I
While the first period apparently ends during the early years at Weimar, about 1712—later we will explain why—it is difficult to fix definitely the date of its commencement, which perhaps takes us back to the years of study at Lüneburg. To this witness is borne by a prelude and fugue in C minor.[55]
The inexperience of the young composer betrays itself in every measure; the timidity with which he availed himself of the resources of the organ indicates even more the fear of venturing beyond the limits of a virtuosity which, while perhaps precocious, was not yet master of the instrument. Observe the treatment of the pedal, the touchstone of an organist; in the prelude it serves only as a foundation for the harmony, often doubling the notes given to the left hand. And truly is it not a weak artifice, this recitative upon which reliance is placed from the beginning, as if to attract notice to a certain technical dexterity which is suddenly forced to labor strenuously, as soon as the attention is distracted by the entrance of the other parts? And likewise in the fugue; the pedal does not take up the theme (truly one of a funeral march, with its doleful recurrence of the same figure, now interrupted, now repeated in different positions) until after the entire polyphony is at an end; it seems to appear only as an indication of the conclusion, which is, moreover, retarded by a sort of ill-timed coda. As to the workmanship of the fugue, it is far from perfect; the parts are built up one upon the other, the subject always being allotted to the higher part, thinly accompanied by the others; without being long, it is wearisome, and interest is awakened only by the entrance of the pedal, when the fugal character is no longer predominant.
The tonality of C minor, expressive of profound sadness, was apparently a favorite one with Bach at that time; another fugue in the same key[56] appears to be contemporaneous with the foregoing.
The same general characteristics are noticeable; the pedal is even more insignificant; but in the poetical conception of the piece, even in its incompleteness, there is a world of meaning.
While leaving to Schubert the "Signification of Tonalities," and not without distrusting this hobby—so absurd at times are the results of the analysis of every piece of music by reducing it to its exterior characteristics—still we cannot deny that to a certain extent this fugue is the reflex of everything of indecision in the life of Bach up to this time. The rhythm of the theme is established only at the end of the third measure, and each of its fragments serves to mark the close of a harmonic progression, despite the fact that the general tonality does not make itself plainly felt. This twofold ambiguity lends to the whole a touch of undefined regret, of a desire whose very existence is not suspected. Is this not wholly characteristic of the temperament of a youth?
We are reminded of Pachelbel by these two works, in their general lines, through this same exaggeration of an innate emotion into a condition of melancholy, a tendency peculiar to Bach. In point of technique the works sustain this reminiscence: the counterpoint is not yet fully developed. Further, compare them (particularly the second fugue) with certain of Pachelbel's compositions, especially with the fugue in E minor, whose theme we cited in our chapter upon this musician.
Other similarities appear in the variations in tempo with which these works are brought to a close; these new forms were of the North German school, whose illustrious representatives were Reinken and Buxtehude.
Bach had obtained of Boehm the key to their style; no composition of Pachelbel did he ever imitate with the zeal with which he set out to copy the preludes and fugues of Buxtehude; perhaps because he was already more like the former in point of natural qualities.
Even before his journey to Lübeck Bach began to write pieces in this style of several movements. We will examine a prelude in G major,[57] and a fugue in A minor accompanied by a prelude in the same key.[58]
The prelude in G major seems to us to date further back than Bach's study of Buxtehude, from the fact of its evident inspiration by a prelude of Bruhns, written in the same key.[59]
It is true that Bruhns was one of Buxtehude's best pupils, but he was nothing more; it would seem as if Bach, appreciating the value of the master, did not gauge with sufficient accuracy the capabilities of the pupils.
We find the same spirit, the same cheerfulness as in Bruhns's compositions; but the piece is less abrupt, and, by way of contrast, is interrupted by moments of sadness. In the expression of joy, was it Bach's intention to remind us that happiness is never complete, that it is always accompanied by mourning?
These few measures, in a minor and not even the relative tonality, in syncopated rhythm, come suddenly upon us in the midst of all this joyfulness, like a memento mori; and they suffice to alter the effect of the second part of this work, to the benefit of a more lofty ideal. When the joyous motive reappears, it is no longer with the same worldly bearing; restricted to a series of imitations which only render it indefinite, moderating the swiftness of movement in favor of breadth of tone, it seems rather to be proclaiming a peace which will know no end.
This prelude is already of much importance from an artistic standpoint; but we cannot say as much of the prelude and fugue in A minor which we mentioned at the same time. There is no doubt that it also dates back further than the journey in 1705; Bach must have sadly misconstrued the true significance of Buxtehude's works to have indulged in plagiarism so unskilfully.
He reproduced only the faults of his model; he followed him only into the by-ways, augmenting his mistakes by the awkwardness with which he set about his task. In fact, the work is little more than an omnium-gatherum of ideas picked up at random and strung together upon the mere excuse of a tonality. After a short prelude devoid of interest, we find the theme of the fugue to be of peculiar dryness, supported by equally barren counterpoint. The interlude which follows is a succession of incorrect harmonic progressions, peculiarly disagreeable in effect;—even as he thought to imitate Buxtehude's freedom of movement[60] in the restlessness of the prelude and fugue, so Bach hoped to acquire the expressiveness of his harmonic progressions, so audacious for their time[61]—and introduces a new treatment of the fugue, monotonous, but finally coming to a close in a more interesting fashion.
