Bach was next. A dramatic crescendo played. “Stop,” he said. “This is amazing. Can you turn this up?” He swigged his beer. “Can you imagine being on this boat?” he said feverishly. “Out in the middle of the ocean? Millions of miles from anything? Listening to this?”

A few weeks later, he agreed to show me his violin, and we met at his apartment in Washington Heights, where he lives with his wife, Sula. The library was filled with books about sailing and Herman Melville novels.

The Chandlers raised their family in the neighborhood, and while music was around, his children grew up without having to practice an instrument for six hours a day. Mr. Chandler’s adult son, Fred, said his father’s musical past was never discussed when he was a boy. “Only thing I really remember is we had to play an instrument in grade school and I got the violin,” he said. “Right away, I got the sense he was uncomfortable with me playing it. He never tried to teach me. He went away while I was practicing. Except once in a blue moon, if he had been drinking, he might play a few minutes, and it was evident he was a real master.”

Mr. Chandler went and fetched a bag of old newspaper clippings. “My mother kept these,” he said. Then he retrieved a dusty case. “I haven’t opened this in 50 years,” he said. “I’m scared to see what’s inside.”

Mr. Chandler opened the case and a musky odor emerged. Inside was a dark red violin. Blue cursive ink on its interior indicated it was built by a Parisian luthier named Joseph Bassot in 1802. He dragged on a cigar as he considered the instrument in his hands. “Seeing this makes me think I made the right choice with my life,” he said. “I lived my life. Not the life of this violin.” Then he started putting it away. “I hate this thing,” he said. “I don’t want to see it anymore.”

He opened a beer and seemed happy to talk about anything other than music. But the violin’s quiet presence would not be denied. Eventually, he put down his beer and approached the case. “Doubt I can even play this thing anymore,” he grumbled, slowly tuning the instrument. Then he placed it to his chin and released his bow. A warm, glorious tone rose through the apartment. Then he bowed again, violently sliding his hand up the violin’s neck, and a graceful, thunderous sound filled the room. Then the note faded away.