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JOHANN SEBASTIAN BACH
_THE ORGANIST_
_AND HIS WORKS FOR THE ORGAN_
BY
A. PIRRO
WITH A PREFACE BY
CH.-M. WIDOR
TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH BY
WALLACE GOODRICH
NEW YORK
G. SCHIRMER
1902
AUTHORIZED TRANSLATION
COPYRIGHT, 1902, BY
G. SCHIRMER
16219
[Illustration]
Table of Contents
PAGE
PREFACE v
INTRODUCTION xxi
THE PRECURSORS OF BACH.--FRESCOBALDI--FROBERGER--PACHELBEL--
BUXTEHUDE 1
THE PRELUDES AND FUGUES OF J.S. BACH.--TOCCATAS--FANTASIES--
PASSACAGLIA--SONATAS 25
THE CHORALE.--PRELUDES--TRIOS--FANTASIES--FUGUES 58
THE REGISTRATION AND THE ORNAMENTS OF THE ORGAN WORKS OF
J.S. BACH 69
APPENDIX. A SUCCINCT BIOGRAPHY OF J.S. BACH 93
THE CATALOGUE OF HIS COMPLETE WORKS 101
INDEX OF REFERENCES TO WORKS OF J.S. BACH 114
Preface
"If Beethoven appears to our generation as a Greek statue, Bach, on
the contrary, impresses us as one of those Sphinxes of Egypt whose
towering head commands the wide expanse of the desert."
The comparison is imaginative, but seems to me only partially just.
Sphinx in vastness of proportions, I admit; but the image is
destroyed when character is taken into consideration. Bach is
indisputably the mightiest of musicians; one is seized with awe in
perusing the extraordinary catalogue of his works, so seemingly
impossible are its dimensions; in casually looking over those forty
and more folio volumes; in pausing for an instant to examine more
closely any one of the pages, where the smallest detail seems to have
been long considered and predetermined, while over all soars the
essential thought, always profound and original. But was there ever a
thinker less enigmatical?
Surely this majestic figure dominates his surroundings; but that
frank look, those luminous, kindly eyes, are hardly those of a
Sphinx. It is rather the heroic statue of Common Sense.
An eminent virtuoso recently declared to me that he should be more or
less uncomfortable in dining alone with Beethoven; "but with 'Father
Bach,' how different! With him I see myself perfectly at home, pipe
in mouth, elbows upon the table; chatting informally about a thousand
and one interesting things, over a big stein of beer, as in the good
old days." How true!
Bach was a good citizen, an admirable father, as M. Prudhomme would
say, a devoted friend; socially affable, and possessed of a rare
artistic modesty. Were he asked how he had attained such heights, he
would answer: "I was obliged to work; whoever will strive as I did,
will succeed as well." He availed himself of every opportunity to
become familiar with the works of other composers; Händel he esteemed
highly, Couperin interested him; when accorded three weeks' leave
that he might hear Buxtehude, Bach so far forgot himself as to allow
three months to go by while listening, from a secluded corner of the
church, to the justly celebrated organist of St. Mary's in Lübeck.
Bach was a great and good man; never did a more marvellous mechanism
perform the functions of a human brain; never has been known a mind
that was sounder, better balanced, contained in a more robust body;
never were a musician's nerves better controlled.
It required the atrocious harmonizations of Görner to cause Bach
one day to turn upon him and hurl his wig at the face of the poor
accompanist: "_Sie sind ein Schuster_" (You are a bungler)!
These fits of anger were, however, rare, despite the astonishing
vitality of his constitution; for Bach was naturally patient and
kind-hearted.
Note him with his pupils; during the first year nothing but
exercises--trills, scales, passages in thirds and sixths, practice
in changing fingers--work of every description to insure the
equability of the hand. He supervised everything, devoting the
minutest attention to the clearness and precision of the touch. If
one pupil or the other became discouraged, he good-naturedly wrote
little pieces containing in a disguised form the difficulties to be
surmounted.
When Bach became organist of the New Church in Arnstadt--he was very
young, but eighteen years of age--he had studied the compositions and
methods of the following celebrated clavecinists of his time:
FROBERGER (1615[?]-1667), a _protégé_ of Emperor Ferdinand
III., by whom he had been sent, in early life, to study with
Frescobaldi in Rome.
FISCHER, _Capellmeister_ to the Margrave of Baden.
JOHANNES CASPAR KERL, a rival of Froberger, also under the
protection of Ferdinand III., and entrusted to the care of Carissimi
in Rome.
PACHELBEL (1653-1706), formerly assistant organist of St.
Stephen's in Vienna, then successively organist at Eisenach, Erfurt,
Stuttgart, and Nuremberg.
BUXTEHUDE (1637-1707), the celebrated organist at Lübeck.
BRUHNS, his pupil.
BÖHM, organist of St. John's Church in Lüneburg.
It was through Froberger and Kerl that Bach became acquainted with
Frescobaldi's works, and the Italian school; the sonata form was
revealed to him by the French "suites" played by the orchestra of the
ducal court at Celle, an organization which greatly interested him;
but the greatest influence upon his youth was exercised by Buxtehude.
It was from him that Bach learned in their integrity the old German
traditions.
