Russell Stinson discovers volume of 19th-century prints of Bach keyboard works

Robert August is director of music/organist at First Presbyterian Church of Fort Worth, Texas. Previously he was assistant university organist and choirmaster at The Memorial Church at Harvard University, during doctoral studies at the New England Conservatory of Music. A native of the Netherlands, he has an extensive background in historical performance. August has served as carillonneur at Brigham Young University, and as organist and conductor at churches in the Netherlands and the United States. In addition to collaboration with artists such as Yo-Yo Ma, Christopher Hogwood, and Simon Carrington, he has performed in Europe and the United States as a solo artist and accompanist, including tours and CD recordings with the Harvard University Choir and the Harvard Baroque Chamber Orchestra. Robert and his wife, flutist Dolores August, often collaborate on modern and period instruments.

This is a work that has occupied
me for the whole of the previous year in an effort to make it worthy of the lofty name it bears. It is also a work which, I believe, is likely to outlive my other creations the longest.”1 This was Schumann’s description of the Six Fugues on the Name of BACH, op. 60, in a letter to his publisher, after completion of the final fugue. Schumann took great care and pride in the six fugues, but his prediction could not have been more off target as the fugues are rarely performed anymore. Rather, they have become the topic of ongoing discussions about Schumann’s mental state in relation to the quality of his output.
The notion that the Six Fugues on the Name of BACH are of lesser quality than the majority of Schumann’s oeuvre seems to be based on largely subjective analyses. Such subjectivism is not uncommon in art and music, as is evident in Albert Schweitzer’s discussion of J.S. Bach’s Passacaglia in C Minor, BWV 582: “He [Bach] saw clearly, however, that on the whole the incoherency of this kind of work was not suitable to the greatest organ music, and he ventures upon the experiment only with this colossal theme.”2 In Schweitzer’s opinion, the Passacaglia was a compositional failure that did not compare to Bach’s other organ works.
Robert Schumann was of a different opinion: “After a pause, these [organ compositions] were followed by the Passecaille in C Minor (with 21 variations, intertwined so ingeniously that one can never cease to be amazed) admirably handled in the choice of registers by Mendelssohn.”3 Schweitzer’s and Schumann’s remarks, published roughly sixty years apart, could not be more contradictory.
Why is it that the Passacaglia can render such opposing views, especially by two men known for their deep respect and understanding of Bach’s music?4 With regard to Schweitzer, we cannot be sure if his comments were the result of a somewhat subjective analysis, but he undoubtedly would not have published his findings unless he believed them to be correct.5 Schumann’s opposing remarks are fascinating as well. They not only provide us with his opinion of the Passacaglia but also unveil his often-overlooked understanding of the organ.
Tragically, Schumann’s organ works, the Six Fugues on the Name of BACH, op. 60, have often been deemed ‘unworthy’ and are repeatedly criticized or, perhaps worse, omitted from Schumann biographies. Op. 60 is systematically neglected and misinterpreted, often as a result of careless research. It is undoubtedly the most disputed cycle Schumann ever composed. Despite a number of favorable articles, a flow of negative writings remains consistent.6 Numerous articles on the six fugues are based on flawed research and, in some cases, pre-existing articles. Biographers often use Schumann’s mental condition to explain the lack of quality in the six fugues, conveniently ignoring the fact that Schumann produced some of his best works during the same period, including the Symphony in C Major and the Piano Concerto in A Minor.7

A musical cure
A general misconception of Schumann’s organ works seems to have carried well into the 20th and 21st centuries, as several of even the most recent Schumann biographers merely reference the fugues rather than opening up a dialogue or deeper discussion. Schumann’s organ works are neglected in several “comprehensive” Schumann biographies. Alan Walker, e.g., speaks favorably of the 1845/46 compositions in general, but omits op. 60 altogether.8 George Dadelsen describes the six fugues as “appallingly monotonous” while trying to compete with Bach’s Art of Fugue.9 Other biographers carelessly mislabel op. 60; Marcel Brion describes the Four Fugues on the name of Bach, op. 72,10 while John Worthen writes: “In April he began writing his Six Fugues for Organ on B-A-C-H (op. 60), a sequence interrupted only by the arrival of a rented pedal-piano which allowed him to write works for keyboard and pedal which did not require an organ.”11 Schumann, in fact, did not interrupt his fugal writing. Instead, a pedal attachment for the piano was hired to practice organ.12 Eric Jensen makes a similar mistake: “Schumann rented a pedal piano—a piano fitted with pedals for the feet like an organ—in order to become familiar with the technique involved.”13
Although Schumann was by no means an accomplished organist like Mendelssohn, he did have a deep understanding of the instrument, as is evident in numerous sources.14 Robert Schauffler claims that the fugues were mere play: “To Schumann at the height of his career, such exercises [contrapuntal studies] were mere play. While diverting him, they used up so little of his true creative power that, with the approach of warm weather, he was able to throw himself into making two of his chief masterpieces: the Piano Concerto and the C Major Symphony.”15 Schauffler continues:

Schumann must have felt in his bones that fugal writing was not in his line; for not until 1839 did he compose his first published attempt, that unsuccessful experiment, the Fughette, op. 32, no. 4. He gave out nothing more of the sort until the nervous collapse of 1845, during which he wrote works that look passing strange in a catalogue of his music.16

After a short description of Schumann’s contrapuntal works of 1845, Schauffler writes:

The composer’s nervous collapse had been aggravated by the too intense labor and excitement of his years of song, symphony, and chamber music. One suspects that when, as he wrote Mendelssohn on July 17th, 1845, ‘an onslaught of terrifying thoughts’ had brought him to try his hand at fugal writing, very much as we of today would cajole a nervous invalid into doing crossword puzzles, to take his mind from his troubles. The very fact that Schumann’s intensely subjective nature made it almost impossible for him to give of his best in this formal, objective style allowed him to play with these contrapuntal forms without expending too much energy.17
Peter Ostwald too, believes that the contrapuntal works of 1845 were exercises to improve the composer’s mental condition:

Despite his physical and psychological complaints, Schumann was beginning to do some composing again, but it was mainly the sort of counterpoint exercises he had relied on, as a way of settling his mind, during earlier depressive episodes. He rented a special musical instrument, called a pedal piano, that “has an extra set of strings and hammers, making it easier to play fugues, and worked on Bach for a while.”18

While Ostwald does not stand alone in his opinion of Schumann’s mental state in relation to the compositions of the contrapuntal year of 1845, one cannot but wonder why they, in particular the organ works, have methodically been deemed inferior. Ostwald also writes:

Before the trip with Clara, in August 1845, Schumann had composed several fugues based on the name BACH, and he published an impressive amount of contrapuntal work later that year and the next. The six BACH Fugues in particular must have required enormous concentration, since not only are they based on a musical relationship between Bach’s name and the notes of each fugue subject, but they also incorporate an intricate mathematical system, the so-called Bach numbers, which Bach himself had used to provide cohesion in his contrapuntal work.19

With all due respect to Mr. Ostwald, his findings are based on pre-existing, flawed research. Though Schumann indeed incorporated certain Baroque principles in his organ works, Peterson’s attempt to attribute “Bach numbers” to the fugues holds no ground. Similar misguided assumptions have been applied to Bach’s music as well, claiming for example, that Bach had left clues in his music in regards to his own date of death.20 Despite his intrigue with Bach numbers, Peterson’s opinion of the fugues as a whole is less than favorable: “Schumann’s fugal writing seems, in spite of his studies, to have been a contrivance which he discarded when he felt hampered by it, even in a work entitled ‘fugue’.”21 Stephen Walsh provides us with a similar statement: “Even in the finest passages of op. 60 one is aware of a certain impersonal quality about the writing.”22
A recent biography by John Worthen reads: “This [study of counterpoint] was, after all, a musical cure; one that involved creating music on the page, after the enforced dry period of the autumn of 1844.”23 Worthen continues with some blatant assumptions:
Such music insisted on structure and pattern, rather than on the harnessing and expression of emotion and melody which had made the work on Faust so exhausting. The fugal music could be worked out logically and tunefully, within its own very narrow confines. Its very limitations offered freedom from excitement.24
What Worthen exactly means by ‘tunefully’ remains uncertain. As an analysis of the fugues will demonstrate, his claim that the fugues are confined or free from excitement could not be farther removed from the truth. Worthen’s next statement too, is completely false: “At any rate, the ‘quiet’ neo-Baroque music that engaged Schumann in the spring and early summer of 1845 may have been a rather narrowly focused sequence of works to occupy the composer of the Finale zu Faust, but it had served the purpose of getting him back into composing.”25 As we will see in the following discussion, the perception of Schumann’s contrapuntal studies as mere therapeutic tools has remained a common yet flawed assumption for over a century.

Schumann and Bach
An aversion to the organ works is routinely linked to Schumann’s mental illness, while some scholars maintain that Schumann simply was not a real contrapuntist, and that his knowledge of counterpoint was quite moderate. Though the number of unfavorable commentaries seems perhaps overwhelming, it is interesting to make the comparison with—at least as many—complimentary testimonials. Schumann’s studies in counterpoint commenced well before composing the six fugues. The numerous entries in the diaries and household books depict Schumann as a prodigious student of Bach works and contrapuntal techniques (see Appendix 1). Schumann seems to have taken a natural liking to Bach’s music, perhaps enhanced by the Bach revival of the early 19th century. Leon Plantinga writes:
He [Schumann] subscribed to a rather deterministic view of history in which a central tradition in music could be expected to develop in certain orderly and predictable ways. For him this tradition, for all practical purposes, had its beginning in Bach, the first in a series of monumental composers whose personal contributions comprised the locus of an inevitable line of progress leading to his own time. This line extended through Beethoven and Schubert to Schumann’s own contemporaries.26
This ‘extended line’ manifests itself in the organ fugues as Schumann reaches back to older forms while engaging in a new kind of fugal writing. Though Schumann was not the first composer to incorporate the famous BACH theme, the Six Fugues on the Name of BACH comprise the first significant cycle of organ works of its kind, soon to be followed by Liszt, Reger, and many more. For Schumann, studies in the Art of Fugue were crucial in the genesis of the organ fugues. As Gerhard Weinberger writes:
The overall conception, the thematic material and the extremely high quality of the writing all derive from Bach; this fugue cycle represents the end of a developmental phase which culminated in Schumann’s study of Bach’s music (the six fugues may be viewed directly as modeled in the Art of Fugue) and of the fugue per se.27
Weinberger continues: “Nevertheless, the fugues are by no means derivative stylistic copies, but effective ‘character fugues’ in the romantic vein.”28 An interesting detail is the fact that Schumann, despite his admiration of Bach, deemed the Art of Fugue too intellectual. His view in this matter may be explained by his famous quote:
The best fugue will always be the one that the public takes for a Strauss waltz; in other words, a fugue where the structural underpinnings are no more visible than the roots that nourish the flower. Thus a reasonably knowledgeable music-lover once took a Bach fugue for a Chopin etude—to the credit of both! Thus, too, one could play for many a maiden the last part of one of the Mendelssohn fugues and call it one of the Lieder ohne Worte. The charm and tenderness of the figures are such that she would never be reminded of churches and fugues.29
This last comment is fascinating. “Never be reminded of churches” is a telling statement that says a lot about the Zeitgeist, since churches and fugues are so strongly connected here, and in such a harsh way.
Schumann’s interest in the organ was steeped in a deep admiration for Bach. In the April 1842 issue of the Neue Zeitschrift für Musik he wrote: “ . . . At our next meeting, a volume of well-executed fugues would please us more than another one full of sketches. At this royal instrument, the composer must have learned the value of clearly defined artistic form, such as that given to us by Bach in the largest as well as smallest works.”30 Three years earlier Schumann wrote: “But it is only at his organ that he [Bach] appears to be at his most sublime, most audacious, in his own element. Here he knows neither limits nor goal and works for centuries to come.”31 Schumann’s organ fugues, thus, are not a byproduct of mental exercises. They are carefully crafted works, based on a long tradition.
Approaching fugal composition from a new (Romantic) perspective, Schumann felt that he had created works that were truly unique. Like Bach himself, Schumann united the old and new, resulting in six spectacular character pieces. After all, according to Schumann, “Most of Bach’s fugues are character pieces of the highest kind; in part truly poetic creations,”32 and Schumann’s fugues were no different. In the diaries Schumann refers to Bach’s compositions repeatedly. He seemed to be concerned with preserving and reviving Bach’s legacy, which, according to Hans T. David, “. . . by invoking the name of Bach again and again, helped gain for Bach’s work a secure place in the minds of educated musicians.”33 In addition to the Bach legacy, Schumann was concerned with preserving his own legacy. His preferred medium in this—the fugue—is easily explained by his lifelong admiration of Bach’s keyboard fugues. Charles Rosen gives a second reason for Schumann’s choice: “In the nineteenth century, the fugue had become a demonstration of conventional mastery, a proof of craftsmanship. Besides competing with Beethoven, Schumann conforms to the standard pattern of fugue laid down by Cherubini.”34
In addition to Bach’s keyboard fugues, at least two more sources play an important role in Schumann’s contrapuntal output: Marpurg’s Abhandlung von der Fuge (1753) and Cherubini’s Cours de Contrepoint et de Fugue (1835). Federhofer and Nauhaus write:

