“He shall stand before Kings”
Beside the burdens of his official position and the fatigue of his
extraordinary musical activity, Bach realized the infirmities of old age
at a comparatively early period. He had overtaxed his strength in his
youth, and this now began to affect his physical powers. He was also
threatened with the loss of sight—a possibility which greatly alarmed
his family.
On account of this danger, he exerted himself as rapidly as was
judicious in preparing his children for their future work and fitting
them to act for themselves. As has already been said, Friedemann, his
most gifted and best-beloved son, had been organist at Dresden since
1733. Bach had often visited him, and sought by paternal counsel and
affectionate warning to dissuade him from the eccentricities and
extravagances to which he was prone, and to keep him in the right path.
The second son, Carl Philipp Emanuel, was very successful in the
University, which he left in 1738, and proved himself not only such a
gifted musician but excellent scholar in the sciences, that the Crown
Prince of Prussia, known in history as Frederick the Great, summoned him
from Rheinsberg to take the place of pianist in his musical chapel.
There we shall shortly see him.
The third son, Johann Gottfried Bernhard, born at Weimar in 1715, was
such a skilful player and accomplished contrapuntist at the age of
twenty that he was fitted to fill an organist’s position with credit. A
position of this kind was offered him about this time, partly at the
solicitation of his famous father. Mühlhausen, the city in which Bach
himself, a quarter of a century before, had spent the golden days of his
first youthful freedom and domestic happiness, in grateful remembrance
of the famous father gave the not-yet-famous son the organist’s
position, much to the former’s delight.
Not long after this, another occurrence gave Bach great satisfaction.
The Elector of Saxony and King of Poland, Frederick Augustus III, who
was so greatly interested in the musical tournament at Count Flemming’s
palace, when Marchand, the Frenchman, evaded Bach’s challenge by flight,
had not lost sight of the master. After hearing him play at a church
concert in Dresden, he appointed him “composer to His Majesty the King
of Poland and Elector of Saxony”—a distinction which at that time was
much sought after because of its personal value and far-reaching
influence.
The old saying, “A prophet is not without honor save in his own
country,” was verified in Bach’s case. He was greatly annoyed and
distressed by serious differences and often very disagreeable disputes
with his superiors, and sometimes with the Rector, over the affairs of
the Thomas School and Church. Those small souls could not understand,
much less appreciate, the unequalled achievements of a musician like
Bach. From their point of view he was simply the Cantor of St. Thomas’s,
and they grumbled and found fault whenever his actions or regulations
were not in accordance with their commonplace ideas. The continual
vexation which this caused him, as well as the feeling that such conduct
on the Rector’s part must eventually bring both himself and his work
into disgrace, led him seriously to contemplate resigning his position
in Leipsic and seeking a new home elsewhere. With this contingency in
view, he turned his eyes to Dantsic, a music-loving city, and with all
the more hopefulness because Erdmann, the old true friend of his
boyhood, lived and held an important position there. Since their
separation at Lüneburg, Bach had kept up an irregular but cordial
correspondence with his friend, and had the satisfaction of knowing that
he held him in affectionate remembrance, and sympathized warmly with him
in his welfare as well as in his troubles. Bach stated his circumstances
to him with the utmost frankness, and complained of his meagre salary
and the restrictions placed upon him by his unappreciative superiors,
which exposed him to continual annoyance, jealousy, and persecution.
Erdmann, who held an imperial position at that time, was extremely
cordial, and promised to use his powerful influence in carrying out his
friend’s wishes, though he could not do anything right away in securing
a situation for him. This was not necessary, for relief soon came from
another source.
That same year the rectorate was vacant, and, greatly to Bach’s delight,
the learned Professor Gesner,[41] who knew the value of his work,
succeeded to the position. The change in his circumstances made the life
of the greatly troubled and poorly paid Cantor much more endurable, both
in Leipsic and in the school. To the close of his life he found
consolation for all earthly trouble and insufficiency in those
inexhaustible sources of lofty musical ideas which God had given him to
develop to the highest point of which he was capable, and to hand down
to posterity in unsurpassed form. His happy domestic life, the success
of his children, and the fine progress of his scholars, who gradually
became skilful musicians, also strengthened and encouraged him; while
his intimate relations with the Thuringian members of the family, who
often visited him, and admired and loved him, helped keep his heart
young.
