The Post-Mortem Composer
by Laurence MacDonald
Genre: Horror/Supernatural
Swearwords: None.
Description: A case of ghostly music in the French Quarter of nineteenth century New Orleans.
Swearwords: None.
Description: A case of ghostly music in the French Quarter of nineteenth century New Orleans.
Have you heard of the violinist Jacques Moreau? Perhaps not, for though he is highly regarded by his peers and is gaining some renown as a talented composer, his name is not yet widely familiar. I, however, have known him as a friend for a number of years and regularly attend his concerts in the south-eastern states. I admire Jacques greatly as a musician but when I think of him now the first recollection is of the peculiar events that he and I witnessed in a house in New Orleans in the month of August in 1856.
I had attended a concert given by Jacques with his quartet in Natchez and the following day, as is our custom when circumstances allow, he and I took luncheon together. He seemed somewhat fatigued on this occasion, and when pressed, he admitted that he had been wrestling with a difficulty encountered in the Allegro section of a Sonata he was then composing. Despite this, he was cheerful and spoke expansively and enthusiastically about many things. During this rambling discourse he made mention of a relative of his – “some species of cousin” were his words – who sought an explanation and end to what she described in a letter to him as 'perplexing and troubling occurrences' at her home. She had written that a recently deceased member of the family had not quite relinquished all earthly attachments and the hours of darkness in the house were now beleaguered by a persisting manifestation of his ghostly presence. Knowing that I held a keen, if perhaps slightly sceptical, interest in all things 'other-worldly', he invited me to accompany him to New Orleans to assist in the matter and, finding myself with some leisure time at that season, I was sufficiently curious to agree to go with him.
Thus, two days later we met upon the arrival of my boat at a levee wharf in that city and from there proceeded by carriage directly to the house. He told me en route that we would soon meet the widow Madame Claire Montgomery and her daughter Emily; the two women having moved into the old place three years previously to look after Madame Claire's father. The old fellow had begun to decline in health after the death of his wife and they had attended him until his own demise three weeks prior to our visit.
Presently, we arrived at the large and imposing residence situated on the splendid Rue Royale and in good time for dinner. Over a most excellent repast I was able to make proper acquaintance with the two ladies. They were charming and attentive hostesses but, although vigorous, both did appear to be troubled – if not overwrought. Before long, the elder gave forth on the unusual circumstances that prevailed in the house and her account ran as follows:
Her father, Nathaniel Norton, had been a banker who had grown wealthy by his trade, but, after his wife's passing, music had become the principal passion and interest in his life. He had been a fine pianist and violinist and becoming a widower soon after his retirement from banking he had, from that time forth, dedicated himself chiefly to composing works of serious music. Madame Claire had laughed a little and said that he had turned his energies from creating paper notes to musical ones.
However, during this time, the old man complained of worsening lung and digestive ailments, yet he refused to be seen by any physician. In the weeks before his passing, he had eschewed the society of others almost entirely to closet himself in his chamber for most of each day, only to emerge around midnight to take up work on his piano – sometimes until daybreak – in the study adjacent to his bed chamber. Of course, these nocturnal habits greatly inconvenienced Madame Claire and her daughter and, the house being rambling and spacious, they vacated their bed chambers near his rooms to take up sleeping quarters in the west wing to be free from the nightly disruption. On the day of Nathaniel's burial, they had returned to their former rooms, but that very night, both were awoken and again tormented with the sounds of the piano clanging and echoing through the dark spaces! Indeed, doubly tormented because now there could be no sensible explanation for it. They quit the rooms and fled back to the west wing in perfect terror. Madame Claire had, once or twice since, ventured into the hallway after midnight and listened keenly for any disturbance of the nocturnal quietude. Finding that the unwholesome music continued as before and, utterly despairing of a remedy, she had at last written her entreaty to Jacques for assistance.