The composer’s concern with counterpoint began during his ‘apprenticeship’ with Heinrich Dorn (1804-1892) in the years 1831/32, and bore its first fruits in his exercise books. Schumann subsequently turned his attention to F.W. Marpurg’s Abhandlung von der Fuge [Treatise on Fugue], parts of which he studied again, albeit reluctantly, in the autumn of 1837, along with Bach’s Well-Tempered Clavier. This independent study is reflected, in an artistically transmuted form, in the book of Fugengeschichten [Fugal matters] (November 1837) which is at present held at the Robert Schumann Haus in Zwickau.35
According to the Haushaltbücher, the Schumanns’ studies of Cherubini’s treatise commenced April 6, 1845, the same month Robert finished the first two organ fugues. Cours de Contrepoint et de Fugue is largely based on Bach works and clearly serves as a point of departure for Schumann’s organ fugues. Two and a half weeks later, on April 24, Clara describes the rented pedal board for their piano: “. . . we obtained on hire a pedal to be attached below the pianoforte, and from this we received great pleasure. Our chief object was to practice organ playing.”36 Both Robert and Clara enjoyed the organ, but it seems that the intent was to study organ rather than becoming concert organists like Mendelssohn. Clara by then was a renowned concert pianist, while Robert had given up keyboard playing some fifteen years earlier, due to his numb finger.
A combination of counterpoint studies, a deep admiration for Bach, and a great appreciation for the organ finally resulted in the counterpoint episodes of 1845. In regards to Schumann’s organ compositions, Joachim Draheim writes, “The exceptional importance and originality of these fugues were long insufficiently appreciated, although they belong to the very few truly distinctive organ compositions from the first half of the 19th century, together with Mendelssohn’s Organ Sonatas, op. 65, to which they owe certain impulses.”37 Besides generating an artistic legacy, Schumann may have anticipated commercial success from his contrapuntal output; works for pedal piano were hardly available, and Schumann made sure he was among the first to write for the instrument, ensuring a ‘head start’ in any possible financial gain. The six fugues were, like Mendelssohn’s organ sonatas, among the very few serious organ compositions of their time, and the first large cycle of organ fugues on the name of BACH. And as Schumann himself points out, the organ fugues can also easily be performed on piano (four hands). Schumann cleverly published opp. 56, 58 and 60 as works for pedal piano or organ, most likely to enhance sales. However, the Six Fugues on the Name of BACH lacked (financial) success, and remain Schumann’s only attempt at organ composition. Schumann, however, was very pleased with his contrapuntal endeavors. A letter of 8 February 1847 to his friend Carl Ferdinand Becker illustrates Schumann’s satisfaction with the six fugues: “I have never polished and worked so long on any composition of mine as on this one in order to make it worthy of the illustrious name which it bears.”38

Mendelssohn
Like Mendelssohn, Schumann favored a modern fugal type steeped in the Bach tradition, yet combined with a poetic flavor. As Plantinga points out: “It was the particular genius of Mendelssohn, Schumann said, to show that successful fugues could still be written in a style that was fresh and yet faithful to its Bachian and Handelian models; these fugues hold to the form of Bach, he felt, though their melody marks them as modern.”39 Already a famous conductor, composer and organist, Mendelssohn wrote his Three Preludes and Fugues, op. 37 in 1836–37. Later, in 1844–45, he wrote the Six Sonatas, op. 65. As Klaus-Peter Richter points out, the motivic resemblances between Mendelssohn’s and Schumann’s organ works are more than obvious.40 In reference to Mendelssohn’s fugues of the six sonatas,41 Schumann writes: “I do not wish to indulge in blind praise, and I know perfectly well that Bach made fugues of quite a different sort. But if he were to rise from the grave today, he would, I am sure—having delivered himself of some opinions about the state of music in general—rejoice to find at least flowers where he had planted giant-limbed oak forests.”42
Mendelssohn’s organ works were well received by critics43 and may have generated Schumann’s contrapuntal aspirations, though Schumann may have chosen a slightly different path to avoid comparison with Mendelssohn’s compositions; in addition to writing the Six Fugues on the Name of BACH he wrote a set of canons and sketches for the pedal piano.44 Schumann hoped to be among the first to publish works for this relatively new instrument, ensuring financial and artistic gain. Including the piano as an optional instrument for performance of the fugues, sketches, and canons aided Schumann in several ways; it bypassed the archaic reputation of the organ while marketing the music for the most widely used keyboard instrument of that time. An advertisement in the Neue Zeitschrift für Musik states:

Some Studies and Sketches for the pianoforte with pedal will shortly be published from Robert Schumann. We would like to remind our readers that in our opinion, when once this combining of instruments finds general acceptance, performers will have the opportunity not only to return to the earlier art and bring classical organ works into private homes, but also discover many different uses for the pedal piano and accomplish new effects.45

Alas, the pedal piano never became the widely used instrument Schumann was hoping for, and none of the contrapuntal studies of 1845 were a financial success.

Schumann and the organ
The rise of the Enlightenment caused a great shift in the use of instruments in churches, the court, and at home. The new, galant style called for instruments capable of immediate and subtle changes in timbre and dynamics; hence, the piano became the new keyboard instrument of choice. The organ, as Schumann wrote, reminded people of “churches and fugues,” and was considered an archaic and static instrument. Despite its tainted status, Schumann proceeded to compose for the instrument, a decision that may be partially attributed to a long tradition; many post-Renaissance composers wrote larger works to preserve their name in history. Several of Bach’s sacred compositions, for example, were simply too long to be included in church services.46 Similarly, Mendelssohn, Brahms, and Schumann were not employed by the church, yet their output includes a large quantity of sacred works.47
Scholars have often blamed Schumann’s limited knowledge of the organ for the so-called poor quality of the organ works. However, Schumann knew the organ well, and his understanding of the instrument was in fact greater than most of his contemporaries. Russell Stinson recently uncovered an important document in regards to Schumann’s perception of Bach, as well as the organ. The Clara Schumann Bach Book offers a detailed list of Bach keyboard works from Schumann’s library and contains numerous detailed markings (corrections, registrations, etc.) in Schumann’s hand (see Appendices 2 and 3 on page 26).
The source is very specific and provides us with a list of Bach’s keyboard works that Schumann owned before the contrapuntal year of 1845. In one particular example Stinson points out: “In the case of the Clavierübung setting of ‘Vater unser, im Himmelreich,’ Schumann bracketed every phrase of the canon on the chorale melody, similar to how he analyzed fugues from the Well-Tempered Clavier.”48 The Vater unser chorale prelude is a compositional tour de force and one of Bach’s most complex organ works. Based on the many markings, this work must have had a great impact on Schumann. Schumann also corrected typographical errors and gave detailed descriptions about the use of stops, manual changes, as well as pitch designation, all of which demonstrate more than basic knowledge of the organ.49 As Stinson points out:
Just consider how Schumann annotated, from Part 3 of the Clavierübung, the manualiter setting of “Aus tiefer Not schrei ich zu dir,” a work in which Bach subjects each phrase of the chorale tune to a complex fugal exposition before stating the melody in augmentation in the soprano voice. Following Bach’s constant use of inversion and stretto, Schumann bracketed, in addition to each phrase of the chorale proper, every one of the roughly forty fugal statements.50

The Clara Schumann Bach Book is an invaluable source, and for once and for all does away with the general misconception of Schumann’s limited knowledge of the organ. The evidence in Schumann’s personal library discloses both his interest and knowledge of Bach, the organ and counterpoint.

A new approach
Schumann was known to compose rather fast, but it took him from April to November to write the fugues. In the Diaries, Schumann writes:

I used to write most, practically all of my shorter pieces in [the heat of] inspiration; many compositions [were completed] with unbelievable swiftness, for instance, my First Symphony in B-flat Major [was written] in four days, as was a Liederkreis of twenty pieces [Dichterliebe]; the Peri too was composed in a relatively short time. Only from the year 1845 on, when I began to invent and work out everything in my head, did a completely new manner of composing begin to develop.51

This new manner of composing resulted in works that were based on a thorough, perhaps more intellectual approach. Schumann’s keyboard compositions of 1845 are often said to be more objective than his earlier compositions.52 That in itself is a subjective statement, and should be taken with a grain of salt. Traits of the younger Schumann can be found in any of the collections written in 1845, but they also expose a maturing composer. These are indeed contrapuntal works based on models by Bach, Marpurg, and Cherubini, but Schumann remained true to himself as a person and artist by combining the new with the old. The fugues exhibit a blend of sentiment (third fugue), restriction (fifth fugue), and excitement (second and sixth fugues). Schumann, as Weinberger says, “demonstrates the highest skill in contrapuntal writing, using all sorts of complicated polyphony culminating in the concluding double fugue. But at the same time he produced expressive compositions which he himself termed character pieces, but in the strict style.”53 Charles Rosen was right when he wrote, “Throughout his short musical life, Schumann produced his most striking works not by developing and extending Classical procedures and forms, but by subverting them, sometimes undermining their functions and even making them momentarily unintelligible.”54
The six fugues remain among the most unique works in the organ repertoire, and Schumann was well aware that these compositions differed from his earlier output. Having given up his old habit of composing at the piano, Schumann felt liberated. Daverio sheds more light on Schumann’s new manner of composing: “. . . it is perhaps better understood as a logical outgrowth of his approach to large-scale instrumental composition in the earlier 1840s rather than as a radical break.”55 Scholars have maintained the notion that Schumann’s oeuvre reflects several distinctly different compositional periods. Daverio’s opposing view, however, “explains” the six fugues in a nutshell:

Perhaps Schumann intermingled ‘subjective’ and ‘objective’ qualities throughout his career, but with varying degrees of emphasis, a hypothesis implying that the passage from a ‘subjective’ to an ‘objective’ phase was hardly abrupt. To insist on a hard and fast demarcation of style-periods in time is to miss the point, namely, that Schumann’s oeuvre unfolds in a series of sometimes parallel and sometimes overlapping phases. The products of his imagination may thus be viewed as points where divergent or complementary trends intersect.56

Von Wasilewski agrees with this view, pointing out the combination of strict form and a Romantic, poetic spirit:
Of the two sets of fugues (ops. 72 and 60), the latter, consisting of six fugues on the name of Bach, is of extraordinary merit. The first five fugues especially display so firm and masterly a treatment of the most difficult forms of art, that Schumann might from these alone lay claim to the title of a profound contrapuntist. They show variety of plastic power with four notes only. The tone of feeling varies in all six pieces, and is always poetic, which, in connection with a command of form, is the main point in composition. These are serious character pieces.57
Though the Canons and Sketches display a more intimate, subjective side of Schumann, the six fugues demonstrate a stronger balance between head (Eusebius) and heart (Florestan). Daverio’s and Von Wasilewski’s points of view are supported by the great variety of character in Schumann’s mid-1840s compositions.

