The Passion and <i>Pièce d'Orgue</i>

Gary Verkade is an influential and sought after interpreter of new music throughout Europe and the United States in addition to his established reputation as an analyst and performer of the traditional literature. His extensive experience with music of past eras has led to the publication of essays and articles on a variety of subjects relating to organ performance, early music performance practice, and composition. An organist, composer, and co-founder of the Essen, Germany-based improvisation ensemble SYNTHESE, he has been a leader in bringing forth serious new music for the organ, commissioning new works and working in a collaborative capacity with several well-known composers. He has a particular interest in performing music for organ and electronics. Verkade’s own compositions range among music for organ, electronics, chamber and improvisation ensembles. As a player of improvised music, he has worked together with dancers, photographers and painters, on projects that bring the arts together in a complementary and fructuous manner. Dr. Verkade has been on the faculty of the Musikögskolan i Piteå, Sweden since 2000 as Professor of Organ. He has recorded with the Innova and Mode labels, most recently Winded, an album of works for organ and electronics, and Luciano Berio’s “Fa-Si” on Berio: The Complete Sequenzas, Alternate Sequenzas & Works for Solo Instruments, a collection of performances by the premier contemporary interpreters of new music.

Motto

The noblest desire, the desire to know, imposes on us the duty to investigate.
--Arnold Schoenberg, Harmonielehre (Vienna, 1922)

Beginnings
Composition is the science of putting together consonance and dissonance in such a way that good counterpoint occurs.
Form consists in the artful variety and combination of such consonance and dissonance, in other words in the observation of the general and special rules of counterpoint, so that according to different usage and natural effect it happens that one composition is good, whereas another is better, pleasing the listener more and making its author famous.
--Christoph Bernhard, Tractatus compositionis augmentatus (Dresden, after 1657)

Yes, I readily admit that the rules are to some extent useless and unnecessary. However one sees how carefully they have been used in building harmony. And therefore the ignoramus should not fancy that it makes no difference and one can compose what his fantasy dictates. Oh, no!
--Andreas Werckmeister, Cribrum Musicum (Quedlinburg, 1700)

In sum: the work must be so rich that one must wonder in the extreme, and would have to be an idiot or an atheist (o, the poor, stubborn hearts), who would not be therefore moved to praise the creator.
--Andreas Werckmeister, Harmonologia Musica (Frankfurt and Leipzig, 1702)

Music is a heavenly-philosophical science, especially grounded in mathematics, which deals with sonority insofar as it produces concurrence and good and artful harmony.
--Johann Gottfried Walther, Praecepta der Musicalischen Composition (1708)

It must be looked into what art in music actually is. In my opinion it is as follows: through the use of harmony to awaken in the minds (Gemütern) of man a variety of emotions and, at the same time, through such orderly and sensible harmony to delight the understanding of connoisseurs.
--Georg Philipp Telemann

My goal has been to remind those who want to study music that they cannot get very far in this inexhaustible science without great effort.
--Georg Philipp Telemann, Letter to Johann Mattheson (1718)

All sciences and arts are bound together into a circle by a linked chain. Whoever understands only his own craft, understands nothing; rather, he is a pedant . . . .
--Johann Mattheson, Der vollkommene Capellmeister (Hamburg, 1739)

Introduction
In the Introduction of the new critical edition of Dieterich Buxtehude’s keyboard music, Christoph Wolff writes: “To a considerable extent, Buxtehude’s position in the history of music has been defined by his extraordinary reputation as an organist and by the widespread and continued popularity of his organ compositions.” Wolff continues to explain that Buxtehude’s reputation is based primarily on the free works, the Praeludia, especially those which are pedaliter. I, on the other hand, wish to spend some time with chorale-based works, in particular the chorale prelude Vater unser im Himmelreich, and I will endeavor to demonstrate that Buxtehude’s reputation as a master of organ music could rest on the chorale-based repertoire equally well. I will take as my starting point an historical perspective. I will attempt to listen to this composition with the ears of Buxtehude; in other words, I will keep in mind Baroque, especially German Baroque musical theory and practice.
Peter Reichert, in his article “Musikalische Rhetorik in den Choralvorspielen von Dietrich Buxtehude,” makes the point that our understanding of the chorale-based works by Buxtehude is colored by how much we do not understand about the musical tradition out of which these works arise. He states: “Our pleasure in listening to this music has become, so to speak, a purely culinary one in that we find delight in the beautiful appearance, the surface of the music . . . To the extent that real understanding of the inner content of this music has disappeared, we have devoted ourselves to the sonority of the music, the outer clothing as it were, taking care of the façade of a deserted building.” All those who believe along with the musicians of the Baroque that music is a discipline from which one can both learn and derive pleasure, must ask, along with me: What is there to hear in this composition? In other words: What is there to learn here, what is present here to enrich my experience?
The answers to these questions are, and to a certain extent can only be, personal. However, there is no doubt that some of what I hope to convey here has relevance to others. I would like to concentrate on two specific aspects of the composition, especially: 1) the harmonic and contrapuntal aspect and 2) the relationship of the music to the text and the chorale. It is clear that a composition based on a particular melody and a particular text concerns itself with both that melody and that text. So therefore the two aspects just mentioned are really one. The composition as a whole, the form and the details, will indeed be Buxtehude’s interpretation of that melody and text, expressed harmonically and contrapuntally, musically, which we, in turn, as players, perform at the organ. In order to adequately and appropriately perform we need to hear our way into music which is so far removed from us in time. The fact that this music may in some sense be familiar to us doesn’t necessarily mean that we automatically know what is going on. Familiarity does not necessarily breed understanding. What is it about familiar music, and what is it about unfamiliar music that is unique, unusual? Is there anything in Buxtehude’s composition which awakens our curiosity, strikes us as unexpected? These are the things from which we can learn. What is unusual about Vater unser im Himmelreich, both in the detail and in the form?
The following notes on Vater unser im Himmelreich do not intend to be exhaustive. I have chosen to consider what I deem to be essential to an understanding of the piece as a performer. Many interesting details regarding counterpoint, the handling of dissonance, rhythmic matters, variety in the composition of diminutions and ornaments, etc. have been consciously omitted.
In order to begin, we must attempt to review some history. For learning how to listen to Buxtehude by coming from today and moving back in time to Buxtehude’s day will not reveal to us the interesting and unusual aspects of his compositions. We must start before Buxtehude and move towards him chronologically.

Style
First, let us look at a simple, four-voiced arrangement of the chorale. The harmonization is taken from the chorale prelude itself, distilled out of the richer composition, reduced to the bare essentials. (Example 1) This is one possible harmonization of the chorale, written in a style reminiscent of the chorales found in Samuel Scheidt’s Görlitzer Tabulaturbuch of 1650, though still simpler, in fact positively boring. Yet, it might be suitable as a simple accompaniment to congregational singing.
Buxtehude’s chorale prelude is much more complicated. For example, it has interludes between the chorale phrases that employ imitation. The second example I would like to present consists of the previous simple setting enriched with interludes. However, these interludes are not given as found in Buxtehude, but are likewise distilled out of what is found there. It is again a simplified version—much simplified, though more complex than the preceding example. The harmony is basically the same, but now employs some passing tones and some suspensions in keeping with the simple style. None of the interesting figures, the daring voice leading, or the liberal dissonances of the original are used. In other words, there is no art here. (Example 2)
Playing and listening to these simplified versions of Buxtehude’s work serves to sensitize our ears to hear the art in Vater unser im Himmelreich and to make clear to us why these pieces are so worthy of study. Let us now turn to the chorale prelude itself.

Phrase One (Example 3)
The first thing to notice is that the piece begins with one single voice, a1. The other voices are heard throughout the rest of measure one, but again in the second measure the a1 is heard alone again. This accents those two notes which, significantly, belong to the word Vater, thus accenting that word. We must remember that anyone listening to works of this type in the Baroque knew the chorales they were based upon, not only the melodies, but also the texts. In fact, in chorales such as Vater unser im Himmelreich, i.e., chorales associated with only one particular melody, I think we can be reasonably sure that the melody was 1) recognizable if not too heavily ornamented and 2) the recognized melody automatically called to mind the associated text. That a single note begins this piece is significant for another reason. The single note, the unison, is the unitas, or “one.” In the Baroque, one was not considered to be a number, but was rather the beginning, the source of all number. The unitas was, of course, God, the Father.
The rest in the manuals and pedal is known as an aposiopesis, or abruptio, signifying the more or less abrupt cessation of a musical thought. This is most clearly seen in the pedal, where the typical cadential motive is missing its final note, namely a d on the first beat of measure 2. The motive and the harmony break off suddenly, leaving the a1 in the soprano to carry all of the weight of what is missing on beat one of measure two. In addition, the pedal, when it reenters, late, on beat two, in measure two, still does not bring the expected d, but rather enters on c-sharp. We hear, not the expected d-minor, but an A-major chord in first inversion, a chord that in the Baroque was considered to be particularly expressive.
The pedal continues with a figure known as passus duriusculus, or “a difficult step,” the chromatic sequence of notes: c-sharp, d, c-natural, B-flat. Shortly after the end of the passus duriusculus the alto voice has a quarter note a, which is tied over to the longer half note a in the following measure. This tying of a shorter note to a longer one goes against the rules of counterpoint and is known as a prolongatio. If one hears this note as occurring too soon and sounding too long, it has the effect of slowing down the music. Coupled with the word “Himmelreich” it could be a reference to the concept of eternity, which lasts a longer time than the imagination can fathom.
This happens just before the climax of the first phrase, the second half of measure four. There we find a parrhesia, “liberty of speech,” “candidness,” also known as licentia, “licence.” Traditional theory tells us that the e1 in the soprano is a dissonant note over a g-minor chord. In fact, however, the e1 is definitely consonant: it is the cantus firmus, which is the measure of all things consonant and dissonant. And, indeed, the A-major chord on beat four of that measure acts as a resolution of the preceding dissonance, the c-sharp (tenor) and e1 (soprano) of which, in turn, conclude the cadence on the first beat of the following measure. Before that happens, the tenor note, d, is repeated, emphasized, a reduplicatio: the repetition of a dissonant note. The entire first phrase, beginning with the emphasis on the word Vater, moves towards this goal: the great tension found in measure four and its resolution in measure five. It is indeed a whole phrase and must be played as such.

Phrase Two (Example 4)
With the upbeat to measure six an interlude or, more properly, a prelude to the second phrase of the chorale begins. It is a short fugal introduction, using strict imitation of a motive directly derived from the second chorale phrase, called a fuga realis, of which there are countless examples in Baroque organ literature. This kind of fugal writing is, in other words, the usual case, the norm. The chorale enters with the upbeat to measure eight. With the movement to g1 in measure eight, the chorale leaps up an entire octave to g2. This figure is the hyperbaton, the ascent of a voice out of its normal range. First and foremost, g1 is the chorale tone, not g2. Second, and as important, the leap up of an octave causes a second figure to occur, that of the longinqua distancia, in traditional counterpoint the forbidden separation of upper voices beyond that of an octave, here: d1–g2. Third, the g2 is found outside the staff of the soprano clef, middle c on the bottom line, very often used at this time. J. S. Bach still used the soprano clef for the notation of the Orgelbüchlein. Whether or not Buxtehude used this form of notation in his original manuscript does not change the fact that composers much before him and after him used those clefs in the notation of polyphonic music in Germany and elsewhere. One way or another Buxtehude knew that g2 was out of the traditional range of the soprano voice, which went from b-flat to e2, the range of the soprano clef without the use of ledger lines above or below the staff.
From the high g2 the line descends through the rest of that measure and the next, a catabasis. The pedal line descends also, from the beginning of measure nine through the end of the phrase, a catabasis spanning exactly the interval of an octave. The soprano descends just over the span of the octave. The tenor descends also, beginning in the middle of measure nine to the middle of measure ten. This explains the ellipsis, the lack of something necessary, found in those measures: the alto voice drops out. It is at this point more important for the alto voice to rest than for the polyphony to continue in four voices. Descending music in four voices is awkward to write. It is much more elegant to do it in three voices—which Buxtehude chooses to do here. He draws attention to this fact by allowing the alto to re-enter in measure ten with a dissonance, a cercar della nota, the entrance of a voice one step below the one that is consonant and meant. The soprano and bass voices, descending together in tenths in measure 9, form the figure of the gradatio. Although not defined identically by many authors, the gradatio is understood here to be the parallel movement between two voices.
The hyperbaton in connection with the longinqua distancia and the catabasis in the pedal are the principal carriers of musical meaning in this phrase. The hyperbaton / longinqua distancia, right at the words du and uns, meaning “you” (God) and “us” (mankind), with the emphasis on the great separation (an eleventh), points out with poignancy the space, both spiritual and physical, separating the Godhead from humankind. After the octave leap up, the soprano must descend. The situation is different in the pedal: there is no musical reason for the pedal to descend the octave a to A here. A different pedal line is certainly conceivable just as there is no necessity dictating that the soprano must leap up to g2. These are choices Buxtehude made, recognizable ones. The octave represents the entire gamut of music (the hyperbaton belongs here also): there are no notes that exist that are not found within its confines. The pedal catabasis begins at the word alle, “all,” a fitting representation of that important word. Or better: it is the word Buxtehude has interpreted as important in this phrase, that and the contrast of du and uns.

Phrase Three (Example 5)
Phrase three of the chorale is also introduced by a fuga realis based on the first part of that phrase. The motive is reworked to form a passus duriusculus, which is used throughout the entire chorale phrase. One observes it, somewhat modified in the alto voice in measure 15 and 16 as well as in the pedal in measure 16. The alto in the first part of measure 17 brings the related figure, like an intensification, of the saltus duriusculus, or difficult leap. Interestingly, the chorale itself, in the soprano, appears as a changed version of the fugal theme, as it takes over the chromaticism of the fuga realis motive with the c-sharp2 in measure 14. This is a polyptoton, a changed repetition of a theme, though compositionally the theme or motive has its origin in the chorale melody. Significantly, the chromaticism occurs just at the point the text speaks of being brothers (Brüder sein)—according to the musical interpretation of this (according to Buxtehude, if you will), evidently a difficult undertaking. However, it could also refer to the difficulty of “dich rufen an,” or in general be understood as a reference to prayer as lamentation.
The chorale melody has an extensio, the extension of a note beyond its expected length, on the word dich, “you,” referring to God, giving that word emphasis. Dich ru-fen an now has the rhythm: half note tied to quarter note–quarter note–eighth note–whole note, a syncopatio, or syncopation. The tenor voice is silent throughout most of the phrase, a very long ellipsis. And when the pedal is silent on the third beat of measure 15, the word dich receives an additional accent through the unusual texture, which is suddenly reduced to only two voices. The ellipsis in the tenor allows Buxtehude to make the three remaining voices as like each other as possible while still retaining the melody/accompaniment texture. The phrase ends with a pathopoeia, another chromatically altered note (f-sharp instead of f-natural).