As I listened to the strange tale any scepticism I may have harboured dissipated. The two women were perfectly sound of mind and neither of the type given to fancy: there could be no doubt that the freakish travails as described were genuine. Jacques had listened without giving interruption and, on completion of the account, he asked that certain items be brought so that we might later make a watch outside the haunted study. His demands were readily acceded to and after dinner a maidservant conducted us to the old man's hallway. She took with her a basket containing the smaller items that Jacques had ordered, namely: an oil lamp, a bottle of wine, glasses and, oddly, a quantity of flour. Jacques and I each carried a table chair and as we made our way upstairs the girl spoke freely. From what she had to say, it was well that the orders had been given at dinner as nothing would succeed in persuading her, the cook, or the kitchen girl to visit that part of the house after darkness fell.
Having situated our little camp in the vicinity of the door to the study, Jacques suggested that we retire to our chambers and rest so that, later, we might remain alert to better meet whatever events occurred. I was wearied after the journey and I readily agree. He, however, said that he would make an examination of the music study before taking his repose and would set his travelling clock (a necessary possession for any touring musician) to sound one half-hour before midnight.
He roused me at the appointed hour and we took up our station; both of us very anxious to see what the wee small hours might bring. All other occupants of the house having long since retired, the place was perfectly quiet save for the occasional scrambling of mice behind the wainscoting and an owl's infrequent hooting from a tree outside the hall window. I poured wine while Jacques lit the lamp and we settled in wordless silence and waited. Our patience was not to be tested, though, for it wasn't long after the clock in the great hall below had struck the hour of midnight that something began to occur in what had been Nathaniel Norton's bed chamber.
At first it sounded like a hollow cough, then there followed a faint and rasping wheeze, as if someone – a person of infirmity – was arising from bed and struggling to his feet. This sound quieted, but we were then startled to hear the chamber door creak open, yet, in the dim yellow lamplight, we could plainly see that the door from whence the sound came remained firmly shut. We exchanged glances but remained seated and still; both of us eager for whatever would come next. Shuffling footsteps in the hallway drew closer to us, then halted, and again we heard rather than saw a door open and close – this time that of the study – a mere six or seven feet distant from where we sat in rapt attention. Nothing that I could see struck me as out of the ordinary, but Jacques – situated farther from the light of our lamp – later vouchsafed that the sounds had been accompanied by a faint passing luminescence of a deep violet hue. Surprisingly perhaps, the effect of all this was not so much a cause of fear or alarm but rather to induce a feeling of solemnity. I will, though, freely own that a prickling sensation ran over my arms and neck upon hearing those first stirrings.
After a few moments of renewed quiet our expectancy was rewarded and the piano within began to give forth loud and sonorous music. Jacques started and he took on an expression of deep contemplation as one ominous chord followed another while a lilting and melancholic melody line floated above. After a few moments the sad and tuneful air gave way, leaving only a run of declamatory chords – the last of which was sustained and left to fully decay into the tranquillity of night. In all, the music lasted but a few seconds; certainly no more than a quarter of one minute. I asked Jacques what the piece might but, he, too, found it unfamiliar. There could be no possibility of any mundane explanation for the thing; no cat nor mouse running atop keys or strings could have produced what we had heard. This was music, fashioned and played by someone not something, and the disturbing truth of the matter was, of course, that our someone was dead.
I took up the lamp and, steeling myself for whatever discovery I would make inside, I made for the study door. I thought that Jacques would follow me but he stayed put and he stopped me abruptly:
“No, we must not interrupt! There may be more to come.”
He was right, for thereupon the music started again, the piece repeated, chord for chord, note for note to the end and, when it resumed for a third time, Jacques said:
“There is nothing to be gained by lingering longer. We may take our rest now but we shall return at the same hour tomorrow, and do so better prepared.”
Though burning with curiosity and impatient desire to intrude and determine by what mischief the confounded piano played, I acquiesced and we made for our rooms. And all the while, the portentous music resonated in the study and dark hallway behind us.
