Master Pérez the Organist · III

He is a scoundrel who, for not doing anything right, cannot even look straight,” some said.

“He is an ignorant boor, who after making his parish organ sound worse than a rattle, comes to profane that of master Pérez,” said others.

And while the latter freed himself from his cape to prepare to beat his tambourine in earnest, and the former got his jingles ready, and everyone prepared to make a commotion for all they were worth, only an occasional person ventured to timidly defend the strange character, whose proud and pedantic bearing contrasted so remarkably with the modest appearance and affable goodness of the late master Pérez.

At last the long-awaited moment arrived, the solemn moment when the priest, after bowing and murmuring some holy words, took the Host in his hands... The small bells chimed, their ringing resembling a shower of crystal notes; the diaphanous waves of incense rose, and the organ sounded.

A thundering clamor filled the confines of the church at that instant and drowned out its first chord.

Pipes, bagpipes, jingles, tambourines, all the instruments of the rabble, raised their discordant voices at once; but the confusion and uproar lasted only a few seconds. All at once, as they had begun, they fell silent.

The second chord, broad, bold, magnificent, still sustained itself, gushing from the metal pipes of the organ like a cascade of inexhaustible and resonant harmony.

Celestial songs like those that caress the ears in moments of ecstasy; songs perceived by the spirit and unrepeatable by the lips; stray notes of a distant melody, sounding at intervals, borne on the gusts of the wind; the rustle of leaves kissing in the trees with a murmur akin to that of rain; trills of larks rising and chirping from among the flowers like an arrow shot at the clouds; a nameless din, imposing as the roar of a tempest; a choir of seraphim without rhythm or cadence, unknown music of heaven understood only by the imagination; winged hymns that seemed to soar to the Lord’s throne as a waterspout of light and sound... all this was expressed by the hundred voices of the organ, with more power, with more mysterious poetry, with more fantastic color than they had ever expressed it before.

When the organist stepped down from the loft, the crowd that rushed to the stairs was so great, and their eagerness to see and admire him so intense, that the magistrate, fearing not without reason that he would be crushed by them all, ordered some of his bailiffs to clear a way for him with their staves until he reached the high altar, where the prelate was waiting.

“You see,” the latter said to him when they brought him into his presence; “I come all the way here from my palace just to listen to you. Will you be as cruel as master Pérez, who never wanted to excuse me the journey by playing Christmas Eve at the cathedral Mass?”

“Next year,” the organist replied, “I promise to please you, for not for all the gold in the world would I play this organ again.”

“And why?” interrupted the prelate.

“Because...” added the organist, trying to master the emotion revealed in the paleness of his face; “because it is old and bad, and cannot express all one wishes.”

The archbishop withdrew, followed by his family and attendants. One after another, the lords’ litters filed past and were lost in the twists of the neighboring streets; the groups in the atrium dissolved, the faithful scattering in different directions; and the portress was already preparing to close the entrance doors of the atrium, when two women could still be discerned who, after crossing themselves and murmuring a prayer before the altarpiece of the arch of San Felipe, continued on their way, plunging into the alley of Las Dueñas.

“What do you expect, my lady doña Baltasara?” said one; “I am of this disposition. To each his own... Barefoot Capuchins could assure me of it and I wouldn’t quite believe it... That man cannot have played what we just heard... Why, I’ve heard him a thousand times in San Bartolomé, which was his parish, and whence the priest had to chase him off for being bad, and it was a matter of plugging your ears with cotton... And then, if one only has to look at his face, which they say is the mirror of the soul... I remember, poor thing, as if I were looking at him now, I remember master Pérez’s face, when on such a night as this he came down from the loft after holding the audience spellbound with his artistry... What a kindly smile, what a lively color!... He was old and looked like an angel... not like this one, who came down the stairs helter-skelter, as if a dog were barking at him on the landing, and with the color of a corpse and some... Come now, my lady doña Baltasara, believe me, and believe me most truly... I suspect there’s a catch here...”

Commenting on these last words, the two women turned the corner of the alley and disappeared.

We deem it useless to tell our readers who one of them was.

