East meets West: Synthesis of style in 19th-century Russian organ music

Steven Young is a professor of music at Bridgewater State University, Bridgewater, Massachusetts, where he teaches courses in music theory and directs the University’s choral ensembles. He is also organist at St. Martin’s Episcopal Church, Providence, Rhode Island. Young has presented papers and performances for regional and national conventions of the American Guild of Organists, the Organ Historical Society, and the American Choral Directors Association. He research interests focus on late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century French organist/composers, and he has written several feature articles and reviews for The Diapason. He also wrote the liner notes for Christine Kamp’s series of recordings of the organ works of Louis Vierne on the Festivo label. Young has recorded several of the works of Boston organist/composer Henry M. Dunham on the AFKA label.

In October 1926, just a month before his death, Aloÿs Claussmann chatted with an old friend, Claude Nievre, a writer for La Montagne, a newspaper whose office was directly below the apartment where Claussmann lay dying. Nievre had written an article titled “Un grand talent méconnu, Claussmann, musicien et compositeur” (An underestimated talent, Claussmann, musician and composer).¹ Among other things, Nievre made the point that Claussmann’s many years of service to his community of Clermont-Ferrand should be rewarded by naming him to the Legion d’honneur, the highest civilian award given by the country to celebrate accomplishments given in service to one’s country. Claussmann had spent fifty years selflessly serving the musical and religious community of Clermont-Ferrand with little or no thought to promoting his own career as performer, teacher, or composer. Sadly, the award was never granted to Claussmann, despite the efforts of all his friends and colleagues. However, his tireless efforts bore many wonderful fruits in terms of quality students, artistic performances, and respected compositions.

A native of the Alsace region of France, born in Uffholz on July 5, 1850, Claussmann began piano lessons at age 11 with his uncle, a local musician and teacher. Following those lessons, Claussmann studied at the Petit Séminaire de La Chapelle-sous-Rougemont. Between 1868 and 1870, he studied with organ virtuoso Eugène Gigout at l’École Niedermeyer in Paris, during which time he was awarded the premier prix in both piano and organ.

Interrupting his studies, Claussmann returned to Uffholz to perform his military service in the Franco-Prussian War in 1870 and 1871. When Alsace was lost to Germany at the end of the war, Claussmann opted to retain his French citizenship. He returned to Paris to complete his studies, where he distinguished himself as both performer and composer, earning the grand prix de composition in 1872 from l’École Niedermeyer.

In 1873, the position of maître de Chapelle at the cathedral of Clermont-Ferrand became available. Claussmann applied and was offered the position. He accepted it, and remained in Clermont-Ferrand for the entirety of his career, possibly to his professional detriment. Nonetheless, according to one writer, Claussmann wasted no time in establishing himself as a first-rate musician.²

In 1877, shortly after his appointment, the cathedral acquired a new organ with three manuals and forty-eight ranks of pipes, built by the Merklin firm, one of the most respected in France. The dedication program featured Edmond Lemaigre, then titular organist of the cathedral, and Alexander Guilmant, renowned organist. Claussmann participated as well, conducting two motets, including a Salve Regina of his own, newly composed for the event, and performing two organ works, one by François Benoist and another new work, also written by Claussmann, Offertoire.³

Claussmann’s musical work was not limited to his position at the cathedral. In 1881, Claussmann established the short-lived Société Philharmonique. Though enjoying only a brief existence, this may have been the first orchestra to provide written critical program notes for its concerts, attesting to Claussmann’s scholarly inclinations.⁴ Shortly thereafter, in 1886, he assumed position as organist titulaire, following Edmond Lemaigre’s relocation to Paris. It was at this tribune that Claussmann remained until his death in 1926.

During his tenure he composed the majority of his works for the organ (approximately 350 pieces), nearly a hundred for the piano, a fair number of songs, and a few other works for chamber ensembles and orchestra.⁵ Claussmann’s next big success was the premiere performance of his commissioned drame lyrique, Pierre, l’Eremite, composed to commemorate the 800th anniversary of the First Crusade (the text of the work was by the Abbé Raynaud). Written in 1892, the work awaited its premiere for three years. According to the reports, it was a resounding success, performed at least two times (May 15 and 17, 1895). The reviewer, while admitting that one could not analyze such a large work on one hearing, admired its beauty in both composition and performance.⁶ The performance featured an orchestra of sixty, a chorus of 200, and soloists, all led by Claussmann. It must have been quite the tour de force!

In 1909, Claussmann was appointed director of L’École municipal de Musique, and he remained its director until 1918 when he suffered from a serious health crisis that disabled him for nearly three months, at which point he was named honorary director, and Louis Gémont assumed directorship.⁷ The formation of this school was fraught with difficulties. Prior to its founding, there were two competing institutes, the Petit Conservatoire, headed by Jean Soulacroup, and the École de musique, directed by Louis Gémont, both of whom were considered for the position of director of the École nationale de musique. After several years of contentious battles about the school, and once it was decided to move ahead with the formation of a national music school that would align itself with the Conservatoire nationale in Paris, a closed door meeting took place, and Claussmann was named as director to the pleasure of many community members, and the displeasure of others, including the mayor of the city.⁸ Claussmann accepted, but wrote, with apparent jocularity, that if the conservatory were to open as planned, the undertaking would be substantial, and it would force him to cut his annual vacation very short. He did exactly that, and served with distinction for many years.

Little is known of Claussmann’s personal life; there are few letters and no personal papers. In 1877, he married Marguerite Barthélémy, and they had a daughter, Madeleine, in 1878. It is presumed that his wife predeceased him, based on the eulogies given at his funeral.⁹ According to Joseph Desaymard, writer and critic, who was his pupil and friend, Claussmann possessed a gentle spirit, keen intellect, good sense of humor, and youthful attitude.¹⁰ He rode his bike to work every day, and until the final few years of his life, he appears to have possessed good health.

Unfortunately, little is known about the critical reception of his work, at least in France. The local newspaper of Clermont-Ferrand rarely commented on musical events. However, the Société nationale included his Sonate pour violon et piano on a concert in May 1906, and the composition and performance received an extensive review reprinted in the Revue pratique de Liturgie et de Musique sacrée. The reviewer praised Claussmann’s melodic gift, his interesting harmonies, and his well-crafted forms.¹¹ This seems to be the generally held view of Claussmann as a composer.

Claussmann’s vast output of organ works includes music for any number of occasions. The two large collections, Cent pieces pour orgue ou harmonium, opus 34, and Cent pieces pour grand orgue, opus 66, encompass smaller works designed for liturgical usage, such as Entrées, Communions, and Sorties.¹² Undoubtedly he used these pieces himself over his fifty-year career at the cathedral.¹³ Even in these smaller works, Claussmann demonstrates substantial contrapuntal skill. The Entrée in D Minor, which opens opus 66, is only 63 measures long, yet it displays Claussmann’s fascination with counterpoint and with Franck, as the theme appears twice, in related keys, and then, upon returning to the tonic, is subjected to canonic treatment throughout (Example 1). The ninth piece in this set provides further evidence of Claussmann’s meticulous craftsmanship. While only 29 measures long, it has a tripartite form in which the return of the opening A section receives a new accompaniment with the melody moved to the left hand. In terms of larger organ works, Claussmann penned two sonatas, a Suite pour orgue, and several Livraisons containing varying numbers of pieces likely intended for concert use. These include fantaisias, pastorales, marches, toccatas, and many others. In these works one sees Claussmann’s wide-ranging inventiveness with their well-developed themes and solidly crafted counterpoint.

While steeped in the style of the Romantic era, the organ music often displays surprising originality. From the earliest opera, Claussmann combines both French and German styles, which may be the result of his earliest influences in Uffholtz, an area of France that reflected a great deal of Germanic influence due to its shared border with Germany. For example, opus 16 is entitled Orgelstücke rather than Pièces pour orgue. In the music, one often finds well-crafted melodies, a staple of the French tradition, fused with the intricate counterpoint that is intrinsic to German composition, making Claussmann’s organ music unique for its time.¹⁴ Claussmann’s fusion of the aforementioned styles is evidenced in Scherzo in G Major, opus 33, no. 4. While making use of a rather extended model of the scherzo and trio form—ABA′CA′, which resembles more of a Rondo—the typical French scherzo would not make use of the extensive counterpoint found in the fugal exposition that comprises the B section (in B minor). The fourth section, which itself is a small three-part form in the key of E-flat major, has a very lyrical melody for the outer parts and, again, the composer briefly employs some imitative polyphony in the middle portion.

Though Claussmann’s music is influenced by the style of César Franck, as evidenced in the Allegro symphonique, opus 33, no. 2, whose opening recalls Franck’s Pièce heroïque (Example 2), Claussmann often moves into unusual areas of tonality through his inspired use of chromaticism, following on and expanding the chromatic harmonic language of Franck. One even finds an example of progressive harmonic movement in some of Claussmann’s works, such as Pastorale, opus 26, no. 3, which begins in E major and ends in A minor, delivering an unexpected conclusion.¹⁵

In the United States, as early as 1892, one finds references to performances of Claussmann’s music. A concert review in the Indianapolis Journal accorded the Scherzo in A Minor a favorable assessment.¹⁶ (One assumes that the reviewer had heard other Claussmann pieces.) Several of the pieces from opus 26 were dedicated to American organists, including Clarence Eddy and William C. Carl, both former students of Alexandre Guilmant. (It is possible that Guilmant helped make the connection by recommending the works to Carl. Guilmant participated in the dedication of the organ at the Clermont-Ferrand cathedral in 1887 where he would have heard Claussmann’s music. It is also possible that Gigout recommended his music to Carl.¹⁷) The first volume of opus 16 was reviewed favorably by Everett Truette in The Organ, 1893, who wrote, “Three extremely interesting pieces . . . which are written somewhat in the style of reveries, and contain many passages of striking originality.”¹⁸ (It was of this Fantaisie in C Minor that Gigout wrote his praise of Claussmann.¹⁹) It is likely because of the work of Carl and Truette, who published some of this music in The Organ and other collections, that Claussmann’s music achieved some measure of popularity in America. Early twentieth-century newspaper accounts indicate that several of Claussmann’s works were performed quite regularly, especially Easter Dawn and Grand Choeur for organ and his Magnificat for choir.

Among other comments on Claussmann’s works, Pierre Balme linked him to a progressive aesthetic:

In his day, Claussmann had difficulty with being a ‘pioneer,’ even in spite of the example of his co-disciple Fauré, who remained all through to the end of his time, as innovative as younger composers. But why not have others reported rather how much he (Claussmann) was, in his prime, so profoundly ahead of the taste and knowledge of audiences and even music professionals? Twenty years ago, he was not afraid of modifying his composing technique according to the latest developments of the impressionist school.²⁰

Connecting Claussmann to the Impressionist school seems to be a stretch, though examples of augmented triads and unexpected harmonic connections are evident, as is the use of non-functional harmony, as witnessed in the frequent use of the raised fourth and fifth scale degrees, creating the sensation of whole-tone harmony. If this is what Balme refers to, then it is possible to put Claussmann in that category. However, Claussmann’s music is thoroughly steeped in the chromatic harmony of the period, and he often makes unexpected harmonic connections, such as moving between C major and F-sharp major for the middle section of the Fantaisie in C Minor, opus 10. These unexpected relationships may also be seen in the transitional passages of Au Crépusucle from opus 33, where the dominant seventh chord of the tonic G-flat resolves to a D major sonority, which is then repeated whole step below, obscuring any sense of the tonic (Example 3). If this fluidity of key relationships is considered “impressionistic” by the writer, then the term applies.

Overall, Claussmann retains a consistent style throughout his other music; one finds equally challenging tonal relationships in most pieces. Additionally, his treatment of form does not necessarily conform to expectations of his era, but a clear structure is always evident and logical. One might apply musicologist Carlo Caballero’s argument about Fauré, who he claims maintained the consistency of style throughout his works, which Fauré believes was “a crucial property of any music that is truly original,”²¹ and apply that to Claussmann as well. Hervé Desarbre would agree, according to the liner notes to his recording of selected organ works, as he claims that Claussmann’s style did not change much over the years.²² Claussmann retained remarkable consistency in his technical style and tonal language beginning with the major organ works from opus 10 and continuing through the late opera.

Many of Claussmann’s works have been recently republished, some with needed editorial emendations, as the printed editions contain numerous errors (especially clef change indications).²³ As there appear to be no extant manuscripts, it is difficult to know Claussmann’s intentions. Both B-note Musikverlag and FitzJohn Publishing have reproduced many of his works. IMSLP (www.imslp.org) has a reasonable collection available, and France’s Bibliothèque Nationale Gallica site had started to digitize many other works.

Whether Claussmann would have enjoyed the success his contemporaries did had he remained in Paris is a question that can never be answered. He made his choice, apparently without regrets, and enjoyed the respect of the community he served for nearly fifty years. The music of this underestimated talent attests to the mastery of his craft and the fertility of his imagination, and deserves to be re-examined and given a place in the concert repertoire.

Notes

1. Claude Nievre, La Montagne, October 12, 1926, p. 2.

2. Th. Mourgue, “Profil d’artistes: M. Claussmann,” Le Moniteur, June 29, 1892, p. 2.
“. . .il vient s’etabilir chez nous où on ne tarde pas à reconnaitra en lui un musician de premiere ordre.”

3. J. Merklin, Le cathédrale de Clermont-Ferrand et ses orgues, Lyon: Impr. de A.-L. Perrin et Marinet (1878), p. 28. As with others, Offertoire served as a common title for works; Claussmann wrote several.

4. Joseph Desaymard, Avenir du Plateau Central, November 8, 1926, writing Claussmann’s obituary (No page citation as this comes from the Bibliothèque de la Patrimoine of Clermont-Ferrand collection MS 1654). Present research has yet to find concert announcements or programs presented. In 1885, another community orchestra was formed which enjoyed much success, directed by Jean Soulacroup.

5. Cataloguing the works of Claussmann has presented a challenge. Pierre Desaymard made an attempt at this in the 1980s but seems to have missed some pieces. Four of the works from opus 33 do not appear in any listing of his, possibly because they were published by the English firm J. Laudy and Co. See Desaymard, Bibliographie des oeuvres d’Aloys Claussman, Bulletin historique et scientifique de l’Auvergne, vol. 1.90, pp. 305–321 (1981).

6. Le Moniteur, May 16, 1895, p. 2, and May 18, 1895, p. 2. According to Louis Gémont, the work was performed again in 1925 (Le Moniteur, November 11, 1926, p. 2).

7. In a letter to Paul Dukas, Claussmann thought that he was close to death at that time (Bibliothêque Nationale, Paris, W-48).

8. Jean-Louis Jam, “Aux origins d’une succursale provinciale du Conservatoire de Paris,” Bulletin historique et artistique de l’Auvergne, vol. XCIX (1998), pp. 127–156. An excellent and somewhat entertaining chronicle of the events.

9. Le Moniteur, November 11, 1926, p. 2.

10. Joseph Desaymard, “Le Mort de Claussmann,” L’Avenir, Nov. 9, 1926, p. 2.

11. Alexandre Georges on “Aloys Claussmann,” Revue pratique de liturgie at de la musique sacrée, nos. 103–104 (1926), p. 169.

12. These sets appear to be based upon Franck’s L’Organiste, but Claussmann’s pieces are more technically advanced.

13. In one edition of Le Courrier Musical, opus 64 was listed among the pieces that an organist should play.

14. While the fugue was certainly not an uncommon form in French organ music of this period, it was used relatively infrequently. Franck composed one fugue for the organ; he relied on canon and melodic juxtapositioning as his preferred contrapuntal devices. In examining the Widor organ symphonies, with their numerous and varied movements, one finds only two fugues, and those appear in the earliest of the symphonies.

15. This work is dedicated to R. Huntington Woodman, an American organist who studied with César Franck in 1888.

16. Indianapolis Journal, March 11, 1894, p. 8, featured a review of an organ recital by
W. H. Donley. I believe this refers to the Scherzo in B Minor from the Deuxième livre de la première collection, opus 10.

17. Gigout wrote glowingly of Claussmann’s work and was pleased to be the dedicatee of one of his pieces. See Mourgue, op. cit.

18. Everett E. Truette, The Organ, vol. 1, no. 4 (August 1892), p. 95, reviewing the Fantasia in C Minor, First Meditation in B Major, and Andante in D Major.

19. See Morgue, op. cit.

20. Pierre Balme, “Aloÿs Claussmann,” L’Auvergne littéraire, artistique, et historique, January 1926 (vol. 85), p. 15–17.

21. Peter Cirka, A profound identity: evidence of homogeneity in Gabriel Fauré’s thirteen piano Nocturnes. Unpublished DMA paper, Boston University, p. 9, and p. 26 (2015).

22. Hervé Desarbre, Aloys Claussmann Organ Works, Disque Mandala MAN 4927, 1997.

23. An example of the need for good editing appears in the Sérénade for Cello and Piano, opus 49. The cello part and the piano score have completely different notes and keys in places.

