Hermann Hesse, 1913
JULIAN RHODES' DREAM ORGANS
(Translation by N. Tilley)
Outside the windows of my solitary country house the grey rain was falling continuously and hopelessly. I had little wish to put on my boots once more and make the long, muddy journey into the city. But I was alone, and my eyes ached from long hours of work. Along all four walls of my study the golden rows of books gazed at me with their unbearably serious questions and challenges; the children were long since in bed and asleep, and the little fire on my hearth had died. So I resolved to go, searched out my concert ticket, pulled on my boots, chained up the dog, and in my raincoat set off through the mud and damp.The cool air smelled bitter. The lane wound its unpredictable way around the adjacent properties, between tall, gnarled oak trees. A light shone from a gatekeeper's lodge. A dog began to bark and, growing angry, barked louder and louder until its voice broke and it suddenly fell silent. I heard the sound of a piano from a country house behind dark shrubbery. There is nothing more beautiful and moving than to walk like this, alone in the fields at night, and to hear music from an isolated house. It brings intimations of everything good and loveable, of home and lamplight, of evening solemnity in quiet rooms, of the hands of women and ancient family traditions.
Before long the first streetlight appeared, silent pale sentinel of the city, and then another, and nearby the shimmering gables of the suburbs. Then suddenly round a corner the glare of the arc light at the tram station, people in long coats waiting, chatting conductors with dripping caps, the buttons of their wet uniforms shimmering palely. A tram clatters up, bright and warm with wide glass windows, blue lightning playing underneath it. I get in and we move away. From my glass enclosure I look out at the night-time streets, broad and deserted; here and there at a corner a woman under an umbrella waits for the tram. Now appear brighter and livelier streets, and suddenly beyond the high bridge the whole city lies glowing in the evening brilliance of shop windows and streetlights, and far down under the bridge is the river valley with the dark mirror of its waters and the white foam of spillways.
I get out and walk through the arcades of a narrow side-street to the cathedral. The lamps are reflected pale and cool from the wet pavement in the small cathedral square; the chestnut trees on the terrace wave in the wind. Above the portal, bathed in reddish light, the gothic tower disappears into the wet night, narrowing upward to a great height. I linger for a little in the rain, finally throwing away my cigar, and walk under the high pointed arch. People in damp clothes are crowded together; behind a bright window sits the cashier, and a man asks for my ticket. I pass into the cathedral, hat in hand, and immediately, from the huge, dimly-lit vault, a holy atmosphere flows toward me, laden with anticipation. Dim lights shed their timid beams among the columns and clusters of pillars, beams that lose their way among the grey stones to fade, warm and tender, high up in the arches. A few pews are completely filled; further on, the nave and choir are almost empty. I steal forward on tiptoe - even my steps echo faintly behind me - through the huge, solemn space. In the dark choir are the old, heavy wooden benches with their carved backs. I pull down a seat; the wooden thud re-echoes from the stony heights.
I settle back contentedly into the wide, deep seat and get out the programme, but it is too dark to read. I cannot remember quite what had been advertised: an organ work by some dead French master; an old Italian violin sonata, who knows by whom, perhaps by Veracini or Nardini or Tartini; and then a prelude and fugue by Bach.
A few more dark figures steal into the choir, seat themselves far apart from one another, and burrow deep into the old seats. Someone drops a book; behind me two girls whisper. Then silence. Silence. Far off in the lighted rood loft, between two round lamps, in front of the cool gleam of the towering organ pipes, a man is standing; he nods and seats himself; a murmur of expectation runs through the small congregation. I do not want to look on. Leaning back, I gaze up into the high arches and breathe in the hushed cathedral air. I wonder how, Sunday after Sunday in the bright light of day, people can sit crowded close together in this holy place, and listen to a sermon which, however fine and wise it may be, can sound merely flat and disappointing in so lofty a temple.
There - a high, strong note from the organ. Swelling, it fills the vast space and becomes space itself, completely surrounding us. It grows, then pauses; other notes join with it, and suddenly plunge together in hurried flight into the depths; prostrate themselves, do reverence, but nonetheless assert themselves, directed by the sustained bass. Now they fall silent. A quiet fills the church like the calm before a storm. And then, once more, mighty tones arise in deep and splendid passion, swelling stormily, crying aloud their resigned laments to God, crying again, more piercingly, louder; and then they fall silent. And again they rise; again this daring, forgotten master raises his strong voice to God, challenges and accuses, mightily weeps forth his song in stormy sequences; and then he rests, enveloping himself and praising God in a reverent, dignified chorale. He stretches golden arches across the lofty twilight, causes columns and clusters of pillars to resound, and builds the cathedral of his worship until it stands there alone and unshaken, embracing us all, even after the last notes have died away.
My thoughts are inevitable: how miserable, how paltry, how bad are the lives we lead! Which one of us would dare, like this composer, to stand before God and fate, with such cries of accusation and of thanksgiving, with such aspiring grandeur from so profoundly reverent a mind? Ah, one should live differently, one should be different, should spend more time beneath the sky and among the trees, should keep for oneself more time to be closer to the beautiful and great mysteries.
The organ begins again, a deep, faint, quiet chord; and above it a violin melody ascends into the heights in marvellously ordered stages, with little questioning, little complaint, just singing and floating in the plenitude of a mysterious bliss, light and lovely like the movements of a beautiful girl. The melody is repeated, changes, alters direction; it seeks out similar phrases and a hundred delicate, joyful arabesques; it winds supply along the narrowest paths to emerge, free and purified, in clear and tranquil emotion. Here there is no grandeur, no outcry of abysmal suffering, no sublime awe; here is nothing but the beauty of a happy, contented soul. It has nothing more to say to us than that the world is beautiful and filled with divine order and harmony and, ah! what rarer message is there, what message do we stand in greater need of than this joyful one!
You are aware without actually seeing that throughout the great church there are now smiles on many faces, happy pure smiles. Some may find this simple, ancient music a little naive and old-fashioned, and yet they too smile and drift along in the clear stream of pure bliss.
During the interval one feels that the little rustlings of the people are happy and cheerful, their whispering and shuffling in the seats. The audience feels content and released, and looks forward to new splendour. And now it comes! With majestic, free deportment Master Bach enters his temple, does grateful homage to God, rises from worship and, following the text of a hymn, happily falls to expressing his reverent Sunday mood. But hardly has he begun and created some space for himself than he begins to drive his harmonies deeper, interlace melody with melody, harmony with harmony in animated dialogue; he strengthens and raises and fills out his edifice of notes far above the church into a starry space full of noble, perfect systems as though God had gone to sleep and handed over to him His staff and mantle. He makes lightnings play from towering clouds, throws open serene sunny spaces; he triumphantly guides forth planets and suns; he rests relaxed at high noon, and at the proper hour brings on the cool shadows of evening. And he ends in splendour and power like the setting sun and, as he falls silent, leaves the world full of glory and soul.
In silence I walk through the lofty nave and across the little sleeping square; in silence I cross the high bridge over the river and pass the rows of street lamps on my way out of the city. The rain has stopped; an immense cloud covers the countryside, but a few narrow fissures permit glimpses of moonlight and a beautiful clear night above. The city falls behind and the oak trees along my forest path rustle in the gentle, cool wind. Slowly I climb up the last hill and enter my sleeping house; the elm tree speaks to me through the windows. For now I am glad to go to rest and, for a time, give life a trial once more and be its toy.
