I am a professor of music, and was born so long ago as the last
century, at Salsberg, in Germany. My father was a merchant of that
city; _fanatico per la musica_, as the Italians say, music mad. Knowing
that each of his children would inherit a fair fortune, he permitted us
to somewhat neglect our other studies, so that we might dedicate more
time to his beloved science. My two sisters played remarkably well on
the spinet, and sang finely. Karl, my only brother, was the flautist
of the family, and I devoted myself to the violin. At sixteen years of
age I believed myself an adept on this difficult instrument. My violin
was my constant companion. Nothing gave me more pleasure than to take
my dear “Fortunato,” for so I called it, into the woods, and there, by
the murmuring brook, beneath the rustling trees, improvise new airs and
vary old ones, to my heart’s content.
So greatly did my father delight in displaying the talents of his
children, that he organized every Thursday afternoon an amateur
concert, at which at least a quarter of the town assisted—to listen
to, admire, or criticise, about as much music as could possibly be
crowded into a three hours’ performance. One fine Thursday afternoon
in autumn, just as the first of our pieces was concluded, a very
singular-looking individual entered the concert-room. He was as thin
and pale as an unearthly apparition, and entirely dressed in shabby
garments of light blue corduroy. His well-worn knee-breeches were
blue, his jacket was blue, his vest was blue, and the huge cravat that
fastened his great flapping shirt-collar was also blue. His face was
the most melancholy in expression it is possible to imagine. He had a
big, hooked nose, thin lantern jaws, and the only redeeming feature
which he possessed, his dark and intelligent eyes, were hidden by a
pair of goggle spectacles. His hair was bright red and uncut, and his
beard seemed as if it had never been trimmed since it first began to
grow.
He did not attempt to apologize for his intrusion into our company,
but without looking to the right or to the left made straight for
a vacant seat, and taking it, prepared to listen to the music with
marked attention. It was my turn to play, but I was so confused, so
utterly by the appearance of this strange personage, that when I
struck my violin with the bow my hand trembled so much that I could
not produce a sound. I tried again and again, and was about to give
it up in despair when the Man in Blue rose from his seat and came
directly to me. “Young man,” said he, “you have a more difficult
instrument there than you think; hand it to me, I will play in your
stead.” I mechanically gave him “Fortunato.” Presently he began.
Never in all my life had I before heard such playing. The instrument
seemed to have within its wooden frame a divine soul, capable of
expressing every possible emotion—joy, grief, passionate agony, and
triumphant jubilee. We were all amazed and delighted, and at the
termination of his concerto such a burst of enthusiastic applause
greeted the singular performer that he seemed quite overcome and
confused. However, he bowed his acknowledgments, though in the most
grotesque fashion.
It happened that we were on the eve of a grand annual musical festival,
at which some of the greatest musicians of Germany had declared their
intention of being present. My father, naturally concluding that our
guest was some celebrated maestro, who had arrived incognito, hastened
to thank him for the favor he had conferred upon us, and also to offer
him the hospitality of his house during his stay in our town. The Man
in Blue at first refused, then hesitated, and finally accepted my
father’s pressing invitation.
For one week we surrounded him with every attention, and he, by his
gentle manners and genius, soon won our affection and respect. But all
our attempts to find out who he was and whence he came proved vain; he
took no notice of our discreet hints, and not one of us dared to ask
the question point-blank. He set himself to work to teach me a great
many things about the violin of which I was previously ignorant, and to
this curious man I owe many of my greatest triumphs. “My son,” he would
say, “love music; music is the food of the soul—the only possession we
have on earth which we shall retain in Heaven.”
If a stranger happened to pay us a visit, our new friend would
immediately take refuge in the garden. He liked to be alone with Karl,
myself, and his violin. One day a merchant named Krebbs arrived on
business which he had to transact with my father, and as he entered he
stumbled against the Man in Blue, who was making good his escape. The
poor violinist, on perceiving merchant Krebbs, became as pale as death,
tottered to a seat in the garden, and covered with confusion, hid his
face in his hands.
“Well, I am sure,” said Krebbs to my father, “you are an odd man to
take in that creature. Why, I thought he was in prison, or drowned, or
run over.”
“You know him then?” asked my father, with ill-disguised curiosity.