At breakfast, we recounted our experience to the two ladies and they evinced little surprise at our summary of events; though they did exclaim when Jacques announced that he might put the matter to rest that very night. Later, he beckoned me to accompany him to the old man's study and upon entering I discerned the faint aroma of aniseed in the air – evidently the fellow had used it liberally in life. Once inside, I surmised that the furnishings and possessions had been left undisturbed since his death as it gave every appearance of a room still in use. Jacques drew me to the piano – a very fine square Pleyel of handsome rosewood – and I observed, spread out upon its rack, a large manuscript written in a spidery hand and marked with many scoring-outs and substitutions. On a small table next to the piano there rested a pen, an unstopped bottle of ink, and an untidy collection of papers and books of notation. Jacques then brought my attention to the piano's keyboard and said.
“Regarde! The flour I spread on these keys last evening is perfectly undisturbed,” he smiled. “As we both know, it was not some prankster that played this piano last night. By what means our phantom coaxes these strings to give voice I know not, but be sure those keys didn't tickle them at all!”
We left the room in a condition similar to that in which we found it and I divided my time that day by reading in the library, joining the ladies for luncheon, and later, taking a stroll to the riverside. In the intervening period Jacques had gone into the city to purchase “a few necessary things” and returned later with a violin case in one hand and sheaves of blank music manuscript in the other. At dinner, by some unspoken mutual understanding between us all, the conversation scrupulously avoided any reference to the doings of the ghost but, as the ladies took their leave from table and made for the drawing room, Jacques said to me:
“For now we rest. Later, we take our place in the hall, but on this night, we are ready for him!”
And so we did, just before midnight – my friend equipped with the blank manuscript, a pencil and the old fiddle acquired from the pawn shop. He laid pencil and paper on a small hall table that he'd brought over, then sounded a tuning fork and adjusted his violin whilst I poured wine. All preparations being complete, we sat down and waited.
As before, at just after midnight, the presence was signalled by the sounds of wheezing, shufflings and creaking doors. Although nothing was distinctly visible to me I had the impression, at least, that a very dim glow drifted along the passage. This prelude – as Jacques called it – soon being over, there followed a short spell of silence and then the piano struck up that same plaintive melody over sombre chords. Jacques took up the violin and, using his thumb, he plucked a scattering of fingered staccato notes in an exploratory fashion. His face creased with the effort of concentration as he searched out a scale sympathetic to the music coming from the study. Then, looking quickly to me, he said in a low voice.
“D minor, key is D minor.”
He reached for the bow and produced a haunting improvisation that was a fine counter to the piano melody, but when that air subsided to leave only the pounding chords, he laid the bow down and plucked again. This time he produced little flurries of notes, arpeggios, that insinuated and wove themselves into the fabric of the ghostly music. He jotted and plucked again, then frowned, and scribbled some more, and scratched his brow. As he worked he muttered – more to himself than to me.
“The coda ........G sharp diminished seventh .......D minor ......and A seventh. No wait ...…..............Not A seventh but C sharp diminished seventh leading to ..........”
and, as the final chord decayed into the night,
“Yes .....ah yes .....Tierce de Picardie .......... Finish on D major.”
The piano sounded again, repeating the same piece and, once more, my companion joined with the phantasmal performance. He picked up the melody and this time followed it much more closely; after two more repetitions the thing was mastered. With a final scribble and flourish of the paper he smiled with triumph and announced.
“I have it down. I have it down!”
I watched him with an admixture of amusement and reverence. His efforts had appeared frenetic, indeed, almost comical, but that belied the skill required to produce an accurate transcription of the recital so quickly. I returned his smile and asked him what was to be done, and while the clamour of the dark music insisted upon our ears, he rejoined.
“What's to be done? Why, we go in, of course.”
