For near forty years Bach’s history had followed the common course
of the musicians of his generation, and he had reached what was then
held the most dignified rank in his craft. He had passed through
the stages of chorister, orchestral violinist, and organist: he was
now capellmeister in a ducal palace, and, measured by conventional
standards of success, he had nothing further to look for or to desire.
Least of all was it to be expected that he would descend from this
dignity to the position of a school-teacher and precentor in the
less select atmosphere of a trading town. Success, however, held a
small place in Bach’s mind in comparison with anything which should
forward his highest artistic aims, consistently with his own honour
and integrity; and the confined circle of activity in the chapel at
Coethen could satisfy but a part of his complete musician’s nature. The
years of study and the years of ripe performance must be completed by
a period of broadened influence exerted in the arousing of the musical
soul of a great town, and in the foundation of a school of disciples of
his own spirit.
In the spring then of 1723 Bach quitted a life which had become
ungrateful to him since the duke had tired of his devotion to music.
One reason for his leaving—and this perhaps was decisive—was, that he
might do his best for his children’s bringing up. His care was always
for Wilhelm Friedemann, his eldest and best-loved child; and in this
very year we find that he entered him as a student at the university of
his new home. In reviewing his life seven years later Bach touches upon
all these considerations which took him from Coethen to Leipzig.
The school of S. Thomas in this town, where Bach was called to fill
the post of cantor, was an ancient foundation, already in its fifth
century of existence. Once belonging to the Augustinian Canons of the
Thomaskloster, it combined music and general teaching, like other
conventual schools of the middle ages. In this shape it survived the
reformation: it remained both a choir-school and a grammar-school; and
of its seven masters, the cantor, who took a middle place, lowest of
the four _superiores_, had his share of both branches of teaching. He
gave a certain number of lessons a week in music and Latin grammar,
varied on Sunday evenings by the Latin catechism of Luther. Bach,
however, was allowed to pay one of his colleagues to take the Latin
teaching from him—less, it is to be presumed, from incapacity than
from disinclination or perhaps from diffidence; so that, except when
his substitute was ill, his occupation was solely musical. His formal
declaration of office bound him to treat the boys humanely, and to
instruct them as well in instrumental as in vocal music.
But the work in school was the least portion of the cantor’s task. He
had the musical oversight—as we should say, he was precentor—of the
two chief churches of S. Thomas and S. Nicholas; he had to provide a
choir for the simpler service at S. Peter’s; and he had also a more
undefined control over the New Church (S. Matthew’s). Among these four
churches, and apparently, on festivals, in the extra-mural church of
S. John too, the cantor had to distribute his choir. The best-trained
voices were reserved for S. Thomas’s and S. Nicholas’, where the
services were so arranged that the cantor could preside over the
important music at both. The other churches had to be content with the
younger and more unskilled choristers. All of them the cantor supplied
with music—_not too long or too operatic_, was the special injunction
when Bach entered office. He had to be ready with special services for
high days, weddings, and funerals, which last he was directed to attend
in person. Finally, he had to supervise the different organists, the
fiddlers and pipers—the embryo orchestra—of the town.
It was this commanding position, of _Director of Music_ of the great
town of Leipzig, rather than that of teacher in the Thomasschule, which
drew Bach from the ease and quiet of his ducal chapel. How little it
was realised at the time of Bach’s arrival, we shall soon see. In the
first place, the school itself was just then at the last period of
decay. It had long suffered from the blunders of its rector, Johann
Heinrich Ernesti, a solemn man, clergyman and pedant—he was Professor
of Poetry in the university—who had lived his seventy years without
learning the first secret of acquiring influence over masters or
scholars, far less of giving unity or vigour to the management of the
school. There was discord everywhere, with its usual accompaniment.
The attendance of the scholars fell off, in the lower classes to
less than half their former number; and, worse than this, their
quality deteriorated in equal stages: the best pupils drifted away
to Lueneburg, and the Leipzig school threatened to sink into a mere
training-place for people who were to make their livelihood by singing
at funerals. Yet every attempt to reform it was thwarted by the timid
obstinacy of its rector; and it was not until his death, when Bach
had been under him for six years, that any effectual measures for its
revival were possible.