Thus the years passed,—years of continuous care and toil, of faithful
work “for the honor of the Highest,” of many severe personal trials, but
also of many kindnesses, which strengthened the heart of the master as
he grew aged. His fame grew beyond Leipsic. The number of his majestic
tone-creations greatly increased. He was without a rival as a profoundly
learned composer and skilful organist and pianist. And yet with all his
honor and fame he worked quietly, unpretentiously, and manfully in his
little closet at home for the support of his large family, and with
absolute sincerity devoted his work to the glory of the Highest.
The saddest burden of his last years was the growing misconduct of his
favorite son, Wilhelm Friedemann. Even in his boyhood he had manifested
abnormal tendencies toward eccentricity, and in the course of years it
had made him more and more disliked. Beside this, still worse traits of
character revealed themselves, such as imperious haughtiness and
repulsing moroseness of disposition, persistent indulgence in
extravagant and bizarre musical fancies, notwithstanding the warnings of
his father and friends, and, finally, over-indulgence in drink. Owing to
his insolence, he had to leave his position in Dresden. With much
difficulty he secured the place of organist at St. Mary’s Church, in
Halle; but even there, desirable as the position was, he made no effort
to curb his extravagances and dissolute habits, so that his father had
good grounds for solicitude as to his future. And yet he charmed
everyone with his fanciful and brilliant playing, and the hope was
generally expressed that his talent would ultimately reach as high a
standard of development as that of his father.
The progress of the second son, however, rejoiced the heart of the
much-enduring old master. After the Crown Prince Frederick succeeded to
the throne made vacant by the death of his father, Philipp Emanuel was
appointed royal chamber musician and court pianist at Potsdam and
Berlin, and was at this time enjoying the personal and musical
distinction he so well deserved. Everything that came from him—letters,
compositions, musical tidings of every kind—brought joy to the old
father at St. Thomas’s, and caused him to rejoice in the rising fame and
good fortune of his manly son. A message which Emanuel sent at this time
to his father made ample compensation for all the trials of the last few
years, and filled the modest home at St. Thomas’s with unalloyed
satisfaction and delight. Frederick II, King of Prussia, the admired of
all the world, victor at Hohenfriedberg and Sohr,[42] expressed his
sincere admiration of “Master Bach” and the wish to see him in Potsdam
as soon as convenient.
Bach was deeply moved by the message. All thoughts of his troubles in
Leipsic disappeared, all his anxieties and cares were forgotten, and
with fresh strength and courage he faced the future. There was nothing
higher, nothing more precious in his estimation than his personal
recognition by the greatest prince of his time. The future had nothing
in store for him that could shake his courage or lessen his creative
energy.
And yet the modest musician delayed gratifying the wish of the King. It
was only when Frederick repeated his request in a more emphatic manner
and threatened, in pleasant banter, to send a squad of hussars to
Leipsic and arrest him and fetch him across the boundaries, that the old
Cantor started for Berlin. With him went Wilhelm Friedemann, “Son of
sorrow.”
A tedious day’s journey was coming to its close, and the Sunday vesper
bells were ringing in the Potsdam turrets, when (May 4, 1747) our
eagerly expectant travellers came to the gate, and announced their names
and occupations to the gatekeeper, as was the custom. With anxious
hearts they entered the city, and went to the quarter where Philipp
Emanuel resided as court musician. Bach was received by his
daughter-in-law most cordially, as was also Friedemann with sisterly
kindness, and he embraced the grandchildren whom she brought to him at
once, with much emotion.
“How delighted Emanuel will be,” said the pretty little woman over and
over, and then added significantly, “and also his Majesty, our
all-gracious King. Scarcely a day has passed for a month, in which his
Majesty has not asked at the evening concert, ‘Is your father here yet?’
or, ‘When is your father coming?’”
“His Majesty is very kind,” replied Bach, with evident pleasure. “We
must announce our arrival without delay.”
“The gatekeeper has done that already in his report, but it will also be
well to send word to Emanuel before the evening concert begins. He has
already been at the castle an hour, tuning a fine Silbermann piano.”