John Joseph “JJ” Mitchell is a musician and scholar from Arlington, Virginia. He is the director of music at Saint John Neumann Church in Reston, Virginia, where he oversees several musical groups and accompanies liturgies on the organ. JJ graduated summa cum laude from Westminster Choir College with a bachelor’s degree in sacred music. He then earned his Master of Sacred Music degree in organ performance from the University of Notre Dame, where he attended on a full-tuition scholarship. He also studied at the Conservatoire à Rayonnement Régional de Toulouse, France, where he practiced and studied on the organs of the Puget family. JJ then earned his Doctor of Musical Arts degree in organ performance from the University of Houston (UH). During this time, he worked as a teaching assistant in the UH Music History Department and served as a musician in multiple churches around the city. The article published in this magazine is a cut of his complete dissertation on the Puget family, which was finished in May 2023.

JJ has served as organist on the music staff of churches such as Christ Church Cathedral, Houston, Texas; the Cathedral of Saint Thomas More, Arlington, Virginia; and the Basilica of the Sacred Heart, South Bend, Indiana. He has performed in these churches as well as at Boston Symphony Hall, the DeBartolo Performing Arts Center, and various other churches in the United States, Canada, France, and England. He is the winner of the Nanovic Grant for European Study for Professional Development and was a finalist for the Frank Huntington Beebe Grant. He also won second prize in the graduate division of the Hall Pipe Organ Competition in 2022. At age 24, JJ’s research on César Franck and his musical influences was published in the Vox Humana organ journal. In September 2020 he was a guest on Jennifer Pascual’s Sounds from the Spires SiriusXM Radio program in which his organ recordings were broadcast. He has played liturgies and concerts for international television audiences on the Salt + Life and EWTN networks. JJ is a member of the American Guild of Organists as well as the National Association of Pastoral Musicians (NPM), from which he has received several scholarships. He has served on NPM’s national publications committee. He is a member of The Diapason’s 20 Under 30 Class of 2021. JJ’s career goal is to teach sacred music to the next generation.

Editor's Note: Part 2 of this article is found in the July 2024 issue.

Théodore Puget, his sons Eugène and Jean-Baptiste, and his grandson Maurice, cultivated a dynasty of organ manufacturing that is worthy of recognition, though their work is often overshadowed by other organ builders in France. This essay argues that the organs of Théodore Puget and his sons demonstrate innovation and artistry in French symphonic organ building.

The Cavaillé-Coll problem

Since the Romantic era, the history of French symphonic organbuilding has been dominated by Aristide Cavaillé-Coll.¹ A prodigy of both acoustics and mechanics, Cavaillé-Coll constructed instruments to meet the artistic and cultural demands of cosmopolitan Paris. His organs, often designed to boom down cavernous naves of Gothic cathedrals, inspired compositions by renowned musicians including César Franck, Alexandre Guilmant, Louis Vierne, and Marcel Dupré. Cavaillé-Coll’s influence is so great that one may be tempted to believe that he alone was responsible for an entire era of organbuilding. His immense fame overshadows the reputations of other builders.² The Puget dynasty also consisted of formidable organbuilders of note during this time and deserves recognition.³

Théodore Puget (1801–1883), his sons Eugène (1838–1892) and Jean-Baptiste (1849–1940), and his grandson Maurice (1884–1960), hereafter referred to by their first names, cultivated a family lineage of French symphonic organbuilding in a different style than that of Cavaillé-Coll.⁴ Set upon the backdrop of Toulouse in southern France, Théodore created instruments fit to serve local parishes throughout the Occitania region and beyond. These organs reflected local cultural aesthetics with technological materials of the region. Théodore’s sons expanded his vision and built lasting organs that won the respect of the aforementioned organists and have left musicians in the modern age asking themselves whose instruments they prefer: those of Cavaillé-Coll or the Puget family.⁵

The organs of Théodore Puget and his sons demonstrate innovation and artistry in French symphonic organbuilding. This research begins with a study of Théodore Puget’s early life and career and includes a description of cultural trends concerning the pipe organ in nineteenth-century France. Two of Théodore’s sons’ most notable instruments are examined: Notre-Dame du Taur, constructed by Eugène, and the Cathedral of Sainte-Cécile in Albi, built by Jean-Baptiste. Of the hundreds of organs the Puget family produced between 1838 and 1960, these two contrasting instruments are excellent representations of different periods in the Puget history.⁶ Though Théodore and his grandson Maurice are deserving of praise for their work as organbuilders, the instruments of Eugène and Jean-Baptiste demonstrate the pinnacle of the family’s production and influence.

The formative era, 1838–1877: Théodore Puget

The birth of a dynasty

The lineage of the Puget family can be traced back to the seventeenth century, and many of Théodore Puget’s ancestors were woodworkers.⁷ Most sources claim that Théodore was born in 1799, but genealogical research conducted by Jean-Marc Cicchero in 2016 proves that he was born on November 15, 1801, in the village of Montréal d’Aude. His parents, François Puget and Catherine Boyer, were carpenters.⁸ Growing up around the family’s workshop, Théodore learned the art of woodworking. His family also made sure that he studied organ, though they were not musicians themselves.⁹ Théodore lived in the village of Fanjeaux between the years 1822 and 1837, where he married Louise-Anne Mossel in 1824.¹⁰ During his early career, Théodore was both an organist and a clockmaker.¹¹

Théodore’s training in organbuilding is a mystery. Many scholars argue that he was self-taught, combining his skills of woodworking and musicianship. Cicchero suggests that while Théodore could have determined some aspects of organbuilding on his own, he likely apprenticed with a builder. He could have studied with Prosper Moitessier in Carcassonne between the years 1826 and 1830. He also may have apprenticed with Sieur Benoit Cabias, a local builder of musical instruments in Carcassonne at that time. There is no evidence concerning Théodore’s work with either of these builders, though it is probable that he met both of them while living in Fanjeaux.¹³

The greatest influence on Théodore’s organbuilding was Dom Bédos de Celles. Bédos was a monk and organbuilder in the eighteenth century whose most famous instrument is the gallery organ of l’Église Saint-Croix in Bordeaux.¹⁴ His treatise, L’Art Du Facteur d’Orgues, is one of the most important documents on organbuilding ever written. This collection of detailed descriptions and precise illustrations is a guide on how to construct a pipe organ, including information about layout, voicing, winding, and many other pertinent elements. Bédos’s writing concerns organs of the French Classical era, though many of his methods were continued or expanded upon in the building of French symphonic organs.¹⁵

To Théodore, the contents of Bédos’s treatise were sacred. He kept a copy of L’Art Du Facteur d’Orgues in the shop and referred to it frequently. Even Théodore’s sons and grandson Maurice, who were far more progressive in their organbuilding than the Puget patriarch, consulted the Bédos text when building their instruments.¹⁶ For example, when Maurice designed the organ for l’Église Saint-Michel in Villemur, he created a five-rank mixture according to Bédos’s instructions. This instrument, built in 1960, was the final organ of the Puget dynasty, and Maurice never witnessed its completion.¹⁷ Though the Pugets deviated from some of the instructions due to the advances of industrial age technology and trends of symphonic organbuilding, Bédos’s treatise was a grounding foundation through the complete duration of the dynasty.

Théodore and his wife settled in Toulouse between 1839 and 1840, during which time he assembled milacor organs.¹⁸ The milacor was a patented device to help amateur organists accompany Gregorian chant.19 This machine was connected to a simplified keyboard of a small pipe organ typically containing five or fewer stops that was built in a factory setting, shipped out in a kit, and assembled by a local distributor.²⁰ Théodore was a Toulousain subcontractor for the organbuilder Abbé François Larroque, whose organs were commonly paired with milacor systems.²¹ During these years, Théodore’s older children assisted in these projects and took music lessons.²²

The first Puget organ, installed in the gallery of l’Église Saint-Exupère de Toulouse, was too tall for the milacor workshop. Larroque and Théodore asked the parish to keep this organ, which was over twenty feet in height, in the loft at the church’s expense as a model for clergy and other potential customers.²³ The church council agreed to purchase the instrument on the condition that Théodore would play every Mass and feast day for free for six years or have one of his sons substitute on his behalf.²⁴ Completed in 1842, the new instrument was double the size of a standard milacor. Théodore served as an organist at this church, fulfilling the council’s demands.²⁵ This landmark project demonstrated Théodore’s ability to produce gallery organs of a larger size than milacors.²⁶

There are multiple documented claims to the year Les Facteurs d’Orgue Théodore Puget, Père et Fils was founded. Some scholars assert that the firm was established in 1834, the earliest date put forth by some Puget sons.²⁷ According to one source, the company began as late as 1843.²⁸ The first documentation about the age of the Pugets’ business comes from a newspaper article written in 1864, which indicates that the organbuilding firm was founded in 1838.²⁹ The year 1838 was also when Théodore entered into cooperation with Larroque to build milacor organs. During this year Théodore prepared to relocate his family to Toulouse and sent his wife to Lagrasse to be with relatives as she gave birth to Eugène.³⁰ Théodore parted ways with Larroque at some point between 1843 and 1845.³¹

The Pugets’ workshop was always in Toulouse, though the address changed several times. In some instances, the factory remained in one place while the street name or block number was altered; other times, the Pugets had moved. Directories indicate that by 1855 the Pugets were located three blocks north of Saint-Sernin Basilica on Rue de Trois Piliers. During many of the family’s most prosperous years, 1863–1895, the Puget shop was headquartered in the Jeanne d’Arc neighborhood of Toulouse at various addresses.³² In 1899 the factory was moved south to what is now Boulevard Michelet. The shop relocated again in 1925 to Rue de Négreneys where it remained until Maurice’s death in 1960. None of these sites retains any remnants from the Puget workshops.³³

Théodore had nine children, some of whom worked in the family business.³⁴ His firstborn child, François, was Théodore’s logical successor since he demonstrated much promise as an organbuilder.³⁵ Tragically, François passed away from cholera in 1854.³⁶ Some of Théodore’s other children founded their own organ factories, which, in the case of the second-eldest son, Baptiste, resulted in bitter estrangement from the family.³⁷ The latter is not to be confused with Théodore’s youngest son, Jean-Baptiste. It should be noted that there are two Pugets with the first name “Maurice:” one was Théodore’s third-eldest son born in 1835, and the other, born in 1884, was the son of Jean-Baptiste who took over the company in 1922.³⁸ Théodore’s daughters, Marie and Josephine, were unsung workers in the Puget family who traveled to the worksites, overseeing projects’ expenses.³⁹

Confusingly, Théodore and his sons signed correspondence as “Théodore Puget.” Authors sometimes refer to Eugène, Jean-Baptiste, and Maurice all as “Théodore.” Jean-Baptiste went by several names throughout his life because, when François passed away, Théodore began addressing his youngest son as François. Later, when Baptiste set up his rival company in 1863, Jean-Baptiste was called Théodore by his family. In the times when Jean-Baptiste did not sign his name as “Théodore,” he wrote the middle initials of his name: “F. E. Puget.”⁴¹ In my writing, I distinguish the sons by their first names where they might otherwise be referred to as “Théodore.”⁴²

The formative era, 1838–1877: Théodore Puget

Organ construction trends of the mid-nineteenth century redefined what soundscapes were possible, converting organs constructed to mirror stile-antico vocal polyphony and Baroque dances into instruments that could more closely resemble that of a symphony orchestra. Church organs were designed to enhance liturgy, but now they were also featured in concerts of secular Romantic works. During France’s industrial revolution, builders like Cavaillé-Coll and the Puget family converted organs of the French Classical style, such as the instruments of Robert Clicquot, into symphonic organs by transforming existing pipework and adding modern innovations, including expression shoes, pneumatic systems, and several new stops.⁴³ According to Vincent d’Indy, when César Franck played the newly constructed Cavaillé-Coll organ at l’Église Sainte-Clotilde in 1846, he was thrilled and compared his new organ to an orchestra.⁴⁴ These culturally turbulent years in France created a new kind of market for organbuilding on which the Puget family capitalized.

Compared to his descendants, Théodore’s organbuilding is difficult to define because of how drastically his artistry evolved over time. During his first several decades of building, he constructed anachronistic instruments. For example, in 1842 he built a twenty-rank organ for l’Église Saint-Cere, the specification of which was particularly French Classical.⁴⁵ This instrument was a prime representation of Théodore following the instructions in Bedos’s treatise. By contrast, one year prior, Cavaillé-Coll had revolutionized the Parisian music scene by constructing a French Romantic organ at l’Église Saint-Denis.⁴⁶

Some clients favored Théodore’s anachronistic organs built in the French Classical style. His reputation in southern France was well established over the course of the nineteenth century. Many clients chose Puget because they did not want to pay Cavaillé-Coll’s steep fees for a new organ. Customers also recognized Théodore’s use of local, quality materials, such as oak and tin, which were durable. Following Bédos’s method, he pursued consistency and reliability rather than artistic innovation.⁴⁷

By 1865 Théodore’s sons persuaded their father to build organs in a Romantic style.⁴⁸ Eugène became the chief voicer for his father, beginning with the organ at l’Église Saint-Mathieu in Perpignan. Théodore constructed fewer mixtures and mutations, choosing instead reed choruses and ranks such as the Kéraulophone, Unda Maris, and Salicional. The 1875 organ of Saint-Vincent de Carcassonne, hereafter referred to as Saint Vincent, represents a transitional period in the Puget family’s history: the departure from organs built in the French Classical style to the creation of symphonic instruments. This organ is also one of Théodore’s last major projects before his retirement in 1877, so it is indicative of change in the family business leading to Eugène’s takeover. Théodore’s new style of organbuilding made him appealing to new clientele in the turbulent nineteenth-century market, which was rife with competition from Cavaillé-Coll and other organbuilders.

The same year the Saint Vincent organ was inaugurated, the Pugets began drawing up a proposal for a new organ in l’Église Notre-Dame du Taur in central Toulouse. Théodore did not oversee this project as he had transitioned the company into the hands of his ambitious son, Eugène. The organ of Notre-Dame du Taur would become a unique, defining opus for the Puget family that gave them an edge against their tenacious competition. Though credit for the Notre-Dame du Taur organ belongs to Eugène, Théodore’s organ at Saint Vincent set the precedent.⁵⁰ Eugène’s groundbreaking innovations at Notre-Dame du Taur were rooted in the organbuilding techniques he had learned while working for his father. The organ at Notre-Dame du Taur would catapult the Pugets’ prestige beyond the regional level.

The golden era, 1877–1892: Eugène Puget

Eugène, the sixth-eldest of his siblings, demonstrated keen intelligence at a young age.⁵¹ He studied at the Conservatoire de Toulouse and excelled in his study of music.⁵² Following the unexpected passing of his eldest brother François, Eugène took up a position in the family business.⁵³ His approach to organbuilding was influenced by his fascination with Romantic ideals of the nineteenth century, which is evidenced in his nicked pipework, Bertounèchian reeds, and symphonic foundations.⁵⁴ Though he did incorporate some new technology into his organs, Eugène was a traditionalist when designing instruments.⁵⁵

Under Eugène’s leadership, which officially began in 1877 following Théodore’s retirement, the Puget company expanded professional relations beyond Occitania. Eugène established relationships with famous Parisian organists of the time such as Charles-Marie Widor, Alexandre Guilmant, and Eugène Gigout, all of whom dedicated at least one Puget instrument each.⁵⁷ In letters to Eugène Puget, Widor addressed him as mon cher ami (my dear friend).⁵⁸ Camille Saint-Saëns sent a message to Eugène in 1891 that read: “I don’t think I will have time to visit your organ, but I know what you are worth and I will give you with great pleasure all the attestations you desire.”⁵⁹ When Eugène passed away unexpectedly, Guilmant wrote a letter of condolence to the family workshop, describing him as an “artiste.”⁶⁰ These professional connections with Parisian organists indicate the increased status of the Puget family. The organ most emblematic of Eugène’s craft is the gallery organ of l’Église Notre-Dame du Taur, hereafter referred to as the Taur.