An even greater obstacle to the prosperity of the school lay outside
it; for, since the first years of the century, the institution of the
opera had established a separate centre of musical training and musical
interest in the town. The new importation gained a sudden popularity
and success when it came under the hands of Telemann, afterwards
famous as organist at Hamburg. The Opera became a dangerous rival to
the School; and the rivalry was the keener since Telemann was organist
of one of the churches that drew their choirs from S. Thomas’s. If
the cantor was mortified at the retrenchment of his authority, it was
the school that suffered the most. For its scholars at first spent
their holidays in the opera-company; soon the choir of the New Church
was absorbed into it. The boys went over altogether, willing enough
to abandon the restraints and the severer training of the school, for
the freedom and gaiety, not to say the profit, of the career now open
to them. And, although Telemann left Leipzig after a year (1705), the
Musical Society (_Musikverein_) which he founded went on growing and
flourishing at the expense of the school. The music at S. Thomas’s had
to be kept down to the diminished capacity of its voices. Difficult
works could only be attempted with a certainty of failure. Even the
Town Council, usually blind to the faults of old endowments, came
to see the fruitlessness of helping any pretence of reform on the
part of a school which produced results so inferior to the unendowed
performances at the New Church.
Such was the condition of affairs when Bach came to Leipzig: the whole
musical life of the place seemed to be dying away in disunion and
mismanagement. The very opera which had ruined the Thomasschule ceased
to exist in 1726; the Musical Society founded by Telemann had passed
into incapable hands; and, to complete the chaos, the University organ
and the direction of University music had been given (in the interval
between Kuhnau’s death and the appointment of Bach as his successor in
the cantorate) to the pitifullest of musicians, one Goerner,[35] who
was to Bach for many years a standing grievance and obstruction. The
temporary substitute was tacitly kept on by the indulgent University
magnates, and the Thomasschule lost that connexion with the University
which gave the only promise for its revival. Moreover, Goerner, who was
also organist at S. Nicholas’—afterwards, in 1730, at S. Thomas’s,
under Bach’s own authority, which he disregarded—had a Collegium
Musicum of his own, for which he arrogated a rank superior to the
Thomasschule, the latter, in fact, being (as he explained) merely
preparatory to his. It seemed as though the old school were destined
to lose all weight in the town. The New Church had been monopolised
by Telemann’s Musikverein; and now the University Church was being
supplied by Goerner’s Collegium.
We cannot be wrong in believing that Bach was well aware of these
things; that he accepted his new post in the high ambition of
re-creating what had been once a true home of musical art, of keeping
alive and (as we see) of infinitely exalting the honourable tradition
handed down in the learned line of his predecessors.
On the 5th May, 1723, Bach appeared before the Town Council and made
the declarations of office; the appointment was ratified by the
consistory of the church, and before the month was over he was formally
inducted.
From this time to his death he was settled in the official lodgings in
the left wing of the Thomasgebäude, which, added to some 700 thalers,
made up the emoluments of his post. It is significant of the position
he was resolved to maintain that, directly upon entering office, he
distinctly subscribes himself not only cantor of S. Thomas’s, but
also, in defiance of Goerner, Director of Music, or, as we should say,
Choragus, in the University. The double function had belonged to his
predecessor; and no one could challenge Bach’s claim to a part of the
academical function—the duty namely of furnishing music for the proper
University services (at the quarterly Acts, the Reformation Festival,
and the three high-days of the Church). But of late years there had
been a regular Sunday service as well, in the University Church; and
this Goerner insisted on appropriating. It was not a mere question
of fees that determined Bach’s appeal in 1725 to the King-Elector
at Dresden; the entire issue as to who should be supreme in matters
musical in Leipzig was at stake. A long correspondence as usual
brought no practical result. Goerner seems to have retained his weekly
services, and even now and then to have encroached on Bach’s strict
province of composing special odes and the like for high University
occasions. The fact that in 1736 he is actually described as Academical
Director of Music shows that the dispute had not even then been set at
rest. It is a common picture, this of a great man being perpetually
harassed by the pretensions of a vain fellow who is only remembered for
his self-assertion; but it reveals a singular want of appreciation on
the part of the Leipzig authorities, that they suffered the nuisance
without a hint of its absurdity. Bach never let himself for an instant
appear in the light of a rival. He only resented the impertinence in a
certain leonine fashion, and held to his academical title.