When, at Hamburg, the aged Reinken heard Bach improvise for more than
a half-hour upon the chorale _An Wasserflüssen Babylons_, he cried
out, embracing him, "I thought that this art were dead; but I see
that in you it still lives."[1]
[Footnote 1: "_Ich dachte, diese Kunst wäre ausgestorben; ich sehe
aber, dass sie in Ihnen noch lebt._"]
These traditions he handed down later to his two oldest sons, Wilhelm
Friedemann and Carl Philipp Emanuel--two musicians whose merit is
universally recognized,--and to a whole galaxy of brilliant pupils:
JOHANNES CASPAR VOGLER, a musician whom Mattheson considered
more able than Bach himself. Vogler was organist at Weimar. Some
preludes of his are published and written in the form of chorales for
two manuals and pedal.
HOMILIUS, of Dresden, a composer of church music.
TRANSCHEL, of Dresden, a distinguished clavecinist.
GOLDBERG, of Königsberg, composer of pieces called
"_Bagatelles pour dames_," which no one could play, such was their
difficulty. (He frequently found amusement in playing music of every
variety from the inverted score.)
KREBS, organist at Altenburg; not only a performer of the
first rank, but a prolific composer. For nine years he enjoyed the
invaluable supervision of Bach.
ALTNIKOL, organist at Naumburg; Bach's son-in-law.
AGRICOLA, composer to the King of Prussia, known through his
theoretical works.
MÜTHEL, of Riga.
KIRNBERGER, court musician at Berlin. "He loved his art
with a fervor at once enthusiastic and sincere," says Forkel. "Not
only has he informed us in detail as to Bach's methods of teaching
composition, but the musical world is still his debtor for the first
logical system of harmony, founded upon the works of his master. The
first of these sources of information is his book, _Die Kunst des
reinen Satzes_; the second, _Grundsätze zum Gebrauch der Harmonie_.
He furthered the interests of musical art by other treatises as well
as by his compositions. Particularly charming are his works for the
clavecin. Princess Amelia of Prussia was one of his pupils."
KITTEL, organist at Erfurt. He was the only one of Bach's
pupils still living at the time Forkel, himself an organist and the
director of music at the University of Göttingen, wrote his _Ueber
J.S. Bach's Leben, Kunst und Kunstwerke_ (Leipzig, 1802). [The Life,
Art, and Works of J.S. Bach.]
Forkel was intimately associated with Wilhelm Friedemann and
Philipp Emanuel Bach, and with Agricola, Kirnberger, and several
others of Sebastian Bach's illustrious pupils. He collaborated with
Schicht, a man of education and a distinguished harmonist, who later
became Cantor of St. Thomas's Church. With him Forkel undertook
the publication of works by Bach for organ and for clavecin, an
enterprise to which frequent allusion is made in his book. Forkel
had accumulated a fine musical library; with the aid of this and
of that of the University of Göttingen he was enabled to procure
a considerable amount of material for his _Geschichte der Musik_
[History of Music], which was to comprise six volumes; of which,
however, only the first two appeared.
Forkel reserved for the last volume of this compilation the memoranda
concerning Bach and his works; but "foreseeing the impossibility of
completing during his life this veritable encyclopædia of music, he
appears, at least in his book upon the life and works of Bach, to
have been desirous of losing no time in rendering to that great man a
sincere and merited tribute of homage and gratitude...."
Kittel (1732-1802) was Rinck's teacher; the latter relates that his
master invariably ended his conversations upon Bach with the words
_Ein sehr frommer Mann_, "a very good man."
Dr. Fétis, of Brussels, while teaching me the principles of
counterpoint and fugue, often spoke of Rinck, whom he had visited;
of Kittel, his musical father, and of their great common ancestor,
Sebastian Bach. Rinck, when asked the cause of his neglect of the
fugue form, would reply: "Bach is a Colossus, dominating the musical
world; one can hope to follow him in his domain only at a distance,
for he has exhausted all resources, and is inimitable in what he has
done. I have always considered that if one is to succeed in composing
something worthy of being heard and approved, one's attention must be
turned in another direction."
Poor Rinck!
* * * * *
We are to study in this work only the organist Bach. Since M.
André Pirro has so conscientiously analyzed the specific work of
the master, I have to concern myself only with his technique as a
virtuoso.
Bach played the clavecin in the following manner: "The five fingers
so curved that their tips fell perpendicularly upon the keys, over
which they formed a parallel line, ever ready to obey. The finger
was not raised vertically upon leaving the key, but was drawn back,
almost gliding toward the palm of the hand; in the passage from one
key to another this sliding motion seemed to impart to the succeeding
finger exactly the same degree of pressure, thereby ensuring perfect
equality; a touch neither 'heavy,' nor yet dry (_sec_)." This we
learn from Philipp Emanuel.
Bach's hand was comparatively small; the movement of his fingers was
hardly perceptible, extending only to the first joints. His hand
preserved its rounded shape even in the most difficult passages,
Forkel tells us; the fingers were raised very little above the
keyboard, hardly more than in a trill; as soon as a finger was no
longer needed, he took pains to replace it in its normal position....
"The other parts of his body took no part in the performance,
contrary to the habit of many people whose hands are incapable of
sufficient agility."
To-day we no longer play the harpsichord; and the pianoforte, which
has happily replaced it, makes demands never dreamed of in those days.
