CHAPTER II
THE GOLDEN AGE OF HARPSICHORD MUSIC
The period and the masters of the ‘Golden Age’--Domenico Scarlatti; his virtuosity; Scarlatti’s ‘sonatas’; Scarlatti’s technical effects; his style and form; æsthetic value of his music; his contemporaries--François Couperin, _le Grand_; Couperin’s clavecin compositions; the ‘musical portraits’; ‘program music’--The quality and style of his music; his contemporaries, Daquin and Rameau--John Sebastian Bach; Bach as virtuoso; as teacher; his technical reform; his style--Bach’s fugues and their structure--The suites of Bach: the French suites, the English suites, the Partitas--The preludes, toccatas and fantasies; concertos; the ‘Goldberg Variations’--Bach’s importance; his contemporary Handel.
In round figures the years between 1700 and 1750 are the Golden Age of harpsichord music. In that half century not only did the technique, both of writing for and performing on the harpsichord, expand to its uttermost possibilities, but there was written for it music of such beauty and such emotional warmth as to challenge the best efforts of the modern pianist and to call forth the finest and deepest qualities of the modern pianoforte.
It was an age primarily of opera, of the Italian opera with its senseless, threadbare plots, its artificial singers idolized in every court, its incredible, extravagant splendor. The number of operas written is astonishing, the wild enthusiasm of their reception hardly paralleled elsewhere in the history of music. Yet of these many works but an air or two has lived in the public ear down to the present day; whereas the harpsichord music still is heard, though the instrument for which it was written has long since vanished from our general musical life.
Practically the whole seventeenth century has been required to lay down a firm foundation for the development of instrumental music in all its branches. This being well done, the music of the next epoch is not unaccountably surprising. As soon as principles of form had become established, composers trod, so to speak, upon solid ground; and, sure of their foothold, were free to make rapid progress in all directions. In harpsichord music few new forms appeared. The toccata, prelude, fugue, and suite offered room enough for all the expansion which even great genius might need. Within these limits the growth was twofold: in the way of virtuosity and refinement of style, and in the way of emotional expression. That music which expands at once in both directions, or in which, rather, the two growths are one and the same, is truly great music. Such we shall now find written for the harpsichord.
Each of the three men whose work is the chief subject of this chapter is conspicuous in the history of music by a particular feature. Domenico Scarlatti is first and foremost a great virtuoso, Couperin an artist unequalled in a very special refinement of style, Sebastian Bach the instrument of profound emotion. In these features they stand sharply differentiated one from the other. These are the essential marks of their genius. None, of course, can be comprehended in such a simple characterization. Many of Scarlatti’s short pieces have the warmth of genuine emotion, and Couperin’s little works are almost invariably the repository of tender and naïve sentiment. Bach is perhaps the supreme master in music and should not be characterized at all except to remind that his vast skill is but the tool of his deeply-feeling poetic soul.
I
It will be noticed that each of these great men speaks of a different race. We may consider Scarlatti first as spokesman in harpsichord music of the Italians, who at that time had made their mark so deep upon music that even now it has not been effaced, nor is likely to be. His father, Alessandro, was the most famous and the most gifted musician in Europe. From Naples he set the standard for the opera of the world, and in Naples his son Domenico was born on October 26, 1685, a few months only after the birth of Sebastian Bach in Eisenach. Domenico lived with his father and under his father’s guidance until 1705, when he set forth to try his fame. He lived a few years in Venice and there met Handel in 1708, with whom he came back to Rome. Here in Rome, at the residence of Corelli’s patron, Cardinal Ottoboni, took place the famous contest on organ and harpsichord between him and Handel. For Handel he ever professed a warm friendship and the most profound admiration.
He remained for some years in Rome, at first in the service of Marie Casimire, queen of Poland, later as _maestro di capella_ at St. Peter’s. In 1719 came a journey to London in order to superintend performances of his operas. From 1721 to 1725 he seems to have been installed at the court of Lisbon; and then, after four years in Naples, he accepted a position at the Spanish court in Madrid. Just how long he stayed there is not known. In 1754 he was back again in Naples, and in Naples he died in 1757, seven years after the death of Bach.
Scarlatti wrote many operas in the style of his father, and these were frequently performed, with success, in Italy, England, Spain, and elsewhere. During his years at St. Peter’s he also wrote sacred music; but his fame now rests wholly upon his compositions for the harpsichord and upon the memory of the extraordinary skill with which he played them.
We have dwelt thus briefly upon a few events of his life to show how widely he had travelled and in how many places his skill as a player must have been admired. That in the matter of virtuosity he was unexcelled can hardly be doubted. It is true that in the famous contest with Handel he came off the loser on the organ, and even his harpsichord playing was doubted to excel that of his Saxon friend. But these contests were a test of wits more than of fingers, a trial of _extempore_ skill in improvising fugues and double fugues, not of virtuosity in playing.
Two famous German musicians, J. J. Quantz and J. A. Hasse, both heard him and both marvelled at his skill. Monsieur L’Augier, a gifted amateur whom Dr. Burney visited in Vienna, told a story of Scarlatti and Thomas Roseingrave,[11] in which he related that when Roseingrave first heard Scarlatti play, he was so astonished that he would have cut off his own fingers then and there, had there been an instrument at hand wherewith to perform the operation; and, as it was, he went months without touching the harpsichord again.
Whom he had to thank for instruction is not known. There is nothing in his music to suggest that he was ever a pupil of Bernardo Pasquini, who, however, was long held to have been his master. J. S. Shedlock, in his ‘History of the Pianoforte Sonata,’ suggests that he learned from Gaëtano Greco or Grieco, a man a few years his senior and a student under his father; but it would seem far more likely that Domenico profited immediately from his father, who, we may see from a letter to Ferdinand de’ Medici, dated May 30, 1705, had watched over his son’s development with great care. It must not be forgotten that Alessandro Scarlatti’s harpsichord toccatas, described in the previous chapter, are, in spite of a general heaviness, often enlivened by astonishing devices of virtuosity.
Scarlatti wrote between three and four hundred pieces for the harpsichord. The Abbé Santini[12] possessed three hundred and forty-nine. Scarlatti himself published in his lifetime only one set of thirty pieces. These he called exercises (_esercizii_) for the harpsichord. The title is significant. Before 1733 two volumes, _Pièces pour le clavecin_, were published in Paris; and some time between 1730 and 1737 forty-two ‘Suites of Lessons’ were published in London under the supervision of Roseingrave. More were printed in London in 1752. Then came Czerny’s edition, which includes two hundred pieces; and throughout the nineteenth century various selections and arrangements have appeared from time to time, von Bülow having arranged several pieces in the order of suites, Tausig having elaborated several in accordance with the modern pianoforte. A complete and authoritative edition has at last been prepared by Sig. Alessandro Longo and has been printed in Italy by Ricordi and Company.
By far the greater part of these many pieces are independent of each other. Except in a few cases where Scarlatti, probably in his youth, followed the model of his father’s toccatas, he keeps quite clear of the suite cycle. The pieces have been called sonatas, but they are not for the most part in the form called the sonata form. This form (which is the form in which one piece or movement may be cast and is not to be confused with the sequence or arrangement of movements in the classical sonata) is, as we shall later have ample opportunity to observe, a tri-partite or ternary form; whereas the so-called sonatas of Scarlatti are in the two-part or binary form, which is, as we have seen, the form of the separate dance movements in the suite. Each ‘sonata’ is, like the dance movements, divided into two sections, usually of about equal length, both of which are to be repeated in their turn. In general, too, the harmonic plan is the same or nearly the same as that which underlies the suite movement, the first section modulating from tonic to dominant, the second back from dominant to tonic. But within these limits Scarlatti allows himself great freedom of modulation. It is, in fact, this harmonic expansion within the binary form which makes one pause to give Scarlatti an important place in the development of the sonata form proper.
The harmonic variety of the Scarlatti sonatas is closely related to the virtuosity of their composer. He spins a piece out of, usually, but not always, two or three striking figures, by repeating them over and over again in different places of the scale or in different keys. His very evident fondness for technical formulæ is thus gratified and the piece is saved from monotony by its shifting harmonies.
A favorite and simple shift is from major to minor. This he employs very frequently. For example, in a sonata in G major, No. 2 of the Breitkopf and Härtel collection of twenty sonatas[13] measures 13, 14, 15, and 16, in D major, are repeated immediately in A major. In 20, 21, 22, and 23, the same style of figure and rhythm appears in D major and is at once answered in D minor. Toward the end of the second part of the piece the process is duplicated in the tonic key. In the following sonata at the top of page seven occurs another similar instance. It is one of the most frequent of his mannerisms.
The repetition of favorite figures is by no means always accompanied by a change of key. The two-measure phrase beginning in the fifteenth measure of the third sonata is repeated three times note for note; a few measures later another figure is treated in the same fashion; and in yet a third place, all in the first section of this sonata, the trick is turned again. Indeed, there are very few of Scarlatti’s sonatas in which he does not play with his figures in this manner.