This punctiliousness about titles has more in it than shews at first
sight. Bach doubtless knew his public, and knew that, if he claimed
to be a simple choir-master, his influence would be restricted
proportionately. But, moreover, such a description would have been
misleading, since, as Dr. Spitta observes,[36] if Bach’s music is
the truest church-music, it contains none the less the elements
of independent concert-music as well. Accordingly the titles of
Capellmeister of Coethen, which he held when he came to Leipzig, and of
Weissenfels, which was conferred upon him in the year of his arrival,
Bach bore until his death. As a final vindication of his position, he
appealed to the king, in 1733, for a court appointment at Dresden.
The petition was accompanied by a part of the great Mass in B minor,
which was written expressly for the royal chapel; but the honorary
distinction of Composer in Ordinary did not follow for three years.
Whatever honours he won from abroad, nothing to the end of his days
could spare him continual annoyance from the municipal council. With
his native independence of spirit he could not brook the invasion of
this body into a province totally beyond their scope. All through his
life he could never get to understand them or the reasons for their
action, simply because he knew perfectly that they were incapable of
understanding him. This much he knew about them, and they gave him
ample opportunity, to his cost, of knowing it. He could not go further
and make concessions to their limited intelligence. Their presumption
irritated him, when he found his every act hampered and restrained as
though he were the most incompetent of sciolists.
Bach’s grievances in relation to the council began some years after his
appointment at the Thomasschule. At first he probably threw himself
with zest into his work, and gave no ground for fault-finding. But
in time he must have restricted himself to the bare quantum of duty
assigned to him, and given his best energies to composition. At least
the differences begin in the spring of 1729, and the charge that he
did no work came with a peculiar force of demonstration just when he
had brought out _The Passion according to Saint Matthew_, not to speak
of three great church-cantatas at the commemorative festival of the
Augsburg confession. The council proceeded to vote that he was not to
be trusted even in the choice of choristers for his school. To fill
nine vacancies Bach had examined a number of competitors, and sent in
a careful report as to their qualifications. The council accepted only
five of his nominees, making up the list by three who (as he told them)
_nichts in Musicis praestirten_, and whom he had not even named. Then
the council decided that he was so bad a teacher of music that he must
be set to secular teaching as well, apparently as a punishment. This he
managed to escape; but he suffered a suspension of all the
_accidentien_ or extraordinary emoluments of his post. The council
resolved either to work him or to starve him out.
Almost in despair, he wrote to an old friend, Erdmann the schoolfellow
who had gone up with him from Ohrdruf to Lueneburg, now Russian agent
at Danzig, and begged for a more suitable post anywhere, if any
could be found. He gave an account of his position at Leipzig, the
reasons that drew him thither, and his disappointment. His routine was
ungrateful, his salary reduced (it relied upon varying items, and, as
he explained, when a healthy wind blew, he could not count on much
from the funerals) and the town very expensive—you could live in
Thuringia for half as much—above all, he was under the control of an
extraordinary council with little liking for music (_eine wunderliche
und der Musik wenig ergebene Obrigkeit_), with which he stood perforce
in continual disagreement and ill-will. Certainly it was, as I have
said, the unaccountable—“_wunderlich_”—genius of the council that
most impressed Bach. With that consciousness of himself which no great
man is ever wholly without, he could not understand their action.
It was an incongruity in the nature of things which would have been
comical had it not been a perpetual irritation to him.
There is, however, no hint of this irritation, but rather a haughty
disdain which shows through the verbose respectfulness of Bach’s
official memorials. Once, for instance, when he was rehearsing a
Passion music for Good Friday, the council insisted on his submitting
it to their inspection. He replied that he had gone to work precisely
as on former occasions, the text in fact had been already produced
more than once. However, he was not concerned to perform the thing:
it would only give him trouble and no profit. He would report to his
ecclesiastical superior that the council forbade its performance. In
this way he managed to shift the dispute on to the shoulders of the
consistory, which had a standing quarrel with the council as to their
respective powers over the school. The present question belonged
clearly to the church body; and it is evidently with grim satisfaction
that Bach seizes on the technical mistake. Let it be noticed, too, how
he refuses to give any explanation, refuses even to complain of his
disappointment. He says, in so many words, that he is dealing with mere
business people, and will use merely business arguments.
