Johann Jakob Froberger, the son of a cantor in Halle, was born in that city; the exact date of his birth is uncertain, but may perhaps be fixed at between 1610 and 1620.[28]
A Swedish ambassador, temporarily in Halle, took Froberger with him to Vienna, says Walther (Lexicon, Leipzig, 1732); he was charmed with the fine voice of the youth—who was fifteen years of age—and astonished at his rare musical talent. Soon Froberger became a member of the imperial choir. In the treasury records of the Hofburg we find him designated as organist of the palace from January 1, 1637, to September 30 of the same year.[29] After this he left Vienna for Rome to study with Frescobaldi. This move had previously been decided upon; the records above mentioned contain the following entry upon the subject: "J.J. Froberger requests that he be sent to Rome, to Frescobaldi, as he was promised. The sum of 200 florins is granted him." After four years of study he resumed his service at court, April 1, 1641. In 1645 he obtained leave of absence. Where did he pass this time? Perhaps he remained in Vienna, where his ability as a clavecinist was highly appreciated; at any rate he was there in 1649. William Swann, chevalier lettré et grand amateur de musique, wrote from Vienna, September 15, 1649, to Constantin Huygens,[30] a councillor to the Prince of Orange, that he was sending him "some pieces given me by a Monsieur Froberger, who has great talent for the spinet."[31]
Still further, the manuscript of the second volume of Froberger's compositions is dated "Vienna, li 29 Settembre 1649."[32] This book he dedicated to Emperor Ferdinand III.,[33] his patron; this act of homage perhaps gave him an opportunity to beg for the extension of his leave.[34]
Froberger took this occasion to go to Brussels; witness to his presence there is borne by the following record, found upon one of the Toccatas: "fatto a Bruxellis, anno 1650." This toccata is included in a manuscript collection preserved in Paris, together with other pieces, one of which[35] indicates that he went to Paris at about the same period. His stay there brought him into touch with Galot and Gautier, whose style of playing the harpsichord he acquired, Mattheson tells us. Thus he endowed the German school with that profusion of ornaments which characterized the performance of these virtuosi, renowned for their skill in playing the lute.[36]
April 1, 1653, Froberger again assumed his duties as organist, retaining his position until June 30, 1657. It is said that he was obliged to retire, having fallen into disgrace; the death of his patron, Ferdinand III., which occurred the same year, may also have led him to decide to leave the court, where he no longer enjoyed the favor which he had been accustomed to receive from the Emperor.
Several years were devoted to travels; he visited Mayence and England, being in the latter country at the time of the marriage of Charles II. in 1662.
This journey to England has inspired a certain romance, very free in its details. It may be admitted that Froberger was shipwrecked on the way; but something which passes the bounds of probability and becomes but an absurd fable is the representation that, having been relieved of his money by pirates, he was forced to apply for the position of organ-blower at Westminster—he, who had been organist to the Imperial Court in Vienna! Moreover, Froberger did not fail to establish certain relations in England, particularly through the intermediation of Chevalier Swann, of whom we have already spoken.
His last years were spent with the Dowager Princess Sibylle de Montbéliard,[37] born Duchess of Württemberg. An attack of apoplexy ended his life May 7, 1667, at Héricourt; he was buried at Bavilliers (Department of Belfort).
In his compositions Froberger was the lineal descendant of Frescobaldi; but his conception of his art was not that of his master. Despite his more elaborate style and his more fully developed technique, especially in the fugue form, he never attained the classic beauty, the impressive repose, which characterized the works of the latter. Froberger was essentially a court musician; as such, he strove to please. Furthermore, his musical character was wholly superficial. What he feared above all things was that his music should be tedious, a judgment which has since often been passed upon it. Under his touch the rhythm would become more flexible; he would delight the listener, holding his attention by cleverly combined modulations; but his labors were devoted to the development only of forms already established—at least, upon the organ. The literature of the harpsichord is naturally more indebted to him, considering his temperament. He was one of the first to give to this instrument an individual style, by writing the Suites; an inheritance from the Partitas of Frescobaldi, it is true, but more closely forerunners of the sonata. In general, these suites[38] consist of an Allemande, a Courante, a Sarabande, and a Gigue, sometimes all upon a single theme, and often, as is noteworthy from the standpoint of the development of this style of music, connected simply by their tonality.
From a general point of view, Froberger's importance is due to his having brought into South Germany the style of Frescobaldi, as well as something of French music. And his works are worthy of perpetuation less because of their intrinsic value than for the influence they exercised.
This influence did not make itself felt until long after his death. Save for a few manuscripts (among them those in Vienna and Paris, which were little used, and a few pieces published separately; for example, the caprice upon the hexachord[39] brought out in 1650 by P. Athanasius Kircher in the Musurgia universalis), the "Diverse Ingegniosissime, Rarissime et non may più viste Couriose Partite, di Toccate, Canzoni, Ricercate, Alemande, Correnti, Sarabande et Gigue di Cembali, Organi et Instromenti" were not published until 1693, by Louis Burgeat, in Frankfort.
