I have often wondered why Carl Philipp Emmanuel Bach's Essay on the Right Manner of playing the Clavier117 does not elucidate the qualities that constitute a good touch. For he possessed in high degree the technique that made his father pre-eminent as a player. True, in his chapter on “Style in Performance,” he writes, “Some persons play as if their fingers were glued together; their touch is so deliberate, and they keep the keys down too long; while others, attempting to avoid this defect, play too crisply, as if the keys burnt their fingers. The right method lies between the two extremes.” But it would have been more useful had he told us how to reach this middle path. As he has not done so, I must try to make the matter as clear as is possible in words.

Bach placed his hand on the finger-board so that his fingers were bent and their extremities poised perpendicularly over the keys in a plane [pg 51] parallel to them.118 Consequently none of his fingers was remote from the note it was intended to strike, and was ready instantly to execute every command. Observe the consequences of this position. First of all, the fingers cannot fall or (as so often happens) be thrown upon the notes, but are placed upon them in full control of the force they may be called on to exert. In the second place, since the force communicated to the note needs to be maintained with uniform pressure, the finger should not be released perpendicularly from the key, but can be withdrawn gently and gradually towards the palm of the hand. In the third place, when passing from one note to another, a sliding action instinctively instructs the next finger regarding the amount of force exerted by its predecessor, so that the tone is equally regulated and the notes are equally distinct. In other words, the touch is neither too long nor too short, as Carl Philipp Emmanuel complains, but is just what it ought to be.119 Many advantages arise from holding the hand in Bach's position and from adopting his touch, [pg 52] on the Clavichord and Harpsichord,120 and on the Organ as well. I point out merely the most important of them. To begin with, if the fingers are bent, their movements are free. The notes are struck without effort and with less risk of missing or hitting too hard, a frequent fault with people who play with their fingers elongated or insufficiently bent. In the second place, the sliding finger-tip, and the consequently rapid transmission of regulated force from one finger to another, tend to bring out each note clearly and to make every passage sound uniformly brilliant and distinct to the hearer without exertion. In the third place, stroking the note with uniform pressure permits the string to vibrate freely, improves and prolongs the tone, and though the Clavichord is poor in quality, allows the player to sustain long notes upon it. And the method has this advantage: it prevents over-expenditure of strength and excessive movement of the hand. We gather that the action of Bach's fingers was so slight as to be barely perceptible. Only the top joint seemed to move. His hand preserved its rounded shape even in the most intricate passages. His fingers rested closely upon the keys, very much in the position required for a “shake.” An unemployed finger remained in a [pg 53] position of repose. It is hardly necessary to say that that other limbs of his body took no part in his performance, as is the case with many whose hands lack the requisite agility.121

A man may possess all these qualities, however, and remain an indifferent performer on the Clavier, just as clear and agreeable enunciation does not necessarily make a good speaker. To be a first-rate performer many other qualities are needed, and Bach possessed them all in a notable degree.

Some fingers are longer and stronger than others. Hence players are frequently seduced to use the stronger whenever they can readily do so. Consequently successive notes become unequal in tone, and passages which leave no choice as to the finger to be used may become impossible to play. Bach recognised this fact very early in his career. To get over the difficulty he invented exercises for his own use in which the fingers of both hands were made to practise passages in every conceivable position. By this means every finger on both hands equally became strong and serviceable, [pg 54] so that he could play a rapid succession of chords, single and double “shakes,” and running passages with the utmost finish and delicacy, and was equally fluent in passages where some fingers play a “shake” while the others on the same hand continue the melody.