Again, in 1730, when they sent one of their number to admonish
him gravely of the submission which was due to them, Bach was
preparing—perhaps had already sent in—an elaborate and carefully
arranged report on the wide-reaching reform and extension which he
demanded for the choir and orchestra under his direction. There is an
irony in the way the man, who is to be frightened into docility by a
retrenchment of his salary and influence, occupies himself meantime
in devising and proving the necessity of a large scheme which should
extend the scope of his authority and indirectly augment his income.
The reform, of course, never came, and the memoir is only interesting
as the reflection of the independent nature of the writer, and as
evidence of the dimensions to which instrumental music had grown under
his hands. It should, however, be mentioned that in the ten previous
years the council had not been unmindful of the needs of the two chief
churches, and had sanctioned an unusual outlay in the repair of the
organs and in the purchase of stringed instruments and music-books for
the performers.
It is pleasant to turn from these disputes and anxiety to the
glimpse—unfortunately almost a solitary glimpse—of the home life
which saved Bach from ever really despairing, and which cheered him
in a thankful contentment, so that no disappointment from without was
able to dwarf his energy for work, or to cool the genial spirit which
ever attended his composing. At the end of the letter to Erdmann, from
which I have already quoted, he says: _I must now acquaint you with
somewhat of my domestic estate. For the second time I am married, my
first lamented wife having deceased at Coethen. Of her I have living
three sons and a daughter, whom your Excellence will kindly remember
to have seen at Weimar; of the second marriage there are living a son
and two daughters. My eldest son is a student of law, the next two
are at school in the first and second class, and my eldest daughter
remains unmarried. The children of my second marriage are still little,
the eldest a boy of six years. Altogether, however, they are born
musicians, and I can assure you that even now I can arrange a concert
with my family_ vocaliter _and_ instrumentaliter, _whereas my wife
that now is sings a pretty_ soprano, _and my eldest daughter plays not
amiss_.
From a variety of scattered facts we may form some idea of the activity
of this musical house. Indeed, just at this time the home was reaching
its happiest period. The two eldest boys, the worthiest inheritors of
the family genius, were still with their father; and there is hardly
a doubt that it was to play with them that Sebastian wrote his two
concertos for three pianos. Who formed the orchestra we can only
conjecture, but it is certain that the string of pupils who had formed
part of his household since he began married life at Muehlhausen, and
who continued in increasing numbers until his death, were in different
degrees capable of giving their help; and the gaps may have been filled
by promising scholars of the Thomasschule, or, indeed, by the—chiefly
undergraduate—members of the Musical Society of which Bach undertook
the management in 1729. We know, from the inventory taken after his
death, that he possessed latterly five _clavecins_ (the word must be
used inaccurately, and taken to include clavichords) and ten stringed
instruments, not counting his three lutes; so that in the house itself
there was material for the nucleus of an orchestra, though violinists
would probably, and players on wind instruments necessarily, bring
their own instruments with them. In all this domestic music his wife
took her share, both as player on the clavichord, in which she was his
apt pupil, and especially as a singer. It is likely that some church
cantatas were written for her and for the eldest daughter Katharina
(who sang _alto_) as may be inferred from the prevalence in such of
one _solo_ voice, and by other points (for instance, the shortness
of one) which render them unfit for performance in church.[37] Nor
need we doubt that a similar use dictated Bach’s great collection of
240 chorales, of which unhappily only fragments remain. For it is
almost needless to observe that the old German temper in its best form
combined religion inextricably with all the common acts of life. We
know how the festive gatherings of the Bachs, however jovial their
purpose, always began with a chorale; and Sebastian himself, seeking
for a definition of music, can find nothing more comprehensive to say
than that _Its final cause is none other than this, that it minister
solely to the honour of God and refreshment of the spirit; whereof,
if one take not heed, it is no proper music, but devilish din and
discord_.[38]
The preparation for these perpetual concerts must have furnished
incessant occupation to the household. Printed music was very rare
and costly, and, as a matter of course, the parts had regularly to be
copied out. A great deal exists in the delicate hand of Anna Magdalena
Bach, who also transcribed many scores for her husband’s private use.
No one was idle, and a certain amount even of music-engraving was done
in this busy house. Bach himself, we are told, often laboured far into
the night. The day was not long enough for all he found to do.