Of chief interest to us are the Toccatas in this volume, since they were written more specifically for the organ. Froberger here recalls his master only in certain details; it is more the work of a great virtuoso who, when he writes, always keeps in view the display of his own facility of execution.
His ingenious chatter, interesting combinations, and novelty of rhythm and of cadences,[40] attracted even Bach, Adlung[41] tells us: "Bach, of Leipzig, now deceased, always admired the compositions of J.J. Froberger, although they are somewhat antiquated."[42]
We have remarked that Froberger's importance is derived especially from his introduction of the traditions of Frescobaldi, although he impressed upon them the stamp of his own individuality and less exalted ambitions.
Johann Pachelbel was also destined to absorb some of the reflected genius of the great organist, two generations later; but he availed himself of it in a wholly individual manner, imbuing it with his own keen sense of the religious. Caspar Kerl,[43] who had studied in Rome at a time when the influence of Frescobaldi was still potent, gave Pachelbel his first insight into the characteristics of the master's work.
They became acquainted in Vienna; Kerl was organist at St. Stephen's, and Pachelbel was sufficiently advanced in his art to warrant his engagement as substitute for the former. Excepting his stay in Vienna, Pachelbel led a somewhat restless life, although in a smaller circle than that traversed by Froberger. Born at Nuremberg (September 1, 1653), he learned the elements of composition from Prentz, at Regensburg, after which he occupied several positions as organist, the succession of which is not accurately known, as regards dates; we know, however, that he was at Eisenach from 1675 to 1678. The other years were divided between Erfurt, Stuttgart, and Gotha; finally, upon the death of the organist Wecker, he settled in Nuremberg, in 1695. He died there March 3, 1706.
Despite this apparent restlessness, Pachelbel's life was quiet, full of that peace of mind which is characteristic of a profoundly pious nature.
His works betray the influence of such a sentiment, although he did not force upon his compositions that religious tone which a more studied method of procedure would have imparted to them. Their inherent character is purely emotional. To his chorale-preludes he lends a mystical significance, a devotional intimacy which was then unparalleled. While following the example of Scheidt in announcing or accompanying every melodic phrase by a counterpoint based upon a fragment of the phrase itself, he greatly improved the whole by making the movement more flowing; again, by a more intelligent choice of themes he attained the unity of expression demanded by the true sentiment of the chorale. These counterpoints are often symbolic in nature, as is so often the case with Bach; and the harmony is most expressive of that calm and plenitude which suggests the infinite, the essence of all religious music.
Pachelbel rarely varied the melody of the chorale. Heralded by the figuration of the accompanying parts, the cantus establishes itself over all, intensifying in its progression in even notes (for the most part diatonic) the exalted seriousness of the sacred text.
The Chorale is charged with having accustomed the German people, for the past three hundred years, to express their sorrows and their rejoicings in the same tone;[44] especially is ascribed to it that heavy rhythm, which has been likened to a "parade step." But precisely from this contrast between a melody which moves, wholly impersonally, ever onward upon its dignified course, while the sentiments of joy, of sadness are expressed in the embellishing counterpoint, is the inherent grandeur of such compositions derived.
The versets of Frescobaldi alone succeeded in suggesting to Pachelbel the idea of this form; up to this time none of the German organists had understood how to give such importance to a liturgical melody, despite the resources of their instruments with several manuals; the chorale-preludes of S. Scheidt (1587-1654) were of an analogous character, it is true; but they lacked the serenity of Pachelbel's compositions in this form, and most of the other musicians were still under the influence of the bad taste of the "colorists," seeking to impart to the melody, by means of diminutions and florid ornaments, the very expressiveness which they were incapable of taking away from it.
The following is an example of the manner in which Pachelbel wrote his chorales; it is the beginning of the first verse of "Vater unser im Himmelreich,"[45] the melody of which was used by Mendelssohn as the subject of his sixth organ sonata. Each verse is similarly introduced by a few measures in fugued style, the subject of which was borrowed from the corresponding portion of the melody.
When, in connection with Bach, we speak of Chorales conceived in the style of Pachelbel, it is to this type that we refer:
For the last verse:
Pachelbel preludizes in this manner:
In addition to numerous chorales we have quite a number of fugues by Pachelbel.
Here is noticeable this great advance step: the majority are tonal. Their subjects are broader, and of a melodic character which distinguishes them from the themes of their contemporaries, which were simple phrases, or parts of a progression, with no "respiration."
Thus, while in the sixth Toccata of Muffat,[46] one of the most remarkable composers of his time, we find this scanty theme (we have chosen it from among the better developed ones of that epoch),
we encounter this in Pachelbel:
or this:
The developments, too, are more consistently polyphonic in nature; they are more extended, by the simple logic of musical speech, without having recourse to foreign devices.
