“It is so. You Bachs are indeed a peculiar family. Take care, Bastian, that you also prove a worthy member of it.”

“Let us hope so. You may be sure I shall work hard for it.”

Thus chatting with each other and enjoying the journey with all the zest and enthusiasm of youth, the lads reached Gotha, and after a quiet night’s rest at a modest inn went on to Mühlhausen. Thence they continued their journey on foot, now and then getting a ride when anyone was kind enough to pick them up. Their luggage had been intrusted by the practical Erdmann to a business house which had relations with Lüneburg and undertook to forward it to his uncle’s well-known house.

After seven days’ travelling they reached Lüneburg fresh and happy, and were received by Erdmann’s uncle with that cordial and friendly hospitality which his nephew had anticipated.

Sebastian quickly made a good impression upon the old gentleman, especially by his precocity and the intelligence which shone in his attractive eyes. The impression changed to one of respectful admiration when, a few days after their arrival, he seated himself at the old gentleman’s fine Silbermann piano[12] and played his favorite chorale (“All is well, O Friend of my Soul”), which abounds in characteristic harmony, beautiful modulation, and rich melody. He promised to use his influence in getting him a position in the choir of the St. Michael’s School, and he kept his word. On the very next day the stately old gentleman waited upon the Rector of the school, and stated the purpose of his visit so enthusiastically that the latter smilingly gave his assent and arranged with the leader of the choir that Johann Sebastian should have a trial of his voice in his presence.

The boy stood the test so well that the old choir-leader declared he was a most valuable acquisition. His voice was sonorous and of fine quality, strong and of good range, and beside this he read everything at sight and displayed such a remarkable knowledge of counterpoint that the Rector and leader were alike astonished. The former assigned him a room near his own and he was given a position as soprano singer, or discantist, in the choir as well as a seat at the free table[13] of the school. Sebastian’s dearest wish was now gratified, and on the same day, after cordially thanking his benefactor, he settled down in the St. Michael’s School, occupying a modest little room in a wing, with three other pleasant discantist companions.

Thenceforth he had to be industrious, very industrious, for it was only by extraordinary effort that he could retain the advantage of the free position, and only by unusual industry that he could save time enough from school duties to gratify his musical inclinations. The St. Michael’s School at that time had an abundance of the richest material, which was accessible to him. In a chapel at the side of the school there was a fine little organ, upon which he was occasionally allowed to play after he had demonstrated his ability to do so. There was also a rich collection of old musical manuscripts, in which he could revel to his heart’s content whenever he had the time. Beside these, there were old and well-preserved instruments, violins, violas, violoncellos, lutes, etc. Had it only been permissible he would gladly have devoted his nights to the acquisition of the contents of these treasures, as he once had done in Ohrdruff; but nothing prevented his use of them in the daytime, and he was as happy as a king when he could lose himself in a flood of the old masters’ harmonies.

Only one thing troubled him. He could not often improve and strengthen his organ-playing by listening to the great players. Ordinarily it was only possible to hear Böhm, the famous organist, on Sundays, and at such times Sebastian was confined to the church of the school by his duties as discantist, and other opportunities to hear him were so rare that there was little prospect of his gratifying his desire to listen to the master’s richly flowing melodies, without making extra exertion. So he inquired of the sexton and organ-blower of St. John’s Church when the great artist played on week days in the always closed church. Then, with the gracious connivance of the organ-blower, to whom he paid many a shilling out of his small store, he would slip into the church, ascend the tower into the loft, and there, resting upon his knees near an opening, would listen with trembling, delighted heart to the now lovely, again powerful, but always devout playing of the master. He paid careful attention to every nuance, to every peculiar method of tone production, and to the style of performance, so as to fix them in his memory. When the playing was over he would rush back to his room, take out the compositions of Böhm, which he had once copied with such infinite care and trouble, and pore over them as if the pieces which he had just heard had been brought to him by Böhm himself for performance.

He also cultivated violin-playing to the best of his ability, and with the help of his extraordinary natural gifts entered so deeply into the real nature of this simple yet marvellously expressive instrument that even with his still imperfect technic he produced the finest quality of tone, and when he extemporized seemed to be holding a dialogue with his own genius.