Besides these improvements, Bach invented a new system of fingering.122 Before his time, and even in his early years, it was usual for the player to pay attention to harmony rather than counterpoint. Even so it was not customary to use every one of the twenty-four major and minor keys. The Clavichord was still what we term “gebunden”; that is, several keys struck the same string, which, therefore, could not be accurately tuned.123 Consequently it was usual to employ only those keys whose notes were tuned with some approximation to accuracy. Again, [pg 56] good players in those days hardly ever used the thumb, except when a large interval had to be stretched. But when Bach began to melodise harmony so that his middle parts not merely filled in but had a tune of their own, when, too, he began to deviate from the Church modes then in general vogue in secular music, using the diatonic and chromatic scales indifferently, and tuning the Clavier in all the twenty-four keys, he found himself compelled to introduce a system of fingering better adapted to his innovations than that in use, and in particular, to challenge the convention which condemned the thumb to inactivity. It is held by some writers that Couperin forestalled Bach's method of fingering, in his L'Art de toucher le Clavecin, published in 1716. But that is not the case. In the first place, Bach was above thirty years old in 1716, and had already developed a distinctive method of his own. And in the second place, Couperin's system differs materially from Bach's, though both made more frequent use of the thumb than was so far customary. When I say “more frequent use” I do so advisedly; for whereas in Bach's system the thumb is the principal finger—for the difficult keys, as they are called, are unplayable without it—it is not equally indispensable with Couperin, whose thematic material was not so intricate as Bach's, nor did he compose or play in such difficult keys. Consequently Couperin [pg 56] had not an equally urgent need to use the thumb. We need only compare Couperin's with Bach's system of fingering, as Carl Philipp Emmanuel explains it,124 to discover that Bach's permits every passage, however intricate and polyphonic, to be played with ease, whereas Couperin's is hardly effective even for his own compositions. Bach was acquainted with Couperin's works and highly esteemed them,125 as he did those of other French Clavier composers, for their finish and brilliance. But he considered them affected in their excessive use of ornaments, scarcely a single note being free from them. He held them, also, superficial in matter.

Bach's easy, unconstrained use of the fingers, his musical touch, the clearness and precision of every note he struck, the resourcefulness of his fingering, his thorough training of every finger of both hands, the luxuriance of his thematic material and his original method of stating it, all contributed to give him almost unlimited power over his instrument, so easily did he surmount the difficulties of its keyboard. Whether he improvised or played his compositions from notes, he systematically employed every finger of each hand, and his fingering was as uncommon as the compositions themselves, yet so accurate that he [pg 57] never missed a note. Moreover, he read at sight other people's compositions (which, to be sure, were much easier than his own) with the utmost facility. Indeed, he once boasted to a friend at Weimar that he could play at sight and without a mistake anything put before him. But he was mistaken, as his friend convinced him before the week was out. Having invited Bach to breakfast one morning, he placed on the Clavier, among other music, a piece which, at a first glance, seemed perfectly easy. On his arrival, Bach, as was his custom, sat down at the Clavier to play or look through the music. Meanwhile his friend was in the next room preparing breakfast. In a short time Bach took up the piece of music destined to change his opinion and began to play it. He had not proceeded far before he came to a passage at which he stopped. After a look at it he began again, only to stop at the same place. “No,” he called out to his friend, who was laughing heartily in the next room, “the man does not exist who can play everything at sight. It can't be done.” With that he got up from the Clavier in some annoyance.126

Bach also could read scores with remarkable facility and play them on the Clavier. He found no more difficulty in piecing together the [pg 58] separate parts when laid side by side before him.127 He often did so when a friend brought him a new Trio or Quartet for Strings and wished to hear how it sounded. If a Continuo part, however badly figured, was put before him he could improvise a Trio or Quartet upon it. Nay, when he was in the mood and at the height of his powers, he would convert a Trio into a Quartet by extemporising a fourth part. On such occasions he used a Harpsichord with two manuals and pedal attachment.

Bach preferred the Clavichord to the Harpsichord, which, though susceptible of great variety of tone, seemed to him lacking in soul. The Pianoforte was still in its infancy and too coarse.128 [pg 59] Both for practice and intimate use he regarded the Clavichord as the best instrument and preferred to express on it his finest thoughts. He held the Harpsichord, or Clavicembalo, incapable of the gradations of tone obtainable on the Clavichord, an instrument which, though feeble in quality, is extremely flexible.

No one could adjust the quill plectrums of his Harpsichord to Bach's satisfaction; he always did it himself. He tuned his Harpsichord and Clavichord, and was so skilful in the operation that it never took him more than a quarter of an hour. It enabled him to play in any key he preferred, and placed the whole twenty-four of them at his disposal, so that he could modulate into the remoter as easily and naturally as into the more nearly related keys. Those who heard him frequently could hardly detect the fact that he had modulated into a distant key, so smooth were his transitions. In chromatic movements his modulation was as easy and sequent as in diatonic. His Chromatic Fantasia, which is now published,129 bears out my statement. In his extemporisation he was even freer, more brilliant and expressive.

When he played his own music Bach usually adopted a brisk pace. He contrived to introduce so much variety that every piece became a sort of conversation between its parts. If he wished to express deep emotion he did not strike the notes with great force, as many do, but expressed his feeling in simple melodic and harmonic figures,130 relying rather on the internal resources of his art than external dynamics. Therein he was right. True emotion is not suggested by hammering the Clavier. All that results is that the notes cannot be heard distinctly, much less be connected coherently.

