Stylistic Features of Frescobaldi and Froberger in Buxtehude’s Ciacona in C minor, BuxWV 159

John Collins has been playing and researching early keyboard music for over 35 years, with special interests in the English, Italian, and Iberian repertoires. He has contributed many articles and reviews to several American and European journals, including The Diapason, and has been organist at St. George’s, Worthing, West Sussex, England for almost 26 years.

This year we commemorate the 300th anniversary of the death of Bernardo Pasquini. Although much attention has been given in the past few decades to Pasquini’s dramatic and vocal music, of which the scores for twelve operas and seven oratorios in addition to many cantatas and motets are known to survive, his extensive corpus of keyboard music has only comparatively recently received the attention it deserves. Considered one of the major Italian composers for keyboard between Frescobaldi (d. 1643) and Domenico Scarlatti (b. 1685), Bernardo Pasquini, teacher of Francesco Gasparini (author of the influential L’Armonico Pratico al Cimbalo, Venice 1708), left well over 200 pieces for keyboard.

Sources and early editions
The great majority of Pasquini’s works are preserved in four autograph manuscripts, including 121 in the autograph MS of Landsberg 215. A further partial autograph section is included in British Library MS 31501, I–III; to be found in part I are the 14 sonatas for two bassi continui, 14 sonatas for basso solo, and in parts II and III no fewer than 314 short versi, also in figured-bass format. More substantial works in MS 31501, part I, include a long Tastata, a Passagagli with 24 variations, a set of variations on the Follia and, at the end of the section, numerous short arie, more of which are to be found in part II. A few toccatas are also to be found in British Library MS 36661, which almost certainly predates the autographs by some years.
Very few of his works were published during his lifetime; three pieces entitled Sonata, ascribed to N.N. of Roma, were published in 1697 in a collection by Arresti, two of which were included in an English “abridged” edition, and other pieces were included in a collection of toccatas and suites published in 1698 by Roger of Amsterdam, which also appeared in England in 1719 and 1731. Others were included in assorted manuscripts; see bibliography for further details. In the preface to his edition of MS 964 at Braga, Portugal, Gerhard Doderer has speculated that some of the over 30 Italian (mainly Roman) compositions included therein (on folios 218–230 and 253–259) may well have been composed by the school of Pasquini, if not by Pasquini himself; certainly some of his compositions seem to have been known throughout Europe.
Pasquini’s compositions for keyboard cover all the main genres of his time, embracing some seventeen dance suites (although the term suite is not used in the manuscripts) as well as single movements, fourteen variations on both self-composed arias and stock basses, four passacaglias, sonatas including the 28 figured bass pieces mentioned above, over 30 toccatas and tastatas, about a dozen contrapuntal works, and a large number of versets. His numerous pupils in Rome included Casini, Zipoli, and possibly Durante and Domenico Scarlatti, in addition to J. P. Krieger and Georg Muffat, as well as Della Ciaja, who published a set of mercurial four-movement toccatas and retrospective ricercars and versets. It is highly probable that Handel met Pasquini in Rome in the early 1700s.

Modern editions
In addition to the facsimile edition of the Landsberg MS, there are two modern editions of his pieces. An edition by Maurice Brooks Haynes for the Corpus of Early Keyboard Music (American Institute of Musicology) was issued in seven volumes in 1964; this had the advantage of grouping pieces by genres rather than following the somewhat haphazard order in the manuscripts, but contained many printing errors and a somewhat sketchy approach to sources and evaluation. A new seven-volume edition, under the general editorship of Armando Carideo and Edoardo Bellotti, was issued in 2002; the first volume contains 60 versets and a pastorale from a recently discovered manuscript in Bologna, edited by Francesco Cera. The pieces from the Landsberg manuscript are included in volumes 2–5, with the pieces from MS 31501 in volumes 6 and 7. A further volume containing pieces from other sources, including as yet unpublished fugues in three and four voices as well as pieces of uncertain attribution, is in preparation. This edition is far more accurate but unfortunately much harder to obtain; see the bibliography at the end of this article for full details of these editions.
Below I shall summarize Pasquini’s extant keyboard music by genre; despite its shortcomings, I have used the AIM edition, and all numbers and titles cited are from this edition. Because of their extremely limited interest to the average player, I have not included the fascinating figured-bass sonatas for one and for two players, or the figured-bass versos, in this discussion.

Contrapuntal works
Pasquini is known to have made copies of the works of Palestrina and Frescobaldi, the influence of the latter being identifiable in both the toccatas and the contrapuntal works. Only eleven pieces that fall into this category seem to have survived, and two of these are incomplete. Those that survive are variable in quality, but several of them demonstrate the continuation of the variation technique so prevalent in Frescobaldi—they are included in book 1 of the Haynes edition. The first piece, in D minor, is entitled Capriccio by Haynes (although in the manuscript it is entitled Fantasia); its first section closes in the dominant and second section in the tonic. Both sections move mainly in quarter and eighth notes. In the third section the subject is introduced in 16th notes, followed by a triple-time section in 3/2. The piece concludes with a return to C time, the subject in its original time being accompanied by florid 16th-note writing (see Figures 1a–1d).

The second piece, entitled Capriccio, opens with a ricercar-like subject in 4/2, followed by a triple-time section in 3/2 that moves into 6/4, and a closing section of six bars consisting of half-note chords against 16th-note figures derived from the opening subject. The following short binary form piece is headed “Sigue al capriccio antecedente.” The third piece, regrettably incomplete in the MS, is entitled Fantasia and is another slower-moving, backward-looking work in quarter and eighth notes. The fourth piece, a ricercar in 4/2, is also slow-moving, on an archaic subject that proceeds through its 100 bars in half and quarter notes, with further subjects appearing during the piece.
By far the longest piece at some 345 bars is the Ricercare con fuga in più modi. This piece is in many sections, including the subject in diminution to half and quarter notes from bar 69, a return to original values from bar 123, a section in 6/4 from bar 209 to 246, which includes 16th-note writing, a section in C time that closes in bar 265 followed by a further section in 6/4 to bar 311, after which 12/8 takes over to the close of the piece. There is scope for shortening this piece, which makes considerable demands upon the performer.
Of the three pieces entitled Canzone Francese, the first in C major runs to only 32 bars, the second in F opens with the typical canzona rhythm of quarter note followed by two eighth notes and has a second section in 6/4, and the third piece in A minor opens with six repeated eighth-note Es (the repeated note fugal subject was very common in Germany as well as Italy, with examples by Reincken, Pachelbel, Kerll, and Buttstedt, among others) and soon becomes a moto perpetuo in 16th notes, which slows to eighth and quarter notes briefly in bar 56, the 16th notes taking over again in bar 66. A deceleration achieved via a cadence leads to a section barred in 3/4 (although headed 6/8), which starts in bar 106 and runs to bar 157. Of the next section entitled Alio modo la tripla, only seven bars survive, a great pity since this piece is of a high standard (see Figure 2a–2b). The ninth piece, of 24 bars, entitled Fuga, is an example of very loose imitative writing; the subject in the RH has LH passagework beneath it immediately.
Of the two pieces entitled Sonata, the first is also a loosely fugal work with a subject that opens with an ascending run of six 16th notes followed by an eighth note, another eighth note an octave below, and then returning to the note—now a quarter—before falling a tone, where the sequence is repeated a third below the original opening note. The second sonata opens with a short toccata-like flourish over a pedalpoint, followed by quarter-note chords modulating to the dominant; the second section is imitative, the subject rising a fifth in eighth and 16th notes, and has similarities to a Corellian fugue. Both were included under the name of “N. N. di Roma” in a collection of 18 sonatas for organ by various authors printed in Bologna ca. 1697, of which twelve pieces, including no. 10 here, were included in a London reprint by Walsh & Randall ca. 1710.
The two ricercars, nos. 139 and 140 in volume 7 of the Haynes edition, are both in G minor, the first opening with a canzona rhythm (half note followed by two quarter notes, all at the same pitch, in this case D) and proceeding in mainly quarter-note movement with a few eighth-note runs and two RH runs of 16th notes, bar 25 being repeated an octave higher at bar 34. There is tonal ambiguity at the close of the subject, which covers the minor scale descent from E-flat to G via B-natural followed by B-flat, which lends the piece charm. No. 140 is a longer piece at 83 bars that also proceeds mainly in quarter notes, with a further example of tonal ambiguity in the subject (also between B-flat and B-natural). Of interest are the written-out trill in the treble commencing on the upper note in bar 19 and the written-out alto trill in the penultimate bar with its Lombardic rhythm in the first two beats.

Suites, individual dances, and arias/bizzarrias
Pasquini’s seventeen “suites” for keyboard that are included in volume two of the Haynes edition are probably the first such examples in the Italian keyboard literature that contain several dances grouped together in the same key—the term “suite” is not used in the manuscript. They include Alemanda, Corrente and Giga, based, however, not on the examples of Froberger and the French school, but rather on Italian ensemble music. Several movements are untitled, others carry such terms as Bizzarria; but since the movements are grouped by key, they may well have been intended to form unified groups as presented in this volume. These “suites” comprise two to four movements in various combinations. Also included in this volume are several short pieces in binary form, including four entitled Bizzarria and no fewer than twenty-eight entitled Aria, all of which are attractively tuneful. By their nature the dances, bizzarrias, and arias are more suited to stringed keyboard instruments, although performance on a chamber organ would have been quite probable; for this reason a more detailed account has been omitted here.

Variations
These pieces are to be found in volumes three and four of the Brooks Haynes edition. The twenty-two sets of variations include four based on dance movements with just one or two variations, two sets on the Follia, two on the Bergamasca, with a further one on its Saltarello, and four sets entitled Variationi based on aria/dance-like themes that may well have been by Pasquini himself. Further sets are entitled Capricciose a Inventione (perhaps implying an original theme), Partite diverse sopra Alemanda, and Fioritas, with another set being entitled simply Variationi. Four passagaglie complete this genre.
A Bizzarria has just one variation in which the RH has the 16th-note figuration in the first half, the LH in the second; an untitled piece that is almost certainly an Alemanda has two variations in flowing 16th notes; a Corrente mainly in quarter notes has one variation in eighth notes; and a Sarabanda also mainly in quarter notes, some dotted, has one variation in 16th notes in which parts appear and drop out at will.
The set of variations on Fioritas has only six variations, but the manuscript contains the heading 7th, which clearly implies that Pasquini intended to write more. The Variationi Capricciose, on another tuneful theme that may have been original, is in seven partite. The theme is the first, the second in 3/4 is headed “in corrente”, the fourth is a sarabanda, the fifth in 6/4 is in quarter-note motion, and the sixth in C time makes great demands on the player, with an extended trill in the alto in each half as well as occasional simultaneous trills in the tenor. The final variation is in 3/4, with LH 16th notes against a mainly chordal RH in the first half and at the conclusion of the second half.
Of much greater substance are the remaining three sets: the Variationi a Inventione contains eleven partite; again the theme is considered to be the first variation (its first half has mainly chords in the RH over a moving eighth-note bass; the second half sees more 16th-note movement in the RH over quarter-note chords or moving eighth notes). The third set in 6/4 is in quarter-note movement in one part against dotted half-note chords throughout; the fourth, although headed 12/8, is barred in 3/4 and 6/4, this time with 16th-note passagework formed from a sequential figure against chords. The fifth to seventh sets are headed Corrente and are distinctly backward-looking, being similar to Frescobaldi’s Corrente in his two books of Toccate. Broken chord figures feature in the sixth, and insistent eighth-note movement appears in the seventh. In the eighth and ninth sets there is a further reminder of Frescobaldi in the time signatures: in the eighth the RH is in C time against 6/4 in the LH (see Figures 3a and 3b).
In both hands, eighth notes are grouped in duple as well as triple rhythms, and the figure of dotted quarter followed by two 16ths is passed between the hands. In the ninth partita, the RH is in 12/8 against a LH of 8/12, with the insistent pattern of dotted eighth followed by 16th. The tenth partita is headed 3/4 but barred as 6/4, again a corrente in form, with more broken-chord writing, sometimes in contrary motion between the hands. The final partita is headed Gagliarda and is unusually in C time (examples in C time are also to be found in Pasquini’s Spanish contemporary Juan Batista Cabanilles). Further broken chord figures and figures of ascending or descending thirds with the first note held on occur throughout, and neat syncopations in thirds in the RH appear towards the end of the second part.
The theme of the Partite diverse sopra Alemanda moves in quarter notes, but each half is followed by a written-out repeat in eighth notes, with imitation between the parts, broken chords, and contrary motion. The theme is followed by seven partitas, the first of which is in 16th-note movement, with the by-now usual figuration. The second, in binary form, is another rhythmic conundrum, with the RH in C12/6, and the LH in C6/12; this can be played most successfully as 12/8, much of it being in two parts only. The third, fifth, sixth, and seventh partitas are all headed 3/4 but barred in 6/4, the fourth actually being headed 6/4. In the third, flowing eighth notes soon give way to treble and bass quarter notes, with an alto eighth note after a rest, a figure that becomes wearing when used so relentlessly as here. The fourth partita moves in quarter notes, the second half opening with one bar of eighth-note imitation before a figure of rest followed by two quarter notes is passed between the hands.
The fifth partita has broken-chord writing in the RH over a quarter-note bass, with the LH also having broken chords in the repeats; in most of the piece, the top and bottom notes in figures are held on to produce a tonal build-up, but this is relieved in the middle of the piece by only the bass notes being held, which has the effect of acceleration. The sixth partita is based around a five-note eighth-note figure passed between the hands, while other parts have held half notes or dotted half notes; occasionally a third part in quarter notes is used as well. The final partita has continuous, mainly conjunct eighth-note motion against either full chords or just one other voice, concluding with a veritable virtuoso flourish of eighth notes in contrary motion.
The work entitled Variationi occupies some twenty pages in the Haynes edition, and consists of a theme in C time in mainly two-part texture in quarter and eighth notes followed by thirteen partite. The first is mainly RH eighth notes against LH 16th notes, the second is in 3/4 and, although not headed as such, is a corrente with a preponderance of two-part writing. The third partita is headed altro modo and has far more arpeggiated eighth-note motion. The fourth is headed 3/4, but only two bars are in this rhythm, the rest being in 6/8, again with much arpeggiated figuration beginning on the second eighth note. The fifth is in 16th notes, with frequent rhythmic imitation; the sixth is in 3/4 with eighth notes, sometimes in broken-chord format, against quarter notes; the seventh has mainly conjunct eighth notes against quarter notes in the first section, the second section with eighth notes in arpeggiated figures.
The eighth variation is another Frescobaldian corrente, with mainly quarter-note movement in the RH, against either quarter notes, dotted half notes, or half notes in the LH. The ninth has an oscillating 16th-note figure in the LH, with RH eighth notes. The tenth is constructed entirely around an eighth note in the RH followed by two 16ths in the LH, frequently in octaves. The eleventh is another movement with extended trills—in the first section placed in the alto lasting throughout the section, in the second in the tenor for just the first six beats after which imitative passagework against half notes progresses (see Figure 4).
Although the twelfth partita is headed Sarabanda, it has more in common with a corrente as it progresses in quarter-note motion with several instances in the RH of the figure of dotted quarter bearing a t (for trill) followed by two 16th notes and a quarter. The final partita is in 3/4; after the first bar it is in two parts with eighth-note figuration throughout, sometimes in contrary, sometimes in parallel motion, but also with one hand moving quite differently from the other; this virtuosic movement brings the work to a fine close. It may have been intended as a compendium of compositional techniques for students. There is a precedent in Bernardo Storace’s Passo e Mezzi in his Selva of 1664 for including variations headed corrente and gagliarda.
Together with Buxtehude’s roughly contemporary arias, the four sets of variations based on aria/dance-like themes are some of the earliest examples of keyboard variations on original subjects after Frescobaldi’s Aria detta La Frescobalda; they almost certainly pre-date Pachelbel’s set of six arias with variations published in 1699 as Hexachordum Apollinis; they have six, five, eight, and ten variations respectively (although in the latter there seems to be an error in the Haynes edition: what looks like the second half of the binary form theme is headed variation 1; this would mean that there are actually only nine variations). The first three are in the rhythm of a gavotte. All of the themes are in C time, but the first set contains variations in 3/4 and 6/8; the second has two in 6/8 including the final one; the third has two in 6/8 (one headed as 3/4, which may just be a remnant of the tempo theory mentioned by Frescobaldi in his books that related tempi to time signatures); and the final one has variations in 3/4, 6/8, 3/8 and one that is in 3/8 in the manuscript, although barred as 6/8. Again there is much variety of texture including pseudo-polyphony, violin-like figuration in the RH, and sequential figuration, with several variations requiring an advanced technical ability.
The two sets based on La Follia are very different in character. The first has fourteen variations after the initial statement and displays Pasquini’s mastery in transferring the string idiom to the keyboard in a wide variety of rhythms. Noteworthy are the continuous triplet eighth notes in the RH in variations 5 and 9, and the LH in variation 6, the figure of three quarter notes followed by a burst of 16th notes in the RH of variation 7 (see Figure 5), the virtuoso passagework for both hands in variation 10, the highly chromatic RH in the thirteenth, and the written-out trills and eighth-note figures in the final variation.
The second set has only three variations, which move in eighth notes, with thematic imitation prevalent in the first and second, and rhythmic imitation (quarter note or rest followed by two eighths and a quarter) in the final variation. The Bergamasca sets are similarly varied, with eight and twenty-four in the C time sets, and seventeen in the Saltarello, which is in 3/8 as would be expected. Although in the longer works some of the movements do not rise above the formulaic, there are many variations that carry the melodic freshness and tunefulness of an accomplished composer.
The four passagaglias are in B-flat, with twenty variations on the theme, C with seventeen (with probably more either not transmitted or never completed), D minor with twelve (again almost certainly incomplete), and G minor with twenty-four. All stress the second beat and apart from the C major, which is chordal and in 3/2 and is closer to a ciacona, they are melodic and in 3/4 (see Figures 6a and 6b). The writing in the B-flat and G minor pieces becomes increasingly virtuosic as they develop.