Six Fugues on the Name of BACH
Schumann’s Six Fugues on the Name of BACH are the product of a carefully planned blueprint. Modeled after Bach’s examples, one might expect various Baroque elements in these pieces. Indeed, the fugues were conceived as a set of six, similar to many of Bach’s cycles (including many of his organ works).58 Such systematic arrangement of cycles containing six pieces was common in the Baroque era and, as Piet Kee points out, is rooted in numerology that goes back as far as Pythagoras.59 The use of number symbolism in music diminished substantially after the rise of the age of the Enlightenment, and despite Schumann’s use of ciphers (on several occasions) there is no evidence that points to the composer’s knowledge or intentional use of number symbolism. Schumann’s fugues, however, do reveal a consistent observance of the Golden Ratio. This number (0.6180339887…) is found in nature, music and art.60 Schumann’s knowledge of the Golden Ratio is not recorded anywhere, but based on the many examples found in his and his contemporaries’ music, it seems plausible that he was familiar with the concept. The use of the Golden Ratio though, so closely related to nature, seems to have prevailed through the Romantic period into our time.61 A close examination of the Six Fugues on the Name of BACH unveils Golden Ratio (G.R.) proportions (often multiple times) in each of the six fugues. These examples are often found within a measure of the exact G.R. When applying the G.R. to the number of measures in each fugue we see the following outcome:
Fugue I. The first fugue totals 64 measures. When we apply the G.R. to these 64 measures, we come to 64 x 0.61 = 39, or measure 39. This measure contains two consecutive subject entries in the pedals. A ‘reversed’ G.R. (counting 39 measures from the end) is found in m. 25, located between two more subject entries (the second being a false entry) in the pedals. NB: this fugue only contains two such double-pedal entries, each clearly defined by the Golden Ratio. In addition, the apex (c3) is reached first in m. 40 (one measure after G.R measure 39).62
Fugue II. The second fugue is 174 measures long; 174 x 0.61 = 106. In m. 106 new material is presented (ascending octaves/scales). A reversed G.R. leads us to m. 68, where the subject appears in the pedals (in its entirety) for the first time. Like several Bach compositions, this fugue contains Golden Ratios within Golden Ratios. The second fugue can be separated into three separate divisions: At m. 74 we see a clear separation in the music; there is a sudden dynamic change (from forte to piano), while the texture changes from chordal homophony to strict polyphony with the BACH motive in stretto. An inverted G.R. within that section highlights m. 29, where the exposition is stirred up by a repeat of the subject in the alto voice. This entry starts on B-flat, similar to the very first entry (slightly modified for harmonic purposes), but then suddenly shifts from a dux to a comes entity; the first four notes of the subject appear in dux form, while the remainder of the entry is presented in comes fashion. It is the only fugue in the cycle where Schumann applied (uniform) dynamic markings to each voice entry in the exposition, as to point out the exposition’s irregularity. Federhofer and Nauhaus point out that “. . . Schumann probably regarded the treatment of the ‘comes’ (different in each case) as depending on the character of the subject.”63 Mm. 75–121 mark the second division of the fugue, totaling 47 measures; 47 x 0.61 = 29 = m. 102, which is marked marcato while presenting new material. The fugue’s third division comprises mm. 123–174, totaling 53 measures. This section contains a reversed G.R. (counting 32 backwards) at m. 143. The score reveals a significant change in m. 143 as the music changes from a thin, three-part polyphonic to a full, chordal and homophonic texture.
Fugue III. The third fugue is the shortest one of the cycle, counting only 59 measures; 59 x 0.61 = 36. The G.R. is found in m. 36, where the music moves to the sub-mediant, E-flat major. A reversed G.R. points to m. 23; the end of the exposition. This five-voice fugue does not combine all five voices until close to the end, after the third (and final) pedal entry. Schumann uses the pedals to single out the Golden Ratio.
Fugue IV. The fourth fugue is 116 measures long; 116 x 0.61 = 71. M. 72 is marked fortissimo, the loudest dynamic marking in the fugue. Here the music also has a strong sense of forward motion (see endnote 64). The drastic change at m. 72 divides the piece into two sections. The second division, totaling 45 measures, unveils one more reversed G.R. at m. 92, where the music changes from a homophonic to a polyphonic texture.
Fugue V. The fifth fugue in the cycle totals 124 measures; 124 x 0.61 = 76, the beginning of the pedal tone F. When looking at that first section separately (mm. 1–76), we find yet another striking place; 76 x 0.61 = 46; in m. 46 the subject appears in the middle voice, while the BACH theme (in sustained note values) are presented—in stretto—in the bass and soprano voices. NB: this is the only time the BACH theme is played in the pedals. The fugue’s second part (mm. 76–124) contains one more G.R.; 49 (number of remaining measures) x 0.61 = 30, which appears exactly at the pedal point in m. 104. Additionally, the original subject appears in retrograde.
Fugue VI. 155 x 0.61 = 95. Measure 95 presents a clear statement of the subject in the pedals. A reversed Golden Ratio (95 from the end, rather than the beginning) leads us to m. 60. Schumann writes a clear break in the music at measure 59, immediately before introducing the second subject of this double fugue; the fugue’s two sections are separated by a quarter note rest and a double bar line, as well as a dynamic increase (più f). In addition, Schumann writes lebhafter (livelier). When we apply the G.R. formula to the first part of the fugue (the first 58 measures) we come to 58 x 0.61 = 35. One measure earlier the subject is first introduced in the relative minor key (G minor). Similar Golden Ratio divisions are found in the second part of the fugue (97 measures long): 97 x 0.61 = 59 (m. 117). In m. 116, just one measure earlier, Schumann clearly defines the break in the music after two (!) four-measure pedal points, when the BACH motive is re-introduced—this time in block chords. A reversed G.R. is found at mm. 95/96. In m. 95, after a three-measure pedal point, the fugue’s first subject appears first in the second part of the (double) fugue. Other changes involve a dynamic increase and the introduction of both subjects simultaneously.
The number of Golden Ratios in Schumann’s fugues is overwhelming, yet the question remains if they were intentionally ‘placed’ or if they are a mere compositional byproduct. Schumann’s organ compositions are an unusual blend of styles, which could easily generate an over-analytical approach. Peterson’s and van Houten’s previously mentioned findings are prime examples of such “determined research,” and one needs to be careful not to attribute music’s every single detail to a genius mind. In regards to Golden Ratio, perhaps the truth lies somewhere in the middle. Regardless of Schumann’s intentions, the number of G.R.s is remarkable and cannot be denied.

Styles
Schumann’s organization of the cycle reveals a fascinating blend of Baroque and Romantic principles. Burkhard Meischein points out the cycle’s sonata-like layout:
Fugue 1: Slow introduction
Fugue 2: Faster section
Fugues 3 and 4: Cantabile, slower section
Fugue 5: Scherzo
Fugue 6: Exciting, intensely growing finale64

Interestingly, Schumann’s Classic outline is not unlike Bach’s symmetrical organization of larger collections.65 Notice, for example, the symmetry in time signature, tempo, dynamics and texture (see Appendix 4).
The six fugues are based on the famous BACH theme that Bach himself had used in the final (incomplete) fugue of The Art of Fugue. As Daverio points out, “Though all the fugues incorporate the BACH theme, some of them use this theme merely as a starting point for a larger subject (see the subject of the second and fifth fugues).”66 Stinson discusses the many motivic similarities between Schumann’s opp. 56 and 60 and Bach’s organ works. The second fugue on BACH, for example, has occasionally been ridiculed for its elongated subject, but is analogous to BWV 575, which was published by Schumann in the Neue Zeitschrift für Musik in February 1839.67 In Abhandlung von der Fuge, Marpurg discusses the proper treatment of fugue subjects:
I myself once heard him [Bach], when during my stay in Leipzig I was discussing with him certain matters concerning the fugue, pronounce the works of an old and hardworking contrapuntist dry and wooden, and certain fugues by a more modern and no less great contrapuntist—that is the form in which they are arranged for clavier—pedantic; the first because the composer stuck continuously to his principal subject, without any change; and the second because, at least in the fugues under discussion, he had not shown enough fire to reanimate the theme by interludes.68
While some of the subjects are indeed rather lengthy, Schumann seems to adhere to Bach’s examples, avoiding redundant (complete) repeats of fugue subjects. Similarly, rather than following conventional compositional techniques, Schumann used existing forms as a starting point for a more modern idiom. Thus, the amalgamation of old and new techniques generated compositions that were (and still are) anomalies in the organ repertoire, and may in part explain their unfortunate fate. A closer examination of the fugues reveals some very interesting patterns:
Fugue I. The first fugue initially follows the conventional exposition pattern, as each of the voices is introduced in the right order. However, when the fifth voice is introduced in m.12 (in the pedals), the alto part drops out, leaving a four-part texture before finishing the exposition. In fact, the five voices never appear together in contrapuntal passages. Schumann, undoubtedly aware of this atypical approach, applied the idiosyncrasy in five of the six fugues (the fifth being the exception). Throughout the cycle, both the core subject (the BACH motive) and the complete subjects appear in many different forms. Klaus Jürgen Sachs points out the repeatedly changing order of emphasized notes of the BACH motive.69 In the first fugue, for example, the motive appears straightforward in four half notes, with B-flat and C being the emphasized notes (B-flat and C appear on beats one and three in a 4/2 time signature). In m. 5 the same motive is presented in the alto voice, starting on the second beat rather than the first. This metrical displacement is typical of Schumann and is employed throughout the cycle.
Fugue II. In the second fugue we see a continuation of metrical shifts; starting in m. 3, the running sixteenth notes suggest a duple (2/4) rhythm in a 3/4 time signature. In m. 48 the first fugue’s subject is introduced in the pedals, combined with the second fugue’s main subject in the manuals. Schumann takes great liberty in the intervallic relationship between the first and second parts of the subject. The first part of the subject (BACH) starts on B-flat, while the second part (continuous sixteenth notes) follows at the sixth, on G.
This relationship remains consistent until m. 30, where Schumann separates the two motives by abandoning the intervallic connection. The two motives still appear together throughout the fugue, but the second part of the subject (its starting pitch) is modified for harmonic purposes.70
Fugue III. The third fugue appears to be a double fugue, but the second subject is never fully developed. Derived from the main subject, it might be conceived as a melodically and rhythmically weak countersubject. ‘Undermining’ the second subject may have been intentional, as Schumann’s focus seems to be mainly on the principal subject. Whereas the first two fugues were written in the key of B-flat major, the third is written in G minor. Bound by the initial BACH motive (centered around B-flat), Schumann may have used the countersubject as a means to establish the fugue’s tonality. This thought also explains the countersubject’s lack of development, as Schumann’s focus is on the principal subject. Of the six fugues, the third maintains the strictest counterpoint throughout, and never resorts to a homophonic texture.Fugue IV. In the fourth fugue Schumann for the first time deviates from the established BACH motive. Though still citing the same motive, the notes are ordered in a new manner, incorporating the interval of a sixth. There are a number of similarities between the fourth fugue and Schumann’s second symphony, which was written 1845–1846. The symphony’s Adagio exhibits chromatic elements similar to the BACH motive used in the six fugues,71 and even incorporates a (semi) exposition, starting at m. 62, using two subjects. The Adagio’s harmonic progression of m. 82 also appears in m. 100 of the fugue. Schumann must have been fond of the chord progression, repeating it several times (consecutively) in both pieces. Like the fugue, the Adagio reveals a striking G.R. (130 measures x 0.61 = 80) at m. 82, where the music—marked by a double bar line—suddenly shifts from C minor to C major.
Fugue V. The fifth fugue, the scherzo of the cycle, maintains a strictly polyphonic texture. The independent voice leading, combined with fast-moving eighth notes, makes for some daring harmonies. Similar writing is found in the second Duetto of Bach’s Clavierübung III, of which Schumann owned a copy. Schumann again takes some liberties in the exposition, as the fourth entry of the exposition starts on E-flat rather than F. In addition, the pedal entry consists of two short, repeated motives rather than the entire subject.
Fugue VI. Schumann ends the cycle with a majestic, five-part double fugue. Simultaneous use of duple and triple meter, combined with a gradual buildup of tension and grandeur, creates a strong sense of completion. Stinson claims that the fugue is based on Bach’s Fugue in E-flat Major, BWV 552, pointing out the similarities between the two fugues.72 Schumann, however, once again deviates from the Bach models and moves towards a thinner texture before the end of the exposition. In the second exposition (starting at m. 59), Schumann’s approach is unconventional too, but not without reason. As the second theme is introduced, Schumann holds off on the expected pedal entry of m. 67. Instead, he omits the pedals until much later, in m. 92, where a three-measure pedal point adds gradual tension, leading to the first pedal statement of the fugue’s first subject. As the pedals introduce the first subject, the second subject is played in the manuals, thus combining the fugue’s two themes. Towards the end of the fugue, starting at m. 116, the fugue shifts suddenly from a polyphonic to a homophonic texture. Daverio points out the motivic resemblance in Schumann’s second symphony: “Culminating in a chordal peroration on the B-A-C-H theme, the fugue’s coda at the same time prefigures a climactic passage in the Final (mm. 343ff.) of the second symphony.”73 Just like the first fugue, the final fugue concludes with a coda. In the first fugue, at m. 34, Schumann indicated: “gradually faster and louder.” In the final fugue he specified: “Moderate, gradually faster.” While a thinning in the texture of the first fugue’s coda seems to suggest a sudden quieting down of the music, the sixth fugue’s coda undoubtedly calls for full organ, ending the cycle in a grand, majestic manner.

Schumann and the pedal piano
As discussed earlier, Schumann’s main purpose for hiring a pedalboard was to practice playing the organ. He found, however, that the pedal piano had much potential and that it might develop as an independent instrument. It seems plausible, then, that Schumann’s output of 1845 was conceived for pedal piano, organ, or both. Though opp. 56 and 58 are clearly written for the pedal piano (Studies for the Pedal Piano and Sketches for the Pedal Piano, respectively), there seems to be a discrepancy in regards to op. 60, which is labeled Six Fugues on the Name of B-A-C-H without any further specification in regards to the instrument of choice. The cover of the 1986 Henle Urtext edition of opp. 56, 58 and 60 reads Works for Organ or Pedal Piano without any further specification. In its preface, Gerhard Weinberger explains that in the first publication op. 60 is referred to as an organ work.
Interestingly, in the 2006 Schott edition the three cycles are published as Schumann Organ Works. In the preface, the editor, internationally renowned organist Jean Guillou, writes: “Schumann composed these masterpieces as a pianist and he wrote them for the piano, allowing for the possibility that they might be performed on the organ, but not really envisaging the precise manner in which an organist might ‘translate’ them for the instrument.”74 Guillou’s edition provides the performer with registration and tempo markings that go well beyond the original. As useful as a performer’s edition may seem, one needs to keep in mind that such is the interpretation of one person, and one needs to be mindful of the composer’s intentions. Notwithstanding the usefulness of such an edition, Guillou seems to have overlooked a most important issue; unlike the Studies and Sketches, the Six Fugues on the Name of BACH were written for the organ, not for the piano.
In the preface of the Henle edition Weinberger explains that the first edition refers to the six fugues as organ works.75 As we will see, the fugues are stylistically quite different than the other cycles. They lack, for example, the very pianistic approach, as found in the second and third canonic studies. Also, there is a drastic difference in the use of dynamics. Rather than the pianistic crescendos and decrescendos of opp. 56 and 58 (see the beginning of the fourth sketch), Schumann employs practical dynamic changes, easily realized through registration or manual changes.76 A compelling piece of evidence lies in the treatment of pedal points; Schumann frequently employs pedal points in both the piano and organ cycles. In the piano cycles Schumann repeats the pedal points every so often to ensure a continuous sounding of the bass note. Pedal points are never sustained longer than two measures.77 In the organ fugues Schumann writes pedal points for as long as twelve measures.78 Also, unlike opp. 56 and 58, op. 60 never exceeds the compass of the typical German Baroque organ, which may give us an idea of Schumann’s favored organ type. Hermann J. Busch points out that Mendelssohn preferred older organ types. For his first performance of the Six Sonatas for Organ, Mendelssohn chose an older instrument (Franz and Johann Michael II Stumm, 1779), while a modern instrument (a large Walcker organ) was available.79 Mendelssohn’s influence on Schumann as a composer and organist suggests that Schumann too may have favored older organ types, as is evidenced in Schumann’s comments in the diaries.80 Busch also points out that the majority of the organs known to Schumann were from the 18th century. These instruments were generally not equipped with a swell box. Crescendos therefore were realized by manual changes and/or adding stops.