What has been said regarding Bach's admirable Clavier playing applies generally to his skill as an organist. The Clavier and Organ have points in common, but in style and touch are as different as their respective uses. What sounds well on the Clavier is ineffective on the Organ, and vice versa. The most accomplished Clavier player may be, and usually is, a bad organist unless he realises the differing natures of the two instruments and the uses they serve. I have come across only two men who can be regarded as exceptions to this general rule—Bach and his eldest son, Wilhelm Friedemann. Both were finished Clavier performers, but no trace of the Clavier style was apparent when they played the Organ. Melody, harmony, and pace were carefully selected with due regard to the nature and distinctive use of each instrument. When Wilhelm Friedemann played the Clavier his touch was elegant, delicate, agreeable. When he played the Organ he inspired a feeling of reverent awe. On the one he was [pg 62] charming. On the other he was solemn, impressive. So also was his father, and to an even greater degree. Wilhelm Friedemann was a mere child to him as an organist, and frankly admitted the fact.131 The music that extraordinary man wrote for the Organ is full of dignity, awe-inspiring, saturated with the atmosphere of devotion. His improvisation was even more inspired, dignified, and impressive: for then his imagination was untrammelled by the irksomeness of expressing himself on paper. What is the essence of this art? Let me, though imperfectly, attempt an answer.

When we compare Bach's Clavier compositions with those written for the Organ it is at once apparent that they differ essentially in melodic and harmonic structure. Hence we conclude that a good organist must select fitting themes for his instrument, and let himself be guided by its character and that of the place in which it stands and by the objects of its use. Its great body of tone renders the Organ ill-adapted to light and jaunty music. Its echoes must have liberty to rise and fall in the dim spaces of the church, otherwise the sound becomes confused, blurred, and unintelligible. What is played upon it [pg 63] must be suited to the place and the instrument, in other words, must be congruous to a solemn and majestic fabric. Occasionally and exceptionally a solo stop may be used in a Trio, etc. But the proper function of the Organ is to support church singing and to stimulate devotional feeling. The composer therefore must not write music for it which is congruous to secular surroundings. What is commonplace and trite can neither impress the hearer nor excite devotional feeling. It must therefore be banished from the Organ-loft. How clearly Bach grasped that fact! Even his secular music disdained trivialities. Much more so his Organ music, in which he seems to soar as a spirit above this mortal planet.

Of the means by which Bach attained to such an altitude as a composer for the Organ we may notice his harmonic treatment of the old Church modes, his use of the obbligato pedal, and his original registration. The remoteness of the ecclesiastical modes from our twenty-four major and minor keys renders them particularly appropriate to the service of religion. Any one who looks at Bach's simple four-part Hymn tunes (Choralgesänge) will at once convince himself of the fact. But no one can realise how the Organ sounds under a similar system of harmonic treatment unless he has heard it. It becomes a choir of four or five parts, each in its natural [pg 64] compass. Compare the following chords in divided harmony:

To these qualities must be added the exquisite art Bach displayed in combining the stops of the Organ. His registration frequently astonished organists and Organ builders, who ridiculed it at first, but were obliged in the end to admit its [pg 65] admirable results and to confess that the Organ gained in richness and sonority.132

Bach's peculiar registration was based on his intimate knowledge of Organ building and of the properties of each individual stop. Very early in his career he made a point of giving to each part of the Organ the utterance best suited to its qualities, and this led him to seek unusual combinations of stops which otherwise would not have occurred to him. Nothing escaped his notice which had the slightest bearing on his art or promised to advance it. For instance, he made a point of observing the effect of large musical compositions in different surroundings. The practised ear, which enabled him to detect the slightest error in music even of the fullest and richest texture, and the art and rapidity with which he tuned his instrument, alike attest his intuitive skill and many-sidedness. When he was at Berlin in 1747 he was shown the new Opera House. He took in its good and bad qualities at a glance, whereas others had done so only after experience. He was shown the large adjoining Saloon and went up into the gallery that runs round it. Merely glancing at the roof he remarked, “The architect has secured a novel effect which, probably, neither himself nor any one else suspected.” The Saloon, in fact, is a parallelogram. If a [pg 66] person puts his face to the wall in one corner of it and whispers a few words, another person at the corner diagonally opposite can hear them distinctly, though to others between them the words are inaudible. The effect arises from the span of the arches in the roof, as Bach saw at a glance. These and similar observations suggested to him striking and unusual combinations of Organ stops.