In his Toccatas, Pachelbel generally presents to us passages in sixths or tenths for the hands, firmly sustained by pedal notes of long duration, sometimes with changes of rhythm of extremely happy effect. One among others[47] contains a pastoral theme; and this is not an isolated example, for Pachelbel seems to have been fond of popular melodies. Some of these subjects, with their 12/8 rhythm, express the good-nature and simplicity of rustic tunes.
The greater part of Pachelbel's compositions may be found in the first volume of the Musica sacra. Others are published in various collections; we would mention in particular a Toccata and a Ciaccona, until now never published, which G.A. Ritter presents in his work Zur Geschichte des Orgelspiels.
Thanks to these publications, we may form an opinion of Pachelbel's music, always conservative and markedly religious in character.
Pachelbel had many pupils; so great was his fame that many organists, desirous of making a name for themselves, claimed to have been under his tutelage; but "every one cannot have been a pupil of Pachelbel," said Mattheson in the course of a celebrated discussion with one of them, the organist Buttstedt.[48]
This honor (of so much importance to us is this fact) did fall to the lot of Christoph Bach, elder brother of Johann Sebastian, and from whom the latter received his first lessons.
In bringing to a close this study of the precursors of Bach, it remains for us to speak of Buxtehude, the master of his choice.
Dietrich Buxtehude was a Dane. He was born in 1637, at Helsingör, where his father was organist to the Church of St. Olaf, and also was probably his only teacher. At about the age of thirty years the younger Buxtehude went to Lübeck, where he succeeded Tunder, organist of the Marienkirche.[49]
The organ of St. Mary's was one of the most famous of that time; its specification comprised fifty-four stops, divided among three manuals and the pedals, and the position was lucrative. And Buxtehude did not seek to exchange for another place a post so favorable; he retained it until his death, the 9th of May, 1707.
Thanks to the edition of Philipp Spitta,[50] Buxtehude's works have been brought within the reach of all; it is thus possible for every one to consult them at leisure, and to make one's own technical analysis of them. But meanwhile I shall endeavor to establish the affiliation between Buxtehude and Bach through a study of certain characteristics of their works.
And this we will not attempt to achieve through the medium of a general comparison from all points of view, which at best is but vague and indefinite. That Bach was richer in inspiration, that his work in point of breadth and imagination stands upon a relatively higher plane, are facts universally recognized, even though they are difficult to define, to prove specifically; we will concern ourselves only with the matter of structure. Take, for instance, the second chaconne of Buxtehude.
From the very first measures polyphonic interest asserts itself; the pedal, although impassive, so to speak, with its half- and quarter-notes, progresses in the dignified manner peculiar to the chaconne, the upper parts accompanying it in a timid figuration; sometimes leading it, sometimes characterized by clever retardations in dotted notes, unobtrusive and thoughtful in their imitative response, ... and that the theme may be well established in its progression and in the general plan, the sixty-four measures, less one note, transposed with such charm, are repeated like an echo, in the exquisite puerility of a design at once simple and devoid of affectation. Later on, toward the end of this little poem, the continuity of this angular theme is broken; it appears in fragments in the upper parts, affecting cleverness, and always easily recognized by an ear ever so little attentive, ... but, before he allows himself to indulge in such boldness—for boldness it was at that time—Buxtehude exhausts to a certain degree in the other parts every resource of movement and of melody; and it is when their voices subside to little more than whispers or subdued murmurs that the bass makes itself heard, forgetful of the quiet hitherto enjoined upon it, and becomes more free and animated, almost to the point of becoming divided into sixteenth-notes; striking tones which are repeated, and are no longer sustained, as if this sudden power were the product of its long restraint or the force of a malicious will....
We can hardly justify ourselves in designating as variations the changes undergone by the chaconne after this new exposition of the fundamental theme; the tie which binds its different portions is too inflexible. Try to take one of them away, attempt an interpolation, and you will be unsuccessful. While the various sections are distinct from each other, it is like a gradation of colors whose harmony arises only from the order of their selection. This series of strokes produces something more than the feeling of continuity, it frees itself of an intensity of expression which is increased at every measure; but the climax is attained with stately chords, in five real parts, the bass emphasizing them by a quarter-note upon each beat.[51]
The following page contains rapid and brilliant passages of many notes, which the pedal, at present omitted, could not follow, until finally the pace is slackened, and the movement becomes quiet; a plaintive harmonic progression is welcomed as a peaceful, serious word, when suddenly the movement is again quickened, even involving the pedal, then abandoning it, only to take it up again just before the cadence in major, which is now awaited.