Schumann the organist
It is obvious that Schumann took great pride in the six fugues. Rooted in a long tradition, stemming from his primary example, Bach, Schumann felt that he had contributed an important work that could stand the test of time. As Larry Todd points out: “Thus, Bach was memorialized in Schumann’s penchant for learned counterpoint, culminating in that erudite fugal compendium for organ, the Six Fugues on BACH, Op. 60 (1845).”81 How ironic then, that the cycle he had worked on for so long was received with such little approval. Perhaps Schumann would have been more successful if he, like Mendelssohn, had written organ sonatas rather than fugues. Rejcha perhaps explains the early 19th-century Zeitgeist best, saying “Since Handel and Corelli’s time, everything in music has changed two or three times, both in inner, as well as outer form. Only the fugue remains unaltered; and therefore—nobody wants to hear one.”82 Schumann, who “maintained with equal conviction that slavish imitation of older models was to be avoided,”83 must have thought that his organ works were indeed a breath of fresh air, as he expected them to outlive his other creations the longest.84 Notwithstanding their unfortunate fate, Schumann masterfully combined the old with the new. As Heinrich Reimann writes:

. . . the best proof of how deeply Schumann had penetrated, in thought and feeling, into the spirit of the Old Master. Everywhere the fundamental contrapuntal principles of Sebastian Bach are recognizable. They rise up like mighty pillars; but the luxuriant tendrils, leaves, and blossoms of a romantic spirit twine about them, partly concealing the mighty edifice, partly enlivening it by splendour of colour and varied contrast and bringing it nearer to modern taste. The most obvious proofs of this are:—The second fugue with the characteristic Schumann rhythmic displacement (2/4 time in triple rhythm); the fifth, with its subject on quite modern lines; and the last, with its romantically treated counter-subject.85

Though Schumann is perhaps remembered foremost as a composer of homophonic music, it is no coincidence that, as Nauhaus and Federhofer point out, Werner Krützfeld used two examples of Schumann’s Kreisleriana in Die Musik in Geschichte und Gegenwart as examples of counterpoint.86 The Six Fugues on the Name of BACH mark an artistic high point in Schumann’s career, and one can only hope that these erudite compositions will eventually become part of the standard repertoire. A deeper understanding will perhaps spark a renewed interest in these wonderful pieces.

Homer Ashton Ferguson III received his bachelor of arts degree with a major in music from Illinois College in May 2000, studying organ with Rudolf Zuiderveld and piano and conducting with Garrett Allman. In May 2002, he completed his master of music degree at Arizona State University under the direction of Kimberly Marshall, where he is currently working on his doctoral degree in organ performance. He is also the organist and music associate at Central United Methodist Church in Phoenix, Arizona.

Joyce Johnson Robinson is associate editor of The Diapason.

Bach and Beyond: Bach and Bach Reception in the 19th Century

November 7-8, 2003, scholars and performers gathered for the organ symposium “Bach and Beyond--Bach and Bach Reception in the 19th Century,” sponsored by Illinois College (Jacksonville, Illinois), under the direction of Dr. Rudolf Zuiderveld, professor of music and college organist, and co-sponsored by MacMurray College (Jacksonville, Illinois), First Presbyterian Church (Springfield, Illinois), and John Brombaugh (Eugene, Oregon).

Day One: by Homer Ashton Ferguson III

Rammelkamp Chapel at Illinois College and Annie Merner Chapel at MacMurray College were the venues for the first day. Registration began at 1:00 p.m. in the foyer of Rammelkamp Chapel, and James Dawson, owner of Oberlin Music in Oberlin, Ohio, set up a sales booth for conferees to peruse various publications concerning the organ.

After a warm welcome by Dr. Zuiderveld and Dr. Axel Steuer, president of Illinois College, the symposium began with the keynote lecture given by Russell Stinson, the Josephine Emily Brown Professor of Music at Lyon College, Batesville, Arkansas. Stinson’s lecture, “Bach’s Organ Works and Mendelssohn’s Grand Tour,” revealed some new insights into the reception of Bach’s organ music during the nineteenth century, the era of the so-called Bach revival, through the examination of Felix Mendelssohn-Bartholdy. The address gave conference participants a preview of Stinson’s recent research which has been codified in his latest book, The Reception of Bach’s Organ Works from Mendelssohn to Brahms, scheduled for publication by Oxford University Press in late 2005. The book will contain four rather hefty chapters on four major figures of 19th-century music (Mendelssohn, Schumann, Liszt, and Brahms) and will investigate how they responded to Bach’s organ music, not only as composers but also as performers, critics, theorists, and teachers.

Mendelssohn was the ideal figure for the “rediscovery” of J. S. Bach’s genius. He composed over thirty works for the organ, often using the organ music of Bach as a model, his editions of Bach’s organ chorales were among the first ever published, and as a concert organist he introduced Bach’s music to the general public. Stinson dwelled on one particular time period in Mendelssohn’s career, his self-named “big trip” of 1830-32, the longest Bildungsreise ever undertaken by a musician in modern times. His travels took him through Austria, Italy, Switzerland, France, and England as well as many German cities.

Mendelssohn’s journey began as a Bach pilgrimage, with stops in Leipzig and Weimar, where he was presented with manuscript copies of two Bach works by the publisher Breitkopf and Härtel. His time was also spent with Goethe, who owned six Bach manuscripts, two of which contained organ compositions. Goethe, a long-time fan of Bach, requested that Mendelssohn visit the local organist. Upon doing so, Mendelssohn reported that he played the “D-minor Toccata.” Stinson continued at some length in establishing that the “D-minor Toccata” reference was definitely a reference to the infamous BWV 565. This conclusion stems primarily from a letter sent from Paris to his family in 1831 in which he requests to be sent copies of six different Bach organ works, including a “Prelude and Fugue in D Minor,” which he identifies by notating the first two beats of the Dorian toccata. This eliminates the Dorian as a possibility because Mendelssohn knew that piece as a prelude, not a toccata.

In late July 1831, Mendelssohn arrived in Switzerland. In need of practice, he began to work on his technique using Bach’s organ works as his pedagogical tool. A letter Mendelssohn wrote to his family while stranded in the village of Sargans revealed that even at this point in his career he still lacked, at least according to his standards, the pedal technique necessary to perform Bach’s big organ works.

Upon his arrival in Munich several weeks later, Mendelssohn continued to focus his attention on mastering his pedal technique. Again, he found himself struggling in his conquest, only this time the organ he had to practice on was partially to blame. Mendelssohn wrote in a letter to his family, “I also play the organ every day for an hour. But unfortunately I cannot practice as I wish because the pedalboard lacks the five uppermost notes.” He did marvel at the beauty of the organ, though, and commented on finding the perfect registration for the famous setting of Schmücke dich, o liebe Seele.

As Stinson continued to demonstrate the influence of Bach’s music upon Mendelssohn, he touched briefly upon Mendelssohn’s sense of profundity in sharing Bach’s organ works with his family and friends. In an account regarding BWV 740, Wir glauben all’ an einen Gott, Vater, Stinson remarked upon the popularity of playing Bach’s organ works as keyboard duets on the piano. Within a rather emotional letter dated November 14, 1831, Mendelssohn sent this chorale to his sisters Fanny and Beckchen to play as a duet, noting, “Now play this chorale with Beckchen, as long as you are together, and think of me while doing so.” Stinson further illustrated this by quoting Fanny in a letter she had written to Felix two years earlier, apropos of Bach’s organ preludes that: “Beckchen is pounding out the pedal part with virtuosity, and it does my heart good to hear her. Old Bach would laugh himself to death if he could see it.” At this point in the lecture Dr. Stinson and his student, Skye Hart, resurrected an old performance practice by playing BWV 740 on the piano, in duet form.

On April 22, 1832, Mendelssohn sojourned back to London, regularly playing the postlude at Sunday morning services at St. Paul’s Cathedral, even as he had done to great acclaim in a previous visit in 1829. The organ at St. Paul’s proved to be the ideal instrument on which to perform Bach’s music, due to its larger compass in comparison to other instruments in London. Mendelssohn’s organ playing there is well documented and Stinson went into detail to support the fact that Mendelssohn’s Bach playing was revolutionary for the English organ scene. It was in London that Mendelssohn achieved the level of mastery that he had sought in the performance of Bach’s organ works.

Within this discussion one of Stinson’s most remarked-upon assertions concerned the Prelude and Fugue in E minor, BWV 533, the so-nicknamed “Cathedral.” Stinson believes that it was Mendelssohn’s introduction and repeated performance of this work to English audiences at St. Paul’s Cathedral that led to its nickname. All of the conference participants, including Christoph Wolff, could not think of any evidence to contradict this assertion and were in agreement that this may very well be the forgotten source of this often-quoted moniker.

Stinson concluded his stimulating opening to this conference, noting, “(Mendelssohn) would continue to occupy himself with Bach’s organ works his entire life--as a performer, composer, editor, antiquarian, pedagogue, and ambassador-at-large. Without question, he was the most influential champion of this repertory during the early Romantic era.”

The conference continued with a recital by Jay Peterson, professor of music and college organist at MacMurray College. Performed in Annie Merner Chapel on the MacMurray College campus, the recital featured the historic 1952 Æolian-Skinner Organ, Opus 1150, of four manuals and 64 ranks. This organ, installed under the auspices of Professor Robert Glasgow, then a member of the music faculty, has been dutifully guarded and maintained by Peterson. He recently completed a compact disc recording of this organ featuring American organ music in celebration of the fiftieth birthday of this landmark.

Dr. Peterson readily showed off the colors of the organ through his performance of 19th-century organ music, demonstrating his ability as a commanding performer. The program: Sonata in B-flat, op. 65, no. 4, Felix Mendelssohn; O World, I Now Must Leave Thee, My Heart Abounds With Pleasure, Blessed Ye Who Live In Faith, O God, Thou Faithful God, My Heart Is Ever Yearning, op. 122, Johannes Brahms; Prelude and Fugue on B-A-C-H, Franz Liszt.

Day one of the symposium concluded with a recital by Douglas Reed, professor of music and university organist at the University of Evansville, on the Hart Sesquicentennial Organ in Illinois College’s Rammelkamp Chapel. This recital attracted a large audience from the surrounding community as it was the November event on Illinois College’s McGaw Fine Arts Series.

Building upon a theme set earlier by Jay Peterson at MacMurray College, Dr. Reed played a program dedicated solely to the masters of the 19th century. His program construction was well-conceived as he “book-ended” his recital by opening with the first movement of the Symphonie Romane by Charles-Marie Widor and then closed with the Final. Originally premiered in 1900 in Berlin, Widor received his inspiration for this symphony from plainchant. Reed continued with a performance of Robert Schumann’s Six Studies for the Pedal Piano, opus 56 (1845). The remainder of his program consisted of Brahms’ Prelude and Fugue in A Minor and Mendelssohn’s Sonata No. 5 in D Major.

The evening ended with a reception in Kirby Rotunda on the campus of Illinois College; organ scholars socialized and expounded upon ideas new and old. The inaugural kickoff of Illinois College’s biannual organ symposium was indeed a success. Events are currently being scheduled for November of 2005 and November of 2007, with focus in ‘07 on Dieterich Buxtehude in commemoration of the 300th anniversary of his death.

Day Two: by Joyce Johnson Robinson

All of Saturday’s events took place at First Presbyterian Church of Springfield, home to John Brombaugh’s 3-manual, 70-rank Opus 35.

The day began with an organ demonstration, “Music around Johann Sebastian Bach,” by Rudolf Zuiderveld, organist of First Presbyterian and professor of music at Illinois College in Jacksonville. The program comprised works by Bach’s predecessors, contemporaries, and successors, from Frescobaldi through Brahms, and included a hymn, “If You But Trust in God to Guide You” (Wer nur den lieben Gott), whose verses were preceded by organ preludes of Bach, Krebs, and Böhm. The Sonatina in d by Christian Ritter showcased the full organ, including the 16’ and 32’ pedal Posaunes. The organ is robustly voiced for a full congregation, and the room has a lively acoustic. Yet even with a sparse population in the church, the full organ was loud but not unpleasantly so. The instrument is essentially north German/Dutch, but can capably handle music of other styles as well. In Dandrieu’s variations on O Filii et Filiae, the organ’s French capabilities were highlighted, including récits de nazard, tierce, basse de trompette, flutes, larigot (siffloete), cromorne (dulcian), cornet, cimbel and Grand Jeu. The reeds offered just enough bite, the flutes were clear and full. The organ most definitely possesses gravitas, as demonstrated in Louis Marchand’s Fond d’orgue (Deuxième Suite), in which the 16’ Praestant enriched the plenum without detracting from its clarity.