Bach brought the methods I have indicated to bear upon Church music, and they help to explain his extraordinarily dignified and inspired playing, which was at once so appropriate and filled the listener with deep awe and admiration. His profound knowledge of harmony, unfailing originality, freedom from a secular style, his complete command of the instrument, both manuals and pedals, whence flowed a generous stream of the richest and most abundant fancy, the infallible and swift judgment which allowed him always to select from the treasury of his mind precisely the musical ideas best suited to the occasion immediately before him, his intuitive grasp of every detail, and his power to make it serve his artistic ends—in a word, his transcendent genius brought the art of Organ playing to a degree of perfection which, till then, it had never attained and hardly will attain again. Quantz133 has expressed the [pg 67] same opinion. “The admirable Johann Sebastian Bach,” he writes, “brought the art of Organ playing to its highest perfection. It is to be hoped that when he dies it will not be suffered to decline or be lost, as is to be feared from the small number of people who nowadays bestow pains upon it.”134

Strangers often asked Bach to play to them between the hours of divine service. On those occasions he was wont to select and treat a theme in various ways, making it the subject of each extemporisation even if he continued playing for two hours. As a beginning he played a Prelude and Fugue on the Great Organ. Then he developed it with solo stops in a Trio or Quartet. A Hymn-tune followed, whose melody he interrupted in the subtlest fashion with fragments of the theme in three or four parts. Last came a Fugue, with full Organ, in which he treated the subject alone or in association with one or more accessory themes. Here we have the art which old Reinken of Hamburg considered to be lost, but which, as he afterwards found, not only survived but attained its greatest perfection in Bach.

Bach's pre-eminent position and his high reputation often caused him to be invited to examine candidates for vacant organistships, and to report on new Organs. In both cases he acted so conscientiously and impartially that he generally made [pg 68] enemies. Scheibe, late Director of Music at the Danish Court, who as a young man was examined by Bach on such an occasion, was so incensed by Bach's unfavourable verdict that he afterwards avenged himself in his “Critical Musician” by violently attacking his examiner.135 In his examination of Organs Bach equally exposed himself to trouble. He could as little prevail on himself to praise a bad instrument as to recommend a bad organist. He was, therefore, severe, though always fair, in the tests he applied, and as he was thoroughly acquainted with the construction of the instrument it was hopeless to attempt to deceive him. First of all he drew out all the stops, to hear the Full Organ. He used to say jokingly, that he wanted to find out whether the instrument had good lungs! Then he gave every part of it a most searching test. But his sense of fairness was so strong that, if he found the work really well done, and the builder's remuneration [pg 69] too small, so that he was likely to be a loser, Bach endeavoured, and often successfully, to procure for him an adequate addition to the purchase price.

When the examination was over, especially if the instrument pleased him, Bach liked to exhibit his splendid talent, both for his own pleasure and the gratification of those who were present. Such demonstrations of his powers invariably invited the verdict, that he was conclusively “the prince of Clavier and Organ players,” a title which Sorge, the late highly-esteemed organist at Lobenstein,136 once gave him in a dedicatory Preface.

Bach's first attempts at composition, like all early efforts, were unsatisfactory. Lacking special instruction to direct him towards his goal, he was compelled to do what he could in his own way, like others who have set out upon a career without a guide. Most youthful composers let their fingers run riot up and down the keyboard, snatching handfuls of notes, assaulting the instrument in wild frenzy, in hope that something may result from it. Such people are merely Finger Composers—in his riper years Bach used to call them Harpsichord Knights—that is to say, their fingers tell them what to write instead of being instructed by the brain what to play.137 Bach abandoned that method of composition when he observed that [pg 71] brilliant flourishes lead nowhere. He realised that musical ideas need to be subordinated to a plan and that the young composer's first need is a model to instruct his efforts. Opportunely Vivaldi's Concertos for the Violin,138 then recently published, gave him the guidance he needed. He had often heard them praised as admirable works of art, and conceived the happy idea of arranging them for the Clavier.139 Hence he was led to study their structure, the musical ideas on which they are built, the variety of their modulations, and other characteristics. Moreover, in adapting to the Clavier ideas and phrases originally written for the Violin Bach was compelled to put his brain to work, and so freed his inspiration from dependence on his fingers. Henceforth he was able to draw ideas out of his own storehouse, and having placed himself on the right road, needed only perseverance and hard work to succeed. And how persevering he was! He even robbed [pg 72] himself of sleep to practise in the night what he had written during the day! But the diligence he bestowed upon his own compositions did not hinder him from studying the works of Frescobaldi,140 Froberger, Kerl, Pachelbel, Fischer, Strungk,141 Buxtehude, Reinken, Bruhns, Böhm, and certain French organists who were famed in those days as masters of harmony and fugue.142