As to the character of organ touch, no change has taken place in
two centuries. Possibly at the time of Bach the keys of the pedals
were slightly different from those of our day; undoubtedly in his
youth he made much less use of the heel than of the toe, since the
pedal-keys were extremely short. But he soon recognized the necessity
of perfecting the bass keyboard of the organ both by extending its
compass and by lengthening the pedal-keys to their present dimensions.
He played with the body inclined slightly forward, and motionless;
with an admirable sense of rhythm, with an absolutely perfect
polyphonic ensemble, with extraordinary clearness, avoiding extremely
rapid _tempi_; in short, master of himself, and, so to speak, of the
beat, producing an effect of incomparable grandeur.
His contemporaries speak enthusiastically of his exquisite taste in
the combination of registers, and of his manner of treating them, at
once so unexpected and original.
Nothing could escape him which was related to his art, adds Forkel.
He observed with the most minute attention the acoustic properties
of the room where he was to play. On his visit to Berlin in 1747, he
was conducted to the auditorium of the new opera house. He recognized
at a glance the advantages and defects of this monumental edifice,
in its relation to music. He was shown the _grand foyer_ adjacent.
Standing in the mezzanine gallery, he glanced up toward the ceiling
and remarked immediately, without giving himself the trouble of
further examination, that in it the architect had constructed "a work
of great merit," perhaps unawares.
The _foyer_ was in the form of a parallelogram; if a person standing
in a corner of it, face toward the wall, spoke a few words, another
person standing in the same position in the corner diagonally
opposite could distinctly hear them, while the public, scattered here
and there through the hall, would be unable to catch anything of this
dialogue.
When distinguished strangers asked to hear Bach at the organ, at
times other than during services, he usually selected some theme
and amused himself by treating it in various ways, perhaps playing
without interruption for over an hour. First he made use of the
subject for a prelude and fugue, upon the foundation stops of the
chief manual, thereafter deftly varying his registration through a
series of episodes in two, three, or four parts. Then came a chorale,
the melody of which was interrupted here and there by fragments of
the original subject; and he finally concluded with a fugue for full
organ,[2] in which "he contented himself with treating the subject
either alone, or in combination with other themes derived from it."
[Footnote 2: See _organo pleno_, p. 70.]
And if he tried a new organ? He first drew all the registers and
played upon the principal manual (with all couplers), "in order to
test the lung-power of the instrument," as he laughingly expressed
it. Then he proceeded to a detailed inspection of every part of the
organ. This expert examination once over, he gave free rein to his
fancy. And now he showed himself truly "the prince of all _virtuosi_
of the universe, upon the harpsichord and organ," as he was one day
hailed by his amazed colleague, the organist Sorge, of Lobenstein, in
an outburst of enthusiasm.
No, the art of organ playing has not changed since Johann Sebastian
Bach; but, on the other hand, our organs are growing distinctly
better. Go and listen to those of Saint-Sulpice, of Notre-Dame, in
Paris; hear the instrument of Saint-Ouen, at Rouen!
In the organs of Bach's time the reeds were scarcely used except in
the capacity of basses, reinforcing the pedal; or as solo registers,
for instance, _hautbois_ and _cromornes_; our profusion of sonorous
clarions, trumpets, and _bombardes_ was totally unknown. _Organo
pleno_ did not signify a full battery of 4, 8, 16, and 32-foot stops,
but simply the combination of some _prestants_ and mixtures with a
diapason or a bourdon.[3] As for a means of varying the intensity of
the same tone, such a thing was never thought of.
[Footnote 3: The French are accustomed to group registers of
similar quality, but varying in pitch, under a single name; as
_bourdons_ (stopped wood pipes), _montres_ (diapasons), _anches_
(reeds), qualifying them by the pitch; _e.g._, _bourdons_ of 16'
and 8' would be equivalent to our bourdon and stopped diapason, or
_gedackt_.--TR.]
As I have said elsewhere, it is hardly farther back than to the end
of the last century that we trace the invention of the "swell-box,"
the English contrivance which the aged Händel pronounced admirable,
and which Abbé Vogler recommended to the German builders some years
later.
To-day, to non-professionals, our instruments appear to have become
capable of nearly as much expression as the orchestra.
But this is a serious error. I repeat here: that expression which
is a characteristic of the modern organ can but be subjective; it
is born of mechanical means and possesses nothing of spontaneity.
While the stringed and wind instruments of the orchestra, the
pianoforte, and the voice, hold sway only by their instantaneity of
accent, by the unexpectedness of their attack, the organ, limited
to the confines of its own inherent majesty, speaks with the voice
of philosophy. Of all instruments, it is the only one which can
indefinitely prolong the same volume of sound, and thus create the
religious impression of the infinite.
A serious organist will never avail himself of these means of
expression, unless _architecturally_; that is to say, by _straight
lines_ and by _designs_. By _lines_, when he passes slowly from
_piano_ into _forte_, by a gradient almost imperceptible, and in
constant progression, without break or jolt. By _designs_, when
he takes advantage of a second of silence to close the swell-box
abruptly between a _forte_ and a _piano_.
Seek to reproduce the expressive quality of an E-string, or of the
human voice, and we shall no longer hear an organ; it will have
become an accordeon.
The most striking characteristic of the organ is grandeur; that is
to say, determination and power. Every illogical variation in the
intensity of the sound, every nuance which, graphically, cannot be
represented by a right line, is a crime, the offence of artistic
_lèse-majesté_.
