[Illustration: _The musical tournament_]
_Life Stories for Young People_
JOHANN SEBASTIAN BACH
_Translated from the German of
Ludwig Ziemssen_
BY
GEORGE P. UPTON
_Translator of “Memories,” author of “Upton Handbooks on Music,” editor
“Autobiography of Theodore Thomas,” etc., etc._
WITH FIVE ILLUSTRATIONS
[Illustration: A. C. McCLURG & CO.]
CHICAGO
A. C. McCLURG & CO.
1905
Copyright
A. C. McClurg & Co.
1905
Published September 16, 1905
THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A.
Translator’s Preface
There is no person in musical or general history whose life can be
studied by young people with more advantage, or followed in its general
characteristics with more profit than Johann Sebastian Bach. The old
saying that genius is only the highest capacity for work has sometimes
been attributed to him. Whether he originated the saying or not, his
life illustrates its truth. His industry was astonishing, whether in
adverse or prosperous circumstances, though his remuneration,
considering the magnitude of his achievements, now seems a beggarly
pittance. He worked for the highest in his art, and always with the
utmost of his ability, and consecrated his work to the divine honor.
Upon all his important pieces he inscribed the letters, “S. D. G.”
(“Soli Deo Gloria”), “to the glory of God alone.” What the simple,
God-fearing, art-loving cantor of Saint Thomas accomplished, the world
knows. Gounod summed it up in the declaration that if all the music
written since Bach’s time were lost, it could be reconstructed upon what
he wrote. His life was as noble as his music. He was an affectionate
father, laboring manfully and incessantly to support his large family; a
good citizen, faithfully fulfilling his duties and commanding universal
respect; a musician without an equal in the profundity of his knowledge
and the richness of his productions; the founder of modern music, the
master of the organ, the composer of the highest forms of sacred music;
a plain, humble man, despising rank and show, making no boast of his
grand achievements, and yet recognized in the court of Frederick the
Great as above courtiers and nobility by the title of his genius. “Seest
thou a man diligent in business; he shall stand before kings.” He was a
self-reliant, self-sustained, evenly poised man, plain and
unostentatious in his bearing, honorable in his intercourse with men,
strong and unvarying in his home love, and guided in every event of life
by a strict morality born of sincere religion. He followed the bent of
his genius untrammelled by the accidents or troubles of life, and sought
for no higher reward than his own conviction of the worth of his
accomplishments. Such a life is to be commended not only to the young
student entering upon the profession of music, but to every young person
entering upon the duties of life. This little volume, therefore,
worthily claims a place among “Life Stories for Young People.” Though
the original is inaccurate in some small details, which later
biographers have corrected, the general story of his life is reliable
and nearly every event of importance is included in its pages.
G. P. U.
Chicago, 1905
Contents
I A Friend in Need 13
II In the World 26
III The First Step to Fame 38
IV The New Life 54
V A Musical Tournament 72
VI Life and Work in Leipsic 87
VII “He shall stand before Kings” 103
VIII The Last of Earth 126
Appendix 133
List of Illustrations
The musical tournament _Frontispiece_
_Facing page_
Sebastian’s unknown benefactor 56
The evening chorale in the new home 70
“I thought this art was dead; now that I see it lives I shall
depart in peace.”—Reinken 92
“Gentlemen! Good news! The old Bach has come.”—Frederick the
Great 114
{harp} _Johann Sebastian Bach_ {harp}
Chapter I
A Friend in Need
At the close of a beautiful Summer day, in the year 1699, subdued and
solemn strains of music from the little house of the organist of the
market-town of Ohrdruff[1] floated through its quiet streets. A boy sat
crying upon the stone steps leading to the house-door. Now and then he
lifted his head, looked into the hallway, and saying in a mournfully
complaining tone, “False again,” or, “The second violin plays most
abominably,” or making some similar protest of musical sensibility,
bowed his head again in sorrow and tears.
As he sat thus, a quick step was heard coming up the street. A lad,
somewhat older than the other, approached and said in a clear, cheerful
voice: “Why are you crying, Bastian, and what means this funeral music?”
The one addressed raised his handsome eyes, red with weeping, bowed in a
dejected manner to his questioner, and said in a low voice: “My brother
is dead. Did you not know it?”[2]
“I had not heard a word of it,” he replied. “All last week I was at my
cousin’s in Eisenach,[3] and I have but just returned. Is he dead? And
so suddenly! Poor boy, I pity you from my heart. When did it happen?”
“Last evening just about this time. He had not been in his usual health
for a week. He often complained of dizziness and difficulty in
breathing, and yesterday while cleaning his old violin he suddenly fell
and died.”
Passionate sobs made his last words almost unintelligible, and the boy
for a few seconds gave way to irrepressible grief.
