THE CURE BY MUSIC

Pukekohe & Waiuku Times, Volume 6, Issue 276, 18 May 1917, Page 1 (Supplement)

THE CURE BY MUSIC

A MEMORY MYSTERY,

No one specially noticed the slim, pale-faced man, with overcoat tightly buttoned, who slowly asaended the spacious steps fronting the great public hall.

He took a chair at the end of a row near one of the doors and leaned back, closing his eyes as though tired. The organ re:ital was free; music is comforting even when one is ill, and he must be worse to-night, he thought, for 1m felt queerly light in the head. The hall might have beeK the vestibule of another and a quite different world; the immense organ, stately and shadowy, tower'ng into its gloomy- arched recess, seemed mysterious and oppressive. He sat there with folded hands, trying to rest. Presently the famous organist arrived, switched on two green-shaded lamps- that illumined the white edges of the four manuals, and took his plaee, selecting stops here and there with deft fingers from the compact ranks at each side..

A deep, isrgent phrase rolled; through the hall from the pedal-pipes—the theme of a fugue. As it progressed, unfolding and evolving among intricate accompaniments, a girl near the listener began munching biscuits from a paper bag. The man felt for a moment that lie could snatch it from her, for he loved good miKc; but the rising splendour of sound quelled his resentment. For now the reed-stops were speaking; their brilliant tones swelled like a high wind, wove pleasant, piercing harmonies of thei rown, and died away; marvellous flights of notes rose like a flock of white birds, circling for a while, then fluttering to earth and resting there in a. steady maze of sound. And through it all, to this listener, ran a distinct echo as of marching men. 7h it was curious. There was little in the music to suggest an easily caught rhythm, yet into his vision came the picture of a long line ol dold'ers winding into the distance, and into his ears came, the clear strains of the band that led them, the dull pulsations of the drum, and the persistent tramp, tramp, tramp of their feet. So long was the Sine that the men who passed close to Hm seemed half a step "out" with those in front. Some of them weile singing; what was it they sang? What face was it he sought? He hardly kn^w.

The fugue finished in a .peal of harmonious thunder so strong and beautiful that the girl with the\ biscuits glanoed up in innocent amazement that such a volume ot music could come from the hands of one man, who looked so small, so far off, perched up there, as ho bowed to the burst of applause, smiled, and disappeared. Vibrating murmured to silence, and to the listener the line of soldiers became blurred. He still saw them passing, still heard the "one-two, one-two" of their measured footsteps, but they were clouded and faint, as though seen and! heard through a veil. He gazed at the great organ. It seemed suddenly to assume a. threatening aspect; the rows of white-edged keys were the fangs of a huge motionless beast, snarling and ready to spring on him, and the two green-shaded spe?ks of light were its angry eyes. It filled the hall —it loomed over him; his brow grew oold and damp with fear. And then, mercifully, the organist came back, the instrument receded to an awful distance, as if viewed through tho wrong end of a telescope, and the second item of the concert began. Ah! Thio time it was a march — "something with a tune in it," to which the crowd could tap out the measure with their toes and feel happy; something which they might even bang out on their pianos afterwards at home. And bow quickly, now, did those endless fours of mrachng men flash back before his mental vision! How splendidly they tramped on, full of life and health and energv and jollity, to that inspiring melody! How exquisitely regular was the swing of that vista of bending knees and oscillating arm9 — liko a thousand parts of a single human machine, a pendulum beating the strict time of war! ... Of war; that was it . . hv remembered it all.

Magnificently the organist played, as one who loved his tas-k, bringing out the full rhythm of the march by skilful use of the pedals until the deep notes bo (iiied like drum-beats through the hummng air of the hall. Was that line of men really endless—would it never reveal the figure, the face for which the listener was watching so keenly? For now he could see the faces of the men ,i 4 tl.ey swung by, and some of them he re. jllected well. On they went, each man free and separate, yet giving to the whole long line, in spite of the lift and heave of his own shoulders, his portion of the smooth, collected movement that seemed as soft and complete as the rise and fall of a wave. A wave composed of a thousand parts . . . where was the one part for which he was searching? '"ramp, tramp, tramp . . . the note* of the giant organ were, resounding to tlnir climax; the roll of drums, tho bright vociferation of trumpets, tho sharp, sibilant undertones of c'ar'onets and oboes, the clash and clang of -cymbals, the shrill cry of fife and piccolo, the dark blasts of trombones—all were there, filling him with titer enchantment and appeal. Somehow, the band had come nearer ... he saw the men more clearly still as they filed past . . . he saw one form, one fare only; it sm led at him. He roso 'n his place and gazed at it. It was his own. The 111 usi" ceased ; the sound of measured footsteps faded. He went out into the quiet streets. He knew now what his memory had recalled in its srd groping among the motlev store which his life. That was himself, in the Ion" marching line—'that sunbrowned fellow with the smilng eyes; as lie had been. And now ? Now ),e was broken in bodv and troubled bv "h ado ws and dreams and imaginations which once he would have laughed at: but he was not broken 'n spirit. And a.- no walked slowly back to the td'i'e where good people cired for him and strove to win for Inn renewed vigour and vit:i! : tv lie squared his shoulders nad fell into step with hw inysible n . |ffiine "omrades; for he was glad at heart to I'ivo been with them once a 4a in.