The models he selected—Church musicians for the most part—and his own disposition inclined him to serious and exalted subjects. But in that kind of music little can be accomplished with inadequate technique. Bach's first object, therefore, was to develop his power of expressing himself before he attempted to realise the ideal that beckoned him. Music to him was a language, and the composer a poet who, whatever the idiom he affects, must first of all have at his disposal the means of making himself intelligible to others. But the technique of his period Bach found limited in variety and insufficiently pliable. Therefore he set himself at the outset to refashion the accepted harmonic system. He did so in a manner characteristically individual and bearing the impress of his personality.

If the language of music is merely the utterance of a melodic line, a simple sequence of musical notes, it can justly be accused of poverty. The addition of a Bass puts it upon a harmonic foundation and clarifies it, but defines rather than gives it added richness. A melody so accompanied—even though all the notes are not those of the true Bass—or treated with simple embellishments in the upper parts, or with simple chords, used to be called “homophony.” But it is a very different thing when two melodies are so interwoven that they converse together like two persons upon a footing of pleasant equality. In the first case the accompaniment is subordinate, and serves merely to support the first or principal part. In the second case the two parts are not similarly related. New melodic combinations spring from their interweaving, out of which new forms of musical expression emerge. If more parts are interwoven in the same free and independent manner, the apparatus of language is correspondingly enlarged, and becomes practically inexhaustible if, in addition, varieties of form and rhythm are introduced. Hence harmony becomes no longer a mere accompaniment of melody, but rather a potent agency for augmenting the richness and expressiveness of musical conversation. To serve that end a simple accompaniment will not suffice. True harmony is the interweaving of several melodies, which [pg 74] emerge now in the upper, now in the middle, and now in the lower parts.

From about the year 1720, when he was thirty-five, until his death in 1750, Bach's harmony consists in this melodic interweaving of independent melodies, so perfect in their union that each part seems to constitute the true melody. Herein Bach excels all the composers in the world.143 At least, I have found no one to equal him in music known to me. Even in his four-part writing we can, not infrequently, leave out the upper and lower parts and still find the middle parts melodious and agreeable.

But in harmony of this kind each part must be highly plastic; otherwise it cannot play its role as an actual melody and at the same time combine with the other parts. To produce it Bach followed a course of his own, upon which the textbooks of his day were silent, but which his genius suggested to him. Its originality consists in the freedom of his part writing, in which he transgresses, seemingly, at any rate, rules long established and to his contemporaries almost sacred. Bach, however, realised their object, which was simply to facilitate the flow of pure melody on a sound harmonic basis, in other words, successive and coexistent euphony, and he succeeded with singular success though by [pg 75] unfamiliar means. Let me explain my meaning more closely.

Between simple intervals there is little difficulty in deciding whether the second note must rise or fall. And in regard to phrases, or sections of a phrase, if we analyse their structure and follow out their harmonic tendency, their resolution is equally clear. But this sense of destination may be provoked in each part by different intervals. As we have observed already, every one of the four parts must flow melodically and freely. But to secure that result it will be necessary to introduce between the notes which begin a phrase and establish its general atmosphere other notes which often are not consonant with those employed in the other parts and whose incidence is governed by the accent. This is what we call a transitus regularis et irregularis.144 Each part starts from a fixed point, and returns to it, but travels freely between them. No one has made more use of such progressions than Bach in order to colour his parts and give them a characteristic melodic line. Hence, unless his music is played with perfect fluency, occasional passages will sound harshly and we may be tempted to accuse him of exaggeration. But the charge is ill founded. Once we play them as Bach intended [pg 76 ] them, such passages reveal their full beauty and their attractive though bizarre dissonance opens up new vistas in the realm of sound.

