The star. (Reynoldsville, Pa.) 1892-1946, 1910-06-08

Of his long locks. He wore them
long and curling, like the Bretons in
pictures, although he had come from
some obscure place in Flanders and
was living in a little city in the south
of France. The people of the neigh
boring villages, dwellers by the
Rhone, folk of the land of garlic, sun,
and wind, asked, when they heard
him speak:
"Who is that strange man with the
northern accent?"
"What! Don't you know him?
That is the organist of our cathedral" )"
His clean-shaven face had the tone
of old Delft faiences, in which tinge
of blue can always be seen beneath
the white enamel. His face was
broadly outlined, like Roman bust.
AS to his eyes, they were buried un-
derneath such forest of eyebrows
that only two persons claimed to have
seen them-that is, really to have
seen them. And yet these persons
differed in opinion as to their color.
"They are dark blue" said M. Fo-
Hollis, the priest of the cathedral
To which the blower of the great
organ replied:
IT have seen them oftener than
you have, who blow the organ; they
are brown, like the beetles on oak
trees"
Blue or brown, they had an anxious
tenderness when they looked at Cath
crime, the only souvenir of the most
painful episode of M. Bretwiller's
life, his marriage. M. Bretwiller, a
musician of the northern school,
whose very gayety was pensive. and
whose enthusiasm was melancholy,
Belonged to the race of those great
barbarians who came down from their
forests to sunny Rome at the time of
the invasions. They felt the sun
beams delightful upon their helmets,
and their hearts were stirred by the
glow, which awoke within them a
new song. Their weapons trembled
in their hands at the sight of the
beautiful Roman women, and they
said to themselves that they would
do we'll to pitch their tents in land
where the olive shades the twofold
harvest of grapes and wheat. After
their manner, and with great eager
ness, they tasted the delights Of that
foreign land. But to understand is
not to be understood. M. Bretwiller
made proof of that truth. His south
ern bride had not the least suspicion
what German musician might be;
and she died of it. Catherine alone
remained to prove that the organist
had been married. She was puny
and ill-favored, as the product of two
clashing civilizations. Her hair was
too curly, her forehead too low, her
eyes, which could not decide between
the north and the south, had-the hue
of dead embers. Her mouth, how
ever, was exquisite, modelled after an.
tique types, full and severe, large and
always moist, like the lips of shells
which sing the eternal song She
sang divinely. Her father knew no
greater joy, perhaps he really had NO
other JOY, than to hear the melodies
which he composed come forth from
that beloved voice and pass above the
mimosas in the garden, borne by the
air of Provence, which carries music
more lightly than any other air, by
reason of habit, of the language, and
of the fragrance of the flowers. He
said to her, simply:
See, Catherine, the greater part
OF men have not soul enough for two
They have only enough for them.
selves. Those who have more sou
than they need for themselves are the
poets, the philosophers, the musicians
and the composers. Above all the
composers, for they speak the Ian
guage least OF all subject to restraint
and therefore the most universal. A
note has no country. A melody i.
merely the key which opens the dool
of dreams in all dialects" He also
said:
II know very well that l am moi
understood, here in the south. AL
the members of the chapter have the
Italian ear. The priest rebels against
the fugue. The chapel-master, M
Catbise, may not even know the
names of Bach, Franck and Wagner
The air Is saturated with Rossini'l
cavatinas. My great organ, If
would permit 1t, would play sere
nades, all by itself. It's tremolo Il
diabolically easy. 1t is my honor Il
strive to implant the German methot
IN this Latin country. / will make /
triumphant. 1t shall reign here som,
day, and you shall hear Tristan ant
Yseult' in Avignon, and the Phantom
Ship sung in sight of the sea by th
herdsmen of Camargue!"
Sometimes they went to walk Il
the outskirts of the city. upon tn
tbare hills where sparse groups o
ltrees point toward the sky. NJ. Bret
willer tried noteto hear the Rhone
which whistled an allegro Of amazin