In fact, we should declare to be criminals, and hold up to the
contempt of the public, those who make an accordeon of the organ;
those who arpeggiate, who do not play legato, whose rhythm is but
passable.
With the organ, as in the orchestra, precision must rule; the
perfect ensemble of feet and hands is absolutely necessary, whether
in attacking or leaving the keyboard. All notes placed in the same
perpendicular by the composer must be made to speak and to cease
speaking at the same time, obedient to the _bâton_ of a single
conductor. Here and there are still seen unfortunates who suffer
their feet to trail along the pedals, and who forget them and leave
them there, although the piece is long since finished. It reminds us
of the old viola player at the Opéra, who regularly went to sleep
during the fourth act, to be charitably wakened by his comrades at
the end of the evening. It was a tradition. But one fine day the
management changed hands; tradition had to change, too, and it was
forbidden to waken the sleeper. They were giving "The Prophet."
Neither the crash of the introduction, the collapse of the Palace
blown up with dynamite, the din of the orchestra, nor the tumult of
players and audience leaving the theatre, could cut short his dreams.
When he finally opened his eyes in the profound darkness, he believed
himself, like Orpheus, in the infernal regions, and on attempting
to make his exit pitched head-foremost into the kettledrums, which
collapsed. The next day his eligibility to retirement was recognized.
I should like to know what an orchestral conductor would say, after
having given the last stroke of his _bâton_, if his third trombone
player should permit himself tranquilly to continue to prolong his
note? From what savage cave can such a barbarous custom have emerged?
Yet some years ago it was a generally prevailing fashion, a veritable
epidemic.
Culpable are the organists who do not play the four parts of the
polyphony with a rigorous _legato_, tenor as well as soprano, the
alto like the bass. Examine Bach's gigantic series of works; in
them all you will find but two or three passages, but two or three
measures exceeding the limitations of the hand. But admire the skill
of the great man; an instant before, a second after, pauses are
cleverly inserted; that is, opportunities to withdraw and then again
to add the 16-foot registers of the pedal, in order that in the
interim the notes which cannot be played smoothly by the hands may
be performed by the pedals, coupled to the manuals. Save for these
two or three exceptions, which themselves are fully justified by the
progression of the parts, all of Bach's works are admirably written,
from this point of view as well as from others.
* * * * *
Here begins a parenthesis; it concerns the Phrasing.
A pianoforte hammer may strike a string ten times per second, and our
ear will still easily perceive the ten attacks, the sound immediately
decreasing in intensity; with the organ, that we may clearly hear the
repetitions of a note in a quick movement, or even in moderate tempo,
there must intervene between the repetitions periods of silence equal
to the duration of the sound; from which we may formulate this law:
_every repeated note loses one-half of its value_.
Example: [Music]
Execution: [Music]
The periods of silence have a time-value exactly equal to that of the
sixteenth-notes.
With regard to notes of larger value, in slow movements, it is clear
that the spirit rather than the letter of our law is to be regarded.
In the following example:
[Music]
it would obviously be absurd to shorten the first dotted note by
one-half; this rendering seems to me the proper one:
[Music]
taking great pains to allow to rests of equal value uniform duration.
The free staccato is not admissible upon the organ. Here every
detached note becomes a staccato one, as in the case of instruments
played with a bow; that is to say, a series of equal tones separated
from each other by rests of like duration. The staccato is executed
by holding the fingers as near as possible to the keys, the wrist
slightly depressed.
Example: [Music]
Execution: [Music]
When one part succeeds another upon the same note, the note is held
and not repeated.
Example: [Music] Execution: [Music]
A moment ago, in my category of crimes against Art, I included that
of indifference to rhythm.
What is rhythm?
_The constant manifestation of determination, or will, upon the
periodical recurrence of the accented beats._ It is only by
rhythm that one wins attention. Particularly with the organ, all
accents, all effects are dependent upon it. You may bear upon the
keyboard with the weight of pounds, with all the strength of your
shoulders--you will gain nothing by it. But delay by a tenth of a
second the attack of a chord, or prolong this same chord the very
least, and judge of the effect produced! Upon a manual not provided
with a swell-box one may obtain a crescendo without the aid of a
mechanism of any kind: by the simple augmentation of the duration
allowed successive chords or detached phrases.
To play upon an organ is to deal with chronometric values.
Woe be unto you if your tempo is not absolutely regular, if your will
does not manifest itself at every breathing-point of the phrase, at
every "lift"; if you unconsciously permit yourself to "hurry"!
Would you like a lesson in rhythm? Listen to those immense
locomotives dragging behind them tons of merchandise; admire the
formidable piston stroke which marks every recurrence of the accent,
slowly but relentlessly; well may you believe that you hear the march
of Fate itself. It causes one to shudder.
To be master of one's self it is necessary to abstain from every
superfluous movement, from any displacement of the body. A good
organist sits firmly, well-balanced upon his bench, inclining
slightly towards the manuals, never permitting his feet to rest upon
the frame which surrounds the pedals, but letting them glide lightly
along over the keys; heels and knees riveted, so to speak, together.
Nature has vouchsafed us two guides of the greatest value; with the
heels pressed one against the other, the maximum separation of the
other extremities of the feet gives us a _fifth_; with the knees held
similarly together, the maximum interval obtainable should be an
_octave_.
