II
Within the limits of a single chapter there is no space to discuss these great works in detail, nor to point to the ways in which Bach’s genius manifested itself in each of them. We shall, therefore, give a brief analysis of that genius in general and then proceed to show the position Bach occupies in the course of the development of music.
Bach’s skill in polyphonic writing is perhaps unequalled both in its minute perfection and in its breadth and power. It is evident in nearly everything he wrote, be it the simplest of the two-part Inventions or the mighty choruses in the B minor mass, the fugues for organ or the fugues for solo violin. Within the most confined limits or ranging over mighty expanses it still serves his end, marvellously flexible and seeming spontaneous. Yet this skill does not constitute his genius. In general it differs more in degree than in kind from that of his predecessors and his contemporaries. In spite of the rapidly spreading domination of the monodic style, which was the style resulting from the Italian opera, the style of melody and simple accompaniments in chords, the polyphonic style still retained the allegiance of serious musicians, and even, in fact, of those who were less serious. All composers, probably all church organists, in the time of Bach could write fugues, double or single; could even improvise fugues; could write canons; wrote them as a pastime. Such skill was acquired almost in childhood, aided largely by copying volumes of music. Many composers discarded it altogether in writing for the public, many made a false show of it. It was, however, a manner of expression still common to the time, almost an idiom. So, though Bach’s skill could amaze even those who had been brought up to write fugues as daily exercise, it appeared to his contemporaries something as a matter of course, and to historians and critics allied with the new schools a positive detriment—a failing. At the present day the idiom in its naturalness is so far lost that our ears can hardly understand it. We no longer listen to polyphonic music without very special training. We do not follow it naturally, almost instinctively. The skill amazes, does not immediately express. It was, of course, thoroughly natural to Bach. But it was no more to him than an art, than, let us say, the art of speech; for he was wont to liken the interweaving of several parts in music to a conversation upon a given subject. Bach’s skill in polyphony is but a manner of speech, most faultless and subtle and powerful. Others acquired the manner, not perfectly, but none had the ideals, the emotions to express which have filled his works with warmth, with vitality, with actual life.
Thus his melodies are beautiful and expressive. Take, for example, the subjects of the fugues in the first part of the Well-tempered Clavichord. Here one might reasonably expect type melodies, mechanical phrases inexpressive in themselves, worthless, except as polyphonic material; the sort of phrases handed on from composer to composer, almost note for note—mere formulas. But one is astonished by the endless variety and freshness. All are original. Even the shortest, those which are hardly more than a kernel of melody, have a distinction, such as the subjects of the very first fugue, in C major, of the serious, indescribably sad figures in C-sharp minor, and E-flat minor, and the exalted, inspired fugue in B-flat minor. A more passionately expressive phrase is hardly to be found in music than that upon which the fugue in G minor is built, a more graceful melody than the subject of the fugue in C-sharp major; more delicate or humorous than those of the C minor and B-flat major fugues. These touches of pure melodic expressiveness are but preludes to the great melodies of the cantatas and the Passion. The melodies Mein gläubiges Herze from the Pentecost cantata, ‘Only Weep’ and ‘Have Mercy, Lord’ from the Passion according to St. Matthew are no more conspicuous than many others for their expanse and the depth of feeling which breathes in them. The grace of certain melodies in the suites for violin and for 'cello alone are captivating, the aria for the G string from the second orchestral suite most profound; and there is a type of melody especially dear to him, such as is found in the middle movement of the sonatas and concertos for violin, wonderfully free, rhapsodical, as though improvised. In general he avoided the elaborate, ornamental roulades characteristic of the Italian aria, even when writing in that form. In the few cases in which he did employ them they are expressive and gently realistic. In all his work there is evidence of a melodic genius of the purest kind, often not vocal, it is true, and often wound in a polyphonic web, but astonishingly genuine and inspired.
Though the quality of a great part of the music of Bach is meditative and not seldom mystical, parts of it are conspicuous for their rhythmical lightness and delicacy. Especially the suites for violin and ‘cello have a rhythmical animation which is irresistible. The dance movements which compose the last parts of the Ouverture à la manière française, and movements in the English suites, depend almost wholly for their charm on the incisiveness and zest of their rhythm. Nor is such sprightliness lacking in the fugues, though in polyphonic music it is usually unemphasized. The fugue in D major in the first part of the Well-tempered Clavichord might be called a fugue in rhythm; the fugue in F minor in the second part, too, is almost wholly guided by a playful rhythm. It is to the music of Bach therefore that one should look to find the polyphonic style set free of its proverbial heaviness and inertia, light and airy as laughter and true wit, strong as the march of an army.