Many a time in the evening, when his roommates had sought their beds and all was silent in the large halls, he would spend hours in the moonlight, walking up and down the little room, lightly using his bow, and softly singing the second part to the melody he was playing, greatly to the delight and astonishment of the boys, while he himself was as happy as if he were living in a higher and serener sphere.

About this time a peculiar change took place in his beautiful voice. As he was singing one day in the choir, he heard himself involuntarily singing as it were with a double voice—in soprano and in a lower octave—to the great surprise of the leader and not less to his own consternation. His consternation increased when he realized during the next few weeks that he could neither speak nor sing except in octaves, and bitter was his sorrow when he found that this condition, instead of disappearing, speedily grew worse, and that his beautiful voice was gone forever. He wept piteously and moaned: “Alas! now I can only be half a musician through life, for my highest and noblest instrument is ruined and can never be replaced.”

Beside his grief over the loss of this beautiful divine gift, he was now troubled with painful solicitude as to his immediate future. It was solely on account of his accomplishments as a discantist in the choir that he had enjoyed the great privilege of the free position in the school. What would happen were this to be taken away from him? What would become of his musical and general education? Utter despair overcame his strong, vigorous spirit. “What will become of me? What will become of me?” he bitterly ejaculated. His pale, anxious face showed his severe troubles.

One day the Rector of the school unexpectedly summoned him, and to his great delight and surprise informed him that, owing to the loss of his singing-voice, he would be relieved from his duties as discantist; but in consideration of his industry and good conduct, also of the unusual musical gifts with which nature had endowed him, he would continue to enjoy the privileges of free scholarship, and that he had suggested him to the leader of the choir as an assistant in the instruction of the younger pupils in music.

Who ever was happier than Sebastian? He fervently thanked the Rector for his kindness, reverently kissed his hand, and hastened away with a joyous heart.

One day his friend Erdmann, who had been on a visit to his father in Hamburg, returned and told him of his experiences. “Upon one occasion, a church festival, at which the renowned organist, Reinken, played, I wished with all my heart, dear Sebastian, that you were there.”

“So you have heard him?” said Sebastian, excitedly.

“Yes, and for a whole hour. That was playing for you! I never have heard the like of it. Everyone was excited. Women wept.”

“What did he play?” asked Sebastian, breathlessly and with his very soul in his eyes, as he looked at his friend.

“First a magnificent prelude[14] for full organ in E major, preceding an artistic fugued chorale of wonderful beauty (‘We all believe in one God’), and at the close a fantasia on ‘Jesus, my Joy.’ Oh, if you only could have heard it, Sebastian! He can play much more beautifully and skilfully than Böhm.”

Sebastian was completely self-absorbed. “I must hear him,” he said at last, fixing his gaze upon his friend. “I must, I must, even if I have to give up everything here.”

“That is not at all necessary,” quietly replied the less impulsive Erdmann. “If you apply in the regular way they will give you leave of absence for Sunday and Monday. Then you can easily go to Hamburg on Saturday afternoon, which is your free time, and get back again on Monday after hearing Reinken.”

“I will do it. Oh, I will do it, the very first thing to-morrow morning. God grant they may not refuse me permission; I will even go to extremes to secure it.”

“Yes, yes, but don’t dash your head against the wall,” said Erdmann. “There is time enough for you to hear Reinken even if you do not go next Sunday. He will live to be a hundred years old.”[15]

Sebastian did not hear his last words. So intense was his longing to go that he lost no time in asking permission from the leader of the choir, and finally obtained it with the aid of the Rector.

After dinner on Saturday he sped away with flying feet and began his long twenty-five miles’ journey to Hamburg. He reached the city late in the day, very tired, hungry, and thirsty, but determined not to miss Reinken’s playing early in the morning.

He found quarters for the night at a modest inn, but he slept restlessly. He awoke, however, refreshed, his fatigue having disappeared. He was prompt at the early service, and found a seat among the first-comers to St. Katherine’s Church, where he waited with fast-beating heart the first tones of the majestic instrument from the hands of the great master.