By the side of a study of this little lyric, for such the chaconne is, together with the Passacaglia, we must point out the exuberant imagination displayed in the preludes and fugues. These compositions, moreover, partake of a definite design, evolved from the canzone in so far as that the same subject serves for various developments, clothed in different rhythms. Often even the various themes succeed each other, leaving to the ensemble only unity of tonality. Thus the fugue in E minor has successively three themes:[52]
then:
and finally
Each of these fugues is connected with the others by those brilliantly florid interludes for which Bach derived a taste, at least in his earlier years, from the influence of his studies of Buxtehude.
In the chorale, Buxtehude does not interest us in so great a degree as does Pachelbel; he is another of the "colorists." Furthermore, he was always more worldly than religious, even transforming St. Mary's Church into a concert-hall—for sacred concerts, if you will. But churches are not temples erected to the Fine Arts; while it may be true that the latter approach most closely the divine spirit, yet it must be recognized that pantheism, a philosophic teaching, has never been followed as a religion.[53]
The organ compositions of J.S. Bach (especially such of them as are free in style, and in which he made no use of the chorale) may be classified under three chronological periods, according to their structural characteristics.
It is of great interest to note the continued conquests which Bach placed to his credit; his first productions saying little that had not been said by others, but establishing, as it were, the specification of actual resources of which he might avail himself. The latest works, on the other hand, complete and final in their authority, demonstrate the prodigious career based upon that beginning, and thus define the exact measure of all that properly may be attributed to the author of Die Kunst der Fuge.
It would be puerile to ask one's self if Bach proposed to create, or even to reform; these chronological periods, which prescribe for us the limits of an historical and æsthetic analysis, are but the expression of our own conception. Although in the beginning Bach imitated his contemporaries or his precursors, he was unable to produce at once positive results in a branch of art in which technique alone holds so important a place. Besides, let us suppose that he had retained in his own possession these first attempts, permitting us to become acquainted only with his greater compositions, in which he could appear in his full strength—the earlier works being regarded as mere studies or sketches—then undoubtedly we should behold a spectacle which would astound the historians: the sudden production of such works in a state of perfection. Bach did not gratify his amour propre in this manner, he never dreamed of doing so; we realize that this little German organist, who was content modestly to produce a chorale or a fugue each Sunday, simply did the best he knew, always happy and interested in his work; and one day we see his genius fully established, as the result of all this previous and conscientious labor, together with something which he added to it—something of himself. With this element, which is characteristic of genius, we wish to become more intimately acquainted; but alas! as in every analysis, we cannot penetrate its being, and we must be satisfied to regard it from an objective point of view.
During the first period Bach assembled his resources; of his fellow-countrymen he acquired, from Buxtehude some characteristics of movement, his picturesqueness of rhythm, from Pachelbel that personal quality which is not unlike what we describe as "German" in speaking of certain popular Lieder. From the French he borrowed the ornaments, more artificial than spontaneous, and that splendor, often majestic, which recalls, in this case as well, the "Grand Roi"; from the Italians, gracefulness and perfection of proportions: the invaluable inheritance from antiquity, never cut off.
We repeat that these first productions are in nature a sort of assembling of resources; it matters little whether they be considered as pasticcii or as centoni;[54] as little, perhaps, as to know that the child Michael Angelo often copied this or that antique statue; although with this difference, that the latter may have despaired of attaining such heights, while Bach, for aught we know, may have considered that what had already been achieved in his art was, after all, little more than so many sketches.
To Buxtehude, Pachelbel, Froberger, F. Couperin, Frescobaldi, and still others—why name them all here?—belongs the proud distinction of having provided a medium for Bach; and still their importance is not lessened by such a fact any more than is Bach's; in any case, it is very difficult to judge a man of genius without reference to chronological succession. Neither in the domain of art nor of science is furnished an example of a man creating a standard, of which his original conception has not been aided by one influence or another. Did Aristotle invent the syllogism, or did he not merely gather from about him some fragments of rudimentary procedure? And is not Bach the Aristotle of music, the master of musical reasoning, giving speech to his syllogisms in a form beautiful in itself, without taking into consideration the thought which it clothes? And is a fugue anything but a syllogism? Jenner (and we voluntarily take as examples fame become banale) did not intuitively discover vaccine. By a happy chance he established the fact that certain herds were immune from small-pox; accidentally hit on the truth, by following his conclusion to its cause. The man of genius is undeniably Pasteur, who generalizes a century later, assisted by the addition to the literature upon the subject of a mass of treatises, those of Davaine, of Villemain.... To cite Jenner in connection with our subject is more than amusing; but consider Frescobaldi—is he not the Jenner of the Fugue?...
But let us avoid the necessity of classifying great men in the order of their merit; it is the evolution of Bach's genius which we wish to study. There is in this field an aspect of psychological analysis which we trust will prove of interest; but it is by no means our wish that any inference shall be drawn from the foregoing which could lead to an undervaluation of the originality of Johann Sebastian Bach.