We moved to the study; holding the lamp in one hand and grasping the door handle with the other, I drew a deep breath and pushed. Jacques, by my side, clutched his sheaf of manuscript and we stepped in. The moment the door opened – before we gained proper entry into the room even – the odour of aniseed assailed us and was much stronger than that which we had perceived earlier that day. As I swung the door wide, the booming music grew loud to our ears and I wondered if the windows might rattle. Our eyes turned immediately to the piano and there we saw the weird and glowing cause of disquiet – a dim and translucent violet radiance. It was indistinct and cast no light upon the instrument, nor any of the surrounding furnishings. Nothing about the eerie phenomenon in any way resembled human form. Rather, it was as if caused by a type of visible magnetical force – if there can be such a thing – or by some strange local excitation of the atmosphere from within the very particles of air itself.
I stood in the doorway for a moment – struck rigid and immobile by the apparition – but I had enough wit to note that the keys of the piano remained at perfect rest while it gave out its unearthly music. Just then, very suddenly, I felt compelled to back out of the room. Jacques did likewise and I closed the door. We stood in the hall for a moment and I could see an intense look of contemplation cross his countenance before he asked:
“I was prevented from moving fully into the room, were you?” I nodded and he said, “Let us go now and sleep,” adding enigmatically, “We must wait until tomorrow before any restoration of peace and well-being can be brought.”
A pressing business engagement required me to leave New Orleans the following morning, and I was not, therefore, at liberty to remain in the house to assist Jacques in effecting the hoped-for cure, though I did not have long to wait for his report of subsequent events and the outcome. I attended his concert in Baton Rouge just ten days after I had left New Orleans and met him for lunch the following day. He was in high spirits and no wonder, thought I. The previous evening had been a great success throughout and ended magnificently with a standing ovation for the quartet's premier performance of his newly completed Sonata.
Of course, after congratulating him on the recital, my next words were to question him on what had occurred in the house on Rue Royale after I had taken my leave. He smiled and answered my inquiry thus:
“I stayed on for two nights after you left. You see, I wanted to make certain that the troubles would truly cease. As soon as you had departed I went to the study to take up the manuscript that had been laid out on the piano rack. It was an unfinished work in D minor – something that I had noticed on our first evening at the house – and I copied it out and added notation for the final section, exactly as played by the ghost. Having completed the work, I signed it on behalf of Nathaniel Norton and placed the papers upon the rack. After that I remained in the study and worked; you see I was trying to resolve the third movement of my Sonata, though I confess I gave it up in vexation long before dinner. That night I took up vigil outside the rooms, just as we had done together, and as I had hoped and expected, silence prevailed!”
He leaned back in his chair, and with an air of great satisfaction, he said:
“The trouble has been put to bed. All along the old fellow had wanted the last movement of his final work, that Piano Concerto, completed – written down.” He moved his hands in a wide arc, rather in the manner of a conductor who has, at that moment, successfully presented a major and difficult work to a delighted and applauding audience. Then he leant toward me and said, “Voilà! C'est fini!”
I congratulated him again; this time for solving the mystery and laying Nathaniel Norton fully to rest. I told him that he had done the old man's soul, and the two ladies of the house, a great service but his reply surprised me:
“Perhaps so, but if Nathaniel did owe me any debt of service he has already repaid it.” Before I could ask his meaning, he continued, “You heard my Sonata last evening. Let me say that the trouble I had with the Allegro resolved after, how shall I say? After a peculiar form of....…...Inspiration.”
I arched an eyebrow and he went on:
“You see, mon ami, the night after you left, I awoke sometime before dawn and fancied that I was not alone. Then, I thought I saw a dim glow forming not far from me, and the unmistakable aroma of aniseed filled the air – and do you know? I do believe the old fiddle resting on my dresser began to play by itself.” He grinned, “All very odd, wouldn't you agree?”
