Master Pérez the Organist · I

In Seville, on the very atrium of Santa Inés, and while waiting for Midnight Mass to begin, I heard this tradition from a convent lay sister.

As was natural, after hearing it, I waited impatiently for the ceremony to begin, anxious to witness a prodigy.

Nothing less prodigious, however, than the organ of Santa Inés, nor anything more vulgar than the insipid motets that its organist favored us with that night.

Upon leaving Mass, I could not help saying to the lay sister with a mocking air:

“How is it that master Pérez’s organ sounds so bad now?”

“Oh!” the old woman replied to me, “because that one is not his.”

“Not his? Well, what has become of it?”

“It fell to pieces from sheer old age, a good many years ago.”

“And the organist’s soul?”

“It has not been seen again since they placed the one that now replaces it.”

If it should occur to any of my readers to ask me the same question after reading this story, they already know why the miraculous marvel has not continued to our days.

“Do you see that man in the red cloak and the white feather in his felt hat, who seems to bear upon his doublet all the gold of the Indies’ galleons; the one who at this moment is stepping down from his litter to give his hand to that other lady, who after leaving hers, advances toward here, preceded by four pages with torches? Well, that is the marqués de Moscoso, suitor of the dowager countess of Villapineda. It is said that before casting his eyes upon this lady, he had asked for the hand in marriage of the daughter of an opulent gentleman; but the maiden’s father, of whom it is rumored that he is a bit of a miser... but, hush! speaking of the devil of Rome, behold him popping up right here. Do you see that one coming from beneath the arch of San Felipe, on foot, muffled in a dark cloak, and preceded by a single servant with a lantern? Now he arrives in front of the altarpiece.”

Did you notice, upon unfurling his cloak to greet the image, the decoration shining on his chest?

Were it not for that noble insignia, anyone would take him for a shopkeeper from Calle de Culebras... Well, that is the father in question; look how the common folk make way for him and greet him.

All Seville knows him for his colossal fortune. He alone has more gold ducats in his coffers than soldiers our lord King Don Felipe maintains; and with his galleons he could form a squadron sufficient to resist that of the Grand Turk...

Look, look at that group of grave gentlemen: those are the city aldermen. Well, well! The big Fleming is here too, whom they say the gentlemen of the green cross have not already clapped in irons, thanks to his influence with the magnates of Madrid... This man comes to church for nothing more than to hear music... No, well, if master Pérez does not wring tears the size of fists from him with his organ, one may well be sure he does not have his soul in his chest, but rather frying in the cauldrons of Pero Botero... Oh, neighbor! Bad... bad... I suspect we are going to have a brawl; I am taking refuge in the church, for from what I see, sword-blows are going to be more plentiful here than Paternosters. Look, look; the people of the Duke of Alcalá are turning the corner of San Pedro square, and down the Dueñas alleyway I fancy I have caught sight of those of Medinasidonia... Didn’t I tell you?

They have seen each other already, they are stopping now, without moving past their posts... the groups are dissolving... the bailiffs, whom friends and foes alike beat up on these occasions, are withdrawing... even the lord magistrate, staff and all, takes refuge in the atrium... and then they say there is justice.

For the poor...

Come, come, bucklers are already flashing in the darkness... May Our Lord of the Great Power assist us! The blows are already beginning... neighbor! neighbor! here... before they close the doors. But hush! What is that? They haven’t even begun when they stop. What brilliance is that?... Lit torches! Litters! It is the lord bishop.

The Most Holy Virgin of the Amparo, whom I was just invoking in my thoughts, brings him to my aid... Oh! If no one knows what I owe to this Lady!... With how much usury she repays me the little candles I light for her on Saturdays!... Behold him, how handsome he is in his purple habits and his red biretta... God preserve him in his seat as many centuries as I desire life for myself. If not for him, half of Seville would have already burned with these dissensions of the dukes. Behold them, behold them, the hypocrites, how they both approach the Prelate’s litter to kiss his ring... How they follow him and accompany him, mingling with his familiars. Who would say that those two who seem so friendly, if within half an hour they meet in a dark street... that is to say, they... they!... God forbid I should think them cowards; they have given a fine account of themselves, fighting on certain occasions against the enemies of Our Lord... But it is the truth, that if they were to look for each other... and if they were to look for each other with the desire to find one another, they would find each other, putting an end once and for all to these continuous brawls, in which those who truly bear the brunt of the hard work are their kinsmen, their retainers, and their servants.

But come, neighbor, let’s go to the church, before it gets packed to the rafters... for on nights like this it usually fills up so that not even a grain of wheat can fit... A fine bargain the nuns have got with their organist... When has the convent ever been as favored as now?... Of the other communities, I can say that they have made master Pérez magnificent propositions; true that it is nothing strange, for even the lord archbishop has offered him mountains of gold to take him to the cathedral... but he, nothing... He would sooner forfeit his life than abandon his favorite organ... Do you not know master Pérez? True it is that you are new in the neighborhood... Well, he is a holy man; poor yes, but an almsgiver like no other... With no relatives other than his daughter nor any friend other than his organ, he spends his entire life watching over the innocence of the one and tuning the stops of the other... Mind you, the organ is old!... Well, no matter, he manages it and cares for it with such skill that it sounds like a marvel... Since he knows it in such a way, by touch... for I don’t know if I told you, but the poor gentleman has been blind from birth... And with what patience he bears his misfortune! When they ask him how much he would give to see, he replies: much, but not as much as you think, because I have hopes.—Hopes of seeing?—Yes, and very soon, he adds smiling like an angel; I am already seventy-six years old; no matter how long my life may be, soon I shall see God...

Poor man! And see Him he will... for he is humble as the stones of the street, which let themselves be stepped on by everyone... He always says that he is no more than a poor convent organist, and he could give lessons in solfège to the very chapel master of the Primate; as he cut his teeth in the trade... His father had the same profession as he; I did not know him, but my lady mother, may she rest in holy glory, says that she always took him to the organ with her to work the bellows. Later, the boy showed such aptitude that, as was natural, upon his father’s death he inherited the post... And what hands he has! God bless them. He deserved to have them carried to Calle de Chicarreros and set in gold... He always plays well, always, but on a night like this it is a prodigy... He has a great devotion for this ceremony of Midnight Mass, and when they raise the Sacred Host at the exact point and hour of twelve, which is when Our Lord Jesus Christ came into the world... the voices of his organ are the voices of angels...

“Anyway, why should I go on praising to you what you will hear tonight? It is enough to see how all the finest flower of Seville, even the lord archbishop himself, come to a humble convent to hear him; and do not think that only the learned people and those who understand these matters of music know his merit, but even the rabble. All those flocks you see arriving with lit torches, chanting carols at the top of their lungs to the rhythm of tambourines, rattles, and zambombas, contrary to their custom of raising a ruckus in churches, fall as silent as the dead when master Pérez puts his hands on the organ... and when they raise... when they raise them, you cannot hear a pin drop... tears as big as fists fall from everyone’s eyes, and at the end there is heard something like a huge sigh, which is nothing other than the breath of those present, held in while the music lasts... But come, come, the bells have stopped ringing already, and Mass is about to begin; let’s go inside...”

“Tonight is Christmas Eve for everyone, but for no one better than for us.”

Saying this, the good woman who had served as a cicerone to her neighbor crossed the atrium of the convent of Santa Agnes, and with an elbow here and a shove there, she pushed her way into the temple, losing herself among the crowd that was thronging at the door.