It chanced in Fifteen Hundred Twenty-Eight [ As I do find the fact recorded in A pleasing book of Sixteen Thirty-Six Entitled Scelta di Facetie —
A little yellow, quaint, italic tome, Which looks as if it were behind the age, And would have been black letter if it could ] That in fair Venice raged a pestilence
Whereof in time full many people died, And among these a trusty servitor Who blew the bellows for the organist All in the great Cathedral of Saint Mark,
Whose billowy pavement truly seems to roll In time and measure with the music sweet, So perfect were the harmonies of Art Which men imagined in the olden time.
Now as this man had died while at his work, Even while blowing a Magnificat All in the holy church, it was adjudged That he almost deserved to be a saint.
And he who preached the sermon over him Said that “his soul had risen on the notes Of the grand anthem which he had inspired, And having reached the Music all divine
Had softly sunk, as light is lost in light, Into the pure Celestial.” Here he stopped. Men were great preachers in the olden time. It happened that a certain Giannolo,
Facchino Bergamasco, or a man From Bergamo, a porter by his trade, Who carried heavy burdens, yet withal Was not o’ erburdened with a load of wit,
Hearing this sermon, got it in his head — And no great wonder either — that the late Departed bellows-blower must have been The Chief Musician of the Holy House;
And knowing that the man who bloweth up A pair of bagpipes also is the one Who plays upon the same — drew inference That the deceased was the true organist,
And he who played thereon his humble aid, Who only worked to keep the tune in time. Now being smitten with a deep desire To rise in life and also to be called
A Child of Art — with a nice salary — And have a sermon preached o’ er him when dead, Giannolo unto the Bishop went, And made a great entreaty to be placed
Among the holy followers of Saint Mark, And that the aim of his ambition was Alzare i mantici quando suonava gli organi — that’ s to say: “To lift the bellows when the organ played.”
And as he was a stout and lusty knave Who might be useful in a hundred ways, They gladly took him on, so there he stayed Blowing the bellows faithfully in time.
I ween there is not in all Italy A man — unless he came from Bergamo — Who could have blown an organ seven years In the full faith that he was playing it,
And was indeed the real organist. Yet this, in fact, unless the legend lies, Was what befell Giannolo. By this time, Having laid by a very handsome sum,
And being well attired though modestly, As is becoming to a Son of Art, He went a-visiting his native place, Where all who were related unto him —
That is to say about one-half the town — Did greatly marvel at his handsome clothes And at his air of stately dignity, But most of all when he informed them that
He was no more a porter: he had felt Immortal longings in him to arise Above that vulgar calling, and to soar “’ Mid palpitations sweet and pleasures soft,
The manifestations of that beauteous life Diffused unseen throughout eternal Space” Which men call Music; and that he had risen Even to a monthly salary of ten francs,
Wherewith were many pleasing perquisites; And that he played the organ in Saint Mark’ s, As all the world allowed, in perfect time. Up rose a buzz of strangest wonderment,
Or, as’ tis writ, Di che restarono Più maravigliati; for they all Were much amazed that such a common man — Si vile e si rozzo — such a boor —
Had risen to the pinnacle of Art In Venice, where all Art was at its height, And gained the crown of glory — Iddio! “Ten francs a month besides the perquisites!”
They bowed before him with deep reverence, Hoping he’ d stay with them a little time. Then some one spoke with hesitating tone, As if in fear to take a liberty,
And said: “Your Excellence — if we might dare — Since we would celebrate the kind return Of such an Honour to our noble town, Would you not grace the occasion, and increase
Our joy and sense of deep respectfulness, By playing Vespers for us in the Dome On Sunday next?” Giannolo bowed low, And in a speech adorned with many flowers,
Which he had culled from sermons in Saint Mark, Acceded gracefully to their request, And said he would be there to play, in time. When Sunday came there came with it a crowd
Such as Bergamo never saw before, For in her streets and past her palaces Thousands in holiday attire swept on, And even afar there was a thundering roar,
From time to time, which rolled from square to square, As when the incoming ocean, with a tide Urged by a tempest, breaks among the rocks. Yea, there were many — tanto popolo —
All that the church would hold, and then outside A vast, impatient, brilliant multitude, Such as had ne’ er been there at any time. And at the appointed hour Giannolo came,
Rising before the people in his state, Waiting awhile the appearance of the man Who was to play the organ while he — blew! And all the congregation waited too,
All staring steadily at the great man In anxious expectation, till at last Giannolo from the pulpit cried aloud: “Where is the man who is to touch the keys?
What is the use of making music, hey — And filling up the thing with melody, As I have come to do, unless there be Some one to click the bones and let it out?
You don’ t suppose that I can raise the wind, And steer, and sail the ship as well, my friends. Such things were ne’ er beheld at any time.” There was an instant’ s silence — deep and strange;
In all the great cathedral rang no sound. All stared at one another open-eyed, Or at Giannolo — just as if some power Before unknown in life had seized on them
With a tremendous sense of dire amaze, Not knowing what the devil it could mean; When all at once they took — and from them all There rose a roar of laughter like a crash
Of thunder, and so near it that one seemed To miss the lightning — or, as I might say, ’ Twas like a flash of sound — and then again It came re-echoed from the multitude
Gathered outside, as the electric peal Resounds, repeated by the mountain tops. Yea, such a peal of laughter as the book Declares “at vespers ne’ er was heard before,”
And ne’ er again will be at any time. Moral. I pray you think upon it well. There are full many people in this world Who think that they are wondrous wise in ART,
And who, as Critics, write about the same In transcendental phrase with capitals, And call it Faith, and Love, and Heaven knows what, And cannot think of it without a gasp
And uttering phrases silly, mystical,— Because they are the empty, windy ones, Inflating and inflated, who but blow The bellows of the organ, yet believe
That they are leaders in the Realm of Art!
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