Post script. Three months have passed since the events described above took place and Jacques has sent to me, by mail, a copy of the program for a Grand Concert in Baltimore that is to take place one week before Christmas. I am gratified to find that my diary will allow me to attend, for among the very fine works listed for performance are two of particular interest: 'Sonata in B minor (Elégie pour Nathaniel) by Jacques Moreau' and later, the premier of 'Piano Concerto No.1 by Nathaniel Norton'.
I had attended a concert given by Jacques with his quartet in Natchez and the following day, as is our custom when circumstances allow, he and I took luncheon together. He seemed somewhat fatigued on this occasion, and when pressed, he admitted that he had been wrestling with a difficulty encountered in the Allegro section of a Sonata he was then composing. Despite this, he was cheerful and spoke expansively and enthusiastically about many things. During this rambling discourse he made mention of a relative of his – “some species of cousin” were his words – who sought an explanation and end to what she described in a letter to him as 'perplexing and troubling occurrences' at her home. She had written that a recently deceased member of the family had not quite relinquished all earthly attachments and the hours of darkness in the house were now beleaguered by a persisting manifestation of his ghostly presence. Knowing that I held a keen, if perhaps slightly sceptical, interest in all things 'other-worldly', he invited me to accompany him to New Orleans to assist in the matter and, finding myself with some leisure time at that season, I was sufficiently curious to agree to go with him.
Thus, two days later we met upon the arrival of my boat at a levee wharf in that city and from there proceeded by carriage directly to the house. He told me en route that we would soon meet the widow Madame Claire Montgomery and her daughter Emily; the two women having moved into the old place three years previously to look after Madame Claire's father. The old fellow had begun to decline in health after the death of his wife and they had attended him until his own demise three weeks prior to our visit.
Presently, we arrived at the large and imposing residence situated on the splendid Rue Royale and in good time for dinner. Over a most excellent repast I was able to make proper acquaintance with the two ladies. They were charming and attentive hostesses but, although vigorous, both did appear to be troubled – if not overwrought. Before long, the elder gave forth on the unusual circumstances that prevailed in the house and her account ran as follows:
Her father, Nathaniel Norton, had been a banker who had grown wealthy by his trade, but, after his wife's passing, music had become the principal passion and interest in his life. He had been a fine pianist and violinist and becoming a widower soon after his retirement from banking he had, from that time forth, dedicated himself chiefly to composing works of serious music. Madame Claire had laughed a little and said that he had turned his energies from creating paper notes to musical ones.
However, during this time, the old man complained of worsening lung and digestive ailments, yet he refused to be seen by any physician. In the weeks before his passing, he had eschewed the society of others almost entirely to closet himself in his chamber for most of each day, only to emerge around midnight to take up work on his piano – sometimes until daybreak – in the study adjacent to his bed chamber. Of course, these nocturnal habits greatly inconvenienced Madame Claire and her daughter and, the house being rambling and spacious, they vacated their bed chambers near his rooms to take up sleeping quarters in the west wing to be free from the nightly disruption. On the day of Nathaniel's burial, they had returned to their former rooms, but that very night, both were awoken and again tormented with the sounds of the piano clanging and echoing through the dark spaces! Indeed, doubly tormented because now there could be no sensible explanation for it. They quit the rooms and fled back to the west wing in perfect terror. Madame Claire had, once or twice since, ventured into the hallway after midnight and listened keenly for any disturbance of the nocturnal quietude. Finding that the unwholesome music continued as before and, utterly despairing of a remedy, she had at last written her entreaty to Jacques for assistance.
As I listened to the strange tale any scepticism I may have harboured dissipated. The two women were perfectly sound of mind and neither of the type given to fancy: there could be no doubt that the freakish travails as described were genuine. Jacques had listened without giving interruption and, on completion of the account, he asked that certain items be brought so that we might later make a watch outside the haunted study. His demands were readily acceded to and after dinner a maidservant conducted us to the old man's hallway. She took with her a basket containing the smaller items that Jacques had ordered, namely: an oil lamp, a bottle of wine, glasses and, oddly, a quantity of flour. Jacques and I each carried a table chair and as we made our way upstairs the girl spoke freely. From what she had to say, it was well that the orders had been given at dinner as nothing would succeed in persuading her, the cook, or the kitchen girl to visit that part of the house after darkness fell.