Notre-Dame du Taur

The Taur is a historic church, the origin of which can be traced back to the martyrdom of Saint Sernin, the first bishop of Toulouse.⁶¹ The Romans had settled in Toulouse by the third century as part of their occupation of Gaul. The local authorities seized Saint Sernin, tied him to the back of a bull in the capitol plaza, and sent the animal running through the city streets, dragging the bishop. An oratory was built on the site where Saint Sernin was detached from the bull and pronounced dead. The church was called “l’Église Saint-Sernin du Taur” until the nineteenth century when a local statue of a black Madonna was moved there. L’Église Notre-Dame du Taur (Church of Our Lady of the Bull), became an official historic monument in 1840.⁶²

The first record of an organ in the Taur comes from the time of the French Revolution. The instrument at the time, a twenty-three-stop organ in the French Classical style, was described in a review of Toulousain organs by Jean-Baptiste Micot as useless in both its sonority and appearance.⁶³ There were restorations of the instrument carried out between 1840 and 1860, all of which failed.⁶⁴ When the church underwent renovations during the years 1870 to 1876, the clergy made plans to rebuild the organ and declared that this instrument needed to endure for at least longer than forty years. On November 24, 1875, the priests approved the Pugets’ proposal, which cost 32,000 francs.⁶⁵

One evident aspect of the organ was its unique tripartite façade. The Taur borders buildings on either side of the nave, so little natural light comes into the sanctuary save for the rose windows on the gallery wall and some smaller windows over and behind the altar. During the restoration, Henri Bach, the city architect of Toulouse, requested the Pugets to design an organ that would not obstruct these windows.⁶⁶ Bach approved these drawings after he made some corrections to them.⁶⁷ When the preeminent architect of France at the time, Eugène Emmanuel Viollet-le-Duc, visited the Taur during the renovation and learned of the plans for the organ’s layout, he skeptically commented that the Pugets would be great artists if they yielded a successful result.⁶⁸

To frame the windows, three cases were built in the gallery. The two outer cases display pipes on two of their sides, and the middle case’s pipes are exposed on three sides. The tripartite façade contains 159 pipes in total, only two of which do not speak. If the whole façade were lined up horizontally, it would be sixty-nine feet wide.⁷⁰ In order to make the instrument playable, Eugène constructed five Barker machines to lighten the weight of the long trackers, the most extensive of which is forty-five feet.⁷¹ These trackers activate over 800 pallets.⁷²

Eugène chose local materials for the construction of his instruments. The cases and console at the Taur were made of oak, which was desirable for its durability.⁷³ Puget scholar Henri de Rohan states that burnished oak was the dominant wood used in the Puget’s workshop.⁷⁴ The bellows were made of sheepskin leather. Eugène prioritized these refined local materials in his instruments, which are integral to the organ’s authentic southern French character. All of the Taur organ’s original oak and sheepskin have endured.⁷⁵

The organ’s specification is impressive. With forty stops spanning over three manuals, each containing fifty-six notes, and a thirty-note pedalboard, this organ was the largest in Toulouse at the time of its construction.⁷⁶ The specification for the instrument boasted ten foundation stops speaking at 8′ pitch in the manuals. As a result, the foundations supported the upperwork easily. When drawn together, their combined sound was potent but not oppressive. Jean-Claude Guidarini, who was titular organist at the Taur from 1990 until 2020, described the jeux de fonds as “somber” and “calm.”⁷⁷

The voicing of the foundations at the Taur was mellow with a dark, rounded tone. This color was a contrast to foundations of other builders of the time, who constructed foundation stops that sounded brighter. Why the Pugets desired this kind of sound for their foundations is unclear, but the resulting unique sonority is an example of artistry from the organbuilder. In a demonstration of this organ I attended by Guidarini, he indicated that the Flûte harmonique was voiced to be a solo stop. He dissuaded visiting organists from registering this rank with the other 8′ stops, the rest of which were powerful enough on their own.

Though the foundations were mild, the reeds were vigorously round and powerful. Toward the end of Théodore’s life and the start of Eugène’s tenure, the company used brass shallots.⁷⁸ These reeds were voiced brighter than typical French symphonic organs by other builders. When paired with mixtures, mutations, and the foundations, the brashness of the reeds balances out and results in a broad sonority.⁷⁹ One crucial distinction concerning the reeds is the role of the Hautbois in the ensemble. On Puget instruments, this stop is labeled “Hautbois-Basson” rather than “Basson-Hautbois” and is activated on the reed ventil.⁸⁰

In addition to the foundations and reeds, there are other color stops on this instrument. The Voix humaine on the Récit is soft, especially compared to the stronger stops on the organ. Guidarini described all of the flutes, open and stopped, as “lovely and clear.”⁸¹ On the Positif, there is a Clarinette and a Cornet, which was originally on one stopknob. In 1939 Maurice Puget separated out the Cornet; removed the 8′ Kéraulophone, 4′ Dulciana, 2′ Doublette, and Unda Maris; and added a 1′ Piccolo.⁸²

Another major element of Eugène’s instrument was its two enclosed divisions operated by two expression shoes. In nineteenth-century France, the vast majority of symphonic organs had only a single enclosed division, which was almost always the Récit. By having both an enclosed Récit and Positif, half of the Taur organ was under expression. With the boxes shut, the pipes were barely audible. The organist could achieve a smooth crescendo from a mystic pianissimo to a robust fortissimo by manipulating the boxes as well as the seventeen combination pedals. One division could accompany the other with ease, and the Grand Orgue could serve as a tutti contrast.⁸³

Because he was an organist, Eugène understood how to construct a console to suit performers’ accessibility needs. Stops were arranged in the French tiered-console style and were comfortably within an arm’s length from the bench. The music rack was placed above the Récit so the view of the upper manual was unobstructed. The expression shoes were easy to manipulate and did not require much leg strength. The natural ergonomic design of the Taur organ console was more comfortable than the consoles of Cavaillé-Coll, who designed with the perspective of a technician rather than an organist.⁸⁴ Though the plaque on the console reads 1878, which is the date of the completion, the organ was not inaugurated until two years later.⁸⁵

Théodore promoted the instrument’s dedication ceremony with flyers that were sent almost exclusively to local parish priests and affluent southern French residents who were likely to be future customers of the Pugets.⁸⁶ Eugène found his father’s grassroots, old-school method of advertising to be unacceptable for the family’s ambitious new organ. To garner attention at the national level, Eugène invited lionized organist Alexandre Guilmant to dedicate the Taur organ. Guilmant’s performance fee of 1,000 francs for the inaugural concert was considered astronomically expensive at the time.⁸⁷ His performance spanned two evening sessions on the nights of June 17 and 18, 1880.⁸⁸ The program included works by Handel and Mendelssohn, along with transcriptions of selections by Beethoven and several compositions by Guilmant himself, concluding with an improvisation on a popular theme.⁸⁹

The reception committee included almost all the organists of Toulouse, the director of the local conservatory, and Théodore Sauer of the Daublaine et Callinet organ company.⁹⁰ The committee’s report lauded the new instrument’s voicing, round and powerful foundation stops, and orchestral qualities.⁹¹ The organ’s expressive Positif division impressed several listeners who were accustomed to instruments with only one enclosed division. The vast dynamic range of the Taur organ astounded musicians, audiences, and congregations alike. The Reverend Eugène Massip, who was the rector of the Taur at the time, described how the two expressive divisions would yield magnificent results for worship. Jacques Lacaze, the Taur’s titular organist at the time, wrote glowing reviews about the new Puget instrument.⁹²

The Taur church as a whole is a prime representation of Toulousain art and culture. Its domineering, fortress-like façade overlooking the Rue du Taur is constructed of red brick, a common local material.⁹⁴ The dark interior of the church is lined with paintings of Saint Sernin’s martyrdom by Toulousain artist Bernard Bénézet.⁹⁵ The black Madonna and the sculpture of the bull in the sanctuary are staple fixtures with local significance. The whole church is a quintessential example of southern French neo-Gothic ideals. The Puget organ tastefully complements the church’s aesthetic.

Of all the instruments the Pugets built, the Taur organ is the most influential opus of the dynasty. This instrument inspired several organs of Eugène’s tenure, including l’Église Saint-Fulcran in Lodève, l’Église Saint-Amans in Rodez, l’Église Notre-Dame des Tables in Montpellier, l’Église Saint-Aphrodise in Béziers, and l’Église Notre-Dame de la Dalbade in Toulouse.⁹⁶ The Taur organ was an archetype but not a reproduced, copied project. For example, the Pugets did not have standardized models for organs in the manner that other companies did with factory catalogs published in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. However, the artistic and technical decisions Eugène made for his other projects were based on the success of the Taur organ. Eugène’s traditionalist tendencies are evident in his consistent organbuilding choices, such as the use of tin rather than zinc, mechanical action with Barker levers, and tiered three-manual consoles. He voiced all of his instruments in a similar manner to that of the Taur organ.⁹⁷

Eugène elevated the perception of the Puget family during the Taur project. After Guilmant’s inaugural performance in 1880, the Pugets cultivated a national reputation. In the eighty years that followed, highly respected Parisian organists of multiple generations—from Guilmant to Xavier Darasse—dedicated Puget organs.⁹⁸ The Taur organ was widely considered the finest, most innovative organ in southern France at the time of its inauguration, surpassing Cavaillé-Coll’s reputation there.⁹⁹ As a result, organists traveled across France to play and listen to Puget instruments.

Today many organists and scholars consider the Taur organ to be the greatest instrument the Puget dynasty ever built. Save for its electric blower and Maurice’s minor changes to the specification, the organ remains entirely in its original state from 1880. The 143-year-old sheepskin has always been treated naturally without chemicals.¹⁰⁰ On September 25, 1987, the organ was classified by the French government as a historic monument. In July 2022 the first ever restoration of the organ was announced as part of a renovation of the whole church. The project is scheduled to finish in autumn of 2025.¹⁰¹

The Taur has maintained a prominent role in both the artistic and liturgical life of Toulouse. To showcase the organ and celebrate the seasons of the liturgical year, Guidarini initiated a concert series called “Moments Musicaux au Taur.”¹⁰² He would invite local organists as well as students at the Toulouse Conservatory to give recitals on the Puget instrument for the general public, with programs centered on works for appropriate liturgical seasons. I performed at the Taur in December 2019, the final year Guidarini organized the concert series before his passing. My experience playing the Taur organ has, in major part, inspired 
this research.

To be continued in the July 2024 issue.

Notes

1. Jesse Eschbach, Aristide Cavaillé-Coll: A Compendium of Known Stoplists, second edition, volume 1 (Kraichtal: Verlag Peter Ewers, 2013); John R. Shannon, Understanding the Pipe Organ (Jefferson, North Carolina: McFarland & Company, Inc., 2009); Philippe Cicchero, Les Orgues Des Cathédrales de France (Gentilly: EMA, 1999). Cavaillé-Coll built over 500 instruments across Europe and beyond. He is considered a master of both technical prowess and artistry. Some innovations for which he was known include the implementation of the Barker lever, the development of the harmonic flute stop, and the construction of ventil systems. These engineering feats gave his organs qualities more similar to a symphony orchestra than a choir and, as a result, influenced the composition of new organ repertoire.

2. Arjen van Kralingen, “Recensie Clair-Obscur: Henri Ormières Bespeelt Het Puget-Orgel in de St. Vincent Te Carcassonne,” Orgel Nieuws (blog), March 20, 2021, https://www.orgelnieuws.nl/recensie-clair-obscur-henri-Ormières-bespeelt-het-puget-orgel-in-de-st-vincent-te-carcassonne/. Puget scholars Jean-Claude Guidarini and Henri de Rohan make similar remarks in their writings when discussing Cavaillé-Coll from the perspective of the Puget family.

3. Henri de Rohan, Th. Puget: Une Famille de Facteurs d’orgues à Toulouse, 1834–1960 (Toulouse: Bibliothèque Municipale de Toulouse, 1987), pages 11, 17, 19, https://orguesaintantonin.fr/wp-content/uploads/2021/08/Puget-Rohan-catalogue-expow.pdf.

4. Jean-Marc Cicchero, “Montreal d’Aude, Une Autre Colline Inspirée?,” July 13, 2016, accessed January 28, 2022, https://orguesaintantonin.fr/wp-content/uploads/2021/08/ob_760b48_theodore-puget.pdf; Maggie Hamilton, “Poetic License,” Choir & Organ (June 2009), page 62. Eugène’s full name was Eugène Germain Lagrasse Puget. Jean-Baptiste’s full name was François-Ernest Jean Baptiste Puget.

5. Jean-Claude Guidarini, “Cavaillé, Puget . . . un Débat Cool,” Orgues Nouvelles, 6ème année, no. 23 (December 2013), https://orguesaintantonin.fr/wp-content/uploads/2021/08/puget-cavaille-coll.odt.

6. Jean-Claude Guidarini, “Compositions Du Quelques Instruments Construits Ou Reconstruits Par La Manufacture Puget de Toulouse,” n.d., http://www.orgues-nouvelles.fr/ON23/textes/CompoOrgPuget.pdf?fbclid=IwAR11p00_bj-jvug9IbbgxWZyuVSrCQnsne0fup0Nmv15E8pneGhXEuUc3ec.

7. Jean-Marc Cicchero.

8. Philippe Bachet, ed., Orgues En Midi-Pyrénées (Toulouse et Région): 15ème Congrès de La FFAO, July 13–18, 1998 (Lyon: Fédération Francophone des Amis de l’Orgue, 1998), page 28; Jean-Marc Cicchero, Rohan, page 35. François Puget, a dressmaker, was born in 1771 and died in 1831. The dates of Catherine Boyer are unknown. Together, they had six children, of which Théodore was the only surviving male; one of his siblings died in infancy. Only one of Théodore’s four sisters, Hélène Geneviève, married.

9. Jean-Marc Cicchero.

10. Bachet, page 28; Jean-Marc Cicchero; Rohan, page 35. Louise Anne Mossel was born in 1802, but her death date is unknown.

11. Jean-Marc Cicchero.

12. Reprinted from Jean-Claude Guidarini, “Les Puget, Une Dynastie de Facteurs d’orgues,” May 13, 2019, accessed April 12, 2022, http://www.orgue-puget-lavelanet.com/2019/05/les-puget-une-dynastie-de-facteurs-d-orgues.html.

13. Jean-Marc Cicchero. Cicchero argues that one cannot learn organbuilding from books alone because there are several nuances and details as to how complex mechanisms in the instruments work. Also, there is no evident relation between Benoit Cabias and Abbé Cabias, who was another organbuilder of the time.

14. I use the words “gallery” and “tribune” interchangeably in the research. These terms are synonymous.

15. Dom François Bédos de Celles, L’Art Du Facteur d’Orgues, Facsimile edition (New York: Bärenreiter, 1963).

16. Rohan, page 17. Eugène’s and Jean-Baptiste’s instruments contained stops that were scaled, voiced, and labeled according to the directions in L’Art Du Facteur d’Orgues. This is especially true of the pipes speaking at 8′ and 4′ pitches, such as the Montre.

17. Mathieu Delmas, Zoom call. Interview by John J. Mitchell, July 1, 2022; L’Association Orgues Meridionales, “Villemur,” Orgues Meridionales, http://orgues.meridionales.free.fr/Villemur.pdf. During the 1920s and 1930s, there was a newfound appreciation for organs of the seventeenth century.

18. Mathieu Delmas; “Quand Théodore Puget Etait Representant Du ‘Milacor’ . . .,” May 28, 2021, accessed January 29, 2022, https://orguesaintantonin.fr/quand-theodore-puget-etait-representant-du-milacor.

19. Kurt Lueders, emailed comments made to the author, April 24, 2023. In French, the word “milacor” is a play on words, combining “mille,” which means “one thousand,” and “accord,” meaning chords. According to Kurt Lueders: “This brand name has the same pronunciation as ‘a thousand chords,’ cleverly evoking the use to which the device is put. An overtone of the French word ‘cor’ [which means ‘horn’] may also be present, but the allusion would be much less obvious to a French speaker.”

20. “L’abbé Dessenne, L’abbé Cabias et l’orgue simplifié, l’abbé Larroque et Le ‘Milacor,’” Les Orgues de l’Abbé Clergeau, accessed January 29, 2022, https://rmcks.pagesperso-orange.fr/orgue/orgues_clergeau/index_abbe_Larroque.htm; “Quand Théodore Puget Etait Représentant Du ‘Milacor’ . . . .”

21. “L’abbé Dessenne, L’abbé Cabias et l’orgue Simplifié, l’abbé Larroque et Le ‘Milacor.’”

22. Jean-Marc Cicchero.

23. Michel Évrard, “Toulouse Bonnefoy Un Orgue Puget aux Prénoms Trompeurs dans Deux Églises Successives,” Les Amis des Archives de la Haute-Garonne, Petite Bibliothèque, no. 162 (October 31, 2008): page 4, https://orguesaintantonin.fr/wp-content/uploads/2021/08/pb_162_txt.pdf.

24. Delmas; Évrard, page 4.

25. Évrard, page 4.

26. Jean-Claude Guidarini, “Grand Orgue de l’Église Saint-Exupère,” Toulouse Les Orgues, accessed April 26, 2022, https://toulouse-les-orgues.org/instrument/grand-orgue-de-leglise-saint-exupere/; “St Exupère Church–Toulouse (Haute-Garonne),” Orgues en France et dans Le Monde, accessed April 26, 2022, http://orguesfrance.com/ToulouseStExupere.html. Théodore’s organ at Saint-Exupère was fourteen stops with two manuals, one under expression, including stops found in Romantic-era symphonic organbuilding such as Clarinette and Hautbois-Basson. Eugène expanded this organ’s pipework and installed a new console in 1885. Jean-Baptiste and his son Maurice made further modifications to the instrument.

27. Évrard, page 9; Rohan, page 35.

28. Maison Théodore Puget, Père et Fils, “Orgues Construites Ou Restaurées Par La Maison,” October 1911, reprinted from Pastór de Lasala, “A Puget Organ in Sydney: A Fortunate Historical Accident,” OHTA News 44, number 1 (October 4, 2018), page 18.

29. Évrard, page 4; S. L. [sic], “On Nous Ecrit de Pibrac,” Journal de Toulouse: Politique et Littéraire, février 1864, 60ème année, no. 45 édition, BNF, https://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/bpt6k53716127/f1.item.r=puget.zoom. An advertisement for the Puget family written in 1869 also lists 1838 as the year of founding.