Phrase Four (Example 6)
The prelude to the fourth chorale phrase is not a fuga realis although it utilizes imitation (each entrance an imitatio). The motive, drawn from the last few notes of the chorale phrase, is thrown from voice to voice: bass (m. 17), alto (m. 18), tenor (m. 19), alto (m. 20), tenor (m. 21), soprano (m. 22). However, the organization of this chorale phrase is the strictest yet. The text, und willst das Beten von uns han (literally: and wants prayer from us), expresses the will of God through the word “want,” which in German comes from the same word as “will.” It is God’s will that we pray to him. God’s will is, of course, a command, the law.
This will, this law of God, is expressed, not atypically for the era, through a fuga imaginaria, a specious, fictitious, or imaginary fugue: here, a canon. There is a strict canon between the pedal, which enters first, with the upbeat to measure 19, and the soprano, on the third beat of measure 20. The last notes of the soprano are ornamented using the motive first heard in measure 17. However, there is also a third voice to the canon hidden in the tenor which is unable to quite finish before the end of the chorale phrase. If the imitative motive is reduced to its principal notes, the three-part canon can be clearly seen. (Example 7)
The attention of the listener is drawn particularly to the strong cadence at the end of this phrase. It is the phrase in which the naming of God, through the use of attributes, comes to an end. The actual petition has yet to come. The b-natural1, tied into measure 22, is not properly resolved. Only through licence, catachresis, the leap first to e1, does the dissonance reach a1. The other voices are silent for a moment, aposiopesis, before the cadence on A follows in four voices.

Phrase Five (Example 8)
The next chorale phrase is introduced again by a fuga realis, though here not immediately recognizable due to the mistakenly printed e1 instead of the g1, which is demanded by the conception of the piece. (This realization I owe to Gerd Zacher.) Such mistakes of a third were often made; one needs only to consult the critical apparatus of any number of publications of Baroque keyboard music. The g1 is a dissonance, in fact a saltus duriusculus (a difficult leap, coming from c-sharp1) and a heterolepsis (a note that could come from another voice as passing tone, i.e., coming from the soprano a1). This phrase deals with the petition of the verse, “grant that the mouth not pray alone, help that it come from the depths of the heart.” It begins in this serious manner, the alto voice leaping up close to and sounding a dissonant g1 against the a1 of the cantus firmus in the soprano.
These measures are ruled by the syncopatio in the pedal (mm. 25–26), the ellipsis in the tenor (mm. 27–29), and the catachresis (m. 28). The syncopatio, with its attendant dissonances, encumbers the phrase somewhat, keeping it from getting underway, perhaps pointing out the difficulty of both the petition and the act of petitioning. The first point of relative rest and first real accent after the melody enters is the downbeat of measure 27, on the word bet’ (pray). The words allein der Mund are set in relief in two ways. First the catachresis occurs in conjunction with the passus duriusculus in the pedal: the licence used in handling the dissonances, a1 in the soprano against B-flat in the pedal resolving to the dissonant chord B-natural, e1, g1 on beat two. Second, the ellipsis in the tenor allows Buxtehude to make the cadence on F in three voices, all of which sound the tone F to the exclusion of all else: a musical picture of allein der Mund, “the mouth alone.”

Phrase Six (Example 9)
The prelude to the last chorale phrase is marked by imitation at the fifth between tenor and bass, the normal case in the fuga realis. The alto voice, however, does not participate in the imitation. It begins in parallel thirds (a gradatio) with the tenor and then goes parallel to the bass voice. It is a voice that helps out in the texture. What better picture could there be for the first word of the phrase: hilf’.
The use of musical-rhetorical figures in the music of the North Germans during the Baroque has been established without a doubt, as well as the use of specific forms and compositional techniques based on the expression of text. Connecting specific contrapuntal devices to expression is certainly not unprecedented in Buxtehude. As one example, in Komm, heiliger Geist, Herre Gott, BuxWV 200, Buxtehude employs no vorimitation at all, except preceding the sixth phrase: zu dem Glauben versammelt hast (gathered to the faith). Here Buxtehude composes a fuga realis, which, though it is the normal, preferred method of contrapuntal composition in general, plays the role of the unusual at this point, the exceptional, because it is the only case of such imitation in the entire chorale prelude, and thus receives expressive significance. Here, the gathering of the voices in the fuga realis, first one voice, then a second voice, then the third, is a musical picture of the gathering of the believers (German: versammeln).
This sixth phrase has the most ornamented melody of the piece and is governed by the hyperbole (descending into the range of a lower voice) in the soprano, the abruptio in alto, tenor and bass, the parrhesia on beat four of measure 33, and the circulatio (circular figure) in the soprano in measure 34. The word geh’ (go) is expressed by fast notes including the fastest of the piece (32nds) which descend into the alto and tenor range of the voice: Herzensgrund, depths of the heart. The entrance of the unprepared dissonant chord on beat four (parrhesia) underscores the difficulty of the entire procedure. The circulatio is an unambiguous depiction of the heart, the center of the circulatory system, described by William Harvey in 1628 in his famous book “On the Motion of the Heart and Blood in Animals,” a book about which Buxtehude must have known. The phrase ends with a pathopoeia: f-sharp instead of f-natural, a tone filled with passion “which cannot fail to move the listener” (Burmeister, 1599).

Cadences
It is important for the interpretation of this work to note the various ways Buxtehude deals with the cadences. The cadence in four voices at the end of phrase one is marked by the soprano and tenor: e1 makes tenor d dissonant, which moves to c-sharp, then d1 (soprano) and d (tenor). At the end of phrase two we find the a-mi cadence in four voices, i.e., a Phrygian cadence on a1—A is treated as E would be in modes 3 and 4—formed between the soprano and the bass. Phrase three ends with a cadence in three voices on d2 (soprano) with f-sharp instead of f-natural (pathopoeia), by which the bass note d is missing during the first moment. At the end of phrase four the soprano and the tenor again make the cadence in four voices, this time on A: tenor b making soprano a1 dissonant, which moves to g-sharp1, then a1 (soprano) and a (tenor). Phrase five ends with a cadence in three voices on F, supplying the third scale degree in the cadence scheme: d, a, and now f of the d-minor triad. Phrase six ends in four voices with a cadence formed again by soprano and tenor using the same basic scheme as the cadence at the end of phrase one, but this time utilizing more ornamentation. Here, as opposed to phrase one, the pedal has the root of the chord from the beginning and, different from phrase one, the alto voice has f-sharp instead of f-natural (pathopoeia). Each cadence is audibly different and the performance of each demands of the player a sensibility that takes this into account.

Coda (Example 10)
The work ends with one of Buxtehude’s characteristic codas: a florid melody line over a pedal point. This coda is, in effect, an ornamentation of the final chord. It has, however, its own expression not unrelated to the chorale text. In my opinion it is not the leap of an octave in the soprano voice at the beginning of measure 35 that symbolizes the rising of prayer to heaven. Nor is it the rising scale passage in the second half of measure 36, for both figures are followed by descents. One needs to see, and to hear, that the passage as a whole rises (anabasis): in the soprano first from d1 to d2, followed by a descent to f-sharp1, followed by another rise to a2, and followed again by a descent to d2. The ascending passages win over the descending passages: it ends higher than it began. This is, in fact, true of all of the voices except for the pedal. Both alto and tenor voices ascend farther than they descend over the space of those three measures. A number of the musical-rhetorical figures found in this chorale prelude are found in the final three measures including the hyperbaton, the longinqua distancia, the parrhesia, and the passus duriusculus. It is a succinct and effective summary of the work. The pedal anchors all, the low note, the one that hasn’t been heard since measure 5 and has been all but forgotten, perhaps the depths of the heart (from which prayer comes), perhaps simply pedal point and tonic note, the longest note of the composition.

Performance
The purpose here is not to go into basic performance techniques of North German Baroque music or Buxtehude in particular. That is a given regarding playing this music at all. Beyond that, the player must understand that proper Baroque playing technique is not enough. The fact must be taken into consideration that at no level of the composition does Buxtehude simply “write music.” Therefore the player cannot “simply play” the music. Compositional decisions were made on the basis of the chorale text, both on the local level of single notes and words, as well as on a more global level of form and compositional techniques. The text is the source of a great number of the musical ideas found here. Therefore performance decisions must be made with an ear towards the audibility of these musical features.
The registration cannot be simply “melody and accompaniment”, i.e., forte – mezzo piano. The melody must be clearly melody, yet the accompaniment must not be relegated to the background. The alto, tenor and bass voices simply have too much to express. The possibilities are otherwise almost endless, given this basic premise of the equality of importance of melody and accompaniment.
Tempo must be flexible. Buxtehude took the words of the text into careful consideration—the soprano is, in a very real sense, a sung musical line. Or better: it is the spoken oration, the declamation and, at the same time, an exegesis of the text. One must be able to linger on the words (= musical ideas) Buxtehude considers important.
Perhaps performance cannot pay attention to every detail found in this piece or any other. There is so much to which to listen in this very short composition that there is a real danger of becoming bogged down with details. And maybe from day to day one’s ear is drawn to different aspects of the composition. However, a performance that takes no notice at all of any of the richness found here is inadequate. Important aspects of the composition, aspects that can only be approached first rationally through knowledge of the text and not purely aesthetically (i.e., aurally), should not be ignored. In fact, performance in the Baroque belongs to the rational ordering of music in general. The pronunciatio, or delivery, is the final part of musica rhetorica. Without an adequate delivery, even the best music will fail to produce an effect in the listener. Without some rational thought, which I would like to call practice, some passages will not be recognized as unusual, there will be no contour, no shape to the composition, because these passages will never be heard. Frescobaldi admonishes: “ . . . one should endeavor in the first place to discover the character of the passages, the tonal effect intended by the composer, and the desired manner of performance . . . ” (italics are mine).
Performance is perspective, a way of listening. Performance is understanding, not interpretation. And yet, performance is individual. I would like to close with a remark by Hans Heinrich Eggebrecht made at the end of “Mythos Bach,” found in his book Geheimnis Bach. I will only substitute, for the word Bach, the word Buxtehude. “Understanding needs perspective, calls for the Ego. In other words, in speaking about Buxtehude, be it ever so scientific, we speak also about ourselves because understanding cannot exist without the Subject, without the Ego, and concerning Buxtehude we are called again and again to find a perspective, while at the same time attempting to find ourselves.”■

This article was first published as a chapter in the book Horizonte des Hörens Gerd Zacher, ed. Matthias Geuting (ISBN 3-89727-322-5, ISBN 978-3-89727-322-1, PFAU-Verlag, 2006), pp. 245–258.

Part 1 was published in the October issue of The Diapason, pp. 22–25.

Wir glauben all’ an einen Gott
[We all believe in one God]
(BWV 680–681)
The arrangement of the chorale Wir glauben all’ an einen Gott, the Protestant version of the Credo, opens a series of dramatic chorale preludes in the Clavierübung III. Their themes are built on the minor keys and gravitate around the interval of the fifth.
In this piece the fugal upper voices are contrasted against a melodic line in the bass that occurs seven times. (Example 9) This melody is based on a leap of a fourth followed by a downward move within the octave and displays a structural similarity to the theme of the so-called Dorian Fugue (BWV 538).55 The ostinato motif appears altogether six times in the pedal; once (the sixth appearance) in modified form on the manuals: there only the beginning of the motif appears, repeated three times.
Not just the relationship (6 + 1) in the use of this striking melody is important, but also the fact that its form is changed in the one time it is used on the manuals. Naturally, this begs the question as to the purpose of this change. We have here possibly an allusion to the Old Testament injunction: Six days you shall labor and do all your work, but one day must be reserved for prayer and spiritual needs. From here stem the characteristics of one of the developments: an elevation of the tessitura, the use of only upward leaps, the softening of the harshness of the harmonic minor, and finally the heterolepsis figure used in the upper voices.
The manual voices are developed out of the beginning of the melody of the chorale Wir glauben all’ an einen Gott. The first four notes of this motif in a tonal answer form a musical rhetorical figure, often encountered in the works of Bach, which Boleslav Javorsky called the predestination motif.56 The origin of this motif lies in the chorale melody Was mein Gott will, das g’scheh’ allzeit [What my God wills may always happen] and is usually used by the composer as a culminant, dramatic or recapitulating figure (Fugue in G Minor, BWV 542, Fugue in A Minor, BWV 543, etc.). The whole musical fabric of this chorale prelude is shot through with this predestination motif.
Towards the end of the composition, Bach quotes in the tenor, first in its entirety, the first line of the cantus firmus (bars 89–98). Typically, the subsequent figure in the pedal that accompanies the chorale melody is enlarged, not only in its range (two octaves), but also in the number of notes (to 43—CREDO). One can also hardly describe it as a coincidence that the work has 100 bars: Bach could not have found a better numerological symbol to underscore the idea of “We all believe in one God.”
If we had the task of finding within Bach’s output a work for organ where the dramatic element was more pronounced, we could, paradoxically, hardly do better than choose the small 15-bar manualiter fughetta on the chorale melody Wir glauben all’ an einen Gott in the Clavierübung III. Written in Handelian style,57 it is very chromatic. The traditional double dotting, the richly ornamented musical fabric, the use of characteristic rhetorical figures—tiratas—all combine to sharpen up the harmonic impact of this three-voice fughetta to the highest degree.
The high point of the piece comes in the 12th bar, which results in the interesting proportions of 4:5.58 The density of chords in this bar is a rare example in Bach’s organ works. (Example 10) The diminished seventh on the strong beat contains seven notes. The following diminished seventh from D sharp–C contains six notes, which together makes 13 notes—most certainly another numerological symbol and one that needs no explanation. The impact of the intensive harmonies is strengthened by “talking pauses” and the declamatory answers on the “weak” beats of the bars. The intonations from the introduction (viola da gamba solo) of the aria Es ist vollbracht from the St. John Passion (BWV 245) can be heard in the music. (Example 11)
The descending seconds in Lombardic rhythm, with articulation marks written out in full by the composer (bar 11), the key role of the striking diminished seventh from D sharp–C at the high point of the work, and the key chosen—this is by no means a complete list of the methods the composer has used to create a smooth transition to the subsequent part of the composition.