Thereupon the brisk little woman went out and sent a boy-pupil with the
message, bidding him go to the castle as fast as he could. The two
travellers in the meantime refreshed themselves, after the fatigue of
their journey, with a hearty meal, and were chatting cosily with Frau
Gertrude, when the housemaid appeared at the door and announced a court
messenger, who wished to speak at once with Herr Music Director Bach, of
Leipsic. He was bidden to enter, and Bach greeted him with a pleasant
smile, as if aware of the nature of his message. The messenger made a
courtly bow, and said: “His Majesty has heard of the arrival of Herr
Bach, and graciously orders him to appear without delay at his castle. I
am ordered to accompany him.”
“I will put on a more fitting dress,” replied Bach, somewhat excited,
“so that I may make as suitable an appearance as possible.”
The messenger, however, promptly informed him that would be against his
Majesty’s express command. “I am ordered to fetch you to the castle
without any delay.”
“Well,” said Bach, smiling, as he somewhat ruefully surveyed his homely
but well-fitting brown coat, “the command of his Majesty must be obeyed.
Let us go.”
In the meantime there was a scene of exciting interest at the castle. At
the hour appointed for the concert, the entire royal chapel was
assembled in the music hall. It promised to be a notable evening, for
the King was to play first flute in a concerto. The members of the
chapel, among them Graun, Quantz, Agricola,[43] and Emanuel Bach, were
engaged in earnest conversation about the piece, when a quick step was
heard and the King entered.
The young sovereign carried a roll of music under his arm, and in his
hand his favorite flute in its velvet case. With a genial smile and a
hearty “Good-evening, gentlemen,” he went to the piano, laid down his
flute-case and began to arrange the music upon the desks, smiling at his
players and saying in a bantering manner: “Well, gentlemen, we are going
to try something of importance this evening. It is Quantz’s latest work,
and,” turning to Quantz, “he has not made it very easy for us.”
“Your Majesty,” replied Quantz, with great respect, “music is not mere
play for unpractised fingers and heads, but hard work.”
“Yes, yes,” replied the King; “I found that out while studying my part.
I shall be surprised if we succeed in satisfying you.”
“As far as Your Majesty is concerned, I am satisfied in advance.”
“There! there! you are a flatterer. We shall see.”
The King took his case from the piano and began putting his flute
together. He was just about to try it, when the door opened and an
official appeared, standing on the threshold and fixing his gaze upon
the King.
“What is it?”
“If Your Majesty please, the gate-list.”
“So, so; let me have it.”
As the King, still with his flute in his hand, glanced over the paper,
he suddenly gave a start, looked again, and turning to his band, said,
“Gentlemen, great news! The elder Bach has come.”
His announcement caused much excitement. Emanuel alone retained his
composure.
The King’s large blue eyes glistened, and smiles illumined his face.
“Yes, yes, Herr Pianist, your eminent father has arrived, and
undoubtedly this moment is at your residence. He must come here at once.
I have waited to no purpose long enough. He must come at once—do you
hear?”
[Illustration: “_Gentlemen! Good news! The old Bach has
come._”—Frederick the Great]
“Is it Your Majesty’s wish that I fetch my father?” said Emanuel, ready
to start at once.
“Yes, yes, hurry!—or, no; stay here. There will be no end of questions
and talk when you meet, and that means delay. I had better send another,
who will bring him without any ceremony.”
The King rang a bell on the pier-table and a lackey appeared at the
door. “Let a messenger be sent without an instant’s delay to the
residence of the court pianist, with instructions to fetch the organist,
Herr Bach, who has just arrived from Leipsic, to the castle at once. Do
you understand? The messenger must take no excuse of any kind for
delay.”
“As Your Majesty pleases.”
The man disappeared, and the King turned to his band with a beaming
smile. “We have the old man at last. Gather up your music, gentlemen; we
will play your concerto, Quantz, some other time. This evening we shall
listen to one greater than any of you.”
The musicians obeyed, and then stood whispering together. All this time
the King was pacing up and down the hall impatiently, with his flute
still under his arm. At last he stopped. “Graun, a word with you.”
Graun approached the King.