But, to speak in detail of Bach's transgression of recognised rules. To begin with, he admitted octaves and fifths provided they sounded well; that is, when the cause of their being forbidden did not arise.145 Everybody knows that there are positions in which they sound well, and others when they should be avoided, owing to the harsh effect or thin harmony they produce. Bach's octaves and fifths never produce bad or thin harmony, and he was very definite as to when they could and could not be used. In certain circumstances he would not permit hidden fifths and octaves even between the middle parts, though we exclude them only between the outer parts. Yet, on occasion he used them in such a barefaced manner as to puzzle the beginner in composition. But their use very soon commends itself. Even in the last revision of his early compositions we find him altering passages, which at first sight appear impeccable, with the object of enriching their harmony and without scrupling to use hidden octaves. A remarkable instance occurs [pg 77] in the first part of the Well-tempered Clavier, in the E major Fugue, between the fifth and fourth bars from the end.146 I regret to this hour that, on looking over the later text, from which Hoffmeister and Kühnel's edition of that work is printed,147 I was so foolish as to reject Bach's amended reading there, merely because the harmony is unorthodox though more pleasing. I stupidly preferred the older, more correct, and harsher reading, though in the later text the three parts run easily and smoothly. And what more can one demand?

Again, there is a rule that every note raised by an accidental cannot be doubled in the chord, because the raised note must, from its nature, resolve on the note above. If it is doubled, it must rise doubled in both parts and, consequently, form consecutive octaves. Such is the rule. But Bach frequently doubles not only notes accidentally raised elsewhere in the scale but actually the semitonium modi or leading-note itself. Yet he avoids consecutive octaves. His finest works yield examples of this.

Again, Bach's statement that “over a pedal point all intervals are permissible that occur in the three scales”148 should be regarded rather [pg 78] an expansion than a violation of the recognised rule. In general what is called an Organ point is merely a retarded close. Bach, however, did not hesitate to employ it in the middle of a piece; a striking example occurs in the last Gigue of the English Suites.149 On a first hearing this Gigue, imperfectly rendered, may not sound well. But it grows more beautiful as it becomes more familiar, and what seemed harsh is found to be smooth and agreeable, until one never tires of playing and hearing it.

Bach's modulation was as original and characteristic as his harmony, and as closely related to it. But the two things, though closely associated, are not the same. By harmony we mean the concordance of several parts; by modulation, their progression through keys. Modulation can take place in a single part. Harmony requires more than one. I will endeavour to make my meaning clearer.

Most composers stick closely to their tonic key and modulate out of it with deliberation. In music that requires a large number of performers, and in a building, for instance a church, where the large volume of sound dies away slowly, such a habit shows good sense in the composer who wishes his work to produce the best possible effect. But in chamber or instrumental music it is not always a proof of wisdom, but rather of mental poverty. Bach saw clearly that the two [pg 79] styles demand different treatment. In his large choral compositions he bridles his exuberant fancy. In his instrumental works he lets himself go. As he never courted popularity, but always pursued his ideal, Bach had no reason to suppress the nobility of his inspirations, or to lower their standard for public consumption. Nor did he ever do so. Therefore every modulation in his instrumental work is a new thought, a constantly progressive creation in the plane of the chosen keys and those related to them. He holds fast to the essentials of harmony, but with every modulation introduces a new suggestion and glides so smoothly to the end of a piece that no creaking of machinery is perceptible; yet no single bar—I might almost say no part of a bar—is like another. Every modulation bears a strict relationship to the key from which it proceeds, and springs naturally from it. Bach ignored, or rather despised, the sudden sallies by which many composers seek to surprise their hearers. Even in his chromatic passages his progressions are so smooth and easy that we are hardly conscious of them, however extreme they may be. He makes us feel that he has not stepped outside the diatonic scale, so quick is he to seize upon the consonances common to dissonant systems and combine them to his sure purpose.

The combination of several melodic lines obliges the composer to use devices which are unnecessary in homophonic music. A single melody can develop as it pleases. But when two or more are combined each must be so delicately and cleverly fashioned that it can be interwoven with the others in this direction and in that. And here we detect one at least of the reasons why Bach's melodies are so strangely original, and his tunes so clearly distinguishable from those of other [pg 81] composers. Provided that novelty does not degenerate into eccentricity or extravagance, and that clearness and facility of expression march with agreeableness, a composer's meritoriousness is proclaimed in his originality.150 The one drawback is that the ordinary hearer cannot appreciate melodic beauties which are patent only to the expert.

But Bach's melodies are not invariably so handicapped. They are always original, it is true. But in his free compositions the melodies are so natural and spontaneous that, while they sound differently from those of other composers, their naturalness, and the sincerity of feeling that inspires them, make them intelligible to every listener. Most of the Preludes in the Well-tempered Clavier as well as a number of movements in the Suites are of this character.