Vater unser im Himmelreich
[Our Father in Heaven]
(BWV 682–683)
In the extensive arrangement of the chorale melody Vater unser im Himmelreich we encounter an example of a trio that is from time to time expanded to five voices by means of the cantus firmus in canon. This is one of the rare works of Bach full of articulation marks. Thoroughness of articulation shows how important this aspect of organ playing was for the Leipzig cantor.
Already, the choice of key says a great deal about the associative structure of this music. E minor is the key of the opening chorus of the St. Matthew Passion (BWV 244), the Crucifixus from the Mass in B Minor (BWV 232), the Prelude and Fugue for organ (BWV 548), the chorale prelude Da Jesus an dem Kreuze stund (BWV 621) from the Orgelbüchlein, and many other works in which Bach created an atmosphere of grief, sorrow, and misfortune.
The narrative flow of the music in the greater chorale Vater unser im Himmelreich creates an atmosphere of stillness and calm, and invites the hearer to intense prayer. The movement in seconds in Lombardic rhythm59 is akin to the sighs of a humble soul turned towards God. Time moves gently, so as not to disturb the state of intimate prayer.
This composition is literally suffused with thematic symbolism. Allow me to name just a few (following B. Javorsky): the descending third – a symbol of grief; a smooth chromatic movement of 5 to 7 notes – pain; a progression in triplets – fatigue, weariness; a movement along the notes of a first inversion – a symbol of inevitable realization; and so on.
The musical fabric of the composition resembles the tenor aria Wo wird in diesem Jammertale für meinen Geist die Zuflucht sein? [Where will my spirit find its refuge in this vale of tears?] from the cantata Ach, lieben Christen, seid getrost [Ah dear Christians, be comforted] (BWV 114), which Bach completed in Leipzig in 1724. Without a doubt there is an inner connection between the two works. The text of the aria, especially the treatment of the key word “Jammertal” [“vale of tears“ in German] can give the performer the right feeling for the interpretation of the greater chorale prelude Vater unser im Himmelreich.
Another interesting detail of the work is the movement in seconds in Lombardic rhythm in the pedal. This occurs only once in the whole work, at bar 41
(JSBACH), an allusion to the composer’s unseen participation in the prayer to God the Father. (Example 12)
The intricately crafted rhythms of the greater chorale prelude Vater unser im Himmelreich give way in the manual version to flowing linear movement in sextuplets. This sharp contrast has not gone unnoticed by scholars. “As complicated as the rhythms in the large Our-Father prelude may be, so simple is the calm flow of the 16th notes in the manuals version . . .” wrote Christoph Albrecht.60 An interesting explanation for this contrast has been put forward by Albert Clement, who connects the greater chorale prelude with the text of the fourth verse of Luther’s chorale Vater unser im Himmelreich,61 and the smaller prelude with the following verses (5–8). The fourth verse appeals to God’s patience in a time of sorrow, while verses 5–8 speak of trust in His compassion and assistance.62
The placid wave motion of the accompanying voices in the manuals version of the chorale prelude Vater unser im Himmelreich gently prepares us for the stormy motion of the 16th notes in the greater chorale prelude Christ, unser Herr, zum Jordan kam [Christ, our Lord, to Jordan came] as the following section of the Clavierübung III.

Christ, unser Herr, zum Jordan kam [Christ, our Lord, to Jordan came] (BWV 684–685)
The greater chorale prelude Christ, unser Herr, zum Jordan kam presents us once again with something quite out of the ordinary. This is the first occurrence in the whole work of the cantus firmus being transferred to the pedal in a high register. The composer indulges here in musical picture painting: the 16th-note runs produce a sort of perpetuum mobile and create the impression of waves on the Jordan. The music is dominated by an atmosphere of waiting for the miracle of God’s appearance and with it, the forgiveness of sins through the ritual of baptism. (Example 13)
Attempts have been made by various authors to see in the upper voices a dialogue between the Savior and St. John the Baptist,63 a view that I personally do not find very convincing. Built on the symbolic motifs of the Cross and Willingness to Sacrifice,64 the dialogue in the upper voices is often syncopated or transformed into a typical Bachian motion. It does not seem in the least to be associated with the dialogue between God’s Incarnation and His forerunner, but rather serves, as does the stormy motion of the bass, to create a state of what I would call “joyful excitement”—an atmosphere that is typical of many iconographic depictions of the Feast of the Baptism of the Lord.
The appearance of the Holy Trinity—as the Spirit in the form of a dove descending from heaven and as the supernatural light surrounding Christ at His baptism in the waters of the Jordan—is present in this prelude at the deeper level of mystical numerological symbolism. The cantus firmus appears nine times against the three-voiced accompaniment (9×3 = 27), while the total number of bars in the prelude is 81 (27×3).
Each appearance of the cantus firmus is built on a particular number of notes: in four cases it is nine notes, in the other five cases it is eight. And they occur in a strict sequence: 9 + 8 + 9 + 8; 8 + 9 + 8 + 9 + 8. The symbolism of the numbers 3, 9, 27, 81 focuses our attention on the picture of the Holy Trinity, while the number 8 is associated with the heavenly chronos or with the Coming of the Messiah.65
The legitimacy of the numerical proportions in the greater chorale prelude is borne out by the numerological symbolism of the manual fugato in three voices on Christ, unser Herr, zum Jordan kam. The fugato is written in simple triple time and has 27 bars (27×3 = 81). The main theme—the first line of the chorale—occurs three times in the original and three times in the inversion, and each time it is accompanied by a counter-melody based on thematic material in diminution, which forms a kind of canon. (Example 14)
In the opinion of Christoph Albrecht, this is a musical representation of the Gospel words of St. John the Baptist: “He [Jesus] must increase, but I must decrease” (John 3:30).66 It is worth mentioning that the bridges in the fugato (bars 8–10 and 18–20) have an evident three-part structure containing the countersubject (= the diminished theme).
All in all, the composer introduces the theme a total of 14 times (three times the original theme, three times inverted, and eight times diminished).67 The concluding development of the theme in its original form (bass in bar 20) has been slightly altered through the introduction of the Willingness to Sacrifice motif as an anacrusis. This results in interesting proportions for the presentation of the thematic material: 2 + 1 + 3 + 8. It is not difficult to see that these numbers represent a numerical version of the name of the composer (BACH).

Aus tiefer Not schrei’ ich zu dir
[Out of the depths have I cried unto Thee] (BWV 686–687)
The only organ work of Bach written in true six parts with double pedal is the chorale prelude on Psalm 130 (129) Aus tiefer Not schrei’ ich zu dir—a further example of the stile antico in his work. Each verse of this monumental penitential chorale,68 welling up out of the depths of the heart, is introduced in the fugal-like exposition that concludes each time with the cantus firmus in the upper pedal voice. This gives the work, written in the best tradition of J. Pachelbel, the form of an unbroken chain of seven fugues, corresponding to the number of verses of the chorale.
Albert Schweitzer’s attention had already been drawn to the “motif (rhythm) of joy” that first greets one in the initial phrases of the countersubject. As the music develops, this symbolic motif is further elaborated and at the end totally dominates the musical fabric. (Example 15) Schweitzer proposed a dogmatic interpretation for its presence: “Bach . . . is trying to represent the Lutheran doctrine of repentance, according to which all true repentance leads of itself to the joyful certainty of salvation.”69
Schweitzer’s observation is, of course, interesting and not without subtlety, but in my opinion one is dealing here less with joy, but rather with the cleansing power of repentance and the resulting confidence of the penitent in his own future. The motif under consideration conveys just this feeling of confidence.
What motives led Bach to introduce the chorale prelude Aus tiefer Not schrei’ ich zu dir into the Clavierübung III at all? Penance was not a component of the Ordinary of the old Mass, although it had been included in the liturgy in Saxony since 1601. Neither was penance dealt with by Luther in his Great Catechism, although he sometimes mentioned it along with Baptism and the Eucharist as one of the Sacraments. This was apparently the decisive argument for Bach to place two fantasies on Aus tiefer Not schrei’ ich zu dir between the parts relating to Baptism and the Eucharist.
Numerological symbolism plays an important role in both works. As has already been said, the seven fugues that make up this work correspond to each of the seven verses of the chorale. The cantus firmus that crowns each fugue always consists of nine notes, whereas it is interesting to note that it first occurs in the ninth bar. In addition, the length of the cantus firmus from its first to last note always has the same length of eight half-bars.
This changelessness of the cantus firmus, with its connection to the numbers nine, eight, and seven is obviously meant to signify the objective, almost unearthly quality of the beneficial cleansing power that flows over the penitent sinner. An additional indication can be found in the fact that at each occurrence the cantus firmus is first woven into the musical structure only after the completion of the exposition with its five voices. (We recall that the number five symbolizes “sensual Mankind.”)
Our attention is also drawn to the relationship between the number seven (seven verses of the chorale and the seven fugues) and the number five (the five-part musical structure70). These two numbers have an interesting internal proportion: 7:5 = 1.4 (BACH). One could probably regard this as pure chance, were it not that these two numbers occur again within this work. The chorale prelude has 75 bars, where the number 75 is the numerological expression of the word ELEISON (5 + 11 + 5 + 9 + 18 + 14 + 13). The relevance of this cry for mercy in a work dealing with remorse can hardly be doubted.
It is characteristic that the manualiter version of the chorale Aus tiefer Not schrei’ ich zu dir displays the same numerological symbolism as the greater version. A slight change in the rhythmical structure makes the initial motif of the theme correspond to the eighth fugue of the Ariadne Musica Neo-Organoedum Per Viginti by Johann Caspar Ferdinand Fischer (ca. 1660–1746).
Bach’s work impresses us by its architecture. Just as in the first chorale prelude, we encounter an unbroken chain of fugues that treat the seven verses of the chorale one after the other, both in its tonic form and its inversion, where each is brought to a close by the statement of the cantus firmus in the soprano. This results in seven fugues. Six of them are of the same length. The cantus firmus occurs after the fifth bar and lasts for eight bars. But here we encounter an interesting new development: after the cantus firmus has run its course, Bach does not immediately begin with the following fugato, but each time inserts an extra bar as a sort of résumé. Thus the six units have the following structure: 5 + 8 + 1. It is not difficult to see that the résumé thus occurs in the 14th (BACH) bar of the appropriate unit.71
The last and seventh unit differs in its structure from the preceding six, and introduces a proportion that we have already encountered in the greater choral prelude on Credo (6+1). After it has started as all the preceding units (five bars of fugato without the cantus firmus, followed by eight bars with the cantus firmus), this seventh unit has instead of the “Bach résumé” an extension of the second cantus part for a further five bars, resulting in the new proportion of 5 + (8 + 5). It is not difficult to see that this new proportion brings us close to the Golden Rule: 8:5 = 1.6 whereas 13:8 = 1.625. This is not altogether surprising. Thus when the composer understood the combination 6 + 1 as the biblical command to labor for six days, but to keep the seventh as a Sabbath for your God, then it was appropriate that this “special” seventh day be not simply adorned with ordinary music, but be bejewelled with golden tones!

Jesus Christus unser Heiland
[Jesus Christ our Savior]
(BWV 688–689)
The last two chorale preludes in the Clavierübung III deal with the events surrounding the Last Supper. Viewed from a cultural perspective, the iconography of this subject centers around two key moments. The first is the Transubstantiation of the bread and wine into the Body and Blood of Christ. The second moment concerns the circumstances of Judas’s betrayal.
The greater chorale prelude Jesus Christus unser Heiland is woven out of three voices. The cantus firmus, based on an intonation of fifth, is written out in long notes and appears in the pedal. The lively duet in the upper voices simultaneously spins out the three-note stepwise motif (according to Javorsky, a motif of reconciliation), both in its tonic form and its inversion. (Example 16)
We have already encountered this characteristic method in the Clavierübung III: in the greater chorale prelude on Kyrie, Gott heiliger Geist. Its use with quickened tempi produces a mood of agitation and worried concern. A special feature of the musical language is the frequent use of unprepared dissonances that heighten the sense of drama. Speaking personally, this music always conjures up for me Leonardo da Vinci’s famous Milanese fresco of the Last Supper, where the disciples of Christ, unsettled by his prophecy of betrayal, turn to the Savior with just one question “Surely not I, Lord?” (St. Matthew 26:22).
The cantus firmus appears altogether four times in the pedal as the embodiment of Christ’s serenity and his willingness to drink the Cup of his Passion. Its 44 notes are arranged as a pattern of 10 + 12 + 10 + 12. It would appear that the composer has applied this numerical pattern to emphasize the union of the Old Testament (the Law) and the New Testament (the Testament of Christ). Obviously, it is appropriate to remember at this point that St. Augustine considered the number twelve to be a symbol of the Church of Christ. The universal, catholic character of the Church is portrayed by the numerical symbol 144 (= 12×12). Note that the three-note motif of reconciliation in the manuals occurs exactly this many times in the musical texture of this composition.72
Another mysterious symbol is embedded in the score. When one connects the first and the sixth notes of the first bar, and the second and fifth notes, and the third and fourth notes (d1-d2, f2-f1, e1-e2) with a straight line, one produces a graphic figure which resembles the Greek letters X (Chi) and I (Iota) superimposed on each other. (Example 17)
This figure is the emblem of God made Man (Ιησυ Χριστ – Iesus Christos), and one must assume that the composer intentionally built this motif into the structure of the chorale prelude, a chorale that begins with the words “Jesus Christus unser Heiland” [Jesus Christ our Savior]. Typically this emblem occurs 72 times within the work, something that can hardly be attributed to chance. In accordance with tradition, this symbolic number corresponds to the 72 biblical names of the Lord, 72 biblical angels, the 72 nations of the ancient world, and the 72 disciples that Jesus sent out to preach his gospel. The Old Testament book of Numbers tells of 72 elders who received the gift of prophecy from God (Numbers 11:24, 26).73
The manualiter version of Jesus Christus unser Heiland (an extensive fugal composition in four voices) displays a very interesting feature—the placement of the theme does not match the metrical structure. The use of such a technique in the final chorale work of the Clavierübung III undoubtedly has good reasons. Perhaps Bach wanted to underline that the teachings of Christ have an eternal relevance that is not bound by the confines of physical time.
The theme of this fugue displays a striking structure. It consists of 13 notes74 and is based on two elements, which have a significant structural function in the whole cycle: a leap over a fifth and a stepwise motif over a third. The first notes of the tonal answer replicate exactly the final cadence of the chorale Was mein Gott will, das g’scheh’ allzeit, which (following Javorsky) we have interpreted as a predestination motif. (Example 18)
The countersubject is worked out with a circulatio figure that represents the Cup of Sorrows. The theme occurs 17 times altogether, with the final statement in augmentation. Bach undoubtedly considers the number 17 to be the union of ten and seven, especially as the eleventh statement is introduced by a longer bridge passage. The number ten is associated with the Law of the Old Testament (The Decalogue), while according to Werckmeister, the number seven is the symbol for purity and peace.
Thus one can summarize the conjunction of all these symbols as follows: The predestination from above (predestination motif) and the reconciliation prophesied in the Old Testament (reconciliation motif) through the suffering of Christ on the Cross (the Cup of Sorrows motif) purifies the fallen world (13) and gives it eternal peace and bliss (7).