Next, organists, including students of Douglas Reed (University of Evansville), Russell Stinson (Lyon College), Dana Robinson (University of Illinois), and graduates of MacMurray College and Illinois College played for the masterclass led by Robert Clark, organ professor emeritus of Arizona State University. All but one played Bach works. Dr. Clark’s suggestions reflected the concerns of making music, as well as matters of technique and registration. In order to accommodate all the students who wished to play, the masterclass continued after the lunch break. Participants in the class and in the subsequent recital were Zach Guenzel, Tim Weisman, Cecilia Bogowith, Alicie Zeilenga, Skye Hart, Jeremy House, Nicole Eyman, Luba Tkachuk, Alison Lewis, Scott Montgomery, Jin-Kyung Lim, and Kirk Rich. See Tsai Chan and Alison Lewis played in the masterclass although not in the recital; Robert Horton and Christine Smith played in the recital only.

Following the masterclass, Christoph Wolff of Harvard University delivered a lecture on the authenticity of Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D minor. Prof. Wolff outlined the claims against Bach’s authorship, which are primarily based on interpretations of sources and on stylistic grounds. His remarks focused on a Berlin Staatsbibliothek manuscript; he considers this source, copied by Johannus Rinck, to be correct in its attribution to Bach. Wolff also discussed details of notation and stylistic traits (such as the arpeggiando figures) which would place the work early in the eighteenth century, and explained the octave doubling at the opening of the toccata as a way around the lack of a 16’ stop on a smaller organ--a way of achieving the effect of a North German plenum.1 Having been reassured that our beloved warhorse was indeed by Bach, we returned to the sanctuary to hear the masterclass participants present their pieces at a recital that capped off the afternoon.

The symposium concluded with a re-creation of Mendelssohn’s “Bach Concert” of August 6, 1840, at the Thomaskirche in Leipzig. The concert began with a full organ introductory work by A. W. Bach, followed by Johann Sebastian’s Fugue in E-flat (BWV 552b), Schmücke dich, o liebe Seele (BWV 654), Prelude and Fugue in A minor (BWV 543), Passacaglia and Thema fugatum (BWV 582), Pastorella in F (BWV 590), Toccata and Fugue in D minor (BWV 565), and closing with Mendelssohn’s Choral and Variation on Herzlich tut mich verlangen, and Allegro (Chorale and fugue) in D minor. Robert Clark, Russell Stinson, Rudolf Zuiderveld, Douglas Reed, and Jay Peterson collaborated with stirring playing; for those who had immersed themselves in details of these works’ histories, stylistic details, and performance practice, the concert was a satisfying ending to the weekend’s events.2

William Osborne holds three degrees from the University of Michigan, where he studied with both Robert Noehren and Marilyn Mason. He served on the faculty of Denison University for 42 years as Distinguished Professor of Fine Arts, University Organist, and Director of Choral Organizations. He retired from that position in August 2003 to become music director of the Piedmont Chamber Singers in Winston-Salem, North Carolina. He has played recitals across this country, as well as in Europe and Australia and made three commercial recordings. He is author of numerous articles, as well as of two books: Clarence Eddy: Dean of American Organists (Organ Historical Society) and Music in Ohio (Kent State University Press).

Charles Edward Horsley (1822–76), Mendelssohn’s composition student in Leipzig for two years beginning in 1841 and later a family friend of the composer, first met Mendelssohn in London in 1832 during the second of this well-traveled cosmopolitan’s ten visits to England. Through Horsley, Mendelssohn was introduced to George Maxwell, a student of the then-famed Johann Nepomuk Hummel (1778–1837) and organist of St. John’s, Hyde Park, whose modest two-manual instrument built by J. C. Bishop Mendelssohn had expressed an interest in playing.

Such were the small means placed at Mendelssohn’s disposal, but he made the most of them, and many happy afternoons were spent in hearing his interpretation of Bach’s Fugues, his wonderful extemporizing, and the performance of his own Sonatas, and other Organ pieces, then only existing in his memory. As the reports of these meetings became spread through the town, other and larger organs were placed at his disposal, and at St. Paul’s Cathedral, Christ Church, Newgate St., St. Sepulchre’s, and many other London churches he played on several occasions, giving the greatest delight to all who had the good fortune to hear him. I have heard most of the greatest organists of my time, both [sic] English, German and French, but in no respect have I ever known Mendelssohn excelled either in creative or executive ability, and it is hard to say which was the most extraordinary, his manipulation or his pedipulation—for his feet were quite as active as his hands, and the independence of the former, being totally distinct from the latter, produced a result which at that time was quite unknown in England, and undoubtedly laid the foundation of a school of organ playing in Great Britain which has placed English organists on the highest point attainable in their profession.1

Horsley’s memoir can serve to remind us that Felix Mendelssohn (1809–47), a child prodigy (Robert Schumann was to call the man whose first compositions date from 1820 the “Mozart of the nineteenth century”), prolific composer in virtually every medium available to him, conductor of a vast repertory (for example, for two years as city music director of Düsseldorf, where he mounted performances of at least five Handel oratorios in his own arrangements, and later for a decade at the helm of the famed Gewandhaus Orchestra in Leipzig), keyboardist, teacher (particularly as founding director of the Leipzig Conservatory in 1843), impresario, visual artist and poet was, unlike most of the German giants of the 19th century, very much involved with the organ as a means of musical communication.

Mendelssohn the Keyboardist
Mendelssohn began formal piano study with noted Berlin pedagogue Ludwig Berger (1777–1839) in 1815, and made his recital debut three years later at the age of nine. He then studied the organ with August Wilhelm Bach (1796–1869) (who had no direct familial connection to the earlier Bach dynasty, although he was a staunch advocate of the music of its most famous citizen), perhaps from 1820 into 1823, and wrote his first pieces for the instrument during that period. Bach, then the organist of St. Mary’s Church and later director of the Institute for Church Music, published four volumes of organ works between 1820 and 1824 and surely had a significant influence on his teenaged student.
Although Mendelssohn probably considered the piano his principal instrument, he was obviously fascinated by the organ, was intent on developing a significant organ technique, and seldom missed an opportunity at least to try the instruments he encountered on his extensive travels.2 For example, he wrote from Sargans, Switzerland on September 3, 1831 that “happily an organ is always to be found in this country; they are certainly small, and the lower octave, both in the keyboard and the pedal, imperfect, or as I call it, crippled; but still they are organs, and this is enough for me.” He mentioned turning the D-major fugue subject of the first book of Bach’s Well-Tempered Clavier into a pedal exercise:

I instantly attempted it, and I at least see that it is far from being impossible, and that I shall accomplish it. The subject went pretty well, so I practiced passages from the D major fugue, for the organ, from the F major toccata, and the G minor fugue, all of which I knew by heart. If I find a tolerable organ in Munich, and not an imperfect one, I will certainly conquer these, and feel childish delight at the idea of playing such pieces on the organ. The F major toccata, with the modulation at the close, sounded as if the church were about to tumble down: what a giant that Cantor was!3

Alas, the organ on which he practiced in Munich was also “crippled,” as he mentioned in a letter to sister Fanny on October 6, 1831:

I also play on the organ every day for an hour, but unfortunately I cannot practice properly, as the pedal is short of five upper notes, so that I cannot play any of Sebastian Bach’s passages on it; but the stops are wonderfully beautiful, by the aid of which you can vary choral[e]s; so I dwell with delight on the celestial, liquid tone of the instrument.4

He wrote his parents from Düsseldorf on August 4, 1834 about an outing to “Werden, a charming retired spot, where I wished to inquire about an organ; the whole party drove with me there; cherry tarts were handed to me on horseback out of the carriages. We dined in the open air at Werden; I played fantasias and Sebastian Bachs [sic] on the organ to my heart’s content; then I bathed in the Ruhr, so cool in the evening breeze that it was quite a luxury, and rode quietly back to Saarn.” In that same letter he talked of another

handsome new organ [that] has just been put up at considerable expense in a large choir room, and there is no way to reach it but by narrow dark steps, without windows, like those in a poultry-yard, and where you may break your neck in seventeen different places; and on my asking why this was, the clergyman said it had been left so purposely, in order to prevent any one who chose, running up from the church to see the organ. Yet, with all their cunning, they forget both locks and keys: such traits are always painful to me.5

English Organs
His contact with various English organs has been well documented. On his second visit to Britain he often played the closing voluntary or extemporized at St. Paul’s Cathedral, at that point the only organ in the country with a pedalboard sufficient to accommodate the works of Bach without what one observer called “destructive changes.”
On September 8, 1837 he played several Bach fugues on a two-manual instrument in St. John’s, Paddington. Two days later Mendelssohn was the focus of a particularly memorable event following Evensong at St. Paul’s, described in delicious detail by Henry John Gauntlett (1805–76), himself an organist of considerable accomplishment:

[Mendelssohn] had played extemporaneously for some time, and had commenced the noble fugue in A minor, the first of the six grand pedal fugues of Sebastian Bach, when the gentlemen who walk about in bombazeen [sic] gowns and plated sticks, became annoyed at the want of respect displayed by the audience to their energetic injunctions. “Service is over,” had been universally announced, followed by the command “you must go out, Sir.” The party addressed moved away, but the crowd got no less; the star of Sebastian was in the ascendant. The vergers of St. Paul’s are not without guile, and they possessed sufficient knowledge of organ performance to know that the bellows-blower was not the least important personage engaged in that interesting ceremony. Their blandishments conquered, and just as Mendelssohn had executed a storm of pedal passages with transcendent skill and energy, the blower was seduced from his post and a farther supply of wind forbidden, and the composer was left to exhibit the glorious ideas of Bach in all the dignity of dumb action. The entreaties of friends, the reproofs of minor canons, the outraged dignity of the organists, were of no avail; the vergers conquered and all retired in dismay and disappointment. We had never previously heard Bach executed with such fire and energy—never witnessed a composition listened to with greater interest and gratification . . .6

Two days later Mendelssohn improvised and managed to navigate the entire piece on a three-manual instrument in Christ Church, Newgate (built by Renatus Harris in 1690, enlarged by William Hill in 1834 and considerably altered by that builder in 1838).7 Gauntlett, the “evening organist” of the church, was again present:

Many who were probably present on the Tuesday morning at Christchurch [sic], were probably attracted there more by the desire to see the lion of the town, than from an earnest attachment to classical music: but all were charmed into the most unbroken silence, and at the conclusion only a sense of the sacred character of the building prevented a simultaneous burst of the most genuine applause.

M. Mendelssohn performed six extempore fantasias, and the pedal fugue he was not allowed to go through with at St. Paul’s. Those who know the wide range of passages for the pedals with which this fugue abounds, may conceive how perfectly cool and collected must have been the organist who could on a sudden emergency transpose them to suit the scale of an ordinary English pedal board. His mind has become so assimilated to Bach’s compositions, that at one point in the prelude, either by accident or design, he amplified and extended the idea of the author, in a manner so in keeping and natural that those unacquainted with its details could not by any possibility have discovered the departure from the text . . .

His extempore playing is very diversified—the soft movements full of tenderness and expression, exquisitely beautiful and impassioned—yet so regular and methodical, that they appear the productions of long thought and meditation, from the lovely and continued streams of melody which so uninterruptedly glide onwards in one calm and peaceful flow . . .

Mr. Samuel Wesley [(1766–1837) Gauntlett’s teacher, who was to die on October 5], the father of English organists, was present and remained not the least gratified auditor, and expressed his delight in terms of unmeasured approbation. At the expressed desire of M. Mendelssohn, who wished that he could hereafter say he had heard Wesley play, the veteran took his seat at the instrument and extemporized with a purity and originality of thought for which he has rendered his name ever illustrious. The touch of the instrument, however, requires a strong and vigorous finger, and Mr. Wesley who is at present an invalid was unable to satisfy himself although he could gratify those around him.8

On September 19, as part of the triennial music festival in Birmingham, Mendelssohn first tried the 1834 four-manual instrument by William Hill in the Town Hall, and then improvised on themes from Handel’s Solomon and a Mozart symphony, both part of the same program.9
On July 9, 1842 Mendelssohn paid a visit to Queen Victoria and Prince Albert in Buckingham Palace and then described the encounter in a charming letter to his mother written in Frankfurt on July 19:

Prince Albert had asked me to go to him Saturday at two o’clock, so that I might try his organ before I left England. I found him alone; and as we were talking away, the Queen came in, also quite alone, in a house dress. She said she was obliged to leave for Claremont in an hour; “But, goodness! How it looks here,” she added, when she saw that the wind had littered the whole room, and even the pedals of the organ (which, by the way, made a very pretty feature in the room), with leaves of music from a large portfolio that lay open. As she spoke, she knelt down and began picking up the music; Prince Albert helped, and I too was not idle. Then Prince Albert proceeded to explain the stops to me, and while he was doing it, she said that she would put things straight alone.