Precision and confidence will never be obtained except by adopting
this method; holding the two limbs as if bound together, the two feet
unceasingly in contact with each other.
The foot should not attack the pedal vertically, but from well to
the rear towards the front, as close to the key as possible; gliding
slightly, or "skating," the toe to within a half-inch of the black
keys.
Considering the degree of perfection attained in our contemporary
manufacture, we must be careful not to become dazzled in the midst of
the wealth of resources thereby offered us, and thus led far astray
from the right path. Let us not forget that upon the organ, as in the
orchestra or chorus, all music is based upon the _quartet_. It is
the true foundation of the language. With the organ, our quartet is
embodied in the noble and flowing sonority of the 8-foot foundation
stops. The _basso continuo_ of certain organists, who have fallen
asleep over their pedals, soon becomes an intolerable nuisance for
the audience. We should go wild at a performance of a symphony in
which the double-basses played uninterruptedly from the first note to
the last. Plain-song itself, thus interpreted, loses its eloquence;
although the apparent monotony of its design, closely confined within
the limits of an octave, would, above all, seem to be better adapted
than any other form of music to a continuous bass.
But not at all! This apparent monotony exists in reality only for
those who see not with their eyes, neither hear with their ears.
Plain-song is of a complex species; it has two faces, like Janus.[4]
To be understood, it must be listened to at once from a literary and
a musical standpoint. It is this synthesis which the "decadent" poets
or musicians have, in late years, striven to revive.
[Footnote 4: Take the most beautiful type of the Plain-chant, for
instance: the Te Deum. Simply vocalize it, sing it without words;
rhythm, beauty, grandeur, all disappear. Translate it, and sing the
same music with either French or German text, it becomes absurd. If
the Roman Church had not prescribed Latin as the language of its
liturgy, we should have no Plain-chant to-day.]
The superb rhythm of the pedal when the organ responds to the
choir[5] should emphasize the text, sustain it in outbursts of
exaltation, and not vulgarize it by a continual and unintelligent
abuse.
[Footnote 5: In the larger churches in Paris (and in that city the
greatest attention is given to the perpetuation and cultivation of
Plain-chant) are usually found two organs; the larger one located
in a gallery, or _tribune_, at the west end of the church; the
smaller one, with the choir (invariably of men and boys), being
placed behind the altar, between it and the ambulatory. This
smaller instrument, often augmented by one or more double-basses,
serves only to accompany the choir, while the larger organ, called
the _Grand-orgue_, is treated only as a solo instrument, either
antiphonally with the choir and small organ, as in the _Kyrie_, or
in solo selections, often improvisations of great merit, as at the
Offertory.--TR.]
The organ is a wind instrument; it requires opportunity to take
breath. Like the literary sentence, the musical phrase has its
commas, its periods, its paragraphs. As a speaker changes his
intonation, so must the organ vary its "designs." Is anything more
exasperating than an improvisation in four parts, wandering now here,
now there--monotonous in color, devoid of determination, repose,
contrast, or purpose, having neither beginning, middle, nor end? A
veritable _macaroni au fromage_!
_Cornets_ and _mixtures_, and the other registers of the organ of
Bach's time--these furnish the proper tone-material for Plain-song,
assimilating perfectly with the polyphony of the masters of the
sixteenth century.
Distributed to a certain extent over all lands, coming originally
from Athens, Jerusalem, and Rome, Plain-chant is our heritage from
the Middle Ages, assiduously cultivated within that sunny domain of
counterpoint, of which Palestrina was the last custodian. As it has
been bequeathed to us by the old masters, so must we preserve it for
our descendants. The teachings of the Paris Conservatory during the
past fifty years will always be perpetuated; the treatment in florid
counterpoint, be the melody in soprano or bass, or the accompaniment
in strict counterpoint, note against note, as in the Church.
Some of our contemporary organ builders in France have made a serious
mistake in regarding as a foregone conclusion the undesirability of
perpetuating the characteristics of registration of earlier days, and
in thus considering them hardly worthy of further notice. What a pity!
In July of this year at Notre-Dame, whose superb instrument has just
been restored by Cavaillé-Coll, we admired the effect produced by
different specimens of those mutation stops, producing in the Pedal
a fundamental of 32, upon the _Bombarde_ one of 16, and upon the
_Grand-Choeur_ one of 8-foot pitch. Indescribable is the effect
of the Chorales of the great Sebastian Bach, reverberating with
crystalline sonority under those wonderful arches.
The days of "deluges" upon the organ are over; of thunder and
tremulants, of choruses of goats called the _vox humana_, and all
such childish trifles. "At the opening of the organ in X, Mr. Z.
contributed to the programme a tempest, which he really should have
prefaced by a few flashes of genius!..."
For the great advancement achieved by French workmanship in our day,
we are indebted to Cavaillé-Coll and his masterpieces, which lend
themselves to the perfect expression of any idea, be it of the past
or of the present.
Since Cavaillé-Coll, the study of Bach has begun. Will you believe
that sixty years ago one would have searched Paris in vain to find
two organists who knew the fugue in B minor? I know of none but
conscientious Boëly, of Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois; the published
compositions bear witness to the ideal of those times, an ideal
without a name.