And now, now the first tone rose, like the first rays of dawn, undulating, palpitating, rising and falling, and then streaming out in a mighty tone-flood, vivifying and uplifting the hearts of the listeners. Truly it was the playing of the supreme master, the art of perfect organ-playing and great contrapuntal skill, the ideal which had so long filled the soul of this gifted boy. He determined to strive for like perfection with all his powers and with absolute devotion to the work. In that sacred place, where the highest revelations of art had been made clear to him, he vowed to himself he would never be satisfied with any lower standard, he would never be contented with any less degree of mastery of the sublime and exalted craft of music.

Chapter IV
The New Life

An unexpected opportunity being offered to hear the famous organist again after Sunday, Sebastian had no scruples against remaining a few days longer in Hamburg. He returned to Lüneburg on Wednesday in such a musical exaltation that he gave no thought to the possible consequences of his violation of duty. No reproaches, no penalties, however, could disturb him. He had secured treasures that forevermore elevated him above the petty, common things of life.

Though he had lived very economically during his prolonged stay in Hamburg, he had so far exhausted his little means that he began the return journey with only a few pfennigs in his pocket. Notwithstanding his youthful strength and endurance, he was soon well-nigh exhausted. Unable longer to endure the pangs of hunger, he stopped at an inn on the highway to ask for such food as his small means would purchase. A travelling carriage with four beautiful black horses was standing before the door. Inside there was lively commotion, for they were preparing breakfast for the distinguished travelling party. Sebastian stole quietly into the house and asked the inn-keeper, who was bustling about the coffee-room in a state of great excitement, for a herring (the favorite food of the poor in Thuringia) and a piece of bread, but no attention was paid to him. Puffed up with pride at serving such distinguished guests, he contemptuously ignored the young traveller, and when the request was repeated, refused it and turned him away hungry from the door.

Sebastian was so deeply grieved and hurt by this treatment he could hardly muster up courage to resume his tramp upon an empty stomach. His strength was well-nigh exhausted. He sat down on the turf before the door, half determined not to leave until the inn-keeper gave him food. He was sick at heart and discouraged. Suddenly a window was opened above him, and upon looking up he espied a kind-faced old gentleman, who threw a little parcel into the grass in front of him, accompanying the act with a cordial and significant nod of his head.

Sebastian was at first somewhat embarrassed. Then he picked up the little parcel, undid the fine white-paper wrapper, and two herrings and two nice little rolls dropped out. Deeply moved by the gift thus sent to him and casting a thankful glance at the window, he took out his pocket-knife and began to cut up one of the herrings. To his extreme surprise he found a Holland ducat in the fish. He took the second herring, and his surprise was increased when he found another. Perplexed and greatly agitated, he again gratefully gazed up at the window, where his kind benefactor significantly shook his powdered head and then disappeared behind the curtains. Strengthened afresh by the herrings and rolls and encouraged by this pleasant incident on the last day of his long march, the happy boy set out again; but he saved his ducats for the next repetition of his musical pilgrimage to Hamburg.

His offence was expiated by a slight restriction of his privileges, but it in no way affected the good-will or respect of his teachers. They regarded the liberty he had taken as a concession which was due to his genius, and continued to allow him the free school privileges in consideration of his industry and scholarly gifts. They realized already his great future.

During his three years’ stay in Lüneburg, Sebastian by resistless determination and tireless industry rose step by step in all his studies as well as in his musical education, secured the requisite certificate for the University, and the highest recognition as violinist, organist, cembalist,[16] and contrapuntist,[17] and as a youth of exemplary character. Hence there was no question of his fitness for the position which was now offered him through the influence of some of his Thuringian friends, that of violinist in the ducal chapel at Weimar.[18]

It was not without deep emotion that he left the old school, the good Rector, the leader of the choir, and his classmates and friends. He bade Erdmann’s kindly uncle a cordial farewell and left an affectionate letter for Erdmann himself, who had quit Lüneburg and gone into business with his father, urging him to correspond with him. On a cloudy spring morning of 1703 the seventeen-year-old lad, head and heart full of highest resolutions and aspirations, passed through the gates of Lüneburg on his way to his new duties.