Four Duets: E minor, F major,
G major, A minor
Scholars agree that the four duets of the Clavierübung III are very difficult indeed to interpret. As Hermann Keller remarked, the duets are “so unique and in part so difficult to understand that one must almost be led to believe that Bach wished to express something very special, but no one has yet found the key to them.”75 And in fact the opinions of the experts concerning both the content and the meaning of these works are indeed very contradictory. Some of them are of the opinion that they should be played during the Eucharist, while others see them as symbolic representation of the four Gospels.76 Albert Schweitzer is most probably the furthest removed from the truth with his opinion that they have only found their way into the Clavierübung III by mistake. He thus underestimates the significance of numerical symbolism within this work. Above all he did not “notice” that with the addition of the four duets the total number of works in the Clavierübung III reached the “cosmic” number of 27.
How does this music present itself?
All four pieces are highly individual and represent the highest achievement within the development of the genre of keyboard music for two voices known as inventions. They display no direct connection to the church chorales, but one is aware that while they have an element of tone painting it would not be illogical to interpret them as representations of the four material elements of this world: fire, air, water, and earth. Indeed, just this sort of interpretation was first suggested by Rudolf Steglich.77
Let us now look at the musical design of the duets.
The duet in E minor (BWV 802) is pure energy. Whole rivers of fire flow in the rapid succession of 32nd notes and the broken line of the syncopated motif recalls tongues of fire. The jagged melisma, the semitone movement within the range of diminished thirds: all reinforce a pervading feeling of tension. An almost pagan cult of fire dominates this music. (Example 19)
The F major duet (BWV 803) is built on the idea of contrast. The sphere of air is represented as a contrast of light and dark elements. The main theme, the embodiment of light, occurs in a major key in both the exposition and the recapitulation. The central part gives the impression of sudden twilight, which shrouds all life and transforms everything into a ghostly world of shadows. The contrast of major and minor suggests conflict—the elements of light struggle to free themselves from the chains of the mythological shadow world. (Example 20)
The G major duet (BWV 804) paints a picture of a body of water sparkling in the rays of the morning sun. Murmuring and iridescent flowing passages stirred by a light breeze create the impression of an unending stream of flowing water, magically calling to us by its freshness and purity. (Example 21) The musical texture of this work shows a high degree of similarity to the aria Von der Welt verlang ich nichts [From the world I nought desire] as the seventh part of the cantata Sehet, welch eine Liebe hat uns der Vater erzeiget [See what love the Father has bestowed on us], 1 John 3:1 (BWV 64). (Example 22)

The duet in A minor (BWV 805) has a different character. Behind the slow unfolding of its ideas, behind the gravity of its utterances one can discern an unbending internal force that holds everything in its thrall and directs all things. The extended, epically expanding theme strives to embrace all earthly things. The rocklike solidity of this musical picture calls to mind the immovable foundation of the earth. (Example 23)
Unlike Rudolf Steglich, Albert Clement suggested another approach. He sees in the duets a connection to the tradition of home prayer.78 In the opinion of this expert, the four duets serve as a musical illustration of the 194th chapter of the book Geistliche Erquick-Stunden Oder Dreyhundert Haus- und Tisch-Andachten79 [Hours of Spiritual Refreshments, or 300 Prayers for Home and Table] by the renowned theologian Heinrich Müller (1631–1675). Entitled “Von vier süßen Dingen” [On Four Sweet Things], this part of Müller’s monograph is devoted to the interpretation of the religious essentials: the Word of God, the Cross, Death and heavenly Bliss.
Let us now look at the structure of the duets in detail (Figure 1). One’s attention is immediately drawn to the emphasized strictness in the handling of the meter and the thematic material in all four duets. This is especially apparent in the first and second duets.
In the third duet, the length of the bridge-passages creates an interesting relationship (Figure 2).
The theme of the fourth duet is exceptionally long (48 notes) and consists of two parts: the first part has 11 notes, while the second contains 37 notes. All three numbers have clear sacred connotations: 11 is the symbol for sin, 37 for the monogram of Christ, and 48 is the numerical equivalent of the abbreviation INRI (Iesus Nazarenus Rex Iudaeorum).80
The first duets contain not only the numbers 11 and 37 but also other numbers that are relevant to the theme of Golgotha: 13 (death), 17 (symbol of spirituality), 31 (the numerical equivalent of PNC as the abbreviation of Pro Nobis Crucifixus). It is remarkable that these are simply different combinations of just three numbers—one, three, and seven—and that 137 is itself the numerical equivalent of DOMINUS DEUS.
It is also noteworthy that the sum of 22 + 15 (first duet) and 18 + 13 (second duet) lead us again to the symbols 37 and 31. Moreover, the combination of the pairs 17 (first duet) and 31 (second duet), as well as the pairs 11 (first duet) and 37 (second duet) both lead to the above-mentioned key number 48. The same number results from the addition of 11, 31 (third duet), and 6 (fourth duet).
It is clear that Bach wove the numerical symbolism into the duets to illustrate the content of these works. The numerology leaves no doubt as to the subject of these works: the music of the duets revolves around the theme of the Passion.
The idea that the four duets in the Clavierübung III symbolize the Cross was first suggested by Gerhard Friedemann.81 His work contained a number of highly original ideas about numerical significance within these pieces, but also many valuable observations concerning the biblical symbolism present in the other sections of the Clavierübung III.
Unfortunately it would be beyond the scope of this article to discuss further in depth the many other interesting details that are to be found in the four duets. So I would like to confine myself to bringing just a few salient points to the attention of the reader. The total number of bars in all four pieces is 369, which is in itself an indication of the association of these works with the Passion.82 The number 16 (4×4), which forms the basis of the A minor duet, is a numerical representation of the Cross. 112 (the sum of the numbers of bars in the E minor and G major duets) is the equivalent of CHRISTUS (3 + 8 + 17 + 9 + 18 + 19 + 20 + 18), and 149 (the number of bars in the F major duet) represents RESURREXIT (17 + 5 + 18 + 20 + 17 + 17 + 5 + 22 + 9 + 19).83
It is difficult to deny the validity of Gerhard Friedmann’s conclusions, based as they are on the analysis of the numerical structure of the duets. But this raises a further question: Is there a connection between, on the one hand, the hidden numerological references to the Cross in the four duets of the Clavierübung III and on the other hand the obvious descriptive character of the music?
Yes, one can indeed find such a connection! It is well known that in earlier times the cross was used as a symbolic representation of the four elements. But with the coming of Christendom, it became an object of adoration and so lost the association with the pagan worship of fire, air, water, and earth.
So now we wish to put ourselves in the shoes of the composer and try to answer the following question: How is it possible to portray musically a Cross, the product of human hands, soaked with the divine Blood of the Savior and transformed by the divine Will into an object of salvation? The answer is obvious. The best way to accomplish this is that chosen by Bach in the four duets of the Clavierübung III.

Prelude and Fugue in E-flat Major
The Prelude and Fugue in E-flat Major forms an overreaching arch that encloses the whole cycle. It is a work on a truly symphonic scale and is in this respect without parallel in the world’s organ literature. Its epic stature is complemented by the vividness and the passion of the musical language.
In both the prelude and the fugue the composer introduces three different musical spheres nevertheless bound together by such characteristics as common key and thematic material. The work is most commonly thought of as being an expression of the Holy Trinity. But no one to date has been able to produce a truly convincing proof for this view. As a result a number of unresolved controversies exist: which part of the fugue, the second or the third part, represents the Holy Spirit, and which Jesus Christ?
The very existence of these controversies should suggest to us that the work has not yet been sufficiently examined. To say nothing of the “echoes” episodes of the prelude, which most experts have associated with the Son of Man. How should we understand this embellished fluttering “in the spirit of the Rococo” to be a picture of the Savior?
In my opinion one should not view this music as one would a picture on a wall.
It is indeed Bach’s purpose to sing the praises of the Triune God, but it is not his intention to paint a musical picture of God. Three parts that are characterized through changes in the musical texture—in both the prelude and the fugue—are always the same God, the One, the Indivisible, the Holy and Consubstantial Trinity.
With what means does the composer accomplish this task? Let us first examine the prelude.

This article will be continued.

Part 1 was published in the October issue of The Diapason, pp. 22–25, and Part 2 in the November issue, pp. 26–29.

Prelude in E-flat Major (BWV 552/1)
The prelude surprises us with its élan. It is an example of a ceremonial introduction and is written in a style whose origins reach back to the works of the French composer Jean-Baptiste Lully. Many features of Bach’s prelude are reminiscent of the “Overture” of the Compositione musicale, Parte Seconda, I (Example 24), written by the virtuoso German harpsichord player, Konrad Friedrich Hurlebusch (c. 1696–1765),84 who visited Bach in Leipzig in 1734.
When one examines the motifs that form the basis of the three “characters” of Bach’s Prelude in E-flat Major with care, it is not difficult to see that they are in fact variations on one and the same motif—a fifth filled out with material from the diatonic scale. (Example 25) This motif appears in the dotted part as a tirata, in the sections with a reduced texture (bars 32–50 and 111–129) as a flowing melody, and finally in the “driven” parts as an energetic scale. Let us call these different structures A, B, and C.
The form of this composition is particularly interesting. It is constructed as a rondo, and is the only example of this form in the whole of Bach’s organ works. The dotted parts are given the function of the refrain, while the “reduced” and “driven” parts function as the episodes. These three main structures, taking up as they do the whole length of the work (205 bars), are distributed in very remarkable proportions. The ceremonial dotted music (A) lasts for 100 bars (naturally taking bars 50 and 129 into account), the B music lasts for 34 bars (17 + 17), and the C music 71 bars.
These numbers are at first glance astonishing. One could naturally regard them as coincidental, were they not attested to by the hidden meaning given them by the composer himself: the work opens with music A, and music C first occurs in bar 71. Understandably we must examine these numbers very carefully, and to this end we have created a small table that reflects the development of the musical form (Figure 3).
It appears from this table that the prelude is dominated by the monumental character (A) that represents a rich five-voiced texture of 100 bars. The symbolism of the number 100 underlines, as it did in the greater chorale prelude We believe, the idea of the One God. When one totals the number of bars in the first and second, the third and fourth, and finally the fifth and sixth appearances of A, one sees the following picture:

100 = 33 + 34 + 33
(32+1) (20+14) (1+32)

A better expression of the equality of the three Persons of the Holy Trinity could hardly be imagined. The effect is undoubtedly strengthened by the placing of A at the beginning, in the middle (bars 98–111), and at the end of the composition. The structures that surround the middle part are equal in amount, and the middle part itself consists of 14 bars (BACH).
The episodes B and C are given an altogether much more modest role in the prelude. Together they take up approximately one half of the work (17 + 17 (B) and 71 bars (C)).85 Additionally they are less prominent with regard to the number of voices compared to the main structure. The episodes B and the first and last appearances of C are in three voices. This alone is enough to make it difficult to equate them with the second and third Persons of the Holy Trinity.
Another facet is equally interesting. The theme of the fugato (episode C) is set in multiple counterpoint. The predestination motif occurs in a veiled form in the bass voice of this polyphonic texture, while the countersubject is based on the motif for understanding the Divine Will.86 And one further observation: The total number of bars in the work is 205, which is the multiple of 5 (the number for Mankind) and 41 (JSBACH).87

Fugue in E-flat Major (BWV 552/2)
The fugue that crowns the whole cycle is also worked out in three figurative spheres. It is often referred to as a triple fugue, which is incorrect since a triple fugue signifies the combining of all three themes—which does not happen in Bach’s Fugue in E-flat Major. The first part, with its 4/2 rhythm (the first fugue), is reminiscent of the linear compositional style of Palestrina. The fluent lines of the five-voiced texture flow majestically and gradually fill out the whole tonal space. This is the so-called stylus gravis or stylus ecclesiasticus, known to us from other works of Bach, especially from the Confiteor, Credo and Dona nobis pacem from the Mass in B minor. The theme of the Fugue in E-flat Major bears an evident resemblance to the theme of the fugal part of the E major prelude by Dietrich Buxtehude, BuxWV 141. (Example 26)
The second part of the composition (the second fugue) displays a lively character and contains elements derived from dance music. It is in fact based on the intervals of the melodic progression of the first fugue. Both themes are combined in the second half of the fugue (from bar 59 onwards). This part clearly quotes the final chorus Hilf deinem Volk [Help your people] from the cantata Gelobet sey der Herr, denn er hat erhöhet [Praise to the Lord, for he has heard], written by the South-German composer and native of Nuremberg, Johann Krieger (1652–1735).
And finally, from bar 82 onwards, the third theme, in 12/8 rhythm, enters into the flow of the music. It is based on a “falling” fifth filled out in a very lively manner. The final part of the composition (the third fugue) begins at this point. The unbroken flow of diatonic sextolen creates the illusion of accelerando. One is plunged into a general atmosphere of joyful expectancy and upon this wave of world-encompassing joy the main theme (the theme of the first fugue) appears as a great hymn symbolizing the greatness, the jubilation, and the glory of the Creator.
What does this short theme of just seven notes actually represent?
Bach’s genius enabled him to portray in it the central idea of Christianity: the Redemption through the suffering of God-made-Man upon the Cross. Three symbolic motives which together form the theme are, as it were, interlinked (notes 1–4, 3–5, and 4–7). (Example 27)
The first motif is a figura hypotyposis and represents the Greek letter χ (Chi) symbolizes the Cross. The second motif, which we have already met in the chorale Christe, aller Welt Trost [Christ, consolation of all the world] we could call the consolation motif, and finally the third motif, which we have already met more than once, is the predestination motif. Ignoring the inversion of the first two notes, the theme of the fugue corresponds completely to the melody of the first line of the chorale Was mein Gott will, das g’scheh’ allzeit.88
The main theme appears in all three fugues, albeit in different rhythms. This naturally begs the question for the performer: what is the correct metrical pulse that allows this symbolic-laden theme to appear naturally in the different parts of this composition?
Let us examine the special features of its construction more closely.
The first fugue consists of 36 bars (72 half-bars), the second of 45 bars, and the third once again of 36 bars (72 half-bars). Apart from the fact that these numbers impress on their own: (3 + 6) + (4 + 5) + (3 + 6) = 27, they indicate the symmetrical construction of the work as a whole. When choosing the tempi, one must probably take this feature into account. Thus the beat in the two outer parts should be the same, while the beat in the middle part should reflect the rule of proportio sesquialtera. This means that three pulses should take up the same time as two pulses in the surrounding parts. In other words, a half-note in the first fugue should correspond to a dotted half-note in the second part.
There is a cadence in B-flat major in the middle of the second fugue, just after the reappearance of the main theme. This divides the fugue into two exactly equal parts of 58.5 bars each.89 It is interesting to note that when we divide the sequence 72–45–72 by 9, we arrive at these same digits: 8–5–8, albeit in a different order. This sequence reflects the proportions of the three parts of the fugue. These proportions are, as we have already seen, very close to the proportio divina (8 + 5) : 8 = 1.625, whereas 8 : 5 = 1.6.
Does it not seem as if the composer is trying in a symbolic way to express the mystery of the Holy Trinity, its unity of substance, and its indivisibility?
Let us once again examine the main theme. Its exposition in the three parts of the fugue gives us the following proportions: 12–6–9.90 Already the first answer occurs with the notes E-flat, D, and G, which also form the basis of the second theme. This motive also dominates in the third part.
What is the significance of this sequence of notes?
This symbolic motive always seems to occur in Bach when he wishes to praise the unfathomable greatness of the Creator, and it symbolizes nothing less than Soli Deo Gloria.91