30. Jean-Marc Cicchero.

31. Delmas; Hamilton, page 55.

32. Évrard, pages 6, 9. On September 10, 1869, a fire broke out at the Puget factory. The structure survived, but most of what was inside the shop was lost to the flames.

33. Bachet, page 15. Bachet’s and Évrard’s writings describe the precise addresses of the Puget factory in more detail.

34. Bachet, page 28. Théodore’s sons Olivier and Jean Ernest Gustave died in infancy.

35. Rohan, page 36.

36. Bachet, page 16.

37. Delmas; Rohan, page 36; “Orgue Puget de l’Église de Saint-Antonin-Noble-Val,” Fondation du Patrimoine, January 19, 2022, https://orguesaintantonin.fr/lorgue-puget. The organ in Saint Antonin-Noble-Val, north of Toulouse, is an example of Baptiste’s work. His son emigrated to Buenos Aires, Argentina, in the twentieth century, and two of his descendants, Elsa and Alberto Puget, are alive today.

38. Bachet, pages 16–18.

39. Évrard, page 4.

40. John J. Mitchell, compiled from Bachet, pages 15–19; Delmas; Évrard, pages 3–4; Jean-Marc Cicchero; Rohan pages 35–37; Jean-Gabriel Pélaprat, “Les Orgues de la Famille PUGET” Facebook group, May 20, 2023.

41. Évrard, page 3.

42. Successors of instrument builders commonly continue signing work using their father’s or mother’s name after the head of the family has died.

43. Douglas Earl Bush and Richard Kassel, “Clicquot,” in The Organ, an Encyclopedia (Oxfordshire: Routledge, 2006).

44. “César Franck–Classical Music Composers,” Philadelphia Chamber Music Society, accessed March 18, 2023, https://www.pcmsconcerts.org/composer/cesar-franck/; Léon Vallas, César Franck, trans. Hubert J. Foss (New York: Oxford University Press, 1951), page 102; John J. Mitchell, “German Influences on Franck’s Chorale in E Major,” March 31, 2019, accessed March 18, 2023, https://www.voxhumanajournal.com/mitchell2019.html.

45. Bachet, pages 15–16.

46. Rohan, page 18.

47. Rohan, pages 17–18.

48. Delmas; Rohan, page 18.

49. Photo credit: Tylwyth Eldar (cropped). Licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 4.0 International license: https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/deed.en.

50. Toulouse Les Orgues, “Grand Orgue de l’Église Saint-Barthélémy,” accessed March 16, 2023. https://toulouse-les-orgues.org/instrument/grand-orgue-de-leglise-saint-barthelemy/.

51. Jean-Claude Guidarini, Les Puget, Une Dynastie de Facteurs d’orgues à Toulouse (Toulouse: Médiathèque José Cabanis, 2008), https://orguesaintantonin.fr/wp-content/uploads/2021/08/ob_79c1c0_les-puget-catalogue-expo-2008.pdf.

52. Rohan, page 37.

53. Guidarini, Les Puget, Une Dynastie de Facteurs d’orgues à Toulouse, page 3. When François died, Eugène joined the factory to make up for the new lack of manpower. Eugène was titular organist at la Basilique Notre-Dame de la Daubade in Toulouse for most of his career until his passing.

54. Rohan, page 38. Abel Bertounèche was a reed voicer for Cavaillé-Coll who influenced the Pugets and other organbuilders of the time.

55. Rohan, page 36.

56. Reprinted from Rohan, page 39.

57. Guidarini, Les Puget, Une Dynastie de Facteurs d’Orgues à Toulouse, page 3; “Orgue de Rodez, Église Saint-Amans,” Orgue Aquitaine, accessed February 13, 2023, https://orgue-aquitaine.fr/; The Puget family members were almost all organists, which may explain why their instruments were so ergonomically suited to musicians.

58. Bachet, page 16.

59. Rohan, page 25.

60. Rohan, page 25.

61. Saint Sernin is also referred to as Saint Saturnin in certain sources.

62. “Notre-Dame Du Taur,” Basilique Saint-Sernin de Toulouse (Site officiel), accessed March 7, 2023, https://www.basilique-saint-sernin.fr/note-dame-du-taur/; Robert Poliquin, “Orgues En France,” Organs Around the World, 1997–2023, http://www.musiqueorguequebec.ca/orgues/france/toulousendt.html.

63. Guidarini, “Le Grande Orgue;” Jean-Baptiste Micot, “Rapport Sur Les Orgues de Toulouse,” 1796, Archives of the Musée de Lavaur, shared by l’Association Jean-Claude Guidarini.

64. Dominique Amann, Le Facteur d’Orgues Frédéric Jungk (France: La Maurinière éditions, 2013), www.la-mauriniere.com, pages 53–54; Guidarini, “Le Grande Orgue.” One restoration was carried out by organbuilder Frédéric Jungk between the years 1850 and 1857. This organ was expanded to thirty-seven stops over three manuals. There were nine couplers and tirasses with a swell box (boîte expressive), pneumatic machine, Barker lever, and a state-of-the-art winding mechanism. The organ was inaugurated in 1860 and after only fifteen years was damaged during the church’s restoration in 1875.

65. Guidarini, Les Puget, Une Dynastie de Facteurs d’Orgues à Toulouse, page 6. A complete specification of this Puget organ is found on page 17, Mitchell, reprinted from Guidarini, “Compositions Du Quelques Instruments Construits Ou Reconstruits Par La Manufacture Puget de Toulouse.”

66. L’Association Orgues Meridionales, “Notre-Dame-du-Taur,” Orgues Meridionales, http://orgues.meridionales.free.fr/SaintExupere.pdf. The church’s reception committee claims that it was the wish of the clergy to leave the gallery windows unobstructed. Henri Bach designed the windows and was delegated the responsibility of overseeing the organ façade’s layout.

67. Jean Nayrolles, “Un architecte toulousain du XIXme siècle: Henri Bach (1815–1899),” Histoire de l’art 1, no. 1 (1988): page 45, https://doi.org/10.3406/hista.1988.1628; Radio Présence, “Jean-Claude Guidarini: ‘Immersion à Notre-Dame Du Taur’” (Toulouse, 2012), 18:27, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dy69JOvYnsE.

68. Rohan, page 54.

69. Archives of the Musée de Lavaur, shared by l’Association Jean-Claude Guidarini.

70. Sixty-nine feet is about twenty-one meters.

71. Forty-five feet is about fourteen meters.

72. Guidarini, “Le Grande Orgue.”

73. Delmas.

74. Rohan, page 54.

75. Hamilton, page 58.

76. Rohan, page 56.

77. Hamilton, page 58. It is unclear if Guidarini made these comments in English or if they were translated from French to English by Hamilton.

78. Bachet, page 24; Delmas; Hamilton, page 59.

79. Guidarini “Le Grande Orgue.”

80. This detail regarding the oboe is critical for performers bringing French symphonic repertoire to Puget instruments. On a Cavaillé-Coll organ, for example, not only is the label different, but also, the Hautbois-Basson is not on the reed ventil. When taking repertoire to a Puget written for a Cavaillé-Coll, the performer and their console assistant(s) must strategize in advance how to bring on this stop.

81. Guidarini, “Le Grande Orgue;” Hamilton, page 58.

82. Guidarini, “Le Grande Orgue.”

83. Guidarini, “Le Grande Orgue.”

84. Radio Présence, “Jean-Claude Guidarini: ‘Immersion à Notre-Dame Du Taur’” (Toulouse, 2012), 15:38, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dy69JOvYnsE.

85. Guidarini, “Grand Orgue de l’Église Notre-Dame du Taur,” Toulouse Les Orgues, accessed March 9, 2023, https://toulouse-les-orgues.org/instrument/grand-orgue-de-leglise-notre-dame-du-taur/; Rohan, page 23.

86. Rohan, page 15.

87. Guidarini, Les Puget, Une Dynastie de Facteurs d’Orgues à Toulouse, page 6. The fee for the performance was over three percent of the cost of the whole organ. For perspective, if a new organ in 2023 costs $1,000,000, Guilmant’s fee for a performance would be about $32,000.

88. “La Séance d’orgue,” Le Journal de Toulouse: Politique et Littéraire, June 1880, Année 76, No. 16 édition, Gallica.

89. Alexandre Guilmant, “Deuxième Séance d’Inauguration Solennelle du Grand Orgue de Notre-Dame du Taur” (Typo.-Lith C. Berdoulat, June 1880), in “Le Grande Orgue,” Guidarini, https://image.jimcdn.com/app/cms/image/transf/dimension=1024x10000:format=jpg/path/s5bdc24606d23f03d/image/i8c3c33134c11eaa2/version/1411689846/image.jpg.

90. “Les Callinet de Rouffach,” accessed April 12, 2022, http://decouverte.orgue.free.fr/facteurs/callinet.htm; Rohan, page 48. The Callinets, another organbuilding dynasty, predate both the Pugets and Cavaillé-Coll. They were one of the first symphonic organbuilding companies in France. Their instruments demonstrate the drastic changes in French organ building from the early eighteenth century to the late nineteenth century.

91. Bachet, page 17.

92. Delmas; Rohan, page 56.

93. Archives of the Musée de Lavaur, shared by l’Association Jean-Claude Guidarini.

94. Toulouse is colloquially referred to as “La Ville Rose,” meaning “The Pink City,” since many of its historic buildings are constructed with red brick.

95. Poliquin.

96. Guidarini “Le Grande Orgue.”

97. Rohan, page 38.

98. Guidarini, Les Puget, Une Dynastie de Facteurs d’Orgues à Toulouse, page 6.

99. Guidarini, “Le Grande Orgue”

100. Hamilton, page 58.

101. Gala Jacquin, “Toulouse: l’église Notre-Dame du Taur va faire peau neuve,” L’Opinion Indépendante, January 30, 2023, https://lopinion.com/articles/actualite/15240_toulouse-eglise-notre-dame-taur-peau-neuve.

102. “Association Jean-Claude Guidarini– AssoJCG.Org,” accessed January 25, 2022, https://assojcg.org/.

Alexander Meszler is a doctoral student of Kimberly Marshall at Arizona State University. He currently lives in Versailles, France, on a Fulbright award where he is investigating secularism and the organ as well as continuing organ studies with Jean-Baptiste Robin. A strong advocate of music by living composers, he serves as a member of the American Guild of Organists’ Committee on New Music. He is a member of The Diapason’s 20 Under 30 Class of 2019.

Elements of old and new make for fertile ground in organ composition; Klaus Huber (1924–2017) built his organ works on this ground. Although even the most recent organ works can hardly be considered new, they still stand outside of the standard canon of repertoire, and thus, sound refreshing.

Music historians have already begun to specialize in classical music of the last decades of the twentieth century. Varying interpretations of historical periods and styles among musicologists have emerged, but the lasting impact of post-war music is still up for debate. In writing about Huber, I intend to introduce a composer who I believe deserves a place in the organ repertoire.

Apart from his work as a composer, Huber is best known as a teacher. Two of his most significant teaching positions were as professor of composition at the Académie de Musique (1964–1973) in Basel, Switzerland, and later, at the Fribourg Musikhochschule (1973–1990). He won numerous awards and prizes for his work in orchestral and chamber genres. The depth of Huber’s influence as a composition teacher cannot be overstated; his name is found prominently in the biographies of composers such as Brian Ferneyhough, Toshio Hosokawa, Michael Jarrell, Younghi Pagh-Paan, Wolfgang Rihm, André Richard, Hans Wüthrich, and Hans-Ola Ericsson. Many of his students went on to write their own organ works.

I became interested in the music of Klaus Huber for three reasons: (1) a desire to explore music of the twentieth century that is underrepresented; (2) Huber’s historically influenced approach to composition for the organ; and (3) the fact that most of his works are relatively short and can be performed on a wide variety of instruments, making them easily programmable. Currently, the only article related directly to Huber’s organ works is a similar introduction from 2010 in La Tribune de l’Orgue, in French, by Guy Bovet.¹ This article combines my observations with Bovet’s and explores aspects of the difficulty, style, and programmability of each of Huber’s organ works. As a supplement, interested readers should consult Bovet’s article, Huber’s Oxford Music Online entry,² the composer’s thorough website (www.klaushuber.com),³ and finally, the Institute for Research and Coordination in Acoustics/Music (IRCAM) contemporary music database, “B.R.A.H.M.S.” (Base de documentation sur la musique contemporaine, http://brahms.ircam.fr).⁴

Huber’s style

Huber’s early compositions exhibit a combination of influences that is paradoxically both conservative and progressive—for instance, Franco-Flemish polyphony, harmony and counterpoint of the Baroque and Classical eras, serialism, and non-Western music.⁵ On the one hand, his initial resistance to the progressive (but standardized) serial developments of the Darmstadt School made him seem unadventurous and attached to the past. On the other hand, the application of his unique voice to the music of the past is remarkably postmodern. In many ways, he anticipates some later styles that, early in his life, were yet to emerge.

Des Engels Anredung an die Seele, his 1959 chamber cantata, unified serial structures with consonant intervals that launched him onto the world stage and won him first prize in the International Society for Contemporary Music (ISCM) competition. Huber loved texts, especially old ones, even medieval. Though opera is not a significant genre in his compositional output, the oratorio and other vocal genres are. Later in life, Huber wrote experimental compositions that use unusual techniques such as having multiple temporal planes that differ in tempo. Finally, perhaps an influence from his students, he eventually turned drastically away from traditional Western styles toward non-Western musics where he used non-Western pitch constructions, instruments, and styles.

Organ works

In general, Huber’s organ works date from his early professional decades (after his student years) and are representative of a more conservative aesthetic, not necessarily typical of all his compositions. Metanoia, however, was not composed until 1995. Though he has written only five solo pieces for organ, a significant number of chamber and choir pieces use organ. I will not discuss these, except one, Sonata da chiesa (1953), for which the organ part is particularly prominent and marks his first exploration of the instrument’s capabilities. Since Huber was a proficient violinist, a composition that combines the unfamiliar territory of the organ with the expressive potential of the violin, an instrument Huber was intimately conversant with, seems an appropriate starting point. Guy Bovet has compared it to a better-known piece by the same name and similar instrumentation, Sonata da chiesa (1938) of Frank Martin (1890–1974). Huber’s piece comprises three movements: Poco Allegro, Allegro, and Largo. Until 2004, this piece remained in manuscript, but now that it is available in print, it will hopefully find its way into the repertoire.

It is a strange coincidence (and, to my knowledge, only a coincidence) that the first organ work of György Ligeti (1923–2006), Ricercar (1953), was conceived only one year before Huber’s first solo work, Ciacona per organo (1954). Both works have thin textures and are in relatively antiquated forms. It is notable that despite vast political separation, two significant postwar compositions, for an instrument virtually forgotten to the Second Viennese School, share much in common. Huber’s chaconne is influenced by a repeated figure that is difficult to identify since it appears in so many modified forms. Ciacona’s form is, in loose terms, ABA. The first large section marked Allegro molto starts with an alternation of chromatic passages (Example 1) with sections marked subito tranquillo (Example 2). The same section culminates in a passage marked agitato with a thicker chordal texture (Example 3). The B section is scored as a trio with the first entry in the pedal. Huber’s fascination with the organ’s capability to play trios continues and develops throughout his other compositions. Following this rhythmically challenging trio section, the composer requests a twenty-second pause (Example 4) before returning to the material of the A section presented in quasi-imitation. Registration suggestions are generally limited to pitch levels, but dynamic markings are supplied liberally. Thus, the piece should transfer easily to organs of many styles.

In memoriam Willy Burkhard (1955), Huber’s second piece for the organ, is dedicated to the passing of his former teacher at the Zürich Conservatory. Burkhard, like Huber, had written solo works for the organ and featured it in his other chamber works. The structure of the piece is in two movements, Molto sostenuto and Adagietto. The harmonic content is strongly tertian but includes hints of quartal harmonies. Unfamiliar harmonies in Huber’s early works can usually be accounted for as expressive, dissonant, but resolving, albeit unconventionally, non-chord tones. Bovet compares the singing quality of the first movement (Example 5) to Hindemith’s Trauermusik, but I am inclined to go a step further and argue that this singing quality even extends to parts of Hindemith’s organ sonatas, particularly the slow movements. The second movement is again written as a trio. In the decades surrounding 1950, Huber is not alone in his fascination with the trio texture—Vincent Persichetti’s sonata of 1960 (and his first harpsichord sonata from 1951), or earlier, Distler’s Organ Sonata of 1938/9. Huber’s second movement is technically a chorale trio since it features Vater unser im Himmelreich on a 4′ reed in the pedal. The composer achieves a great deal of harmonic and rhythmic interest though having only two free voices over the chorale (Example 6). It is important that performers, despite the rhythmic complexity, not lose sight of the compound triple meter that is crucial to the gentle, lilting character. Bovet has argued that this piece is suitable for liturgical use as well as concert use. In total, both movements are only around seven minutes long.