But I begged that the Prince would first play me something, so that, as I said, I might boast about it in Germany; and thereupon he played me a chorale by heart, with pedals, so charmingly and clearly and correctly that many an organist could have learned something; and the queen, having finished her work, sat beside him and listened, very pleased. Then I had to play, and I began my chorus from “St Paul”: “How lovely are the Messengers!” Before I got to the end of the first verse, they both began to sing the chorus very well, and all the time Prince Albert managed the stops for me so expertly—first a flute, then full at the forte, the whole register at the D major part, then he made such an excellent diminuendo with the stops, and so on to the end of the piece, and all by heart—that I was heartily pleased.10

In early 1845 Mendelssohn was living in Frankfurt, where he was visited by W[illiam] S[mith] Rockstro (1823–95), later a composition student of the master. They met at St. Catherine’s, where Mendelssohn played through all six of his sonatas, soon to be published. Rockstro was later to recall the “wonderfully delicate staccato of the pedal part in the [Andante con moto] of the 2nd [published as the fifth] sonata played with all the crispness of Dragonetti’s mostly highly finished pizzicato.”11

Mendelssohn the Romantic?
Mendelssohn lived his tragically short life during that century that we somewhat glibly define as the Romantic Era. Romanticism in the realm of music conjures up imagery of unbridled, passionate expression, particularly through the use of luxuriant chromatic harmonies (with Wagner as the ultimate exponent of such an approach), as well as attempts at musical pictorialism at a time when purely instrumental music was being touted as the ultimate means of expressing the otherwise inexpressible. Mendelssohn surely had a gift for the pictorial; as witness, the “Italian” and “Scottish” Symphonies, his Calm Sea and Prosperous Voyage (an “Overture after Goethe”), or The Hebrides (or “Fingal’s Cave”), another orchestral overture, this one generated by a visit to the west coast of Scotland.
However, scholars agree that much of his work was inspired by an obvious admiration of the idioms of Bach, Handel and Mozart, music of balanced formal structures and elegant clarity. This is particularly evident in what he wrote for the organ, as well as what he played on the instrument. He learned his reverence for Bach through his studies in theory and composition with Carl Friedrich Zelter (1758–1832), director of the Berlin Singakademie, who inculcated those contrapuntal principles we find employed so fruitfully in the organ works. Father Abraham Mendelssohn acknowledged the impact of Zelter’s tutelage in a letter of March 10, 1835:

I felt more strongly than ever what a great merit it was on Zelter’s part to restore Bach to the Germans; for, between [Johann Nikolaus] Forkel’s day [1749–1818] and his, very little was ever said about Bach . . . [I]t is an undoubted fact, that without Zelter, your own musical tendencies would have been of a totally different nature.12

It was with Zelter’s Singakademie that the 20-year-old Mendelssohn conducted his famed “revival” of Bach’s Passion According to St. Matthew on March 11 and 21, 1829.
A prime symbol of Mendelssohn’s adulation of Bach is the recital he played on August 6, 1840 in the St. Thomas Church in Leipzig as a means of raising funds to build a memorial to Bach, a goal finally achieved with its unveiling on April 23, 1843. The substantial repertory consisted entirely of works by the honoree:

Fugue in E-flat major (“St. Anne”), BWV 552
Prelude on “Schmücke dich,” BWV 654
Prelude and Fugue in A minor, BWV 543
Passacaglia in C minor, BWV 582
Pastorale in F major, BWV 590
Toccata in F major, BWV 565
The formal recital was framed with improvisations. The first served as a prelude to the “St. Anne” fugue. According to Schumann, the other was based on the Lutheran chorale O Haupt voll Blut und Wunden (the language by Paul Gerhardt commonly translated as “O sacred head, now wounded”) and ended with a fugal passage that included the BACH motto (H equaling B-natural), “rounded to such a clear and masterly whole, that if printed, it would have appeared a finished work of art.”13 Mendelssohn’s adoration of the Leipzig master is also reflected in the fact that, other than improvising and his own works committed to paper, Mendelssohn as an organist, with passing exceptions, otherwise played only Bach.

As a Composer of Works for the Organ
Until recently, most were aware of only two sets of published pieces by Mendelssohn for the organ: the Three Preludes and Fugues, opus 37, issued in 1837 and dedicated to Thomas Attwood (1765–1838), a student of Mozart and organist of both St. Paul’s Cathedral and the Chapel Royal; and the Six Sonatas, opus 65, issued in 1845. However, due to the splendid and meticulous scholarship of Wm. A. Little, since 1989 we have been offered access to a larger corpus of work. Dr. Little studied manuscripts found in libraries in Berlin and Kraków, Poland, and has made available through a five-volume collection published by Novello a considerable number of preludes, fugues, duets, sets of variations and individual movements simply defined by their tempo markings. Many of these are preliminary versions of what was later published by Mendelssohn, and some are inconsequential juvenilia (including Mendels-sohn’s earliest work for the organ, a Praeludium in D minor dated November 28, 1820, written at a time when he was studying with A. W. Bach), but a handful of the truly independent movements warrant performance, and Dr. Little’s work allows the possibility of a better understanding of Mendelssohn’s evolution as a composer by comparing preliminary with more mature versions of familiar movements from the published pieces.
“[Mendelssohn’s] compositions were reflections of his celebrated improvisations, which had as a foundation the polyphonic traditions of the Baroque. The mature organ compositions went beyond a single style of music, however, and exhibited a skillful combination of Baroque and Romantic characteristics, masterfully integrated by his distinctive musical personality.”14 Although finally and distinctly “Mendelssohnian,” one can delineate a handful of distinct idioms in his works for organ: fughettas and fully developed fugues (obviously based on an understanding of the Bachian model, but not slavishly dependent on it); employment of Lutheran chorale melodies as a cantus firmus or as the basis of variation sets; the virtuosic toccata; improvisatory moments, almost approximating instrumental recitative; an awareness of the English voluntary tradition of the preceding century (a slow introductory section followed by a faster, sometimes fugal section); and the lyric, one-movement character piece, the sort of expression that was to flower fully in, for example, Mendelssohn’s Songs Without Words for the piano. Idioms that seem more natural at the piano do appear; Mendelssohn’s virtuosity on the pedals results in demands on the feet that equal those made of the hands.

The Published Works
Three Preludes and Fugues, opus 37
Little, volume I
Published in 1837 simultaneously in London by Novello and in Leipzig by Breitkopf & Härtel
The Novello edition was dedicated to “Thomas Attwood Esqre / Composer to Her Majesty’s Chapel Royal.” The Breitkopf & Härtel edition was dedicated to [in translation] “Mr. Thomas Attwood / Organist of the Chapel Royal / in London / with Respect and Gratitude.”
Prelude and Fugue in C minor
Prelude and Fugue in G major
Prelude and Fugue in D minor
Initial versions of the three fugues had apparently been written earlier (although only that in C minor appears in the Little edition) and were simply mated with preludes written during Mendelssohn’s honeymoon of early April 1837. Organists should be aware of and perhaps consult for stylistic comparisons Mendelssohn’s Six Preludes and Fugues, opus 35, for the piano, which had been written over a period of years prior to their publication, also in 1837.

Six Sonatas, opus 65
Little, volume IV
Published in 1845 simultaneously by Coventry & Hollier in London (Six Grand Sonatas for the Organ), Breitkopf & Härtel in Leipzig (Sechs Sonaten für die Orgel) and Giovanni Ricordi in Milan (Sei Sonate per Organo); 6 Sonates pour l’Orgue ou pour Piano à 3 mains was issued by Maurice Schlesinger of Paris in 1846.
Sonata I in F minor: Allegro moderato e serioso—Adagio—Andante recitativo—Allegro assai vivace
Sonata II in C minor: Grave—Adagio—Allegro maestoso e vivace—Fuga, Allegro moderato
Sonata III in A major: Con moto maestoso—Andante tranquillo
Sonata IV in B-flat major: Allegro con brio—Andante religioso—Allegretto—Allegro maestoso e vivace
Sonata V in D major: Andante—Andante con moto—Allegro maestoso
Sonata VI in D minor: Choral—Andante sostenuto—Allegro molto—Fuga—Finale, Andante
In July 1844 the English publisher Charles Coventry initiated what became opus 65 by commissioning Mendelssohn to write a set of three voluntaries for the organ. On August 29 Mendelssohn wrote Coventry, asking that the label “sonata” replace “voluntary,” saying that he didn’t quite understand the precise meaning of the latter term. He continued to assemble individual movements, some reworked from earlier efforts, some new for the occasion, and finally committed himself to what was published in April 1845. At one point there was discussion about titling the collection “Mendelssohn’s School of Organ-Playing,” suggesting that the pieces could serve a didactic function, but that label was abandoned prior to publication. Given their evolution, it should come as no surprise that these assemblages do not meet textbook definitions of what a typical four-movement sonata ought to be, although No. 1 hints at the conventional (its opening loose sonata-form movement finds a double in the first movement of No. 4). Chorales appear in four of the sonatas. Fugal writing appears in all but No. 5, and No. 3 contains a brilliant double fugue. Even the minimal suggestions of registration and terraced dynamics suggest a retrospective viewpoint.

The Previously Unpublished Works
Little, volume I
Fugue in C minor [Düsseldorf, July 30, 1834]
Fughetta in D major [July 1834?]
Two [Duet] Fugues for the Organ in C minor and D major [Düsseldorf, January 11, 1835]
Fugue in E minor [Frankfurt, July 13, 1839]
Fugue in C major [Frankfurt, July 14, 1839]
Fugue in F minor [Frankfurt, July 18, 1839]
Fughetta in A major
Prelude in C minor [Leipzig, July 9, 1841]
The first two pieces became the basis for the third, inscribed as “Two fugues for the Organ / to Mr. Attwood with the author’s best and sincere wishes.” An accompanying letter informed Attwood that “I take the liberty of sending to you two fugues for the Organ which I composed lately, and arranged them as a duet for two performers, as I think you told me once that you wanted something in that way.” The idea for the duets perhaps arose from an experience of June 23, 1833, when Attwood and Mendelssohn performed a four-hand version of one of the former’s coronation anthems on the instrument in St. Paul’s. The Fugue in C minor later became the second movement of Opus 35, No. 1. The Fugue in C major later became the final movement of Opus 65, No. 2.

Little, volume II
Andante in F major [July 21, 1844]
Allegretto in D minor [July 22, 1844]
Andante [with Variations] in D major [July 23, 1844]
Allegro [Chorale and Fugue in D minor/major] [July 25, 1844]
Con moto maestoso in A major [August 9, 1844]
Andante/Con moto in A major [August 17, 1844]
Allegro Vivace in F major [August 18, 1844]
Allegro in D major [September 9, 1844]
Andante in B minor [September 9, 1844]
[Chorale] in A-flat major [September 10, 1844]
Adagio in A-flat major [Frankfurt, December 19, 1844]
[Chorale] in D major
Allegro in B-flat major [Frankfurt, December 31, 1844]
With its “pizzicato” pedal line, the Allegretto in D minor seems a premonition of the second movement of Opus 65, No. 5 (see Examples 1a and 1b). The Con moto maestoso and following Andante became the two movements of Opus 65, No. 3. The Allegro Vivace became the final movement of Opus 65, No. 1. The Allegro in D major and Andante in B minor became the third and second movements of Opus 65, No. 5. The Adagio in A-flat major became the second movement of Opus 65, No. 1.

Little, volume III
Allegro moderato e grave in F minor [Frankfurt, December 28, 1844]
Allegro con brio in B-flat major [Frankfurt, January 2, 1845]
Andante alla Marcia in B-flat major [Frankfurt, January 2, 1845]
Moderato in C major
Fugue in C major
Grave and Andante con moto in C minor [Frankfurt, December 21, 1844]
Allegro moderato maestoso in C major
Fugue in B-flat major [Frankfurt, April 1, 1845]
Choral [& Variations] in D minor [Frankfurt, January 26, 1845]
Fugue in D minor [Frankfurt, January 27, 1845
Finale—Andante sostenuto in D major [Frankfurt, January 26, 1845]
The Allegro moderato e grave in F minor became the first movement of Opus 65, No. 1. The opening of the Allegro con brio in B-flat major generated the first movement of Opus 65, No. 4 (see Examples 2a and 2b). The following Moderato and Fugue in C major provided the genesis of the third and fourth movements of Opus 65, No. 2, while the Grave and Andante con moto are the obvious parents of the opening movements of that same sonata. The Chorale, Variations and Fugue in D minor, with some reworking became the bulk of the Sonata in D minor, Opus 65, No. 6. The Finale—Andante sostenuto in D major in 3/4 meter was transformed with substantial alterations into the final movement of that same sonata as an Andante in 6/8 (see Examples 3a and 3b).

Little, volume V
Praeludium in D minor [November 28, 1820]
Fugue in D minor [December 3, 1820]
Fugue in G minor [December 1820]
Fugue in D minor [January 6, 1821]
Andante—sanft in D major [May 9, 1823]
Volles Werk [Passacaglia] in C minor [May 10, 1823]
Chorale Variations on “Wie groß ist des Allmächt’gen Güte” [July and August 1823]
Nachspiel in D major [Rome, March 8, 1831]
Fuga pro Organo pleno in D minor [Berlin, March 29, 1833]
Andante con moto in G minor [London, July 11, 1833]
In this volume of early works (including Mendelssohn’s first essays for the instrument), only a single piece seems to have inspired a mature work: The Nachspiel [Postlude] in D major provided the basic material of the Allegro maestoso e vivace of the Sonata in C, Opus 65, No. 2, which blossoms into a quite different fugue from that of the sonata.
For organists Mendelssohn’s works for their instrument admirably fill the void that had developed after the death of Bach, a period virtually devoid of significant writing for the instrument. They have maintained currency to the present and inspired an interest in the instrument on the part not only of Mendelssohn’s contemporaries (as witness, Schumann’s Six Fugues on BACH, opus 60, written in 1845 and published a year later), but several of his successors as well.

