I
Passionately musical—Janet Knott had been sent abroad to study.
Homesick and weary she wandered about in a strange city, knowing not even the language.
The gray sky—the grayer buildings. Was there not in this city a kindly soul—one she could talk to—confide in—
In a narrow street—suddenly the rich deep tones of an organ reached her soul—
Built in among great buildings a small Church. There at least she could find comfort—and the organ.
Was it a Requiem—minor chords—the keys seemed to sob under the pressure of withered hands.
Janet sobbed too. She was homesick. Lonely—
The music stopped and the old organist came down and spoke with her. He asked why she was crying.
Your music is so sad, she whispered—
Ah, my child, that is life—I am told to compose a Requiem—
What youth, filled with the joy of living, could play these minor chords.
I too was young once—A student at the University. I loved life then—
I danced—composed only waltzes—sang love songs. But now—sorrow has played on the chords of my heart—to teach me these deeper tones—to teach me music for the Passion—for the Crucifixion.
You must learn, my child, that through sorrow men accomplish great things.
When they weep they send out tones into the world that men remember and cherish.
Beethoven lived and suffered—and has left to the world things of immortal greatness.
But now—go—else I shall sadden you beyond your years——
Slowly Janet walked through the darkening streets. The words of the organist filled her mind. She felt prophetically her heart must pass through fire.
Would she be strong enough—or would weakness—desire for joy—conquer and kill the power within.