Toccatas and Tastatas
In volumes five and six of the Haynes edition, thirty-four pieces are entitled either Toccata (twenty-five) or Tastata (nine), there is one piece entitled Preludio, one Sonata–Elevazione; one Sonata in two sections, the second headed Pensiero; two further toccatas are included in volume 7. The choice of keys is still very conservative, not exceeding two flats, which is used for no. 83 in C minor, and two sharps used for no. 81 in A major. Space does not permit a detailed discussion of this substantial contribution to the repertoire, therefore comments have been limited to generalizations and to those pieces that are of greater interest.
Most of Pasquini’s pieces are in one movement, but at least five (70, 98–101) are in several sections, of which nos. 98–101 are included in the earlier British Library MS 36661. No. 70 is one of the most ambitious, the sections being in C time, 3/4, C time, concluding with a binary-form corrente-like movement with a variation. No. 71 opens with two bars of chords suitable for arpeggiations (indeed, in no. 94 the instruction “arpeggio” is included, relating to the first two chords) before motives are passed from hand to hand over long-held pedal notes; also featured are passages in parallel tenths (see Figure 7).
There are several toccatas that either open with chords or contain chordal passages within the piece; in some the instruction to arpeggiate is included, in others it is implicit (see Figure 7a). Pedals are also required in no. 101 throughout the first section, which is markedly similar to Frescobaldi’s Toccata Quinta from his second book; the second section is imitative, starting in C time followed by a variation in 3/2 before a short closing section in C time in which 16th-note passagework against quarter-note chords is passed from hand to hand, the final four bars again requiring the pedals for the long-held notes.
Several pieces include the old Frescobaldian written-out accelerating trill commencing on the upper note (two 16th notes followed by four 32nds) (see Figure 7b); in others it is implied via the letter t placed over the first note, normally a dotted eighth followed by a 16th one degree below. Although quite a few of Pasquini’s toccatas do contain passages that remind the player of Frescobaldi’s writing, there is not the same degree of nervous discontinuity and far more reliance on sequential writing.
It would seem unlikely that most of the suggestions on playing toccatas contained in Frescobaldi’s prefaces to his two books are applicable to these examples, although there is scope for shortening those pieces that are presented in sections, and some of Pasquini’s pieces do indeed carry the indication to arpeggiate half-note chords. Certainly there does not seem to be any reason to adopt Frescobaldi’s suggestion of dotting 16th notes in those passages in which eighth notes in one hand are set against 16ths in the other. However, his injunctions to treat the beat freely can be applied cautiously here, as can the eminently sensible comments on pausing before beginning passages in 16th notes in both hands and retarding the tempo at cadences. In the longer sequential passages, there can be a judicious slackening and taking up again of the tempo to allow the music to breathe and not degenerate into mechanistic exercises. Almost certainly, all trills should commence on the main note, this being appropriate also for every compositional genre.
One of the most popular and virtuosic pieces is no. 81, the Toccata con lo scherzo del cucco, which is based on the descending minor third. The cuckoo call is heard in eighth notes against 16th-note passagework, punctuated by sections in half notes marked arpeggio or by the nervous rhythms and modulations by chords of the seventh. At bar 47 the RH breaks briefly into triplets (although printed as 32nd notes they are actually 16th notes), and from bar 79 onwards a long-held A, first in the tenor and then in the alto, is marked trillo continuo, which will pose a most severe test to the player to maintain it against the other part to be played by the same hand. This piece is not too dissimilar to Kerll’s own toccata on the same theme (see Figure 7c).
The Elevazione-Adagio (no. 105) is also included in the Arresti publication, where it is entitled Sonata; after a slow introduction the writing continues in 16th-note figuration based effectively on sequences. The second piece entitled Sonata (no. 106) is in two sections: seventeen bars of 16th-note figures passed from hand to hand are followed by a short chordal link marked arpeggio that leads to further sequential passages. The second section, headed Pensiero—itself in two sections—is nothing like the intricate contrapuntal pieces of that name published in 1714 by Giovanni Casini, but opens with imitative passages based on a rhythmic motive, before its second section opens with passages derived from a further rhythmic motive that leads into passages based on the rhythmic motive of the first section and its inversion.
The one piece entitled Preludio, no. 95, is also in two sections, the first alternating long-held chords with 16th-note passagework against chords passed from hand to hand. The second section is again based on passagework passed between the hands, varying between conjunct movement and from bar 64 arpeggiated figures (see Figure 7d).
The two toccatas included in volume seven (nos. 141 and 142) are each in three sections, an opening and closing one in C time enclosing central sections in 12/8 and 3/2 respectively. In no. 141 much is made of sequential figures and trills, both indicated and implied; the 12/8 section is homophonic and leads to a final section in C time, which makes much of seventh chords, before a brief coda based on two 16th notes followed by an eighth note passed from right hand to left hand; a written-out trill in the left hand against this figure is reminiscent of Frescobaldi. In no. 142 the opening consists of four bars of 16th notes covering from treble G to tenor C, before a passage over a held tenor G moves into a section that includes a further example of a chromatic progression on the third of the scale, prefiguring the imitative triple-time section; the closing C time consists of only two bars—in the penultimate bar the LH consists of a written-out trill, with closing notes on tenor B, the opening two beats being a C–B in reversed dotted rhythms.

Versetti, Pastorale and other works
Francesco Cera has recently published a group of pieces that he discovered in a manuscript in Bologna. Included are an Introduzione e Pastorale, and 60 Versetti. The 27-bar Introduzione leads into a Pastorale of almost 90 bars. Both are in triple time and make much use of a dotted rhythm. Long-held notes in soprano, alto, and bass imitate the droning of bagpipes, and particularly noteworthy is the use of the Neapolitan sixth as well as the false relation (see Figure 8).
The Versetti are mainly short imitative pieces, many not exceeding five bars (they are similar to the short versetti in the 1689 collection from Augsburg known as Wegweiser), but five of them (nos. 33, 34, 42, 43, and 45) are miniature toccatas, with 16th notes against held chords. The first four of these are built on passagework against held chords, but there is some imitative writing in no. 45 (see Figures 9a–9c).
The grouping by keys in the manuscripts implies use as a series (see table). The subjects of the versetti range from archaic subjects in longer note values (nos. 1, 2, 9, and 46, for example) to more lively subjects using eighth and 16th notes (such as nos. 4, 6, 8, 13, and 14, etc,). A canzona-like dactylic rhythm of eighth note followed by two 16ths and two eighths is common, as is the figure of two 16th notes followed by two eighths and a quarter. Also notable is the insistent giga-like rhythm of dotted quarter followed by an eighth and quarter in almost every bar of no. 54. The most lively is no. 49, with its subject in 16th notes treated in inversion at the end.
There is one example in 3/8 and three in 6/8 in equal eighth notes, two in 3/2, and 10 in 3/4, with the majority in C or cut C. The part writing is relatively loose but effective. Keys used cover up to A major and C minor, with the old key signatures of one less accidental than present usage retained (i.e., two sharps and flats respectively).
Also included in Haynes’s volume seven are ten short pieces (from four to fifteen bars) without title, which are tentatively entitled Versi by Armando Carideo in volume seven of the Italian edition. Four of these are in 3/4 and have mainly continuous eighth-note motion in one hand against long chords, while the others in C time are close to the miniature toccata style noted in the versetti above. There are ten Accadenze (or cadences), which again are very short, with either toccata-like figures or based on short rhythmic figures. A different Pastorale opens with a repeated multi-section movement in 3/2 leading to a movement in C time full of dactyl rhythms, which includes the traditional drone bass that disappears and reappears at will.

Performance practice
A few general notes on performance practice relating to 17th-century Italian organ music may be helpful in determining answers to some frequently asked questions.
Ornaments: The only ornament sign found in Pasquini’s pieces is the letter t, which occurs on note values down to a 16th note. It is found frequently over the first note of a dotted eighth-16th pair (and by extension should probably be played in this figure even when not specifically indicated) and indicates a trill, probably better commencing on the main note, especially in the more retrospective pieces. It is worth mentioning, however, that Lorenzo Penna does describe the trill beginning on the upper auxiliary in his Li Primi Albori Musicali of 1656, reprinted in 1672, 1684 and 1696. On short notes only three notes (i.e., C-D-C) can be played; on longer values there can be more repercussions, possibly even pausing on the main note before trilling. It is also possible that an ornament equivalent to the mordent or pincé, with the lower auxiliary (i.e., C-B-C), could be used in ascending passages, particularly in pieces in the French style. In two pieces (Variazioni 11 and Toccata con lo scherzo del cuccu) the comment “Trillo continuo” is found. The instruction “Arpeggio” is found in some of the toccatas. Naturally there are possibilities for adding further ornaments when not expressly marked, although care should be taken not to use anachronisms such as the turn.
Fingering: This was still based on the concept of “good” and “bad” fingers for strong and weak beats, which was described in great detail by Diruta in Il Transilvano in 1593 and 1609, when he proposed using 2 and 4 as strong fingers, in direct contrast to other European treatises of the period; but during the 17th century, more theorists (including Penna, and Bismantova in his Compendio musicale of 1677) were following Ban-
chieri’s use in L’organo suonarino of 1605 of 3-4 in the RH for ascending and 3-2 for descending when beginning on strong beats, and beginning off-the-beat passages with 2 or 4 in the RH for ascending and 4 for descending.
For the LH, 3-2 is recommended for ascending when beginning on strong beats, and beginning off-the-beat passages with 2 or 4 on weak beats, and 3-4 for descending when beginning on strong beats, and beginning off-the-beat passages with 2 or 4 on weak beats. Also used were 1-2-3-4, then either repeated or followed by 3-4 for RH ascending and 4-3-2-1 repeated descending, and in the LH 4-3-2-1 for ascending, then either repeated or followed by 2-1 and 1-2-3-4 descending, then either repeated or followed by 3-4 in LH descending.
Articulation: While non-legato was still the main touch, apart from rapid divisions and passagework, the gaps between notes should be noticeably less on the organ than on the harpsichord, as described by Diruta. Not until well into the eighteenth century did a predominantly legato touch become the norm.
Registration: The Italian organ of the seventeenth century generally showed little advance on the Renaissance model, consisting primarily of a Principale chorus on one manual, from 8′ right up to the 33rd, in separate ranks that could be combined to form a Ripieno. Flute ranks were present at 4′, 22⁄3′ and 2′, but very rarely at 8′, and were not recommended for combining with the Ripieno, and reeds were also rare in most of the country, although the trumpet was very common in Rome. In addition, during the seventeenth century a Flemish influence made an impact on native development, including provision of a second manual allowing dialogues and echo effects. The manual compass was extended from a3 to f3. The Principale, and sometimes the Ottava, flute, and reed stops were divided, usually between middle e and f or f and f-sharp.
There is no evidence that Pasquini adhered to Diruta’s system of registration by mode included in the 1609 volume of Il Transilvano, but the legacy of Antegnati in offering registrations based on the type of piece and its function in his 1608 volume were still followed well into the seventeenth century (e.g., for Canzone alla Francese, the Ottava plus Flauto in ottava [4′ Flute], Principale plus either Ottava or Flauto in ottava plus Flauto in duodecima [Twelfth Flute], or even Principale plus Flauto in duodecima were suggested).
There is plenty of scope for varied and contrasting registration in many of Pasquini’s works in sections or multiple movements, but performers on modern organs need to ensure clarity and to avoid heavy reeds and fat Open Diapasons. It should be noted that pedals, if present, consisted in the main until well into the 18th century and later of pulldowns from the short octave bass in the manual, and covered an octave from C to B, with the only black note being a B-flat; some added the tenor C, and occasionally eleven notes were found, including an E-flat and A-flat. Playable in most cases by toes only, their function was primarily for long-held bass notes or to reinforce cadences. Very few instruments had a 16′ Contrabassi.
Tempi—Proportional notation: There is an interesting description of how to play triple-time (including 6/4 but not 12/8) sections in Frescobaldi’s prefaces to his books of toccatas and capricci, which, contrary to other theorists’ work, are NOT based on exact proportional interpretation but on speed by time signatures, ranging from adagio for 3/1 to allegro in 6/4, but there is no evidence from later theorists as to how proportions were treated. A mathematical rhythmic proportion can be applied successfully in Pasquini’s contrapuntal pieces far more readily than in his toccatas.
The great majority of Pasquini’s works can be performed successfully on harpsichord, organ or clavichord, although the suites and dance movements are clearly better suited to the stringed instruments. Many are not overly difficult, and their melodic charm will provide many hours of pleasure to players, from informed amateurs to professionals. In this anniversary year of his death, the best possible commemoration would be for his pieces to take their place in concerts.