After about a ten-year hiatus from writing for solo organ, Huber returned to the instrument with In te Domine speravi (1964). It was around this same time that he composed Des Engels Anredung an die Seele, which, among other pieces, confirmed his fame and solidified his compositional identity. In te Domine speravi was composed for a three-manual Merklin organ in Basel and was awarded first prize in the Kulturwerk Nordhessen composition competition for organ. It is a short fantasy followed by a quieter section in compound meter. Though the piece seems intimidating since it includes irregular and challenging rhythms, prominent double pedal, and four staves, the piece is significantly easier than it appears (Example 7). Bovet humorously writes, “Despite the complicated appearance of the score upon first look, the piece is not difficult (One does not even need to know how to count since the composer indicates ‘senza misura’!).”⁶ The dense beginning may mark a definite change in style from his earlier organ works, but in the second section, Huber returns to a tranquil trio texture in compound meter. The piece concludes with a rapid crescendo returning to the opening material. This work is around six minutes long, making it even shorter than the previous works.

Cantus cancricans (1965) was composed the following year. Though the title seems to indicate the presence of a crab canon, Huber does not provide a strict one. However, the opening is mirrored at the end. Cantus cancricans, unsurprisingly, is scored as a trio. It was composed for “Schweizerischen Arbeitskreises für Evangelische Kirchenmusick,” a church group in Zurich. Originally, it was to be played after the reading of John 3:30 on the feast of Saint John the Baptist. The piece also includes a short congregational song that should be sung at the fermata on page five before continuing. By this point, Huber’s writing style had become much more complex, both harmonically, but especially rhythmically (Example 8). Logistically, to follow Huber’s dynamic markings, it is necessary to either utilize two expression boxes or frequently change registrations. The former is probably preferable since it would allow the colors to remain intact even though operating two boxes can often be cumbersome. Cantus cancricans is only about four minutes in length, yet is likely the hardest of his works, excepting Metanoia.

Following Cantus cancricans, Huber took an even longer hiatus from solo organ but returned in 1995 to write his longest and by far most complex work for the instrument, Metanoia (1995). The work is a meditation that lasts slightly under thirty minutes. The score consistently has five staves that, though difficult to read, accurately and helpfully portrays the intended colors by manual and register. The work has been published only in manuscript facsimile that, although adequately clear, still makes it more challenging to learn. Metanoia I, from the same year, is the same composition reworked for organ, alto trombone, two boy sopranos, and some simple percussion. It received its first performance, despite being written later, earlier than the original score. The Greek title literally means repentance or penitence and is a reference to the fundamentally Christian admittance of sin. The score calls for an organ in a non-equal temperament.

Metanoia begins by alternating stacked harmonies broken up by various colors and rhythms and frequently changing densities (Example 9) with sections of fast polyrhythmic passagework (Example 10). When these passages include a pedal part, they can be dauntingly challenging. At other times, similar passagework is presented over pedal tones. After the third fast passage, the texture returns to broken harmonies as expected (as in Example 9), but the dynamic suddenly changes to fortissimo and it introduces double pedal. Following this, Huber returns to quieter dynamics and presents a new texture. The work then returns to the newly introduced fortissimo section of broken chords with double pedal. At the end of this section, only about halfway through the piece, Huber changes again and does not return to any of the opening material. From here to the end of the piece (around fifteen minutes), Huber presents alternating chords on different manuals. He calls for alterations of pitch by various degrees of a semitone that are not possible when restricted by equal temperament.

Bovet describes the overall aesthetic of Metanoia: From the listeners’ perspective the experience is not truly musical: it is more like a musical-theatrical happening, or a long meditation; in short, the experience is total. Time is abolished; the sonorities inspire dreams. In the end, Metanoia is a large dream: a moment when the listener gives himself or herself the time, where life stops in a sort of parenthetical reflection on eternity. In our time when no one has time for anything, this can be pure happiness.⁷

A harpsichord work

Though not an organ work, readers may be interested in La Chace (1963) for solo harpsichord. The Diapason has enough harpsichord readers that I believe interest in this work is probably self evident. The piece was written for and dedicated to Antoinette Vischer, though she did not premiere it. It is scored in four staves, two for each manual, which, though complicating the notation, displays his specific intentions related to the use of each keyboard. His registration markings are clear and useful. Interested harpsichordists will find this a technically challenging and musically satisfying piece of music.

Conclusion

Huber’s organ works are rarely recorded or performed. Given his influence on the world of twentieth-century composition, it is curious that he seems to have almost no place in the organ literature. Several of his pieces, as Bovet has pointed out, could be used in more exploratory church music programs. Concert organists should take note of the relatively short duration of most of Huber’s pieces, making them programmable. If nothing else, I hope that organists will take note of Huber, not only for his works, but also for the extent of his influence elsewhere. Having passed only recently in 2017, we should take stock and remember the significance and beauty of the music of Klaus Huber.

Notes

1. Guy Bovet, “L’œvre pour et avec orgue de Klaus Huber (né en 1924),” La Tribune de l’Orgue – Revue Suisse romande, 62/3 (2010): 3–11.

2. Max Nyffeler, “Huber, Klaus,” Grove Music Online, Oxford University Press, 2001, accessed June 6, 2017, www.oxfordmusiconline.com.

3. “Klaus Huber,” accessed June 6, 2017, www.klaushuber.com.

4. “Klaus Huber: Compositeur Suisse né le 30 novembre 1924 à Berne,” Ircam-Centre Pompidou, accessed June 6, 2017, http://brahms.ircam.fr/klaus-huber.

5. Nyffeler.

6. Bovet, 8.

7. Ibid., 11.

Scores by Klaus Huber

Cantus Cancricans. Basel: Bärenreiter-Verlag Kassel (5486), 1968.

Ciacona. Kilchberg: Sinus-Verlag (10016), 1954.

In memoriam Willy Burkhard. Basel: Bärenreiter-Verlag Kassel (4462), 1965.

In te Domine speravi. Basel: Bärenreiter-Verlag Kassel (4463), 1966.

La Chace. Mainz: Edition Schott (5429), 1965.

Metanoia. München: G. Ricordi & Co., 1995.

Sonata da chiesa. München: G. Ricordi & Co., 2004.

Photo credit: Harald Rehling

Jonathan Bezdegian received his Doctor of Musical Arts degree from the University of Washington in March 2018. He works at Assumption University in Worcester, Massachusetts, as campus minister for liturgical music and mission trips, lecturer in music, and instructor of organ. He is the past dean of the Worcester Chapter American Guild of Organists.

The “Toccata” from Louis Vierne’s 24 Pièces de Fantaisie was composed in Paris in December 1926. It was published as the final composition in the “Deuxième suite,” opus 53, in September 1927 by Lemoine. “Toccata” is dedicated to Alexander Russell,¹ the director of music for the Wanamaker store in New York City and the first Frick Professor of Music at Princeton University. He also served as Vierne’s eastern manager for his 1927 American concert tour. 

As Vierne’s American concert manager, it seems obvious that Russell would bring Vierne to Princeton University as part of his American concert tour. However, this was not the case. There is no mention of a concert or of Vierne even visiting Princeton in university documents or publications. Rollin Smith makes a definitive statement after compiling this information, “Obviously Vierne never came to Princeton.”^{2, 3} Regardless, Vierne’s visit to America was of paramount importance to his organ compositions, especially his 24 Pièces de Fantaisie. 

Regarding “Toccata,” many do not realize the significance of a unique detail in its registrational scheme. Vierne calls for the addition of super couplers (octaves aiguës) in measures 148 (via the Récit) and 156 (via the Positif); it was his way of paying homage to American organ building.⁴ This is the first time Vierne calls for the use of these couplers in his 24 Pièces de Fantaisie. More importantly, the specification of the 1868 rebuild of the Cathedral of Notre Dame organ by Aristide Cavaillé-Coll in Paris did not have super couplers—there were only sub couplers (octaves graves) on all five manuals.⁵

While super-octave couplers were not yet used by organbuilders in France at the time, American organbuilders incorporated these couplers and other novelties in their consoles. Vierne experienced these features during his American tour and was quite impressed.⁶ Thus, it seems only fitting that he wanted the performance of his music to adequately showcase instruments constructed by American builders. 

Compositional matters in “Toccata” require particular attention. Close study of this popular and intense work reveals an abundance of sequential material, the combination of Gregorian modes with modes of limited transposition, and more structured use of harmony when compared to other works from 24 Pièces de Fantaisie. Analysis of Vierne’s organ music is certainly a challenge. The “Toccata” reveals many strange situations that require a unique understanding of modes and functional harmony. The goal of this article is to aid in the clarification of these situations.

The toccata’s form is ABA′ with coda. Throughout the composition, Vierne uses B-flat and D minor scales, C-sharp Phrygian mode, and modes 1, 2, and 3 from the modes of limited transposition. Vierne was not an advocate of structured harmonic writing. When studying his organ works, one is immediately struck by the characteristics of intense chromaticism and moving from one chord (or scale/key center) to another with virtually no warning or apparent methodology—that is the point. This attribute makes his organ music spontaneous, organic, and exciting. For Vierne, freeing himself from the bonds of structured compositional practices allowed him to make music in a natural, more musical way.⁷

The first two pages of the score present a relatively straightforward analysis using the B-flat (melodic) minor scale (note the copious use of G- and A-naturals throughout).⁸ The first three pages outline the A theme.⁹ Below is an analytical chart of measures 1–23. The chart below contains the measure, scale, and chord found in each:

Measures 1–4, B-flat minor i

5 VI7-i

6 i-III+

7–8 VI6

9 iiØ7

10 IV7

11–12 vii°7/V (dom. pedal)

13 V

14–15 i

16–17 VI7

18 bII7

19 iiØ7

20–23 vii°7/V (dom. pedal)

The next seven measures contain a descending chromatic sequence. Measures 24–26 are the first part of the sequence. Measure 27 contains a vi°7/V (V designating a dominant pedal) that connects this sequence to its repeat in measures 28–30. The chords are the same, but they are revoiced, and the pedal/bass part is now in eighth notes. Due to the chromaticism, it is virtually impossible to label measures 28–30 with our current Roman numeral system—at least in a sensible way. This is a common issue when analyzing Vierne’s organ works. 

However, measures 31–36 present a strange problem. Our relatively standard analysis quickly falls apart as the sonorities encountered do not coincide with B-flat minor at all. This is the first introduction of a mode of limited transposition: mode 3, transposition 3 (M3, T3). Vierne uses this mode seamlessly due to the common tones found between the B-flat minor scale and the preceding sequential measures. (Be cognizant of enharmonic equivalence when studying Examples 1a and 1b.)

When comparing the M3, T3 scale to the measures in question (reduced to the outer voices), one encounters some non-scale tones. The B-natural in the upper voice in measures 31–32 can be argued as a continuation of the downward chromatic sequence. The D-sharp in the bass is a passing tone. Lastly, the G-naturals in the upper voice and in the bass in measure 34 are also passing tones. This is evident when they are viewed as a connection to measures 35 and 36 where the key of B-flat minor (and Roman numeral analysis) continues. Consult the chart below for the analysis. Note that measures 36–38 contain another sequence.

Measure 35, B-flat minor v6, V6

36 i(9), IV7

37 VII7, III7

38 VI7, bII7

39 V

40–41 i

In measures 42–49, the key of D minor emerges, reached via a fully diminished vii chord achieved by common tone with B-flat minor (D-flat/C-sharp enharmonic equivalent).¹⁰ The recurring A dominant pedal point keeps the listener locked onto the new key until reaching a segue to the new B theme.

Measures 42–43, D minor vii°7/V

44–45 i

46 i7, viØ7

47 i

48 IV7, i7

49 viØ7

The segue to the B theme is in measures 50–55. The notes are derived from mode 2, transposition 2. Below is a replication of the segue and the M2, T2 scale for comparison. The non-scale tone of C in measure 50 (the seventh note in Examples 2a and 2b) is a passing tone.¹¹

This meandering material forms an ostinato that accompanies the new, B theme in C-sharp Phrygian. It is first encountered in the bass in measure 60.¹² 

The B theme is first introduced in the pedal in measures 60–76. The theme is seventeen measures long and in two parts. The first spans eight measures and is clearly in C-sharp Phrygian. The second portion is more chromatic. Both the C-sharp Phrygian scale and theme are demonstrated in Examples 3a and 3b. 

While the first eight measures are clear to understand regarding the Phrygian mode, the second, chromatic portion is rather perplexing. However, the accompaniment that begins in measure 68 (where the second portion of the B theme starts) is another descending chromatic sequence. Thus, Vierne is able to blend the C-sharp Phrygian mode with these chromatic, non-scale tones seamlessly.

In measure 76, the B theme moves to the soprano. It is an exact repeat of its first statement. However, this time the accompaniment contains non-C-sharp Phrygian tones from mode 3, transposition 2—this mode and transposition will take over in measure 92. Pay close attention to another descending chromatic sequence beginning in measure 84. 

The B theme undergoes a miniature development in measures 92–115. A fragmented version of the B theme returns to the bass (still in C-sharp Phrygian) while juxtaposed with new rhythmic patterns in the accompaniment from M3, T2. The constant resurgences of a D-natural in the accompaniment are from the C-sharp Phrygian mode (Examples 4a and 4b). 

By measure 100, the remaining portion of the B theme is in M3, T2. Ultimately, in measure 104, the theme devolves to a pedal point on F—the dominant of B-flat minor. Measures 104–115 serve as a decoration of the vii°7 chord from B-flat minor (respelled for ease of reading: A-flat, B, D, F). The diminished chords are linked by chromatic scales that rise in pitch and create tension and anticipation before reaching the recapitulation in measure 116 (Example 5). 

The recapitulation is not an identical repeat; much of the material is reharmonized, thus the A′ designation. The recapitulation spans from measure 116 to measure 147. Measures 116–128 are charted below.

Measures 116–117, B-flat minor i

118 i, ii°

119 i

120 VI

121 iv

122 ii°7

123 V

124 ii°7

125 III

126 ii°7

127 III

128 ii°7

Measure 129 is rather unusual. If one follows the original A theme, this is the point where the key of D minor is reached via a fully diminished seventh chord (vii°7). The pitches in measure 129 indicate a seventh chord, but the addition of a G-sharp prevents the sonority from being fully realized.¹³ The new C-sharp minor seventh chord adds richness and color and seems to foreshadow what is yet to come—a sudden arrival of the B theme (in the bass) in measure 132, this time in mode 1, transposition 2 (Examples 6a and 6b). 

The accompaniment contains whole-tone scales from T2 and is connected via a viiØ7 chord from B-flat minor in measures 136–137. Note the presence of another descending chromatic sequence in measures 140–147. While this sequence is a bit different in presentation (especially with the meandering repetitions in measures 145–147), the effect is the same for harmonizing the chromatic second portion of the B theme (Example 7).

The coda begins in measure 148. The initial auditory response at the arrival of this measure is one of “sensory overload” as Vierne employs Mode 2, T2 over an F-sharp pedal point.¹⁴ Vierne will alternate transposition 2 and transposition 3 from mode 2 until the downbeat of measure 156, where he will retain transposition 2 and switch to an F pedal point. The ensuing scales contain passing tones not found in mode 2, transposition 2—they are approached and left by step.¹⁵ Below is a chart analyzing measures 148–159 by mode and transposition.

Measure 148, Mode 2 T2

149 T3, T2

150–151 T3

152 T2, T3 (last 2 16ths)

153 T2, T3 (last 2 16ths)

154–159 T2

The F pedal point in measure 156 serves as an anchor to the dominant of B-flat minor, which re-emerges in measure 160. Vierne uses the augmented III chord and dominant-seventh chord above the opening seven-note group heard in the beginning of the “Toccata,” thus creating a relentless, closing section of the coda. Measures 160–179 are charted below.

Measure 160, B-flat minor III+, V7

161 i

162 III+, V7

163 i

164–168, descending chromatic 

  chords

169–179, B-flat minor

The Toccata’s final page contains a descending chordal passage from measures 164–168. The bass gains momentum and rises chromatically in a rapid succession of sixteenth notes. One encounters a return of the opening seven-note group heard at the beginning of the “Toccata” in measure 169. Finally, the constant arpeggiation of the tonic chord (eight measures!) brings the piece to an abrupt close (the last piece of material the listener encounters before the close is the seven-note group heard in the bass). Because of the absence of a normal ritardando—Vierne specifically indicates senza ritardando—this piece often leaves the listener with a sense of bewilderment and uneasiness. 

Not to create a whimsical comparison, but the feeling of bewilderment is also common when attempting an analysis of Vierne’s music! Analyzing music is no easy task, and Vierne’s music is no exception. “Toccata” reveals many peculiar situations that require a different way of analytical thinking. These situations involve various uses of sequential material, Gregorian modes, and the modes of limited transposition. Vierne seamlessly combines all of these elements, resulting in a mesh of chromaticism and thematic material. It is this combination that gives his music its signature sound and character. Understanding the various elements of Vierne’s unique harmonic language is paramount in unlocking the mysteries behind the sound of his music. Hopefully, the information presented in this article will aid in the discovery of new analytical techniques for enthusiasts and disciples of Vierne’s oeuvre.

Notes

1. Rollin Smith, Louis Vierne: Organist of Notre-Dame Cathedral (New York: Pendragon Press, 1999), 416.

2. Ibid.

3. During Vierne’s American concert tour in 1927, Princeton University’s chapel and Skinner Organ Company organ were not yet completed. Completion came the following year. See: https://chapel.princeton.edu/chapel/history and https://chapel.princeton.edu/chapel/chapel/mander-skinner-organ. If Vierne had come to Princeton, he would have played the four-manual Aeolian organ installed in 1916 in Procter Hall. That organ no longer exists. See: https://www.princeton.edu/~gradcol/album/picsphall.htm.