Now as to the first period. Bach studied daily the technical methods of Buxtehude, or those of Pachelbel. He availed himself of these methods, he copied Pachelbel, he copied Buxtehude; furthermore, he imitated their pupils, and even those of lesser ability among them. He did not yet generalize. If at this moment he should disappear, should cease to write, his work would present no other characteristic than the decided manifestation of a temperament remarkably capable of assimilation. This interest will become augmented, if we scrutinize what comes later; therefore we may legitimately consider as embryonic that which, at this epoch, proceeds from his individuality.
The second period is one of formation; Bach begins to generalize. One of the compositions of this epoch, taken by itself, will not so strongly recall the work of his forerunners. Imitative in nature as they are, drawn from such various sources, and so composite, containing in one mosaic nuances of such different character, yet the whole is moulded by a hand whose touch is already characteristic, and over which skill is dominant. What Bach has dissected, he now reconstructs after a diathesis of his own. As an artist exhumes the fragments of an ancient reredos, primitive in sculpture, his personality betrays itself in the new connection which he establishes between these relics of a past age, which dictate to him no relationship incapable of alteration. And thus with Bach.... Still more, as the painter who would wrest from every form of human beauty whatever it possesses of the superhuman, seeking absolute beauty as his aim in the selection of a type.
Was Apelles able to portray a divine image, working upon human lines? His contemporaries claim that he was; and we know nothing about it, so subjective is history, reduced to testimonies from various sources. We have to go but a step further, and we find in the works of Bach, particularly in those of the last period, the evidence that from all these sources he evolved at least that which no one else could wrest from him, for since his time no one has been able even to follow him in his own domain, I will not say to equal him. As with the symphonies of Beethoven, he himself closed that particular way, and forced his disciples who would be masters in their particular realms to develop other lines.
We will proceed by chronological analysis, as far as it is possible to fix the succession, to demonstrate to the reader the ground for the classification of Bach's works which we are now to study; it being fully understood that these limits are in no way absolute, serving rather as dividing points in our work.
While the first period apparently ends during the early years at Weimar, about 1712—later we will explain why—it is difficult to fix definitely the date of its commencement, which perhaps takes us back to the years of study at Lüneburg. To this witness is borne by a prelude and fugue in C minor.[55]
The inexperience of the young composer betrays itself in every measure; the timidity with which he availed himself of the resources of the organ indicates even more the fear of venturing beyond the limits of a virtuosity which, while perhaps precocious, was not yet master of the instrument. Observe the treatment of the pedal, the touchstone of an organist; in the prelude it serves only as a foundation for the harmony, often doubling the notes given to the left hand. And truly is it not a weak artifice, this recitative upon which reliance is placed from the beginning, as if to attract notice to a certain technical dexterity which is suddenly forced to labor strenuously, as soon as the attention is distracted by the entrance of the other parts? And likewise in the fugue; the pedal does not take up the theme (truly one of a funeral march, with its doleful recurrence of the same figure, now interrupted, now repeated in different positions) until after the entire polyphony is at an end; it seems to appear only as an indication of the conclusion, which is, moreover, retarded by a sort of ill-timed coda. As to the workmanship of the fugue, it is far from perfect; the parts are built up one upon the other, the subject always being allotted to the higher part, thinly accompanied by the others; without being long, it is wearisome, and interest is awakened only by the entrance of the pedal, when the fugal character is no longer predominant.
The tonality of C minor, expressive of profound sadness, was apparently a favorite one with Bach at that time; another fugue in the same key[56] appears to be contemporaneous with the foregoing.
The same general characteristics are noticeable; the pedal is even more insignificant; but in the poetical conception of the piece, even in its incompleteness, there is a world of meaning.
While leaving to Schubert the "Signification of Tonalities," and not without distrusting this hobby—so absurd at times are the results of the analysis of every piece of music by reducing it to its exterior characteristics—still we cannot deny that to a certain extent this fugue is the reflex of everything of indecision in the life of Bach up to this time. The rhythm of the theme is established only at the end of the third measure, and each of its fragments serves to mark the close of a harmonic progression, despite the fact that the general tonality does not make itself plainly felt. This twofold ambiguity lends to the whole a touch of undefined regret, of a desire whose very existence is not suspected. Is this not wholly characteristic of the temperament of a youth?
We are reminded of Pachelbel by these two works, in their general lines, through this same exaggeration of an innate emotion into a condition of melancholy, a tendency peculiar to Bach. In point of technique the works sustain this reminiscence: the counterpoint is not yet fully developed. Further, compare them (particularly the second fugue) with certain of Pachelbel's compositions, especially with the fugue in E minor, whose theme we cited in our chapter upon this musician.
Other similarities appear in the variations in tempo with which these works are brought to a close; these new forms were of the North German school, whose illustrious representatives were Reinken and Buxtehude.