We have said that often he varies his key when thus repeating himself, and that such variety saves from monotony. But it must be added that even where there is no change of key he escapes being tedious to the listener. The reason must be sought in the sprightly nature of the figures he chooses, and in the extremely rapid speed at which they are intended to fly before our ears. He is oftenest a dazzling virtuoso whose music appeals to our bump of wonder, and, when well played, leaves us breathless and excited.
The pieces are for the most part extremely difficult; and this, together with his ever-present reiteration of special harpsichord figures, may well incline us to look upon them as fledgling études. The thirty which Scarlatti himself chose to publish he called _esercizii_, or exercises. We may not take the title too literally, bearing in mind that Bach’s ‘Well-Tempered Clavichord’ was intended for practice, as were many of Kuhnau’s suites. But that Scarlatti’s sonatas are almost invariably built up upon a few striking, difficult and oft-repeated figures, makes their possible use as technical practice pieces far more evident than it is in the ‘Well-Tempered Clavichord’ or even the ‘Inventions’ of Bach. He undoubtedly offers the player enormous opportunity to exercise his arms and his fingers in the production of brilliant, astonishing effects.
Of these effects two will always be associated with his name: the one obtained by the crossing of the hands, the other by the rapid repetition of one note. Both devices will be found freely used in the works of his father, and it is absurd to suppose that the son invented them. Yet it is hardly an exaggeration to say that he made more use of them than any man down to the time of Liszt. The crossing of the hands is not employed to interweave two qualities of sound, as it oftenest is in music for the organ or for the German and French harpsichords which have two or more manuals that work independently of each other. The Italian harpsichords had but one bank of keys, and Scarlatti’s crossing of the hands, if it be not intended merely for display, succeeds in making notes wide apart sound relatively simultaneous, and thus produces qualities of resonance which hitherto had rested silent in the instrument.
It has been suggested that the device of repeated notes was borrowed from the mandolin, on which, as is well known, a _cantabile_ is approximated by rapid repetition of the notes of the melody. Scarlatti, however, rarely employs it to sustain the various notes of his tune. In his sonatas it is usually, if not intentionally, effective rhythmically; as it is, unfailingly, in more modern pianoforte music. On the harpsichord, moreover, as on the pianoforte, it can make a string twang with a sort of barbaric sound that still has the power to stir us as shrieking pipes and whistles stirred our savage ancestors.
Still another mannerism of his technique or style is the wide leap of many of his figures. A plunge from high to low notes was much practised in contemporary violin music and was considered very effective, and probably suggested a similar effect upon the harpsichord. Into this matter again Scarlatti may well have been initiated by his father, by whom it was not left untried. In the son’s sonatas it succeeds in extending the range of sonority of the harpsichord, and thus points unmistakably to developments in the true pianoforte style.
It is, in fact, by this extension of figures, by sudden leaps, by crossing of hands, that Scarlatti frees harpsichord music from all trace of slavery to the conjunct style of organ music; and he may therefore be judged the founder of the brilliant free style which reached its extreme development in the music of Liszt. Though we may not fail to mention occasionally his indebtedness to his father and to instrumental music of his time, we cannot deny that he is a great inventor, the creator of a new art. He was admitted by composers of his day to have not only wonderful hands, but a wonderful fecundity of invention.
What guided him was chiefly instinct. He had, no doubt, considerable strict training in the science of counterpoint and composition. He wrote, as we know, not only harpsichord pieces, but operas and sacred music as well. In the sonatas there is a great deal of neat two-part writing, and an occasional flash of skill in imitations; but musical science is almost the last thing we should think of in connection with them. Rules are not exemplified therein. Burney relates, through L’Augier, that Scarlatti knew he had broken established rules of composition, but reasoned that ‘there was scarce any other rule worth the attention of a man of genius than that of not displeasing the only sense of which music is the object.’ And, further, that he complained of the music of Alberti and other ‘modern’ composers because it did not in execution demand a harpsichord, but might be equally well or perhaps better expressed by other instruments. But, ‘as Nature had given him [Scarlatti] ten fingers, and, as his instrument had employment for them all, he saw no reason why he should not use them.’ He might have included his two arms among his natural gifts. Certainly the free use he made of them in most of his sonatas marks a new and extraordinary advance in the history of keyboard music.
In the matter of form Scarlatti is not so strikingly an innovator as he is in that of style. He is in the main content to cast his pieces in the binary mold common to most short instrumental pieces of his day. Yet, as has already been suggested, the harmonic freedom which he enjoys within these relatively narrow limits is significant in the development of the sonata form; and even more significant is his distribution of musical material within them.
The binary form, such as we find it in the suites of Froberger and even in those of J. S. Bach, is essentially a harmonic structure. The balance and contrast which is the effect of any serviceable shape of music is here one of harmony, principally of tonic and dominant and dominant and tonic, with only a few measures of modulation for variety. There is, in addition, some contrast between that musical material which is presented first in the tonic key and that which appears later in the dominant. But, while we may speak of these materials as first and second themes or subjects, their individuality is hardly distinct and is, in effect, obliterated by the regularity and smoothness of style in which these short pieces are conventionally written. The composer makes no attempt to set them off clearly, one against the other. The entrance into the dominant key is almost never devised in such a way as to prepare the listener for a new musical thought, quite separate and different from that which he has already heard. The transitional passage from tonic to dominant emerges from the one and merges into the other, without break or distinctions.
In the matter of setting his themes in their frame, Scarlatti hardly differs from his contemporaries. His style, though free and varied, is in constant motion. But his genius was especially fertile in clean-cut figures; and when, as he often does, he combines two or three distinct types of these in one short piece, the music is full of thematic variety and sparkles with an animation which at times is almost dramatic.
Scarlatti is, indeed, hovering close to the sonata form in a great many of his pieces, and in one actually strikes it.[14] We shall, however, postpone a more detailed discussion of Scarlatti’s pieces in relation to the sonata form to the next chapter. The distribution of his musical material is quite whimsical and irregular, always more instinctive than experimental. It is chiefly by the quality of this material that he stands apart from his contemporaries, and as the founder of the free and brilliant pianoforte style.
There remains little to be said of the æsthetic worth of his music. During the years of his most vigorous manhood he was almost invariably a virtuoso. Sheer delight in tonal effects rather than more sober need of self-expression stimulated him. The prevalence of trumpet figures such as those which constitute the opening phrases of the eleventh and fourteenth sonatas in the Breitkopf and Härtel edition already referred to, suggests that he took a good deal of material ready-made from the operas of the day. Burney says there are many passages in which he imitated the melody of tunes sung by carriers, muleteers, and common people. But what he added to these was his own. A number of pieces are conspicuous by especially free modulation and expansion of form; and in these, technical effects are not predominant, but rather a more serious interest in composition. It has therefore been suggested that these pieces are the work of later years.[15] Though it is said that while in Spain he grew too fat to cross his hands at the harpsichord as was his wont in his youth, this physical restriction is not alone responsible for the mellowness and warmth of such pieces as the so-called Pastoral in D minor, familiar to audiences in Tausig’s elaborated transcription. A great number of his pieces are rich in pure musical beauty; and the freshness which exhales from all true musical utterance is and probably always will be theirs.
None of his contemporaries in Italy approached him in the peculiar skill which has made him conspicuous in the history of pianoforte music. Francesco Durante (1684-1755) and Nicolo Porpora (1686-1767), the great singing master, both wrote pieces for the harpsichord; the one, ‘sonatas’ in several movements, the other fugues; but their music lacks charm and can hardly be considered at all influential in the development of the art of writing for keyboard instruments. Domenico Alberti and P. D. Paradies will be considered in the following chapter.
II
The art of Couperin is flawless, the charm of his music not to be described. It has that quality of perfection with which Nature marks her smallest flowers. It is the miniature counterpart in music of a perfected system of living, of the court life of France under Louis XIV.
Scarlatti was a rover. He tried his fortune in Italy, in England, in Portugal and Spain. He won it by the exhibition of his extraordinary and startling powers. He was on the alert to startle, his tribute the bravas and mad applause of his excited hearers. He was the virtuoso in an old sense of the word, the man with his powers consciously developed to the uttermost. Bach, on the other hand, was an introspective, mighty man, immeasurably greater than his surroundings, fathomless, personal, suggestive. Between them stands Couperin, for the greater part of his life in the intimate service of the most brilliant court the world has ever seen, delicate in health, perfect in etiquette, wise and tender.
Of his life little need be said. He was born in Paris on November 10, 1668, the son of Charles Couperin, himself a musician and brother to Louis and François Couperin, disciples of the great Chambonnières. The father died about a year after his son was born, and the musical education of the young François seems to have been undertaken by his uncle, François, and later by Jacques Thomelin, organist in the king’s private chapel in Versailles. Practically nothing is known of his youth, and, though it is certain that he was for many years organist at the church of St. Gervais in Paris, as his uncle and even his grandfather had been before him, the time at which he took up his duties there has not been exactly determined. There is on record, however, the account of a meeting held on the twenty-sixth of December, 1693, at Versailles, at which Louis XIV heard Couperin play and chose him from other competitors to succeed Thomelin as his private organist. Thenceforth he passed his life in service of the king and later of the regent. He died in Paris in 1733, after several years of ill health.
