And if he tried a new organ? He first drew all the registers and played upon the principal manual (with all couplers), "in order to test the lung-power of the instrument," as he laughingly expressed it. Then he proceeded to a detailed inspection of every part of the organ. This expert examination once over, he gave free rein to his fancy. And now he showed himself truly "the prince of all virtuosi of the universe, upon the harpsichord and organ," as he was one day hailed by his amazed colleague, the organist Sorge, of Lobenstein, in an outburst of enthusiasm.
No, the art of organ playing has not changed since Johann Sebastian Bach; but, on the other hand, our organs are growing distinctly better. Go and listen to those of Saint-Sulpice, of Notre-Dame, in Paris; hear the instrument of Saint-Ouen, at Rouen!
In the organs of Bach's time the reeds were scarcely used except in the capacity of basses, reinforcing the pedal; or as solo registers, for instance, hautbois and cromornes; our profusion of sonorous clarions, trumpets, and bombardes was totally unknown. Organo pleno did not signify a full battery of 4, 8, 16, and 32-foot stops, but simply the combination of some prestants and mixtures with a diapason or a bourdon.[3] As for a means of varying the intensity of the same tone, such a thing was never thought of.
As I have said elsewhere, it is hardly farther back than to the end of the last century that we trace the invention of the "swell-box," the English contrivance which the aged Händel pronounced admirable, and which Abbé Vogler recommended to the German builders some years later.
To-day, to non-professionals, our instruments appear to have become capable of nearly as much expression as the orchestra.
But this is a serious error. I repeat here: that expression which is a characteristic of the modern organ can but be subjective; it is born of mechanical means and possesses nothing of spontaneity. While the stringed and wind instruments of the orchestra, the pianoforte, and the voice, hold sway only by their instantaneity of accent, by the unexpectedness of their attack, the organ, limited to the confines of its own inherent majesty, speaks with the voice of philosophy. Of all instruments, it is the only one which can indefinitely prolong the same volume of sound, and thus create the religious impression of the infinite.
A serious organist will never avail himself of these means of expression, unless architecturally; that is to say, by straight lines and by designs. By lines, when he passes slowly from piano into forte, by a gradient almost imperceptible, and in constant progression, without break or jolt. By designs, when he takes advantage of a second of silence to close the swell-box abruptly between a forte and a piano.
Seek to reproduce the expressive quality of an E-string, or of the human voice, and we shall no longer hear an organ; it will have become an accordeon.
The most striking characteristic of the organ is grandeur; that is to say, determination and power. Every illogical variation in the intensity of the sound, every nuance which, graphically, cannot be represented by a right line, is a crime, the offence of artistic lèse-majesté.
In fact, we should declare to be criminals, and hold up to the contempt of the public, those who make an accordeon of the organ; those who arpeggiate, who do not play legato, whose rhythm is but passable.