Clavierübung III as a cyclical form
We have now examined one by one all the sections of the Clavierübung III and analyzed their contents and structures. This has shown us that the work is a veritable compendium of artistic forms and embodies all the then-available techniques of organ playing, along with the achievements of the national schools of composition, both past and present.
Let us now examine how the various parts of the work relate to one another (see chart, Figure 4).
As we see, the 27 parts of the composition display the following most remarkable proportions: 21 chorale preludes, four duets, and the Prelude and Fugue in E-flat Major. These proportions reflect the structure of the New Testament, consisting as it does of 27 books: the four Gospels, the 21 Letters, the Acts of the Apostles, and the Revelation of St. John.
Clearly the Prelude and Fugue are intended to form an overreaching arch encompassing the whole cycle. The Prelude sets the general tone and the Fugue ties it all together and rounds it off. The “Chorale Block” is based on the ternary (number) system. The Kyrie and Gloria consist of three sections, each comprising three parts, giving a total of nine parts, while the first two sections form a sub-group of their own, comprising six compositions. The following twelve chorale preludes take up the theme of the Catechism and are likewise divided into two sub-groups which in turn comprise six compositions in three pairs:
1) The Ten Commandments–The Creed–The Lord’s Prayer
2) Baptism–Confession–Eucharist
The structure of each sub-group is similar. In the greater chorale preludes at the beginning and end of the first of these sub-groups, the cantus firmus appears in canon, whereas at the beginning and end of the second it appears in the pedal. In the center of each sub-group is a greater chorale fantasy in organo pleno.
The order of the “Chorale Block,” resting as it does on a mathematical framework based on the numbers 3, 6, and 9, undoubtedly serves a definite purpose. It is certainly no coincidence that the composer begins the second section at bar 369, or that the compositions within this section bear the time signatures 3/4, 6/8 and 9/8.
As we have mentioned, the combination of the three numbers 3, 6, and 9 is also present in the duets (as the sum total of their bars). The same is true of the fugue, where the main theme occurs 27 times in the three sections, giving the combination 12+6+9—another obvious reference to the numbers 3, 6, and 9.
What is the secret hidden in the connection of these three numbers 3, 6, and 9? Why did the composer constantly weave this combination into his work, as if to underline their steadfast cohesion over and over again?
Let us open our Bible at the fifteenth chapter of the Gospel according to St. Mark. There we read:

It was the third hour when they crucified him. . . . At the sixth hour darkness came over the whole land until the ninth hour. And at the ninth hour Jesus cried out in a loud voice, “Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani?”—which means, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” (Mark 15:25, 33–34)
These words from the Gospel probably contain the answer to our question.
The themes and the choice of keys for the pieces are important dramatic elements in the Clavierübung III. The keys of the chorale preludes are distributed as follows: eleven major keys and ten minor keys. The themes of the major chorale preludes display a stepwise progression, whereas those of the minor chorale preludes are dominated by a motif built on a fifth. The conception of the keys of the “greater” chorale preludes in the major keys rests upon the notes B-flat and G. Together with the Prelude in E-flat Major they build a major chord, whose outer notes (E-flat and B-flat) mark out a tonal space which is gradually filled out with the keys of the “lesser” preludes.
In contrast to the major chorale preludes, the arrangement of the chorale preludes in minor keys is based on a section of the scale. As such, the “greater” chorale preludes do not quit the tonal space of the major third C–E, while the framework for the “lesser” chorale preludes is extended to an augmented fourth (= diminished fifth) within the limits C–F-sharp.
And so the tonal plan for the “Chorale Block” of the composition is based on the fifth E-flat–B-flat and the major third C–E. Moreover, with the very first tirata (run) of the Prelude (B-flat–
A-flat–G–F–E-flat), Bach underlines the important role of the stepwise progression within a fifth in the Clavierübung III. The inversion of this motif in the first fugue is built into the nucleus of the countersubject, and in the penultimate bar of the composition it is quoted by the composer in the pedal, as if to remind us of its importance.
Characteristically, he used the same compositional method (even the same keys!) in another cycle of chorales in his later works, in the Sechs Chorälen von verschiedener Art (BWV 645–650).92

1st chorale – E-flat major
2nd chorale – E minor
3rd chorale – C minor
4th chorale – D minor
5th chorale – B-flat major
6th chorale – G major

The intervals of a fifth and a third can be mathematically expressed by the numbers 5 and 3. When we examine possible relationships between these numbers more closely, we see that they in fact express the proportio divina: 5 : 3 = 1.6, and (5 + 3) : 5 = 1.6.
The stepwise movement over the range of a major third in the major keys in the chorale preludes Kyrie – Gloria – Decalogue obviously symbolizes the divine glory and the beauty of heaven. This motif has major intellectual significance within the overall context. Allow me to boldly interpret it as a tonal symbol for the Holy Trinity. The interval of a perfect fifth,93 which is the basis of the tonal plan for the parts of the cycle in major keys, is clearly meant to portray the concord and fundamental purity of the heavenly Jerusalem.
The music of the chorales on Credo – Lord’s Prayer – Baptism – Confession – Eucharist, all of which are in minor keys, expresses the internal world of one who is aware of his own sinfulness. Characteristically, the space for the tonal development within this cycle is circumscribed by the augmented fourth, the musical symbol for evil.94 At the same time the interval of a perfect fifth in the themes of these chorales serves as a reminder of the essentially divine nature of the soul and of the inner harmony that forms the basis of its being. These aspects are also the foundation for the selection of keys for the greater chorale preludes—they are built on the keys of C-D-E, forming the motive of the Holy Trinity.
Typically enough, we have an indication that the suggested subdivision of the 21 chorale preludes is so appropriate since we meet up again with the proportio divina: 3 parts (Kyrie – Gloria – Decalogue) – 5 parts (Credo – Lord’s Prayer – Baptism – Confession – Eucharist).
Returning to the duets, we note that the fifth plays a major role in their expositions. Major and minor keys alternately fill out the range E–A, leading to the beginning of the theme of the fugue from B-flat. Such a tonal plan leaves no doubt that this is the justification for their presence in this part of the cycle.95
Looked at under this aspect, we can see that the work is conceived as a single composition with three centers of gravity, each of which is circumscribed by a fifth. In the first case it is the perfect fifth E-flat–B-flat in connection with major keys; in the second it is the augmented fourth C–F-sharp (which is harmonically also a diminished fifth) in connection with minor keys; while in the third, it is the diminished fifth E–B-flat in connection with both major and minor keys. This detailed and carefully planned tonal layout is a further witness to the compositional unity of the Clavierübung III. It is obvious that the individual parts of this work complement one another organically.
That is perhaps sufficient regarding the relationships between the various parts of the cycle. But what is the logic behind the development within each part? Was it the intention of the writer that the parts be played in toto, or, as is common today, only in excerpts? And finally, the most important question of all: Can one speak of a continual development within the whole cycle, and is it practical to play the whole work without any cuts, especially in view of its enormous size?
I consider this to be a valid question. We have thus far spoken of the tonal plan of the Gloria part, of the tonal and rhythmical connections between the lesser chorale on “Wir glauben” and the greater chorale on “Vater unser,” and of the related motifs of the lesser chorale on “Vater unser” and the greater chorale on “Die Taufe.” When one tries to ascertain the role of the lesser chorales within the overall dramatic structure, one is unavoidably drawn to a comparison with the art of rhetoric, and especially with that of the art of the sermon. And according to the testimony of Bach’s friend, the Master Johann Abraham Birnbaum, who taught rhetoric at the University of Leipzig, Bach was himself well acquainted with the rules of rhetoric.
In fact, one can imagine the whole composition as a sermon on the fundamentals of the Christian faith,96 a sermon in which the greater chorales—parallel to the parts of Luther’s Great Catechism—should reveal their essential nature. In this scheme, the laws of rhetoric would deem the lesser chorales to be essential. They represent the function of “digressions,” which allow the hearer now and again a necessary moment of reduced concentration, and thus allow the speaker to maintain the attention of his hearers for the substance of the sermon.
Think for example of Pictures at an Exhibition by Modest Mussorgsky. In this work the main parts of the composition are wonderfully bound together by the so-called “Promenade,” which always appears in a different guise: this time happy, then restrained, then mournful and yet again charming. Each time it appears, it prepares the way for the next main part of the work, it leads the listener to savor the atmosphere of the new picture. And is that not the purpose of Bach’s lesser chorales?
In questioning the significance of particular parts of the composition, we have more than once been helped by their numerological symbolism. We have seen the meaning of numerical symbols that have changed or deepened our appreciation of the figurative aspects of many of the works in this collection. We will now try to apply this method to the question at hand. To this end we have compiled a small table with the number of bars in each part of the composition (Appendix 1).
At first glance no obvious associations seem to appear. But when we add together the numbers that belong to the individual “sub-cycles,” that is to the parts Kyrie – Gloria, Decalogue – Credo – Lord’s Prayer and Baptism – Confession – Eucharist, we get a very different picture (Appendix 2).
Although we are as yet not able to understand the significance of these numbers, it is obvious that the result is not accidental. This symmetry with its round numbers is unlikely to be a matter of chance. And our amazement continues to grow: The number of bars from the beginning of the work to the end of the major keys part is 770, to the end of the Vater-unser part 1000, and to the end of the whole chorale part 1470. Obviously these round numbers come about through the inclusion of the lesser chorales (Appendix 3).
Given that there are several levels of meaning, it is likely that the secret of these numbers will never be fully exposed. One of these levels is undoubtedly theological, and another may have to do with important historical events. It is not impossible that a third level may reflect scientific developments, while finally there is the level that I take to be the main one—the metaphysical. It arises through the desire of the writer to delve deeper into the ultimate secret of existence. It is self-evident that all these meanings form an indivisible whole, just as do the numbers which reflect them. And obviously the music that lies behind these numbers should be bound up in the same manner into one indivisible whole.
Let us look at the connection of the parts Decalogue – Credo – Lord’s Prayer (see Appendix 2). They express the essence of the Christian life: the expression of faith through adherence to the Law and through prayer. This block has a total of 325 bars, and is to be found in the middle of our row of numbers. This solitary “uneven” number, which is flanked on both sides by the even number 470, attracts our attention like a magnet.
What is the cornerstone of the Christian life? The answer is clear: the Nicene Creed. It was adopted by the Church at the First Council of Nicaea in 325 AD.97 And if our hypothesis is correct and the fundamentals of the Creed are really present, we should be able to find in close proximity some reference to the pillars of the Reformation. And in fact, the numbers 95 + 115 + 115 = 325 do bear out our supposition. On the last day of October 1517, the young theology teacher at the University of Wittenberg, Martin Luther, nailed 95 propositions to the door of All Saints’ Church in Wittenberg and thereby laid the foundation of what would become the Reformation.
The sum 230 (115 + 115) establishes a connection to the Lesser Catechism, which contains an interpretation of each of the Commandments of the Decalogue, three texts on the symbols of faith, a commentary on the seven requests in the Lord’s Prayer, together with an explanation of the two Sacraments (Baptism and Eucharist), and to Confession (10 + 3 + 7 + 2 + 1 = 23).
The formal occasion for which the Clavierübung III was put to paper has already been mentioned. It was the 200th anniversary of Luther’s visit to Leipzig and his sermon in the Castle of Pleissenburg on the 24th of May 1539.
And what was the content of Doctor Martin Luther’s sermon in Leipzig?
In his commentary on the 14th chapter of the Gospel of St. John (verses 23–31), which deals with events surrounding the Last Supper, Martin Luther preaches about the true faith which consists of far more than simply following the letter of priestly regulations. The sign of this true faith is, for Luther, the acceptance of the Word of God, the realization of His Commandments, and a true love for the Creator.
And in just this chapter of John’s Gospel, Jesus, in answering a question from Thomas, utters those key words (in verse 6) which are at the very heart of the Gospel: “I am the way, and the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.” And as if it were a repeat of this divine statement, in the pages of Bach’s composition, wonderful numerological symbols appear that reveal the greatness of the Creator: 47(0) = DEUS (4 + 5 + 20 + 18), 77(0) = HALLELUJA (8 + 1 + 11 + 11 + 5 + 11 + 20 + 9 + 1) and 70(0) = JESUS (9 + 5 + 18 + 20 + 18).98
The number 1000, which rounds off the part Vater unser im Himmelreich [Our Father in Heaven], seems to symbolize the greatness of the One God and His heavenly Kingdom (“Himmelreich” in German). The number 1470 refers us to the hymnal Psalm 147, which we have already encountered in connection with the larger chorale Zehn Gebote [Decalogue]. The number can also be given a meaning in a theological context as 1 + 4 + 7 = 12 (the Church of Christ). It also contains a scientific undertone: 147 millions kilometres is the distance between the earth and the sun at the time of the winter solstice.
As has already been mentioned, the total number of bars of the four duets (369) can be associated with the events of Golgotha. At the same time it is reminiscent of the views of the Pythagoreans, who assumed that the basic elements (Fire, Air, Water, and Earth) are derived from the first four numbers: I, II, III, IV (369 : 3 = 123).
It may seem something of a paradox, but in the structure of the Clavierübung III one can find an allusion to Pythagoras himself. The total number of chorales and duets is 25. The structure of the work gives us grounds to see this as the sum of 9 (Kyrie – Gloria) and 16 (Decalogue – Credo – Lord’s Prayer – Baptism – Confession – Eucharist and the 4 duets). This leads us to the equation 9 + 16 = 25 (or 32 + 42 = 52), which is the simplest numerical expression of the theorem of Pythagoras (a2 + b2 = c2).
In the context of the 27 parts of the Clavierübung III, the numerological symbolism of the Prelude (205) and the Fugue (117) hardly needs any comment when one sees them written as 727 (2 + 5 = 7; 1 + 1 = 2; 7 = 7).99
Obviously the numerological symbolism of the Clavierübung III hides a deeper meaning. One of the most impressive numbers is 1956, the sum total of all bars in the work.
When we add the numerals together, we arrive at 3, the number which underlies this whole composition, and which Pythagoras considered to be the first “excellent” number, containing as it does within itself a beginning, a center and an end. There are of course other associations hidden in the number 1956. It is possible that it contains a reference to the work of Johannes Kepler, who published his first book, Prodromus dissertationum mathematicarum continens mysterium cosmographicum, in 1596. In it he attempted to establish a correlation between the elements of the planetary spheres.100 When we divide 1956 by 27 (the sum total of pieces in the Clavierübung III) we arrive at 72.444…—yet another mystical number which has further troubling connotations.101
Many years ago Philipp Spitta wrote that after finishing the Clavierübung III, “Bach considered his life’s work in the field of organ chorales to be essentially complete. After that he continued to collect and revise earlier works, but until his death he produced little original material.”102
That is a fair appraisal and those who have only an inkling of Bach’s methods and character can well imagine that once he had climbed to the summit, he never again trod the selfsame paths. This is perhaps the reason why he wrote only one passacaglia for organ and one chaconne for violin. Indeed, during the last ten years of his life, Bach seldom composed for the organ. This alone says much about the importance that he himself attached to the Clavierübung III.
How his contemporaries considered the Clavierübung III can probably best be seen from the following remark by Lorenz Christoph Mizler in 1740: “The author has here given proof that in this field of composition he is more skilled and more successful than many others. No one will surpass him in it and few will be able to imitate him.”103 ■

Margaret Sandresky is a graduate of Salem Academy and College with a major in organ performance. She earned a master’s degree in composition with a minor in organ at the Eastman School of Music, and later received a Fulbright Grant for the study of organ with Helmut Walcha at the Hochschule für Musik in Frankfurt am Main, Germany. She has held positions at the Oberlin Conservatory of Music, the University of Texas at Austin, the North Carolina School of the Arts, and at Salem College where she is Emeritus Professor of Music. Her articles have been published in The Journal of Music Theory, Music Theory Spectrum, The American Liszt Society Journal, Ars Organi, and The American Organist. Her seven volumes of organ music are published by Wayne Leupold Editions, and her anthems are published by Paraclete Press. In 2004, she received the Distinguished Composer award given at the AGO convention in Los Angeles, and in 2006 was honored by St. Andrews College with the Sam Ragan Award for distinguished service to the Arts in North Carolina.