Larry Palmer, Harpsichord Contributing Editor of The Diapason, is the current President of the Southeastern Historical Keyboard Society.

Musical research came to vibrant life in a Friday evening interactive program presented by the Southeastern and Midwestern Historical Keyboard Societies at Stetson University’s Elizabeth Hall. Michigan instrument maker David Sutherland (Ann Arbor) introduced his just-completed fortepiano based on a design by Giovanni Ferrini, an associate and successor to piano inventor Cristofori of Florence. Small details from the Dresden pianos of Gottfried Silbermann indicate an acquaintance with Ferrini’s Florentine piano. Sutherland proposes that instruments of this particular style may have provided the pianos that ultimately gained the approval of J. S. Bach: thus, the genesis of the idea for including early piano in the group of keyboard instruments suitable for Bach’s ensemble music.

Enid Sutherland played the opening of Bach’s Sonata in G for viola da gamba and obbligato keyboard instrument, partnered successively by three possible period instruments: a large Germanic harpsichord after Gräbner (built by John Phillips, played by Wayne Foster); a lautenwerk (by Willard Martin, played by Charlotte Mattax); and the Sutherland-Ferrini piano (played by Gregory Crowell). With each the music worked in subtly differing ways. The harpsichord was loudest; the lautenwerk offered a complementary gut-strung sonority; the piano provided increased possibilities for dynamic gradation. Each was suitable and viable. No absolute favorite emerged, but an intriguing possibility was illustrated and, perhaps, provided some explanation for the many parallel triads and thick repeated chords found in the written-out keyboard parts of certain slow movements in Bach’s accompanied instrumental sonatas.

Another opportunity to hear how effective the early piano could be in solo works of Bach came on Saturday afternoon when the ever-illuminating pianist Andrew Willis (Greensboro, NC) played a mesmerizing program comprising Prelude and Fugue in F (WTC II), Partita in A minor, and the first Contrapunctus from The Art of Fugue. Reminding listeners just how different a modern Steinway piano is from its ancestors, the following program, presented by Marcellene Hawk-Mayhall (Youngstown, OH), featured compositions based on the B-A-C-H motive [B=B-flat, H=B-natural in German musical notation]. Beginning where Willis had ended, Mayhall played the unfinished Contrapunctus 14 from The Art of Fugue on the fortepiano, continuing on the modern piano with unfamiliar works by Rimsky-Korsakov, Roussel, Casella, Poulenc, Malipiero, Honegger, and Liszt (the composer’s piano version of his Prelude and Fugue on BACH).

The same Liszt work, in its more familiar organ version, served as brilliant conclusion to the meeting’s opening concert, played by Stetson University organist Boyd Jones. Opening with works by Buxtehude and Hindemith (the BACH-related Sonate II), Jones offered Bach’s ornamented chorale prelude Allein Gott in der Höh sei Ehr and the “Dorian” Toccata and Fugue--all selected to limn both the theme of the conference and to showcase Stetson’s historic von Beckerath pipe organ, one of the first large new mechanical-action instruments in America, installed in 1961 on the initiative of [now] emeritus professor of organ Paul Jenkins, and recently spruced up with a handsome new case designed by architect Charles Nazarian, as well as a refurbished action and new console.

A wide range of paper topics kept the interest level high during well-paced daily sessions. Joyce Lindorff (Philadelphia, PA) reported on her recent discoveries of baroque keyboard instruments and music in China during the 17th and 18th centuries, concluding with the reading of a just-translated Vatican Archive letter from missionary/composer Theodorico Pedrini (died 1746)! Ed Kottick (Iowa City, IA) outlined the current state of knowledge about Bach’s harpsichords (“none”) but detailed 18th-century German instruments possibly familiar to the great composer. Two perfectly-timed discussions of possible Bach organ registrations engaged Gregory Crowell (Grand Rapids, MI): “Crazy for France: French Influences on Bach”; and Elaine Dykstra (Austin, TX): “The Range of Possible Organ Registrations in Bach”--each lecturer urging further investigation into the registrational practices of Bach’s contemporaries as a route to a richer palette of tonal possibilities. Sarah Martin (Atlanta, GA) gave an overview of Bach’s number symbolism in his Clavierübung, Part III.

Lee Lovallo (Sacramento, CA) surveyed a broad swath of Sicily’s history in documenting several surviving organs there. David Chung (Hong Kong) gave a thorough comparison of two versions of Bach’s Toccata in D Major, BWV 912, and played the later version stunningly. Midway on Saturday afternoon Larry Palmer (Dallas, TX) spoke on the deeply felt Bach-related art works created by Miami artist Elena Presser. Interspersed among these verbal and visual presentations were short programs of music. Elaine Funaro (Durham, NC) showcased “20th-Century Inventions for Harpsichord” (by composers Stephen Yates, Ruth Schonthal, Miklos Maros, Alexei Haieff, Virgil Thomson, and Béla Bartók). Judith Conrad (Abington, MA) led the group through multiple treatments of the Phrygian cadence in her clavichord recital “What should we, poor sinners, do?”--works by Scheidt, Pachelbel and Bach’s Partite BWV 770 on the eponymous chorale. Dana Ragsdale (Hattiesburg, MS) was joined by baroque violinist Stephen Redfield in a brilliant program of concerted works by Biber, Muffat, and Schmelzer, plus an alternative reading of Bach’s Sonata in G, BWV 1019, in which the solo harpsichord Corrente from Partita VI replaced the unique solo movement usually heard in this often-revised sonata.

Young Israeli-born Michael Tsalka (Philadelphia, PA) played three of Bach’s concerto transcriptions from original works of Telemann and Vivaldi in an engaging early-morning harpsichord program. Charlotte Mattax demonstrated Bach’s affection for the lautenwerk by programming his Prelude, Fugue and Allegro, BWV 998, Suite in E minor, BWV 996, and concluded with her thrilling traversal of the masterful Sonata in D minor, BWV 964. SEHKS founding president George Lucktenberg (Waleska, GA) demonstrated just how effectively a triangular spinet and Bach’s Little Preludes might serve as basic teaching tools for young players. Max Yount (Beloit, WI) beguiled the group with his expressive playing of music by three Bs: Bach and Böhm on the Beckerath organ.

In addition to the instruments already mentioned, harpsichords by Richard Kingston, Douglas Maple, and Robert Greenberg (brought to the meeting by Carl Fudge) were available for playing and viewing by the 80 attendees.

Stetson alumnus S. Wayne Foster, playing with rhythmic drive and musical verve, gave the closing recital on Saturday evening. Continuing the theme of varying keyboards in his program, Foster began with two organ works by Buxtehude (assisted by Boyd Jones playing the pedal lines on the extended-range manual) using the magnificent nine-foot Phillips harpsichord, on loan for the conference from Foster’s church, First (Scots) Presbyterian, in Charleston, SC. For the remainder of the well-crafted program he played Bach: two organ works, Concerto in A minor (after Vivaldi) and Prelude and Fugue in B minor, BWV 544 on the harpsichord; and the (harpsichord) Toccata in D minor, BWV 913 on the organ, offering, in this lengthy work, sufficient color changes to make palatable the hyperbolic sequential writing favored by the young composer. Fine readings of the (organ) Concerto in D minor, BWV 596, and the (harpsichord) Ouverture in the French Style, BWV 831 on their composer-stipulated instruments completed the evening’s elegant music making.

Stetson University provided gracious staff assistance, beautiful, venerable venues for lectures and concerts, and rooms, both accessible and pleasant, for dining and receptions. Given that this conference was organized from scratch in less than a year’s time it was a remarkably cohesive and successful one. The meeting occurred earlier than usual because the following week was “Bike Week,” a huge rally of thousands of Harley-Davidson riders who take over the entire area surrounding Florida’s Daytona Beach. SEHKS and MHKS programs included several extra-musical sounds on Saturday as engines were revved up for the weekend! Harpsichordist/author Frances Bedford quipped that the conference should have been called “The Two-Wheel Inventions!” Not a bad idea, but the broader Bach theme allowed recent scholarship to be shared, friendships and professional relationships to be buttressed once again, the business of the societies to be accomplished, and, most importantly, great music to be experienced and enjoyed together.

For further information on the Ferrini piano, see David Sutherland’s “Silbermann, Bach, and the Florentine Piano” in the most recent volume (21) of Early Keyboard Journal, published by SEHKS and MHKS [available from Oliver Finney, Journal Business Manager, 1704 E. 975 Road, Lawrence, KS 66049-9157; [email protected]]. 

Joyce Lindorff’s article “Missionaries, Keyboards and Musical Exchange in the Ming and Qing Courts” was published in Early Music XXXII/3, August 2004, pp. 403-414.

Marijim Thoene is a native Californian. She received a B.M. degree in Liturgical Music from Peabody Conservatory, an M.M. in Organ Performance from the University of Southern California, and an M.M and D.M.A. in Church Music/Organ Performance from the University of Michigan. She has also studied at the Queen’s College and University College in Oxford, the Organ Academy in Pistoia, Italy, and at the University of Salamanca. She has been director of music at churches in Baltimore, Oxfordshire, San Diego, Ann Arbor and New Orleans, and has been on the faculty at the University of New Orleans, and Our Lady of Holy Cross College in New Orleans. Her CD, Mystics and Spirits, was recorded on the Dobson organ at St. Joseph Abbey in St. Benedict, Louisiana. Her second CD, Wind Song: Music for Organ and Flute, has just been released and was also recorded at St. Joseph Abbey. Among her favorite topics is “Fierce Beasts and Gentle Creatures Who Play the Organ in Medieval Manuscripts.”

Sublimity flashing forth at the right moment scatters everything before it like a thunderbolt…
—Longinus

As scholars and musicians celebrate the music of Buxtehude three hundred years after his death, I ask myself, as an organist, how would I describe the drawing power of his organ music? What is it that speaks to me and draws me to his music? To be perfectly candid, I ask a lot from the music I choose to learn. I want high drama. Give me Longinus’s aesthetic of great art: “It must have something of the sublime in it.” Great music must have epic qualities like Virgil’s Aeneid or Homer’s Odyssey; in short, it must describe the human condition with tragedy and comedy, tension and release, despair and hope, and it must have the essence of a dance. I chose Buxtehude’s Ciacona in C minor because it contains all of the qualities mentioned above, and all of them occur within the structure of a dance form that Buxtehude calls a “ciacona.”
I think that the greatness of Buxtehude’s writing is based in part on his ability to borrow from the techniques of Frescobaldi and Froberger, and to incorporate them into his own work. Using imitation, Buxtehude follows what Longinus deemed a natural process to attain greatness: “Greatness of soul must be fed and developed by an enthusiastic imitation and emulation of previous great poets and writers.” The similarities in form and motifs of Buxtehude’s Ciacona in C minor and in works by Frescobaldi and Froberger are compelling. The most dramatic “borrowing” apparent in Buxtehude’s Ciacona in C minor is his use of the ostinato ground, as found in Frescobaldi’s Cento Partite sopra Passacagli. By extension, Buxtehude’s use of repetition of a melodic motif as the structural basis of his composition is found in Froberger’s Canzona VII. Frescobaldi’s use of the ostinato ground, and Froberger’s use of a melodic motif, repetition of a harmonic pattern and melodic pattern are fused in Buxtehude’s Ciacona in C minor. His ciacona’s basso ostinato (ground), which occurs sometimes in succession, sometimes intermittently, is the unifying element within the composition. (See Example 1.) As in J. S. Bach’s Passacaglia in C minor, the ostinato pattern is the foundation of the composition. Frescobaldi’s use of ostinato and Froberger’s use of a repeated motif are transformed in Buxtehude’s Ciacona in C minor.