“Listen, Graun. We must let old Bach hear some good music of our own
time. What have we to offer him from the opera repertory?”
“If Your Majesty please, we have Hasse’s ‘Artaxerxes,’ Porpora’s
‘Annibale’ and ‘Mitridate,’ Handel’s ‘Faramondo’—”[44]
“No, no! We must have something of our own.”
“Perhaps one of Agricola’s pieces.”
“But, still better, why not one of Graun’s?” said the King, laughing.
Graun bowed. “In that case, and in obedience to Your Majesty, I make
bold to suggest the ‘Galatea.’”
“Oh! because I myself stumbled around a little in that pastoral
music?[45] Ah! ah! Graun, have you also begun to be a courtier? What
will become of my band? No, no, we will not have ‘Galatea.’ We will have
‘Demofoonte’ or ‘Caius Fabricius.’ What do you think of those?”
“We have well practised both, Your Majesty, but ‘Cinna’ is completely
ready. If Your Majesty is so disposed, we can give Herr Bach the first
act of that.”
“Good, good, we can manage it; but we will talk about it later. As to
the rest, I wish—”
At that moment the door opened and the lackey announced, “Herr Bach, of
Leipsic, is in the anteroom and at Your Majesty’s service.”
“Let him enter, let him enter,” exclaimed the King, as he laid aside his
flute, and his face lit up with smiles. “Dear Bach, bring in your
father.”
Emanuel hastened to the anteroom, and a few seconds later father and son
entered the hall together. With the most gracious friendliness and
cordiality Frederick met the old master.
“I have you at last, my dear Bach,” he said, affectionately offering
both hands to him as he stood bowing low, “and now I propose to hold you
fast. I have had hard work to get a sight at you.”
The old, careworn master was deeply affected by his reception, and so
agitated as he kissed the hand of the victorious sovereign that for a
few minutes he was speechless. As soon as he could master his feelings,
he expressed his profound gratitude for so much graciousness and
kindness, explaining at the same time how difficult it was to get an
extended leave of absence from his superiors.
“Well, we will see about that,” replied the King, with a suggestive
smile. “The deuce take those Leipsic fossils! They have made me also
wait long and to no purpose for you. I will attend to this, and when I
go to Leipsic again with my grenadiers—which I may do any time, as long
as they keep that intriguing nuisance, Brühl,[46] in office—I will
punish them in a way that will put an end to their nonsense.”
The King then led the old master into the room and introduced him to the
musicians at their desks, as well as to the gentlemen-in-waiting. He had
a pleasant word for each, and showed so little embarrassment in his new
surroundings that Philipp Emanuel was greatly surprised. The gentlemen
of the Court also were favorably impressed by the old musician, who
attracted them all by his simple dignity and ease of manner.
The King looked affectionately at him. “Dear Bach,” he said with genuine
tenderness, “I am doubly glad you arrived to-day. Only an hour ago two
Silbermann pianos, for which I have long waited, were delivered at the
castle, and I would like to have your expert opinion of them. I am aware
that you are not an unconditional advocate of the Silbermann technic.”
“I was not at the beginning,” said Bach, modestly. “It would not have
been right so long as its mechanism had serious faults; but in the
course of years it has been improved by skilful and intelligent men, its
faults have been corrected, and now it really is a masterpiece. Your
Majesty has made no mistake in getting them.”
“I hope not, I hope not,” said the King; “but now let us look at them.
One is in my workroom and the other is in my chamber. Ho, there! Lights!
The gentlemen of the chapel are welcome to join us.”
Headed by the King and Bach, they went from one room to another, and
Bach tried seven of these pianos, extemporizing so delightfully that the
King was lost in admiration. “Splendid! splendid! that was masterly,
dear Bach!” he exclaimed several times.
“Your Majesty is too generous,” said the old Cantor. “It does not
require much musical ability to show off a piano. I pray you for some
more important task than that.”
“Well, well, if you call that of no importance we must try something
else. Will you take a theme and construct a fugue and variations upon
it?”
“Gladly, Your Majesty, and if you are willing I will use the piano in
Your Majesty’s workroom. It is the best of all the instruments.”
“I think so, too. Come in, gentlemen.”