Jeffrey Patry is director of music and organist at Sacred Heart Church in Robbinsdale, Minnesota. A graduate of St. Olaf College, he studied organ and church music with Douglas Cleveland and John Ferguson. Kraig Windschitl is principal organist at Mount Olivet Lutheran Church in Minneapolis, Minnesota. A graduate of St. John’s University and Indiana University, he studied organ and church music with Kim Kasling, Larry Smith, and Marilyn Keiser. Photo credit: Jayne Latva

The 28th annual International Organ and Church Music Institute took place June 24–26, hosted by the School of Music, Theatre, and Dance at the University of Michigan, Ann Arbor. Under the direction of Marilyn Mason, university organist and organ department chair, this year’s conference focused on the music of Dietrich Buxtehude (1637–1707) as well as liturgical music, in a variety of workshops, lectures, and recitals.
For the opening of the institute, a recital featuring organist/harpsichordist Michele Johns, professor of church music at the University of Michigan; baroque violinist Tapani Yrjölä, chair of the string department at Joensuu Conservatory, Finland; and tenor David Troiano took place in the Blanche Anderson Moore Hall, which houses the 35-rank “Marilyn Mason” organ by Fisk. Composers represented were Buxtehude, Corelli, and J. S. Bach, including the Ciaccona in c minor, performed in celebration of the 300-year anniversary of Buxtehude’s death.
The same evening, Kim Kasling, professor of organ and liturgical music studies at St. John’s University, Collegeville, Minnesota, and organist emeritus at the Cathedral Basilica of St. Mary, Minneapolis, performed a recital of Böhm, Buxtehude, Alain, and Reger on the Frieze Memorial Organ in Hill Auditorium. This grand organ was built and rebuilt by Farrand & Votey, Hutchings, E. M. Skinner, and Aeolian-Skinner—truly a marvel in both sight and sound! A highlight of the recital was the Ann Arbor premiere of the Reger Fantasie and Fugue in d minor, op. 135b, in the original uncut score. This monumental work called for the full resources of both organ and organist, a stunning, bravura match rewarded with repeated applause and shouts of “Bravo!”
The following morning began with Dr. Kasling’s presentation on “Buxtehude, Böhm, and Muffat—Common Ground.” Kasling explored and demonstrated stylus phantasticus, Italian and French styles germane to all three composers. A specific work performed was Muffat’s Toccata Duodecima et Ultima, a real delight, heard in the reverberant Blanche Anderson Moore Hall on the Marilyn Mason organ built by Fisk.
Throughout the institute, break-out sessions were presented by Johan Van Parys, director of worship and the sacred arts at the Cathedral Basilica of St. Mary in Minneapolis. Topics covered worship as a ritual behavior, as a sensual experience, and as a conscious, pre-conscious, and post-conscious experience.
Margarete Thomsen, liturgical consultant as well as former music director and organist at Good Shepherd Lutheran Church, Redford, Michigan, presented “Buxtehude and the Chaconne.” The evolution of the chaconne and passacaglia was discussed using examples such as the Passacaglia in d minor, the Ciaccona in e minor, and the Ciaccona in c minor. Dr. Thomsen brought the session to a close with the performance of the Prelude, Fugue, and Ciaccona in C Major.
“Organs—Ancient through Contemporary” was led by Erven Thoma, music director and organist for Martin Luther Chapel, East Lansing, Michigan, and Helmut Schick, organ historian and curator in southern Michigan. Beautiful slides and superb recordings were enjoyed by an enthusiastic audience. Examples included the Jörg Ebert organ at the Hofkirche, Innsbruck, Austria, which dates back to 1558; François-Henri Clicquot of 1790 at the Cathedral of St. Pierre Poitiers in Vienne, France; and most recently the M. P. Möller/ Goulding & Wood at the Basilica of the National Shrine, Washington, DC, heard in a stunning recording of the third dance from Alain’s Trois Danses, performed by Marilyn Mason.
Later that evening at Hill Auditorium, DMA candidate Luke Davis performed the music of Johannes Brahms—the Eleven Choral Preludes, op. 122, as well as the Sonata in E-flat for clarinet and piano, op. 120, no. 2, with Ryan Lohr, clarinet. As a unique touch to the program, Davis intoned each chorale from the organ bench.
On the final day, Marijim Thoene, a University of Michigan alumna, presented “The Influence of Frescobaldi and Froberger on Buxtehude.” Harmonic structure and rhythmic motifs were analyzed in Frescobaldi’s Cento Partite sopra Passacaglia and Froberger’s Canzona No. 6, in relation to Buxtehude’s Ciaccona in c minor. Dr. Thoene performed the Buxtehude Ciaccona on the Marilyn Mason organ, and the Froberger Canzona No. 6 on the Willard Martin harpsichord.
Later that afternoon, Marilyn Mason graciously invited all institute participants to an open console at Hill Auditorium. Given the massive size of the instrument, Dr. Mason willingly assisted those at the organ.
That evening, DMA candidate Marcia Heirman performed a program of Franck, Schroeder, Saint-Saëns, Reger, Messiaen, and Vierne. A welcome conclusion to the institute was this varied program, especially Franck’s Choral in b minor, a perfect work for such a renowned instrument.
Thanks to Dr. Marilyn Mason and the University of Michigan for a most informative, invigorating, and pleasurable Organ and Church Music Institute. We look forward to the 29th institute next June.n

Paul Collins lectures in music at Mary Immaculate College, University of Limerick, Ireland. He is a graduate of Trinity College, Dublin, and holds a first class honors MA degree in Performance and Musicology (Organ) from the National University of Ireland, Maynooth. He is currently pursuing doctoral research at the music department of that university, where his supervisor is Professor Gerard Gillen. His dissertation will investigate the stylus phantasticus and its expression in north German organ music of the seventeenth century. Collins studied organ and harpsichord at the Dublin Institute of Technology Conservatory of Music and Drama, where he was awarded the Actors' Church Union Prize for advanced organ playing. He also holds a Fellowship Diploma in organ from Trinity College, London. He has performed in Ireland, the US, and Italy and is director of the Marmion Recital Series at Holy Cross Church in Dundrum, Dublin, where he is resident organist. In addition to his activities as musicologist and performer, he has composed works for keyboard, voice and chamber ensemble.

The music encyclopedist Johann Mattheson (1681-1764), in Part 1, chapter 10, of Der vollkommene Capellmeister (1739) mentions the names of  two Italian composers whom he believes to have been exquisite executants of the "fantastic" style, namely Claudio Merulo (1533-1604) and Michelangelo Rossi (1602-1656). Before offering his readers a thumbnail sketch of their work, Mattheson expresses the hope that neither of these "fleissige Fantasten," or "diligent fantasy makers" will ever have their names consigned to oblivion. In choosing this term to describe these Italians and also Johann Jakob Froberger (1616-1667), Mattheson highlights the inherent tension in the dual r?¥le of performer-composer, that of the "fantastic" spontaneous performer or improviser and the "diligent" composer who must commit structured ideas to paper.

We know, for example, that Rossi, like the later Nicolaus Bruhns (1665-1697) in northern Europe, was renowned as a virtuoso violinist in Rome, so much so that it was recorded in the register of his death in 1656. "Michelangelo il Violino," as he was referred to on occasion, even graced the performance of his single extant opera Erminia sul Giordano (1633) with his own playing, in which he took the part of Apollo in the last act. The Rome-based Jesuit polymath Athanasius Kircher (1602-1680), who first coined the term "fantasy style" or stylus phantasticus in his Musurgia Universalis (1650), was among those who witnessed Rossi's playing at first hand at a private concert given, in Kircher's own words, by "three incomparable musicians, whom I would not be wrong in describing as the Orpheuses of our age."1 The three musicians in question were Rossi, Salvator Mazzella and the lutenist Lelio Colista (1629-1680) and the concert featured music for two violins and the-orbo. Describing the experience in his Itinerarium exstaticum (1656), Kircher leaves us in no doubt that this recital, the exact date of which has been consigned to oblivion, left a deep impression on him. He writes:

. . . though I may avow that I have delved with some distinction in the field of Music I cannot recall having heard anything like it, as they mingled diatonic with chromatic harmonies, and these with enharmonic modulations: it is scarcely possible to express the degree to which the unaccustomed mixing of these styles aroused the emotions of the mind.2

This concert performed before a single auditor--Kircher himself--is significant in itself in terms of the musicians it brought together. Musicologists in recent times have regarded the perspectives of Kircher and Mattheson on the "fantastic" style as being, by and large, mutually exclusive, but it is interesting to note that Kircher chose a sinfonia for four lutes by Colista as one of his five examples of the stylus phantasticus, while Mattheson, eighty-nine years later, considered the works of Rossi--in this context the composer's fourteen toccatas--as examples of the fantastischer Styl. Of further interest is the fact that Mattheson, in his Capellmeister treatise (§92), also mentions the violin and the lute as two of the most appropriate instruments for the realization of this style.

The German theorist's biographical information is not always as accurate as one would wish, however and in the case of Rossi, he can state merely that the composer "lived around 1635, the time of [Giovanni Battista] Doni."3 If we wish to further understand Mattheson's enthusiasm for Rossi's toccatas we must consider these works in the light of the "rules" for would-be "fantasy makers" given by Mattheson in §93 and §94 of his tenth chapter "On the Style of Music." The fantastic style, according to Mattheson, is above all an improvisatory style, with the primary focus on the performer and his extemporary ability. This is underlined by the fact that Mattheson situates his discussion of the fantasy style within the broader context of the genus theatralis, or theatrical style. One is restricted in this a mente non a penna style ("improvised, not written down") only by harmonic considerations, Mattheson making the general comment that "order and constraint" are the antithesis of its aesthetic. The style is to be a vehicle for the spontaneous musical orator, who is exhorted by Mattheson to please, dazzle and astound his listeners. It is characterised by much freedom with respect to "beat and pitch," even though these, as Mattheson notes, may have previously been carefully committed to paper. The fantasist was to avoid developing a "regular" motive or melody and rather incorporate all sorts of strange musical detours and embellishments, the object of which were, to quote another of Mattheson's works, "the movement of the affections and the touching of the heart."4

How then, does a work like Rossi's Toccata prima (measures 1-8 of which are shown in Example 1) realise Mattheson's "rules"? The variety of styles encountered in this and other Rossi toccatas realise Mattheson's aesthetic of immediacy, in which a work's surface features are all-important. Rossi's multi-sectional pieces in the toccata genre constitute, in the words of Erich Valentin, a Mosaikform5, in which many musical patterns and procedures are juxtaposed to form a quasi-improvisatory whole. In the Toccata prima we can see the composer's penchant for distinct, non-interdependent sections, giving the impression of a constantly changing musical landscape in which no one idea is, to paraphrase Mattheson, properly "worked out." It is possible to divide the toccata into four main sections, namely measures 1-8, /9-22, 23-45, /46-53. After the typical chordal incipit, section one comprises an imitative-style passage based on an angular motive. Following this is a section that begins imitatively but quickly becomes much freer, with the introduction of a rising-scale figure in the left hand in measure 10 and the abrupt and almost arbitrary harmonic shift in measures 10-11 (Example 2). Such daring harmonic juxtapositions and rising-scale ideas in fast note values are most often associated with the free or "loosely pulsatile"6 sections of toccatas and in measures 15-16 the full rhetorical import of the section is most clearly captured in the dramatic drop in register from a≤ to d# (Example 3). After the cadence in measure 22 the third, fugato section begins. This is the most "clearly pulsatile"7 of the toccata's sections, there being no dissolution of the texture until measure 42. The fourth and final section, another imitative section, begins on the upbeat to measure 46 and here again there is a necessary constraint on pulse fluctuation.

Mattheson would clearly have been attracted to Rossi's work for many reasons. The division of the toccatas into discrete sections, with little recapitulation of previous material, affords the performer the opportunity to vary the pulse between and frequently even within sections, thus heightening the sense of drama. In the Toccata prima, with the exception of measures 23-42 and 46-52 where we find purely imitative writing, the term con discrezione could be used to describe the manner of playing throughout.8 The idea of not being tied to a pulse in the interest of expression had, of course, been discussed in Italian prefatory writings from the beginning of the seventeenth century, most notably in the preface to Le nuove musiche (1602) by Giulio Caccini (c1545-1618) and in Frescobaldi's preface to his first volume of toccatas (1615). Caccini's concept of sprezzatura, or "artful carelessness," despite its original association with vocal performance, can also be applied to keyboard music, while Frescobaldi's instruction to the player not to be subject to the beat ("non stare soggetto ?† battuta") has its roots in the affetti of the madrigal. To return to Mattheson, we can easily imagine the German theorist praising the Toccata prima of Rossi for its lack of "a regular principal motif and melody" as well as for its textural variety, with two-, three- and four-part writing throughout. Furthermore, he would have favored Rossi's arresting harmonic shifts in measures 7-8 and 10-11, with their potential to "astonish" the listener. Mention of the keyboard works of Rossi in the eleven-paragraph section devoted to a discussion of the fantastischer Styl in Der vollkommene Capellmeister is, therefore, wholly appropriate, given the dramatic nature of the Italian composer's toccatas. These "wordless madrigals" aptly illustrate Mattheson's concept of the stylus phantasticus, with its clear focus on histrionics.

Rossi's importance in the context of a discussion of the stylus phantasticus in the north German organ school is borne out on two main fronts. Firstly, research carried out by Alexander Silbiger and published in 1983 has suggested that we should view Rossi as a contemporary rival of Frescobaldi, rather than as a mere "emulator of the older master."9 The continued esteem in which Rossi's volume of Toccate e Correnti was held is evidenced by the fact that after its initial appearance, probably in the early 1630s, at least three further editions appeared over the next thirty years. Thus, by the beginning of the 1640s in Italy, Rossi's name as a composer of keyboard music was second only to that of Frescobaldi. It seems more than likely that if the older composer's publications were in circulation in the north German region during the seventeenth century that Rossi's keyboard music would have been known there also. Secondly, we know that one of the main bearers of Italian keyboard music to northern Europe, Froberger, was in Rome during the years 1637-1640/1 and in addition to his student-master relationship with Frescobaldi would undoubtedly have had some links with Rossi. Even more than Johann Kaspar Kerll (1627-1693) and Johann Philipp Krieger (1649-1725), two other prominent south German musicians who studied in Italy during the seventeenth century, Froberger was to influence free keyboard writing in north Germany.