Bach had obtained of Boehm the key to their style; no composition of Pachelbel did he ever imitate with the zeal with which he set out to copy the preludes and fugues of Buxtehude; perhaps because he was already more like the former in point of natural qualities.
Even before his journey to Lübeck Bach began to write pieces in this style of several movements. We will examine a prelude in G major,[57] and a fugue in A minor accompanied by a prelude in the same key.[58]
The prelude in G major seems to us to date further back than Bach's study of Buxtehude, from the fact of its evident inspiration by a prelude of Bruhns, written in the same key.[59]
It is true that Bruhns was one of Buxtehude's best pupils, but he was nothing more; it would seem as if Bach, appreciating the value of the master, did not gauge with sufficient accuracy the capabilities of the pupils.
We find the same spirit, the same cheerfulness as in Bruhns's compositions; but the piece is less abrupt, and, by way of contrast, is interrupted by moments of sadness. In the expression of joy, was it Bach's intention to remind us that happiness is never complete, that it is always accompanied by mourning?
These few measures, in a minor and not even the relative tonality, in syncopated rhythm, come suddenly upon us in the midst of all this joyfulness, like a memento mori; and they suffice to alter the effect of the second part of this work, to the benefit of a more lofty ideal. When the joyous motive reappears, it is no longer with the same worldly bearing; restricted to a series of imitations which only render it indefinite, moderating the swiftness of movement in favor of breadth of tone, it seems rather to be proclaiming a peace which will know no end.
This prelude is already of much importance from an artistic standpoint; but we cannot say as much of the prelude and fugue in A minor which we mentioned at the same time. There is no doubt that it also dates back further than the journey in 1705; Bach must have sadly misconstrued the true significance of Buxtehude's works to have indulged in plagiarism so unskilfully.
He reproduced only the faults of his model; he followed him only into the by-ways, augmenting his mistakes by the awkwardness with which he set about his task. In fact, the work is little more than an omnium-gatherum of ideas picked up at random and strung together upon the mere excuse of a tonality. After a short prelude devoid of interest, we find the theme of the fugue to be of peculiar dryness, supported by equally barren counterpoint. The interlude which follows is a succession of incorrect harmonic progressions, peculiarly disagreeable in effect;—even as he thought to imitate Buxtehude's freedom of movement[60] in the restlessness of the prelude and fugue, so Bach hoped to acquire the expressiveness of his harmonic progressions, so audacious for their time[61]—and introduces a new treatment of the fugue, monotonous, but finally coming to a close in a more interesting fashion.
More happily inspired in his emulations, or better served by his talents, we behold Bach in a composition in three movements, little known up to this time: a "Fantasie" in G major.[62]
The first two movements are still rather weak, perhaps influenced by the Italian music heard and played during the few months preceding, when Bach was a violinist in the orchestra of Prince Ernest of Weimar.
The third movement is remarkable, at least with regard to its depth of thought, and to its adoption of all that was most to be desired in Buxtehude's style. The upper parts cross each other upon the scale given out by the bass, as in a Chaconne; it is the resistance of surging waves to the slow rising of the stream, expressed by the implacable repose of the fundamental theme, whose intensity, with its own imperturbable repetitions, overcomes all resistance.
In many of Bach's works we encounter these ascending and descending scales, but they are of varying significance. We find them again in a piece closely allied to the foregoing: a Fantasia,[63] also in G major, where the diatonic scale serves as the foundation of harmonies, whose interest, cleverly held in check, is augmented by the uninterrupted progression of five real parts.
These works are no longer mere plagiarisms; a glimmer of individuality discloses itself. For example, let us look at the prelude and fugue in E minor.[64] If Buxtehude is here brought in mind, it is because of that quality of his which is most neutral, and no longer through his peculiar originality, his personal resources; in trying to avoid which a mere imitator must always come to grief. Many a detail in construction is derived from the Lübeck organist; for instance, those detached chords, which so successfully set off that plaintive syncopated progression, the sobbing of whose notes is thereby rendered always more intense; the last sections repeating the first, now broken into two still more earnest entreaties.
And of this fugal theme, beginning in two separate fragments upon the dominant, we have seen examples in Buxtehude; but there this repetition of the subject expressed in its intensity a joyous declaration.[65]
It is here a tremulous, hesitating interrogation, which seems to dread its answer; the prelude is full of lonely sadness, as deep as it is despairing; in the fugue it converses in dialogue with itself, one might say in accents which proclaim a public misfortune.
But if one may not seek "in a musical work the expression of any condition of the soul, or the narration of any story of the heart,"[66] one can hardly deny that music expresses "the being, even the personal will"[67] of psychological phenomena, at least in the sense that the interest of certain works of art, aside from every æsthetic consideration, is correlative to the mental condition in which one receives them. This may explain the position occupied among the works of Bach by this piece, whose many weaknesses are revealed to us by a technical analysis.