4. Louis Vierne, Pièces de Fantaisie in quatre suites, Livre II, op. 53, ed. Helga Schauerte-Maubouet (Kassel: Bärenreiter-Verlag, 2008), XXII.

5. See Smith, 346–349, for the 1868 Notre-Dame stoplist and console layout.

6. Vierne was very attracted to the ease of use and versatility of American organ consoles. The availability of Unison Off and sub- and super-couplers in the manual divisions was of particular interest to him, so much so that he desired an American-style console for Notre-Dame. He began designing one on his return to France after his American tour concluded in 1927. Rollin Smith devoted an entire chapter in his book on this matter. See endnote 1: “Vierne on Organ Design,” Smith, 356–365.

7. Vierne constantly reflects on his struggles with structured theory practices in his memoirs (Souvenirs). This was particularly evident during his formative years at the Institution Nationale de Jeunes Aveugles. His beginning studies in harmony with Julien Héry were particularly problematic: “He helped us with a host of practical suggestions . . . . But on the artistic side he was rather limited, for he went strictly by the rules. After three years of this instruction we wrote correctly . . . but without the flexibility and freedom that make harmony an art. Later I had to work extremely hard to acquire a ‘pen’ in the modern sense of the word, and especially to enable me to teach in a really musical way.” Smith, 21.

8. The best approach to reading this article (and the subsequent study of the “Toccata”) is to have a recently published (or corrected) score available for consultation. The musical charts and examples in this article can be compared to the score for clarification.

9. Be aware that the opening seven-note group is an important identification mark throughout the composition:

10. The D melodic minor scale is used for this part of the analysis. Note the B-naturals and C-sharps throughout measures 42–49.

11. One views a key signature change at the halfway point of the segue—yes, this key signature has the same accidentals found in C-sharp Phrygian. However, one should be prudent when analyzing Vierne’s music. Just because a key signature is relatable does not guarantee that the composition in question is in the implied mode or key. (Obviously, this section is not in F-sharp minor or A major.) One should analyze carefully to justify their findings.

12. During the statement of the B theme, one encounters a non-scale tone in the ostinato in measures 58–59, 62–63, and 66–67—the F-sharp in the lower voice may cause a bit of confusion. However, one should note that F-sharp is present in the C-sharp Phrygian mode, thus allowing it to occur rather seamlessly.

13. D minor is reached in measure 132, but in name only as the forthcoming sonorities are not relatable.

14. Not only does Vierne’s use of mode 2 contribute to the unsettling arrival of measure 148, but the registration (full organ) also adds to the passage’s brutality.

15. Vierne switches between transposition levels of mode 2 by chromatic movement, which the listener has experienced many times in this toccata via the use of sequences. At this point, there is nothing that seems terribly out of place by these constant chromatic maneuvers.

Colin MacKnight, called “a stunning player of exceptional ability” by composer and conductor Bob Chilcott, is director of music at Trinity Episcopal Cathedral in Little Rock, Arkansas. At Trinity, he oversees a music program that includes among its offerings weekly choral evensong, a concert series, and chorister and choral scholar programs. Prior to Trinity, Colin was associate organist at the Cathedral of the Incarnation, Garden City, Long Island, New York; assistant organist and music theory teacher at Saint Thomas Church, Fifth Avenue, New York City; and assistant organist at Church of the Resurrection, also in New York City.

MacKnight earned his bachelor’s, master’s, and doctoral degrees from The Juilliard School, studying organ performance with Paul Jacobs. For his doctoral dissertation, “Ex Uno Plures: A Proposed Completion of Bach’s Art of Fugue,” Colin received the Richard F. French Doctoral Prize.

A frequent competition prizewinner, MacKnight’s first prizes and scholarships include the 2019 Paris Music Competition, 2017 West Chester University International Organ Competition, 2016 Albert Schweitzer Organ Competition, 2016 Arthur Poister Scholarship Competition, M. Louise Miller Scholarship from the Greater Bridgeport Chapter of the American Guild of Organists (AGO), the 2013 Rodgers North American Classical Organ Competition, and the Ruth and Paul Manz Organ Scholarship. He also won the New York City AGO Competition and advanced to the Northeast Regional Competition, when he won first place, which led to a “Rising Star” recital at the 2016 AGO national convention in Houston. He was also a laureate in the 2016 and 2019 Longwood Gardens International Organ Competitions.

In December of 2016, Colin and composer Jon Cziner were selected for an AGO Student Commissioning Project grant, resulting in Cziner’s Fantasy Chorale, which MacKnight premiered in 2017. Colin has also earned the Fellow and Choirmaster Certifications from the AGO, receiving the prize for top Choirmaster score, and he is a member of The Diapason’s 20 under 30 Class of 2019.

Colin MacKnight is represented in North America by Karen McFarlane Artists, Inc. For more information, media, and a calendar of performances, visit colinmacknight.com.

“The governing idea of the work . . . was an exploration in depth of the contrapuntal possibilities inherent in a single musical subject.”¹ So says Bach scholar Christoph Wolff of Johann Sebastian Bach’s Die Kunst der Fuge, BWV 1080. Comprising fourteen fugues and four canons, we have inherited the work in an incomplete state; soon after Bach introduces his own musical signature as Contrapunctus XIV’s third subject and combines it with two previous themes, the music abruptly stops. There is no consensus on whether the ending was lost or simply never written; what is clear is that Contrapunctus XIV is notably missing Die Kunst der Fuge theme that unifies every other movement. In the 1870s, Gustav Nottebohm discovered that Die Kunst der Fuge theme could be combined with Contrapunctus XIV’s three preexisting themes to create a quadruple fugue.² It would then seem that this was Bach’s plan.

Because of abundant structures and patterns that Bach establishes in the existing part of the work, many aspects of Bach’s plans for the conclusion of Contrapunctus XIV can be estimated with varying degrees of confidence. Indeed, it seems likely that Bach had such remarkable compositional facility that he chose to limit himself with certain external and artificial restraints, such as the use of numerology. This is especially likely in such an abstract work, which is not guided by a text or any other limitation except conservativeness of musical material. These patterns and designs mean that ascertaining Bach’s intentions concerning the conclusion of Contrapunctus XIV requires much less guesswork and subjectivity than one might think.

One of the areas that is elucidated by the study of patterns and precedent is the intended length of Contrapunctus XIV. As we will see, Bach meticulously plans the lengths, subdivisions, and proportions of the polythematic fugues in Die Kunst der Fuge. When considering whether any proportional relationships exist in the work that could indicate how much longer Contrapunctus XIV should be, it seems most logical to start by examining the two triple fugues, Contrapuncti VIII and XI. This is because the forms of the polythematic fugues are mainly governed by the introduction and combination of themes. Contrapuncti VIII and XI are especially significant because as triple fugues they have more themes and sections, and therefore more in common with Contrapunctus XIV.

First, it is necessary to establish a methodology. The lengths of sections can be quantified by beats alone as well as by measures. (When counting beats, I always count quarter notes even if the movement is in cut time.) It is important to accurately calculate the exact number of beats in a section, as opposed to rounding to the nearest whole measure. This is not to say that Bach never rounds, but merely that exactitude can yield important insights.³ The lengths of sections can often be significant in and of themselves, and furthermore, once they have been accurately calculated, there are numerous relationships that can exist between sections.

The tools that seem most likely to be revealing are those of division and subtraction: to divide the lengths of sections by each other (larger by smaller or smaller by larger), or to subtract a shorter section from a longer one. We will find that many of these relationships have numerological significance that indicate intentionality behind their proportional designs.

Numerology and gematria

According to Encyclopedia Britannica, gematria is “the substitution of numbers for letters of the Hebrew alphabet, a favourite method of exegesis used by medieval Kabbalists to derive mystical insights into sacred writings or obtain new interpretations of the texts.”⁴ This concept is naturally not limited to Hebrew, although it is more easily applied to other alphabetic languages (i.e., letters represent sounds) than those that use syllabic (i.e., characters represent syllables or moras, e.g., Japanese) or logographic (i.e., characters represent words, e.g., Chinese) writing systems. Gematria and numerology are closely related, but not synonymous. All gematria might be called a subset of numerology, but not all numerology constitutes gematria. Specifically, gematria is a compartment of numerology based on assigning numerical values to letters to encode meaning.

In Appendix 1 of her book Bach and the Riddle of the Number Alphabet, Ruth Tatlow lists 33 different number alphabets. For the purposes of Bach study, the most common number alphabet is what Tatlow calls “Latin natural-order: variant 1,” shown in Figure 1.⁵

The concept behind this number alphabet is simple, but there are two important details to note: the omission of the letters “J” and “V.” Consequently, this number alphabet goes up to 24, not 26. This is particularly significant when Bach’s gematric designs incorporate his first initial, which notably is missing from this alphabet. Up until the eighteenth century, the Roman letter “I” was used to represent both the vowel sound normally associated with that vowel as well as the sound associated with the consonant “J.” Likewise, “U” stood in for “W.”⁶

This avenue of exploration in Bach’s music came to prominence in 1947 with the publication of four volumes about Bach’s cantatas by Friedrich Smend. One of Smend’s primary observations is the prominence of the number 14, now commonly associated with Bach.⁷ This number’s significance is derived from its gematric value (Figure 2).

In her book Bach’s Numbers, Ruth Tatlow points out the astonishingly serendipitous detail that the numbers corresponding to B, A, C, and H (2, 1, 3, and 8) also correspond to Bach’s birthday, March 21, 1685. Bach would have numbered dates in the order day, month, year, so his birthday would have been numerically represented as 21-3-85, if one omits the first two digits of the year.⁸ (The concluding “5” is not a part of the numerical parallel between Bach’s name and birthday.) Another number of great importance to Bach is 41: the retrograde of 14 and the sum of the letters J, S, B, A, C, and H (Figure 3). The last gematric sum of significance in this study is 55: the sum of 14 and 41. The sum of the digits one and four is also five, so another conception is that 55 represents the sums of the constituent digits of 14 and 41, placed side by side.

These three numbers appear frequently in Bach’s oeuvre. While it is outside the scope of this disquisition to catalog such instances in Bach’s broader output,⁹ it is worth noting certain appearances of these numbers in Die Kunst der Fuge. The following is a non-comprehensive list, most of which are cited from Indra Hughes’s dissertation:

• There are 14 contrapuncti. Additionally, a preliminary version of Die Kunst der Fuge, dating from the early 1740s, had 14 total movements.

• Bach likely intended to submit the work to Lorenz Christoph Mizler’s Correspondierende Societät der musicalischen Wissenschaften, an epistolary forum for the advancement of music theory. Bach waited to be admitted into this society until he would be its 14th member and commissioned the famous Hausmann portrait to commemorate his admittance—a portrait in which Bach is holding the last of his 14 Goldberg canons.¹⁰

• The first two notes of Die Kunst der Fuge theme, D and A, gematrically correspond to the numbers 4 and 1.11 The same can also be said of the first two and last two notes of Contrapunctus XIV’s first subject.

• The gematric sum of the notes comprising the original twelve-note version of Die Kunst der Fuge theme is 55. (D + A + F + D + C + D + E + F + G + F + E + D = 4 + 1 + 6 + 4 + 3 + 4 + 5 + 6 + 7 + 6 + 5 + 4 = 55)

• Contrapunctus II has 14 subject entries.¹²

• Starting in Contrapunctus V, the regular form of Die Kunst der Fuge subject has 14 notes, due to the addition of two passing tones.¹³

• The B-A-C-H motive appears in measures 40–41 of Contrapunctus V (Example 1).¹⁴

• Contrapunctus VI has 14 inverted entries.¹⁵

• Between the two double fugues (Contrapuncti IX and X), there are 14 double combinations.

• The B-A-C-H motive occurs in the alto and soprano voices of measures 40–41 of Contrapunctus X (Example 2).

• Section 1 of Contrapunctus XIV is 114-1⁄4 measures long, a mixed number with numerous allusions to 14 and 41.

• Contrapunctus XIV’s second subject has 41 notes.¹⁶

• The B-A-C-H motive is finally plainly revealed in the 14th fugue.¹⁷

• One additional gematric detail is worth consideration, although it does not use the numbers 14, 41, or 55. Bach titled the work Die Kunst der Fuga, somewhat peculiarly eschewing the German “fuge” in favor of the Italian “fuga.” Anatoly Milka has theorized a numerological explanation for this choice: the gematric sum of the letters in “Johann Sebastian Bach” is 158, which is equal to the gematric sum of the letters in “Die Kunst der Fuga.” If, however, Bach had retained the German “fuge,” the gematric sum of the work’s title would have been 162, and would therefore not have matched the gematric sum of his full name. Additionally, the sum of the numbers 1, 5, and 8 is 14.¹⁸

There are also those who cite certain gematric elements of the final measure as evidence that Bach intentionally left the work incomplete. First, the digits of the final measure—2, 3, and 9—add up to 14. Importantly, this is also the exact number of measures in the Canonic Variations on “Vom Himmel hoch da komm’ ich her,” BWV 769, for organ, another work dating from the late 1740s that Bach submitted to Mizler’s Correspondierende Societät der musicalischen Wissenschaften. Additionally, 2 + 39 = 41 and 23 – 9 = 14.

The remaining gematric details are more easily seen in the autograph, shown in Figure 4. (Note that the top staff is in soprano clef.)

• The final complete measure (measure 238) has 14 notes.

• The final two bass notes are A and D, whose gematric equivalents are 1 and 4.¹⁹ (These notes are enclosed in a black box.)

• The final harmony consists of two Ds and an F. When these pitches are converted into numbers, D is 4 and F is 6, making the gematric sum of this chord’s notes 14 (4 + 4 + 6 = 14). (These notes are enclosed in a red box.)

• In the final measure, seven of the tenor’s eight notes are on the top staff. Only the antepenultimate note, a lone A, is transferred to the bottom staff. The result is that the only two notes in the bottom staff of the last measure are D and A, whose gematric equivalents are 4 and 1.²⁰ Bach’s decision to put the A on the lower staff seems fussy unless it was done to create a gematrically significant design. (These notes are enclosed in a blue box.)

Contrapunctus VIII

Returning to the subject of proportion, let us begin with Contrapunctus VIII—a three-voice triple fugue. In Die Kunst der Fuge’s polythematic movements (i.e., Contrapuncti VIII through XI), new sections are generally delineated through the introduction of new themes. Contrapunctus VIII, however, has one additional section because Bach delays combining all three themes. All three themes are in play in Section 3 but are not presented in triple combination until Section 4. Following that model, Section 1 begins with the introduction of Theme 1 in measure 1 (Example 3), a new theme to the work that gradually descends by one octave over the course of four measures. As previously mentioned, it is important to note that Contrapunctus VIII begins with a half rest, so Section 1 does not begin until the third quarter of measure 1.

Section 2 begins on beat three of measure 39 with the introduction of Theme 2, an inverted form of B-A-C-H utilizing a repeated-note motive, in immediate combination with Theme 1 (Example 4).

Finally, Section 3 begins on beat two of measure 94, where a new form of Die Kunst der Fuge theme, characterized by downbeat quarter rests and composed mainly of quarter notes, enters.²¹ Finally, Section 4 begins on beat three of measure 147 with the first of five triple combinations. Section 1 is 38 measures or 152 beats, Section 2 is 54.75 measures or 219 beats, Section 3 is 53.25 measures or 213 beats, and Section 4 is 41 measures or 164 beats. For ease of reference, Table 1 outlines Contrapunctus VIII’s four sections.

From the chart, one can see that there is a general arch form; the two inner sections are larger than the outer two, the inner sections are almost the same length, and the outer sections are also close in length.

Keeping in mind that the most significant numbers in Die Kunst der Fuge are 14 (the sum of the letters
B + A + C + H), 41 (the sum of the letters J + S + B + A + C + H and the retrograde of the number 14), and 55 (the sum of 14 and 41), these are the numbers that would most clearly indicate intentionality in Bach’s proportional scheme. For this reason, the first step is to look for those numbers (14, 41, and 55) in Table 1. Instantly, one can see that Section 4 is exactly 41 measures. Slightly less obvious is the fact that Section 2 is almost exactly 55 bars. Another potentially significant detail is that the first triple combination occurs in measure 147—a measure beginning with the number 14 and whose latter number is half of 14. Moreover, Section 2 is exactly 55 beats longer than Section 4, and Section 3 is 213 beats long, corresponding to the letters B - A - C.

