Everything he played was pious, expressing faith and devotion.
But not pious like church-goers and clergymen, but like pilgrims and beggars of the Middle Ages,
pious with a reckless surrender to a world-feeling, which was superior to all confessions of faith.
He frequently played music by the pre-Bach composers, and old Italian music.
And all the pieces said the same thing, all expressed what the musician had in his soul:
longing, a longing to identify oneself with the world and to tear oneself free again,
listening to the workings of one’s own dark soul, an orgy of devotion and lively curiosity of the wonderful.
I once secretly followed the organist as he left the church.
He continued his way to the outskirts of the town and entered a little tavern.
I could not resist the temptation to go in after him. For the first time I had a clear view of him.
He sat at the table in the corner of the little room, a black felt hat on his head,
a measure of wine before him, and his face was just as I had expected it to be.
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