This intimate nature finds an antithesis in the Toccata and Fugue in D minor,[68] which belongs chronologically to the same period; it is still Buxtehude, but it is conceived throughout in a picturesque style. It lacks only an argument to establish by every right its character as "program music." The two rapid and dazzling flashes, a peal of thunder, rumbling heavily in the reverberations of a chord slowly broken, and above the vibration of the deep pedal, augmented in intensity by its duration; wind, then hail;—we are in the midst of the classic tempest. Entirely a thing of virtuosity, appreciated even by those who take account of nothing in the arts but the illusion gained, the Toccata earned brilliant success for Bach upon his journey to the smaller German courts, and contributed in large measure toward the extension of his fame.
This composition belongs to a whole series of virtuosic works, as well as the prelude and fugue,[69] in E major in the edition of W. Rust (Bach-Gesellschaft), and in C in Griepenkerl's (Peters); and, above all, the celebrated fugue in D major.[70]
Despite the advance in technique, this prelude and fugue are still in the earlier manner; certain characteristics, such as the division into several movements, indicate that the early influences which governed Bach are still potent. Nevertheless, there is in the stately prelude something of the dignity of the French overture; in the Alla Breve[71] a recollection of the Italian compositions of the same name is natural. Thus later studies betray themselves more in certain details than in the work as a whole; the subject of the fugue reveals its similarity to Buxtehude in its general style, and in its movement (see the theme in F quoted previously).
Another inheritance from Buxtehude is the prelude and fugue in G minor;[72] especially the prelude, with its wealth of harmonies suddenly broken off, hardly to be employed again; the fugue, with the repeated notes in its subject. An advance over all the fugues of which we have thus far spoken, this one is notable for its strict maintenance of four-part polyphony; the facility and the spirit which we observe in the counterpoint, especially at the entrances of the subject, and the flexibility of the imitations, indicate the presence of a new wealth of resource, and a surety of technique which is master of itself.
We must also include in the product of this period a set of eight preludes and fugues,[73] which, although very simple, are already the work of a fine hand. They are undoubtedly compositions which Bach destined for his pupils.
Bach is now about to cast himself free from the restrictions placed about him by the study of his first masters; finally in possession of all their resources, he will acquire those of others, enlarging his field of vision, already marvelously well-prepared by his earlier labors to make room for the results of his search after new conquests.
During Bach's first years in Weimar a new factor enters into his evolution, or rather forces itself upon it, quite without seeking on his part; it is simply the result of the experience gained in the fulfilment of his new duties.
Ever since this epoch Weimar has been distinguished among the German courts by a more refined culture, a taste for art which up to the present time has never diminished.
In this instance the impetus did not emanate from the reigning prince. Wilhelm Ernst was a man of education, it is true, and in his service were good artists; but, absorbed in a solitary life[74] of exceeding piety, and occupied with good works, the duke entrusted to his nephew, Johann Ernst,[75] the duty of encouraging his musicians. Johann Ernst was skilled in music, playing the harpsichord and the violin; he had even studied the elements of composition with Walther;[76] music was made to cater to his sickly constitution, especially the Italian chamber music, for solo instruments and orchestra, whose subtle charm was well suited to this invalid; for he himself could take part in its performance.
Bach's temperament, so entirely different, was certain to draw its lesson from association with such works; the precise moment has now arrived when, by his own determination, he shall profit by it; he is master of his own virtuosity; and both his manual dexterity and his present position make it possible for him to choose what he will retain of the ideas which crowd upon his imagination in such profusion. To succeed in such a choice were already to produce a work of art; but to bring these ideas into their proper relative order, the selection once made, is the achievement of a great artist.
The Italians had for a long time possessed precisely this sense of correct succession; this architectural aspect of the art could not fail to attract, by its harmony of proportions, those who had always displayed so much taste in works of sculpture.
It is particularly to be noted that what the Germans were able to acquire from these composers, they derived from the concerted music for stringed instruments. In fact, it may be said without exaggeration that, while the Germans were well-informed, not only upon organ composition, but upon vocal writing as well, still they possessed no violinists,[77] in the sense that among them there was no one who wrote for that instrument with the clearness or sentiment which it demanded. The Italians brought them something more, if not something essentially different: the interesting and varied movements, the perfect balance between the musical phrases, the elaboration and refinement of design for which they always strove; for it was with them that monody first dawned, and was afterwards developed. It is easy to conceive that with instruments the conditions are varied; although that is not saying that a manner of writing suited to one instrument may not also be fitted to another; in writing for strings the same style recommended itself to the Italians as that which had enriched the school of organ composition. We refer particularly to the sonatas and concertos.