More happily inspired in his emulations, or better served by his talents, we behold Bach in a composition in three movements, little known up to this time: a "Fantasie" in G major.[62]
The first two movements are still rather weak, perhaps influenced by the Italian music heard and played during the few months preceding, when Bach was a violinist in the orchestra of Prince Ernest of Weimar.
The third movement is remarkable, at least with regard to its depth of thought, and to its adoption of all that was most to be desired in Buxtehude's style. The upper parts cross each other upon the scale given out by the bass, as in a Chaconne; it is the resistance of surging waves to the slow rising of the stream, expressed by the implacable repose of the fundamental theme, whose intensity, with its own imperturbable repetitions, overcomes all resistance.
In many of Bach's works we encounter these ascending and descending scales, but they are of varying significance. We find them again in a piece closely allied to the foregoing: a Fantasia,[63] also in G major, where the diatonic scale serves as the foundation of harmonies, whose interest, cleverly held in check, is augmented by the uninterrupted progression of five real parts.
These works are no longer mere plagiarisms; a glimmer of individuality discloses itself. For example, let us look at the prelude and fugue in E minor.[64] If Buxtehude is here brought in mind, it is because of that quality of his which is most neutral, and no longer through his peculiar originality, his personal resources; in trying to avoid which a mere imitator must always come to grief. Many a detail in construction is derived from the Lübeck organist; for instance, those detached chords, which so successfully set off that plaintive syncopated progression, the sobbing of whose notes is thereby rendered always more intense; the last sections repeating the first, now broken into two still more earnest entreaties.
And of this fugal theme, beginning in two separate fragments upon the dominant, we have seen examples in Buxtehude; but there this repetition of the subject expressed in its intensity a joyous declaration.[65]
It is here a tremulous, hesitating interrogation, which seems to dread its answer; the prelude is full of lonely sadness, as deep as it is despairing; in the fugue it converses in dialogue with itself, one might say in accents which proclaim a public misfortune.
But if one may not seek "in a musical work the expression of any condition of the soul, or the narration of any story of the heart,"[66] one can hardly deny that music expresses "the being, even the personal will"[67] of psychological phenomena, at least in the sense that the interest of certain works of art, aside from every æsthetic consideration, is correlative to the mental condition in which one receives them. This may explain the position occupied among the works of Bach by this piece, whose many weaknesses are revealed to us by a technical analysis.
This intimate nature finds an antithesis in the Toccata and Fugue in D minor,[68] which belongs chronologically to the same period; it is still Buxtehude, but it is conceived throughout in a picturesque style. It lacks only an argument to establish by every right its character as "program music." The two rapid and dazzling flashes, a peal of thunder, rumbling heavily in the reverberations of a chord slowly broken, and above the vibration of the deep pedal, augmented in intensity by its duration; wind, then hail;—we are in the midst of the classic tempest. Entirely a thing of virtuosity, appreciated even by those who take account of nothing in the arts but the illusion gained, the Toccata earned brilliant success for Bach upon his journey to the smaller German courts, and contributed in large measure toward the extension of his fame.
This composition belongs to a whole series of virtuosic works, as well as the prelude and fugue,[69] in E major in the edition of W. Rust (Bach-Gesellschaft), and in C in Griepenkerl's (Peters); and, above all, the celebrated fugue in D major.[70]
Despite the advance in technique, this prelude and fugue are still in the earlier manner; certain characteristics, such as the division into several movements, indicate that the early influences which governed Bach are still potent. Nevertheless, there is in the stately prelude something of the dignity of the French overture; in the Alla Breve[71] a recollection of the Italian compositions of the same name is natural. Thus later studies betray themselves more in certain details than in the work as a whole; the subject of the fugue reveals its similarity to Buxtehude in its general style, and in its movement (see the theme in F quoted previously).
Another inheritance from Buxtehude is the prelude and fugue in G minor;[72] especially the prelude, with its wealth of harmonies suddenly broken off, hardly to be employed again; the fugue, with the repeated notes in its subject. An advance over all the fugues of which we have thus far spoken, this one is notable for its strict maintenance of four-part polyphony; the facility and the spirit which we observe in the counterpoint, especially at the entrances of the subject, and the flexibility of the imitations, indicate the presence of a new wealth of resource, and a surety of technique which is master of itself.
We must also include in the product of this period a set of eight preludes and fugues,[73] which, although very simple, are already the work of a fine hand. They are undoubtedly compositions which Bach destined for his pupils.
Bach is now about to cast himself free from the restrictions placed about him by the study of his first masters; finally in possession of all their resources, he will acquire those of others, enlarging his field of vision, already marvelously well-prepared by his earlier labors to make room for the results of his search after new conquests.