As noted earlier, Mattheson praises Froberger as a "diligent fantasy maker" in his Capellmeister treatise, remarking that the Stuttgart-born composer "did much especially in this style of writing."10 He quotes what he believes to be the incipits of two works by Froberger for those of his readers who need written examples of pieces in the fantasy style. Neither of these two incipits appears, however, among Froberger's works. Mattheson's first example, the "beginning of a toccata by Froberger," has been shown by Kerala Snyder to be the opening three bars of Buxtehude's Phrygian praeludium BuxWV 152, as transmitted by the manuscript "E.B.-1688" held at Yale University.11 The second incipit, entitled "beginning of a fantasy by the same person," features a single rhapsodic melodic line as in Mattheson's first example. This, likewise, could not come from the toccatas or fantasias of Froberger, as the former always commence with a sustained chord and the latter with a line in long note values. It is possible, given the similarity of the two incipits, that the second example also originated in the north German region. Of further interest is the fact that the opening motif of the Buxtehude example also appears at the start of Froberger's Capriccio, FbWV 502, from the composer's Libro di Capricci e Ricercate of c1658.12 While it is impossible to ascertain whether or not the Phrygian praeludium of  Buxtehude was influenced by Froberger's capriccio, we have evidence to suggest that north German composers wrote parodies on Italianate works composed by south Germans. For example, Friedrich W. Riedel has pointed to the similarity between a fuga contained in Yale University New Haven manuscript LM 5056 (ascribed in that source to "P. Heidorn ?¢ Crempe") and Kerll's Canzona III.13

Apart from the existence of north German parodies on south German, Italian-influenced works, we know that one important conduit for the transmission of Italian influence to the north German region during the second half of the seventeenth century was the Thuringian-born organist and composer Matthias Weckmann (c1616-1674). Weckmann, appointed organist of the Jacobikirche in Hamburg in 1655 was an admirer of Froberger's music and gained a legendary reputation as both a composer and virtuoso performer. Educated in Dresden and Hamburg, Weckmann studied with, among others, Heinrich Sch?ºtz (1585-1672) and Jacob Praetorius II (1586-1651). While he was most probably introduced to Italian music by Sch?ºtz in Dresden, his later friendship with Froberger was undoubtedly an important factor in his becoming acquainted with Italian keyboard music. The bold and imaginative writing that characterizes Froberger's toccatas is found in Weckmann's works in the same genre, which were probably intended for harpsichord performance. These are among the most remarkable free works to come from seventeenth-century north Germany.

A brief comparison between compositional procedures in the toccatas of Froberger and Weckmann may serve to highlight their similarities. Both composers wrote pieces in each of the two toccata "formats" common in Italy during the seventeenth century, i.e., toccatas in free style throughout and those that contain distinct imitative sections in canzona style. If we examine Froberger's Toccata IV, FbWV104, from the Libro Secondo of 1649 we find an example of the latter toccata type, with free sections framing the fugal material. This work is in four sections (in Rampe's 1993 edition, measures 1-8; 9-15; 16-22; 23-29), section three being a re-working of the preceding fugal material in triple time. The opening "free" section  falls into two halves: measures 1-4 and 5-8 (Example 4). In the first subsection we hear a stepwise rising-fourth idea followed by a falling fourth and thirty-second-note figure. These together comprise the raw material from which this initial eight-measure section is fashioned. The texture of the first four bars has been aptly described by John Butt as that of "imitative homophony,"14 while in the second subsection the imitation (based on the rising fourth idea) and harmonic rhythm become more regular. The section as a whole illustrates Froberger's delight in obfuscating the listener with regard to the "free" and the fugal, in this case within the context of an "improvisatory" section. The two fugal sections that follow form the core of the toccata and each concludes with free material that alludes to the opening section (Examples 5a and 5b). From measure 23 to the end of the work further allusions, this time to material from both free and fugal sections, are heard. The resulting fusion of previously disparate elements achieves a resolution of the work's contrasting free and fugal material, culminating in a cascade of sixteenth-note motion in both hands.

Weckmann's compositional strategy in his Toccata vel praeludium Primi Toni is similar to that in Froberger's toccata. This Weckmann toccata is one of six works in the genre to appear in the 1991 Siegbert Rampe edition of the composer's free keyboard works. Here again we can break the work into four sections: an opening free section (ms.1-10); a fugal section (ms.10-20); a tripla section featuring a variant of the fugal theme (ms.21-27) and a concluding free section (ms.28-40). As in the Froberger toccata, imitation features much throughout the opening section, Weckmann also making use of an up-beat suspirans figure (Example 6). In measure 2, we again hear a stepwise rising fourth idea followed by a downward leap of a fourth, while in the tripla section  (ms. 24-25) and concluding free section, rising and falling fourths constitute much of the motivic fabric. Measures 30-33, in particular, feature figuration very similar to that heard in the second half of Froberger's opening free section (Example 7; cf. Example 4). Common to both pieces also is an unexpected twist to the minor, Froberger, for example, offering the listener what Mattheson might have considered a delightful instance of musical deception at the end of his toccata, where a flattened e# colors the final cadence in C major.

Weckmann's toccata in A minor represents one of the seventeenth-century's most "fantastic" works. It is an example of the toccata type that consisted entirely of free material. During the course of its 78 measures we encounter a kaleidoscopic variety of moods and figuration, yielding a work full of drama and contrasting Affekten. We can see from the outset that this work perfectly fulfils Mattheson's "rules" governing the fantastic style, with its "ingenious turns and embellishments . . . without close observation of the beat . . . without a regular principal motif and melody . . . sometimes fast sometimes slow . . . yet not without a view to pleasing, to dazzling and to astounding" (§92). Weckmann, in short, seeks to delight his listener throughout with the element of surprise and focuses on the toccata as a vehicle for demonstrating performance skill. Chordal passages such as those in measures 8-11, 14-20 and 34-38 alternate with passages featuring scurrying sixteenth notes that are sometimes broken off in mid-flight. These latter abruptio gestures, found in measures 4, 13 and 24, are also part of the musical and rhetorical vocabulary of the composer's toccata in D minor,15 which, again, is in free style throughout. The employment of this rhetorical device in these works was, no doubt, inspired by Froberger's use of similar dramatic gestures in his toccatas (e.g., the end of Toccata III in G, FbWV 103).

One would expect Weckmann's contemporary, Franz Tunder (1614-1667), to have been a key influence on the compositional style of Dieterich Buxtehude (1637-1707), given that Tunder was the younger composer's predecessor at L?ºbeck's Marienkirche. While Tunder's large-scale chorale fantasias are probably the better known of his fifteen surviving works for organ, his four complete praeludia constitute a significant development of the hitherto short, undemonstrative praeambula of Scheidemann. Each of these four, more extrovert Tunder praeludia begins with a monodic flourish, a new textural device in north German organ music. The concluding free sections of the same works also feature animated writing. Such beginnings and endings sparkle with the brilliance and spontaneity that Mattheson associated with the fantasy style and like similar passages in works by Buxtehude and other later north German composers, would appear to have their origin in improvisational practice. In addition to Tunder's four complete praeludia, there exists a five-and-a-half-measure fragment of a fifth praeludium by the composer, which is of particular interest (Example 8). Here we see perhaps the most striking passage in all of Tunder's praeludia, one that appears to herald a new stylistic departure. This fragment resembles very closely the energetic passages that typically open Buxtehude's works in the same genre. Equally dramatic double flourishes, for example, are heard at the outset of the praeludia in D minor, BuxWV 140 and G minor, BuxWV 148, the latter opening being perhaps the closest Buxtehudian parallel to Tunder's fragment (Example 9).

With the establishment of his "Stock Exchange" concerts around 1646, Tunder began to provide the L?ºbeck merchants with musical entertainment when they gathered at the Marienkirche before the opening of the outdoor Stock Exchange. Central to these concerts, no doubt, was Tunder's playing of his own works, probably in their nascent, improvised form. Just as a praeambulum or praeludium had been used as introductory service music, so the performance of such works at the beginning of one of these concerts would have been entirely appropriate. Tunder can be credited, therefore, with the raising of the praeludium genre to the level of art music, liberating it from its hitherto purely liturgical function.

Given the opportunity to develop Tunder's Marienkirche concert series with his Abendmusiken, it comes as no surprise that Buxtehude, more than any other composer of the period, developed the praeludium into a dramatic monolith. In so doing, he put the genre on an equal footing with chorale-based works, which had been greater in importance during the first half of the seventeenth century. Without doubt, Buxtehude was the most "diligent fantasy maker" of the north German Baroque. Both free and chorale-based organ works share in this accolade, as do the composer's sonatas, which, following the principle of contrasting sections, have formal structures similar to those of his twenty-two pedaliter praeludia. The praeludia may be commented upon from a variety of perspectives, as Kerala Snyder has shown,16 and despite its limited application, Mattheson's concept of the stylus phantasticus constitutes one "lens" through which we can view these works. The exuberance, drama and virtuosity associated with the free sections, as well as the constantly shifting textures, square perfectly with Mattheson's description of the style. Indeed those praeludia that favor free writing above fugal sections, like the F-sharp minor, BuxWV 146 and D major, BuxWV 139 exhibit Mattheson's concept most successfully. As much has been written about the "fantastic" nature of Buxtehude's F-sharp minor praeludium, a comment on the D major work as an expression of Mattheson's stylus phantasticus concept is merited. Containing only one fugue lasting 35 measures, BuxWV 139 has substantial opening and closing free sections of 20 and 41 measures respectively. Like the praeludium in F sharp minor, with its famous "recitative," the D major praeludium contains a decorated chordal interlude (measures 87-94) that introduces much harmonic color (Example 10). Other features shared by these two praeludia include the motoristic rhythms and an extended sequential passage, while the Peroratio of the D major work offers an example of the abruptio gesture (measure 103) typical of many of the praeludia which have a closing free section (Example 11).

Buxtehude's praeludia reveal both a skilled composer and an accomplished performer at work and could be said to represent a synthesis of the ideas of both Kircher and Mattheson regarding the "fantastic style." Most discussions of the concept of stylus phantasticus in relation to the composer's free organ works have nevertheless focused on Mattheson's description of the style in order to account for the inherent drama of these works. By exploring a middle way, however, a concept of "fantastic" that embraces Buxtehude the composer, skilled in learned counterpoint, and Buxtehude the accomplished performer, we can, perhaps, reconcile two concepts with very different emphases in one musical persona. Such a meeting of opposites can only do justice to the composer's multi-faceted praeludia.

It is also possible to discuss the "fantastic" elements in the free works of Buxtehude and other north German composers within the broader context of rhetorical analysis. According to the latter perspective, the late seventeenth-century north German praeludium may be regarded as a tightly organised work and an accomplished example of musical rhetoric in its fulfilment of even the minimal demands of a classical dispositio. An analytical approach to praeludia of the late seventeenth century based on one or more concepts of the stylus phantasticus need not omit a consideration of the structural sophistication and eloquent rhetoric that such works exhibit. The two approaches, that of a stylus phantasticus perspective and one based on rhetorical analysis, are complementary, if individually subjective and limited in their application. An analysis of, for example, Buxtehude's praeludia from the perspective of the stylus phantasticus is impoverished if it fails to draw on musical-rhetorical concepts and figures, using the template of rhetorical analysis to highlight the significance of each of the various sections within the context of a complete praeludium. A rhetorical analysis, on the other hand, which omits a consideration of the chameleon-like concept of stylus phantasticus is in danger of offering an assumed compositional "recipe," or to quote Mattheson, albeit out of context, "something . . . inflexible."17 Both forms of analysis focus on a work in relation to how it "speaks" to the listener, and on the composer's attempts to transform what is, in the case of a praeludium, wordless music into dramatic speech. While the alternating textures of a Buxtehude praeludium may indeed suggest a careful sequence reflecting the traditional parts of a classical oration (i.e., Exordium, Narratio, Confirmatio and Peroratio), we must be wary of assuming that the achievement of such a rhetorical sequence was foremost in the composer's mind. We are not on safe ground if, with reference only to Mattheson's concept, we try to play down the importance of the stylus phantasticus in such free works.

This article has concerned itself with following what could be termed the "fantastic thread" in the toccata genre from Italy, the origin of "diligent fantasy making" for Mattheson, through south Germany to northern Europe. We could say that the following of this thread to north Germany parallels an investigation of the progress of Italian influence in that region during the latter half of the seventeenth century.

Olga Savitskaya was born in Minsk (Belarus) and earned a Ph.D. with a specialty in musicology at the Belarusian State Conservatory, where she is now assistant professor and music theory chair. A member of the Belarusian Union of Composers, she lectures on harmony, form and analysis, and polyphony. Her research interests include instrumental music of baroque period, Belarusian symphonic music, and modern composition techniques. Her publications include many books and articles.

The end of the 17th century through the beginning of the 18th century was a period of development for the trio sonata and its two varieties: sonata da chiesa and sonata da camera. Being formed in the works of Corelli, “the typical form of a church sonata of four contrasting parts: Grave (homophonic or imitative, C), Allegro (treated fugally, C), Adagio (homophonic, 3/2), Allegro or Presto (treated fugally or homophonic, C or 3/2)”1 appeared to be one of the most universal and flexible formulas of musical-logical development of the large instrumental concept in the baroque period. Influenced by the principles of the cyclic organization of the church sonata, the structure of the violin solo sonata and the concerto grosso evolved. Thus, the musical-historical phenomenon of the church sonata appears in the combination of two aspects: 1) as a genre during the 17th and early 18th centuries, moving from the bounds of church music into the sphere of secular concert music; 2) as a type of the baroque large instrumental form whose organizational principles (primarily crystallized in the genre of a church trio sonata) were adapted and developed at the end of the 17th century through the first half of the 18th century.
The highest achievements in this sonata form are connected to the prominent masters—Corelli, Purcell, Couperin, Biber, Buxtehude, Bach, and Handel, etc.—whose works in many aspects have defined both the character of the baroque era as a whole, and the national and regional schools that developed in this period. The Italian sonata, embodied in the sonatas of Corelli, undoubtedly had a great influence on composers throughout Europe. But much more notable is finding the “national appearance” of the sonata in England, France, and Germany.
One of the high points in the history of this genre is seen in the 14 trio sonatas for violin, viola da gamba and harpsichord of Dieterich Buxtehude, which were quite original when they were published in 1696.
The main features of Buxtehude’s sonatas are their general structure and non-specific number of movements, from three to seven. The sonata movements are mainly differentiated by tempo, style and degree of independence. The fantasy style of composition abounds in unexpected changes of rhythm, contrasted with strict fugues, improvisational interludes, and juxtapositions of different manners of writing. And though the contrast of polyphony and homophony as one of the basic traits of the sonata da chiesa retains its significance, fugues do not always take the central place. All this testifies to the fact that trio sonatas by Buxtehude are oriented not so much to the Corelli pattern, but to the German tradition of violin writing, where the principle of free thematic development and improvisational character of performing fuses with compositional techniques.
The fugues included in each of Buxtehude’s 14 sonatas are very different, ingenious, and exhibit the individual style of the composer, as well as a definite stage of evolution of this polyphonic form prior to the art of Bach.
The instrumental ensemble fugues reveal one of the bright sides of the complex, many-sided Buxtehude fugal style, which includes also his organ and vocal compositions. As V. Protopopov noted, their typical features are “vividness of themes, ease of motion, and a lack of concentrated philosophical musical images . . .”2 As a rule, the fugal subjects of trio sonatas are rather extensive, intonationally expressive, and based on the structure of core-development. The elements of dance music and style-intonation figures representing performing technique of stringed instruments give a special shape to them.
Two-voice fugues predominate, where the theme is expressed by solo instruments; the basso continuo functions as accompaniment (op. 1: no. 1 Presto, no. 3 Allegro, no. 5 Vivace, no. 6 Allegro; op. 2: no. 2 Allegro, no. 4 Allegro I, no. 5 Allegro I). However, three-voice fugues in which the harpsichord participates in concertante alongside the two soloists (op. 1: no. 1 Allegro; op. 2: no. 2 Vivace, no. 6 Vivace, Poco Presto, no. 7 Allegro) are also frequently used. In some cases three-voice fugues are used only in the exposition, subsequently replaced by two-voice fugues with accompaniment (op. 2: no. 1 Allegro).
According to the tradition of pre-Bach fugues, in Buxtehude’s trio sonatas the tonic-dominant alternation of subjects is mainly a result of the interchange of expositions and counter-expositions that becomes the basic structural characteristic. However, even in rather small and “simple” fugues, expansion of the texture and attention to the architectonical aspect of composition is obvious. An essential role belongs to episodes.
As an example we shall give the scheme of the three-voice fugue of the Sonata in F Major, op. 2, no. 7, Allegro I (Example 1). At the same time in trio sonatas of Buxtehude, fugues having two or three parts are also frequent. Such are the two-voice fugues of sonatas in C Major (op. 1, no. 5), E Minor (op. 1, no. 7), and A Minor (op. 1, no. 3).
All these examples show a definite development: from a fugue as the combination of expositions and counter-expositions by means of episodes to three-part fugue with functional differentiation of sections and exceeding the limits of tonic-dominant relations through modulation. Such development, which looks forward toward Bach’s fugues (especially chamber-instrumental), is not, however, the single one for Buxtehude.
The unrestrained imagination of the baroque artist and the aspiration to the new and unusual are manifested also in the interpretation of a fugue, resulting in expansion and complication of its structure and assimilation of the elements of other genres and forms. The structure and organizational logic of these Buxtehude fugues are not repeated, but as a whole one can see a similarity to his organ works, the successive line from which leads to grandiose Bach organ fugues. Let us examine specific examples.