“Know him—of course I do. Why, his name is Bèze; he is a carpenter
by trade. But, bless you, he’s as mad as a March hare. Some time
ago our church-organ was struck by lightning. Bèze came forward at
once, and proposed to mend it, provided the parish furnished him the
materials. As he was known for a good musician and a clever workman,
our curé granted his request. To work went he; night and day he labored
for at least six weeks. At last the organ was mended, Bèze struck a
chord or so, and it appeared better than ever. The day arrived for
the first public hearing of the renovated instrument; the mayor—all
the village, in short, was present; and Bèze himself did not fail to
appear, attired as usual in blue. Blue is his color. He made some vow
or other, years ago, to the Virgin, never to wear any other but her
colors—blue and white. I tell you he is crazy. But to return to the
organ. When our old organist began to play upon it, not a sound would
it produce—except when he pulled the new stop out. Off went the organ,
_whoo whee_, and then it set to squeaking and whistling like mad. The
girls began to laugh, the mayor to swear, and the curé grew furious.
Bèze is a fool—Bèze is an idiot—he has ruined the organ! cried every
one, and soon amid the derision of the congregation, your friend left
the church. Strange to say, since that day we have never again seen the
creature; but our organ is completely spoilt, and remains dumb.”
Thus spoke merchant Krebbs. I would hear no more, but hurried out to
console my poor friend. I found him beneath an apple-tree, sitting
all forlorn, his face turned towards the sinking sun. “Ah! my young
friend,” he said, “do you see yon little cloud which obscures the
splendor of the sun? So the words of a foolish man may tarnish the fame
of a genius.”
“But,” I replied, “see, the little cloud has vanished already, and the
light of the sun is but the brighter for the contrast.”
He smiled. “The cloud that hangs over my tarnished name will have to
pass away soon, or it will be too late. That organ which I constructed
has a soul within it. All my life I have labored to know how to lodge
my ideal of music within the compass of a single instrument. I have
done this. The soul is there. But I know not how to play upon the
organ, and they, in their blind rage, will not allow me to explain to
them. Oh, if I could, before I die, but find Sebastian Bach! He would
call to life the soul of music that lies sleeping in my organ, and
prove to the world that Bèze is neither mad nor an impostor.”
My father took no notice of what merchant Krebbs had said, and when he
joined us in the garden he entreated Bèze to play for him in the open
air. The Man in Blue played for us a number of national and simple
melodies in such a pathetic manner that several times I saw tears in
my father’s eyes; at last he said, as the musician finished, “Friend,
though your organ is a failure, your violin is truly heavenly. Stay
with me yet a while.”
“My organ is not a failure; it is the triumph of my life.”
“But no one can play on it.”
“One day some one will, and then——”
“Well, we will say no more about it. Come, the supper is ready.” And he
led the way in.
The next morning the Man in Blue was gone. We were sorry for his
disappearance; but soon forgot all about it in our anxiety over the
festival which was near at hand. Glück had promised to come, and we
were anxious to know with whom he would stay. Then Bach arrived, and
soon came Graun—illustrious Graun—whose nobility of mind inspired his
lovely melodies, and with him those inseparable geniuses, Fürch and
Hass. And Hamburg sent us Gasman and Teliman. Those who have never even
heard the name of these great composers are yet familiar with their
melodies. Many of the popular tunes now so much admired I have heard in
my youth fresh from the minds of their original composers, free from
the twirls and shakes clumsily added to them to disguise their true
origin.
These illustrious persons were as simple and unostentatious in manners
as it is possible to be. They assembled in the Hall of St. Cecilia, and
I had the privilege of assisting at their rehearsals. I often passed
hours listening to their long discourses on harmony, on keys, scales,
and chords. One night Glück played, for the first time, a portion of
his “Iphigenia;” and on another, Bach enchanted us by a performance of
his delightful preludes. Bach, somehow or other, took a fancy to me. He
had observed the marked attention with which I listened to the remarks
of the different composers, and to their music. He asked me my name,
and who my father was; and I in answer, growing bold, not only related
all that concerned myself, but also the story of my Friend in Blue.
“An organ that no one can play upon!” exclaimed this great composer;
“well, that is singular.”
“But I am sure you can.”
“Why?”
“Because I am certain that the man that made the organ is a great
musician, although he cannot play upon it himself. He plays upon the
violin.”