It seemed to Sebastian, who had never concealed nor lost his love for the Thuringian land, that in going to Weimar he was going home, and it was with a genuine home feeling that he regarded his modest little room with its outlook over garden and field to the far mountain lines of the Thuringian forest. He made himself at home there at once with his violin and music, and entered upon the duties of his position without delay. They were simple enough for one who had gained perfect facility by three years of tireless practice, but they were far from satisfying his ambition; for the Court had no higher ambition than to keep up a certain musical state with which he had no sympathy. He compensated himself for his part in this superficial “kling-klang” by arranging with the old cathedral organist to play for a pittance. On such occasions he gave full expression to his feelings and conceptions upon the powerful instrument, after the manner of Böhm and Reinken, and lifted the souls of those who listened breathlessly to his wonderful playing above all earthly things. It seemed as if the Reformation spirit inspired those tones, so full of religious exaltation, and stirred the dingy portraits of Luther, Melancthon, and Johann Friedrich.

The recognition of Sebastian’s success was not confined to Weimar and its people. It spread throughout Thuringia, and the “Duke’s young violinist” had scarcely been in service six months before he was invited by the Schwartzburg Consistory to take the position of organist at the “New Church” at Arnstadt, formerly known as St. Boniface Church. He was greatly moved by the invitation. The old city of Arnstadt had been the home of Bachs for many generations. There his great-uncle Heinrich had lived and labored, as well as his father’s twin-brother Johann Christoph, who so strikingly resembled him that it seemed to Sebastian he was now following in his dear father’s steps. How could such an invitation help making him happy?

There was another thing that induced him to accept this invitation. The “New Church” was built upon the site of the St. Boniface Church, which was destroyed by fire in 1581, and was dedicated to divine service in 1683. The beautiful church had been without an organ twenty years, but one had now been secured by contributions. The well-known organ-builder, Johann Friedrich Wender, of Mühlhausen, had constructed an excellent instrument, and this was to be placed in charge of Johann Sebastian.[19] Joyously he exulted at the prospect of releasing its magical tones for the first time. He accepted the position with a thousand thanks, notwithstanding the small salary.

To add to his delight, several of his dear relatives lived in Arnstadt. The situation and environs of the place also were beautiful, and especially charming to one of Sebastian’s cheerful disposition. As this was ample equivalent for the smallness of his income, he accepted the annual salary of eighty thalers, and went to Arnstadt.

The slight demands which his position made upon his time, left him leisure for the study of the German and Old French contrapuntists. He labored over their works most assiduously, to gain a more thorough knowledge of the comprehensive rules of the higher organ style. The better to express his own conceptions, he also arranged some new violin concertos of Vivaldi[20] for the piano, by which he gained a clearer understanding of the relations of musical ideas to each other and of the sequence of modulations. What he wrote down during the day without an instrument, he played over upon his piano in the evening and sometimes late into the night, until he had completely mastered the technic.

Beside all this, he assisted in the compilation of the Freilighausen hymn-book, and for the purpose of making the chorales more effective, he undertook the arduous work of rearranging three hundred of them and composing many new ones himself. His organ-playing was so rich and fanciful in his own conceptions that the congregation, accustomed as it was to exceedingly simple hymn-accompaniments, could not follow him, and this led to repeated complaints from the Consistory. Sebastian, however, striving only for the highest in his art, paid little attention to them. He only labored all the harder to perfect himself, ignored all practical matters, and gave heed to no authority above him when it interfered with the lofty purpose he had in view.

He found recreation after the fatigue of studies, composition, and practice upon the violin, piano, and organ, in the enjoyment of nature and in the society of relatives and friends. Among the former those most dear to him were the family of Johann Michael, Heinrich’s son, a quiet, music-loving circle, the central attraction of which was the lovely, blooming daughter, Maria Barbara, Sebastian’s studious and gifted pupil. Among his friends those nearest to him were Christoph Uthe, the minister of the “New Church,” and Johannes Laurentius Stauber, assistant minister, both well-grounded in the higher church music and entertaining the utmost respect for Johann Sebastian’s courageous struggle and energetic will. In this circle the young artist was particularly happy. There all the real worth of his unpretentious life was displayed. There he found warm appreciation for the highest and best, and never failing help and sympathy.

