The First Step to Fame
“Good-morning! It is well that you are here at last, Sebastian,”
exclaimed Erdmann, as he advanced to meet his friend. “The horses are
already harnessed in the yard and the driver has not had to wait long
for you. Come in at once.”
“Yes, yes,” said the breathless boy; “is my bag put on?”
“Certainly. I took it to the wagon myself. What is that slung on your
back?”
“My own violin. My cousins gave it to me as part of my brother’s legacy.
It was kind of them, don’t you think so?”
“Yes, but now let us go in. The driver is taking his morning beer in the
kitchen and we must make arrangements for our transportation.”
The two friends hastened in, and introduced themselves to the honest
Jehu, who received them with a grunt of recognition. Then the young
passengers climbed into the wagon, a somewhat primitive style of vehicle
with a canvas cover stretched over hoops, fixed a convenient place for
themselves and their luggage among some sacks of hay in the back, and a
few minutes later were rattling down the quiet street with happy hearts,
thence out through the low, dark town-gate into the level country, which
was most attractive in the early morning light. On every side the
early-awakened birds were holding jubilant matin service in the bushes
and trees.
It was a delightful journey, notwithstanding the rough country roads and
the jolting wagon, for the young travellers were in excellent spirits.
They rolled up the canvas cover and keenly enjoyed the fresh beauty of
the summer morning. Every village they passed was a source of wonder,
every cornfield a delight to their eyes, every wood an unsurpassed
pleasure; with quick eyes they followed the flight of every bird, and
with attentive ears they listened to every sound, nigh and far. They
drank in the perfume of the clover with zest. They even enjoyed the
bitter crab-apples, which they plucked as they passed, as if they had
been sweet dainties.
But now and then more serious feelings rose in the hearts of the lads.
As they were riding through a country village a funeral procession
crossed their way, the mourners singing a chorale. Their joyous chatter
ceased. Erdmann sorrowfully regarded the sad spectacle, but Sebastian
took his violin from his case and played a beautiful accompaniment to
the chorale.
They talked almost ceaselessly of their past and of the future, but the
city of Lüneburg, the end of their journey, was the principal theme of
conversation. Erdmann, who had previously been in the old Hanse city,
had to describe the place over and over before his young companion’s
questions were satisfied. Sebastian pictured it to himself as the
greatest and most imposing city he had ever known, with ancient and
beautifully decorated gabled buildings, great shops and warehouses,
majestic churches and cloisters. As he listened to Erdmann’s description
he fancied himself sailing up and down the river, climbing the high
Kalkberg to the St. Michael’s School, wandering through the halls of the
old Rathaus, going down into the gypsum quarries near by, and wandering
among the leafy recesses of the Göhrde.[10] In return for Erdmann’s
delightful story, Sebastian related the events of his early life at home
and told of his father’s masterly skill in organ and violin playing. The
good-natured Erdmann listened to him with deep or at least apparently
deep interest, and volunteered questions to bring out new information.
“It is certainly most extraordinary,” said he, when an opportunity
offered itself, “that a talent for the same art should have appeared
without a break in one and the same family and in all its numerous
branches. It has already come to this, that they call all skilful
organists in Thuringia ‘Bach,’ without regard to their names, for all
Bachs are skilful organists.”
“That is so,” replied Sebastian, “and my blessed father, Johann
Ambrosius, was one of the most skilful of them all. He inherited this
gift from his great-grandfather, Veit Bach[11], who left Hungary for
Germany two centuries ago to enjoy religious liberty, for he was a
faithful adherent of the Lutheran Church. He found this liberty in
Thuringia, settled down in the village of Wechmar, near Gotha, where he
opened its first bakery and practised music for his own pleasure. He had
learned it from the gypsies, and played skilfully on the zither, a kind
of lute.”
“And this Veit Bach,” said Erdmann, smiling, “has transmitted his talent
through his numerous posterity to you?”
“That he has,” said Sebastian, with emphasis. “His son Hans gave up the
bakery and was apprenticed to the town-piper of Gotha. He lived at that
time in the tall tower of the old guildhall and there Hans fiddled and
piped in the jolliest way. It is said he was a ‘hail-fellow-well-met,’
and welcome everywhere. My father had a picture of him playing the
violin, with a large bell on his left shoulder. Under it is written:
“Here you see, fiddling, stands Hans Bach,
To hear him play would make you laugh.
He plays, you must know, in a way of his own,
And wears a fine beard by which he is known.”
Erdmann laughed loudly. “He must have been a queer fellow,” said he. “He
would have suited me.”
“He ought to have suited anyone,” said Sebastian. “His musical talent
descended to his three sons. Johann was organist at the church in
Erfurt, known as the ‘Predige Church’; Christoph, my grandfather, died
as a member of the Arnstadt town band; and Heinrich as town organist,
also in Arnstadt. The family tendency was so strong in him, my father
used to say, that even as a boy he would run miles to hear an organ
played and to learn something. All three of these have composed some
excellent music.”
“It is remarkable,” said Erdmann.
“Yes, and Johann as well as Heinrich had three sons. All six became
musicians, and their children and grandchildren after them.”
“Who would have believed it? It is astonishing! Now tell me about your
good father.”
“He was truly a distinguished musician. The people of Eisenach
thoroughly appreciated their Court and town musician. His resemblance to
his twin brother, Johann Christoph, was remarkable. My mother has often
told me that she and her sister-in-law could not have told them apart
when they were together but for their dress. They were also wonderfully
alike in disposition, speech, gait, and sentiments. They were exactly
similar in the style and execution of their music, also. When one of
them was sick the other was, and they died almost at the same time. Is
it not both beautiful and touching?”
“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.