Having situated our little camp in the vicinity of the door to the study, Jacques suggested that we retire to our chambers and rest so that, later, we might remain alert to better meet whatever events occurred. I was wearied after the journey and I readily agree. He, however, said that he would make an examination of the music study before taking his repose and would set his travelling clock (a necessary possession for any touring musician) to sound one half-hour before midnight.
He roused me at the appointed hour and we took up our station; both of us very anxious to see what the wee small hours might bring. All other occupants of the house having long since retired, the place was perfectly quiet save for the occasional scrambling of mice behind the wainscoting and an owl's infrequent hooting from a tree outside the hall window. I poured wine while Jacques lit the lamp and we settled in wordless silence and waited. Our patience was not to be tested, though, for it wasn't long after the clock in the great hall below had struck the hour of midnight that something began to occur in what had been Nathaniel Norton's bed chamber.
At first it sounded like a hollow cough, then there followed a faint and rasping wheeze, as if someone – a person of infirmity – was arising from bed and struggling to his feet. This sound quieted, but we were then startled to hear the chamber door creak open, yet, in the dim yellow lamplight, we could plainly see that the door from whence the sound came remained firmly shut. We exchanged glances but remained seated and still; both of us eager for whatever would come next. Shuffling footsteps in the hallway drew closer to us, then halted, and again we heard rather than saw a door open and close – this time that of the study – a mere six or seven feet distant from where we sat in rapt attention. Nothing that I could see struck me as out of the ordinary, but Jacques – situated farther from the light of our lamp – later vouchsafed that the sounds had been accompanied by a faint passing luminescence of a deep violet hue. Surprisingly perhaps, the effect of all this was not so much a cause of fear or alarm but rather to induce a feeling of solemnity. I will, though, freely own that a prickling sensation ran over my arms and neck upon hearing those first stirrings.
After a few moments of renewed quiet our expectancy was rewarded and the piano within began to give forth loud and sonorous music. Jacques started and he took on an expression of deep contemplation as one ominous chord followed another while a lilting and melancholic melody line floated above. After a few moments the sad and tuneful air gave way, leaving only a run of declamatory chords – the last of which was sustained and left to fully decay into the tranquillity of night. In all, the music lasted but a few seconds; certainly no more than a quarter of one minute. I asked Jacques what the piece might but, he, too, found it unfamiliar. There could be no possibility of any mundane explanation for the thing; no cat nor mouse running atop keys or strings could have produced what we had heard. This was music, fashioned and played by someone not something, and the disturbing truth of the matter was, of course, that our someone was dead.
I took up the lamp and, steeling myself for whatever discovery I would make inside, I made for the study door. I thought that Jacques would follow me but he stayed put and he stopped me abruptly:
“No, we must not interrupt! There may be more to come.”
He was right, for thereupon the music started again, the piece repeated, chord for chord, note for note to the end and, when it resumed for a third time, Jacques said:
“There is nothing to be gained by lingering longer. We may take our rest now but we shall return at the same hour tomorrow, and do so better prepared.”
Though burning with curiosity and impatient desire to intrude and determine by what mischief the confounded piano played, I acquiesced and we made for our rooms. And all the while, the portentous music resonated in the study and dark hallway behind us.
At breakfast, we recounted our experience to the two ladies and they evinced little surprise at our summary of events; though they did exclaim when Jacques announced that he might put the matter to rest that very night. Later, he beckoned me to accompany him to the old man's study and upon entering I discerned the faint aroma of aniseed in the air – evidently the fellow had used it liberally in life. Once inside, I surmised that the furnishings and possessions had been left undisturbed since his death as it gave every appearance of a room still in use. Jacques drew me to the piano – a very fine square Pleyel of handsome rosewood – and I observed, spread out upon its rack, a large manuscript written in a spidery hand and marked with many scoring-outs and substitutions. On a small table next to the piano there rested a pen, an unstopped bottle of ink, and an untidy collection of papers and books of notation. Jacques then brought my attention to the piano's keyboard and said.