One evening he rushed into the Bach home, where both friends were visiting, and as if in utter despair flung himself down into a chair without a word of greeting. All looked at him with great concern. “Dear Bach,” said Laurentius Stauber, solicitously, “why do you come rushing in in this unceremonious manner? Has anything unfortunate happened?”

“I am the unfortunate myself,” exclaimed Sebastian, passionately. “I am a bungler, and I shall always be a bungler if I stay here. I am going away.”

“Away from here!” they all exclaimed. “Where are you going?”

“Where there is something to be learned. I am going backward here. Soon I shall know nothing.”

“But, Sebastian—” said Johann Michael, reproachfully.

“But it is true,” he replied, gloomily. “My organ-playing is going backward. It has no depth, no vigor, no progressiveness—”

“But, dear Bach—”

“I tell you it is true, I feel it. My compositions also have no ideas. They show no charm of fancy, no mastery of materials. This cannot go on any longer.”

“But you greatly underestimate yourself, cousin,” said Johann Ernst, son of the twin brother of Sebastian’s father. “Would to God I could play as well as you do already at twenty! Everyone here is astonished at your work.”

“But what do they know about music here?” replied Sebastian, contemptuously.

“But we are astonished also,” interposed Herr Uthe, “and we think we know a little something about sacred music.”

“To be sure you do,” said Sebastian, “but your friendship for me makes you blind. You do not see my failings. No, no, I must be off. I must hear once more the great masters of the art and find out from them how to get on the right road again. I am going away at once.”

“Where will you go? Where will you find what you are longing for?”

“Where? Yes, that is the question,” said Sebastian, with a sad look in his eyes. “Really there are only two places where I expect to find what I need—in Nuremberg with Pachelbel,[21] or in Lübeck with Buxtehude.[22]”

“Both are certainly far enough away from here,” said Herr Uthe, dolefully.

“What matters distance?” answered Sebastian, with some warmth. “I would go to the ends of the earth if I could hear the great organists there. But, to cut matters short, I shall go to Lübeck in the morning.”

“Without permission?” asked Johann Ernst, very seriously.

“I am going to see the Superintendent this evening.”

“And at this unpleasant season of the year? Think of that,” said Johann Michael.

“A journey of at least sixty miles,” added Herr Stauber.

“Let him go,” suddenly said the soft, gentle voice of the one who alone of all the circle favored his plan. “He must do what his genius bids him do.”

Surprised and greatly excited, Sebastian turned to the speaker, his young cousin Maria Barbara,[23] and thankfully offered his hand. “You understand me,” he said with emotion; “now nothing more can restrain me.” With this closing word he left the house.

Week after week passed. He had far exceeded his one month’s leave of absence and nothing had been seen or heard of him. His friends were solicitous, his superiors indignant, the congregation angry. How could he so thoughtlessly violate his duties? What could he be doing? Where could he be? His conduct was simply incomprehensible to everyone. Maria Barbara smilingly shook her knowing little head when she heard the reproaches of relatives and friends, the slurs of neighbors, and the threats of the Superintendent, and said: “You are wasting your words. Sebastian would not care if you should even say them to his face. He is living and working for higher things than those which are deemed of so much importance in Arnstadt.”

And so it turned out. Two, three months passed, and the indignation of the church-wardens was at its height, when one fine day Sebastian suddenly appeared at Johann Michael’s and cheerfully greeted his astonished relatives. He replied coolly and unconcernedly to the storm of exclamations, reproaches, and questions, tenderly greeted his pretty little cousin, Maria Barbara, and at last, when questions and complaints had ceased, said briefly, “I am accountable for all that I have done or may do. My journey to Lübeck was made solely in the interests of the art which I practise for the honor of God and for the edification of the Christian congregation. All other considerations must be subordinate to this higher purpose. Will the Consistory and Council of Arnstadt complain because in striving to rise higher and higher in my art I have exceeded the time allowed me? Possibly they may discharge me from my position. What does that matter? Arnstadt is not the world. At all times and in all places the world’s door stands open for the skilful artist. Offers have already been made to me in Lübeck. So do not be troubled about me; I do what I must do and others may do what they please—so enough of this.”

