I remember a moment when the Prince went back to his old school

“I remember a moment when the Prince went back to his old school, Grammar School in Melbourne, and slightly to his horror his old music teacher produced a cello.” Thus spoke Anthony Holden, the chronicler of princes and poets, of gamblers and kings. Though the words seem clothed in light humor, they carry within them a deep and timeless lesson about memory, humility, and the enduring call of the past. For when a man of stature returns to the place of his beginnings, he is not merely a prince or a ruler—he is once again the student, the child, the one shaped by the hands of his teachers.

The Prince, who walked among courtiers, who held the eyes of nations, entered once more the halls where once he stumbled as a boy. And there, waiting for him, was the symbol of his youth: the cello, lifted by the very teacher who had first demanded discipline of him. What is this but a reminder that no rank, no crown, no worldly honor can erase the roots from which a person has grown? In that moment, the mighty were made small, the exalted were returned to the common soil, and the laughter of memory broke through the armor of royal dignity.

The tale carries the fragrance of humility. For the cello was no weapon of war, no emblem of kingship, but a humble instrument, awkward in its bulk, demanding patience, often unforgiving to those who failed to master it. To the Prince, it was perhaps a reminder of forgotten struggles—of notes missed, of bow strokes faltered, of the uneasy truth that even a royal child must sweat under the eye of a teacher. Thus, Holden’s anecdote reveals more than comedy; it reveals the eternal tension between what we become and what we once were.

Consider the story of Alexander the Great and his teacher Aristotle. Though Alexander conquered the known world, he never ceased to revere the man who had taught him the wisdom of philosophy. “I am indebted to my father for living,” he once said, “but to Aristotle for living well.” Like the Prince with his music master, Alexander too carried the mark of instruction, the reminder that greatness is not self-made but shaped by the hands of those who guide in youth. This is the universal truth hidden in Holden’s words: that behind every powerful figure is the memory of a teacher, and the humbling tools of their early training.

The lesson, then, is clear: we must not despise the days of small beginnings, nor forget the voices that once corrected us. The music teacher with his cello was not mocking the Prince, but reminding him that honor without humility is hollow, and power without memory is rootless. It is well for us too, who may not wear crowns but who all carry within us the memory of lessons learned in childhood. Do not be ashamed of them, for they are the foundation upon which your present strength rests.

Therefore, dear listener, when you rise in stature, return sometimes to your beginnings. Visit your old classrooms, honor your mentors, and smile at the instruments of your early struggles. Let your heart be softened by the reminder of how far you have come, and let your pride be tempered by the knowledge that you were once as frail and uncertain as the child who first held a pen, a book, or an instrument in trembling hands.

Practical wisdom flows from this tale: show gratitude to those who taught you. Write to your teachers, thank them, even if years have passed. When you guide others, do so with patience, remembering your own clumsy beginnings. And when life hands you your own “cello moment”—an encounter with your past that humbles you—receive it not with shame but with laughter and gratitude. For such moments do not diminish you; they root you, reminding you that true greatness is not to forget your past, but to carry it with grace.

Thus, from the simple tale of a Prince, a teacher, and a cello, Anthony Holden has handed us a mirror of wisdom: that the loftiest crown sits most nobly upon the head that can bow to memory, to gratitude, and to the enduring power of humility.