“Regarde! The flour I spread on these keys last evening is perfectly undisturbed,” he smiled. “As we both know, it was not some prankster that played this piano last night. By what means our phantom coaxes these strings to give voice I know not, but be sure those keys didn't tickle them at all!”
We left the room in a condition similar to that in which we found it and I divided my time that day by reading in the library, joining the ladies for luncheon, and later, taking a stroll to the riverside. In the intervening period Jacques had gone into the city to purchase “a few necessary things” and returned later with a violin case in one hand and sheaves of blank music manuscript in the other. At dinner, by some unspoken mutual understanding between us all, the conversation scrupulously avoided any reference to the doings of the ghost but, as the ladies took their leave from table and made for the drawing room, Jacques said to me:
“For now we rest. Later, we take our place in the hall, but on this night, we are ready for him!”
And so we did, just before midnight – my friend equipped with the blank manuscript, a pencil and the old fiddle acquired from the pawn shop. He laid pencil and paper on a small hall table that he'd brought over, then sounded a tuning fork and adjusted his violin whilst I poured wine. All preparations being complete, we sat down and waited.
As before, at just after midnight, the presence was signalled by the sounds of wheezing, shufflings and creaking doors. Although nothing was distinctly visible to me I had the impression, at least, that a very dim glow drifted along the passage. This prelude – as Jacques called it – soon being over, there followed a short spell of silence and then the piano struck up that same plaintive melody over sombre chords. Jacques took up the violin and, using his thumb, he plucked a scattering of fingered staccato notes in an exploratory fashion. His face creased with the effort of concentration as he searched out a scale sympathetic to the music coming from the study. Then, looking quickly to me, he said in a low voice.
“D minor, key is D minor.”
He reached for the bow and produced a haunting improvisation that was a fine counter to the piano melody, but when that air subsided to leave only the pounding chords, he laid the bow down and plucked again. This time he produced little flurries of notes, arpeggios, that insinuated and wove themselves into the fabric of the ghostly music. He jotted and plucked again, then frowned, and scribbled some more, and scratched his brow. As he worked he muttered – more to himself than to me.
“The coda ........G sharp diminished seventh .......D minor ......and A seventh. No wait ...…..............Not A seventh but C sharp diminished seventh leading to ..........”
and, as the final chord decayed into the night,
“Yes .....ah yes .....Tierce de Picardie .......... Finish on D major.”
The piano sounded again, repeating the same piece and, once more, my companion joined with the phantasmal performance. He picked up the melody and this time followed it much more closely; after two more repetitions the thing was mastered. With a final scribble and flourish of the paper he smiled with triumph and announced.
“I have it down. I have it down!”
I watched him with an admixture of amusement and reverence. His efforts had appeared frenetic, indeed, almost comical, but that belied the skill required to produce an accurate transcription of the recital so quickly. I returned his smile and asked him what was to be done, and while the clamour of the dark music insisted upon our ears, he rejoined.
“What's to be done? Why, we go in, of course.”
We moved to the study; holding the lamp in one hand and grasping the door handle with the other, I drew a deep breath and pushed. Jacques, by my side, clutched his sheaf of manuscript and we stepped in. The moment the door opened – before we gained proper entry into the room even – the odour of aniseed assailed us and was much stronger than that which we had perceived earlier that day. As I swung the door wide, the booming music grew loud to our ears and I wondered if the windows might rattle. Our eyes turned immediately to the piano and there we saw the weird and glowing cause of disquiet – a dim and translucent violet radiance. It was indistinct and cast no light upon the instrument, nor any of the surrounding furnishings. Nothing about the eerie phenomenon in any way resembled human form. Rather, it was as if caused by a type of visible magnetical force – if there can be such a thing – or by some strange local excitation of the atmosphere from within the very particles of air itself.