The great François was, no doubt, an unusually skillful organist, but his fame rests upon his work for the clavecin, the French harpsichord, and his book of instruction for that instrument. His duties at court were various. He says himself that for twenty years he had the honor to be with the king, and to teach, almost at the same time, Monseigneur le Dauphin, the Duke of Burgundy, and six princes or princesses of the royal house.
In his preface to the _Concerts royaux_ he informs us that chamber concerts were given in the king’s presence on Sunday afternoons at Versailles, and that he was commanded to write music for them and that he himself played the clavecin at them. His book on the art of playing the clavecin, written in 1716, was dedicated to the king. By all accounts he was a beloved and highly prized teacher and performer. And neither his pupils nor his fame were confined solely to the court.
There is no doubt that he was a public favorite and that he published his pieces for the clavecin to satisfy a general demand. Also in a measure to safeguard his music. For at that time instrumental pieces were not often published, but were circulated in manuscript copies in which gross errors grew rapidly as weeds; and which, moreover, were common booty to piratical publishers, especially in the Netherlands. So Couperin took minute care in preparing his music for his public. Each set of pieces was furnished with a long preface, nothing in the engraving was left to chance, the books were beautifully bound so that all might be in keeping with the dainty and exquisite art of the music itself. Since his day his pieces were never published again until Madame Farrenc included the four great sets in her famous _Trésor des Pianistes_ (1861-72). This edition was, according to Chrysander,[16] very carelessly prepared and is full of inaccuracies. Chrysander planned a new, accurate and complete edition, to be edited by Brahms, of which unhappily only one volume, containing Couperin’s first two books, ever came to print.
The original editions being now rare and priceless, and hardly serviceable to the average student on account of the confusing obsolete clef signs, it is to be hoped that before long Chrysander’s plan will be carried out and the almost forgotten treasures of Couperin’s clavecin music be revealed in their great beauty to the lover of music.
Couperin published in all five books of _pièces de clavecin_. Of these the first appeared early in the century and is not commonly reckoned among his best works. The other four sets appeared respectively in 1713, 1716, 1722, and 1730.
Each book contains several sets of pieces grouped together in _ordres_, according to key.[17] The canon of the suite is wholly disregarded and there is very little of the spirit of it. The first _ordre_, it is true, has as the first six pieces an allemande, two courantes, a sarabande, a gavotte, and a gigue; but there are twelve pieces in addition, of which only three are named dances. The second _ordre_, too, has an allemande, two courantes, and a sarabande at the beginning; but there follow eighteen more pieces of which only four are strictly dances. The fourth _ordre_ is without true dance forms; so are the sixth, the seventh, the tenth, and others. Even the orthodox dances are given secondary titles, or the dance name is itself secondary. In fact, not only by including within one _ordre_ many more pieces than ever found place within the suite, but by the very character of the pieces themselves, Couperin is dissociated from the suite writers.
He wrote in the preface to his first book of pieces,[18] that in composing he always had a particular subject before his eyes. This accounts for the titles affixed to most of his pieces. We have already referred to ‘battle’ pieces of earlier composers, and to Kuhnau’s narratives in music. Couperin’s music is not of the same sort. The majority of his titled pieces are pure music, admirable and charming in themselves. They are seldom copies. They make their appeal, or they are intelligible, not by what they delineate, but by what they express or suggest. The piece as a whole gives an impression, not the special figures or traits of which it is composed.
Let us consider a few of many types. Take what have been often called the portraits of court ladies. In these we cannot by any effort of the imagination find likenesses. It would be ludicrous to try. As ladies may differ in temperament from each other, so do these little pieces differ. There is the allemande _L’Auguste_, which is a dignified, somewhat austere dance piece in G minor; another, _La Laborieuse_, in a complicated contrapuntal style unusual with him. There are three sarabandes called _La Majesteuse_, _La Prude_, and _La Lugubre_, impressive, meagre, and profound in turn. These pieces are hardly personal, nor have they peculiar characteristics apart from the spirit which is clear in each of them.
Another type of portrait fits its title a little more tangibly. There is _La Mylordine_, in the style of an English jig; _La Diane_, which is built up on the fanfare figure always associated with the hunt; _La Diligente_, full of bustling finger work. _Les Nonnettes_ are blonde and dark, the blondes, oddly enough, in minor, the dark in major.
Many others are so purely music, delicate and tender, that the titles seem more to be a gallant tribute to so and so, rather than the names of prototypes in the flesh. _La Manon_, _La Babet_, _La fleurie, ou la tendre Nanette_, _L’Enchanteresse_, _La tendre Fanchon_, and many others are in no way program music; nor can they ever be interpreted as such, since no man can say what charming girl, two centuries dead, may have suggested their illusive features.
It is these ‘portraits’ particularly which are Couperin’s own new contribution to the art of music. So individual is the musical life in each one, so special and complete its character, so full of sentiment and poetry, that, small as it is, it may stand alone as a perfect and enduring work of art. It has nothing to do with the suite or with any of the cyclic forms. Here are the first flowers from that branch of music from which later were to grow the nocturnes of Field, the _Moments musicals_ of Schubert, the preludes of Chopin.
Between these and the few pieces which are frankly almost wholly dependent upon a program are a great number of others lightly suggestive of their titles. Sometimes it is only in general character. _Les vendangeuses_ and _Les moissoneurs_ do not seem so particularly related to wine-gathering or harvesting that the titles might not be interchanged; but both have something of a peasant character. In _Les abeilles_ and in Le moucheron the characterization is finer. The pleasant humming of the bees is reproduced in one, the monotonous whirring of the gnat in the other. _Les bergeries_ is simply pastoral, _Les matelots Provençales_ is a lively march, followed by a horn-pipe. _Les papillons_ is not unlike the little piece so named in the Schumann _Carnaval_, though here it means but butterflies. There are some imitative pieces which are in themselves charming music, such as _Les petits moulins à vent_, _Le réveille-matin_, _Le carillon de Cythère_, and _Les ondes_, with its undulating figures and fluid ornamentation.
Finally the program music is in various degrees programmistic. A little group of pieces called _Les Pèlerines_ (Pilgrims) begins with a march, to be played gaily. Then comes a little movement to represent the spirit of alms-giving, in a minor key, to be played tenderly; and this is followed by a cheerful little movement of thanks, to which is added a lively coda. The whole is rather an expression of moods than a picture of actions. _Les petits ages_ is in some respects more literal. The first movement, _La muse naissante_, is written in a syncopated style, the right hand always following the left, which may well express weakness and hesitation. _L’adolescente_, the third movement, is a lively rondo in vigorous gavotte rhythm.
Two sets are entirely program music. One of these, _Les Bacchanales_, has a march (_pésament, sans lenteur_) of the gray-clad ones; then three movements expressive of the delights of wine, the tenderness to which it warms and the madness to which it enflames. The music is not of itself interesting. More remarkable, though devoid of musical worth save a good bit of the comical, is _Les fastes de la grande et ancienne Mxnxstrxndxsx_. These records or tales are divided into five acts, which represent the notables and judges of the kingdom, the old men and the beggars (over a drone bass), the jugglers, tumblers and mountebanks, with their bears and monkeys, the cripples (those with one arm or leg played by the right hand, those who limp played by the left), and, finally, the confusion and flight of all, brought about by the drunkards and the bears and monkeys.
III
The last of these compositions are in no way representative of Couperin the artist. They might have been written by any one who had a love for nonsense, and they are not meant to be taken seriously. The quality of Couperin’s contribution to music must be tested in such pieces as _Le bavolet-flottant_, _La fleurie_, _Les moissoneurs_, _Le carillon de Cythère_, and _La lugubre_. His harmony is delicate, suggesting that of Mozart and even Chopin, to whom he is in many ways akin. He does not, like Scarlatti, wander far in the harmonic field; but in a relatively small compass glides about by semi-tones. There is, of course, a great deal of tonic and dominant, such as will always be associated with a certain clear-cut style of French dance music; but the grace of his melody and his style is too subtle to permit monotony. The harmonies of the sarabande _La lugubre_ are profound.
In form he is precise. His use of the rondo deserves special attention. In this form he cast many of his loveliest pieces, and it is one which never found a place in the suite. It is very simple, yet in his hands full of charm. The groundwork of one main theme recurring regularly after several episodes or contrasting themes was analyzed in the previous chapter. Couperin called his episodes couplets, and his rondos are usually composed of the principal theme and three couplets. He does not invariably repeat the whole theme after each couplet, but sometimes, as in _Les bergeries_, only a characteristic phrase of it. The couplets are generally closely related to the main theme, from which they differ not in nature, but chiefly in ornamentation and harmony. Much of the charm of his music is due to the neat proportions of this hitherto neglected form. It was native to him as a son of France, where, from the early days of the singers of Provence, the song in stanzas with its dancing refrain had been beloved of the people. Through him it found a place in the great instrumental music of the world.
Couperin’s style is too delicate to be caught in words. To call it the _style galant_ merely catalogues it as a free style, highly adorned with _agrémens_. The freedom is of course the freedom from all trace of polyphony in the old sense, of strict leading of voices from beginning to end. Couperin adds notes to his harmonic background when and where he will; so that it is impossible to say whether a piece is in two, or three, or four parts, because it is in no fixed number of parts at all.
