A tall man with keen eyes and a round stomach stood in the shadow of the
Johanneskirche, lost in thought and humming to himself. Now and then he
took off his glasses and rubbed them vigorously, and put them on again
to peer absently down the street.
A heavy figure, clad in the faded blue uniform of the Michaelsschule,
rounded the corner, puffing heavily.
"Ach, Kerlman!" The tall man started forward with a stride. "You are
late."
The other nodded imperturbably.
"Ja, I am late. Those boys--I cannot make to hurry." He spoke as if
assigning sufficient reason and wiped his brow.
A twinkle came into the keen eyes. "And one of them you have lost
to-day," he said dryly. He cocked his eye a trifle toward the heavy
church that rose behind them.
The other looked quickly around.
"That S'bastian--was he here?" he demanded.
"In there," replied the tall man, smiling. "No, no!" he laid his hand on
his companion's arm as he started forward. "Let be--let be!... We must
help him--that boy. You have not heard him play my organ. Wait!" He held
up his hand.... Music was stealing from the gloomy shadows of the
church.
"Come in," said the master. He pushed open a low door and they entered
the great church. Far up in the loft, struck by a shaft of light from a
gable in the roof, the boy was sitting, absorbed in sound. His face was
bent to the keys as his hands hovered and paused over them and drew
forth the strangely sweet sounds that filled the great building.
The two musicians below stood looking up, their big heads nodding
time.... Suddenly they paused and looked at each other with questioning
glance. The music was quickening and broadening with a clear, glad reach
of sound, and underneath it ran a swiftly echoing touch that bound the
notes together and vibrated through them.
"How was he doing that?" whispered the small man excitedly. "You have
taught him that?"
The other shook his head.
"Come, we will see."
Together they tiptoed through the dark church, softly--up to the
organ-loft and peered in. The boy, oblivious to sight and sound, played
on.
Kerlman leaned far forward, craning his neck. He drew back, a look of
stupefaction in his face. He held up his large thumb and looked at it
soberly.
"What is it?" whispered the other.
"You see, Johannes Bohm?" He shook the fat thumb in his companion's
face. "He does it with that!"
The master peered forward, incredulous. Slowly he crept up behind the
boy, his eyes fastened on the moving hands. His shadow fell on the keys
and the boy looked up. His face lighted with a smile.
"Go on," said the master sternly. His eyes still watched the hands.
Slowly his big fingers reached over and grasped the thumb as it pressed
lightly on a key. "Who told you that?" he demanded.
The boy looked down at it, puzzled. Then his face grew a little ashamed
and doubtful. "It is wrong, I know," he admitted. "Yes, it is wrong."
"Who taught you?"
"Nay, no one would teach it. I just happened--one day. It makes it so
easy."
"Yes, I see." The master's voice was curt.
"I will never do it again," said the boy humbly.
"No--you might play it for me once--just once, for me," said the master.
The boy's hands ran lovingly to the keys. They crept along the maze of
sound and rose and fell in the changing rhythm. Shyly the small thumb
darted out and found its key, and filled the great church with the
tremulous, haunting call of note answering note.
The master bending over the keys wiped his brow and looked at the boy
proudly, with a little wonder in his face. "Good.... Ach--but good,
good!" he murmured softly.
The boy looked up quickly. His clear skin flushed. "May I use
it--sometimes?" he asked, doubting.
Bohm gave a sharp, generous laugh. "You may use it." He laughed again.
"All the world will use it!" he said, patting him on the back. "It is a
great discovery. Play more."
The boy turned obediently to the keys, and while he played, the master
slipped away. "Come down," he whispered to Kerlman, whose fat bulk
filled the doorway. "Let us come down and get some beer. I am very dry
this day."
Over their mugs, in the garden across the way, they looked at each other
solemnly. Then they threw back their big heads and laughed till their
sides shook and their wigs stood askew. Kerlman laid his fat thumb on
the table and regarded it respectfully. "Gott im Himmel!" he said.
Bohm nodded, his eyes twinkling.