The significance of the Ciacona in C minor, BuxWV 159
Philipp Spitta placed Buxtehude’s Passacaglia in D minor and the two ciaconas in C minor and E minor at the beginning of the first volume of his edition of Buxtehude’s organ works, which was published in 1875. Spitta, in his letter to Brahms, says of these three works: “For beauty and importance [they] take the precedence of all the works of this kind at the time, and are in the first rank of Buxtehude’s compositions.”1 After seeing the D-minor passacaglia, Brahms wrote to Spitta: “ . . . when I become acquainted with such a beautiful piece as the Ciacona in D minor by Buxtehude, I can hardly resist sharing it with a publisher, simply for the purpose of creating joy for others . . . ”2
Kerala Snyder, in her book, Dieterich Buxtehude: Organist in Lübeck, notes that Brahms referred to Buxtehude’s Passacaglia in D minor as the Ciacona in D minor. She makes the observation that in Brahms’s time as well as Buxtehude’s, the terms ciacona or chaconne and passacaglia were interchangeable. Buxtehude himself titles his works ciacona and passacaglia.3
The Ciacona in C minor contains a microcosm of Buxtehude’s compositional devices, which can be found in Frescobaldi and Froberger. In addition to mirroring their form, he quotes rhythmic motifs. The dotted eighth-note followed by a sixteenth and vice versa are prominent motifs in Frescobaldi. See Example 2 from his Toccatas Terza (Per l’Organo da sonarsi all levatione), Quarta, and Sesta from Book II of his Toccatas and Canzonas, etc. of 1637. While Frescobaldi uses these rhythmic patterns sparingly, Buxtehude repeats them throughout a section. (See Example 3, measures 17–20, 21–24, 25–28, 114–117, and 118–121.) Frescobaldi’s dramatic use of suspensions, which dominate the Toccata per Elevatione from Messa delli Apostoli in his Fiori Musicali, is mirrored briefly in Buxtehude’s Ciacona in C in measures 3 and 7. Buxtehude’s mercurial shift in mood from sorrow to joy, the latter characterized by triplet figures, can also be found in the abrupt shifts in mood in Frescobaldi’s Toccata Prima (Book II of Toccatas and Partitas), as well as in Froberger’s Toccata I, II, IV, XII, XIII, XVI XIX, XXV, XXVI; Froberger’s Fantasia I; Froberger’s Canzona III, IV, V, VI; and Froberger’s Capriccio I, II, IV, VII,VIII, X, XII, XIV, and XVIII. Froberger’s burst of joy, a dance section, contrasting with more somber sections, appears in Buxtehude’s Ciacona in C minor in the 9/8 section, measures 122–137.
Using Buxtehude’s Ciacona in C minor as a focus, the following topics will be addressed:
(1) What is the structure of his Ciacona in C minor? (2) How did this Italian ostinato form and the overall persistence of repeated motifs that characterize the canzonas of Froberger reach Buxtehude? The ostinato form is Italian in origin and its first appearance in North German repertoire (with the exception of Martin Radeck, active 1623–83) is in Buxtehude’s ostinato organ works. (3) What elements of form of Frescobaldi’s Cento Partite sopra Passacagli and Froberger’s Canzona VI in A minor are found in Buxtehude? (4) What clues in performance practices can be applied to Buxtehude’s Ciacona in C minor from Italian sources? (5) What elements of Buxtehude’s Ciacona can be seen in J. S. Bach’s Passacaglia in C Minor? (6) What is the significance of repetition in this work?

1. The structure of Buxtehude’s Ciacona in C minor
The structure is succinctly analyzed in Willi Apel’s The History of Keyboard Music to 1700:

The Ciacona in C minor consists of 38 variations on the ostinato subject which is heard in the bass unchanged for the first seven variations and then freely varied in other voices. Sometimes the transformation of the subject goes so far that its contour is entirely lost and only the harmonic scheme remains, as, for example, in variations VIII, IX, and X. . . . Variation XX is also very free, as Buxtehude modulates to G minor. In order to return to C minor, he inserts a fifth measure. Beginning with variation XXI each variation is literally or almost literally repeated (XXI=XXII, XXIII=XXIV, etc). Thus the chaconne falls into three main sections of seven, thirteen, and eighteen variations, respectively, the first marked by a strict ostinato, the second by a particularly free treatment of the subject, and the third by paired variations.4

The Ciacona is mercurial in its moods, beginning in a somber, serious mood and altering to a light, dance-like mood. Then in variations XVII through XXII a dotted eighth and sixteenth note motif dominates, and in variation XXIX through XXX the reverse of that rhythmic figure is heard: the sixteenth note followed by the eighth note. Buxtehude’s meter is in 3/4 throughout, with the exception of variations XXXI–XXXIV, which are in 9/8.
It is this juxtaposition of contrasting moods, i.e., dark versus light, a sort of exaggerated formality with the dotted rhythms versus a rather unbridled exuberance, which makes for high drama in the work. Buxtehude was no stranger to drama. So popular were Buxtehude’s Abendmusiken, an annual concert series of musical drama, sponsored by business men of Lübeck and open to the public free of charge, that in 1682 police were hired to ensure the peace.5 The dramatic flavor of his Abendmusiken is seen in the summary of the libretto of 1684:

Heavenly Joy of the Spirit on Earth over the Incarnation and Birth of Our Dearest Savior Jesus Christ, in separate acts, in opera style, with many arias and ritornelli, brought into a musical harmony for six concerted voices, various instruments and cappella voices.
The Most Frightful and Most Joyful; Namely, the End of Time and Beginning of Eternity, in dialogue style, also shown in five scenes, for five concerted voices, instruments, etc.6

His sense of the dramatic as well as his gift for comedy is seen in a work dated 1688, Wacht! Euch zum Streit, a work originally thought to be by Buxtehude but now in question. Its text is made up of biblical quotations, chorale verses, and new poetry, with the main emphasis on the new strophic poetry. It is scored for five or six vocal soloists, two violins, two violas, and continuo, with a brief and optional appearance for trombones. The characters are all allegorical. In the prologue, Avarice, Wantonness, and Pride (three sopranos) argue among themselves as to who is the most powerful, and the Divine Voice (bass) denounces them all with biblical words.7

2. How was the music of Frescobaldi and Froberger transmitted to Buxtehude?
As mentioned previously, Buxtehude was, with the exception of Martin Radeck, the only north German composer to write keyboard ostinato pieces. They were composed primarily in Italy and South Germany. Although Buxtehude never visited Italy, Italian musicians were engaged at the Marienkirche in Lübeck during Buxtehude’s tenure as organist—an Italian castrato in 1672, the singer ‘Longlio’ in 1687 and another unnamed Italian in 1693.8 It is thought that Buxtehude was introduced to Frescobaldi and Froberger through Matthias Weckmann (1619–1674), organist at the St. Jacobi Church in Hamburg from 1655 who met Froberger in the Dresden court about 1653.9 Weckmann was married in Lübeck and Tunder was his best man. It is important to note that Matthias Weckmann founded a collegium musicum in 1660 in Hamburg. They performed “pieces from Venice, Rome, Vienna, Munich, Dresden, etc. indeed, this collegium attained such fame, that the greatest composers tried to attach their names to it.”10
Buxtehude may have had access to Frescobaldi’s music through the music library of Tunder’s in the Marienkirche in Lübeck, which had the largest collection of Italian publications of church music in Germany. Granted, there are many motives and styles of figuration of Frescobaldi that appear in Buxtehude as mentioned previously.

3. What formal elements of Frescobaldi and Froberger are found in Buxtehude?
Frescobaldi’s monumental harpsichord work, Cento Partite sopra Passacagli, published in 1637, the year of Buxtehude’s birth, contains compositional techniques that are mirrored in some degree in Buxtehude’s C-minor Ciacona. The work is analyzed in detail in Frederick Hammond’s book, Girolamo Frescobaldi: His Life and Music. Hammond summarizes the tonal centers, mensuration and form of each section.11 Both works, for the most part, are based on a repeated harmonic structure.
Frescobaldi’s Cento begins with a Passacaglia that is constructed on a descending tetrachord (D to A). Frescobaldi immediately sets up, within the large construct of a repeated harmonic framework, a series of short melodic motives that add cohesion to the Passacaglia. Following the Passacaglia is a Corrente, then a Ciacona in F major built on this harmonic progression: I-V-vi-I6, IV, VI. (See Example 4.) Here one sees Frescobaldi’s use of an ostinato ground, which forms the foundation for his Ciacona in F within the Cento. In this section, measures 133–140, the harmonic progression is repeated four times.
Compare Example 4 with Example 1 to note the differences between Frescobaldi’s ostinato bass with Buxtehude’s. Here one sees a technique that undergoes transformation in Buxtehude. The rhythm of Buxtehude’s bass-line remains constant, Frescobaldi’s does not, Buxtehude’s is memorable and Frescobaldi’s is not! For Buxtehude the ostinato harmonic structure is inviolable; he may depart from it briefly, but always returns to it. Unlike Frescobaldi’s Cento, the entire composition rests on this hauntingly beautiful bass line while above it soar contrapuntal dialogues, spirited dances, and flights of fantasy.
Yet, no matter how different Frescobaldi is from Buxtehude the compositional technique is the same. Returning to the structure of Cento, following the Ciacona in F major is a Passacaglia in C major characterized by dotted rhythms as in Buxtehude’s C-minor Ciacona; then a C-major Ciacona, a Passacaglia in A minor, another Ciacona in A minor. The Cento ends with a Passacaglia in D minor. In Frescobaldi there are dramatic shifts in mood within sections as in Buxtehude, but in a more diffuse way.
Elements of the remarkable ostinato C-minor Ciacona may also be found in the canzonas of Froberger, which no doubt were influenced, in part, by Frescobaldi. In 1637 Froberger was court organist for Emperor Ferdinand III in Vienna and he was granted leave to study with Frescobaldi in Rome. He studied there until 1640.12 The documents are scant regarding the life of Froberger; however, it is known that he returned to Italy some time before 1649 and may have studied with Carissimi. In a letter to Kircher he mentioned performing in the courts of Florence and Mantua.13 The year 1637 also marks the year of the publication of Frescobaldi’s Second Book of Toccatas, Canzoni, etc. The imitative counterpoint ever present in Frescobaldi’s canzonas is at the heart of Froberger’s canzonas. In Froberger’s Canzona in A minor, a single motif is the basis of the whole composition. See Example 5 showing the opening theme of Froberger’s Canzona VI and its rhythmical transformation. The motif undergoes rhythmical transformation, but is ever present, much like Buxtehude’s ostinato bass line. At the core of Froberger’s Canzona VI is a theme that undergoes transformation but remains singable and memorable.

4. Performance practices
Buxtehude’s Ciacona in C minor is sectional and moves from darkness to light. Is it appropriate to change tempi? In answering that question it may be appropriate to take Frescobaldi’s words to heart. Under the title of “Cento Partite sopra Passacagli” Frescobaldi offers these words: “The Passacaglias may be played separately, like the chaconnes, according to the performer’s wishes, whilst adjusting the movement from one variation to the next.”14 Certainly, one should consider the suspensions at the beginning of Buxtehude's Ciacona and choose a tempo that would not obscure the suspensions. If one must play Buxtehude on a tracker organ with a heavy action, one can look to Girolamo Diruta, who addressed how to approach the sometimes formidable task of playing on such an instrument. Diruta says: Let the arm guide the hand. In other words, use the weight of the arm to depress the keys. He also says that one must press and not strike the keys, one must caress the keys as though one were caressing a child.15

5. Buxtehude’s influence on Bach’s Passacaglia
All of Buxtehude’s ostinato works are found in the Andreas Bach Book,16 an anthology compiled before 1700 by Johann Christoph Bach of Ohrdruf, Johann Sebastian Bach’s older brother and teacher.17 In all probability Bach knew Buxtehude’s Ciacona in C minor in 1705, when at age 20 he received permission to leave his post as organist at the New Church at Arnstadt to travel on foot 250 miles to Lübeck to hear Dieterich Buxtehude. He was there for almost a quarter of a year, staying three times longer than his four weeks of granted leave time. As Christoph Wolff comments, “From Bach’s vantage point in 1705, there was simply no other musician who could offer him so much.”18
Bach’s monumental Passacaglia in C minor, BWV 582, with its twenty variations over its eight measure ground, is reminiscent of Buxtehude’s Ciacona in C minor. As Peter Williams points out, “a series of conventional figurae are used (one after the other) in a texture varying from one to five parts.”19
No autograph of BWV 582 survives; however, an early copy exists and Williams comments that “the earlier the Passacaglia was composed, the more it can be seen as a deliberate essay in genre-composition, very likely under the influence of Buxtehude.”20 Bach emancipates the form, but always, as in Buxtehude, the theme of the Passacaglia is ever present, singable and memorable. Unlike Buxtehude, Bach presents the ostinato bass line first as a solo voice in the pedal, giving emphasis to its importance as the foundation of the entire work.

6. The significance of repetition
Repetition occurs on many levels. In Buxtehude’s Ciacona in C minor, first the ostinato theme in the pedal recurs, unchanging in pitch, sometimes slightly altered rhythmically; variations are repeated, and on a detailed level, motives are repeated within a variation. All of this serves the purpose of creating a unified, organic whole. In repeating a variation he allows the listener to savor music for the second time. At the core of fine art is “artful” repetition . . . it promotes symmetry and patterns that give pleasure to the eye and ear. Buxtehude’s Ciacona in C minor is like a stage on which the characters experience sorrow, joy, conflict and resolution and the conclusion seems to be an affirmation of cosmic harmony.
One has only to look in Corliss Arnold’s Organ Literature: A Comprehensive Survey to see that the ciacona/passacaglia is alive and well. On May 16, 2007, I was in the Duomo in Florence and heard Jean Guillou play a brilliant, memorized recital. He concluded his recital with his transcription of Modest Moussorgsky’s Pictures at an Exhibition, with no fewer than five movements entitled Promenade (“Passeggiata”). How refreshing to hear this majestic and joyous theme recur over and over again. See Example 6 for the opening of the passacaglia. This recurring theme is an “artful” repetition, giving the listener a talisman for his journey, like a stone worn smooth by his touch, something that brings comfort because it is always there. ■

This paper was presented on June 26, 2007 at the 28th International Organ and Church Music Institute, celebrating “Buxtehude and Liturgical Music,” at the University of Michigan.