The countless _agrémens_ are more than an external feature of his music, and of other music of his time. The analogies which have often been drawn between them and the formal superficialities of court life under the great Louis are in the main false. Both Couperin and Emanuel Bach, a man of perhaps less sensitive, certainly of less elegant, taste, regarded them as of vital importance. Even the learned Kuhnau, who can hardly be called a stylist at all, considered them the sugar of his fruit. It would seem as if only by means of these flourishes harpsichord music could take on some grace of line and warmth of color. Whatever subtlety of expression the dry-toned instrument was capable of found life only in the _agrémens_. We cannot judge of the need of them nor of their peculiar beauties by the sound of them on the modern pianoforte, even under the lightest fingers. It is open to question whether any but a few of them should be retained in the performance of Couperin’s works, now that the instrument, the shortcomings of which they were intended to supplement, has been banished in general from the concert stage.
This is not only because the peculiarities of the pianoforte call for a different kind of ornamentation, but also because the playing of harpsichord flourishes is practically a lost art. Couperin and Emanuel Bach left minute directions and explanations in regard to them; but in their treatises we have only the letter of the law, not the spirit which inspired it. Even in their day, in spite of all laws, the _agrémens_ were subject to the caprice of the player; and they remained so down to the time of Chopin.
Neither the freedom from polyphonic strictness nor the profusion of ornaments are the special peculiarities of Couperin’s style. They were more or less common to a great deal of the harpsichord music of his day. But he had a way, all his own at that time, of accompanying his melodies with a sort of singing bass or a melodious inner voice that moved with the melody in thirds or sixths, or in smooth contrary motion. This may be studied in such pieces as _La fleurie_, _Le bavolet-flottant_, _Les moissoneurs_, _Les abeilles_, and many others. It has little to do with polyphony. The accompanying voices are only suggested. They never claim attention by their own movement. They seem a sort of spirit or tinted shadow of the melody, hardly more than whispering.
This accounts in part for what we may call the tenderness of Couperin’s music, a quality which makes itself felt no matter how elusive it may be. He marked most of his pieces to be played with a special expressiveness, and frequently used the word _tendrement_. This, he admitted in one of his prefaces, was likely to surprise those who were aware of the limitations of the clavecin. He knew that the ‘clavecin was perfect as regards scope and brilliance, but that one could not increase or diminish the tone on it.’ His thanks would be forthcoming to one who through taste and skill would be able to improve its expression in this respect. He was not above all else a virtuoso. ‛_J’ayme beaucoup mieux ce qui me touche que ce qui me surprend_,’ he wrote in 1713. There is no doubt that he desired the greatest refinement of touch and shading in the expression of his music, and that he suffered under the limitations of the instrument for which he wrote. For the texture of his music is soft and delicate, its loveliness has a secret quality, hardly more than suggested by the shadowy inner voices. We cannot but be reminded of Chopin, in whose music alone the spirits of music whispered again so softly together.
Among the contemporaries of Couperin, Marchand, Claude Daquin (1694-1772), and J. P. Rameau (1683-1764) are best known, at least by name, today. Marchand is remembered chiefly by reason of the episode with Bach in Dresden. Daquin enjoyed a brilliant reputation as an organist in his day. One of his pieces for clavecin--‘The Cuckoo’--is still heard today. J. B. Weckerlin quoted an amusing bird-story[19] about Daquin, the burden of which is that one Christmas eve Daquin imitated the song of a nightingale so perfectly on the organ in church that the treasurer of the parish dispatched beadles throughout the edifice in search of a live songster.
Rameau is a greater figure in the general history of music than Couperin himself; yet, though his harpsichord pieces are, perhaps therefore, better known than those of the somewhat earlier man, they lack the most unusual charm and perfection of Couperin’s. There are fifty-three of these in all. Ten were published in 1706, of which a gavotte in rondo form in A minor is best known. A second set of twenty-one pieces appeared in 1724, containing the still famous _Rappel des oiseaux_, the _Tambourin_, _Les niais de Sologne_, _La poule_, the Gavotte with variations, in A minor, and many others. Sixteen more followed, written between 1727 and 1731. In 1747 a single piece--_La Dauphine_--was published. Besides these, all written originally for harpsichord, he published five arrangements of his _Pièces de concert_, written in the first place for a group of three or more instruments.
Rameau’s style is less delicate than Couperin’s. It is not only that there are fewer _agrémens_. The workmanship is more vigorous, more dramatic; the music itself less intimate. The first gavotte in A minor, the doubles in the Rigaudon and in _Les niais de Sologne_, the variations in the second gavotte in A minor, and _La Dauphine_, all speak of a technical enlargement. Yet a certain fineness is lacking. It will be noticed that he showed hardly more allegiance to the canon of the suite than Couperin had shown; and there is a large portion of titles such as _Les tendres plaintes_, _Les soupirs_, _L’entretien des muses_, and there are also many portraits: _La joyeuse_, _La triomphante_, _L’Egyptienne_, _L’agaçante_, and others.
In the preface to the new edition of his works published under the supervision of Camille Saint-Saëns, there is the following quotation from Amadée Mereaux’s _Les clavecinistes de 1637-1790_, which summarizes his position in the history of harpsichord music. ‘If there is lacking in his melodies the smoothness of Couperin, the distinction, the delicacy, the purity of style which give to the music of that clavecin composer to Louis XIV its so precious quality of charm, Rameau has at least a boldness of spirit, an animation, a power of harmony and a richness of modulation. The reflection of his operatic style, lively, expressive, always precise and strongly rhythmical, is to be found in his instrumental style. In treatment of the keyboard Rameau went far ahead of his predecessors. His technical forms, his instrumental designs, his variety and brilliance in executive resources, and his new runs and figures are all conquests which he won to the domain of the harpsichord.’ Rameau is primarily a dramatic composer. It may be added that several of his harpsichord pieces later found a place in his operas, usually as ballet music.
IV
A glance over the many pieces of Scarlatti and Couperin discovers a vast field of unfamiliar music. If one looks deep enough to perceive the charm, the beauty, the perfection of these forgotten masterpieces, one cannot but wonder what more than a trick of time has condemned them to oblivion. For no astonished enthusiasm of student or amateur whose eye can hear, renders back glory to music that lies year after year silent on dusty shelves. The general ear has not heard it. The general eye cannot hear it as it can scan the ancient picture, the drama, the poetry of a time a thousand or two thousand years ago. Music that is silent is music quite forgotten if not dead.
And, what is more, the few pieces of Couperin which are still heard seem almost to live on sufferance, as if the life they have were not of their own, but lent them by the listener disposed to imagine a courtier’s life long ago washed out in blood. ‘Sweet and delicate,’ one hears of the music of Couperin, as one hears of some bit of old lace or old brocade, that has lain long in a chest of lavender. Yet the music of Couperin is far more than a matter of fashion. It is by all tokens great art. The lack is in the race of musicians and of men who have lost the art of playing it and the simplicity of attentive listening.
To a certain extent the music of Sebastian Bach suffers from the same lack. On the other hand, the spirit of his music is perennial and it holds a rank in the modern ear far above that held by any other harpsichord music. Apart from indefinable reasons of æsthetic worth there are other reasons why Bach’s music, at any rate a considerable part of it, is still with us.
In the first place, the style of its texture is solid. Instead of being crushed, as Couperin’s music is, by the heavy, rich tone of the modern pianoforte, it seems to grow stronger by speaking through the stronger instrument. Bach’s style is nearly always an organ style, whether he is writing for clavichord, for chorus, for bands or strings. It is very possible that a certain mystical, intimate sentiment which is innate in most of his clavichord music cannot find expression through the heavy strings of the pianoforte. This may be far dearer than the added depth and richness which the pianoforte has, as it were, hauled up from the great reservoirs of music he has left us. But it is none the less true that the high-tensioned heavy strings on their gaunt frame of cast iron need not call in vain on the music of Bach to set the heart of them vibrating.
In the second place, the two-and three-part ‘Inventions,’ and the preludes and fugues in the ‘Well-Tempered Clavichord’ have proved themselves to be, as Bach himself hoped, the very best of teaching or practice pieces. It is not that your conventional Mr. Dry-as-dust teacher has power to inflict Bach upon every tender, rebellious generation. It is rather that the pieces themselves cannot be excelled as exercises, not only for the fingers but for the brain. One need not delve here into the matter of their musical beauty, but one must pause in amazement before their sturdiness, which can stand up, still resilient, under the ceaseless hammering of ten million sets of fingers. Clementi and Czerny are being pounded into insensibility; Cramer, despite the recommendations of Beethoven, is breathing his last; Moscheles, Dohler, Kalkbrenner, and a host of others are laid to rest. But here comes Bach bobbing up in our midst seeming to say: ‘Hit me! Hit me as hard as you like and still I’ll sing. And when you know me as well as I know you, you’ll know how to play the piano.’ So Bach has been, is, and will be introduced to young people. He inspires love, or hate, or fear--a triple claim to remembrance.
