The other stared. "You know Reinken?" he asked.
The great organist shook his head. "I have seen him." The humorous smile
played about his lips. "I have never spoken with him."
"He has been a great player--in his day," said the choirmaster. The note
of apology in his voice had deepened.
"That I know," said Bach shortly.
"And now it is the people--they will not let him go," murmured the
choirmaster despairingly. "Each Sunday he must play--every motet and
aria and choral--and he is ninety-nine. Mein Gott!" The choirmaster
wiped his brow.
"It is a long life," said Bach musingly. A sweet look had come into his
face, like the sunlight on an autumn field. He raised his hand with a
courteous gesture. "Let me be summoned later--at the right time."
The choirmaster bowed himself away.
Already the notes of the great organ filled the church. It was Reinken's
touch upon the keys--feeble and tremulous here and there--but still the
touch of the master.
With bent head Bach moved to a place a little apart and sat down.
Curious glances followed him and whispers ran through the church, coming
back to gaze at the severe, quiet face, with its look of sweetness and
power.
He was unconscious of the crowd. His thoughts were with the old man
playing aloft--the thin, serene face--the wrinkled hands upon the
keys--twenty years.... The time had come--at last.... The music stole
through his musings and touched him. He lifted his face as the sound
swept through the church. The fire and strength of youth had gone from
the touch, but something remained--something inevitable and gentle that
soothed the spirit and lifted the heart--like the ghost of a soul
calling to itself from the past.
Bach started. A hand had fallen on his shoulder. It was the choirmaster,
small-eyed and eager. Bach followed him blindly.
At the top of the stairs the choirmaster turned and waited for him. "At
last we have the honor. Welcome to the greatest master in Germany!" he
said smoothly, throwing open the door.
Without a word Bach brushed past him. His eye sought the great organ.
The master had left the bench and sat a few steps below, leaning
forward, his hands clasped on his cane, his white head nodding
tremblingly above it. Far below the words of the preacher droned to a
close, and the crowd stirred and craned discreet necks.
Quietly the organist slipped into the vacant place. The Bach festival
danced before him.... Uncle Heinrich on the platform--"The great
Reinken--will no one of you promise?" His father's face smiling, his
father's hand on his head.... Slowly his hands dropped to the keys.
The audience settled back with a sigh. At last they should hear him--the
great Bach.
The silence waited, deep and patient and unerring, as it had waited a
decade--the touch of this man. A sound crossed it and the audience
turned bewildered faces. Question and dissent and wonder were in
them.... Not some mighty fugue, as they had hoped--not even an aria, but
a simple air from a quaint, old-fashioned choral,--"By the waters, the
waters of Babylon." They looked at one another with lifted brows.
Reinken's choral!--and played with Reinken's very touch--a gentle,
hurrying rhythm ... as Reinken used to play it--when he was young.... In
a moment they understood. Tears stood in bewildered eyes and a look of
sweet good-will swept the church. He had given back to them their own.
Their thought ran tenderly to the old man above, hearkening to his own
soul coming to him, strong and swift and eternal, out of the years.
Underneath the choral and above it and around, went the soul of Bach,
steadfast and true, wishing only to serve, and through service making
beautiful. He filled with wonder and majesty and tenderness the simple
old choral.
A murmur ran through the church, a sound of love and admiration. And
above, with streaming eyes, an old man groped his way to the organ, his
hands held out to touch the younger ones that reached to him. "I thought
my work had died," he said slowly, "Now that it lives, I can die in
peace."