Finally, and most importantly, sections 2 and 3 are both almost exactly 1.4 times longer than Section 1. Section 3 is slightly closer to this proportion (213 / 152 ≈ 1.4013 . . .) than Section 2 (219 / 152 ≈ 1.4407 . . .). Even more incredible, the proportion between sections 1 and 2 can be rounded to 1.441, thereby combining the numbers 14 and 41! While such a specific number may sound far-fetched, this will not be the last time we see this level of detail, or indeed this exact proportion.²²

Contrapunctus XI

We now turn to Contrapunctus XI—the most adventurous and dramatic movement of the work. Contrapunctus XI is a four-voice triple fugue with an additional chromatic countersubject. It is the sister to Contrapunctus VIII in that they use the same three subjects, but Contrapunctus XI inverts them or, depending on how one looks at it, uninverts them, since Contrapunctus VIII uses the inverted forms of Die Kunst der Fuge and B-A-C-H themes and Contrapunctus XI uses the rectus forms. In the ilk of Charles Ives’s cumulative form technique, in which Ives reversed the standard model of exposition and development by beginning with fragments and motives from a theme that culminates in a plain statement of the entire theme near the end of the piece,23 it is not until Contrapunctus XI that one hears these themes turned right side up (rectus), enabling one to more easily recognize them for what they are (particularly the B-A-C-H theme, which is still masked by the addition of repeated notes in Contrapunctus XI).²⁴

Contrapunctus XI is also, from a formal and proportional perspective, the most enigmatic movement because of the presence of multiple extra sections (i.e., there are more sections than there are themes). Section 1 begins on beat two of measure 1 and introduces Theme 1, the rectus form of the rhythmically altered Die Kunst der Fuge theme from Contrapunctus VIII. Section 2 uninverts Contrapunctus VIII’s first theme and introduces a prominent chromatic countersubject (Example 5).

Section 3 unexpectedly eschews all previously introduced material and simply exposes the inverted form of Theme 1 (i.e., Die Kunst der Fuge theme). Section 4 introduces the rectus form of the B-A-C-H theme in immediate combination with Theme 2. Finally, Section 5 uses all three themes and presents three triple combinations. Table 2 outlines these sections and their respective lengths.

From this table, one can make a number of crucial observations. First, Section 1 is exactly three fifths as long as Section 2 (175 x .6 = 105), a reference to the three themes and five sections, perhaps? Second, Section 3 is .417 times longer than Section 2.²⁵ Third, Section 5 begins in measure 146 (which begins with the number 14). Fourth, Section 4 is 1.46 times longer than Section 5, meaning sections 2 and 3 have the same proportional relationship as sections 4 and 5. Finally, Section 1 is 1.438 times as long as Section 3.

At this point, all the musical evidence indicates that Bach not only meticulously controlled the proportional scheme of Contrapunctus XI but went to extraordinary lengths to use proportions and durations of numerological significance. Yet there are even more astonishing features of this movement’s proportions. First, it is worth noting the relative lengths of the different sections—specifically, that there are two overlapping arches. Sections 1 through 3 form an arch of smaller-larger-smaller, and sections 3 through 5 also form an arch of smaller-larger-smaller.

The most notable feature of this movement’s proportions reveals itself when one adds together the two smaller sections in each arch. Section 1’s 105 beats plus Section 3’s 73 beats add up to 178 beats, which is very close to Section 2’s 175 beats. This on its own may just be coincidence, but an examination of the second arch (sections 3, 4, and 5) demonstrates that it is almost certainly not, since the second arch has the same property; Section 3’s 73 beats plus Section 5’s 155 beats add up to 228 beats, which is even closer to Section 4’s 227 beats.

The numbers are even more exact if one adds measures instead of beats: Section 1’s 26.25 measures + Section 3’s 18.25 measures = 44.5, compared to Section 2’s 43.75 measures. And for sections 3 through 5, Section 3’s 18.25 bars + Section 5’s 38.75 bars = 57—extremely close to Section 4’s 56.75 measures. (This is part of the reason for measuring durations in both beats and measures; what may seem somewhat inexact when measured in beats can seem much more precise when measured in measures, particularly when rounding.)

To put this in simpler terms, Section 1 + Section 3 = Section 2, and Section 3 + Section 5 = Section 4! It is much like the Fibonacci Sequence (1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, . . .),
which adds together the previous two numbers in the sequence to produce the next number, except these numbers are out of order. (In this case, one adds outer numbers to produce the inner number, so the first and third numbers add up to the second, the third and fifth numbers add up to the fourth, etc.)²⁶

The enigma of Contrapunctus XI is Section 3. Why does Bach eschew all other themes and compose a section just for the inverted form of Theme I? After all, Theme I occurs in inversion only twice more, so it is not a particularly important thematic variant in this movement. Additionally, themes are typically treated cumulatively; Bach does not usually eschew a previously stated theme in favor of a different previously stated theme. (An example would be introducing Theme 2 and then reverting to using only Theme 1.) He will often temporarily abandon a previously established theme to introduce a new theme, but to do so for an old theme is regressive. (A typical example of the former is in Contrapunctus VIII, where Themes 1 and 2 drop out upon Theme 3’s entry but return later in combinations with Theme 3.) There are a couple exceptions in which Bach does backslide to a previous theme, but these are, without exception, because of permutational designs.

Furthermore, this section is rhythmically calmer than the surrounding sections; sections 2, 4, and 5 have fairly constant eighth-note motion, while Section 3 has more quarter-note motion. Bach has clearly assigned this section a special role. If Bach had a specific reason for doing so, one possibility is because Section 3 is the central section and links the two arches (sections 1 through 3 and sections 3 through 5). Additionally, he needed a way to clearly articulate five sections in this movement—two more than would be necessary in a triple fugue. Perhaps this was his way of accomplishing that.

So what do these analyses tell us about Bach’s intentions concerning Contrapunctus XIV? First, they demonstrate a high degree of care and intentionality in the proportional schemes of both triple fugues. For better or for worse, another key takeaway is that Bach’s proportional structures are inconsistent from movement to movement. Contrapunctus VIII is a three-voice triple fugue that has four sections that form an arch (shorter outer sections and longer inner sections), and Contrapunctus XI is a four-voice triple fugue that has five sections that can be organized into two arches.

The features that are consistent, and which will likely apply to Contrapunctus XIV, are a meticulously planned proportional design and the prevalence of the numbers 14, 41, and 55. Next, we will examine the extant part of Contrapunctus XIV to hopefully find the beginnings of a proportional structure that will shed light on the length of the movement and the sections it comprises.

Contrapunctus XIV

The challenge in an examination of the proportional relationships in Contrapunctus XIV is, of course, that the movement is incomplete. Sections 1 and 2 are complete, Section 3 is partially written, and Section 4 is missing completely. Since it takes three objects to establish a pattern (and we have only two objects in their entirety), any theories regarding Bach’s intended proportions cannot be positively proven; we do not have all the necessary information. The other complication is that if a study of the proportional relationships in Contrapuncti VIII through XI reveals anything, it is that Bach is not so simple-minded as to repeat proportional schemes between movements. This means that the principles we derived from previous proportional evolution can only broadly guide a completion of Contrapunctus XIV. What does seem likely to remain true, however, is that the numbers 14, 41, and 55 will guide the proportional schemes. Indeed, even the number of this contrapunctus appears to carry meaning.

Given that Contrapunctus XIV was clearly intended as a quadruple fugue (as proven by Gustav Nottebohm),²⁷ the most obvious division of sections would be one section per theme. (This is the same model that Bach used in Contrapunctus IX, albeit on a much smaller scale.) This would mean that Section 1 is dedicated to Theme 1, Section 2 uses themes 1 and 2, Section 3 uses themes 1, 2, and 3, and finally, Section 4 uses all four subjects—a straightforward, cumulative design.

The extant part of Contrapunctus XIV provides support for this hypothesis. In Contrapunctus XIV, the themes are treated cumulatively. Section 2 introduces Theme 2 while retaining Theme 1, eventually combining them. Section 3 introduces Theme 3 while retaining themes 1 and 2, eventually combining all three (Example 6). This is not so in Contrapuncti VIII or XI. In Contrapunctus VIII, Bach introduces Theme 3 in Section 3 but starts a new section (Section 4) to present triple combinations. Contrapunctus XI is even less straightforward; Theme 1 disappears in Section 2, and then Theme 2 disappears in Section 3. Section 4 finally uses all three themes, but not in triple combination until Section 5. The extant part of Contrapunctus XIV clearly shows a more direct approach to the exposition and combination of themes.

Now that we have established the likelihood that Bach intended Contrapunctus XIV to have a one-to-one ratio of subjects to sections, let us examine the durations and proportions of the surviving parts. The gigantic first section begins on beat three of measure 1 and goes to the downbeat of measure 115, giving it a duration of 457 beats or 114.25 measures. It seems highly serendipitous that the number of measures in Section 1 can be conveyed as 114-1⁄4—a number with numerous allusions to 14 and 41 (yet another reason to measure durations in both beats and measures). Section 2 is in a Stile antico idiom and is composed largely of quarter-note motion. Theme 1 comprises seven notes and has the interesting quality of being a melodic palindrome. (See Example 7.)

Importantly, Section 2 overlaps with Section 1 by four beats because Theme 2 enters before the other voices have completed their cadence marking the end of Section 1. Theme 2 is composed mainly of eighth-note motion and is exactly 41 notes. The increased rhythmic activity of Section 2 breaks the retrospective style of Section 1. Theme 2 is also the only theme in Contrapunctus XIV that is not presented in inversion in the extant sections (excluding Theme 4, which has not yet occurred in any version). Section 2 begins with the introduction of Theme 2 in the alto on beat two of measure 114 (another reference to 14) and continues through beat two of measure 193, making Section 2 317 beats or 79.25 measures. (See Example 8.)

Section 3 begins on beat three of measure 193 and trails off in measure 239.28 This gives the extant part of Section 3 a length of 186 beats or 46.5 measures, although these numbers may not be particularly significant as they represent only part of a section. Stylistically, Section 3 brings about another shift; the counterpoint becomes rhythmically less active, and the harmony becomes markedly more chromatic and adventurous.29 (This is partially by virtue of Subject 3’s chromatic profile and longer note values.) This marks the end of the extant part of Contrapunctus XIV. (See Table 3.)

One of the challenges of deducing Bach’s intentions is that with only two complete sections, there is not enough information to establish a pattern per se. Nevertheless, it seems likely that the sections should get shorter. As previously stated, Section 1 is truly massive; it has more measures than every movement of the work except the four polythematic fugues and takes about four minutes to perform on its own. The movement would likely feel bloated and disbalanced if there were another section even longer than this one, and indeed, Section 2 is about 30 measures shorter. A final, more subjective reason to believe that the sections will continue getting shorter is that Section 3 is clearly intensifying in both rhythmic and harmonic activity. In just 46.5 bars, it is already clearly approaching a climactic point, at which time Theme 4 will likely enter.

Bach scholar Dr. Gregory Butler of the University of British Columbia at one point theorized that each section of Contrapunctus XIV is intended to be approximately two thirds the length of the preceding section.30 He explains:

As it appears in the print in its incomplete state, this work occupies five pages. It seems clear that the finished version would have fit nicely on six pages. If we examine the relative proportions of the three extant sections of this fugue, we notice a consistent diminution in the lengths of successive sections. Moreover, section 2 (78 measures) is almost exactly two-thirds the length of section 1 (115 measures), and section 3, not quite complete, occupies forty-six measures and conceivably in its complete state would have occupied approximately two-thirds the length of section 2 (52 measures). Adhering to the same proportions, section 4 may well have occupied approximately two-thirds the length of section 3, that is, approximately thirty-four measures. This would leave approximately forty-six measures for the concluding sixth page which is exactly the average number of measures per page for the first five pages as they appear presently in the print.³¹

This theory has a number of issues. The reader may notice Butler’s use of language to indicate approximation. He rounds the sections to the nearest whole measures, and his proportional theory also relies on rounding. Furthermore, he makes mathematical errors, claiming that two-thirds of 52 bars is 34 bars when it is actually closer to 35. He then says that Section 3 needs six more measures and that Section 4 should be 34 measures—a clear sum of 40 measures—but states that this fits “exactly” with one additional page of manuscript, equivalent to 46 measures.

If there is one conclusion to be made from our examination of the proportions in the triple fugues, it is that Bach’s proportional schemes are anything but approximate. Another reason to doubt Butler’s theory is that it does not leave enough time in Section 3 to include even one more triple combination, if there is to be any connecting episodic material. Indra Hughes, whose dissertation, “Accident or Design? New Theories on the Unfinished Contrapunctus 14 in J. S. Bach’s The Art of Fugue, BWV 1080,” is one of the major contributions to Die Kunst der Fuge research, agrees that Butler’s theory is not sufficiently precise and proposes a much more specific and convincing theory.³²

While it seems likely that Bach intended each section to be shorter than the preceding one, this is not proof of a more detailed proportional relationship. Hughes, however, has discovered a feature in the autograph that indicates that the exact lengths of sections were of great importance to Bach. This detail arises from an edit that Bach made at the end of Section 1. Bach crossed out the original material in measures 111 and 112 and replaced them with three measures, thereby adding a bar. The edit can be seen in Bach’s hand in Figure 5; the two measures at the top right have been crossed out and replaced with three measures of tablature in the bottom margin. The two versions are presented in a more readable fashion in Examples 9 and 10.

Hughes argues that there is not a substantial musical difference between the first and second versions, so therefore it is likely that the reason for the edit was for Bach to correct a proportional error, an error that could be fixed by adding one bar to Section 1. In rejection of strong musical reasons for the replacement, Hughes writes the following:

It seems a curious and puzzling change for Bach to have made, and it does not seem easy to find a musical reason for the rejection of the original bars 111 and 112. If Bach had not made the change, but had left the score with those two bars unaltered, would scholars and analysts today point to them and identify them as a weak moment? Perhaps it might be argued that the new bar 111 strengthens the approach to the following cadence (bars 113–114) by the move to the subdominant that was not present in the original; and it might be argued that the new bar 113 is rhythmically very slightly more interesting than the old bar 112. But these are tiny points of argument and I am convinced that if the change had not been made, nobody would ever have criticized the old bars 111 and 112 as being weak.³³

Hughes further refines Butler’s theory by more accurately calculating the lengths of sections. Butler calculated only whole measure numbers and did not account for overlapping sections, giving him durations of 115 measures and 78 measures for the first two sections, respectively.³⁴ Hughes calculates sections 1 and 2 as being 114.25 and 79.25 measures, respectively. This means that Section 1 is approximately 1.44 times longer than Section 235—our first evidence that Contrapunctus XIV’s proportional scheme is deliberate and numerologically determined.

Hughes’s argument gains traction when one uses this proportion to calculate the length of Section 3. Section 2’s 79.25 measures divided by the hypothesized ratio of 1.44 gives a quotient of 55 measures for Section 3—the section that introduces Bach’s name as the third subject.³⁶ Now there is very little doubt that these relationships are deliberate. This also conveniently leaves time for one more triple combination before Section 3 concludes.³⁷

Hughes then calculates that Section 4 should be 38 measures (although this is a rounded figure), reaching the conclusion that the total number of missing measures is 47. While I agree loosely with most of what Hughes postulates, there are a few fallacies and inconsistencies in his calculations that must be addressed. First, Hughes concludes that the correct proportion between sections is 1.44 but provides no reason for the presence of an additional “4” in the hundredths decimal place. (The reasons for this specific number will be discussed in greater detail later.)

Second, Hughes does a fair amount of rounding while criticizing others for doing so. An example of this is his calculation that Section 4 should be “exactly 38 bars long.”³⁸ In reality, this number is not so exact; it should actually be 38.194. Of course, some rounding is necessary, but rounding to 38.25 measures (38 measures and one beat) would be closer than rounding to 38 measures even. Rounding to the nearest beat instead of the nearest whole measure would dictate that the movement ends with a downbeat quarter note. (This is assuming that Section 4 cannot begin on beat three of a measure, since Die Kunst der Fuge theme would almost certainly enter on a downbeat.)

Of course, one could get around this by ending the work with a quarter-note—perhaps with a fermata. It is perhaps, however, not a stretch to suggest that Bach might have rounded this to 38 measures so that the work could end with a whole note. This is not a detail that should be taken lightly though; to round Section 4 to the nearest measure effectively excises a measure of music from the section and the entire movement. If Section 4 is rounded to 38 measures, then the final measure (measure 286) will most likely be a whole note. If, however, Section 4 is rounded to 38.25 measures, then the final measure (measure 287) would be a quarter note with a fermata (likely sounding the same as a whole note), thereby making measure 286 the penultimate measure and freeing it up for an additional measure of cadential material.

Finally, Hughes is generally quite meticulous about the lengths of sections—and this allows him to make important contributions to proportional theory—but he makes one significant error when he notes that Section 3 begins on beat three of a measure but forgets this detail when determining where Section 3 ends. In his calculations, he incorrectly starts Section 3 on the downbeat of measure 193 instead of beat three of measure 193. This leads him to believe that Section 3 needs an additional nine measures, instead of 8.5. Truthfully, at 55 measures, Section 3 must end on beat two of measure 248, a measure whose digits add up to 14.

This means that Section 4 must either start on beat three or overlap with Section 3 by two beats, but as previously stated, it seems unlikely that Die Kunst der Fuge theme would start on beat three, making the overlap the more likely choice. To account for this overlap, one must subtract two beats from the final calculation of the intended duration of Contrapunctus XIV. This puts Hughes’s calculation off by one whole measure: two beats off for starting Section 3 too early and two beats off for not overlapping sections 3 and 4. The question of whether one should round Section 4 to the nearest beat may also potentially push Hughes’s solution off by an additional beat. Table 4 compares Butler’s, Hughes’s, and my own theories and calculations.