While the sonata still lacked that unity resulting from the development and ingenious combination of two themes of necessary co-relationship, which P.E. Bach was to impart to it later, it already possessed three well-defined divisions at least, as is indicated by the variety of the movements: the first one rapid in tempo, assertive; the second slow, full of sentiment; while the third finished gaily, often recalling the rhythms of popular dances.
As to the concerto, it was on the whole nothing more than a sonata for one, sometimes for more than one solo instrument, accompanied by the orchestra, whose interludes produced new effects through the contrast between the soli and the tutti.
The facilities offered by the organ, with its several keyboards, for the delineation of these designs, rendered it particularly appropriate that they should be transcribed for that instrument. This Bach did. In addition to sixteen transcriptions for the harpsichord, he left us arrangements for the organ of three of Vivaldi's[78] concertos, and the first movement of a fourth.[79] They are arrangements, rather than integral reproductions; and if we take a certain interest in this transcription for the organ, by special methods, of works not originally intended for that instrument, it is an interest like that inspired by a well-made translation.
Possibly Bach regarded it in another light; for him it may have been a means of penetrating to the core of such compositions, of analyzing their inherent qualities.
We now see him quite preoccupied with this three-movement form; take, for instance, the Toccata in C major.[80]
The Prelude itself is subdivided. First we find an introduction,[81] free in style; then an Allegro, built, as is very important to notice, upon two different and well-defined themes.[82]
An Adagio follows; a sort of instrumental solo sustained by a homophonic accompaniment, examples of which are comparatively rare in Bach; and accentuated by a continuo, like the pizzicato of the orchestra. A short succession of chords à la Buxtehude and quasi-recitativo[83] separates this Adagio from the fugue; the rapid tempo of this latter is still of the earlier period, and recalls, in its progressions in thirds, various subjects of Buxtehude.
Bach was not content with writing in the Italian forms. In the fugue in B minor[84] he borrowed themes from the Corelli[85] sonatas, and in the one in C minor[86] he levied tribute upon works of Legrenzi; upon which one of the latter is not definitely known.
In this connection we see what further profit Bach derived from his study of Italian chamber music, not only in the logic of composition in general, but in certain species of writing, particularly in that in three parts.
But all this did not satisfy him; he wished to know the organ works of Italian composers. We have seen that he copied with his own hand the Fiori musicali of Frescobaldi.
This copy is dated 1714; it thus belongs to the Weimar period. The canzona in D minor[87] must have been written shortly after the completion of this task; at any rate, it is interesting to trace the characteristics of this piece to that source.
Notice first of all the theme; it is found in the Canzon Dopo la Pistola (sic), on page 77 of the Fiori musicali (edition of 1635), where it appears as the answer to the principal subject. Frescobaldi presents it in this form:
The chromatic countersubject is also found in the Fiori musicali, in the fifth verse of the Kyrie delli Apostoli (Christe, p. 38).
Further, in comparing the sixth measure of this Christe with the tenth part of the Canzona of Bach, we see why these two themes, although quite in the style of Bach, still are obviously the result of his study of Frescobaldi; in fact, this measure contains a fragment of the theme just quoted, with the very alteration afterwards made by Bach.
In this present case of the employment of a chromatic countersubject Bach evidently had Frescobaldi in mind; considering, and rightly, the frequent use of motives of this kind to be characteristic of the latter. But while Bach believed himself in so far indebted to an Italian master, he was in reality only following the traditions of Sweelinck,[88] who had already furnished him noteworthy examples of this style.
In fact, Frescobaldi acquired these resources during his stay in Flanders; perhaps he obtained them from Sweelinck himself, whom he undoubtedly knew in Amsterdam. A Fantasie by Sweelinck, edited by R. Eitner,[89] is written wholly upon this form of the Ionic tetrachord:
We may compare the counterpoint which accompanies it with those of Frescobaldi and of Bach:
These characteristics of treatment found great favor with Flemish organists, by whom they were introduced. Peter Philipps, an organist of Soignies, makes use of them in a "Gagliarda," and in the "Pavana dolorosa"; composed in prison, according to an addition in a strange hand in the manuscript. S. Scheidt, a pupil of Sweelinck, avails himself of them in various instances (Fantaisie super "Io son ferito casso", "Fuga quadruplici," etc.).
This mannerism prevailed for some years; we again find it in the works of Froberger (Toccata fatto a Bruxellis Anno 1650) and in a fugue in E flat by Christopher Bach, of which the following is the subject:
Finally, to illustrate the employment of this sort of theme, we will quote the beginning of a "Point d'orgue sur les Grands Jeux," by Grigny.[90]
In secular music composers exhibited the same fondness for this chromatic style of progression, employed to express sorrow or dread (it is interesting to note that at every musical epoch this or that motive or chord, later certain instruments, express certain definite emotions).
Thus, in the following example from G. Andrea Bontempi, taken from the opera "Paride" produced at Dresden in 1662:
Ermillo.