Pipe-Organ Caprice

EVERY seasoned organist likes to talk about ‘managing’ a pipe organ, and I used to wonder why. Nobody speaks of ‘managing’ a piano or a piccolo. But neither of these instruments has the capacity or the capriciousness of the pipe organ; nor do they present such a fine array of petty errors from which to choose.

To begin with, the manager of a pipe organ has forty white keys and twentyfive black ones on each of four keyboards; a similar number under his swinging feet; a set of white slides, the shape of a domino, representing all gradations of volume; and a dozen red and green ones which make every note on the organ play an octave higher and an octave lower as well as itself. Before essaying to touch a key of an organ, therefore, however delicately, the performer must look carefully to his properties and set his stage, to see what he has ‘on.’ One careless flick of a finger nail on a piston will completely change the scene.

In short, a wrong note is innocuous compared with a wrong stop. It always comes as a surprise when an organist lays tentative hands on a diminished seventh chord, expecting to hear a plaintive suggestion from the back of the church, vox cælestis, when by inadvertence he has tapped down an ophicleide. Now an ophicleide is a very loud and snappy stop, second only in abruptness to a tuba mirabilis. One may not take back the ophicleide. He is history.

Some known errors may be the player’s fault; some may be entirely the organ’s. Every player of experience has at some t ime played thewrong note, or the wrong manual, pulled the wrong stop, or forgotten his hymn book, all directly traceable to his own oversight. But more distressing than these, because unprcventable, is the trick an organ sometimes has of ‘ciphering’ on you.

A violin, when left severely alone, at least will not play. But an organ will. Suddenly, for no reason at all, some pipe will begin, as they say, to ‘speak.’ If it is a ladylike dulciana or viole d’orchestra, one may play loud music and mask the symptoms. But if the open diapason is afflicted it is possible only to shut off the motor and descend to the Sunday School piano. I have known an organ to cipher through a whole church service and stop suddenly with the benediction like a naughty child.

Anyone also has a right to feel aggrieved when, having set his organ for ‘Still, still with thee,’ he waits with thrilled soul for his unda maris, and upon his surprised eardrums the full organ responds with trumpets and stentorphone, ‘Yah — yah — yah!’

There he is, playing it himself, and nothing to blame but an innocentlooking foot lever which is on, but has failed to light up a green light simply because the bulb has quietly burned out. The most, gentle of congregations will hold an organist responsible for such an error; for, if he is not to blame, just say who is. He certainly seems to be in sole charge.

Then the belt may come off the motor and silence the organ in toto. All the B flats may refuse to play, or the A flats may choose to play all the time. A modern organ can be played with a wisp of drapery from a cassock, or by the corner of a cuff. To approach an instrument that speaks whenever its keys are depressed a thirty-second of an inch, one should certainly wear something other than the flowing robe of the A.G.O.

The player of an old-fashioned tracker organ, who had to exert pounds of pressure on his keys, — more pressure for more noise, — did not have this delicate difficulty to contend with; but we must admit that he was more likely to get a wen on the back of his hand.

A young organist as a rule makes more mistakes than an old one. For instance, an old man would never step on his pedals’ — a thing that every young organist at one time or another does. The young organist has already shut off the power; why should the organ function in any way? But the wind has not been thoroughly cleaned out of the pipes as yet, and as the minister says impressively, ‘Saul took his sword, and fell upon it,’ the organist, in slipping quietly from his bench, steps on the pedals, which respond ‘Poo — ooh!’ somewhat like a very large dying animal. There is nothing to do about it — except to remember all the rest of a lifetime not to do it again.

But even the wary old-timer can be surprised by a new one. It is perfectly possible for a stricken organist to look up from his instrument during the benediction, with his organ lightheartedly set for the ‘Priests’ March’ fortissimo to waltz his congregation out of church, and to see his choir standing with hymnals ready for the seven-fold Amen, pianissimo — a new version of the Amen, especially rehearsed. It is too late to find the page; the preacher has already said, ‘World without end — ’ The organist may remember, if the fates are kind, that the Amen is in the key of G, and shake down all his loud preparations in the nick of time to give out to the choir a breath of a chord, æoline, just as a suggestion, and listen with bowed head as the loyal group sing Amen seven times without accompaniment except the echo in the unfortunate organist’s heart of ‘Verily, so let it be, Lord.’

Even if he has attended church from babyhood, he can forget whether the invocation precedes or succeeds the doxology; he can completely forget the chords of the ‘Gloria’; and he can drop a piece of music on the pedals and spend his time during the prelude kicking it out of the way without success. Sheet music is harmless in comparison to a thick Congregational hymn book, for the hymn book will immediately begin to play the pedals as it lies on them — steadily and in a bass voice. This does not refer to the book on the rack, which is not specially likely to fall off. But a forehanded organist often has an extra hymn book on the bench beside him with the place all found, and, as the Canadians say, he may drop it.

When one of the largest organs in the world was dedicated, a few outstanding men played on it for the benefit of the Organists’ Guild duly assembled. Every man present doubtless could have played a Bach fugue or two without notes; but only one man present could play them all. The clever little fellow who could chose one of the difficult ones for his show piece. He proceeded to play it about as well as it could be played, having a great deal in his favor in that he had the most powerful instrument in the world under his fingers. He worked himself and his admiring colleagues to the glorious end, jammed on the full organ, — the loudest musical noise in the world at the time, — and clutched his last chord in two handfuls. The time-lag necessary to convey to his own ears what he was playing was very short. The chord was not merely a minor to major, or even in the wrong key. It was a totally foreign chord, related in no particular to the composition in question — an unearthly, awful, utterly astounding noise, and at the top of the organ’s voice. Instantly every organist in the room began to applaud. They stood on the chairs. They would not stop until the performer began again to repeat every note of the fugue.

Now a Bach fugue, as every organist knows, is about twenty pages long, and contains measures of six inches and over, depending on the publisher. So it was some time before the chord in question was reached for the second time. The goodly fellowship was motionless with anxiety, when their brother, now thoroughly endeared to them, selected his notes with great care, and came down on the right chord, full organ with double growlers on the pedals, bombarde 32, and turned his head completely round to smile at them. A great organist can do nothing so absolutely lovable as to make a mistake.

They all make them, and what a pleasure it is to see a really great man heel a pedal that should be toed! But the state of mind of an organist who has just blundered is that of unthinkable depression. He probably cares very little about living to play again. And yet, for this same organist there are frequently moments when, with the golden voice of his contralto above him, the silver voice of his tenor over yonder, and a skillful-stopped diapason and flute d’amour beneath his fingers, — a shutter closing under his feet at just the right moment to allow his voices to breathe together into perfect silence, — he may feel that even hell is worth his while.

He may express, in the voluntary, whatever has befallen him (always excepting hatred)—exaltation, despair, fear, longing, thanksgiving, hunger, thirst, or the pursuit of happiness. He may break every rule of the classic and add power and yet more power, tapping down diapasons here and there in proportion to his excitement, and horns if he has them, kicking open shutters, stepping on levers, lighting up lights — full organ zuletzt, plus tremolo.

For if it is true, and it is, that one can make uncountable mistakes in managing a pipe organ, it is also true that one may do more original and creative things with it than with any other instrument — not even excepting the baton.