“I told you so,” exultantly declared Maria Barbara, looking round the circle. “He cares not a whit for your anxiety about him. He will excel you all.”

“Ah! you rogue,” said Sebastian, smiling, “I did not know you were a prophet.” The girl blushed to the tips of her ears as he bent over her and tenderly whispered, “Can you also prophesy the name of Sebastian’s wife a year from to-day?”

“Oh! yes,” replied Maria Barbara, “Frau Bach. She certainly will have that name.”

“Oh, you cunning one! But the Christian name, the Christian name—that is the question. Well?”

“I cannot prophesy so much in one day,” replied the blushing girl; “I will tell you that some other time.”

“I will tell you to-day,” whispered Sebastian. “She will be called Maria Barbara Bach. She is a dear, fair-haired maiden, and the only person who knows Sebastian through and through.”

“Do not be too sure,” replied Maria Barbara, in some confusion. “Sometimes my prophecies do not come true.” The next instant she had slipped away and disappeared in an adjacent room.

“A year from now,” the young artist said to himself, with all the solemnity of a vow, as his eyes followed her.

The apprehensions of his friends that measures would be taken by his superiors to call him to account were confirmed. He was summoned before the Consistory and sharply reproved for his audacious violation of his duties. His reply shows clearly his real purpose: “He had prolonged his visit to Lübeck solely in the interests of his art and for his own improvement, so that he might come back enriched with experience and many new ideas, which would better fit him for his position; and likewise he thought it would be better for his pupils. Beside this, he had provided a substitute for the organ.”

This brief explanation of his conduct did not satisfy the old stiff-necked superiors, who did not at all understand him. Beside this, the simple members of the congregation, who did not appreciate his efforts to elevate church music, complained that he introduced strange variations in the chorales which they could not follow. This called for further explanation; rather than make which, Sebastian decided to resign his Arnstadt position and look for another.

Just at this time, Johann George Ahle, the highly esteemed organist at St. Blasius’s Church in the old Thuringian imperial city of Mühlhausen, died, and the position was offered to Sebastian. He was ready at once, attended the organ examination, and so highly impressed the wardens with his playing, that they gave him the place. He expressed his satisfaction with the salary, requested and obtained his release from the Council at Arnstadt, and to his great delight found that his place would be filled by his cousin, Johann Ernst. To make the latter’s position easy at the outset, for he was very poor, and beside had an old mother and sick sister to support, Sebastian gave up a considerable part of his back salary for Johann’s benefit. Then he asked for the hand of his loving cousin, received her joyful consent as well as that of her family, and on a wonderfully beautiful, quiet, sunny Autumn morning went to Dornheim, where his faithful friend, Johannes Laurentius Stauber, was settled as minister. In the modest little village church, before the altar hung with festive garlands, the young pair exchanged rings and vows of love, and then, after a quiet, happy day spent in the parsonage, returned to Sebastian’s own simple abode.[24] A few weeks later the happy couple settled in Mühlhausen and joyfully took possession of the organist’s old house. The simple furniture, which they had jointly contributed, was soon cosily and comfortably arranged, and when everything was in its place and evening had come, the young bridegroom seated himself at the little piano, and with a heart overflowing with happiness sang and played the beautiful chorale:

At the very first tones of the chorale, Maria Barbara stepped behind his seat and with clear and lovely alto voice joined in his sacred song. It was the consecration of the day, a beautiful beginning of the new life which God had prepared for them.