But to harmony more than to all else in music the touch of the genius of Bach brought new life and a splendor that can never grow dull. It is as a harmonist that he stands the father of modern music. His pupils have told us that the first task to which he set them was exercise, not in counterpoint, but in harmonization of simple chorale melodies. If one tries to analyze the difference between a Bach fugue and other fugues it is not to be found in the superior workmanship and finish, nor, save little, in the melodic and rhythmical inspiration, but in the background of harmony. In harmony lie the mystery and wonder of Bach’s imperishable music. It is half the strength of its form. One might well ask what is a fugue without Bach. The seeds of it are in the old vocal polyphonic style, passages in which one voice imitated another at the interval of a fifth or fourth, were perhaps suggested to composers by voices singing the same words in turn; and the device was taken over by organists in the late sixteenth and early seventeenth century and used in ricercari and canzone, with no notion of form and balance; it was used in preludizing to the singing of the congregation, but had no true independent existence apart from the chorale to which it led; it was used as the second part of the so-called French overture. Experimenting in one way or another, composers gradually built up a fairly definite instrumental form of fugue. But the fugues, notably the organ fugues, of even the greatest organists before Bach, lacked logical construction. Buxtehude’s were built, as Albert Schweitzer has said, on a principle of laisser-aller. There seemed to be no good reason, according to Dr. Hugo Riemann, why any of them should not end or should not go on. It was Bach at last who gave to the fugue perfect proportion and organic unity. Principles of a form in music more clear-cut than any German forms he acquired, as we have said, in Weimar from a study of Italian and French masterpieces, but he based all his forms on a foundation of harmony and to all his works gave proportion and logic sprung from harmony alone.
Sir Hubert Parry in his study of Johann Sebastian Bach has demonstrated by careful analysis what a surprising number of preludes in the Well-tempered Clavichord are fundamentally progressions of chords. The name alone of this great series is suggestive, as we shall later prove. The clearest example of this harmonic prelude is the very first—that in C major. Hardly less clear are the second, the third, the sixth, the fifteenth, the twenty-first, and the twenty-third. Practically all, indeed, are upon the same plan, though in those mentioned the plan is clearest. This is, of course, no invention of Bach. The prelude grew out of a few chords rolled by an organist or player of the harpsichord or lute to claim the attention of his audience. The point is that Bach has made out of these preludes music of ineffable beauty merely by the gift of his genius in harmony. The sequences of his chords may be as modern as Wagner’s, chromatic alterations even more subtle; or, as in the organ works, they may move through broad diatonic highways, powerful in suspensions and magnificent in delays. And, as to his power of expression through harmony, let one listen to the recitatives of the St. Matthew Passion, one of the immortal, unfathomable creations of man’s genius; consider how they move on phrase after phrase, page after page, bearing the whole weight of a mighty composition and unaccompanied save by a few scattered chords. It may well be doubted if any art has or could have added one touch more of inexplicable, unspeakable beauty to the story of the Passion, save only these few scattered chords of Bach’s genius.
III
We have already observed that all great composers from the time of Beethoven have acknowledged Bach as the father of modern music, but this relationship which his descendants have so gladly acknowledged is, on the whole, general and intangible. The reason is partly that Bach invented no new forms, and that the forms which he chose, and the style in which he wrote, passed out of circulation, so to speak, immediately after his death. The fugue, the cantata, and the Passion he brought to the highest point it was possible for these forms to attain. They have rarely been attempted since with near enough success to suggest even imitation. The fugues of Mozart, Beethoven, and Brahms are essentially different from the fugues of Bach. Mendelssohn fell far short of the master whom he, more almost than all others, worshipped. César Franck has been compared to Bach, but is curiously unlike him. The cantata and the Passion grew up to Bach and then stopped: the cantata, because even in the hands of Bach it was an uncouth hybrid, neither opera, which is itself an illogical mixture, nor church music; the Passion, because, as Bach left it, it is as unattainable as the sun. As far as form and outward show are concerned, therefore, Bach’s position in the history of music is that of the culmination, the ultimate consummation, of certain styles and forms now obsolete. To understand his appearance in the history of music one must step back into the history of the seventeenth century in German music, a history strangely complicated with that of Protestantism, Lutheran hymns, and cantata texts, inextricably associated with the church and with the organ loft. In the growth of church music in Germany Bach had not one, nor two predecessors. A dozen different courses converged in him. Strangely enough, of the music of the one man before him with whom he might seem related, Heinrich Schütz, he knew little or nothing. All others worthy of the name of composers, however, contributed some share to his development.
All the great organists from the time there were great organists led to Bach, step by step, unmistakably. Every new phase of form, every new device of virtuosity but paved the way for one who was so supremely great as to cast them all into shade or oblivion. All hymn writers, all composers of chorales led the same way. The Protestant religion found its perfect artistic expression in Bach, not in the cantatas but in the chorale fantasies for organ, the motets and the Passion according to St. Matthew. Catholic art contributed its share. He copied out masses by Palestrina, and by other men now forgotten, such as Lotti and Caldara. For a good part of the Lutheran service, especially at St. Thomas church in Leipzig, was practically Catholic in form. The Kyrie, the Gloria, Credo, Benedictus, Sanctus, and Agnus Dei had their place in the ritual; and, what is more, German composers, and Bach was no exception, seldom troubled to set them to new music but adapted music of the earlier Italian writers to the new German words. The enormous number of cantatas was owing to the fact that the form had grown out of a native German custom of singing hymns between the reading of the Gospel and the Credo, on the one hand, and the sermon, on the other, and composers were given opportunity to set texts not already time-worn. The history of these texts is one full of sad failures to achieve a truly artistic form, of futile efforts to reconcile chorale and hymn with the new operatic style, of bad verse and trivial, mechanical sentiment. Bach was constantly harassed by problems of text, varying in his choice between an old style Bible text woven with the strophes of the chorale hymns, by far the best though least suited to the operatic style of music which had established itself in the church, and a free text developed from a line or passage in the Bible, consisting of strophic arias and passages for recitative in the so-called madrigal style, a loose versification. The artistic perfection of the Passion is due no little to the fact that he himself supervised the arrangement of the text, the introduction of strophic verse for arias, and madrigal style for ariosos and the chorales.