by Barbara T. Carlton
Book 1 of The Gift
Historical Fiction
Date to be Published: November 5, 2025
Publisher: Acorn Publishing
But the violin Marthe’s father left her is a constant reminder of the profound bond between them, and it gives her the strength to begin healing. When the Köln Conservatory offers her an unexpected scholarship, she seizes her chance to reach for excellence.
Under the rigorous tutelage of Professorin Wolff, and subjected to predatory harassment by a fellow student determined to destroy both her self-worth and her chances of success, Marthe quickly learns she will need more than motivation and talent to rise to the top.
Filled with heart, wit, and music, The Well-Tempered Violinist is an enduring coming-of-age tale about an artist striving for greatness against enormous odds.
FEBRUARY 1949, HEIDELBERG
In the very beginning was the sound, bright and rich, with an edge of darkness.
I knew it before birth, my mother said, for whenever my father played, I became still in her womb, as if I were mesmerized.
In the sitting room of our house in Eberlinstrasse, I became the audience, propped with pillows before I could sit up, listening to my father and his friends play string quartets on Saturday nights—for love, he said, not money, for he was a banker, though as a young man he had studied with the famous Schradieck in Hamburg. Later, he told me I never fussed, never had to be removed, but remained transfixed, no matter how rough the music nor how often they repeated it. So perhaps my mother was right.
***
The second beginning was my fourth birthday, when my baby sister Anni stuck her fist into my birthday cake when no one was looking and my grandparents gave me a music box that played “Papageno’s Magic Bells” from The Magic Flute, which I listened to until everyone but me was sick of it. Best of all, my father gave me my own small violin and began to teach me its mysteries. First, the names of the strings and their personalities: A, sensible and even-tempered; D, cheerful and impetuous; down to G, serious and thoughtful; up to E, nervous and temperamental, with a tendency to squeak. How to tune them, how to find the notes and make them pure instead of scratchy. He turned exercises and drills into games and improvised harmony to my children’s songs, something different every time. Alle Meine Entchen, All My Ducklings. Bruder Jakob, a round. Kleines Mädchen, Little Girl—my favorite, because it was about me.
I practiced every afternoon for my evening lesson. Occasionally, with nerves like caterpillars in my stomach, I played for the applause and praise of my father’s friends. I might have thought all children were as docile as myself, if not for Anni. Anni’s temper tantrums, Anni thundering up and down the stairs, Anni meddling with my toys and often breaking them. I couldn’t imagine where my parents had found her, or why. Someday, I thought—preferably soon—she would run off to become a pirate and leave us in peace.
The pirate would surely come to no good. But I dreamed I would become a famous violinist and lead an exotic and sophisticated life on the concert stages of the world.
***
When I outgrew my first violin, Anni inherited it and my father began to teach her—at least, he tried. Anni never practiced and she hated lessons of all kinds. The experiment was short-lived and a spectacular failure.
I felt horribly smug for weeks.
My father and I shared a secret language, a world full of treasures where Anni couldn’t stick in her fat little fist and grab anything and where my mother didn’t care to go. A bond grew between us as between two fibers of the same tree, pure and deep. . .
***
MARCH 1906, KÖLN
Both of these beginnings came before the real one, like the prologue in fiction.
The third beginning, the real one, is now: a cold March morning a month past my eighteenth birthday, before the grand front door of one of the grandest houses in Köln. Herr Dietrich keeps a firm grip on my elbow, probably to keep me from running away. In my other hand, I carry my violin in its case. This house, on Leopoldstrasse in the heart of the Lindenthal district, belongs to Herr Ferdinand Kurtz, president of the Bank of Köln. My father’s bank.
Yes. It begins here.
The violin I carry is my father’s, because he is dead.
***
The Well-Tempered Violinist, Book 1 of The Gift series, is her first novel.
Contact Links
Facebook: Barbara Thornburgh Carlton, Writer
M.C.V. EGAN ❧Defining Ways❧ 