Bach's melody, then, bears the unmistakable stamp of originality. And so does his passage work, as it is called. Such novelty, originality, and brilliancy are not found in any other composer. Examples are to be found in all Bach's Clavier works. But the most striking and original are in [pg 82] the Great Variations,151 in the first Part of the Clavierübung,152 in the English Suites,153 and the Chromatic Fantasia.154 In the last particularly Bach's fertility impresses us. The greater part of its passage work is in the form of harmonic arpeggios whose richness and originality match the chords they represent.

In order to realise the care and skill Bach expended on his melody and harmony, and how he put the very best of his genius into his work, I need only instance his efforts to construct a composition incapable of being harmonised with another melodic part. In his day it was regarded as imperative to perfect the harmonic structure of part-writing. Consequently the composer was careful to complete his chords and leave no door open for another part. So far the rule had been followed more or less closely in music for two, three, and four parts, and Bach observed it in such cases. But he applied it also to compositions consisting of a single part, and to a deliberate experiment in this form we owe the six Violin and the six Violoncello Solo Suites,155 [pg 83] which have no accompaniment and do not require one. So remarkable is Bach's skill that the solo instrument actually produces all the notes required for complete harmony, rendering a second part unnecessary and even impossible.

Bach's melody never palls on us, because of the presence in it of those qualities to which I have referred. It remains “ever fair and young,” like Nature herself. In his earlier works, in which we find him still in bondage to the prevailing mode, there is a good deal that to-day seems antiquated. But when, as in his later works, he draws his melody from the living wells of inspiration and cuts himself adrift from convention, all is as fresh and new as if it had been written yesterday. Of how many compositions of that period can the same be said? Even the works of ingenious composers like Reinhard Keiser156 and Handel have become old-fashioned sooner than we or their composers might have supposed. Like other caterers for the public, they were obliged to pander to its taste, and such music endures no longer than the standard which produced it. Nothing is more inconstant and fickle than popular caprice and, in general, what is called fashion. It must be admitted, however, that Handel's Fugues are not yet out of date, [pg 84] though there are probably few of his Arias that we now find agreeable.157

Bach's melody and harmony are rendered still more distinctive by their inexhaustible rhythmic variety. Hitherto we have discussed his music merely subjectively as harmony and melody. But to display vivacity and variety music needs to be uttered with rhythmic point and vigour. More than those of any other period composers of Bach's time found no difficulty in this, for they acquired facility in the management of rhythm in the “Suite,” which held the place of our “Sonata.” Between the initial Prelude and closing Gigue the Suite includes a number of characteristic French dance measures, whose rhythm is their distinguishing characteristic. Composers of Bach's day, therefore, were familiar with measures and rhythms which are now obsolete. Moreover skilful treatment was necessary in order that each dance might exhibit its own distinctive character and swing. Herein Bach exceeded his predecessors and contemporaries. He experimented with every kind of key and rhythm in order to give variety and colour to each movement. Out of his experience he acquired such facility that, even in [pg 85] Fugue, with its complex interweaving of several parts, he was able to employ a rhythm as easy as it was striking, as characteristic as it was sustained from beginning to end, as natural as a simple Minuet.

The source of Bach's astonishing pre-eminence is to be sought in his facile and constant application of the methods we have discussed. In whatever form he chose to express himself, easy or difficult, he was successful and seemingly effortless.158 There is not a note in his music that does not suggest consummate ease of workmanship. What he sets out to do he concludes triumphantly. The result is complete and perfect; no one could wish for a single note to be other than it is. Some illustrations will make my point clearer.

Carl Philipp Emmanuel, in the preface to his father's Vierstimmige Choralgesänge (“Four-part Hymn-tunes”), which he edited,159 says that [pg 86] the world was accustomed to look for nothing but masterpieces from Bach. Some reviewers thought this praise exaggerated. But if the term “masterpiece” is restricted to works written during the years of Bach's maturity160 it is nothing less than the truth. Others have produced masterpieces in various forms which may be placed honourably by the side of his. For instance, certain Allemandes, Courantes, etc., by Handel and others are not less beautiful, though less richly wrought, than Bach's. But in Fugue, Counterpoint, and Canon he stands alone, in a grandeur so isolated that all around him seems desert and void. No one ever wrote Fugues to compare with his; indeed, persons unacquainted with them cannot imagine what a Fugue is and ought to be. The ordinary Fugue follows a rule of thumb development. It takes a theme, puts another beside it, passes them into related keys, and writes other parts round them over a Continuo. Certainly this is Fugue: but of what merit? Persons who know no other not unnaturally hold the whole species in little esteem, and the player who hopes to make such commonplace material convincing will need all his skill and imagination.