Sonata in G Major (op. 1, no. 2)
Its structure emphasizes a cyclic three-part form, while the weakened role of polyphony and significant role of dance themes testify to the effect of an instrumental concerto. The principle of composition “in mixto genere” (in a mixed form) is in part I, the result of synthesis of two forms: a complex double fugue with a joint exposition and the concerto form.
Lively dance themes do not contrast but supplement each other in free development when complementary rhythms underline the linear independence of the voices, with homophonic duplication of the melodic motives in tenths and thirds. Development of themes in exposition and counter-exposition, which constitute a fugue itself, is divided by the episodes based on the new material in the manner of the homophonic ritornellos of the violin concerto. (Example 2)
In essence, in this work, and in the entire cycle, not only interaction of various musical forms takes place but also the more complicated synthesis of “the old” and “the new” genres: the church sonata, which has reached its full maturity, and the young instrumental concerto, which rapidly developed in Europe at the end of the 17th century.

Sonata in B Major (op. 1, no. 4)
Another combination features the interaction of a fugue and basso ostinato. In the Sonata in B Major (op. 1, no. 4) the element of ostinato seems “to be splashed out” outside of 32 variations of part I by subordinating a final fugue. In its middle section Buxtehude, being the master of musical rhetoric, specially combines two principles of organization—fugue and ostinato. At first the brief fugal subject is stated by the solo instruments. Then it dissolves in figurations, and its function in the thematic process temporarily transfers to the basso ostinato. The final section again affirms the fugue, but a reminiscence of the basso ostinato returns in the last bars of the coda.
The ostinato principle takes a special place in Buxtehude’s compositional technique. The German master’s adherence to ostinato seems to be consistent even against the background of its pervasive occurrence in music of the 17th century (perhaps only Purcell can be compared with him in this respect). Buxtehude makes use of basso ostinato in organ compositions: Chaconnes in C Minor (BuxWV 159), E Minor (BuxWV 160), Passacaglia in D Minor (BuxWV 161), Preludes in C Major (BuxWV 137) and G Minor (BuxWV 149); and in the cantatas Jesu dulcis memoria (BuxWV 57), Laudate pueri (BuxWV 69), Liebster, meine Seele saget (BuxWV 70), etc.
In the 14 trio sonatas, basso ostinato is almost as necessary as fugue (the ostinato is absent only in two sonatas). Its various forms can be divided into two groups—the less numerous so-called arias for basso-ostinato (Strophenbas arie), and the basic group, consisting of basso-ostinato forms of passacaglia type.
Basso ostinato is employed in lively (op. 2, no. 3 Vivace) and slow (op. 2, no. 3 Andante), outside (op. 2, no. 6 Allegro) and middle (op. 1, no. 1 Andante) movements. In some sonatas (op. 1, no. 4; op. 2, no. 5), the basso ostinato principle appears to be the predominant compositional idea and is implemented under different tempo and texture conditions.
A variety of basso ostinato uses derives from the character and structure of ostinato themes and the whole ostinato layer of basso continuo, thematic peculiarities of the high voices, structural-semantic interaction of the ostinato and upper voices, and, lastly, inclination to this or that type of composition—closed, precisely structured or free, and contrasting-compound.
At the same time all of these serve as the concentrated expression of the musical thinking of the composer. Thus, a fugue and a basso ostinato are the dominant constants of Buxtehude’s trio sonatas. The presence of a fugue is proof of observance of the major genre standards of sonata da chiesa, whereas the constancy and skilfulness of use of basso ostinato in the greater extent reflect the individual principles typical of Buxtehude’s style, which was based on the North-German tradition.

Other elements in Buxtehude’s trio sonatas
Other movements illustrate an extremely wide spectrum of genre, composition, and textural-timbral combinations. It is difficult and hardly reasonable to generalize the principles of cyclic organization in Buxtehude’s sonatas. The architectonics of any of them do not repeat exactly in any other, and each composition demands analysis of its individual logic. Besides a fugue and ostinato variations, these are small, without reprise, strophic, general and mixed forms. Among genre prototypes and patterns one finds the jig, chaconne, “echo,” chorale prelude, dialogue, toccata, “signal trumpet,” etc. The “formulas of imagination” acquire special significance, these indispensable attributes of improvisational style—passages, recitatives, arpeggio—creating, according to M. Lobanova, the “illusory, imaginary disorder” or the “intense pathetic development.”3 The sonatas combine genres, styles, affects and rhetorical figures.
In this “game of senses” the important role belongs to the thematic ties within the cycle. Strictly speaking, such ties characterize the sonata da chiesa, with its origins in the mono-thematic, multi-part canzona. But that sequence and ingenuity with which the thematic unity is realized in the sonatas of Buxtehude testifies that its role by no means is restricted to ensuring formal compositional integrity but acquires a distinct symbolic sense. Here it is reasonable to appeal to one of the central concepts of the baroque poetics being defined as the “witty conception.” The delicate, veiled differentiation of the themes in different parts of the cycle acts as a manifestation of baroque “wit,” whose purpose seems to display the obvious or hidden similarity, in what seemed to be on the surface, completely unrelated.

Sonata in C Major (op. 1, no. 5)
One of the instances is the Sonata in C Major, op. 1, no. 5. In this four-part cycle the first and the final fugues symmetrically frame the contrasting middle parts—an aria of a solo violin with a bass, and an ensemble jig (Vivace–Violino Solo; Allegro–Largo; Allegro–Adagio; Allegro).
Fugues are connected tonally. The source of their common material is the initial subject. Their motives and submotives, like the elements of a mosaic, are easily combined and rearranged to form new thematic configurations. The initial sections and the end of the final fugue are especially distinguished, serving to express a rhetorical idea of “connection,” the “concatenation” known under the name of symploce, or repetition (see Example 3).
The middle parts are also connected thematically: the motive of the second strophe of the aria with bass is unexpectedly “recalled” in the theme Allegro (Example 4). Finally, all thematic material of the sonata reveals as its basis a uniform intonational pulse, active, exclamatory (exclamatio) fourth (fifth) interval motion, a sort of the “intonational monad” as an indivisible core encompassing the whole world in it.

Sonata in A Minor (op. 1, no. 3)
The other example of thematic ties is found in the Sonata in A minor, op. 1, no. 3. The general idea is disclosed gradually, from movement to movement, revealing a semantic potential concealed within it.
In the melodic lines of the Adagio gradual downward motion (f-e-d-c-b-a-g#-a) covering a diatonic hexachord with adjoining introductory material is “summarized” by compact expressive formula saltus duriusculus (f-g#-a) (see Example 5a). Both elements are marked also in the themes of the Allegro: in the capacity of one of the motives of the fugue subject (hexachord by parallel sixths) and as the hidden voice of counter-subject (f-e-d-c-g#-a) (Example 5b). Further, the diatonic hexachord (including that which has been expressed by parallel sixths) becomes the thematic basis of the Vivace. Supplemented up to heptatonic, it is continuously exhibited in different voices, like a migrating cantus firmus in a chorale prelude (similar to its textual coincidence with the final phrase of Buxtehude’s organ chorale variations Wie schön leuchtet der Morgenstern, BuxWV 223) (Example 5c). Descending scale-like motion is retained in the finale (Presto), but already against a background, not in the parts of melodic instruments but in the basso continuo. The most characteristic baroque style figure—passus duriusculus, appearing in slow modulation binding sections (Lento, Largo) as ascending and descending pieces of a chromatic scale—is brought to the forefront. Only in the final Lento is the semantic orientation of the general thematic process “explained.” The descending chromatic motion, trebled by imitations that embrace all verticals of the ensemble compass and saturated with rhetorical figures of grief (catabasis, passus duriusculus, catachresis, parrhesia), closes the sonata. (Example 5d)

Conclusion
Dieterich Buxtehude’s trio sonatas are among the high points in the history of the genre. Standing out against the background of the rich tradition of ensemble music at the end of the 17th–beginning of the 18th century, they testify to the exclusive originality of the North German model of the baroque sonata. Created in the period of, probably, the greatest “purity” of the style, the sonatas of Buxtehude embody the baroque world image itself—which has lost its Renaissance integrity, being woven of “incongruous combinations” of contrasts opening into infinity by the kaleidoscopic unsteadiness of existence and at the same time blessed by the supreme harmony of all-reconciling unanimity. ■

The Development of Musica Poetica

Since the rediscovery of Quintilian's texts in the early Renaissance, many humanist writers have suggested a link between oratory and musical composition. With his treatise Musica poetica, Joachim Burmeister coined the term musica poetica for study of rhetorical relationships in music. This discipline, musica poetica, rationally explained the creative process of a composer, the structure of compositions, and the mechanism through which music moved the listener. Thereby a composer's craft could prompt a predictable emotional response from the listener--a principal goal of early Baroque composers. Although writers throughout Europe attested to the affective nature of music, German theorists cultivated musica poetica.

Influenced by Lutheran theology, humanists in Germany borrowed rhetorical techniques from the classical authors including Cicero and his successor Quintilian in order to deliver the Holy Word more effectively. (See Diagram 1, left-hand column.) Philipp Melanchthon emphasized this area of the trivium in the Lateinschulen curriculum and applied the traditional pedagogical method: (1)  praeceptum or the study of rules which required exact definitions and well-articulated concepts, (2) exemplus or the study of examples which encouraged analysis of well constructed works, and (3) imitatio or the imitation of examples which emphasized craft, not genius and inspiration typically associated with the Enlightenment or Romantic periods. In this way, the rhetorical concepts became not only a way of thinking about pre-existing works but also became prescriptive.

Martin Luther emphasized the power of music to secure faith: "after theology I accord to music the highest place and the greatest honor."1  (See Diagram 1, middle column.)  As the handmaiden to the Word, music can be understood as a "sermon in sound." Influenced by Boethius's cosmological conception of music, many seventeenth- and eighteenth-century writers justified music's holy power by explaining how ratios representing God's perfection resonated in the listener's soul.

The ancient Doctrine of Ethos convinced Luther of the didactic power of music. (See Diagram 1, right column.)  With the rise of the Doctrine of Affections during the seventeenth century as codified by Descartes, writers in Germany could then explain the mechanism through which music affected  listeners' passions. (See center of Diagram 1.)  Kircher, Bernhard, and Mattheson suggested that music no longer simply reflected the meaning of texts but actually moved listeners to predicable emotional states called affections. Cantors, such as Buxtehude and Bach, drew upon elements of musica poetica which served as a code for various affections in their compositions. With the rise of the Enlightenment, however, philosophers encouraged "natural" expression in music, which reflected a composer's personal sentiment and inspiration. With this emerging viewpoint, both the Doctrine of Affections and the cosmological conception of music became less tenable, and musical rhetoric declined with them. By the end of the eighteenth century, musica poetica had become a historical curiosity cataloged in Forkel's Allgemeine Geschichte der Musik (1788).

An Overview of Musica Poetica

Consider the rhetorical model of the composer's creative process presented in Table 1. Following Cicero's ideas that directly applied to music, Bernhard prescribes three compositional stages while Mattheson retains five stages somewhat analogous to rhetoric. In his first stage, inventio, the composer determines what his/her piece will be about, the loci topici. Mattheson suggests fundamental musical elements such as meter, key, and theme. This stage could also involve the working out of invertible counterpoint and other devices.   In the second stage, dispositio, the composer places this pre-compositional material in a logical succession and in appropriate keys. Later, in the elaboratio stage,  episodes connect the contrapuntal complexes or theme entrances determined in the dispositio. The composer also adds musical-rhetorical figures intended to persuade or move the listener to particular affections. In the decoratio, the composer ornaments themes and may incorporate further figures. Embellishments reinforce the work's style and can further alter the affect. The fifth stage, executio, involves performance of the work, frequently with additional improvised ornaments.

The disposition of any artwork in the rhetorical model can be described in two ways: (1) the Aristotelian model, beginning-middle-end, or (2) the more complicated Cicerone model. (See Table 2.) Burmeister subscribes to the first and Mattheson to the later. Consider the purpose of each section in the Cicerone model. The exordium of a speech arouses the listener's attention.  (Buxtehude praeludia invariably start with an opening toccata for this purpose.) The narratio establishes the composition's subject matter, but in musical discourse, Mattheson states that one may omit the narratio. The propositio presents the actual content of a speech or musical composition, i.e., the theme. In the body of the speech, the orator can alternate between arguments supporting his proposition, the confirmatio, and those refuting possible objections to the orator's proposition, the confutatio.  In music, confutatio sections frequently contain  contrasting themes and characters, heightened by increased dissonance. At the end, compositions conclude with the peroratio. This section often recalls the opening material with a ritornello or closes with pedal points and melodic repetition.

Many scholars question whether a singular Doctrine of Affections exists. Nonetheless, Table 3 presents an overview of the various viewpoints as codified by Descartes. According to this doctrine, people can have four different temperaments or a combination thereof: Sanguine, Choleric, Melancholic, and Phlegmatic. Specific body parts and humors participate in producing a variety of distinct emotional states, called affections. These fundamental affections can blend in various ways to create other affections. This rational system explains why and how listeners of different temperaments react to music. A year following Descartes' treatise, Kircher published an influential compendium of knowledge that connected various affections to specific musical elements. (See Table 4. Amour is especially provoking.)

Composers could choose a variety of musical figures to summon listeners' affections. In classical oratory according to Quintilian, figures are simply deviations from normal speech intended to make one's oration more effective. By the seventeenth century, composers not only employed figures to express the text but also to move listeners to particular passions according to the Doctrine of Affections. To avoid problems of marking every musical event as a figure and trivializing the procedure, let us employ a working definition for our purpose: a figure is any departure from established musical syntax that arouses the affections.5 Not every dissonance is really a figure, but only those that express a particular emotion or inflect the music in a noticeable way. Now we can briefly examine three influential theorists of the musica poetica tradition and identify a few of their figures in three Buxtehude praeludia, BuxWV 142, 146, and 149.