Chapter V
A Musical Tournament

Sebastian entered upon the duties of his position at Mühlhausen with great enthusiasm, and the friendly assurances of the wardens as well as of the congregation seemed to promise a long and successful tenure of his position. This, however, could not be certain if anything stood in the way of the elevation and improvement of church music, which was the very end and aim of his life. It was impossible for him to adhere to the musty traditions and stereotyped usages of musical craftsmen in small towns. It was not only his purpose, but it was a necessity for him to produce new creations, exhibiting a richer abundance of ideas in enlarged form, and compositions which would spiritually uplift his hearers and inspire them with fresh religious exaltation. If this could not be done in Mühlhausen—and he found only too soon that it could not—then his stay there must be short. His effort to reform church music was at first obstructed, then openly opposed. The families of the early organists and their friends, who regarded the policy of the young man, “the very young man,” as an insult to his predecessors, were grieved. Malevolent townspeople criticised him, and gossiped among themselves to this effect: “The organist is a freethinker and a subverter. He has no respect for old and honored things. He devises innovations, and plays a frivolous, ornamental music instead of the plain, devout music which simple people can understand. Herr Ahle and his predecessors were a different kind of men. Perhaps they did not know as much as Herr Bach, but they were more pleasing organists in the sight of God.” It was a pitiable condition of things for Sebastian.

Sebastian resolved he would endure this misunderstanding and malice no longer. With an impatient shrug of his shoulders he announced to his devoted young wife, “We must take up the staff anew, darling. We cannot grow in this atmosphere. I cannot live where I cannot work for my highest purpose; I must look around for another position.”

“Do so, dearest,” said Maria Barbara, smoothing his wrinkled brow with loving hand. “The world is large, and a musician of your ability will be everywhere welcome.”

In like manner his decision was approved by his two gifted scholars in Mühlhausen, Johann Martin Schubart and Johann Kaspar Vogler, and by his real friends who had sympathized with his work during his short stay, and this confirmed him in making his decision final.

“I am going to Weimar in the morning,” he said with the utmost composure. “The new Duke is a warm friend of music and loves the higher church style. Perhaps he will hear me and invite me to enter his service.”

“If he hears you, he cannot help inviting you,” said Maria Barbara, confidently. “God go with you.”

He went—and behold Maria Barbara once more proved herself a true prophet. The musical circles of Weimar were delighted not only with his splendid playing upon the organ of the castle church, but also with his fine piano-playing. The impression produced by his performances was so convincing that the Duke at once offered him the position of court organist with a handsome salary, contingent upon his securing release from his post at Mühlhausen. Sebastian returned home delighted with his prospects, and great was the joy of all when he told them of the pleasant outcome of his Weimar visit.

“If I can get my release from here, we will settle down in Weimar this summer. What do you think of that, dearest?”

“Of course we will,” replied Maria Barbara, most emphatically. “The blind fools here, who do not understand you, will let you go very willingly.”

“And we will go with you,” exclaimed his two scholars, Schubart and Vogler. “Need we stay here without you, master?”

“Of course not,” said Sebastian, much pleased, and Maria Barbara added, “We will all stay together until you become masters.”

“Which will take a long time,” muttered Vogler.

The Mühlhausen Council, as was expected, found little difficulty in releasing the organist from his duties, and the happy pair and his two faithful scholars packed their little possessions in readiness for settling down in the Ilm city.[26]

“It is time for me to have rest and peace for a few years,” said Sebastian, as he sat down to his desk after the change, “for here I expect, if God so wills it, to remain and take such firm root that at last I may produce the perfect fruit. Hitherto I have been only a little tree in a nursery, which the gardener has set out among others, or stuck into the ground for a week or so to save it, if possible, from dying. Here there is good soil. I shall grow strong and deep and do good work.”

His expectations were gratified. Nine beautiful and profitable years were spent in his favorite Weimar—nine years of perfect domestic happiness, and of satisfactory musical activity and production and universally honorable recognition. It was there Sebastian laid the firm foundation of his later world-fame. It was there that he wrote those first compositions which revealed him as the creator of a new style, destined to elevate music from a time-serving, mechanical craft to the position of an independent art. It was there that a large family of children blessed his home and eventually became accomplished musicians under his faithful guidance and instruction, his two scholars, Schubart and Vogler, succeeding him in the same position.