In the third place, there is an intellectual complexity in his music which, as a triumph of human skill over the masses of sound, deserves and has won an altar with perpetual flame. And the marvel is that this skill is rarely used as an end in itself, but as a means of expressing very genuine and frank emotion. Here we come upon perhaps the great reason of Bach’s immortality--the warmth of his music. It is almost uniquely personal and subjective. In it he poured forth his whole soul with a lack of self-consciousness and a complete concentration. His was a powerful soul, always afire with enthusiasm; and his emotion seems to have clarified and crystallized his music as heat and pressure have made diamonds out of carbon.
Bach was a lovable man, but a stern and somewhat bellicose one as well. He was shrewd enough to respect social rank quite in the manner of his day, as the dedication of the Brandenburg concertos plainly shows; but the records of his various quarrels with the municipal authorities of Leipzig prove how quick he was to unrestrained wrath whenever his rights either as man or artist were infringed upon. A great deal of independence marked him. The same can hardly be said either of Scarlatti or of Couperin, the one of whom was lazy and good-natured, the other gently romantic and extremely polite. Scarlatti rather enjoyed his indifference to accepted rules of composition; and there was nothing either of self-abasement or of self-depreciation in Couperin; but both lacked the stalwart vigor of Bach. Scarlatti aimed, confessedly, to startle and to amuse by his harpsichord pieces. He cautioned his friends not to look for anything particularly serious in them. It is hard to dissociate an ideal of pure and only faintly colored beauty from Couperin. But in the music of Bach one seldom misses the ring of a strong and even an impetuous need of self-expression. In the mighty organ works, and in the vocal works, one may believe with him that he sang his soul out to the glory of his Maker; but in the smaller keyboard pieces sheer delight in expressing himself is unmistakable.
It is this that makes Bach a romanticist, while Couperin, with all his fanciful titles, is classic. It is this that made Bach write in nearly the same style for all instruments, drawing upon his personal inspiration without consideration of the instrument for which he wrote; while Couperin, exquisitely sensitive to all external impressions, forced his fine art to conformity with the special and limited qualities of the instrument for which he wrote the great part of his music. And, finally, it is this which produced utterance of so many varied moods and emotions in the music of Bach; while in the music of Couperin we find all moods and emotions tempered to one distinctly normal cast of thought.
Bach has been the subject of so much profound and special study that there is little to be added to the explanation of his character or of his works. In considering him as a composer for the harpsichord or clavichord, one has to bear two facts in mind: that he was a great player and a great teacher.
There is much evidence from his son and from prominent musicians who knew him, that the technical dexterity of his fingers was amazing. He played with great spirit and, when the music called for it, at a great speed. Perhaps the oft-repeated story of his triumph over the famous French player, Marchand, who, it will be remembered, defaulted at the appointed hour of contest, has been given undue significance. As we have had occasion to remark, in speaking of the contest between Handel and D. Scarlatti, such tourneys at the harpsichord were tests of wits, not of fingers. Bach was first of all an organist and it may be suggested, with no disloyalty to the great man among musicians, that he played the harpsichord with more warmth than glitter. We find little evidence in his harpsichord music of the sort of virtuosity which makes D. Scarlatti’s music astonish even today; or, it may be added, of the special flexible charm which gives Couperin’s its inimitable grace.
Bach is overwhelming as a virtuoso in his organ music, especially in passages for the pedals. In his harpsichord music he achieves a rushing, vigorous style. It must not be overlooked that Bach wrote also for the clavichord, quite explicitly, too. Most of the Forty-eight Preludes and Fugues are distinctly clavichord, not harpsichord, music. That is to say, they require a fine shading which is impossible on the harpsichord. When he wrote for the harpsichord he had other effects in mind. The prelude of the English suite in G minor or the last movement of the Italian concerto may be taken as representative of his most vigorous and effective harpsichord style. They are different not only in range and breadth, but in spirit as well, from practically all of the ‘Well-Tempered Clavichord.’ Nevertheless, though these may be taken fairly as examples of his harpsichord style at its best and strongest, they are not especially effective as virtuoso music. There is sheer virtuosity only in the Goldberg Variations.
To Bach as a teacher we owe the Inventions and the ‘Well-Tempered Clavichord,’ both written expressly for the use and practice of young people who wished to learn about music and to acquire a taste for the best music. Volumes might well be filled with praise of them. It will suffice us only to note, however, that to master the technical difficulties of the keyboard was always for Bach only a step toward the art of playing, which is the art of expressing emotion in music. These two sets of pieces are all-powerful evidence of this--his creed--in accordance with which he always nobly lived and worked. They have but one parallel in pianoforte music: the _Études_ of Chopin. The ‘Well-Tempered Clavichord’ is, and always will be, essentially a study in expression.
His system of tempering or tuning the clavichord, by reason of which he has often been granted a historical immortality, was the relatively simple one of dividing the octave into twelve equal intervals. Only the octave itself was strictly in tune, but the imperfections of the other intervals were so slight as to escape detection by the most practised ear. By paying the nominal toll of theoretical inaccuracy, Bach opened the roads of harmonic modulation on every hand. It must not be forgotten, however, that most of the pieces of Couperin or Scarlatti, not to mention many an outlandish chromatic _tour de force_ in the works of the early English composers, would have been intolerable on a harpsichord strictly in tune. Other men than Bach had their systems of temperament. We may take Bach’s only to be the simplest.
Furthermore, that he created a new development of pianoforte technique by certain innovations in the manner of fingering passages, is open to question. It is well known that up to the beginning of the eighteenth century the use of the thumb on the keyboard was generally discountenanced. Bach himself had seen organists play who avoided using the thumb even in playing wide stretches. Scales were regularly played by the fingers, which, without the complement of the thumb, passed sideways over each other in a crawling motion which is said to have been inherited from the lutenists. Couperin advocated the use of the thumb in scales, but _over_, and not under, the fingers. Bach seems the first to have openly advised and practised passing the thumb under the fingers in the manner of today. Yet even he did not give up entirely the older method of gliding the fingers over each other in passages up and down the keyboard.
His system passed on through the facile hands of his son Emanuel, the greatest teacher of the next generation; and if it is not the crest of the wave of new styles of playing which was to break over Europe and flood a new and special pianoforte literature, is at any rate a considerable part of its force. Yet it must be borne in mind that Scarlatti founded by his own peculiar gifts a tradition of playing the piano and composing for it, in which Clementi was to grow up; and that, influential as Emanuel Bach was, Clementi was the teacher of the great virtuosi who paved the way to Chopin, the composer for the piano _par excellence_.
The foundation of all Bach’s music is the organ. Even in his works for violin alone, or in those for double chorus and instruments, the conjunct, contrapuntal style of organ music is unmistakable. His general technique was acquired by study of the organ works of his great predecessors, Frescobaldi, Sweelinck, Pachelbel, Buxtehude, Bohm, and others. He was first and always an organist. So it is not surprising to find by far the greater part of his harpsichord and clavichord music shaped to a polyphonic ideal; and, what is more, written in the close, smooth style which is primarily fitting to the organ.
His intelligence, however, was no less alert than it was acute. There is evidence in abundance that he not only knew well the work of most of his contemporaries, but that he appropriated what he found best in their style. He seems to have found the violin concertos of Vivaldi
## particularly worthy of study. He was indebted to him for the form of
his own concertos; and, furthermore, he adapted certain features of Vivaldi’s technique of writing for the violin to the harpsichord. Of the influence of Couperin there is far less than was once supposed. The ‘French Suites’ were not so named by Bach and are, moreover, far more in his own contrapuntal style than in the tender style of Couperin. Kuhnau’s Bible sonatas are always cited as the model for Bach’s little Capriccio on the departure of his brother; but elsewhere it is hard to find evidence of indebtedness to Kuhnau.
But he even profited by an acquaintance with the trivial though enormously successful Italian opera of his day, and used the _da capo_ aria as frankly as A. Scarlatti or J. A. Hasse. Still, whatever he acquired from his contemporaries was but imposed upon the great groundwork of his art, his organ technique. He never let himself go upon the stream of music of his day, but held steadfast to the ideal he had inherited from a century of great German organists, of whom he was to be the last and the greatest.
So, for the most part, the forms which had evolved during the seventeenth century were the forms in which he chose to express himself. Of these, two will be for ever associated with him, because he so expanded them and filled them with his poetry and emotion that no further growth was possible to them. These are the fugue and the suite.
V
Most of Bach’s predecessors and many of his contemporaries regarded the fugue as the highest form of instrumental music. It was the form in which they put their most serious endeavor. The harmonic basis of music was generally accepted and skill in weaving a contrapuntal or a polyphonic piece out of a principal motive or theme, and two or three subsidiary ones, was more or less common to all musicians. Yet fugues up to the time of Bach lacked a logical unity of construction. Excellent as the craftsmanship displayed in them might be, the effect was not satisfactory. There seemed, for instance, to be no very clear reason why a fugue should end except that the composer chose to end it. There was no principle of balance governing the work as a whole. It was architecturally out of proportion, or it failed to impress its proportions upon the listener. Bach alone seems to have given the fugue a perfectly balanced form, to have endowed it not only with life but with organization as well.