Joachim Burmeister

And if we examine music more closely, we will surely find very little difference between its nature and that of oratory.  For just as the art of oratory derives its power not from a simple collection of simple words, or from a proper yet rather plain construction of periods, or from their meticulous yet bare and uniform connection, but rather from those elements where there is an underlying grace and elegance due to arrangement and to weighty words of wit, and where periods are rounded with emphatic words so, this art of music . . .6

Joachim Burmeister (1564-1529) served as cantor to St. Marien in Rostock and taught at the Gymnasium there. He developed a relatively systematic approach to identifying figures which aided his teaching of composition and reflected the Lutheran tradition of praeceptum, exemplus, et imitatio. He cites numerous late sixteenth-century vocal works and demonstrates how specific musical figures in the Lassus motet In me transierunt contribute to an effect much like that of successful oration. Elias Walther's dissertation of 1664 leans heavily on Burmeister's treatise and even analyzes the same Lassus motet, thereby revealing Burmeister's continuing influence in Lutheran Germany. By this point, Walther does not even define musical figures suggesting that their use had become commonplace.

For the most part, Burmeister's treatise Musica poetica (1606) transmits Zarlino's theories, and thus, Burmeister's ideas are strongly linked to late sixteenth-century styles. Burmeister's explicit development of a rhetorical theory, however, distinguishes him from his sixteenth-century predecessors.  Burmeister's figures focus on imitation and repetition. (See Diagram 2.)  Burmeister derived most figurative names from rhetorical sources. Thus, many terms maintain a strong association with the original rhetorical meanings, though some are uniquely musical. To reflect the traditional rhetorical division of figures into those applied to words and those applied to sentences, Burmeister placed musical figures in three categories: (1) Figurae harmoniae, figures involving more than one voice; (2) Figurae melodiae, figures involving one voice, and (3) Figurae tam harmoniae quam melodiae. (See Diagram 2.) Let us consider a couple examples:

Noëma--This figure strikes the listener when the texture changes to a homophonic passage. Most later writers imply that these passages are composed of consonant sonorities. Burmeister describes its effect: "When introduced at the right time, it sweetly affects and wondrously soothes the ears, or indeed the heart."7 For the performer, this suggests not only a sensitive touch but also a sweet registration and calm tempo. In the Praeludium in f#, mm. 14-27, Buxtehude places such a passage between the foreboding exordium and the brooding fugue. (See Example 1.) In this case, suspensions and chromaticism further modify the figure's effect within this dark piece.

Pathopoeia--Throughout the final fugue of the Praeludium in g, chromatic pitches contribute a heightened emotional affect; the pathopoeia is "suited to arousing the affections."8 Consider m. 126, where Buxtehude temporarily introduces Bb minor with half-steps outside the reigning mode.  (See Example 2.)

Aposiopesis--Returning to the Praeludium in f#, mm. 20-27, we find that the musical texture breaks off with a notated silence in m. 24. (See Example 3.) This figure, the aposiopesis, foreshadows motives that seem to lead only to silence throughout the praeludium. Burmeister suggests the topic of pieces employing this figure: "The aposiopesis is frequently encountered in compositions whose texts deal with death or eternity."9 Burmeister borrowed this term from rhetoric: "What is aposiopesis? It is when, because of an affection, some part of a sentence is cut off."10 Performers should consider exaggerating the stop for this effect.

Christoph Bernhard

Stylus Luxurians is the type consisting in part of rather quick notes and strange leaps--so that it is well suited for stirring the affects--and of more kinds of dissonance treatment . . . than the foregoing. Its melodies agree with the text as much as possible, unlike those of the preceding type . . . It [Stylus Theatralis] was devised to represent speech in music . . .  And since language is the absolute master of music in this genre . . . one should represent speech in the most natural way possible.11

Christoph Bernhard (1627-1692) was cantor for Johanneum in Hamburg from 1664-74 and co-director of the famous Collegium Musicum there with Matthias Weckmann. Later, Bernhard returned to Dresden where he had studied and worked with Schütz for many years. In the Tractatus (c. 1660), Bernhard describes three main seventeenth-century compositional styles: Stylus Gravis, Stylus Luxurians Communis, and Stylus Theatralis. Bernard not only distinguishes these styles by their venue, but more importantly, by their use of specific figures. These figures primarily depend upon dissonance treatment and modern styles which employ more sophisticated, implicit voice leading. While Bernhard emphasizes smaller details of dissonance treatment, the earlier Burmeister basically describes texture and a larger scope. Bernhard does emphasize proper reflection of the text in music, but he does not associate specific figures with affects nor does he explicitly show how to do this. Rather, Bernhard instructs his students to study works of respected composers in each of the styles. One may assume that composers use particular figures for different affects depending on context. In any case, Bernhard's brevity and prose suggest that the application of these figures is relatively obvious to the reader.

Please consider the following figures from Diagram 3 in Buxtehude's praeludia:

Passus duriusculus--This Latin term literarily means a "harsh passage" or "difficult passage." The subject of the second fugue in the Praeludium in e, mm. 47-49, contains a descending chromatic passage. (See Example 4.) The difficulty of this short span in the subject is heightened by on-beat chromaticism, and suggests a "difficult" touch and a slower tempo.

Saltus duriusculus--In this same passage, we also find a "harsh leap" or "difficult leap" called the saltus duriusculus between C and G-sharp, and between G and D-sharp. A more striking example can be found in the first fugue of the Praeludium in f# entitled "Grave," mm. 29-31. (See the leap down from D to E-sharp in Example 5.) Here we find a striking example of compound melody which Bernhard calls Heterolepsis, an element of the theatrical style. Buxtehude's fugues normally do not venture into this highly dissonant style, and these figures contribute to a morose affect.

Inchoatio imperfecta--Although Bernhard defines this term in strictly musical language, the figure carries not only structural value but also affective meaning to a German Baroque listener. (Remember that dissonances utilize ratios far from perfection, and thus, elicit darker affects in the listener.) The opening of the Praeludium in g begins with an inchoatio imperfecta: the first note, F#5, forms a dissonance with the  implied g minor chord of the first measure. (See Example 6.) The opening toccata also surprises the listener when he/she discovers that it is not a toccata, but instead a ground bass variation where variations precede the bass ostinato. Strangely, the ground bass continues alone at the end of the section in abbreviated form.

Abruptio--Bernhard discusses how this figure ruptures a melodic line by the unexpected insertion of a rest. Once again, returning to the homophonic noëma of the Praeludium in f#, mm. 14-23, the passage resumes after the aposiopesis (the breaking off), but quickly disperses into a brief stylus fantasticus section where the melodic lines are interrupted with rests (mm. 27-28), reflecting the distress that Buxtehude mollifies with the Noëma. (See Example 3.)

In his discussion of melodic composition within Der vollkommene Capellmeister (1739), Johann Mattheson (1681-1764) divides figures into embellishments added by the performer, Figurae cantionis, and rhetorical figures incorporated by the composer, Figurae cantus. Mattheson deemphasizes the mathematical derivations and instead encourages a natural expression concentrated on melody, not counterpoint. The rise of the Empfindsamerstil led to the decline of the musica poetica tradition because expressivity of the performer and ornamentation surpassed the concern for a rationally trained composer to evoke categorized affections.

In summary, these writers seem to address different aspects of musica poetica. Burmeister initiated serious inquiry of the rhetorical model in musical analysis and composition. He described a method of formally dividing compositions by use of figures. Most of his figures deal with musical textures. Bernhard provided a vocabulary of figures based on dissonance treatment. He also demonstrated how these small-scope figures define various seventeenth-century styles. Mattheson was concerned with the structural relationships between composition and oratory, i.e., how composers distribute musical ideas to impart the best rhetorical effect.

Dietrich Buxtehude and Musica Poetica

Now we ask: was Dietrich Buxtehude (1637-1707) aware of these theories? As I have shown, musical figures and basic knowledge of rhetoric were taken for granted. Furthermore, many cantors taught rhetoric and Latin while fulfilling their musical duties. Buxtehude served as organist at Marienkirche in Lübeck. Because only sixty kilometers separate Hamburg and Lübeck, Buxtehude traveled to Hamburg where Bernhard worked. Kerala Snyder has even demonstrated that Buxtehude modeled a piece after an obscure work by Bernhard. Furthermore, Snyder states "Buxtehude would certainly have been familiar with the system that Christoph Bernhard expounded in his treatise 'Tractatus compositionis augmentatus.'"12 Other treatises were also readily available. For instance, George Buelow states that Kircher's "Musurgia universalis, one of the really influential works of music theory, was drawn upon by almost every later German music theorist until well into the 18th century. Its popularity was greatly aided by a German translation of a major part of it in 1662."13 Early in Buxtehude's career, this compendium certainly would have been available in Hamburg and probably in Lübeck as well.

So far, we have studied a few figures that contribute to the affect of three Buxtehude praeludia in minor keys.  But how closely do his preludes follow the organizational precepts of oratory? Let us briefly examine the typical disposition of Buxtehude's praeludia.

After an opening flourish comparable to an exordium in a speech, Buxtehude's preludes generally alternate between free sections and imitative sections, analogous to confutatio and confirmatio sections. A variable number of confutatio/confirmatio sections probably would lead Burmeister to simply lump these together into the "body." The final free section, or  peroratio, provides a successful conclusion through repetition (to recapitulate an argument) and the strictly musical devices of pedal points and tonal closure.

Snyder compares the opposition of free sections and fugues to that of prelude and aria. This apt analogy captures fugal entries as an amplification technique of confirmatio sections that conveys a single affection in agreement with the pieces' mode and overall affect.14 Free sections often use stylus theatralis while fugues tend to employ less dissonant styles. Although Buxtehude's works follow a definition of stylus phantasicus somewhere between that of Mattheson and his predecessor Kircher, Mattheson's directions guide performers particularly well on the performance of the free sections: these pieces follow "all kinds of otherwise unusual progressions, hidden ornaments, ingenious turns and embellishments . . . without actual observation of the measure and the key, regardless of what is placed on the page . . . now swift, now hesitating, now in one voice, now in many voices, . . . but not without the intent to please, to overtake and to astonish."15 In other words, these free sections display an improvisatory and unpredictable character, often with the purpose to astonish the listener. Certainly opening sections fulfill Mattheson's description while interior free sections tend toward more melancholy moods, especially in the three minor key pieces this article examines.

The Disposition of the Praeludia in g, e, and f#

The fully worked-out fugues and other hallmarks of Buxtehude's mature style lead Snyder to date the Praeludium in g before 1675. (See Table 5.)  Lawrence Archbold uses these same characteristics to support a later dating.16 Despite differences among scholars here, all agree this praeludium displays Buxtehude's best work.17 The canonic voices in the manuals opening the exordium make the delayed ground bass entrance surprising. Transformations of this theme pervade the entire work, perhaps a legacy of the composer's inventio stage. This flashy start precedes a ricercar fugue that takes its theme from the previous ostinato to create a sort of textural modulation into the first confirmatio. (See Example 7.) As usual in Buxtehude's praeludia, the first fugue disintegrates after significant development. The following free section contains the only example of strict continuo style in Buxtehude's organ works.  This confutatio leads back to the tonic while subtly reintroducing the main theme, like an orator who skillfully employs opposing points-of-view to his advantage during a rebuttal. Marked Largo and with dotted rhythms, the last fugue then boldly announces yet another version of the piece's theme with a variety of stylus theatricus figures to emphasize its dark character. Even Archbold cannot resist calling the last fugue "the most stately, even elegaic of Buxtehude's fugues." The peroratio concludes with figurative repetition via a free ciacona and appropriate pedal points.

Like many other scholars, Philipp Spitta described the Praeludium in e as "one of his [Buxtehude's] greatest organ compositions. . . ."18 (See Table 6.) This work was probably composed in 1684 because of tuning considerations. According to Snyder, the heavy emphasis on counterpoint links it with early works of the 1670s when Buxtehude assimilated the writings of Bernhard, Theile, and Reinken. The Praeludium in e opens with a free, figural exordium, but three fugues dominate the work. The well-developed first fugue displays a canzona-like subject with three distinct motives, and it concludes with a brief noëma derived from the subject's eighth notes. The second fugue is "the most contrapuntally elegant, and at the same time one of the most expressive fugues in all the praeludia. Brossard . . . would undoubtedly have called it a fuga pathetica [with its leaps, chromaticism, meter, and strict contrapuntal procedures]."19 The following free section is imaginative and quite rhapsodic with highly ornamented passage-work often juxtaposed against slow, unadorned notes. Characteristic of Kircher's affection amour, the harmonies here seem to wander (between the dominant and subdominant areas). The contrapuntally "lax" but vigorous fugue that constitutes the fifth section is a gigue that quickly dissolves into a concertato texture and ends with a short flourish. The capricious character of the Lombard rhythms at the very end may harken back to the canzona-like first fugue.

Probably written in the 1690s, the Preludium in f#  emphasizes free sections. (See Table 7.) After a brief flourish, the exordium presents an unadorned passus duriusculus in quarter notes accompanied by right hand arpeggios. This figure and the dissonant key of f# minor in unequal temperaments present a particularly gloomy and somewhat inward character.20 The following noëma provides brief but limited relief because of dissonances and an aposiopesis. The first fugue, marked Grave, continues the dissonant discourse with its figures and dotted rhythms. When the fugal texture dissolves, a second fugue marked vivace interjects into the final cadence with a variant of the subject from the first fugue. Although of a livelier nature, the saltus duriusculus in the second fugue subject still reminds the listener of the principal affect. This faster fugue quickly dissolves into motivic interplay, temporarily escaping to the parallel major. The following free section is the most adventuresome harmonically of Buxtehude's praeludia: it explores g-sharp minor--an especially remote and dissonant key; the melodic material seems to trail off, rhapsodically speeding up and then slowing unpredictably; and melodies suggest thoughts that lead nowhere. But Buxtehude fuses this final confutatio to the succeeding peroratio with a pedal note. The peroratio repeats an extremely loose ostinato, presenting motives from previous sections, in a virtuosic display of stylus phantasticus.

Summary

 We must conclude that Buxtehude must have been familiar with Bernhard's ideas. He may have also known Burmeister's groundbreaking treatise Musica poetica. Especially in Buxtehude's praeludia, the rhetorical figures of Burmeister suggest various touches and large-scale effects while the small rhetorical figures identified by Bernhard accumulate, fashioning affects with various types of dissonances. Buxtehude cast the three praeludia above into minor keys to project darker affects than his rhetorical figures suggest. The contrast of thematic material and figures seems to divide internal sections into alternations similar to supporting arguments and rebuttals found in rhetoric. Outer sections introduce and conclude pieces magnificently. The strong correlation between so-called Toccata Form and rhetorical organization may even explain why this form flourished in the Lutheran stronghold of northern Germany during the seventeenth century.  n

Alexander Fiseisky, born in Moscow, graduated with distinction from the Moscow Conservatoire as pianist and organist. He is an organ soloist of the Moscow State Philharmonic Society, head of the organ class at the Russian Gnessins’ Academy of Music in Moscow, and president of the Vladimir Odoyevsky Organ Center. He organized and served as artistic director for organ festivals in Moscow, St. Petersburg, Kiev, and Tallinn, among others. In 1997 he was honored by President Yeltsin with the title ‘Honored Artist of the Russian Federation’. Fiseisky has given concerts in more than 30 countries. In the Bach anniversary year of 2000 he played J. S. Bach’s entire organ works, twice in the context of EXPO 2000 in Hannover, and once in a single day in Düsseldorf as a Bach marathon. Sought after as a juror in international competitions, he has directed seminars and masterclasses in Europe and the USA. He is the dedicatee of numerous compositions, including works by Mikhail Kollontai, Vladimir Ryabov, Milena Aroutyunova, and Walther Erbacher. A musicologist, he has edited anthologies of organ music of Russia and of the Baltics (Bärenreiter-Verlag). He has many recordings to his credit, including the complete organ works of J. S. Bach.