Another year had passed. The abbess of the convent of Santa Inés and master Pérez’s daughter were speaking in low voices, half-hidden among the shadows of the church choir. The little bell was calling the faithful in distress from the tower, and an occasional rare person crossed the silent and deserted atrium this time, and after taking holy water at the door, chose a spot in a corner of the naves, where a few neighbors of the district waited quietly for the Midnight Mass to begin.

“You see,” said the superior; “your fear is exceedingly childish; there is no one in the temple; all Seville is flocking to the cathedral tonight. Play the organ, and play it without any mistrust whatsoever; we will be among ourselves... but... you remain silent and your sighs do not cease. What is the matter with you? What ails you?”

“I am... afraid,” exclaimed the young woman with a deeply moved accent.

“Afraid! Of what?”

“I don’t know... of something supernatural... Last night, look, I had heard you say that you were set on my playing the organ at Mass, and proud of this distinction I thought of tuning and adjusting its stops so that today I might surprise you... I came to the choir... alone... I opened the door leading to the loft... The cathedral clock was striking an hour at that moment... I don’t know which... But the chimes were most sad and many... many... they kept striking all the time I stood as if nailed to the threshold, and that time seemed a century to me.”

The church was deserted and dark... Far away in the background, like a lost star in the night sky, a dying light gleamed... the light of the lamp burning on the high altar... By its very faint reflections, which only served to make all the profound horror of the shadows more visible, I saw... I saw him, mother, make no mistake, I saw a man who, in silence and with his back turned to where I was, ran one hand over the keys of the organ while playing its stops with the other... and the organ sounded; but it sounded in an indescribable manner. Each of its notes seemed a sob stifled inside the metal pipe, vibrating with the compressed air in its cavity, and reproducing the dull tone, almost imperceptible, but exact.

And the cathedral clock continued to strike the hour, and that man kept running over the keys. I could even hear his breathing.

Terror had frozen the blood in my veins; I felt a glacial cold like ice on my body, and fire in my temples... Then I wanted to scream, but I could not. That man had turned his face and looked at me... no, I am wrong, he had not looked at me, because he was blind... It was my father!

“Bah! Sister, dismiss those fantasies with which the evil enemy strives to trouble weak imaginations... Say a Pater Noster and an Ave Maria to the Archangel Saint Michael, leader of the heavenly hosts, that he may assist you against evil spirits. Wear about your neck a scapular touched to the relic of Saint Pachomius, intercessor against temptations, and go, go to take your place at the organ tribune; Mass is about to begin, and the faithful are already waiting with impatience... Your father is in heaven, and from there, rather than to give you frights, he will descend to inspire his daughter in this solemn ceremony, for the purpose of so special a devotion.”

The prioress went to take her seat in the stall in the midst of the community. Master Pérez’s daughter with a trembling hand opened the door of the tribune to seat herself on the organ bench, and Mass began.

Mass began and proceeded without anything notable occurring until the consecration arrived. At that moment the organ sounded, and at the same time as the organ a cry from Master Pérez’s daughter...

The superior, the nuns, and some of the faithful ran to the tribune.

“Look at him, look at him!” the young woman said, fixing her distraught eyes upon the bench from which she had risen in astonishment to clutch with her convulsive hands the railing of the tribune.

Everyone fixed their gazes on that spot. The organ was empty, and nevertheless, the organ kept playing... playing as only the archangels could imitate it in their raptures of mystical joy.

“Didn’t I tell you a thousand times, my lady Doña Baltasara, didn’t I tell you!... There’s a mystery here!... Listen; what, were you not at Midnight Mass last night? But, in any case, you will know what happened. In all Seville they speak of nothing else... The lord archbishop is, and with good reason, furious... To have failed to attend Santa Inés; not to have been able to witness the marvel... and for what? To listen to a racket; because persons who heard it say that what the blessed organist of San Bartolomé did in the cathedral was nothing else... If I said so. That cannot have been played by the cross-eyed fellow, lies... there is a mystery here, and the mystery was, in effect, the soul of Master Pérez.’”