The secret of this is that at the bottom of his fugues lies a broadly conceived, well-balanced and firmly constructed harmonic plan. It must be granted, besides, that the subjects out of which he builds them have a singular vitality and are full of suggestion. But Bach, with his fertility in highly charged musical ideas and his apparently unlimited power to weave and ravel and weave musical material in endless variety of effects, rarely let his skill or his enthusiasm betray his sense of proportion. There is a compactness in nearly all his fugues which results from the compression of expressive ideas within the well-defined limits of a logical, harmonic plan.
Doubtless, the definiteness of this harmonic plan is more or less concealed from our modern ears by the uninterrupted movement of the voice parts, which was part of the conventional ideal of polyphonic writing. We are used to the pauses or stereotyped repetitions of the more modern style, which throw harmonic goals into prominence whereon the mind may perch and rest for a moment. Such perches are for the most part lacking in the Bach fugues. The subject takes flight and flies without rest until the end. Moreover, the art of playing Bach which brings out more than the regular and mechanical march of the voice-parts is unhappily extremely rare. Evenness of execution, that unhappy _bête-noire_ of the striving student, is exalted far above any really more difficult, subtle variation of touch which may veil the flow of the various independent melodies in order to bring out the beautiful changing harmonies, arising from them like colored mist. But a simple analysis of any fugue will reveal the clear, well-balanced plan underneath it.
Pause for a moment at one or two of those that are better known. Take, for example, the fugue in C-sharp major from the first book of the ‘Well-tempered Clavichord.’ There is the conventional opening section, in which the theme and secondary themes are announced. We have tonic, dominant, and a clear cadence again in the tonic. Then begins the strong pull toward the dominant, so nearly inevitable in most kinds of musical form, and finally the dominant triumphant with the main theme strong and clear, and a solid cadence.
Here, on the basis of harmony, the first broad part ends, and the music goes on to explore and develop through other keys. The harmonies are rich, the counterpoint melodious, the theme whispered as a recollection from the first land of familiar tonic and dominant. Then clearly we are held for a moment to enjoy E-sharp minor before we play back again, with fragments of the theme, to our well-known dominant and tonic. Off again on motives we cannot fail to recognize, as if we were again to wander afield in harmonies. But, no; we sink firmly upon a swelling G-sharp, our dominant again, the best known note of our theme. The captive harmonies rise and fall. Movement they have, but escape is impossible. The return home is inevitable, it is imminent, it is done. Cheerfully our theme traces its old ground. It pauses a moment as if contemplating further flight, but the tonic key is all-powerful and the flight is ended and with it our fugue.
It is all lucid and logical: the first broad section with its twice-told tonic and its accustomed urge to the dominant; the many measures of wandering that yet pause to make harmonies clear; the long struggle against the anchoring G-sharp that pulls ultimately home.
Or take, for example, the more complicated fugue in G minor (Book I). We find, with few exceptions, the same plan. There are four voices to enter, and the exposition of the theme and counter-subjects is consequently longer. But they come in regularly, one after the other, tonic, dominant, tonic, dominant; and then the irresistible sway of the whole fabric to the relative major, made clear by an unusually obvious cadence. There follows the development section and the various episodic modulations, all held intimately together by recurrences of the main theme. The keys are well-defined. Then, instead of a firm anchoring of all this variety on a pedal point, we have a descending, regular sequence which inevitably suggests an objective point to be reached--the return of the music at last to the keys in which it was first made known to us. And now in this final restatement, instead of retracing step by step the opening measures, we hear the entrances of the theme pressed close together, overlapping, a persistent leading F-sharp from which there is but one escape, the final chords settling majestically into G minor.
Both these fugues are built upon a well-balanced and yet varied harmonic groundwork. The art of Bach shows especially in the middle or developing section in the clearness with which he brings out the various harmonic stages through which he leads his music, and in the manner in which, by the unmistakable method of a persistent pedal point or a regular sequence, he brings back the final restatement of his material in a section balancing the opening section.
Other fugues in the same collection, such as those in C-sharp minor and in B-flat minor, are more architectural. But, though the marvellous building up of themes and counter-themes, as in the C-sharp minor fugue, seems to outline a very cathedral of sound, we shall find none the less the same tri-partite harmonic base underneath the work as a whole.
In longer fugues, such as the great one in C minor coupled with a toccata and that in D minor which is associated with the ‘Chromatic Fantasy,’ the balance between the opening and closing sections is somewhat obscured by the long free section in between. But even here a unity is maintained by the skillful repetition of striking passages and the return to the final section is always magnificently prepared.
Bach did not bind himself to rules in writing his fugues. He handled his material with great freedom. Witness many fugues like that in F minor in the second part of the ‘Well-tempered Clavichord,’ in which he often subdued the main theme to a capricious, obvious second theme. Such a treatment of the fugue approaches the dramatic; and this, together with the division, quite clear in so many, into three sections of exposition, development and restatement, cannot but suggest some sort of kinship between the fugue as Bach conceived it and the movement in so-called sonata form which grew to such splendid proportions in the half-century after his death. At any rate, we are compelled to recognize that in spite of the contrapuntal style, inherited from an age in which harmonic sequence was a secondary element in music, the Bach fugues owe their imperishable form to the same principles of harmonic foundation as those upon which the sonata-form of Mozart and Beethoven is known to rest.
VI
Though in the matter of musical form the name of Bach at once suggests the fugue, he brought the suite to no less perfection and significance. It must, however, be granted that the suite suffers by comparison with the fugue as a great form in music. First, the convention that all its movements be in the same key is more than likely to make the work as a whole monotonous. Secondly, the more or less obligatory dependence upon dance rhythms tends to restrict emotional vivacity and subtlety. Thirdly, since there can be but little contrast and variety among the separate movements, the suite lacks organic or internal life.
On the other hand, the emphasis laid upon rhythm may give the individual movements more obvious charm than the fugue is likely to exert. Furthermore, though the scope of the movements is more restricted than that of the fugue, the form is freer. And the neat balance of structure, with its two repeated sections, is undoubtedly more sympathetic to our modern ear than the involved architecture of the fugue. Lastly, though the sequence of allemande, courante, bourrée, gigue and other conventional movements may give us too much of a good thing, the sarabande does afford that striking point of contrast which is the precious asset of the great cyclic forms, whether sonata, string quartet, or symphony.
Bach wrote three complete sets of suites: the so-called French suites, which seem to have been written for his second wife during the time of his stay at Cöthen; the English suites,[20] and the ‘Partitas,’ which we may call the German suites. Both the English suites and the Partitas were written at Leipzig, and the latter were among the few works engraved and printed during his lifetime.
Inasmuch as the form of the suite, its sequence and normal number of movements, had been clearly defined both by Froberger and Kuhnau some time before Bach began to write, he cannot be said to have assisted in its creation, as he did in the creation of the fugue. From the point of view of form he neither added anything nor, strictly speaking, improved upon what he inherited. What he did do was to expand the limits of the various movements to great and noble proportions, and to fill them with a wealth of musical vigor and imagination hardly suggested before his day in any instrumental music except Corelli’s.
The French suites are the simplest and the most conventional. The style of them is unquestionably lighter than that of the later suites; but this may well be due less to an attempt to write in the _style galant_ of Couperin, than to a desire to compose music technically within the grasp of his young and charming second wife. The sequence of the movements is conventional. All six have as their first three movements the normal allemande, courante and sarabande. All close with a gigue. Between the sarabande and the gigue he placed a number of extra dances, two minuets in the first suite, an air and minuet in the second, two minuets and an _Anglaise_ in the third. The fourth and fifth have each three of these _intermezzi_, including gavottes, a bourrée and a loure; and the last has an odd group of four, consisting of a gavotte, a polonaise, a bourrée and a minuet. Only two of the courantes follow the French model with its complicated shifting rhythm. The others are of the more rapid Italian style.
The movements are all short and in the now familiar binary form, with its first section modulating from tonic to dominant, and repeated; and its second section going by way of a few more complicated modulations back again from dominant to tonic. There is little trace of a marked differentiation between the musical material given first in the tonic, and that given later in the dominant.
The hand of Bach is, however, not to be mistaken even here in these relatively simple pieces. The style is firm and for the most part close upon the organ style; the melodies--and there are melodies--are surprisingly sweet and fresh; the rhythm, delightfully crisp and vivacious. It is to be regretted that these early suites have generally dropped from the concert stage.
In looking over the English suites, which are undoubtedly the greatest works of their kind, one is first struck by the magnificent preludes. Each of the six suites has its prelude, longer by far and more powerful than any of the subsequent movements. In breadth of plan, in all-compelling vigor and vitality, in a magnificent, healthy emotion, these preludes may hold their places beside any single movements which have since been written. It cannot be denied that their style is more the style of organ than pianoforte music. A certain severity must also be admitted, which may leave something lacking to the modern ear that in a relatively long movement craves something of sensuous warmth. But their power is truly immense.