The fat man raised his thumb from the table and twiddled it in the air.
It fell with a stiff thud. "Ja, ja," he said, half impatient, half
laughing. "How is one to do it--such fool tricks! Ja, ja!"
The keen eyes watching him had a proud look. "You know what he will
be--that boy," he said exultingly. "He will be a great musician!"
"He will be a great bother," grumbled Kerlman. "First," he checked off
the vices on his fingers--"first, he comes to us three weeks late--three
weeks late--because his brother promises, and takes it back and waits to
die--Bah!" He took a sip of beer and laid out another fat finger.
"Second, he sings two octaves at the same time--two octaves! Did one
ever hear such nonsense! Third, he loses his voice, his beautiful voice,
and sings no more at all." He shook his head heavily. "Fourth, he is
running away to Hamburg to listen--always to Hamburg, to listen to
Reinken, and coming back to be forgiven. Ja, ja! Seven times I have
forgiven him. I think he is making ready now to go once more!" He glared
at his companion.
Bohm nodded slowly. "I was to ask you for that to-day," he said,
smiling.
"Ja! ja--I have thought so." He looked sadly at the four short fingers
resting on the table. "And fifth--fifth--now what is that fifth? Ach, it
is that! That thumb!" He scowled at it. "That crawling, snivelling,
stiff-necked one!" He brought it down with a thump on the table. "To
make me all my days ashamed!" He held up the thumb and shook it
scornfully.
High up in the Johanneskirche, in front of the big organ, the boy was
playing--with head and hands and heart and feet and thumb--swaying to
the music, lifting it from the great organ till it pealed forth, a
mighty sound, and, breaking from the gloomy church, floated on the still
air.... In the garden across the way, above their mugs, two old,
white-wigged heads nodded and chuckled in the sun.
V
The Katherinenkirche was dark, and very still--except for a faint noise
that came from a far corner of the upper left-hand gallery. The old
verger, moving about in felt slippers below, paused now and then, and
looked up as the sound grew louder or died away. It was like a mouse
nibbling--and yet it was not a mouse.
The verger lighted a taper and prepared to ascend the stairs.
He heaved a sigh as he climbed the steep step, throwing the candle rays
ahead of him into the gloom of the gallery. Not a sound. The silence of
death was in the big church.... Muttering to himself, he traversed the
long aisle at the top of the gallery, peering down into the vacant seats
that edged the blackness below.
Suddenly he stopped. His eye had caught a gleam of something to the left
of the last pillar. He snuffed the wavering taper with his fingers and
leaned forward. A face grew out of the darkness and stood up.
"What are you doing?" demanded the old man, falling back a step.
"Eating my supper," said the youth. He held up a handkerchief. In the
dim light two pieces of crisp, dry bread shaped themselves, and a
generous odor of cheese floated out.
"In the church!" said the verger, with an accent of horror.
The youth's face regarded him pleadingly.
"Come away!" said the old man sternly.
He led the way down the steep stair, into a high, small room, lighted by
a narrow window over which cobwebs ran. "Here you may eat," he said
laconically.
With a grateful glance the youth seated himself on the edge of a chair
and opening his handkerchief took out a piece of the dry bread. His
teeth broke it crisply, and crunched sharply upon it as he ate.
The old man nodded with satisfaction. "That is the mouse," he said.
The youth smiled faintly.
"Where do you come from?" asked the verger.
"From Lueneburg."
"You walked?"
The youth nodded.
"I have seen you before, here."
"Yes."
The old man watched him a minute. "You ought to have some beer with
that bread and cheese," he said. "Have you no coppers?"
The youth shook his head. "Reinken is my beer," he said, after a little.
His face was lighted with a sweet smile.
The old man chuckled. "Ja, ja!" He limped from the room. Presently he
returned with a pewter mug. It was foaming at the top. "Drink that," he
commanded.
The youth drank it with hearty quaffs and laughed when it was done. "Ja,
that is good!" he said simply.
The old man eyed him shrewdly. "In half an hour Reinken comes to play,"
he suggested craftily.