Bach's Fugue is of quite another kind. It presents all the characteristics we are accustomed to [pg 87] in freer musical forms: a flowing and distinctive melody, ease, clarity, and facility in the progression of the parts, inexhaustible variety of modulation, purest harmony, the exclusion of every jarring or unnecessary note, unity of form and variety of style, rhythm, and measure, and such superabundant animation that the hearer may well ask himself whether every note is not actually alive. Such are the properties of Bach's Fugues, properties which excite the admiration and astonishment of all who can appreciate the intellectual calibre their composition demands. How great a tribute of homage is due to work of this kind, which exhibits all the qualities which lend distinction to compositions in other musical forms! Moreover, while all Bach's Fugues of his mature period have the foregoing properties in common, each is endowed with peculiar excellencies of its own, has its own distinctive individuality, and displays a melodic and harmonic scheme in keeping with it. The man who can play one of Bach's Fugues is familiar with, and can play, one only; whereas knowing one, we can perform portfolios of Fugues by other performers of Bach's period.

To what a height was the art of Counterpoint carried by Bach's genius! It enabled him to develop out of a given subject a whole family of related and contrasted themes, of every form and design. It taught him to develop an idea logically [pg 88] from the beginning to the end. It gave him such a command of harmony and its infinite combinations that he could invert whole themes, note by note, in every part, without impairing in the least the flow of melody or purity of his harmony. It taught him to write in canon at all intervals and in movements of all kinds so easily and naturally that the workmanship is not perceptible and the composition sounds as smoothly as though it were in the free style. Lastly, it has given to posterity a legacy of works immensely various, which are, and will remain, models of contrapuntal form as long as music endures.161

I have written exclusively so far of Bach's Clavier and Organ work. But in its expression music has two branches, instrumental and vocal, and as Bach excels in both of them, the reader will desire to hear somewhat respecting his vocal writings.

It was at Weimar that Bach first had occasion to write for the voice,162 upon his appointment to [pg 89] the Kapelle, which imposed on him the provision of music for the ducal chapel. His church music, like his Organ works, is devout and serious, and in every respect what church music ought to be. He makes a point also of not elaborating individual words, which leads to mere trifling, but interprets the text as a whole.163 His choruses invariably are magnificent and impressive, and he frequently introduces Chorals into them,164 making the other parts accompany their Cantus fugally, as was the practice in a Motet. As elsewhere in his works, the harmonic structure of his voice parts and instrumental accompaniment is rich. The declamation of the recitatives is expressive, and the latter have fine Continuo parts.165 In his Arias, hardly one of which is not beautiful and expressive, Bach seems to have been handicapped by the inefficiency of his singers and instrumentalists, who constantly complained of the difficulty of his music. If he had been fortunate enough to have capable performers the merits of his church music [pg 90] would have been established and, like his other works, they would still be sung and admired; for they contain treasures which deserve immortality.166

Among the works composed at Leipzig I single out two Cantatas, one of which was performed at Cöthen at the funeral of Bach's beloved Prince Leopold, and the other in St. Paul's Church, Leipzig, on the occasion of the funeral sermon in honour of Christiana Eberhardine, Queen of Poland and Electress of Saxony.167 The first contains double choruses of uncommon magnificence and most affecting sentiment.168 The second has only four-part choruses, but they are so delightful and fresh that he who begins the work will not pause till he has reached the end of it. It was written in October 1727.

Bach also composed a great number of Cantatas, chiefly for the choir of St. Thomas' School, Leipzig.169 [pg 91] The choir ordinarily numbered fifty singers, and sometimes more, over whose musical training Bach presided like a father. He practised them so hard in Cantatas for single and double chorus that they became excellent singers. Among these works are some which, in profundity of conception, magnificence, richness of harmony and melody, and animation, surpass everything of their kind. But, like all Bach's works, and in common with other masterpieces, they are difficult to perform and need a numerous orchestra to produce their full effect.

Such are Bach's most important vocal compositions. 170 In minor forms of the art, morceaux for social entertainments and the like, he wrote little,171 though he was of a most sociable disposition. For instance, he is said never to have composed a song.172 And why should he? They produce themselves so spontaneously that there is little call for genius to aid their gestation.