The style is highly contrapuntal and with few exceptions follows the convention of uninterrupted movement. This tends, as in many of the fugues, to hide the formal outline. The listener hears the music flowing on page after page and may be pardoned if, being able to recognize in the torrent of sound only one distinctly recurring theme, he thinks he is hearing music akin to the fugue. As a matter of fact, however, with the exception of only the first, the structure of these preludes is astonishingly formal and astonishingly simple. The second, fourth, fifth and sixth are fundamentally arias, on a huge scale.
The aria form is one of the simplest in music, one of the most effective as well, and was the first to develop under the influence of the Italian opera of the seventeenth century. It has frequently been called the A-B-A form. This is because it is made up of three distinct sections of which the first and last, predominantly in the tonic key, are identical, and the middle in some contrasting key or keys and of contrasting musical material. To spare themselves the trouble of writing out the last section, composers adopted the convention of merely writing the Italian words _da capo_ (from the beginning) at the end of the second section, and of placing a double bar at the end of the first, over which the singer or player was not to pass upon his second performance of this section. Bach could have adopted this economical device, had he so desired, in the four preludes just mentioned; for each of them proves, upon examination, to be composed of three distinct sections, the middle more or less the longest, the first and last note for note the same.
We have already remarked how most of Bach’s fugues, especially the shorter ones, can be divided into three sections based upon harmony. In the preludes to the English suites the question of musical material enters into the division. Take for analysis the prelude in A minor to the second suite. The first section ends at the beginning of the fifty-fifth measure. It will be seen to open with a bold figure, the first notes of which are at once imitated in the left-hand part. There follows then a constant flow of figure work over a relatively simple harmonic foundation and through orderly sequences, the hands frequently imitating each other. Fragments of the opening phrase are heard five times. In the thirty-first measure a very distinct phrase is introduced, still in the tonic key, it will be observed, though in dominant harmony; and this is repeated in purely conventional manner in three registers, giving way to formal passage work which, falling and rising, leads to a good stout reiteration of the opening motive. With this the first section ends, in a full tonic cadence.
The second section begins at once with a wholly new figure which dominates the music from now on up to the one hundred and tenth measure. At this measure the second section ends, and here Bach might have written the words _da capo_; for what follows is but a repetition of the first fifty-five measures.
It must be noticed that, although the middle section is decidedly dominated by a figure which does not appear in the first, still the first theme is not allowed to be forgotten. It may be found five times in the course of the middle section, dividing, as it were, the new material into distinct clauses, and serving as well to impress upon our ears the unity of the piece as a whole.
This device is not truly germane to the aria form. It is suggestive of the rondo in general; and in particular of the modified rondo form of the Vivaldi violin concerto, of which we know Bach made a minute study.
In the splendid prelude to the third suite, in G minor, this concerto form is far more in evidence than the aria form. But the fourth, fifth, and sixth (barring the slow introduction) are like the second in superbly simple three-part aria form. This fact is well worth recollecting in connection with the development of the sonata form of a later period.
The remaining movements of the suites present no irregularities. These are the dignified allemandes, the Italian or French courantes, the elusive, sad sarabandes, always one or two Intermezzi, a Gavotte, a Bourrée, a Passepied or a Minuet, and the final Gigues with their conventional contrapuntal tricks and turns.
The Partitas are far less regular in structure. The opening movements are called by various names. There is a prelude for the first, short and in simple, rich style; a _Sinfonie_ for the second, with three distinct parts, suggesting the French overture; a _Fantasie_ for the third; and for the fourth, fifth, and sixth, respectively, an Overture, a Preamble, and a Toccata. The second and third have odd movements, such as a Rondo, a Caprice, a Burlesca, and a Scherzo. On the whole, in spite of the technical perfection never absent in Bach’s work, and some movements such as the closing Gigue of the first partita, these suites are inferior to the English suites. There is something tentative about the new styles of preludes and about the interpolation of freakish intermezzi, which rather mars them from the point of view of unity and balance in the cyclic forms.
But the English suites stand out as magnificent specimens of vigorous and yet emotional music, great and broad in scope, perfect in detail--keyboard music which in many ways has never been surpassed.
VII
Besides the fugues and the suites there is a great deal of other and less easily defined harpsichord and clavichord music. We are not wanting in titles. We have Preludes, Toccatas, and Fantasias, also some Capriccios. These are, on the whole, of free and more or less whimsical structure. The preludes, and one thinks of the forty-eight little masterpieces of the ‘Well-tempered Clavichord,’ are usually simple and short. They are for the most part clearly harmonic music. Some are nothing more than a series of chords, notably those in C major, C minor, D minor, in the first part. The origin of this simple form of music has already been discussed; but the origin of the particular and well-nigh matchless beauty of these of Bach’s preludes can be found only in the great depths of his own genius, which here more almost than anywhere else, is incomprehensible. The subtlety of the modulations, the great tenderness and poetry of the chords, the infinite suggestion of feeling--all these within little pieces that might easily be printed on half a page, that have no definite outline, no trace of melody: we can but close our eyes and wonder.
Other preludes which are far more articulate, so to speak, are still fundamentally only harmonic music. So we may reckon the preludes in C-sharp major, in C-sharp minor, in E-flat minor, in G minor, in E major, in the first book. In these there is but a faint network of melody, usually contrapuntally treated, thrown over the profoundly moving harmonies underneath. Some others are little studies in fleetness or brilliancy of playing, such as those in D major and B-flat major; and still others are lyrical, suggesting Couperin, or even the Preludes of Chopin. It may be mentioned in passing that there is little internal relationship between preludes in the ‘Well-tempered Clavichord’ and the fugues which follow them. Nor is there evidence to show that the ones were composed for the others. Rather there is in many cases reason to believe that the preludes were composed often without any consideration of a fugue to follow. Still one cannot fail to observe, or rather to feel, a subtle affinity between most of the little pieces so united, which must have guided Bach in his selection and pairing.
[Illustration] Fac-simile of Bach's Manuscript of the Prelude in C major (Well-Tempered Clavichord.])
The toccatas and the fantasias are on a much broader plan than the preludes. The former are essentially impressive, if not show pieces. They are usually built up upon a series of brilliant runs, oftenest scales or close arpeggios, with slower moving passages of chords and contrapuntal weavings scattered here and there. The fantasias are, as the name implies, quite free and irregular in form. Both fantasias and toccatas are for the most part distinctly in organ style. Their glory is, like the beauty of the preludes, a glory of harmony. The long, rapid runs may have lost their power to thrill ears that have heard the studies of Liszt; but the chords which lie under them have a majesty that seems to defy time.
There are several ‘concertos’ and ‘sonatas’ of which to say much is to repeat what has already been said of other forms of his music. Both are obviously indebted to Vivaldi for style, or the external features of style, as well as for form.
The idea of the concerto in Bach’s day was not the idea which Mozart planted firmly in the mind of musicians. To show off the special qualities of the harpsichord against the background of an orchestra is not often evident as a purpose in Bach’s concertos. He wrote for the harpsichord much as he wrote for the orchestra; or for the orchestra as he wrote for the harpsichord. To the solo instrument he allotted passages which required a fineness in execution of details, or passages which he wished to be softer than the general run of the music. There is a clear intention to get contrast between the group of instruments and the solo instrument, but apparently little to write for the two in a distinct style.
One may take the D minor concerto for harpsichord and a group of instruments, or even better, the Italian Concerto, for a single harpsichord, preferably with two manuals, as the perfect type. The arrangement and number of movements is well worth noticing. There are three, of which the first and last are in the same key and of about the same length and style. The middle movement is in a contrasting key, is shorter and nearly lyric in character. The scheme is perfectly balanced as a whole, and, it will be noticed, shows little kinship with the suite.
The first and last movements are in the same rapid tempo and both are treated contrapuntally throughout. Their internal structure is fundamentally tri-partite, like the fugues and the preludes in the English suites, the opening and closing sections being the same. The middle section brings out new material, but also retains suggestions of that already announced; the new material tending to take on an episodic character, like the couplets in Couperin’s rondos. This is unusually clear in the middle section of the last movement of the Italian Concerto, in which there are three very distinct episodes, one of which appears twice, quite after the manner of the Beethoven rondo. But one feature, which Bach probably acquired from Vivaldi, makes the whole procedure different from Couperin’s. This is that the main theme, either the short or long part of it which may be restated between the episodes, appears in different keys. The same feature is evident in the preludes to the English suites.
The slow movements in both the D minor and the Italian concertos are written upon a favorite plan of Bach’s. The bass repeats a certain form or ground over and over again, above which the treble spins an ever varied, rhapsodical melody, highly ornate in character. The plan is an exceedingly simple and a very old one. It may be traced in the old motets of the mensuralists of the thirteenth century, with their droning _ordines_; and in the favorite ‘divisions’ of the early English composers. The Chaconne and the Passacaglia are but variants from the same root. It is, of course, a simple form of variations.
This leads us, at last, to a brief consideration of what is perhaps from the point of view of the pianist, if not indeed from that of the musician, the most astonishing of Bach’s harpsichord music,--the Goldberg Variations. The story of their origin will bear repetition for the light it throws on the mood in which they were written.