I stood in the doorway for a moment – struck rigid and immobile by the apparition – but I had enough wit to note that the keys of the piano remained at perfect rest while it gave out its unearthly music. Just then, very suddenly, I felt compelled to back out of the room. Jacques did likewise and I closed the door. We stood in the hall for a moment and I could see an intense look of contemplation cross his countenance before he asked:
“I was prevented from moving fully into the room, were you?” I nodded and he said, “Let us go now and sleep,” adding enigmatically, “We must wait until tomorrow before any restoration of peace and well-being can be brought.”
A pressing business engagement required me to leave New Orleans the following morning, and I was not, therefore, at liberty to remain in the house to assist Jacques in effecting the hoped-for cure, though I did not have long to wait for his report of subsequent events and the outcome. I attended his concert in Baton Rouge just ten days after I had left New Orleans and met him for lunch the following day. He was in high spirits and no wonder, thought I. The previous evening had been a great success throughout and ended magnificently with a standing ovation for the quartet's premier performance of his newly completed Sonata.
Of course, after congratulating him on the recital, my next words were to question him on what had occurred in the house on Rue Royale after I had taken my leave. He smiled and answered my inquiry thus:
“I stayed on for two nights after you left. You see, I wanted to make certain that the troubles would truly cease. As soon as you had departed I went to the study to take up the manuscript that had been laid out on the piano rack. It was an unfinished work in D minor – something that I had noticed on our first evening at the house – and I copied it out and added notation for the final section, exactly as played by the ghost. Having completed the work, I signed it on behalf of Nathaniel Norton and placed the papers upon the rack. After that I remained in the study and worked; you see I was trying to resolve the third movement of my Sonata, though I confess I gave it up in vexation long before dinner. That night I took up vigil outside the rooms, just as we had done together, and as I had hoped and expected, silence prevailed!”
He leaned back in his chair, and with an air of great satisfaction, he said:
“The trouble has been put to bed. All along the old fellow had wanted the last movement of his final work, that Piano Concerto, completed – written down.” He moved his hands in a wide arc, rather in the manner of a conductor who has, at that moment, successfully presented a major and difficult work to a delighted and applauding audience. Then he leant toward me and said, “Voilà! C'est fini!”
I congratulated him again; this time for solving the mystery and laying Nathaniel Norton fully to rest. I told him that he had done the old man's soul, and the two ladies of the house, a great service but his reply surprised me:
“Perhaps so, but if Nathaniel did owe me any debt of service he has already repaid it.” Before I could ask his meaning, he continued, “You heard my Sonata last evening. Let me say that the trouble I had with the Allegro resolved after, how shall I say? After a peculiar form of....…...Inspiration.”
I arched an eyebrow and he went on:
“You see, mon ami, the night after you left, I awoke sometime before dawn and fancied that I was not alone. Then, I thought I saw a dim glow forming not far from me, and the unmistakable aroma of aniseed filled the air – and do you know? I do believe the old fiddle resting on my dresser began to play by itself.” He grinned, “All very odd, wouldn't you agree?”
Post script. Three months have passed since the events described above took place and Jacques has sent to me, by mail, a copy of the program for a Grand Concert in Baltimore that is to take place one week before Christmas. I am gratified to find that my diary will allow me to attend, for among the very fine works listed for performance are two of particular interest: 'Sonata in B minor (Elégie pour Nathaniel) by Jacques Moreau' and later, the premier of 'Piano Concerto No.1 by Nathaniel Norton'.
About the Author
Born in Edinburgh and now living in Fife, Laurence MacDonald only began writing short stories in 2016, but has already had two of his stories published in anthologies and another featured in a podcast in the USA. He intends to complete a collection of supernatural short fiction set in the 19th century.