming and fewer merchants, bohemians and those others leaving forints.

The violinist was laid off with insults and taunts. The head of the orchestra had taken one of his bows and striking him with it he rushed the violinist to leave as soon as possible and then, as the final insult and push, he kicked him in the behind …

The violinist had no choice, nowhere to go so the street became his only home. Opening the violin case he played all around Budapest. In time, some of the old guests from the tavern started leaving him money in the case. Highly mystical stories hovered about him…about him being an illegitimate son of some count, about him being a son of some Russian Prince, taken to horse theft with Gypsies and ending on the street and about him being taught to play the violin by some famous Italian virtuoso...

The money came pouring more and more and so did the invitations for his playing on banquets... The clothes regained its sheen; the smile returned to his face, his music became more sophisticated, daring, luxurious, spirituous, marvelous…