“As well as I do?” asked Graun.
I hesitated, and hung my head: I did not dare say “yes,” and yet I
would not say “no”.
“Speak up, my boy; say the truth always, and shame the devil.”
“He plays better than you, sir, I think; but then he plays out in the
woods, and music sounds better there than in a close room.”
“True, it does.”
“My masters,” said I at last, after some hesitation, “will any one of
you, in your charity, try the organ—the village is not distant—and
thus justify the poor man?”
“I will myself,” answered Bach, “on Sunday. But say nothing about it to
any one. Only to your friend, if you can find him, in order to induce
him to be present in the church on that morning.”
With heartfelt thanks I gave the illustrious composer my promise to
obey in every particular his injunctions.
On leaving the St. Cecilia Hall that evening (it was Friday) almost the
first person I met was, to my surprise, the Man in Blue. Hidden in the
courtyard of the Hall, he had been listening to the music, and was in
a state of nervous enthusiasm which quite alarmed me. I hesitated to
inform him what Bach intended to do, but at last I did so; he received
the news in a manner that I little expected. He made no demonstration
of joy, but followed me in silence until we were in a lonely part of
the town—a little square in the centre of which grew three or four old
trees. Here he paused, and sinking on his knees, prayed earnestly. The
moon shone down upon his uplifted face, and it seemed almost beautiful,
so great was the expression it bore of devotion and intellect. When he
had finished his prayer he embraced me in silence, and we parted.
Sunday arrived, and at an early hour I started for the church of the
village. As I traversed the little field in front of it, I beheld
advancing from the opposite side several of the professors, and
amongst them Bach. By-and-by, as it got noised about that some of the
celebrities were in the church, it filled to excess. Presently, Bach
mounted the organ-loft. How my heart beat! Mass began. At the “Kyrie,”
for the first time, the instrument gave forth sounds, but sounds of
such heavenly sweetness that the congregation was thrilled as if by the
music of the angels. As the Mass advanced the more marvellous became
the harmony. The “Agnus” was so plaintive that I saw tears in the eyes
of Glück, who stood by me; and the “Sanctus” sounded so triumphantly
that it required but little imagination to believe that the cherubim
and seraphim were present singing their jubilant song of praise:
“Holy, holy, is the Lord God of Sabaoth.”
And the Man in Blue, where was he?
By the altar, with his face turned towards his organ. His whole
countenance was radiant, his eyes were bright, and a look ecstatic and
serene passed over his features. But how ethereal he looked!
When Mass was over the congregation passed round the porch to see the
great composers. “Long live Bach!” “Hail to Glück!” they cried as they
recognized these popular men.
But Bach held aloof. “Lead me,” he said, “to that man of genius who has
so wonderfully improved the king of instruments.”
“Master,” I answered, “he is in the church.” And we re-entered the
sacred edifice together, followed by Graun. I led them to the Man in
Blue. But what a change had come over him! The pallor of death was on
his brow; he had sunk back on a bench, and when he perceived us vainly
strove to rise. “Ah! excuse me, my masters. I receive you very badly;
but I am not well—the joy has killed me. I am dying, gentlemen, of
joy.”
They raised him between them. I ran for the priest, and to the doors,
which I shut to prevent the entrance of any intruders.
“Master, whilst I confess, play to me,” he said to Bach.
Bach, seeing that mortal aid was useless, left us, and went up to
the organ. Solemnly he played. He played, as he afterwards said, as
he never played before or since. The priest arrived, and Graun and I
knelt down whilst the Man in Blue received the last Sacraments. This
pious act accomplished, we went nearer to him. He took my hand, and
Graun rested the head of Bèze upon his breast. Solemnly the music stole
through the silent church; solemnly the sunlight streamed through the
stained windows, and the Angel of Death stood within the temple of God.
“I am very happy,” murmured the dying man, “since Bach plays to me on
my organ, and Graun permits me to rest upon his bosom.”
To me he said, “God bless thee, my child—tell them I was not mad, nor
an impostor. My organ had a soul.”
Graun stooped and kissed his pale brow, and with an exquisite look of
gratitude the Man in Blue died, and the Angel of Death winged his way
to heaven, bearing the poor carpenter’s soul to God.—_Merry England._