At Cöthen he began a new life. For one thing, he no longer filled the
post of organist. The court of Prince Leopold was of the Calvinistic
faith. Church services, being of a particularly austere nature, required
no organ playing of a virtuoso type or the production of sacred
cantatas, such as Bach had hitherto been turning out in quantity. Yet
Leopold was an ardent music lover, whose tastes ran to instrumental
composition. He maintained an orchestra of eighteen of which Bach now
became Kapellmeister. Such cantatas as he wrote in Cöthen were secular
ones, chiefly in honor of his employer. For the most part his creative
energies were now concentrated on concertos, suites, sonatas, and
clavier works including some of his very greatest.
[Music: Contemporary score for three minuets by Bach.]
Instrumental music before Bach’s day had scarcely achieved what might
be called an independent life. In the creations of his Cöthen period
we discover, in effect, the most vigorous roots of our symphonic
literature—especially in the four suites (or “overtures,” as Bach
called them) and the six “Brandenburg” Concertos! Scholars have been
unable to decide definitely whether the former were composed in Cöthen
or in Leipzig. At all events they were performed before the Duke and
also before the Telemann Musical Society in Leipzig, of which the
composer was subsequently director. The third suite, in D, is the one
comprising the exalted and incomparable _Air_, which achieved, long
afterwards, a popularity of its own in the transcription of it for the
G string by the violinist August Wilhemj. Yet every movement of each
suite constitutes a priceless jewel of instrumental music.
The Brandenburg Concertos are in a somewhat different case. They were
composed for Christian Ludwig, Margrave of Brandenburg and a son of
the Great Elector, whom Bach appears to have met on a journey with
Prince Leopold. Christian Ludwig had a hobby of collecting concertos
by various composers and he commissioned Bach to write him “some
pieces.” In an elaborate preface couched in extraordinary French and
dated “Cöthen, March 24, 1721,” the composer begged his noble patron to
accept these products of his “slight talents” and to “overlook their
imperfections.” Whether the private orchestra of the Margrave played
the works or not we cannot say. Neither do we know if Bach’s gift was
even acknowledged. After Christian Ludwig died, the catalogue of his
richly stocked library had no mention of Bach’s half dozen “trifles.”
The precious masterpieces turned up in a mass of scores offered for
sale in job lots!
It is practically certain, however, that the Brandenburg Concertos were
performed by the princely Kapelle at Cöthen in Bach’s presence, for
the composer had been wise enough to make copies of his scores. They
are not concertos in the modern sense of the term, but continuations
and developments of those “concerti grossi” of masters like Torelli,
Vivaldi, and Corelli. In various permutations and combinations they
contrast groups of solo instruments (the “concertino”) with the
background of the “tutti.” The “concerti grossi” of Handel furnish
examples of the same principle of balance and diversity. The fact that
none of the Brandenburg Concertos is in a minor key and that somber
moods are rare, points to the probability that they were written for
entertainment purposes.
Their variety is astonishing, with no two quite alike. The first, in F
major, is the only one which calls for horns; and for the performance
of this concerto two horn players were specially engaged at Cöthen. The
second, likewise in F, requires a trumpet—the solitary appearance in
the entire set of this instrument. To choose between the Brandenburg
Concertos, to determine their relative musical worth is impossible. Yet
in some respects the sixth, in B flat, if perhaps the least frequently
played, is the most unusual. No violins are used in its scoring. The
employment of two violas, two viole da gamba, and cello gives the work
a peculiar dark string color wholly its own.
Let us mention here the wondrous concerto for two violins, another
sublime inspiration of Bach’s Cöthen days. It is probable that it
was played by the concertmaster, Josephus Spiess, and the excellent
violinist, Johann Rose (who also played the oboe and taught fencing
to the court pages!), with the composer conducting the orchestral
accompaniment.