His young friend regarded him in silence for a time, and when he had
somewhat recovered from his passionate sobbing delicately sought to
divert his attention from his troubles by asking, “Who are these playing
so wretchedly? Friends of the deceased?”
“Three of them are. They have engaged the town clerk’s assistant for
second violin, and he plays badly enough to set one’s teeth on edge. If
my dead brother could hear him, he would jump out of his coffin and
drive the bungler out of his house.”
His friend smilingly nodded assent. “He is certainly a slovenly player,
but it can’t be helped now.”
“That is true,” sobbed the boy.
A brief pause in the conversation was filled with the tones of the
funeral music, during which his friend’s gaze rested thoughtfully and
sympathetically upon the countenance of his mournful comrade, and his
lips moved as if he were talking to himself. At last he resumed
reluctantly, but with manifest cordiality and good-will: “Well, Bastian,
what is to be done now that your brother, the organist, is dead?”
“The town will install a new organist, I suppose.”
“Of course, but that is of little consequence; I mean what will become
of you?”
“Of me?” replied Sebastian, thoughtfully. “Who can say? But with God’s
help I will become a skilful musician, like my good father, and as all
the Bachs have been for a hundred years past.”
“You mistake my question,” said his friend. “I mean where will you live
now that this house is henceforth to be closed? You are now a poor
orphan. Do you expect that any of your relatives will take you in?”
Sebastian shook his head. “No, Erdmann,[4] I do not. Who can do it? My
only remaining brother, Johann Jakob, has left the country and gone into
business in Sweden. Both my uncles, my father’s brothers, have been dead
for some years, and my cousins have trouble enough to get along upon
their small chorister’s allowance without being burdened with me.
Again—”
“It must be very hard for you, my poor Bastian.”
Sebastian for a moment regarded his sympathetic friend with moistened
eyes, then cordially took his arm and went slowly down the street with
him.
“I will tell you about this, Erdmann; they possibly may look at the
matter differently. The relatives will come to the funeral ceremonies in
the morning, and it may be perhaps that this or that one will take me in
until something definite can be arranged; but I am not sure that I wish
them to do so. How could I be happy? These poor people have no higher
ambition than to get musical education enough to fit them for an
ordinary organist’s position and enable them to secure a place in some
Thuringian country town, and, when they get it, to go on, day after day,
practising noble music as if it were a trade, just as if they were
cobblers or tailors. If I were to find a home with cousins Tobias
Friedrich, Johann Bernhard, Johann Christoph, or Johann Heinrich, what
would become of me? All my life I should hear only the music I made
myself. I should make no progress, I should never penetrate the noble
mysteries of our art; I should remain a town musician like a thousand
others.”
“But, Bastian, why should you trouble yourself about these matters? Why
fix a goal for yourself now? You are still very young.”
“I am old enough to know that I must escape from this narrow musical
life. Even if my brother had lived, I should not have remained with him
much longer.”
“Why not? He was a skilful musician.”
“Yes, but only for himself. He either could not or would not assist me
to advance. I was disgusted with his dry and uninteresting exercises,
and he refused to let me practise more useful and difficult ones. He had
a manuscript volume of piano studies by famous masters, like Froberger,
Fischer, Kerl, Pachelbel, Buxtehude, Bruhns, and Böhm—valuable works, I
assure you. Do you suppose he allowed me to have them? When I begged for
the volume, he refused me and locked it up.”
“This is strange. Why should he have acted so? He could not possibly
keep you from advancing in the art for which you have such decided
talent.”
“Certainly not. He could do well for himself, like all the old organists
round here, but he had not the faculty of making others progress. There
is something forbidding and mysterious in the attitude of these old
musicians of this stamp, which makes it very difficult for beginners to
acquire even the rudiments.”
“That is curious; but did you at last secure those beautiful and
difficult musical exercises?”
An arch smile lit up Sebastian’s countenance, immediately followed by an
indignant expression: “It is a sad story, Erdmann, and it makes me feel
angry whenever I think of it. But listen. My brother had locked up the
manuscript in a cabinet which did not shut very closely. I determined to
get it, for otherwise I should remain an ignorant scholar and make no
advance. One night, when my brother was asleep, I squeezed my hands—they
are so little—between the wires of the cabinet and pulled the roll out,
not, however, without rubbing the skin off my hands pretty badly, and
carried my treasure safely away to my little chamber, where, as I had no
candle, I copied the whole book by moonlight.”
“Why, you little sinner,” said Erdmann, laughing and amazed, “I call
that perseverance. How long did it take you to copy it?”
“Fully six months, and my eyes are weak in consequence. And after this
what do you suppose happened? One day my brother came in, unawares, when
I had the exercises, and without saying by your leave carried off my
precious treasure. He never brought it back, notwithstanding all my
tearful entreaties.”
“Dreadful!” exclaimed Erdmann. “Worse than dreadful! How could he do it?