Finally becoming disgusted with this state of affairs, a few young
men, more curious than their elders, began to inquire into the
contents of the dusty volumes of the great Sebastian; they seemed
to them at first somewhat dry, although interesting, at least in
point of execution. One might learn something in that direction! And
soon they were greatly surprised to find their souls touched, while
working with their fingers. And when, acquiring a taste for further
search, they went through the volumes of Chorales, and finally
arrived at the Cantatas...!
I shall never forget the hours devoted by the _Concordia_, whose
conductor I was, to the study and performance, at the Conservatoire,
of that splendid series of lyric works, which we crowned with the
"Passion according to Saint Matthew...."
In justice to our elders it must be said that in Germany as well Bach
had been long neglected. All honor to Mendelssohn, who conducted this
prodigious work at the _Singakademie_ in Berlin, March 29, 1829; it
had been sleeping in the depths of a library for just one hundred
years, the first performance of the work having been on Good Friday,
1729, in Leipzig.
In 1840 Mendelssohn gave an organ concert in St. Thomas's Church upon
the instrument which so long before had been played by the great
Bach himself; the object of the concert was the augmentation of the
subscription for a monument to his memory.
The following was the programme:
Fugue in E flat.
Improvisation upon themes from Bach.
Prelude and Fugue in A minor.
Passacaglia.
Pastorale. Toccata.
Fantasia upon some of the chorales.
April 4th of the following year, in the same church, Mendelssohn
conducted the St. Matthew Passion, from the same spot where Bach
himself had directed it, 112 years before.
Finally, on March 23, 1843, a great symphony concert was given:
1. Orchestral Suite (overture, arioso, gavotte, trio, bourrée,
and gigue).
2. Motet for double chorus _a cappella_.
3. Concerto for harpsichord (the solo part of which Mendelssohn
himself played).
4. Aria from the St. Matthew Passion (_Ich will bei meinem Jesu
wachen_).
5. Fantasia upon a theme by Bach (performed by Mendelssohn).
6. Cantata (for the election of the _Stadtrath_ [council] of the
city of Leipzig).
7. Prelude for violin (played by Ferdinand David).
8. Sanctus (from the Mass in B minor).
The subscription had resulted successfully, and the monument had been
erected.
Following the concert, the draperies were withdrawn which concealed
the bust of the master of masters.
CH.-M. WIDOR.
Introduction
The author of this study does not assume to have discovered Bach, of
whom the world has already heard; but of such men there is always
something to be learned; many new facts of interest concerning the
great Cantor of Leipzig will be brought out by others after us. What
we here wish to consider is the compositions of Bach for the organ.
If, perhaps, we have confined ourselves to æsthetic considerations of
a nature which may appear general, we trust that we may be pardoned;
a perusal of this little book will demonstrate that it is not the
fault of the man who suddenly surpassed all that had been done before
him, while at the same time anticipating all that was to be written
in the future.
Bach was not without predecessors; we may not ascribe to him the
honor of having invented an alphabet, but it must be recognized that
he was the author of a grammar. This conclusion is apparent upon a
study of "Johann Sebastian Bach, the Organist"; it would undoubtedly
be no less convincing upon the consideration of all his works as a
whole.
Since we must confine ourselves to observation from a particular
point of view, we shall indeed be happy if our labor, based entirely
upon recognized authorities, shall make easier to the student the
task of playing Bach "in the Bach spirit."
A. PIRRO.
WÜSTWEILER, September 27, 1894.
ERRATA IN MUSICAL EXAMPLES.
Page 6, second brace, meas. 2, upper part: First half-note _d''_
should be _c''_.
Page 8, meas. 3, upper part: Add tie between third and fourth notes
from end.
Page 16, second brace, meas. 2, upper part: Third 16th-note _a'_
should be _c''_[sharp].
Page 18, second brace, meas. 1: Add tie between last note (_f_) in
third part and the following note.
Page 32, Example 2, last meas. _et seq._ should read thus:
[Music]
Page 43, Example 2, meas. 2, upper part: The sixth note (_g'_[sharp])
should be an _eighth_-note.
Page 44, Example 1, meas. 2, second part: Last note should be
_g_[natural].
Page 47, Example 1, meas. 2, upper part: First note, _e''_, should be
_f''_.
Page 47, Example 1, meas. 2: Add tie between last note in third part
and the following note.
Page 91, Example 2, second part: Third note from end should be
_f'_[sharp].
Johann Sebastian Bach, The Organist
THE PRECURSORS OF BACH
FRESCOBALDI--FROBERGER--PACHELBEL--BUXTEHUDE
Frescobaldi was born at Ferrara in 1583, and the same year at his
baptism in the Cathedral received the Christian names _Girolamo_ and
_Alessandro_.
His first teacher was his father, who was organist at one of the
churches in Ferrara. According to his own testimony he afterward
studied under the direction of Luzzasco Luzzaschi,[6] to whom Claudio
Merulo, himself an excellent organist and thus a competent judge,
accorded the title of the "first organist in Italy"; Vincenzo Galilei
ranked Luzzaschi among the four greatest musicians of his day. To
the instruction given by this master, well known for the clear and
thoughtful conception of his works, were added the counsels of
Francesco Milleville,[7] likewise an organist at Ferrara. Milleville
was of French descent, brought up upon the old traditions of the
Flemish contrapuntists, and the part which he played in the musical
development of young Girolamo is worthy of emphasis; for this
interchange or commerce of ideas between the northern countries and
Italy produced the greatest musicians of the sixteenth century.