Some of the cantatas composed by him at Weimar are of incomparable majesty and beauty; for instance, the inspiring one in G minor, “Aus der Tiefe rufe ich, Herr, zu Dir” (“Out of the Depths have I cried to Thee, O Lord”); the wonderful one in E flat major, “Gottes Zeit is die allerbeste Zeit” (“God’s own Time is the best Time of all”)—well known under the name of “Actus Tragicus”; and the heart-stirring one, “Ich hatte viel Bekummerniss” (“My Spirit was in Heaviness”). These, with the one beginning with the symphony in C minor and closing with a wonderfully charming chorus in C major, comprise a brilliant group.

These and similar compositions, the like of which had not been known before, his unequalled organ and piano playing, and his extraordinary facility in developing variations or fugues from a given theme, made him, though hardly thirty years of age, a musical authority far and near. People came long distances to hear him play on Sundays. Young and old musicians studied the revelations of genius in his compositions; and his Prince, proud of his distinguished castle organist, appointed him ducal concert and chapelmaster.[27]

Bach’s rising fame as a composer, as well as pianist and organist, a few years later was the occasion of a significant and extremely interesting event. Among his celebrated foreign contemporaries was the French musician, Jean Louis Marchand, who was considered by his own countrymen an unrivalled organ and piano player. In reality he was a vain, pretentious person, and much more conceited about himself than his uncritical and enthusiastic worshippers. The foolish fellow indeed was so arrogant in his manners that he offended the King of France, whose court organist he was, and was banished.

The supercilious musician was in no wise humbled by this bitter lesson, and his experiences during his travels in Italy and Germany were not calculated to make him less conceited. He was so successful in dazzling the music-loving public with the brilliancy of his compositions, as well as with the fascination and elegance of his playing, that he was everywhere hailed as a distinguished virtuoso and overwhelmed with applause.

Marchand at last arrived in Dresden, and appeared in a concert given at the Court of Friedrich August I, where the French taste prevailed at that time. The distinguished audience was so captivated by him that its applause was almost unlimited, and the King offered the arrogant Frenchman the position of chapelmaster with a very handsome salary.

To prevent the consummation of the King’s offer, and at the same time to establish the superiority of German over French art, Volumier, the director of the royal orchestra at Dresden, who was well acquainted with Sebastian’s great skill and knowledge, invited him to go to Dresden without delay, that he might expose the pretensions of this Frenchman and settle the superiority of German art, as well as the superior honesty of German character.

Bach, fully aware of the corrupting influence of French taste at that period, lost no time in accepting the invitation, and went at once to Dresden. Volumier, in the meantime, had commended him to the King and Queen as a musician of equal rank with Marchand, and he had barely arrived when a messenger from Court brought him an invitation to a royal concert, in which “the highly renowned French concert-master and unrivalled virtuoso, M. Jean Louis Marchand, will appear,” containing also an intimation that the King would be glad to hear him play. He cheerfully accepted, and as he entered the hall in his plain black coat, accompanied by Volumier, whose face was glowing with anticipation, offered a striking contrast to the richly clad and decorated Court attendants. All eyes were fixed upon the simple Weimar organist, especially those of the Frenchman, who, dressed in silk, velvet, and point-lace, and blazing with gold and jewels, stared contemptuously at his simple but deeply earnest German rival.

The concert at last began. Marchand with a haughty smile, as if assured of victory, rose and went to the piano. He played the melody of a French song in a neat and spirited manner, varied it with many little artifices and refinements, and then, coming back to the melody, closed in spirited and effective style. A storm of applause greeted him as he rose. He looked around him with an air of triumph.

“Very artistic work,” said Sebastian, as the courtiers and musicians crowded round Marchand, “and very elegantly and charmingly played.”

“That is true,” replied some of Marchand’s friends, with much satisfaction. “Surely he is the leading piano virtuoso of our time.”

Sebastian was silent, and appeared to be thinking of the music he had just heard, when a page brought him an invitation from the King to play something.