It goes without saying that the primary
task of every performer who wishes to convey the meaning of any given musical work must first be to understand the original intention of the composer. And when the works in question are those of Johann Sebastian Bach, where the invisible thread that should link us to the era in which he lived seems to be irretrievably broken, the task takes on Herculean proportions. The aim of this analysis is to attempt a correct reading of the Clavierübung III—one of the most enigmatic works in the whole literature of the organ.
This work, which was composed at the high point of the composer’s creativity (1739), impresses us by its dimensions alone. It is part of a cycle of works, comprising the Six Partitas (Part 1, composed in 1731, BWV 825–830), the French Ouverture and the Italian Concerto (Part 2, composed in 1735, BWV 831, BWV 971), as well as the Goldberg Variations (Part 4, composed in 1742, BWV 988). And the Clavierübung III itself is also a cyclical work—it consists of 21 chorale preludes and four duets framed by a prelude and a fugue in E-flat major.
Bach certainly accorded the Clavierübung III particular importance. It is no coincidence that this was the first work for organ that he had published in Leipzig. What was Bach’s purpose in writing this work, and what means did he choose to fulfil it?

The history of the composition. The intentions and aims of the composer
The Clavierübung III was written to coincide with the 200th anniversary of Luther’s visit to Leipzig and the festal Whitsun service in St. Thomas Church on the 25th of May 1539, which effectively marked the official recognition of the Reformation in Leipzig. The Clavierübung III consists essentially of arrangements of chorales from the Protestant church service, and in its structure it is reminiscent of Luther’s Catechism, which consists of two parts: the Greater Catechism deals with the principles of faith, while the Lesser Catechism is directed more towards children and the less-educated part of the population. Correspondingly, each chorale melody—with the exception of Allein Gott in der Höh’ sei Ehr’ [Glory be to God alone on high]—is presented in two versions: a greater version which uses all the resources of the organ including the pedals, and a shorter manualiter version.
And indeed, because of its special structure, the Clavierübung III has often in the past been referred to as an “Organ Catechism,” and correspondingly it is usually referred to today as the “Organ Mass.” It is clear that neither of these two names do full justice to the structure of Bach’s composition. Nor do they explain the inclusion of the four duets.
The title of the work is as follows:

Dritter Theil / der / Clavier Übung / bestehend / in / verschiedenen Vorspielen / über die / Catechismus- und andere Gesaenge, / vor die Orgel: / Denen Liebhabern, und besonders denen Kennern / von dergleichen Arbeit, zur Gemüths Ergezung / verfertiget von / Johann Sebastian Bach, / Koenigl[ich] Pohlnischen, und Churfürstl[ich] Saechs[eschen] / Hoff-Compositeur, Capellmeister, und / Directore Chori Musici in Leipzig. / In Verlegung des Authoris.

[Third Part of the Clavierübung consisting of various preludes on the Catechism and other Hymns for the organ: for amateurs, and especially for connoisseurs of such work, for the refreshment of their souls, executed by Johann Sebastian Bach, Royal Polish and Electoral Saxon Court Composer, Capellmeister, and Directore Chori Musici in Leipzig. Published by the author.]

Bach here follows the example of his predecessor at St. Thomas Church, Johann Kuhnau (1660–1722), and modestly calls his work Clavierübung [Keyboard Exercise].2 He thereby encourages us, through diligent practice (Übung in German), to understanding his purpose in writing this work.
Let us accept this invitation.
The first question, even after a cursory look at Bach’s work, is probably “What does it represent in this compositional form? Are we to understand it as a unified dramatic whole or as a collection of diverse pieces for the keyboard?”
Characteristically, the usual concert practice suggests that the Clavierübung III is not seen as an integral work: virtually nobody plays the whole composition in its published form.3 But the question nevertheless remains: Is there really no suggestion of an overall dramatic structure within the work?
An analysis would help us to answer this question. But before we tackle it, we should—even very generally—look at some characteristics of the musical aesthetics and Bach’s particular compositional style during the period when he was working on the Clavierübung III.

The theological and philosophical basis of the work of J. S. Bach
Bach’s personal philosophy was heavily influenced by the philosophical ideas and the personality of Martin Luther (1483–1546). Books written by Luther accounted for a quarter of all the books in Bach’s private library. According to the personal inventory that was made after his death, Bach owned two complete editions of the works of Martin Luther in Latin and German, as well as works of his successors: Abraham Calov, Martin Chemnitz, Johannes Olearius, and others.4 The title page of an earlier version of the Clavier-Büchlein für Anna Magdalena Bach5 bears a note giving the title of the work as Anti-Calvinismus by August Pfeiffer, written in Bach’s own hand.
It is well known that Luther was a well-educated musician.6 In contrast to the majority of the reformers in the 16th century, Luther considered music to be a form of divine revelation. In the foreword to Georg Rhau’s anthology Symphoniae iucundae7 he wrote: “In summa: Die edle Musika ist nach Gottes Wort der höchste Schatz auf Erden.“8 [Summing up: Noble music is the greatest treasure on earth next to the Word of God.] He is quoted in the Encomion musices as giving a similar definition: “Musika ist eine schöne, liebliche Gabe Gottes, sie hat mich oft also erweckt und bewegt, daß ich Lust zu predigen gewonnen habe...”9 [One of the finest and noblest gifts of God is music. It has often aroused and moved me so that I have gained a desire to preach . . . ] And in a letter to Ludwig Senfl of 4 October 1530 we find the following lines in his handwriting:
Et plane judico, nec pudet asserere, post theologiam esse nullam artem, quae musicae possit aequari, cum ipsa sola post theologiam id praestet, quod alioqui sola theologia praestat, scilicet quietem et animum laetum…10
[I plainly judge, and do not hesitate to affirm, that except for theology there is no art that could be put on the same level with music, since except for theology, (music) alone produces what otherwise only theology can do, namely, a calm and joyful disposition.11]
Luther’s views were akin to those of Bach. Like the great reformer, Bach saw the world of music and the world of theology as very closely connected.12 A short handwritten treatise concerning figured bass, which Bach wrote while working on the Clavierübung III, is introduced with the following words:
Der Generalbaß ist das vollkommenste Fundament der Music welcher [auf einem Clavier] mit beyden Händen gespielt wird dergestalt das die lincke Hand die vorgeschriebenen Noten spielet die rechte aber Con- und Dissonantien darzu greift damit dieses eine wohlklingende Harmonie gebe zur Ehre Gottes und zulässiger Ergötzung des Gemüths und soll wie aller Music, also auch des General Basses Finis und End Uhrsache anders nicht, als nur zu Gottes Ehre und Recreation des Gemüths seyn. Wo dieses ists keine eigentliche Music sondern ein Teuflisches Geplerr und Geleyr.13
[The thorough-bass is the most perfect foundation of music. It is played with both hands on a keyboard instrument in such a way that the left hand plays the written notes, while the right hand strikes consonances and dissonances, so that this results in full-sounding Harmonie to the Honor of God and the permissible delight of the soul. The ultimate end or final goal of all music, including the thorough-bass, shall be nothing but for the Honor of God and the renewal of the soul. Where these factors are not taken in consideration, there is no true music, rather, devilish bawling and droning.14]

When Bach at the age of 23 left Mühl-hausen, he declared that the Endzweck [ultimate aim] of his creative work would be the regulirte kirchen music zu Gottes Ehren [regulated church music to the glory of God].15
One can further assess the musical and aesthetic views of the composer with the help of his annotations in the margins of a Bible that was published by Abraham Calov (1681–1682) in Wittenberg.16 These marginalia are quite valuable—they allow us to catch a glimpse of the personal views of their writer and open up his world for us.
Already in Exodus, Chapter 15, where the prophetess Miriam sings of the wonderful deeds of God, we can read in Bach’s own hand: “N.B. Erstes Vorspiel auf 2 Chören zur Ehre Gottes zu musiciren.” [N.B.: First prelude for two choirs to be sung to the glory of God.] As a comment on First Chronicles 29, v. 2117 we find the following statement by the composer:

Ein herrlicher Beweiß, daß neben andern Anstalten des Gottesdienstes, besonders auch die Musica von Gottes Geist durch David mit angeordnet worden.
[Splendid proof that, besides other arrangements for worship, music too was instituted through David by the Spirit of God.]18
First Chronicles 26 describes the choosing of musicians for the temple. Bach’s comment: “Dieses Capitel ist das wahre Fundament aller Gott gefälligen Kirchen Music.” [This chapter is the true foundation of all church music pleasing to God.]
And one final quote: Second Chronicles, chapter 5 contains the passage:

. . . it was the duty of the trumpeters and singers to make themselves heard in unison in praise and thanksgiving to the LORD, and when the song was raised, with trumpets and cymbals and other musical instruments, in praise to the LORD “For he is good; for his steadfast love endures for ever,” the house, the house of the LORD, was filled with a cloud, so that the priests could not stand to minister because of the cloud; for the glory of the LORD filled the house of God. (2 Chronicles 5:13–14)19

Bach annotates this text with a remarkable comment that has programmatic significance and shows not only his relationship to the composing, performing, and hearing of music, but also to the activities of a church musician in general: “Bey einer andächtigen Musique ist allezeit Gott mit seiner Gnaden Gegenwart.“ [Where there is devotional music, God with His grace is always present.]
These examples suffice to clarify where we must start if we wish to analyze the works of Johann Sebastian Bach. Albert Schweitzer wrote in his masterful fashion: “Music is an act of worship with Bach… For him, art was religion...”20 The orthodox Lutheran Bach, who was born and raised in Eisenach, Luther’s own town, where the façade of the main church of St. George was decorated with the Protestant motto “A mighty fortress is our God,” transcended in his music the boundaries of confession and creed. “In the last resort, however, Bach’s real religion was not orthodox Lutheranism, but mysticism. In his innermost essence he belongs to the history of German mysticism.”21
This mystical sensitivity to the presence of God and the desire to give witness to Him through music, coupled with his dazzling talent, enabled Bach in his later works to develop an astonishing artistic fusion, the likes of which had not been seen in the world’s cultural history.
In 1747 Bach was admitted to the Societät der musikalischen Wissenschaften [Society of the Musical Sciences], which his one-time pupil, the philosopher and music author Lorenz Christoph Mizler von Koloff (1711–1778), had founded.22 Mizler, a friend of Bach’s, was strongly influenced by Pythagorism and the rational philosophy of both G. W. Leibnitz (1646–1716) and Christian Wolff (1679–1754). He saw music as a mathematical science.23
The very fact that Bach accepted Mizler’s invitation to join the Societät der musikalischen Wissenschaften is in itself significant. The composer obviously sympathized with Pythagoras’s ideas concerning the universe and its perfect harmony: a harmony that, according to the teachings of the ancient philosopher and mathematician, was expressed in numbers,24 and shared the convictions of his progenies.
J. S. Bach became the fourteenth member of the Society after G. F. Telemann (6) and G. F. Handel (11), together with other well-known scholars and philosophers. Following the established tradition, upon joining the Society he contributed a mite of his own. In addition to the Canonic variations on “Vom Himmel hoch, da komm’ ich her” (BWV 769), the composer also donated a portrait of himself to the Society, which had been painted in 1746 by Elias Gottlob Hausmann. A microanalysis of the music manuscript that appears in this painting has been made by Friedrich Smend. The results have thrown light on significant aspects of Bach’s compositional methods, which until the middle of the twentieth century had not attracted much attention by scholars.25
Smend’s publication gave new impetus to investigating numerology in the works of the Cantor of St. Thomas Church in Leipzig.26 It is not without interest that the researchers first found support in the writings of Christian theologians, but later more and more in the works of the ancient philosophers.27

Features of J. S. Bach’s compositional method
Albert Schweitzer defined Bach as a phenomenon in the history of music: “Bach is . . . a terminal point . . . everything merely leads up to him.”28 Indeed the works of the Cantor of St. Thomas make use not only of the fruits of earlier achievements in composition, but they are also the consummation of the most characteristic tendencies in the music of his own time. He makes use of a plethora of past and present expressive techniques and puts them at the disposal of one single goal: the creation of “devotional music.”
So what exactly were the artistic methods used by J. S. Bach as a composer?
Victor Hugo once described Gothic cathedrals as “symphonies in stone.” If we apply this quotation to the works of Bach, we could say that his larger compositions are “Gothic cathedrals” in music. And when one looks more closely at how Bach approached a new composition we can actually find quite close parallels to architecture. One could contrast, for example, Bach’s methods with the processes current in Viennese Classicism. Whereas in the latter period composition proceeded in a “linear” fashion, beginning from the melody in one of the voices, the methods of Bach’s time started from quite a different point. First of all, the composer laid down a concept of the entire work, or—to use the architectural analogy—he created a “ground-plan.” Then he proceeded to fill in the details. An example of this method is provided by the Orgelbüchlein [Little Organ Book] (BWV 599–644).
This working method gave free rein to the composer’s imagination. The proportions of the composition and its “saturation” with both obvious and more hidden details—factors that played an important role in determining the overall sense of the work—could easily be incorporated in the composition from its very beginning. Great importance was attached to Affektenlehre [Doctrine of the Affections], musical-rhetorical figures, and numerology.
Bach was without a doubt a brilliant “musical architect.” There is no room in his works for anything non-essential. He worked in a similar fashion to the architects of the Middle Ages: every detail has its origin in the concept governing the whole. And as with the medieval builders, much of this work remains, even today, shrouded in mystery. There are always new avenues opening up in these seemingly well-known works for new generations of interpreters to explore.
One can of course only penetrate more deeply into this musical architecture of most of Bach’s works if the connection to the words of the chorales used by the composer is taken into account. Johann Gotthilf Ziegler (1688–1747), a pupil of Bach, wrote in 1746: “Herr Capellmeister Bach, who is still living, instructed me when playing hymns, not to treat the melody as if it alone were important, but to play them taking into account the affect of the words.”29
Johann Mattheson (1681–1764) described music as sounding speech. Naturally this form of speech required its own lexicon in the shape of the definite progressions of musical notes bearing the semantic meaning—the motives, or musical-rhetorical figures, as they are called. These were quoted by Bach’s cousin, Johann Gottfried Walther (1684–1748), in his Musicalisches Lexicon [Music Encyclopaedia] (1732) and in the Praecepta der Musicalischen Composition [Principles of Musical Composition] (1708). Another important compositional aspect was the use of rhetorical laws in the construction of the musical structure, so that the composition began to resemble a religious sermon. As already mentioned, the Affektenlehre [Doctrine of the Affections], which depended upon the use of unequal temperament and the resulting different emotional character of the various keys, played an important role in composition,30 as did, surrounded as it was by an air of mystery, numerology with its different levels of meaning.
One of these levels is to be found in allegorical symbolism. Andreas Werckmeister (1645–1706) gave the following meanings to the first eight numbers in Musikalische Paradoxal-Discourse:31 1 – God, unity; 2 – The Word, God the Son; 3 – The Holy Spirit; 4 – The world of angels; 5 – Symbol of Mankind (“sensual Mankind” [Numerus sensualis]); 6 – Third Person of the Godhead (3×2);32 7 – Symbol of purity and peace; 8 – Symbol of wholeness and perfection.
Another level is that of semantic symbolism. For example, the number 7 symbolises the Seven Last Words on the Cross.
A third level is that of cabbalistic symbolism. Each letter of the alphabet stands for a particular number: a = 1, b = 2, c = 3 and so forth. The letters i and j share the number 9, while u and v are both attributed to the number 20. This means that particular combinations of letters each have a corresponding number. For example, the number 14 is the sum of the numerical values of the letters BACH. Thus the number 14 (or similar numbers, such as 140 or 1.4) would be associated with the composer Bach, whose name was assembled from these individual letters.
Numbers were also used as a constructive element, whereby the harmonic proportions of the ratios of simple numbers, which had been known since Pythagoras’s time, were incorporated into the composition. In addition, the proportio divina, the “Golden mean,” was also used. Naturally Bach was a consummate master of all these creative methods and he used them constantly in his compositions. The most obvious example is the Clavierübung III, which occupies a key position among all Bach’s works for the organ.
Let us examine the structure of this composition more closely.