Josquin de Près,[8] born at Cambrai in 1445, and a pupil of Ockeghem,
completed his education at Rome while he was a member of the papal
choir. Willaert, born in Flanders, studied in Rome, and in Venice
became the head of the Flemish school. Finally, Palestrina was a
pupil of Goudimel, a Frenchman.
[Footnote 6: Born about 1545 at Ferrara, organist and choirmaster in
his native city. The "_Transilvano_" of Girolamo Diruta contains of
his composition a Toccata in the fourth mode, and two _Ricercare_;
one in the first, the other in the second mode.]
[Footnote 7: His father, Alexandre Milleville, was born in Paris
about 1509, and died September 7, 1589, in Ferrara, where he was
choirmaster. His most distinguished pupil was Ercole Pasquini, the
predecessor of Frescobaldi at St. Peter's in Rome.]
[Footnote 8: He died in 1521, in the service of the Emperor of
Austria. Luther said of him: "This man is truly a master of notes;
they must subject themselves to his will, while other composers
are compelled to obey them." And again, "His works express perfect
contentment, like the song of finches."]
Frescobaldi was not destined to depart from the footsteps of such
illustrious predecessors; desiring to pursue further the studies for
which he had acquired a taste from Milleville, he, too, set out for
Flanders while still young.[9] The exact date of that journey has
never been determined; it seems probable that it was in the year
1607. For in that year Cardinal Guido Bentivoglio, archbishop of
Rhodes and legate of Pope Paul V., was sent to the Netherlands (Guido
Bentivoglio was born at Ferrara in 1579); and, moreover, on January
10, 1608, Frescobaldi dedicated to him one of his finest works, a
collection of five-part madrigals, which was published by Peter
Phalesius in Antwerp. Again, it would not be strange if Frescobaldi,
in 1607, had followed to another country a compatriot whom he
regarded as his protector. According to Fétis (preface to _Trésor
des Pianistes_, by Farrenc), Frescobaldi occupied from this time the
position of organist at the Church of St.-Rombaut, in Malines.
[Footnote 9: Peter Phillipps and Peter Cornet were the best-known
organists in the Netherlands. One may judge of their works by the
excerpts in G.A. Ritter's _Geschichte des Orgelspiels_ (Leipzig,
1884), Nos. 28, 30, 31, and 32 (2d part).]
But he did not retain this position long, for in 1608 we find him
again in Milan. From this time the events of his life are unknown
until 1614, when upon the death of Ercole Pasquini, organist of St.
Peter's in Rome, Frescobaldi became his successor. If we may believe
Abbé Baini, the fame of Frescobaldi was already so widespread that
upon the day when he assumed his new duties he played to thirty
thousand people.
Musical criticism at the time, represented by Della Valle and Lelio
Guidiccioni, records that while his style was less profound, it was
more elastic and agreeable than that of his predecessors. Such a
criticism, especially coming from Guidiccioni, who was most exacting
upon the subject of technique,[10] would indicate that Frescobaldi
possessed a genuine advantage over his contemporaries. At the present
day one would say that he played the organ with a pianist's touch;
if one replace this criticism in its historic frame, one may imagine
the continuous use of trills, scales, mordents and appoggiaturas: an
inheritance from the German "colorists." While perhaps a mistaken
usage, how else could one have made one's self heard throughout the
immense nave of St. Peter's, upon an organ of fourteen registers,
with but one manual and an incomplete pedal? Boldness and dash, that
which we understand by _brio_, had to compensate for paucity of tone.
[Footnote 10: Luzzasco Luzzaschi, whose compositions were for that
time of great value, was charged by Guidiccioni with inability
to play trills and to bring out in relief the details of the
counterpoint, which were blurred under a hard, heavy touch.]
Although he was comparatively sparing of ornaments in his
compositions, particularly those destined especially for
religious services, he never departed from a florid style in his
improvisations, which bristled with feats of skill and agility of
technique. Abbé Maugars, who knew him at Rome in 1639, still praised
the ornamentation and the marvellous cleverness of his improvised
Toccatas.
In 1643 Frescobaldi retired, having already enjoyed leave of absence
from 1628 to 1633; these years he spent at Florence, in the service
of Ferdinand II., Grand Duke of Tuscany.
He did not long survive his retirement in 1643, which, however, was
not absolute, for he took up the position of organist at the little
Church of St. Lawrence _in montibus_. He died March 2, 1644; and was
buried in the Church of the Holy Apostles.
Frescobaldi's works--which cover the entire period of his life--are
very numerous;[11] they were written, as a rule, for organ or
harpsichord indifferently; one of his compositions, published at
Rome in 1638, even bears the following title, "_Canzoni a 1, 2,
3, 4 voci_, written to be sung or to be played by all varieties
of instruments." In some of his works a certain predetermination
is nevertheless evident, recognizable either through their
appropriateness for religious service, or by their obbligato pedal
part, as in the Toccatas.
[Footnote 11: We will not enumerate here all of Frescobaldi's works;
we must be content to mention or analyze only those which from the
point of view of our present study are most significant.]
The collection of _Fiori musicali_[12] belongs to this category,
for, with the exception of such pieces as the _Bergamasca_ or the
_Girolameta_, it contains only selections designed for performance
during church service.