And Prince Leopold, himself, who not only enjoyed music but played it
well, doubtless took part in the sonatas for clavier and viola da
gamba. He could not do without his musicians apparently and, when, in
1718, he went to take the “cure” at Carlsbad, he had a sextet from
his Kapelle accompany him. Bach was one of the retinue. The following
year the Kapellmeister made a pilgrimage to nearby Halle in an effort
to meet Handel, who had come to the Continent to engage singers for
his operatic ventures in London. But neither at this time nor on a
subsequent occasion when he tried to make the acquaintance of his great
contemporary was he successful. Handel had already returned to England,
seemingly far less eager to meet Bach than Bach was to meet him.
In May 1720, Prince Leopold again went to take the Carlsbad waters
and once more Bach was in his train. The visit was somewhat longer
this time and it ended grievously for the composer. When he set out
he left his wife in the best of health and spirits. When he came back
he found her dead and buried. With Maria Barbara gone there was,
apparently, no one to look after Wilhelm Friedemann, Philipp Emanuel
and Johann Gottfried Bernhard, the eldest not more than ten. The blow
seems to have struck Bach the more heavily because, engaged in worldly
music-making as he now was, he lacked the spiritual consolation of
churchly activities and the communion with his inner self which he
enjoyed in the organ loft.
An opportunity for a trip to Hamburg was provided by the sudden death
of the organist at St. Jacob’s Church of that city. Along with a number
of other noted players Bach was invited to pass on the qualifications
of new candidates for the post. This gave him a chance to renew old
ties and stimulate new interests. Adam Reinken was still alive and
in his presence as well as before a number of municipal authorities
Bach improvised astounding variations on the chorale “By the Waters of
Babylon,” one of Reinken’s specialties, till the veteran conceded in
amazement to his younger colleague: “I thought this art was dead, but I
see it still lives in you.”
The Hamburg journey was but an interlude, however inspiring. There
was no possibility of an organ position in that town. And another
problem was now occupying him—the question of his children’s
education. Friedemann had received his first clavier lessons from
his father shortly before Maria Barbara’s death. The world has been
the gainer through this instruction administered the youngster by
such a formidable teacher. With his own hands Bach wrote out a
_Clavier-Büchlein vor Wilhelm Friedemann Bach_. On the first page
are set down the various clefs. More important for posterity is a
transliteration of the ornaments, or “Manieren,” showing precisely
how they are to be executed. Then follow exercises in fingering, hand
positions, and much else. The little book is a valuable illustration
of Bach’s own methods of discipline and pedagogy.
Nor are these the only things for which generations of pianists have to
thank the Bach of the Cöthen period. It was for teaching purposes that
he composed masterpieces like the Two- and the Three-Part Inventions.
To furnish practical illustration of the advantages of the system of
equal temperament he advocated for tuning, he composed, while still in
Leopold’s service, the first book of the _Well-Tempered Clavier_, that
miraculous series of twenty-four preludes and fugues in all major and
minor keys, which is the Bible of pianists to this day. The second book
was written in Leipzig many years later.
It was not long before Bach realized that if his children were to be
brought up in the traditions of rectitude he had himself inherited,
they could not remain without a mother’s care, the more so as his many
occupations left him little leisure to oversee a company of lively
youngsters. And so on December 3, 1721, Bach took to himself a second
wife, Anna Magdalena Wilcken, the daughter of a court trumpeter of
Weissenfels. A gentle, lovable soul, musical, devoted to her great
husband and the mother of a fresh host of children, she was as ideal a
helpmeet for Bach as her predecessor had been.
A week after his Kapellmeister’s marriage, Prince Leopold took a wife
in his turn. But the lady, the prince’s cousin, quickly troubled
the musical atmosphere of the Cöthen court. Her tastes were for
masquerades, dances, fireworks, illuminations and other forms of
tinseled show, not for concerts of orchestral and chamber music. Bach
called her an “amusa”—a person of no culture. Her installation at
Cöthen was the prelude to Bach’s departure. As so often happened in
his career, however, a more or less inopportune incident created a
situation from which he might profit.