EN PAYS DE VAUD.

The tiny church, like that of many an Alpine village, is
perched on the summit of a hill, and is invisible as one stands
at the foot. We climbed up through the darkness, the faint light
from the village street showing us the track cleared in the deep
snow for the morning worshippers. The bise had blown all day
long, filling the sky with snow-clouds, so that, once beyond the
influence of the village lights, the darkness was complete.

It was bitterly cold out on the hill-side. Only the hope
of reward at the end kept us to our enterprise, delightedly under-
taken earlier in the day on hearing that the recital was to be
given by an organist from a distant lake-town, a well-known man
and a native of the village. We climbed on until at last our
nailed boot-soles rang on the stone flags, and in another moment
we had groped our way to the comparative shelter of the porch.
Total darkness and silence met us.

No glimmer came from the windows. The door was locked.
We struck matches and looked at our watches. It wanted only a
few minutes to the appointed time. We stamped about, reminding
each other that at least we were out of the wind. We had hurried
away for dinner. "They are a musical people - the whole village
will be there," we had said.

Far away, below the thick darkness through which we had come,
twinkled the lights of the little street, a gleaming string strag-
gling down the valley. Here and there, perched on the sides of

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mountains, isolated châlets gave out the thick yellow beams of oil lamps.

The minutes passed by. We were beginning to wonder what mistakes we had made, and to think of retreat, when, bobbing and zigzagging up the hill-side, there came a gleam of light. We both strained out into the darkness, watching and listening. Presently we were laughing in relief. A lighted cigar was leisurely approaching us up the hill. It was flung away into the snow, and a ringing voice floated up on the keen air: "Les voix de la Natu-u-u-u-re." We struck more matches.

"Ah!" came the voice. "Dejà quelqu'un ici?"

## THE LITTLE PROFESSOR.

The new-comer was a very small man wrapped and hooded in a Swiss cloak. We surrendered ourselves to his care, and in a very short time we were within the barn-like interior with its anomalous electric light and its two immense stoves. We chose our seats at the extreme end of the building facing the organ, and as far from it as possible. No sooner were we seated than our little friend, who had already made the tour of the church at a rapid trot, bore down upon us with hands raised in protest.

"Ah, messieurs, you will be cold there!"

We told him that we liked the cold.

"Mais vous serez seuls."

Neither, we assured him, did we object to isolation.

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He stood before us nonplussed - a small, swart Vaudois, with hair and pointed beard of bluish black and a rich colour in his cheeks. He wore a neat little frock-coat and a red rosette in the button-hole. He showed, as it were, polished and vivid against the background of naked white wood. His eyebrows went up and his handsome brown eyes widened in his despair at our perversity. He threw up his hands.

"Mais vous savez que vous serez derrière le chœur?"

We explained patiently that we were not daunted even by the idea of being behind the choir; that we had come to hear the organ, and were quite sure that we were in the best place for sound.

"Ah! ah! Si bon vous semble! Mais c'est peu confortable!" In a torrent of words he described our alcove - cold as a well - an impossible corner - the bise - the choir - the good chauffage so far away. Then he waited, regarding for a moment our smiling protest, and at last, in a rage, he whirled away.

We agreed that he was Lucy Snowe's little professor, with the bonnet grec come to life, and probably now muttering to himself that we were "sots païens" - imbeciles. However, he made no further efforts to bring us to reason beyond an occasional flash of the eyes in our direction. But the audience was arriving at last and he was fully occupied.

Up and down the aisles he hurried, appearing with smiles and greetings at each door in turn. He filled the building with his kindliness, robbing it of its bareness. He set a tone, and, in spite of his feverish activity, his influence was tranquilising. He was the genial host of the black-robed village audience, without distinction of persons.

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GATES OF THE INNER VISION.

Once the appointed hour passed the church filled rapidly. The choir had collected immediately in front of us, their cloaks and soft hats piled in the window on either side. Hard-working peasants most of them were, and they sat in friendly heaps, much as they had done in their village school between lessons - talking together with affectionate animation.

Presently we became aware of our little friend demanding silence from the organ-loft. Instantly there was a dead hush. Motionless and expectant the villagers sat in their church at the top of the hill among the snows - waiting for the witness which every born Vaudois understands.

For a moment the muffled surging of the wind was the only sound. Then, dropping across the silence came the opening phrase of the fugue. Tranquil and familiar it fell upon the spirit. And, once more, for those who may hear the message of music, the gates of the inner vision were opened, the veil withdrawn. Each might enter, after his manner, into the promised land. Familiar and tranquil came the sequence of single notes, like the voice of a mother calling gently through open doors to her child in another room. Then, filing in one after the other, the contradictory statements - the contrasts and discords - the peaks and depressions, the joyous headlong rushes of blended tones, the halting uncertainties, the painfully woven fabric of the passing hour threading out at last to a meaning - to coherence and assurance - to triumphant affirmation.

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Hushed and still, illuminated and satisfied, sat the little
congregation of peasants garnered there, while again and again the
player cast his spell - and ever his music fell on a deep silence,
save for the intermittent roaring of the storm outside and the
blazing and crackling of the stoves in response to the attentions
of a shaggy-headed old man in a blue blouse, who came through a
creaking doorway in our alcove with his arms full of chopped wood,
and tottered placidly about at his duties.

## HIS MOMENT COME AT LAST.

At the end of an hour came the performance of the choir
d'hommes, with whose friendly lounging backs we had grown familiar,
and who were now pulling themselves together for their effort.

An unaccompanied cantata our programme told us - and we were
not surprised when their conductor, shooting up on a hassock facing
them and us, proved to be our little angry friend. Contrite we
could not but feel. It was his choir that we had so despised -
his efforts to get us, as strangers, into the right acoustic rela-
tionship that we had so firmly set on one side. And here he was,
his moment come at last, smiling and bowing in our direction,
radiant and expansive. Our hearts smote us.

His men made an excellent performance. He conducted them
almost entirely with his eyes, wide and fierce. He seemed to glare
at each man in turn and dare him to do his best. Neither of us
could restrain a smile when in a fortissimo passage he stretched
up on tip-toe, with all ten fingers extended and his eyes starting

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from their sockets - nor were we surprised at his abrupt descent
upon us the moment his duties were at an end with the challenging
question: "Cela vous a plu?"

We began to express our delight as best we could, but he
broke in sternly:

"Mais cela vous a fait rire?"

Disconcerted, and as we afterwards agreed, feeling like
schoolboys, we lamely attempted to explain away our mirth.

He watched as suspiciously and half wistfully, looking from
one to the other, and then came to our relief, shedding over us
an indulgent smile and murmuring: "C'est bien! C'est bien! Enfin,
cela vous a plu. Adieu, adieu, messieurs!" Then he hurried away.

The charm of his personality lingered with us as we made our
tortuous way home amidst the village folk, who, undismayed by bise
and driving snow, went chatting and singing down the hillside.