All entered the apartment, eager with expectation, and grouped
themselves around the piano. “Now, select a theme, dear Bach, and give
us a three-part fugue, if it be not asking too much.”
The old master smiled quietly. “Will not Your Majesty have the goodness
to give me the theme?”
“What? I? And you will extemporize a fugue and variations at the same
time?”
“If it so please Your Majesty, I will undertake it with God’s help.”
“Well, I must say—but you shall have your way.”
The King went to the piano, stood a moment in thought, and then
gracefully and elegantly played this charming theme:
[Illustration: _Theme_]
“Does that satisfy you?”
Bach bowed respectfully, seated himself at the instrument, and began
extemporizing a prelude of the same character as the theme, and as only
he could do it. For some time he developed it beautifully, and then with
graceful facility worked up the theme itself, in three parts, with such
depth of feeling, richness of conception and harmonic color, and above
all with such an absolute mastery of technic, that the musicians held
their breath, and the King, standing behind Bach, was transfixed with
astonishment.
“Marvellous!” he whispered more than once, and when Bach closed with a
contrapuntal masterpiece, the so-called stretto,[47] he exclaimed
enthusiastically: “Truly, there is but one Bach!” and embraced the
deeply moved master with the affectionate familiarity of a
fellow-artist. After this, he said he would retire to enjoy the
impression made upon him, but would see Bach again the next day, as he
wished to show him the organs in the Potsdam churches and hear him play
on them. Bach cheerfully consented, and after making his adieus passed a
quiet evening in his own family circle.
The next day, at the appointed hour, the royal carriage stopped at
Emanuel’s door, and at the King’s request Friedemann accompanied his
father. They were soon at the Church of the Holy Spirit, where the organ
was in readiness and the King was awaited. In the meantime the church
rapidly filled up with persons of high social standing and Court
attendants, and soon the King’s carriage was heard at the door. With a
quick step the sovereign entered, hastily greeting those in attendance,
and making his way to the organ-loft, where he warmly greeted the
master.
“Dear Bach, yesterday you served me a magnificent musical feast, which I
greatly enjoyed; but you know the old saying: ‘The appetite grows by
what it feeds upon,’ and I am free to say that to-day I am longing to
hear a performance such as only you can give us.”
“And what might that be, Your Majesty?”
“A fugue in six parts.”
“Yes, but our theme of yesterday, as Your Majesty well knows, is not
adapted to that style of polyphonic treatment. If Your Majesty will
graciously choose one that is—”
“No, no, Bach, choose a fitting one yourself; we shall be the gainers
thereby.”
“Your Majesty has only to command.”
The King nodded his assent, took a seat a little apart from his retinue,
and Bach began.
A majestic prelude rang from the organ in a mighty flood of tone, ever
bolder and more triumphant, until, reaching a climax, it gave place to
the majestic chorale, “Ich weiss dass mein Erlöser lebt” (“I know that
my Redeemer liveth”), which he developed in six parts with a dignity of
style and a divine fervor that entranced his hearers. The
characteristics of the theme and the accompanying modulations, the
freedom and brilliancy of his treatment, the clearness of the
composition, and the individuality of the single parts, all combined to
make a marvellous performance. The King was so enthusiastic that he
embraced the old master, and exclaimed with emotion: “I have heard the
utmost of which the divine art is capable! I am glad I have lived to
hear it.”
It was an inspiring day for the great musician. His son, Friedemann,
also had to play for the King when they came to another church, and was
heartily appreciated by the musicians, who could not resist the charm of
his talent and performance. Other days not less inspiring followed
these. It was a time so full of spiritual comfort and contentment that
Bach devoted himself to composition, and produced one great work after
another as if he had renewed his youthful power.
The King paid him affectionate attention to the last day of his visit in
Potsdam, showed him everything worth seeing and remembering in Berlin,
and magnanimously tendered him the highest honors in the royal musical
service, which, though with some heaviness of heart, Bach declined out
of consideration for his son Emanuel, asking for himself only the
continuation of the royal favor and kindness. With sincere emotion the
noble sovereign promised this. Bach left Potsdam after many happy weeks,
and returned to his disagreeable Leipsic post, with a melancholy
presentiment that the King’s promise to have another visit sometime
would not be fulfilled.