As previously mentioned, the problem that Hughes faces is why the proportion is 1.44 instead of simply 1.4. He excuses this concern by pointing out that the proportional relationship is consistent, if not exact, and that there are other works by Bach with proportional relationships that are close to 1.4 but not exact.

Before exploring this issue further, it is vital to remember that Bach’s ways of solving mathematical problems would have been very different from our own. Doing these problems by hand, as Bach would have done, yields three very interesting (and I believe previously undiscovered) observations. The first and most obvious is that when 114.25 is converted into a mixed number, it is 114-1⁄4, a number with several allusions to 14 and 41.39 The second comes from the fact that Bach likely would have made these calculations in improper fractions (or beats) rather than decimals to facilitate division. To take the two complete extant sections as examples, Section 1’s 114.25 bars become 457/4, and Section 2’s 79.25 bars become 317/4. If one subtracts 317 from 457, the remainder is exactly 140, another evidently Bachian number. Since we are working with quarter measures in common time, Section 1 is exactly 140 beats longer than Section 2.

The final observation comes from dividing 457 by 317. The benefit to doing this division by hand is that the solution will not include a long string of decimals that a calculator displays. It is not surprising that the first three digits of the solution are 1.44, as Hughes claims. If, however, one solves to three decimals instead of two, then the third decimal is 1, producing a quotient of 1.441. At first glance, this new solution works much better than Hughes’s. While Hughes struggled to explain why his ratio is 1.44 instead of simply 1.4, this new proportion is both more specific and more numerologically significant, as it combines the numbers 14 and 41. Furthermore, it has precedent in the work; in Contrapunctus VIII, Section 2 is 1.441 times longer than Section 1.

To determine more certainly whether this proportion is more accurate, one must test whether the extra one thousandth consistently yields results that are closer to the actual number of measures present. To start, let us take 114.25 measures and divide it by Hughes’s 1.44. This gives us 79.340. (I will consistently round to the nearest thousandth.) If, however, we divide it by my 1.441, we get 79.285—a number that is not insubstantially closer to Section 2’s actual 79.25 measures. (See Table 5.) The extra one thousandth makes a surprisingly significant difference. If we take Section 2’s 79.25 bars and divide it by 1.44, we get 55.035. If we divide it by 1.441, though, we get 54.997. Once again, this solution is slightly closer to the hypothesized 55 bars in Section 2. (See Table 6.)

The final section, however, creates problems with either theory (1.44 or 1.441). When one divides Section 3’s 55 bars by 1.44, the solution is 38.194. When one divides it by 1.441, the quotient is 38.168. (See Table 7.)

Neither of these answers is very close to a round number of measures or beats, but the latter solution is slightly lower and therefore closer to a whole measure. This may tip the scale toward the argument that Bach intended for Section 4 to be 38 measures even—not, as previously considered, 38.25 measures (which would have required the last chord to be a quarter note with a fermata). Bach probably recognized that, at some point, some rounding would be necessary in his numerological games. Bach’s genius is, after all, still bound by the laws of mathematics.

When mapping out this movement, Bach may have begun with one of two conditions: that Section 2 would be 114-1⁄4 measures or, alternatively, that Section 3, the section in which he introduces his musical signature, would be 55 measures. These numbers are both, after all, significant to Bach. He must have been quite tickled to discover that 55 x 1.441 x 1.441 ≈ 114-1⁄4, but nevertheless, he must have started with one or the other—55 or 114-1⁄4. For this reason, it may be enlightening to compare Hughes’s and my proportional theories starting from both of those numbers. Table 8 compares the two theories starting with 114.25 measures in Section 1 as the reference point.⁴⁰ Table 9 compares the proportions between Hughes’s theory and my own using 55 measures in Section 3 as the reference point.

These tables show that, regardless of which reference point one starts from, 1.441 is a consistently more accurate proportion than 1.44. Table 8 also demonstrates something else that indicates why 1.441 is the more likely solution. When one looks at the column for Hughes’s proportion, one can see that his ratio consistently gives an answer that is slightly too high. The solutions produced by a ratio of 1.441, however, are slightly too high in the cases of sections 2 and 4, and slightly too low for Section 3. This means that no other proportion can truly be said to be closer. If one uses a number any higher than 1.441, Section 3 will be less accurate, and if one uses a number any lower than 1.441, sections 2 and 4 will be less accurate. When all the answers are too high though, as in Hughes’s ratio, it is clear that the proportion can be refined.

The extra beat

The remaining issue concerning the length of Contrapunctus XIV is the length of Section 4 and whether it should be rounded to the nearest measure or nearest beat. There are a number of factors that should at least be considered. First is the purely musical issue of ending an hour-and-a-half-long work. It would be unusual to end such a work with a quarter note, but having a fermata on the note would alleviate that to a degree; the difference would then arguably be only visual. As previously mentioned, using the proportion 1.441 instead of 1.44 pushes the length of Section 4 down by a little over three hundredths (38.1679 versus 38.194), but this is an admittedly minor difference.

It may once again be revealing to consider how Bach would have done his calculations. If one uses long division to calculate the length of Section 4, as Bach must have done, then he would not have seen a long string of decimals. He could have merely solved for the nearest whole number, in which case he would have reached 38 as a final answer and been done with it. But even if he continued to solve for the first decimal, he would have seen only a “1” in the tenths place, which he still would have likely been content to round down to zero. It is not until one solves for the hundredths place and gets 38.16 that this issue arises at all. It seems likely that Bach would not have been particularly bothered by this discrepancy, if indeed he was even aware of it.

In summary, I conclude that Section 3 requires another 8.5 bars—plus filling in the remaining voices of measure 239—and that Section 4 should be 38 measures, keeping in mind that it will overlap with Section 3’s last half measure. This gives one enough time to include one more triple combination in Section 3’s remaining 8.5 bars, as well as multiple quadruple combinations and episodes in Section 4. It is not, however, so long that the drama that has been reached by measure 239 will become an anticlimax. According to this theory, the movement should be 285 measures. This is calculated by adding the lengths of the sections (114.25 + 79.25 + 55 + 38 = 286.5) and subtracting one measure for the overlap of sections 1 and 2 and another two beats for the overlap of sections 3 and 4 (286.5 – 1.5 = 285). The durations and overlaps of the four sections can be seen in Figure 6.

Large-scale numerology

Finally, let us consider the sum total of all the movements. If one counts the lengths of the mirror fugues and their mirrors, thereby doubling the lengths of the mirror fugues to 254 measures, then the entire length of Die Kunst der Fuge is 2,135 measures. The realization that my proportional theory put the entire work at 2,135 measures immediately gave me pause. This is, after all, three short of the numbers which gematrically correspond to Bach’s name: 2,138. This caused me to wonder whether Bach was also intentional about the length of the entire work, which in turn led me to test what would happen if I aimed for a sum total of 2,138 measures by increasing Contrapunctus XIV to 288 measures, rather than 285. Obviously, the durations of sections 1 and 2 are fixed and cannot be tailored. Bach left Section 3 incomplete, but my proportional theory is largely based on the numerological significance of Section 3 being 55 bars. This leaves Section 4, which according to my original theory was 38 bars. Amazingly though, adding three measures increases it to exactly 41 measures. Through the addition of just three bars, the length of Section 4 and the length of the entire work suddenly achieve great gematric meaning. The question, as always, is: was this Bach’s intention?

The real issue here is whether Bach would sacrifice the integrity of his proportional scheme to inject the entire design with greater personal numerological significance. To better judge this, we must determine the degree to which this change would affect the proportional scheme. Before doing so, however, it is worth remembering that Section 4 was already problematic. When one divides 55 (the conjectured duration of Section 3) by 1.441, the quotient is approximately 38.168, which we rounded down to 38 (after first considering whether to round to 38.25, or 38 measures and one beat). This is significantly less precise than the proportions of the previous sections (72.285 versus the actual 72.25 measures in Section 2, and 54.997 versus the conjectured 55 bars in Section 3).

When one takes Section 3’s hypothesized 55 bars and divides them by 41 bars for Section 4, the proportion is approximately 1.341. This is not terribly far off from the originally theorized proportion of 1.441. Additionally, it still ends with the numerologically significant digits “41.” It is actually quite intriguing that the two numbers only differ by one digit.

The question remains: if Bach had realized that adding three measures to Section 4 would give both the section and the entire work gematrically significant durations, would it have been worth the small concession of modifying a proportional scheme that, at this point, was already falling short?

I believe the answer is yes; Bach would have succumbed to such a temptation. In fact, it must have been the design all along. It would be quite a coincidence for Bach to see the original proportional scheme of 1.441 through to the end and only then realize that the work was three bars short of 2,138 measures. Far more likely, he began by assigning 288 measures to Contrapunctus XIV so that the sum of the work’s movements would be 2,138. Knowing that the sections would diminish in length, he then assigned 41 measures to Section 4 and 55 measures to Section 3. At this point, he switched to a more exact proportional scheme of 1.441, making Section 2 79-1⁄4 measures and Section 1 114-1⁄4 measures, the latter of which—he must have been pleased to learn—is a number with about as many references to 14 and 41 as a five-digit number can have. The length of each section can be seen in Table 10.

These sections add up to 289.5 measures, but because of a one-measure overlap between sections 1 and 2 and a half-measure overlap between sections 3 and 4, the total duration of Contrapunctus XIV will be 288 measures. Since Bach’s final bar is measure 239, Contrapunctus XIV requires 49 more measures: 8.5 more measures in Section 3 and 41 measures for Section 4, with these two sections overlapping by two beats. (See Figure 7.)

It is my hope that this document may have use outside of the narrow scope of determining the intended duration of Contrapunctus XIV; more broadly, I hope to shed a bit more light on Bach and his compositional tendencies. The topic of proportion in Bach’s oeuvre is ripe for further examination, and we have only begun to scratch the surface. By now, there is no question that Bach was an enthusiastic practitioner of Augenmusik and hid all sorts of elaborate structures in his music. The question is: will we seek them out?

Notes

1. Christoph Wolff, Bach: The Learned Musician (New York: W. W. Norton, 2000), 433.

2. Gustav Nottebohm, “J. S. Bach’s letzte Fuge,” Musik-Welt, nos. 20 and 21 (1881): 2, http://ks4.imslp.net/files/imglnks/usimg/f/fc/IMSLP348435-PMLP562864-No….

3. Counting beats in large sections can be more complicated than one might expect, particularly if the passage includes partial measures. The formula for doing so is as follows: (last complete measure – first complete measure + 1) x 4 beats + any beats from surrounding partial measures. For example, if one wanted to count the beats from beat 2 of measure 4 to beat 2 of measure 36, then one would start with 35 (the last full measure) and subtract five (the first full measure) for an answer of 30. Then add one for a sum of 31 and multiply that by four beats for a product of 124. Then add the extra three beats of measure 4 and the extra two beats of measure 36 for an answer of 129 (124 + 3 + 2 = 129).

4. Encyclopædia Britannica, s.v. “Gematria.”

5. Ruth Tatlow, Bach and the Riddle of the Number Alphabet (Cambridge, England: Cambridge University Press, 1991), 133.

6. Indra Hughes, “Accident or Design? New Theories on the Unfinished Contrapunctus 14 in J. S. Bach’s The Art of Fugue, BWV 1080” (D.M.A. diss., University of Auckland, 2006), 3–4.

7. Ibid., 4.

8. Ruth Tatlow, Bach’s Numbers (Cambridge, England: Cambridge University Press, 2015), 70.

9. For perhaps the preeminent study of this field, see Ruth Tatlow’s Bach’s Numbers. The trajectory of Tatlow’s opinion on this topic is intriguing. In her 1991 book Bach and the Riddle of the Number Alphabet, she argues against most numerological and gematric interpretations of Bach’s music. Now, after something of a Damascene conversion, she is its leading exponent.

10. Hughes, “Accident or Design?,” 18.

11. Ibid.

12. Ibid.

13. Ibid.

14. Ibid.

15. Ibid, 19.

16. Ibid.

17. Ibid.

18. Anatoly P. Milka, Rethinking J. S. Bach’s Art of Fugue, trans. Marina Ritzarev, ed. Esti Sheinberg (London: Routledge, 2017), 179.

19. Herbert Kellner, “Die Kunst der Fuga,” The Diapason 91, no. 5 (May 2000), 16.

20. Ibid.

21. In his article “Bach and Die Kunst der Fuge” (The Diapason, May 1998, pp. 15–17), Jan Overduin argues that downbeat quarter rests often symbolize death in Bach’s music.

22. As far as I am aware, the aforementioned observations were all previously undiscovered.

23. James Peter Burkholder, All Made of Tunes: Charles Ives and the Uses of Musical Borrowing (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1995), 138.

24. The notion of gradual revelation applies most aptly to the B-A-C-H theme, which occurs in only three movements: Contrapunctus VIII, in which its default form is inverted with repeated notes (i.e., most hidden); Contrapunctus XI, in which its default form is in rectus form with repeated notes (i.e., less hidden), and Contrapunctus XIV, in which it is finally stated plainly in Section 3.

25. I rounded to the nearest thousandth (0.417) so that one can see the numerologically significant part of the proportion (i.e., 0.41). If I had rounded to the nearest hundredth (0.42), its significance would have been obscured. This is not, however, a problem that Bach would have necessarily confronted. He would have solved these equations by hand, meaning he would see only as many decimals as he solved for, not the string of decimals that I see on a calculator. If he solved for only two decimals, he would have seen only “0.41.” After all, one only knows to round this number up to 0.42 if one also knows what the thousandth decimal is.

26. To the best of my knowledge, these proportional relationships were also previously undiscovered.

27. Gustav Nottebohm, “J. S. Bach’s letzte Fuge,” Musik-Welt, nos. 20 and 21 (1881): 2, http://ks4.imslp.net/files/imglnks/usimg/f/fc/IMSLP348435-PMLP562864-No….

28. Indra Hughes takes the final measure number, whose digits add up to 14, as evidence that Bach intentionally left the work incomplete and left a number of clues as to how it should be finished. See “Accident or Design? New Theories on the Unfinished Contrapunctus 14 in J. S. Bach’s The Art of Fugue, BWV 1080” (D.M.A. diss., University of Auckland, 2006), 20–21.

29. Indeed, the only other part of the work that could be said to be as harmonically daring is Contrapunctus XI.

30. Butler has since reversed this position, and now believes that the Fuga a 3 Soggetti was never intended to include Die Kunst der Fuge subject.

31. Gregory Butler, “Ordering Problems in J. S. Bach’s ‘Art of Fugue’ Resolved,” The Musical Quarterly 69, no. 1 (Winter 1983): 55, http://www.jstor.org/stable/741800.

32. Hughes, “Accident or Design?,” 84.

33. Hughes, “Accident or Design?,” 93–94.

34. Butler, “Ordering Problems in J. S. Bach’s ‘Art of Fugue’ Resolved,” 5.

35. Hughes, “Accident or Design?,” 86.

36. Ibid., 87.

37. This is because any combination will take as long as its longest theme. At six bars long, Theme 2 is the longest subject, meaning another triple combination would take at least six measures.

38. Hughes, “Accident or Design?,” 88.

39. A skeptical reader who double-checks my calculations may notice that Section 1’s 114.25 measures include the opening two beats of rest, even though I have not counted beginning rests in other movements. The original reason for this was that the calculations are much more exact if one counts 114.25 measures instead of 113.75, but this reason alone struck me as intellectually indolent. The realization though that 114.25 converts to 1141⁄4, and that counting those two beats makes Section 1 exactly 140 beats longer than Section 2 gave me some measure of peace with this decision.

40. In these calculations, it is important to start with the actual number of measures. For example, if one is determining the length of Section 3 from Section 2, then one should start from 55, not 55.035 or 54.997.

Sources

Burkholder, James Peter. All Made of Tunes: Charles Ives and the Uses of Musical Borrowing. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1974.

Butler, Gregory. “Ordering Problems in J. S. Bach’s ‘Art of Fugue’ Resolved.” The Musical Quarterly 69, no. 1 (Winter 1983): 55. http://www.jstor.org/stable/741800.

Hughes, Indra. “Accident or Design? New Theories on the Unfinished Contrapunctus 14 in J. S. Bach’s The Art of Fugue, BWV 1080.” D.M.A. diss., University of Auckland, 2006.

Kellner, Herbert Anton. “Die Kunst der Fuga.” The Diapason 91, no. 5 (May 2000): 15–17.

Milka, Anatoly P. Rethinking J. S. Bach’s Art of Fugue. Translated by Marina Ritzarev. Edited by Esti Sheinberg. London: Routledge, 2017.

Nottebohm, Gustav. “J. S. Bach’s letzte Fuge.” Musik-Welt, nos. 20 and 21 (1881): 2. http://ks4.imslp.net/files/imglnks/usimg/f/fc/IMSLP348435-PMLP562864-No….

Overduin, Jan. “Bach and Die Kunst der Fuge.” The Diapason (May 1998), pp. 15–17.

Wolff, Christoph. Johann Sebastian Bach: The Learned Musician. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 2001.