In the summer of 1829, after an extended journey through the British Isles with his friend Klingemann, the twenty-year-old Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy completed his trip with a visit in Wales, where he made sketches, now lost, of the piece he intended to present to his “dear little sister,” Fanny, as a special gift for her wedding to William Hensel on October 3.1
Back in London, he met with an accident on September 17, seriously injuring his leg when he was hit by a light horse-drawn vehicle he called a “stupid little gig.”2 On September 25, he wrote his mother that he had “thought of a splendid idea” for Fanny’s wedding piece, but now he wouldn’t be able to present it until after the wedding.3 By November 6, he wrote his father that he had been laid up in bed for five weeks, was just going out for his first drive, and could almost walk without crutches.4
It was during this time that he completed the proposed piece for Fanny’s wedding. Since the final working manuscript is either lost or in private hands, the only available music is a sketch, now in the Bodleian Library. It is written on two staves, the bottom staff mostly blank, the top staff outlining the melody and briefly indicating the harmony.5 This is unmistakably the same material that appears as the opening and closing sections of Mendelssohn’s Sonata III. Many years later, when he was assembling material for the organ sonatas, he inserted between the sections two fugues with the chorale Aus tiefer Noth schrei ich zu dir (“In deep need I cry to thee”) as a cantus firmus.
The outer sections form two strong A-major homophonic pillars surrounding the two inner fugues in A minor, which, by means of their dark chromatics, jagged rhythms and tumbling 16th notes, seem contrastingly very dark and stormy. In each fugue, after the exposition for four voices in the manuals is completed, the chorale melody is introduced in the pedal as a fifth voice.
The second movement that closes the work is a simple song form. The two movements must have been conceived together, since they are dated August 9 and 17, 1844, probably while he was still vacationing in Bad Soden near Frankfurt, where his wife’s family lived. The use of this particular chorale, its stark contrast to the A-major sections, and why it is spread over the two fully developed fugues are questions that are discussed in the following paragraphs.
Mendelssohn was only seven years old when his wealthy and cultivated Jewish parents had their children baptized at the Neue Kirche in Berlin. In these early years, the music and worship of the Lutheran Church must have had a profound influence on him, for his use of Lutheran chorales as well as his interest in the organ and his dazzling performances on that instrument testify to an enduring love for this music throughout his life. By the time he was twelve, he was studying Bach fugues and writing one of his own as shown in the following charming note to his teacher, August Wilhelm Bach.

Berlin, the third day of the lovely month of May, 1821.
What does the sexton say, my dear Herr Bach? Can we play this afternoon? Or is there a wedding? or a confirmation . . . Greetings to the Prelude and Fugue in G Minor. I am presently sweating over an organ fugue, which will come forth into the world within the next few days. My heartfelt greetings to all the principal (sic) pipes, yours faithful (sic),
F. Mendelssohn6

Aus tiefer Noth
Mendelssohn showed an early interest in “Aus tiefer Noth” by composing a cantata on the chorale in 1830, a year after his English journey. Then on his travels in 1831, he must have been particularly interested when he found a copy of the Sebastian Bach organ chorale prelude on the same melody.
He wrote the following to his sister, Fanny, on her birthday, November 14, 1831, from Frankfurt am Main:

Oh my dear little sister and musician . . . I want to give you one of the unbelievingly [sic] moving Seb. Bach organ pieces which I just got to know here . . . Now play this chorale with Beckchen [another sister] . . . and think of me. . . . NB. The chorale is with double pedal.
Bach composed only one chorale prelude with double pedal, so Mendelssohn must be referring to Bach’s setting of “Aus tiefer Noth.”7
The chorale itself, composed by Martin Luther in 1523–4, was the first one for which Luther wrote both words and music. (Example 1) The previous year he had composed his first melody, to the poem “Ein neues Lied wir heben an,” after two young martyrs were immolated in Brussels, Belgium. “Aus tiefer Noth” stems from the same time.8 Luther’s poem is taken from Psalm 130, De Profundis, a psalm of redemption. Since metrical translations in English hymnals, by their very nature, cannot be specific, the following is my literal translation and, though awkward, may be helpful in grasping Luther’s meaning.

Verse I
Aus tiefer Noth schrei ich zu dir,
Herr Gott, erhör mein Rufen.
Dein gnädig Ohren kehr zu mir,
und meiner Bitt sie offen;
denn so du willst das sehen an
was Sünd und Unrecht ist getan,
wer kann, Herr, vor dir bleiben?

In deepest need I cry to thee,
Lord give ear to my cry.
Thy gracious ear incline to me,
And to my plea be open;
Then as you are sure to watch,
What sin and lawlessness is done,
Who can, Lord, stand before you?

Verse V
Ob bei uns ist der Sünden viel,
bei Gott ist viel mehr Gnade;
sein Hand zu helfen hat kein Ziel,
wie gross auch sei der Schade.
Er ist allein der gute Hirt
der Israel erlösen wird
aus seinen Sünden allen.9

Though by us there be many sins,
By God is much more grace.
His hand will help us without fail,
However great the peril.
He is alone the shepherd good,
Who will release Israel
From all her sins.

Bach’s chorale prelude is found in his Clavier Übung Part III in the section of Catechism chorales, and represents the sacrament of confession and forgiveness, known in the Lutheran Church as the Office of the Keys. It is the form for the confession and absolution of sin and derives its name from Matthew 16:19 and John 20:21–23.10
Mendelssohn’s early cantata on “Aus tiefer Noth,” op. 23, no. 1, published in 1832, takes its pattern and style from the cantatas of J. S. Bach. It is in five movements, one movement for each verse of the five verses of text. The first and last verses are set in a simple chorale harmonization, the second and fourth are a fugue and a chorale prelude with introduction, and the middle movement is for three solo voices with chorus and organ. Although “Aus tiefer Noth” is in the Phrygian mode, the cantata is firmly in F minor, and the cadences avoid any trace of the Phrygian in their strong tonality. The contrapuntal writing is a perfect model of 18th-century counterpoint.

The fugues of Sonata III
In the later Sonata III, the Phrygian character of the chorale is retained. (Example 2) Here Mendelssohn presents the chorale in the pedal transposed to A minor, inserting a B-flat before the A at the proper cadence points; and at the close of the second phrase (mm. 46–47), he uses a Phrygian cadence harmonizing the B-flat to A pedal as IV/6 to V in D minor. On the other hand, where this phrase is repeated in the second fugue, the B-flat to A is harmonized in the key of G minor as I/6 to VII/6 (mm. 69–70) and is not at a cadential point in the overall work. However, the final cadence (m. 92) is Phrygian, IV/6 to V/9, and introduces a long pedalpoint leading into the pedal cadenza.
The expositions of the two fugues illustrate two different aspects of Mendelssohn’s fugal writing. (Example 3) In the first fugue, the exposition (m. 24) follows traditional fugal procedure. Scale steps 5–6 at the beginning of the subject are answered by scale steps 1–3 (m. 28). The order of entry is bass, tenor, alto, soprano. After the exposition, the chorale enters in the pedal, overlapping the last measure of the answer. The chorale is split between the two fugues. Phrase one, phrase two, and the repetition of phrase one are presented in the first fugue, and the fugue closes with a half cadence in A minor, composed of a Neapolitan sixth chord going to a dominant ninth followed by a five-measure pedalpoint.
It is worth noting that because Mendelssohn decided to make his two fugue subjects compatible as invertible counterpoint and to bring them together near the end of the second fugue, he designed them both on the same vertical sonority, the V/vii7. (Example 4) Thus it was convenient to divide his cantus firmus between the fugues at a point where the dominant could function in both places, with the result that he did not follow the rhyme scheme of the text or the form of the chorale, which is abab-ccd, but split it after the repetition of the second phrase, aba-bccd. (See Example 2.)
In contrast to the scholarly correctness of the first fugue, Mendelssohn seems to have designed the second one with Romantic fervor, avoiding scholarly constraints and directing the performer to play with gradually more and more animation. The A-minor subject beginning on scale steps 5-6-5 (m. 58) and outlining a dominant/diminished area, tumbles down in 16th notes to C-sharp, throwing it into the subdominant key of D minor by means of this chromaticism. One remembers here that in the old modal system, D really would have been the dominant of the Phrygian on A. These events present two problems for the tonal system, solved traditionally by answering scale steps 5-6-5 with 1-3-2 and by returning the modulating subject to the proper key in the answer. Mendelssohn does neither.
Since the modulating pitch, C-sharp, is the very last note of the tenor subject, whose proper tonal answer, 1-3-2 in the alto, would force a cross relation between the C-sharp and a C-natural, the situation requires deft and imaginative treatment. (See Example 3.) Mendelssohn gives the alto a real answer (m. 60). However, in order to halt the continuous modulation of subject and answer and not stray too far from the main key, he ends his real answer by writing an F-natural instead of F-sharp, thus preparing for the third entry of the subject in the soprano and remaining in D minor. Here, one may be surprised to hear a tonal subject, scale steps 1-3-2 in D minor (m. 62); but the subject, placed now in the highest voice, sounds exciting, overarching, overreaching, and not like a misplaced answer. The fourth entry in the bass (m. 64) is then a real answer to a tonal subject; and this upside down arrangement ending in D minor effectively prepares the two measures of chromatic secondary dominant-seventh chords leading from the exposition to the entrance in the pedal of the fourth phrase of the chorale, where he is heading temporarily for F minor.

The outer sections of Sonata III
Under analysis, the principal thematic material in the opening and closing sections of the sonata seems drawn from the opening phrase of the chorale, whose first interval of a descending perfect fifth from E to A appears, now in the key of A major and filled in stepwise, as the opening gesture of the main theme. (Example 5) This “filled in” fifth dominates Mendelssohn’s thinking here, for it occurs some twenty times during the course of this section. The same pitches also appear in measure two of the second movement. Again, in the first phrase of the chorale, the ascending leap of a fifth moving up a half step to the sixth degree of the scale may be interpreted as the interval of a sixth appearing in several places throughout the sonata. First, it occurs between measures one and two of the opening theme; second, it appears twice at the recapitulation in the pedal from low C-sharp to A and then up to F-sharp. Finally, it appears as the first two pitches of the second movement. The chorale provides one other motive. Compare the scale steps 5-6-5 in the first two measures of the chorale to the subjects of each fugue.
Such an analysis, then, shows that the entire movement, and in a broader sense the entire work, can be viewed as evolving from one theme, that of the chorale, and not from separate ideas. This coincidence presents a conundrum: did Mendelssohn either consciously or unconsciously have the “Aus tiefer Noth” chorale in his head during the closing weeks of his English journey, and turn it into a joyful bridal piece by filling in the melodic skeleton and changing the mode? Then years later, did he decide to expand Fanny’s piece into the Sonata III? This would explain the juxtaposition of seemingly disparate parts, the wedding piece, the chorale, and the fugues. But why put them together?

Why “Aus tiefer Noth”?
One answer may lie in the important significance the music of Mendelssohn’s faith had in his life. For example, in the top right-hand corner of many pieces he wrote “Hilf du mir” or “H.d.m.” (“Help thou me”) before he began work. According to my Evangelisches Gesangbuch, “Aus tiefer Noth” is the chorale for the week of the eleventh Sunday after Trinity.11 Mendelssohn, in his letter of April 14, 1829 from Hamburg, where he made a visit before embarking on his first trip to England, wrote that he couldn’t comment on theatre and music in that city since everything was closed during Holy Week there.12 That would place the eleventh Sunday after Trinity near August 25, just the time when he was in Wales, where he wrote a long letter to his father that day from Llangollen, in which said he had “done a little composing.”13 These documents show how he could have decided to use the chorale for that week as the basis for a triumphant expression of joy celebrating Fanny’s marriage. Years later, as he assembled the sonatas, remembering the relation of the chorale to Fanny’s piece, he added two fugues over the same chorale.
Why two fugues rather than just one? Could it be that Mendelssohn was thinking of the two fugues as a memory of the two young martyrs who influenced Martin Luther’s first complete chorale, “Aus tiefer Noth”??