The chorale preludes
The central part of the work under consideration, as Bach’s title-page suggests, is the collection of chorale preludes. This collection covers not only the essential elements of the Protestant liturgy but also of Luther’s Catechism.
Kyrie, Gott Vater in Ewigkeit – Christe, aller Welt Trost – Kyrie, Gott heiliger Geist [Kyrie, God the Father, eternal – Christ, consolation of all the world – Kyrie, God the Holy Spirit] (BWV 669–674)
The triad of the first chorales creates a sense of unity. The models for these autonomous works were certain verses of the Gregorian chorale Kyrie fons bonitatis (10th century),33 which display the characteristic of a refrain. (Example 1) Such a compositional method is seldom found among Bach’s organ works. In the context of Kyrie – Christe – Kyrie it allowed the composer to establish by means of music the essence of the “one and indivisible” Holy Trinity.34
The first motif of the cantus firmus is characterized by a stepwise progression. In the final statement of the cantus firmus (which is the same in all three compositions), note the upwards leap over a fifth. It is perhaps of interest to note that both the stepwise movement on the one hand and the prominent role of the fifth on the other (elements that determine the mood of the first chorales of the Clavierübung III) play an important part in the dramatic construction of the whole work.
The unity of the initial Kyrie – Christe – Kyrie is underlined by the fact that they are written in a single compositional style—the stile antico. Hermann Keller described them as “Orgelmotetten kunst-vollster Art” [The most highly artistic motets for organ].35 The music suggests greatness and quiet strength. The movement of the accompanying voices working out the motifs of the cantus firmus is linear. The cantus firmus, which is kept in longer note values, appears successively in the soprano (Kyrie, Gott Vater in Ewigkeit), in the tenor (Christe, aller Welt Trost), and in the bass (Kyrie, Gott heiliger Geist), and thus symbolizes in similar fashion the three Persons of the Trinity: God the Father, who is above all, who holds all in being; Jesus Christ, the mediator between God and humankind; and the life-giving Holy Spirit.
The epic element appears organically tied to the inner dynamics of the Kyrie – Christe – Kyrie. The contemplative character of the first chorale gives way to a feeling of emotional turbulence in the second chorale. The third chorale is energy-laden, an effect achieved by the introduction of a fifth voice, the acceleration of the musical structure, and the use of chromatics.
The end of the chorale Kyrie, Gott heiliger Geist is quite remarkable: against the backdrop of the final statement of the cantus firmus in the pedals, a tie overflowing with chromatic dissonances appears in the upper voices. These six-and-a-half bars differ quite markedly from all that has gone before. The sound as it were illustrates the text, which at this point contains a plea for mercy. The word eleison is accompanied by an ostinato, which climbs in seconds and by a chromatic figura parrhesia. The music suggests a certain personal involvement. It is significant that one finds the motif BACH in crab motion here (although it appears in other notes), and finally encounters the signature of the composer: CH-BA in the alto of the penultimate bar. (Example 2)
There are altogether 60 bars in the chorale prelude Kyrie, Gott heiliger Geist, which matches Werckmeister’s concept well.36 And there is of course the additional association with the creation of the world (the six days of God’s creative work).37 It is worth mentioning that in the first prelude of the Clavierübung III the numerical symbol for the name Bach already occurs more than once. The subsequent statement of the theme in the chorale Kyrie, Gott Vater in Ewigkeit is not only emphasized by the use of parallel thirds, but also by its extension to 14 notes (the numerical value of the letters BACH).38 And the cantus firmus in the chorale prelude Kyrie, Gott heiliger Geist has a total of 41 notes (JSBACH).
The three manualiter Kyries, each in the form of a small fughetta, all elaborate the opening motif of the appropriate verse of the chorale. Each following chorale begins in the soprano with the last note of the preceding chorale, which serves to underline the inner unity of the three manualiter pieces Kyrie – Christe – Kyrie.
An interesting aspect, which is seldom found within Bach’s organ works, is how the keys of the six pieces we have looked at are related. Each of them has at least two tonal centers. We should not let the key signature with three flats of the greater chorale preludes Kyrie – Christe – Kyrie confuse us: the rules of musical notation would certainly have allowed these preludes to have been written with only two flats. It would appear that the composer intentionally adopted three flats in order to strengthen the association with the Holy Trinity.

Allein Gott in der Höh’ sei Ehr’
[Glory be to God alone on high] (BWV 675–677)
A special feature of the following section of the Clavierübung III is the fact that it has three different preludes on the chorale Allein Gott in der Höh’ sei Ehr’—the Protestant version of the Gloria in excelsis from the Gregorian Mass for Easter Sunday. An explanation for this phenomenon must be sought in the text of the chorale itself,39 as it sings the praises of the Holy Trinity. Correspondingly, Bach includes three preludes here, each of which is a very individually elaborated piece in three-part texture.
In the first prelude, elegant and rhythmical canon-like outer voices surround the cantus firmus in the alto. The next prelude is executed as a trio sonata with pedal obligato. The cantus firmus appears from time to time in one or other of the voices of this exquisite trio and blends with the natural flow of the music.40 The last chorale prelude is a small fugato in the manner of an Italian versetto, based on the first notes of the cantus firmus.41 All in all, these three versions of the angel’s praise Allein Gott in der Höh’ sei Ehr’ create a feeling of incorporality and immateriality, convincing us by their clarity and purity, and creating an impression of harmony and perfection.
In this section of the Clavierübung III there is a small, at first glance insignificant, compositional detail that is, however, very interesting when seen from the perspective of the dramatic construction of the whole. The keys of the chorale preludes—F major, G major, and A major—form an ascending motif that is the basis for all three preludes on Allein Gott in der Höh’ sei Ehr’. The composer must assuredly have chosen this sequence of keys with the aim of thus uniting the whole cycle. Numerology reveals another interesting aspect—the numerical values of F, G, and A (6 +7 + 1) comes to 14, the same value as BACH.

Dies sind die heil’gen zehn Gebot’ [These are the holy Ten Commandments] (BWV 678–679)
Following the lead of Luther’s Catechism, Bach now begins an extensive section of the Clavierübung III with arrangements of the Gregorian chorale on an Old Testament theme, Dies sind die heil’gen zehn Gebot’.42 This is the last pair of chorales in a major key for the remainder of the cycle and the only time that Bach uses the same key for two consecutive compositions—Mixolydian G major, which is one of the purest keys in unequal temperament. It is significant that in both the Orgelbüchlein and in Cantata 77, the chorale melody Dies sind die heil’gen zehn Gebot’ is also written in this key.
The greater chorale prelude is developed as a composition for five voices, with the cantus firmus appearing a total of five times as a canon in the tenor. Thus it appears ten times in all, symbolizing an obedient response to the Law.43
The beginning of the prelude is wonderful: over a pedalpoint we hear, emerging out of the stillness, the motif of three descending notes, which we encountered earlier in the piece, worked out as a canon in the upper voices. The measured diatonic motion, the prepared suspensions, the surrounding motifs, and the ascending triads—these are just some of the musical means the composer has used to create a world of unspoiled purity, order, and harmony, in which the unsullied inhabitants of Paradise were at home before the Fall. (Example 3)
A change in character occurs in the fifth bar44 with the introduction of a figura suspirans45 and a motif of ‘falling seconds’, supplemented by a descending chromatic figura parrhesia motif in the alto. (Example 4)
Now the music is dominated by grief, sorrow, and misfortune.46 A change occurs once more in the sixth bar with the introduction of a figura kyklosis or figura circulatio in the alto47 (Example 5), which enriches the fabric with its new nuances. Thus with the help of symbolic motifs that are organically woven into the very fabric of the music, the composer brings us closer to the meaning of the chorale.
The First Commandment, which Luther in his Great Catechism deems to be the most important, is interpreted in the second verse of the chorale:

Ich bin allein dein Gott, der Herr,
kein Götter sollst du haben mehr,
du sollst mir ganz vertrauen dich,
von Herzens Grund lieben mich,
Kyrieleis.

[I alone am your God, your Lord,
No other Gods shall you have,
You shall put your whole trust in me,
Love me from the depth of your heart.
Kyrieleis.]

There is much evidence that precisely these lines were the starting point for Bach’s plan for the whole composition.
It is interesting to note that where the text speaks of “the love of God that comes out of the depths of the heart,” Bach interrupts the cantus firmus (bars 48–50) and increases the number of repetitions from ten to twelve. The motivation for this change can best be seen as an attempt to create a connection between the Old and New Testaments, whose interpreters in the new Christian congregations were the twelve Apostles. And Bach will follow the same intention to connect, through the symbolic comparison of the numbers ten and twelve, the Mosaic Law and the teachings of Jesus again in the Eucharist part, the conclusion of the chorale prelude section of the Clavierübung III.
It is well known that in the New Testament the Commandment of Love takes on decisive significance: “Jesus answered . . . you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind, and with all your strength” (Mark 12:30). The composer underlines the importance of this commandment with the help of special methods that are introduced at key points. When the word Herz [Heart] appears in the chorale text, Bach highlights it (in bars 46-47) with two groups of 16th notes, and when the words lieben mich [love me] appear in bars 51–52, he uses the heterolepsis, a musical rhetorical figure that creates the effect of two being united in one.48 Thus the composer uses musical means to portray the tangible content of the text. (Example 6)
Numerology plays an especially important role in the chorale prelude Dies sind die heil’gen zehn Gebot’.49 The chorale prelude has 60 bars (corresponding to the six days of creation). A pause first appears in the pedal after 37 notes, which can be seen as the Labarum, or Chi-Ro Christogram.50 The next pause comes after 60 further notes (another apparent reference to the creation of the cosmos). The subsequent melodic structure of the pedal line up to the pedalpoint in bar 29, which creates the illusion of a reprise, contains 47 notes. In the first bar, after the pause (bar 21), we encounter a leap of two octaves in the pedal, covering the entire range of the pedal, which is very unusual. (Example 7)
It is well known that Bach often referred to the Psalter, as did Luther in his Catechism. Psalm 47:2 states: “For the LORD, the Most High, is awesome, a great king over all the earth.” The text of the cantus firmus quoted at the point of the two octave leap is: Kein Götter sollst du haben mehr [No other Gods shall you have]. Michael Radulescu suggests that we should see the leap as an original “musical comment” by the composer, which, though hidden behind the abstract numerological symbolism, is to be understood as a distinct statement: “I am larger than life, I am your King.”51
The subsequent phrase in the pedal contains 147 notes. When Luther in his Catechism explains the meaning of the Ten Commandments, he quotes Psalm 147:11: “But the LORD takes pleasure in those who fear him, in those who hope in his steadfast love.” By introducing the number 147 into his chorale prelude Dies sind die heil’gen zehn Gebot’, Bach is underlining the actuality of the psalmist’s words quoted by Luther for the theme of the Decalogue.
The final notes of the cantus firmus in the second tenor are accompanied by a descending counterpoint in the first tenor, beginning with a chromatic figura parrhesia, which contains 12 notes (bars 57–60). The last phrase in the pedal consists of 14 notes (BACH), which is preceded by two short phrases of five notes each.
After all the above we can concur with those experts who suggest that the basic idea behind this work is love for the Creator.52 Additional confirmation for the correctness of this view is the number 315, which is the sum of all notes in the pedal. Albrecht Clement considers this number to be the numerical expression of the phrase Du sollt Gott, deinen Herren, lieben. [Literally: “You should love God, your Lord” as a direct rendering of the Luther Bible’s translation of Mark 12:30.]53
Characteristically, Bach introduces this summons in the title of Cantata 77, whose opening chorus is built upon the theme of the chorale prelude Dies sind die heil’gen zehn Gebot’, viz.

Du sollt Gott deinen Herren lieben
24 + 73 + 59 + 49 + 65 + 45 = 315

The manual fughetta on the chorale Dies sind die heil’gen zehn Gebot’, written in the form of a gigue, is also dominated by the number 10, although it also contains other interesting numerical allusions.
First of all, it is a four-voice fughetta and the theme is presented ten times (4×10 = 40). The same relationship can be seen in the exposition of the fughetta: ten bars of four dotted eighth notes (10×4 = 40). The theme runs for ten beats. Thus we see the same relationship in the exposition: 10×4 = 40. The theme in the second exposition is presented in inversion and in a shortened form (six beats). The relationship is correspondingly 6×4 = 24. And finally, the last two stretti quotations of the theme (bars 32–35) give us the relationship 8×2 = 16, as the theme here is eight beats long. It is not difficult to see that the addition of 24 and 16 results in the key number 40, which is apparently a reference to the Jewish people’s forty years of wandering in the wilderness before being given the stone tablets with the Decalogue.
The theme has a most interesting structure. It consists of two parts: the main melody of the chorale emerging from a repeated ostinato note and its leaps (six beats), and stepwise motifs over a fifth (four beats). (Example 8) Christoph Albrecht described the theme figuratively as a musical picture of a “raised warning forefinger.”54 But numerology allows us to find deeper connotation in it. The second part of the theme contains 14 notes (BACH). One could consider this as a mere coincidence, were it not that we meet the melody with this numerical symbol again at other central formative points in this little piece.
This second part of the melody occurs as a theme in its own right in the 41st beat of the fughetta (JSBACH), where it fills out the eleventh bar at the junction between the two expositions. Again, this melody is consistently developed in the 14 bars that separate the two concluding quotations of the theme from the second exposition. And we would finally add that the number 14 is underlined by the sum total of all the beats in this chorale prelude: they all add up to 140.
Without a doubt it would be the very height of negligence for a performer who is looking for an authentic interpretation to ignore the manifold recurrence in the composition of the name of its creator. The composer of the manual version of Dies sind die heil’gen zehn Gebot’ obviously had definite reasons for weaving his name again and again into the musical fabric of the work.
Let us boldly assume that in this work Bach wishes to embody the idea of the divine Commandments as the cornerstone of his own life. The tenfold repeated theme of the chorale Dies sind die heil’gen zehn Gebot’ and the numerical symbol 40 harbor the idea of the Commandments. Their importance for Bach personally is attested to by the composer’s repeated use of the symbol 14.

This article will be continued.