I should have hated him.”
“No! He is still my brother. He has done me many kindnesses, and I am
greatly distressed,” his voice trembled again, “greatly distressed at
his death, and just as he was cleaning the old violin! He believed it
was a genuine Amati and insisted that Antonio Amati’s name and symbols
were pasted on it in my grandfather’s time, but I do not believe it. The
tone is much too hard and rasping. I think it is an old Tyrolean country
violin.”[5]
“So? Will he be buried to-morrow?”
“Yes.”
“And then your fate must be decided?”
“Certainly it must. The cousins then must give me my copy of the book.”
“They ought to do that at least. But tell me, what else must they give
you?”
“I shall only claim what belongs to me. On an upper shelf in the cabinet
there is a tin box with my christening-money, two medals inherited from
my great-uncle, Heinrich, and a little money left me by my good father,
which they must give me, must they not, Erdmann?”
“I suppose so. You are certainly very young yet, Bastian.”
“Young!” replied the latter, indignantly. “I am thirteen—almost fourteen
years old. It is high time I was learning something useful, hearing good
music, becoming acquainted with great compositions, and I cannot do that
here or elsewhere in Thuringia. I must go to some great city where the
musical life is intense, where famous organists delight congregations on
Sunday, and public libraries lend their best books. It is for such
reasons as these I cannot stay with my cousins, even if they should
cordially invite me. Now, do you understand, Erdmann?”
During this statement his friend had been thoughtfully regarding the
little Sebastian—he was very small for his age—and at last tenderly
said: “I believe you are right, Sebastian. Were you to remain here you
would be in wretched circumstances like all the other Bachs, although
they have musical talent by nature. You must get away, and I will make
you this proposition: Day after to-morrow I am going to see my mother’s
brother at Lüneburg.[6] Go with me. Lüneburg is not a great city, but it
is a much more important place than Ohrdruff, Arnstadt, or Eisenach. It
was for long the residence of the Grand Duke of Brunswick, and it still
has many of the advantages of a capital. There is a magnificent organ in
the old Gothic Church of St. John, and every Sunday you can hear the
best of music there. You would enjoy that, I fancy.”
Sebastian stood for a moment with glistening eyes, overcome with joy.
“Lüneburg!” he replied with trembling voice, “St. John’s Church organ!
Oh, Erdmann, the great organist Böhm,[7] whose majestic chorales I
copied by moonlight, is the leading player there. Oh, to hear him, to
hear him, I would go barefoot to Lüneburg!”
“Yes,” said Erdmann, pleased with the acceptance of his proposal, “that
will be nice for you, and a few miles from there is Hamburg.”
“Where the famous Reinken, Johann Adam Reinken,[8] plays splendidly at
St. Katherine’s Church,” interposed Sebastian, with enthusiasm.
“Erdmann, my dear Erdmann, I must go; and if you will take me with you I
will thank you all my life long.”
“If your relatives consent, I shall not fail to do so,” said his friend.
“And once you are in Lüneburg, my uncle, if I ask him, will gladly help
you to go farther.”
“Really?” said Sebastian, overcome with delight. “Oh, dear friend, how
fortunate I am to have met you! I am determined to go with you whether
my cousins consent or not.”
His more considerate friend advised him to keep on good terms with his
relatives. “I will come in the morning and inquire,” said he. “Only be
very judicious, so that they may have confidence in your good judgment
and give their consent to your plans.”
“Yes, I will. But come, be sure to come,” implored Sebastian, in a
beseeching tone, as he pressed his friend’s hand. “And not too late. The
funeral takes place immediately after the noon service, and promptly
afterward everything necessary must be done, for most of the guests will
wish to leave before evening, so that they may be punctual at their
posts on Monday morning. There will not be much time to spare.”
“You are right. The procession passes our house and I can then fix the
time. Leave it all to me.”
“Yes, I will do so, dear Erdmann, and already I give you a thousand
thanks. It seems as if a new life were opening for me. Oh! Oh! to hear
Böhm play, and perhaps even Reinken, and to hear their works and play
them! Could anything be finer?”
“Well,” replied his friend, endeavoring to moderate his enthusiasm, “the
world has much besides this that is worth living for. But it is nice
that you are pleased with your prospects. Doing things by halves will
not accomplish much of any value.”
“That shall never be said of me,” interposed Sebastian, with flashing
eyes. “I feel that I can accomplish something of value, but I must do it
in the right way and in the right place—in Lüneburg. Lüneburg is now my
watchword. I shall not shut eyes this night. Would it were morning!”
“Have patience. The morning will not fail you. So now, _auf
wiedersehen_.”
“I can scarcely wait.”
“But you must. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye. I will hurry home to pack my things.”
Thus the friends separated in the twilight, in the narrow streets of
Ohrdruff.