Gavin Black is the Director of the Princeton Early Keyboard Center in Princeton, New Jersey. He can be reached by e-mail at [email protected]

Buxtehude BuxWV 141 – Part 1: Getting to know the piece
This month we begin the process of working on the Praeludium in E major, BuxWV 141, by Dietrich Buxtehude. As I mentioned last month, there is a good edition available online for free at http://imslp.info/files/imglnks/usimg/1/1e/IMSLP29682-PMLP06429-BuxWV136-154.pdf, pages 21–26. This is a reprint of the edition first published in the 1870s by Breitkopf & Härtel, edited by Phillip Spitta, and frequently reprinted, later on with revisions by Max Seiffert. It is also available in a 1988 Dover reprint and in Kalmus editions. There are several subsequent editions available through music dealers and at libraries. Small differences in these editions will not in any way interfere with the discussion of the process of working on the piece. Any one of them will serve this purpose very well.
The first step in working on a piece is to make sure that there are measure numbers, and if there are not—as in the edition referred to above—to put them in. This is worth doing! It will save time later and help in getting to know the piece. Even though the measure is somewhat of an arbitrary construct (and I feel pretty sure that as a matter of performance and listening nothing would change in the least if all of the bar lines in the notated music were erased), the act of going through and writing in measure numbers is a good first step in exploring what a piece seems to be about on the broadest level. The Buxtehude Praeludium has 110 measures. Going through the piece counting measures, I notice the following, among other things:
• three measures are whole notes;
• three tempo markings appear along the way, each of which apparently occurring at a place where there is also a noticeable change in texture;
• quite a few measures or passages are in only one voice;
• pedal is present almost exactly half the time (though this can be an artifact of the edition rather than the piece);
• several changes in time signature.
None of this is exactly earth shaking, and of course most of what there is to notice about a piece is not noticed casually while counting measures. However, I want to introduce the idea that noticing anything and everything about a piece is the first and an important step towards learning how to play it. I am not talking specifically—or only—about the things that constitute a formal analysis—harmonic or motivic/contrapuntal—such as might be done in a theory class. This might overlap with what I am talking about, and that kind of rigorous academic analysis has several important purposes, only some of which bear upon the act of learning a piece or actually performing it. However, noticing things about a piece—simple or complex, superficial (even, for example, things about font and layout in the page) or “deep” (contrapuntal structure, harmonic intricacies)—can increase ultimate performing security by increasing the extent to which a player simply knows what is coming up next. This is analogous to the fact that it is easier to drive around a town whose streets you know well, or to walk around a building where you know all of the corridors and staircases. It is also part of the process of making a non-memorized piece as well-learned and secure as a memorized piece is supposed to be. (A piece that is memorized mostly by feel is often not particularly secure.) Of course, working out fingerings and pedalings and then practicing them is by far the most important component of learning a piece and becoming comfortable playing it. However, the more consciously familiar you are with the landscape of a piece, the more your mind will be able to help you, as you practice and perform the work, with the task of remembering what is coming up next in time to execute it serenely and securely. Such things as “the next subject entry is in the tenor” or “there’s a surprising chord coming up” or “the first thing on the next page is a D-major chord” or “the font on page 4 is larger, because there are fewer lines” all serve this function. Some of these things might also contribute to an analysis of the piece and perhaps to a greater artistic understanding of the piece as well. However, the point right now is that they make the basic learning of the piece more solid and secure.
The first thing to explore about a piece is what sections the piece falls into. Sometimes sections are delineated by double bars or (of course) movement breaks, or flagged by words—tempo indications, usually. Sometimes they are not. It is also possible to be unsure whether two adjacent areas within a piece should be considered different sections or simply somewhat different parts of the same section. This almost always does not matter at all. Exploring the issue and describing for yourself what is going on is all that is necessary.
In this Praeludium, there are quite a few spots where something changes, that is, where one kind of writing gives way to another. These spots seem to be as follows: after m. 12; the beginning of m. 51; after m. 59; after m. 72; after the first beat of m. 75; after m. 86; and after m. 90. This suggests that there are eight different sections. The nature of the writing in the second, and longest, of these sections changes in the last three and a half measures, that is, from the middle of m. 47 through m. 50. There is no clear break leading into this change, so perhaps it isn’t quite a new section, but simply a different kind of passage. As I pointed out above, it does not matter what we call it as long as we notice what is happening.
So, if these passages or sections are different from one another, then how are they different and what can this tell us about how to work on the piece? Keyboard writing has a tendency to mix contrapuntal and non-contrapuntal textures. Therefore it is always useful in looking over a piece to notice which passages, if any, are written in a thoroughgoing contrapuntal texture and which are not. There may also be passages that seem to be somewhere in between. Of course one can assume that, in general, Renaissance and Baroque keyboard music will have a large proportion of formally worked out counterpoint, later music rather less.
In the case of this piece, the following sections seem to be fully contrapuntal, in the sense that they have a set number of voices and they treat recognizable motives imitatively: the section beginning at m. 13, excluding the last few measures; the section beginning at m. 60; the section beginning in m. 75; and the final section, which begins at m. 91. Each of these sections is more or less fugal—that is, in addition to their being contrapuntal in the sense described above, they have at least one theme or motive that is heard one or more times in each voice. These themes are first heard as follows: 1) mm. 13–15 in the soprano voice; 2) m. 60 in the alto voice; 3) m. 75 in the tenor voice; and 4) m. 91 in the alto voice. It is important to go through and find each and every occurrence of each of these themes. This is certainly part of understanding the rhetoric of the work, and of analyzing the work for achieving an intellectual understanding of the piece and of the mind of the composer. But it is also a very practical step in learning how to get the notes right and how to make the piece secure in performance. As noted above, the more you simply know what’s coming up, the more familiar you are with what is in the piece, the more likely you are to recall it in time to play it easily and securely. The most natural thing to remember is any kind of pattern, and a recurrent theme is a pattern.
Motives or themes, including themes functioning as fugue subjects, are of course not the only recurring patterns that can (and should) be noticed; we will get to some others just below. However, fugue subjects and similar recurring motives are easy to notice and to identify, and are therefore a good starting point. So it is a good idea to highlight them on a copy of the work. I find twelve instances of the theme introduced in m. 13—four in the soprano voice, three in the alto, two in the tenor, and three in the bass. There are also many instances of the second half of this theme occurring without the first half, as in, for example, measures 33 and 34. The theme introduced in m. 60, if we take it to be the full measure in the alto voice, occurs six times: three in the soprano voice, two in the alto, one in the tenor. (This section is in three voices.) However, each half of the theme occurs separately quite a few more times. Does it make sense to call this a measure-long theme, or is it really two separate four-note motives, which may or may not follow one another in the same voice? It doesn’t matter! As long as you notice what the notes and patterns are, either of those concepts will do very nicely to describe the situation. The theme introduced in m. 75 occurs six times, two in each of the three voices. Again, fragments of this theme also occur. The theme introduced in m. 91 seems to occur eleven times, though it would be possible to argue that a couple of them are not quite exactly that theme, but rather a close variant. Each half of the theme also occurs separately many times.
Turning for a moment to the four remaining sections of the piece, what is there to notice about them? First of all, they are short, occupying 27 of the piece’s 110 measures. Of course, this does not necessarily mean that they take up a proportionately small amount of time: that depends on tempo. One of these sections—mm. 87–90—is in a set number of voices (four), with a homophonic, somewhat hymn-like, texture: fully worked-out counterpoint, but with no imitation or motivic development. The other three (at mm. 1, 51, and 73) are not in any fixed number of voices or, really, in voices at all. They include passage work, trills and trill-like writing, fairly long one-voice passages, occasional abrupt changes in texture—the most noticeable of which is near the beginning, where a long solo passage ends in a four-note chord—and some unprepared dissonance. Two of these sections have written comments associated with them: trillo longo in mm. 51 and 53, and con discrezione in m. 73. Both of these might suggest rhythmic freedom at a fairly broad level. This is obvious with con discrezione. It also makes sense that trillo longo, written over a very brief trill-like passage, would suggest that the trill can be made to occupy more time than is notated for it.
Getting to know a piece in order to perform it securely involves simply noticing things, even things whose significance isn’t clear—indeed, even things that are not really significant except in that they form part of the process of getting to know the piece. It is most important to notice anything that happens more than once. There is a good chance that anything that happens more than once is important compositionally, that the composer did it on purpose. However, even if this is not the case, the act of noticing helps with learning. By “anything” in this context I mean, probably, anything except individual pitches. It is probably not fruitful to notice that, for example, the note “a above middle c” occurs in this measure, and then occurs again in that measure. Once in a while this might matter, but usually not. Anything more involved than an individual note, however, is worth paying attention to.
Here are some things—other than the well-defined motives discussed above—that I notice in looking over this piece. The upward leap of a step in the pedal part occurs five times in a row near the beginning; it is possible that the rising quarter-note line in the lowest voice (not shared with the other voices) in the section beginning at m. 60 could be heard as related to this, an extension of it. The countersubject fragment in m. 16 and again m. 18—four notes in the soprano voice beginning just after the downbeat—comes in again somewhat prominently in the final section beginning at m. 103, and ends up being the final gesture of the piece. It also occurs in m. 72, but in a way that is interrupted: it does not resolve, and it leads into the con discrezione section. The phenomenon of two voices playing together—that is, in a way that is in sync rhythmically and more or less parallel—is characteristic of the beginning (mm. 4–6) and the end (mm. 99 on) of the piece, but not, except fleetingly, the middle. The one instance of this that I notice in the middle of the piece is at m. 57 and seems to foreshadow the fugue subject that governs the final section of the piece beginning at m. 91.
The most interesting recurrence of a compositional element in this piece is the first four notes—that is, the rising scale fragment B–C#–D#–E—which keep coming back at crucial moments. To start with, it is the germ from which the rest of the opening section is, at least partly, built up. This is most explicit in mm. 3, 4, and 9. Then this opening gesture is quoted directly as the last notes of the fugue subject that is introduced in m. 13. Also, the second half of that subject is essentially an ornamented inversion of this motive. When the long fugal section that begins in m. 13 is coming to an end and gives way to non-fugal passage work, the four-note motive or a close variant of it is present throughout, as it also is in the following section. The final fugue subject, which enters in m. 91, is made up of the ornamented inversion of this motive, followed by the motive itself. From m. 94 on, the motive occurs in parallel or contrary motion in two or three voices at once repeatedly, and the flourish that gives energy to the ending of the work in mm. 106 and 109 is made up of two iterations in a row of this four-note motive in diminution.
I have posted a copy of the score of BuxWV 141 with various motives and other aspects of the text of the piece highlighted at http://www.gavinblack-baroque.com. Next month we will continue with this piece, and I will discuss how to break the work up into units for practicing. Then, in the August column, we will turn to the Boëllmann Suite Gothique. 

Sarah Mahler Hughes is Associate Professor of Music and
Chair of the Department at Ripon College in Ripon, Wisconsin, where she teaches
organ, piano, music history, and directs the Collegium Musicum. She is the
author of articles on French Baroque dance rhythms in Couperin's organ Masses
and the piano works of Veronika Dussek Cianchettini.

The music of Dame Ethel Smyth (1858-1944), like that of her
older contemporary Johannes Brahms (1836-1897), simultaneously embraces the
language of Beethoven and Schumann and the contrapuntal techniques of J.S.
Bach.  Although works for organ
comprise but a small part of their respective oeuvres, both Smyth and Brahms
composed a set of chorale preludes for organ. Whereas Brahms' settings have
been widely studied and remained in print as a staple of organ repertoire,
however, Smyth's disappeared and were only recently reprinted.1 This discussion
will focus on the relationship between Brahms and Smyth and examine their
respective settings of the chorales "O Traurigkeit, O Herzeleid," and
"O Gott du frommer Gott," comparing and contrasting Brahms'
well-known settings with Smyth's much less familiar ones. The question of whether Smyth's works were merely overshadowed by Brahms', or were relegated to
obscurity because she was outside the musical establishment and,
coincidentally, a woman (her own view) inevitably arises in the context of such
a discussion.

Ethel Smyth, in the course of her long life, distinguished
herself as a composer, suffragette, and writer whose best-known musical works
are the monumental Mass in D (1891) for chorus, soloists, and orchestra, and
the opera, The Wreckers (1902-04). She counted the leading musical figures of
her day--Grieg, Tschaikovsky, Brahms, Clara Schumann, Bruno Walter, Sir Thomas
Beecham--among her friends, and she moved comfortably in aristocratic circles
despite her radical views on women's suffrage. Smyth's achievements were recognized in Britain by the universities of Durham, Oxford, and St. Andrew's, all of which conferred honorary D. Mus degrees upon her. In 1922, she was made a Dame of the British Empire, the equivalent of knighthood. In 1877, however, Ethel Smyth was a merely a young and very determined Englishwoman who had
style="mso-spacerun: yes">  embarked on a course of study at the
Leipzig Conservatory after overcoming the opposition of her equally determined
father. Upon her return to England in 1884, she became interested in the organ
and its repertoire. Her works up to that point had consisted of piano pieces
and chamber music.  In her own
words, "I became bitten with organ-playing, which, as a sort of athletic
exercise, appealed to me far more than the violin, not to speak of the prospect
of tackling Bach on his own instrument."2 A friend took her to Bramshill
where Smyth heard Sir Frederick Ouseley, a pupil of Mendelssohn, improvise on
the organ. Smyth found his improvised fugues "Immensely musical and
effective . . . I was much impressed." 3 Smyth subsequently studied organ
with Sir Walter Parratt (1841-1924) of St. George's Chapel in Windsor. Smyth's
organ studies resulted in the composition of Short Chorale Preludes (1884,
published 1913). In this collection, Smyth set five chorales: "Du, O schönes Weltgebäude!", "O Gott du frommer Gott" (2 settings), "Schwing dich auf zu deinem Gott," "Erschienen ist der
herr-lich' Tag," and "O Traurigkeit, O Herzeleid."

Johannes Brahms was at the height of his career when Smyth
began her studies in Leipzig. She had heard Brahms' music for the first time at
a Saturday "pops" concert in London on which the
style="mso-spacerun: yes">  Liebeslieder Walzes were performed by a
solo quartet. She wrote afterwards with characteristic enthusiasm, "That
day I saw the whole Brahms; other bigger and . . . more important works of his
were to kindle fresh fires later one, but his genius possessed me then and
there in a flash."4 Smyth later met Brahms at the home of Heinrich and
Elizabeth (Lisl) von Herzogenberg, two of Leipzig's most prominent musical figures. Herzogenberg composed and, with Philip Spitta, founded the Bach Society (Bach Verein) in Leipzig. Lisl was a gifted amateur pianist and, next to Clara Schumann, Brahms's closest musical confidant. Lisl von Herzogenberg also became Smyth's confidante and dearest friend (As Time Went On, 300.) for a number of years. Brahms was a frequent guest at the Herzogenbergs, where Smyth heard him play the piano.

I like best to think of Brahms at the piano, playing his own
compositions or Bach's mighty organ fugues, sometimes accompanying himself with
a sort of muffled roar, as of Titans stirred to sympathy in the bowels of the
earth. The veins in his forehead stood out, his wonderful bright blue eyes
became veiled, and he seemed the incarnation of the restrained power in which
his own work is forged. For his playing was never noisy, and when lifting a
submerged theme out of a tangle of 
music he used jokingly to ask us to admire the gentle sonority of his
"tenor thumb."5

Smyth, the neophyte composer, writes, "To me
personally, he was very kind and fatherly in his awkward way, chiefly, no
doubt, because of the place I held in his friend's [Lisl's] heart; but after a
very slight acquaintance I guessed he would never take a woman writer
seriously, and had no desire, though kindly urged by him to do so, to show him
my work." Smyth's instincts proved correct. One day Lisl von Herzogenberg
showed Brahms one of Smyth's unsigned fugues, and when Smyth came into the room
she heard Brahms analyzing it, "simply, gravely, and appreciatively."
In her delight and surprise she revealed her authorship, asking eagerly,
"Don't you think if I feel it that way I have a right to end on the
dominant?". The result was electrifying:

Suddenly the scene changed, back came the ironic smile, and
stroking his moustache he said in a voice charged with kindly contempt: "I
am quite sure, dear child, you may end when and where you please!" There
it was! he [sic] had suddenly remembered I was a girl, to take whom seriously
was beneath a man's dignity, and the quality of the work, which had I been a
obscure male he would have upheld against anyone, simply passed from his mind.6

After the above encounter, Smyth continued to
style="mso-spacerun: yes">  admire Brahms' music while understandably deploring his views on women. She accused him of subscribing to a
"poetical variant of the Kinder, Kirche, Küche axiom" then
prevalent in Germany, "namely that women are playthings."7 On the
occasion of a dinner party at the Herzogenbergs' she wrote a sarcastic little
poem whose last verse ran:

Der grosse Brahms hat's neulich ausgesprochen:

"Ein g'scheidtes Weib, das hat doch keinen Sinn!"