A certain Count Kaiserling, at one time Russian ambassador to the court of Saxony, supposedly suffered from insomnia and nervous depression. He had in attendance a clavecinist named Goldberg, a pupil of Bach’s, who, among other duties, had by his playing to wile away the miserable night hours of his unhappy patron. Hearing of the great Bach through Goldberg, Kaiserling requested him to write some harpsichord music of pleasant, cheerful character especially for these weary vigils. Bach composed and sent back a theme and thirty variations, which so pleased the count that he presented Bach with a goblet filled with one hundred Louis d’or.
One cannot but smile; the mere thought of thirty variations is soporific. Yet an examination of them will convince one that Kaiserling must have rewarded Bach for sheer delight in the music, not for the blessed forgetfulness in sleep to which it may have been expected to seduce him. The quality of these variations is inexpressibly vivacious and charming. Bach shows himself, it is true, always the master of sounds and the science of music; but this may be taken as the secure foundation on which he allows himself for once to be the brilliant and even dazzling virtuoso.
With the object in view of enchanting an amateur who must have been, _ex officio_, very much a man of the world at large, Bach composed objectively. That is to say he wrote not so much to express himself as to please another. The same might be said of two other of the latest harpsichord works, the _Musikalisches Opfer_ and the _Kunst der Fuge_; except that in both of these masterpieces his aim was more technical. In the Goldberg Variations he is, so to speak, off duty.
Consequently, there is in them little trace of the stern, albeit tender idealist, or of the teacher, or of the man sunk in the mystery of religious devotion. There are nine canons, at every interval from the unison to the ninth, some in contrary motion. But even in these learned processes there is a social suavity and charm. Witness especially the canon at the third (the ninth variation), and that at the sixth (the eighteenth variation). Only the twenty-fifth variation seems to show Bach entirely submerged within himself. Elsewhere he is for the most part primarily a virtuoso. In the matter of wide skips, of crossing the hands, and of sparkling velocity, he outruns Scarlatti. In fact the virtuosity of the variations as a whole is far beyond Scarlatti.
To begin with, he wrote for a harpsichord with two manuals; and in many of the variations, conspicuously in the eighth, the eleventh, the twentieth, and the twenty-third, he availed himself to the uttermost of the advantages of such an instrument. The hands constantly pass by each other on their way from one extremity of the keyboard to the other, or cross and recross. The parts which they play are interwoven in complications which, unhappily, must forever be the despair of the pianist. In such cases, of course, he may not justly be compared with Scarlatti, who wrote always for one manual.
But take for example the twenty-eighth and twenty-ninth variations, which may be played on either one or two manuals. The trills and double trills in the former, together with the wide and sudden crossing of the hands, savor of Paganini and Liszt. So do the interlocked chord trills in the latter, and the airy, whirring triplets which follow them. Indeed, leaving aside a few effects in double notes, and certain others of the thunder and lightning variety which were wholly beyond the possibilities of the harpsichord, the modern pianoforte virtuoso style has little to show in advance upon the style of the Goldberg Variations.
Furthermore, if the Goldberg Variations are thus amazing from the point of view of the pianist, they are none the less so to the musician regarding their general form. There is in them positively no trace of the stereotyped form of variations of that day, which consisted either of a repetition of the theme with more and more elaborate ornament, or at best of a series of arabesques over the more or less bare harmonic foundation of the theme. The theme is for Bach but the simple germ of an idea, which, throughout the whole elaborate series, undergoes change, transformation, metamorphosis, hardly to be recognized in any of its varied forms, scarcely suggesting a unity to the work as a whole. Mood and rhythm change. New ideas sprout, seemingly quite independent of their origin. Even the harmonic foundation is veiled and altered. Bach speaks, as it were, in beautiful metaphors.
This conception and treatment of the variation form render it true greatness; endow it, indeed, as a form, with immortal life. External figurations will grow old-fashioned, or the ear will become satiated with them. But the Goldberg Variations have an inner life that cannot wither or decay. Bach’s warm imagination inspired them, gave them poetry as well as brilliance. No more modern variations are quite comparable with them except Brahms’ great series on a theme of Handel, in which, however, there is less warmth than severity, less imagination than art.
VIII
How shall Bach be placed in the history of music, in particular of pianoforte music? What part may he be said to play in the development of the art? The paternity which most composers of the nineteenth century rejoiced to fasten upon him, is hardly fitting. Bach was the father of twenty-two children in this life, but musically he died without heir. His sons Emanuel and Christian were two of the most influential composers of the next generation; but both discarded their father’s inheritance as of little service to them in the forward march of music.
Even before his death Bach knew that the forms and style of music which he had given his life to perfect and ennoble were already of the past. That he invented a simple system of temperament in order to afford himself the harmonic freedom necessary to his expression, or that he devised a system of fingering which considerably facilitated the playing of his difficult music, does not constitute him the progenitor of the new style of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. The composers who followed him knew little or nothing of his music. They were far less likely to appropriate what they might have found useful in his old-fashioned art, than to meet the problems inherent in the new, which they served, with their own ingenuity. Accept, if you like, Scarlatti as the founder of the modern pianoforte style; Couperin as the creator of the salon piece. The fugue had had its great day, and so had the suite. The flawless counterpoint of Bach, with its involutions and its smoothness, was of too compact a substance to serve the adolescent, transparent sonata. His harmonies were too rich and fluent. And Bach had been but once the Bach of the Goldberg Variations.
No; Bach’s harpsichord music attained perfection. A river flowed into the sea. Further than this no art can go. Where a parallel excellence seems since to have been achieved, the growth of which it was the ultimate perfection was from another root. Bach is hardly more the father of Beethoven, Schumann and Chopin, than Praxiteles is the father of Michelangelo, or Sophocles of Shakespeare. But he left a standard in music of the complete mastery and welding of all the elements which make an art everlasting,--of form, of texture, of noble and impassioned emotion. And by virtue of this standard which he fixed, he has exercised over the development of music down to the present day a greater spiritual influence than that of any other single composer.
The harpsichord works of his great contemporary Handel are far less significant. Several sets of suites were published in London between 1720 and 1735, also six fugues for organ or harpsichord. In the third suite of the first set (1720) there is an air and variations. In the fifth of the same series is the so-called ‘Harmonious Blacksmith,’ the best known of his works for the harpsichord. It is a theme and variations. The air and variations in B-flat major which has served as the groundwork of a great cycle of variations by Brahms constitutes the first number of the second series (1733). There are in other suites a _Passacaglia_ and two _Chaconnes_, all of which are monotonous series of variations. One _Chaconne_ has no less than sixty-two varied repeats. In these works Handel shows little ingenuity. His technical formulas are conventional and in general uninteresting. The dance movements of the suites are worthier of a great composer.
Scarlatti, Couperin, and Bach are the great names of harpsichord music; great because each stands for a supreme achievement in the history of the art. It may be questioned whether, if the pianoforte had not come to supplant the harpsichord, composers would have been able to progress beyond the high marks of these three men, either in style or in expressiveness. New forms had made their appearance, it is true, before the death of Bach. These would have run their course upon the harpsichord without doubt; but it is not so certain that they could have brought to light any new resources of the instrument. These had been not only fully appreciated by the three great men, Scarlatti, Couperin, and Bach, but had been developed to their fullest extent. And, indeed, it may be asked whether any music has more faithfully expressed the emotions and the aspirations of humanity than the harpsichord music of Bach.
FOOTNOTES:
[11] An Englishman, organist at St. George’s, Hanover Square, from 1725 to 1737, when he became insane. He died about 1750. He had made the acquaintance of both Scarlattis during a stay in Italy, and was instrumental in bringing D. Scarlatti’s operas and harpsichord pieces before the British public.
[12] A learned Roman collector, born in 1778, died in 1862. Mendelssohn had the free use of his library and wrote that as regards old Italian music it was most complete.
[13] This collection is available to students in America. The sonatas contained in it are representative of Scarlatti’s style, though, of course, they represent but a small portion of his work. The collection can be far more easily used for reference than the cumbersome Czerny. Unfortunately the complete Italian edition is still rare in this country.
[14] J. S. Shedlock writes in ‘The Pianoforte Sonata’: ‘The return to the opening theme in the second section, which divides binary from sonata form, is, in Scarlatti, non-existent.’ Out of some two hundred sonatas which I have examined, I have found but one to disprove the statement. This one exception, No. 11 in the Breitkopf and Härtel edition of twenty, is so perfectly in sonata form that one cannot but wonder Scarlatti did not employ the form oftener. [EDITOR.]
[15] See articles by Edward J. Dent in _Monthly Musical Record_ for September and October, 1906.
[16] See Chrysander’s articles prefatory to his own edition (_Denkmäler_), edited by Brahms, in the _Monthly Musical Record_ for February, 1889, _et seq._
[17] The pieces in one _ordre_ may be in major or minor. The first _ordre_ is in G, that is the pieces in it are either in G minor or G major. The second is in D, minor and major, the third in C, etc.
[18] That which appeared in 1713. The earlier set is not commonly reckoned among his publications.
[19] _Musiciana_, Paris, 1877.
[20] The origin of the title is rather doubtful. On the first page of the manuscript copy, which was in the hands of Christian Bach, of London, were written the words: _Fait pour les anglais_. The first prelude is on a theme by Dieupart, a composer then popular in England.
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