[Footnote 12: The following is the complete title: _Fiori musicali di
diverse compositione, Toccate, Kyrie, Canzoni, Cappricci, e Ricercare
in partitura a 4 utili per sonatori. Autore Girolamo Frescobaldi,
organista di San Pietro di Roma. Opera duodecima. Con Privilegio.
In Venetia. Apresso Alessandro Vicenti_, 1635. The volume bears
the arms of Cardinal Ant. Barberino, to whom the work is inscribed
(the dedication is dated August 20, 1635). The music is written in
score, on four staves, each part with its proper clef; the rests are
carefully written out.]
Apart from their intrinsic value, these compositions comprising the
_Fiori musicali_ bear for us this very potent interest: they are,
without exception, copied entirely by the hand of Bach;[13] which
shows the importance he attached to them and the pains he took to
study them.
[Footnote 13: This precious copy, of 104 pages (like the original),
is dated 1714, and preserved in the library of the _Kgl. Institut für
Kirchenmusik_, at Berlin.]
This collection includes three masses: the _Missa della Domenica_,
_delli_ (sic) _Apostoli_, and _della Madonna_, each one consisting of
a Toccata for a prelude, of the versets of the Kyrie, and of pieces
written to correspond to the various portions of the office, suitably
designated; thus (p. 49), _Recercar cromaticho post il Credo_, or (p.
77), _Canzon dopo la pistola_ (sic).
The versets of the Kyrie, in the three masses, are for the greater
part more properly "Ecclesiastical songs without words," as Ambrose
said, than compositions of a purely instrumental character; in fact,
they are written strictly within the compass of the voice, and only
the long duration of single notes (as in the alto on page 7, or in
the soprano on page 8) precludes the possibility of their being sung.
Curious is the effect of the pedal notes, sustained from the
beginning to the end of a verse; and we find remarkable examples of a
polyphonic accompaniment to the text, doubly interesting because of
the continual reappearance of the theme, either in its integrity or
slightly modified.
Further, while making use of the accidentals required by the
modulation of the parts in the counterpoint, and especially in
cadences, Frescobaldi respects as much as possible the diatonic
character of the Gregorian scale; he adheres to it with as little
variation as possible, particularly when he brings it into
prominence. The mode, the Dorian, remains uppermost in the mind of
the auditor, and the counterpoint is most often derived from the same
tone, sometimes in imitation, at others in ingenious inversions of
the melody which it accompanies. One of the more elaborate of these
versets, the _Kyrie ultimo_ of the _Missa della domenica_, ends with
an allegro, a veritable _alla breve_.[14]
[Footnote 14: With Frescobaldi we find no final cadence other than
a perfect major; at his time the idea of a major or minor tonality
was still to be conceived, and even for a long time after this
distinction was finally made the custom prevailed of ending a piece
written in a minor key by a major chord. Thus, in a collection of 371
chorales by J.S. Bach, of which 113 are in the minor mode, 108 of the
latter end with a major chord.]
If in nature these versets partake somewhat of the character of
compositions for voices, we find in other numbers of the _Fiori
musicali_ a very close affiliation with vocal music. We refer to
that grace and flexibility of proportion which prompts us to say of
this theme, of that counterpoint, "It is musical!" Especially in the
_canzoni_ do we find these expressive qualities.
It is well known that the instrumental fugue was born of this
species of composition, which was also called _canzon francese_; the
responses to a subject, sometimes of popular origin, and most often
in this rhythm (a traditional one): [Music] became answers, and the
alternation of double with triple rhythm gave rise to the fugue in
several movements, such as Buxtehude, in particular, often wrote.
The steps of this transformation may be traced in the _canzoni_ of
Frescobaldi: the _canzone_ in the fourth mode of the _Fiori musicali_
(p. 66) is an instance of an altered answer to a subject, and the
_Canzone IV_ (p. 53) of the second book (Toccatas, _Canzoni_,
etc.[15]) begins like a veritable fugue:
[Music]
[Footnote 15: _Il secondo libro di Toccate, Canzoni, Versi d'hinni,
Magnificat, Gagliarde, Correnti e altre Partite d'Intavolatura di
cembalo e organo di Girolamo Frescobaldi. Con Privilegio. In Roma,
con licenza de' Superiori. 1627. Da Nicolo Borbone._]
For us the _recercare_ possess an interest of another kind;
Frescobaldi had introduced an innovation in creating the initial form
of the fugue, unconsciously guided by the necessity of establishing
the modern tonality which forced itself upon his senses; particularly
in the Ricercatas and in certain of the Toccatas he contrives to
become master of a new resource, which had suggested this tonality to
him: the chromatic scale.
This enables him to discover new harmonies, although he is sometimes
led astray, and to modulate with endless freedom. The dissonance is
no longer a "necessary evil" to him; it is an important factor in
new effects. With his absolute command of the instrument and his
marvellous facility of improvisation, this ability to distance his
contemporaries in a field which up to this time no one had had the
courage to explore, places the organist of St. Peter's in a position
closely allied to that occupied by the Cantor of Leipzig; at least
considering what Frescobaldi was able to accomplish in his time,
obliged to create a new language for himself, as it were; and he
sometimes lost his way, in propounding to himself problems which were
insoluble in the existing stage of musical advancement.