D'rum lasst uns einsig uns're Dummheit pflegen,

Denn nur auf diesem Punkt ist Werth zu legen

Als Weib und gute Brahmsianerinn!

(As the great Brahms recently proclaimed:

"A clever woman is a thing of naught!"

So let us diligently cultivate stupidity,

That being the only quality demanded

Of a female Brahms-admirer!)8

Brahms enjoyed this diatribe hugely and showed the poem to
everyone who approached him that evening to praise his work, insisting they
read it.  For his part, he liked to
say that everyone resembles some orchestral instrument, and he called Smyth
"the oboe."  Smyth's
portrait of Brahms in the first volume of her memoirs is candid and fair-minded
and totally devoid of hero worship. 
She wrote:

From the very first I had worshipped Brahms's music, as I do
some of it now; hence was predisposed to admire the man.
style="mso-spacerun: yes">  But without exactly disliking him, his
personality neither impressed nor attracted me, and I never could understand
why the faithful had such an exalted opinion of his intellect. . . I saw
integrity, sincerity, kindness of heart, generosity to opponents, and a certain
nobility of soul that stamps all his music; but on the other hand I saw
coarseness, uncivlizedness, a defective perception of subtle shades in people
and things, lack of humor, and of course the inevitable and righteous
selfishness of people who have a message of their own to deliver and can't run
errands for others.9

Their relationship, although uneven, remained cordial even
after Smyth left Leipzig in 1884; she once called on Brahms in Vienna in later
years and he urged her to come back for a meal on her return trip.
Unfortunately he was away, and the two never met again.

O Traurigkeit, O Herzeleid

Similarities and contrasts between
Smyth's and Brahms' settings of the same chorales become readily apparent upon
examination. Both composers used the chorale, "O Traurigkeit, O
Herzeleid" (anonymous melody, 1628; text, Johann Rist, 1641) as the basis
of a prelude and fugue. Each composer placed the chorale melody in the soprano
in the preludes, which are brief (Smyth, 11 measures, Brahms, 16). Both Smyth
and Brahms rely on Baroque models for their settings and use the rich harmonic
language of late Romanticism to color their works. Beyond these similarities,
however, individual stylistic traits emerge for each composer.

Brahms had composed his Prelude by July 1858. He presented
an autograph manuscript of it to his piano student Friedchen Wagner before
leaving Hamburg that summer but made no arrangements to publish the piece.
Fifteen years elapsed before Brahms composed a companion Fugue, which he gave
to Philipp Spitta (without the Prelude). Spitta praised the Fugue, which he
classified as a Choralfantasie, finding it "worthy of its great Sebastian
Bach models in its art and pensiveness, in its warmth."
style="mso-spacerun: yes">  Spitta hastened to add that the piece
seemed no "mere copy" but was "a self-reliant imitation."10
By 1878 several of Brahms' friends, including the conductor Hermann Levi and
Elisabeth von Herzogenberg, had obtained copies of both the Prelude and Fugue,
and it was probably during this period that Brahms revised the Prelude. In
1881, Brahms submitted both pieces to E.W. Fritzsch for publication in the
journal Musikalisches Wochenblatt, modestly describing the pair as "really
not too bad."11

Throughout the Prelude, Brahms uses flowing triplet figures
in the left hand to accompany the unadorned cantus firmus, thus creating a
unified setting in the manner of the Orgelbüchlein chorales. These
"drooping melismata" 
reinforce the sorrowful Affekt of the text ("O sorrow deep, who
would not weep with heartfelt pain and sighing?/God the Father's only Son within
the grave is lying").12 Brahms scholar Vernon Gotwals hears in these
opening measures an echo of the beginning of Bach's St. Matthew Passion, a
resonance reinforced by the shared tonality of E minor and the triplet
figuration.13 (Example 1)  The following fugue in three voices over a pedal cantus firmus uses as its subject a
descending stepwise figure that is "only tenuously connected with the
chorale."14 This subject is answered by its inversion, revealing Brahms'
economy of means and contrapuntal mastery. A muscular, ascending countersubject
(alto, m. 2, beat 3; inverted in the soprano, m. 5, beat 3), balances the
sighing subject (Example 2). The Prelude's "intricate and peaceful
counterpoint" in three parts is confined to the manuals while the chorale
sounds in the pedal.16 An intricate sixteenth-note figuration that begins in m.
4 carries the music steadily forward to its serene conclusion over a tonic
pedal point.

In her four-voice prelude on this chorale, Smyth places a
highly ornamented cantus firmus against 
supporting parts in the left hand and pedal. Interestingly, Smyth's
setting is a fourth lower than Brahms (E minor versus A minor).16 The
accompanying voices begin imitatively in the manner of Bach and continue in
like manner throughout the piece (Example 3). Rather than exploit a single
motive, however, Smyth underpins each phrase of the cantus firmus with a new
figure. The integration of this point of imitation technique into a smoothly
flowing whole reveals a degree of control over  musical material as great as Brahms' economical
counterpoint.

The four-voice fugue which follows Smyth's prelude treats
each phrase of the chorale melody imitatively. A textural crescendo (reinforced
by the composer's directions of "piu f") begins with the appearance
of the third and central phrase in m. 23. Rhythmic activity intensifies at this
point with the introduction of triplets against the cantus firmus. The climax
of the fugue occurs in m.32ff with the fortissimo entrance of the chorale in
the pedal (Example 4). As an 18-measure decrescendo begins in m. 36, the fourth
phrase of the chorale appears but is interrupted by the reappearance of a
now-subdued phrase three. Fugal activity comes to a gradual halt over a
dominant pedal (m. 49-51) and a half cadence. The last section of the piece,
marked 'Adagio', recapitulates the entire chorale in a simple, homophonic
texture (Example 5). Smyth demonstrates skill in her handling of the musical
materials of this piece. The contrapuntal writing is deft, building to the
climax of the piece halfway through and subsiding thereafter, and the
pianissimo ending captures the intensely sorrowful nature of the text. Smyth's
fugue is impassioned and full of contrasts, whereas Brahms' reflects peaceful
resignation and a uniform gravitas. Smyth's setting bears the same dramatic
stamp as her subsequent  Mass in D
and her works for the stage.

O Gott, du frommer Gott

Both Brahms and Smyth use a "salient thematic
motive"17 in pervasive imitation throughout their respective settings of "O Gott, du frommer Gott" ("O God, Thou Faithful God"). This
motive, derived from the first four notes of the chorale, appears in a slightly
different guise in each prelude (Example 6).

Brahms uses vorimitation to prepare the entrance of the
chorale in measure 7. The first phrase of the chorale (A of the AAB bar form)
appears in unornamented half notes in the soprano (m. 7-10). Vorimitation
intervenes again before the repeat of A in m. 17. This entrance is accompanied
by a Baroque-like harmonic sequence and a disjunct, energetic bass line
à la Handel. The vigorous figuration of Brahms' setting reflects the
text, which prays for good health, a pure soul, and a clear conscience.

Brahms maintains the pattern of presenting unornamented
chorale phrases separated by passages of vorimitation throughout the remainder
of the prelude. The beginning of the B section is heralded by "impressive,
trombone-like chords" with a chain of thirds in the bass.18 The texture,
heretofore strictly three-part, thickens momentarily in anticipation of the
majestic closing measures (58-62) of the piece. Thirds, both falling and
rising, figure prominently in the intricate texture that Brahms weaves
throughout. Brahms reveals his Titanesque nature in this stirring conclusion
when the pedal enters, for the first time, in thundering counterpoint with the
chorale in the soprano. The unusual and dramatic dynamic markings in this piece
(introduction and interludes are 
forte, whereas until the last phrase, the chorale is piano) have been
remarked upon by Gotwals, who maintains that the pedal "supports the forte
[of the last phrase] that must follow the dying away after ein unverletzte Seel
(a Soul inviolate).19 Brahms' debt to Bach is apparent in the Baroque
techniques of vorimitation, harmonic sequences, rhythmic figuration, terraced
dynamics, and pervasive imitation based on a single motive derived from the
cantus firmus.

Smyth likewise reveals her assimilation of Bach's
Orgelbüchlein techniques in both settings of "O Gott du frommer Gott." The brevity of these pieces (hereafter referred to as G1 and G2), at 15 and 16 measures respectively, reflects the careful organization of material  characteristic of counterpoint exercises. In G1, Smyth places the unadorned cantus firmus in the soprano, which is supported by a three-part (manuals and pedal) imitative texture (see Example 6). This setting, in plain common time, is straightforward and compact, without the cushions of vorimitation used by Brahms. G2 is cast as a canon between the soprano and bass. The alto and tenor voices engage in pervasive imitation in flowing eighth notes. These rhythms in the
style="mso-spacerun: yes">  12/8 meter and quicker tempo marking
("Andante con moto" rather than G1's "Andante larghetto")
give a lilting, steady swing to the piece. The choice of C minor, a darker key
than the A minor of Brahms' setting, imbues Smyth's settings with a quality of
solemn introspection--perhaps earnest soul-searching for the path to a healthy
life and clear conscience. If G1 reflects, however, G2 strides purposefully
forward.  Echoes of Smyth's
vigorous, intense personality which was always subject to "the pull of
life and the constant longing for calm, the fascination of difficulties and
barriers, the need of human contact and affection, the love of one's own
ways--in short, . . . Lebensteufel,"20 may be heard in her settings of
"O Gott du frommer Gott." Because they complement each other, a
strong argument may be made for performing them as a unit.

In formal terms, G2 displays one rather odd feature: the second A section of the chorale is not repeated. Colette Ripley, in her prefatory notes to this edition, states, "Because of the use of the canonic
compositional device, Smyth does not repeat the opening line of the melody as
is done in the chorale."21 Since both canonic voices finish at the same
half cadence in m. 5, however, this opening material can be repeated with no
discernable effect on the canonic structure.22 (Example 7)
style="mso-spacerun: yes">  Perhaps Smyth was experimenting--she
prided herself on originality in all things--or perhaps she simply neglected to
write out the repeat.

Without a doubt, in their chorale settings for organ both
Brahms and Smyth were influenced by Baroque models. The Orgelbüchlein of
J.S. Bach, in particular, is the musical and spiritual ancestor of these
late-nineteenth century pieces. Brahms' esteem for the music of Bach and
Handel, as well as that of earlier composers, is well-known, and his
scholarship advanced the fledgling field of musicology.23 Brahms frequently
performed Bach's organ preludes and fugues on the piano in recital and in his
youth studied counterpoint assiduously with his friend Joseph Joachim. Smyth's
participation in the Leipzig Bach Verein and enthusiasm for the works of Bach
have already been noted. She was profoundly moved by the St. Matthew Passion,
which she first heard at the Thomaskirche on Good Friday, 1878. The following
year Smyth participated in the same annual performance (playing in the second
violins!).  She recalled later that
"the church seemed flooded with the living presence of Bach . . . I
suppose that every artist can say of one or two hours in the past that in these
he touched the extreme height and depth of his emotional life; such hours were
mine during a certain Passion performance . . . "24 The massive choruses,
religious intensity, and dramatic structure of this work are echoed in Smyth's
own Mass in D.

German-speaking composers from Mozart onward studied the
extant works of Bach as contrapuntal and affective masterpieces, and Brahms and
Smyth were nourished in that tradition. The admiration that both composers
sustained for the music of Bach indubitably led them to compose for the organ
even though neither became proficient organists or indeed, showed a lasting
interest in the instrument. Much has been written about Brahms' choice of the
organ as a medium for his early and last works with an intervening fallow
period.25 In a striking parallel, Smyth, after her early chorale settings,
turned to other things (principally opera, choral, and chamber music) but
returned to the organ in her last published work, the Prelude on a Traditional
Irish Air, written for Edith Somerville in 1938.

Why did Smyth's chorale preludes disappear from sight for so
long? Their length (useful for service music) and modest technical demands
should have assured them a place in late-Romantic organ repertoire alongside
the chorale preludes of Brahms and the op. 67 and 135a chorale preludes of Max
Reger, which they resemble stylistically. The answer may lie partly in
historical circumstances:  Smyth
came of age during an era in which several well-established (male) composers
dominated the field. This phenomenon has occurred in every age, but one
critical difference distinguishes the nineteenth century from preceding eras.
The creation of a musical canon during the course of the century, incipient in
the efforts of the Bach Gesellschaft in the 1830s and nurtured by the
musicological studies of Spitta, Chrysander, and others, secured the posterity
of composers like Brahms and Wagner. Lesser composers, male as well as female,
were relegated to a secondary status. In addition, British-German antagonisms
during the Boer War and World War I played no small part in the disruption of
Smyth's career, forcing the cancellation of performances and severing contacts
in Germany.

Smyth felt herself an outsider on several counts:

Now it may be said that hundreds of artists are called on to
endure the like [neglect of their work], but in my case was a disheartening
element no man has to cope with . . . that given my sex, my foreign musical
education, and the conditions of English music life as I was coming to know
them, if I were ever to win through at all it would not be till I had one leg
in the grave.26

In 1933, assessing her career during the past fifty years,
she elaborated upon the "conditions of English music life":

The difficulty in my case has been that from the very first
. . . for some reason or other what I call 'the Machine' was against me.
style="mso-spacerun: yes">  If you ask me, "What is 'the
Machine'?"  I can only answer,
"I don't know," but apparently it is a complex construction, made up,
say, of units from every section of our music life; heads of Musical Colleges,
leading publishers, dominant members of music committees throughout the
country, the Press, and so on.27

Despite these and other (admittedly self-imposed) obstacles,
Smyth did achieve a high degree of success and recognition as both a composer
and writer, reflected in the honors bestowed upon her during her lifetime and a
revival of some of her works in our time.28 Contemporary opinion of her
large-scale works varies,29 but Smyth's chorale preludes for organ, indebted to
Bach and late-nineteenth-century German Romanticism, bear an original stamp and
certainly compare favorably with those of Brahms. It is tempting to speculate
what he might have thought of her chorale preludes had he seen them in an
anonymous manuscript. (There is no indication that Smyth ever showed Brahms
these or any other of her works--the result would have been too predictably
patronizing.) The Titan's endorsement might not have made that much difference
to her, however. Throughout her career, Smyth refused to be deterred by any
real or perceived lack of approbation of her works. With characteristic
firmness, she penned encouraging words for future generations: "I do not
think the future looks too black for women composers who have something to say
and are not afraid of saying it after their own fashion
style="mso-spacerun: yes">  . . . All one has to do is go straight
on and pay no attention!"30