Text Interpretation and Cyclic Unity in Buxtehude’s <i>Nimm von uns Herr, du treuer Gott</i>, BuxWV 207

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

Motto

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This article will be continued.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This article will be continued.

Sabin Levi, DMA, FAGO, is a Bulgarian composer and organist. He has written three musical books and released five CDs, and is also active as a performer, composer, and teacher.

Part I was published in the October 2009 issue of The Diapason.

The third volume in this cycle of Bulgarian organ composers was published in July 2009, followed by the fourth and fifth in September 2009, and the sixth in January 2010. Additional volumes are currently in progress. The series is published by the Union of Bulgarian Composers (www.ubc-bg.com/). For further information, contact the author at <[email protected]>, or <[email protected]>.
The third and fourth volumes consist of organ sonatas: Artin Poturlian’s Sonata and Velislav Zaimov’s Sonata #1 in the third volume, and in the fourth, Velislav Zaimov’s Sonata #2 and sonatas by Lazar Nikolov and Mihail Pekov. In the fifth volume there are two chorale preludes and a chorale fantasy by Zaimov, and three chorale preludes by Sabin Levi. Also in this volume are two chamber music works: Sonata da chiesa by Neva Krysteva for alto flute, flute and piccolo, and organ; and Landscapes of the Soul by Krassimir Taskov for organ and trombone.
Volume VI contains Sonata Breve by Adrian Pavlov, Five Pieces in Memory of Friedrich Goldmann by Artin Poturlian, Sonatas for Organ #1 and #2 by Yordan Goshev, Prelude and Toccata by Kiril Lambov, and chamber music works by Zaimov: Sonata for Organ and Violin and Sonata for Organ and Cello.
Artin Poturlian’s Organ Sonata, which is in the third volume, was written in the seventies. Its musical language is quite different from his previously discussed organ work, Four Spiritual Chants. The Sonata is a three-movement atonal work, technically demanding for the performer, with some features that are apparent in all three movements. These entail a linear approach, an affinity for unusual, non-square rhythmic divisions, and multi-level canonic figurations related to complex ostinati (Example 1). In addition, one finds polyphonic tools evident in his other organ works, mostly inverse and retrograde canons and intervallic variations.
The musical language of Velislav Zaimov’s single-movement Sonata for Organ #1 is closer to his Fantasy (from Volume I) (Example 2). Throughout his large organ oeuvre, his musical language is quite uniform. Characteristically, he uses consecutive chords, with subtle changes in their internal intervals, repetitive motives, and large-scale thinking, with distinguishable first and second themes and quite large forms. Because of its intervallic structure, the music appears to sound somewhat tragic, while this is not the author’s intention.1 This trend seems to be recurrent in Zaimov’s music.2
Lazar Nikolov’s Sonata for Organ is also a single-movement, large-scale work, but quite different from Zaimov’s. Written in the seventies, this piece would have been called “avant-garde” with its dominance of sonoric effects and an aleatory penchant for non-standard rhythmic divisions. It is not written idiomatically; tremolos, usually uncharacteristic for organ, are abundant. Completely atonal, it is a real challenge for the performer. In addition to traditional notation, this piece uses graphic and aleatoric notation (Example 3).
Graphic language is seen also in the first movement of Mihail Pekov’s three-movement Organ Sonata, dedicated to Neva Krysteva (1975). In this movement, senza misura and measured passages follow one another. The music, somewhat tonal and somewhat modal in sound, is quite calm and serene in the improvisatory segments. In the metered passages, it is more energetic, and the final metered section employs quick triad-oriented movement. The second movement resembles a chorale prelude. The melody is in the pedal, at 4-foot pitch, while there is a slow-moving ostinato texture in the manuals. The two voices in the manuals imitate each other to some extent. Rhythmically, the composer employs multi-level syncopation, which also becomes the main opening motive to the third movement (Example 4).
Velislav Zaimov’s chorale preludes and chorale fantasy employ some of the traditional chorale prelude-related techniques. The author also uses some of his own—i.e., he does not cite any pre-existing melodies; instead, he writes his own, non-diatonic melody, fitted to the pre-existing text. For example, see his melody to Agricola’s text Ich ruf zu dir (Example 5). He uses the Christmas song Es kommt ein Schiff, geladen3 (attr. to Suderman/Tauler, XVII century), also with his own melody. In his chorale he cites the first two stanzas:

Es kommt ein Schiff, geladen
Bis an den höchsten Bord,
Trägt Gottes Sohn voll Gnaden,
Des Vaters ewig’s Wort.

Das Schiff geht still im Triebe,
Trägt eine teure Last;
Das Segel ist die Liebe,
Der Heilig Geist der Mast.

A ship is coming laden,
And rich indeed her hoard;
The Son of God the Father
And his eternal Word.

The ship sails soft, her burden
Of price all measure past:
Her mainsail, it is charity,
The Holy Ghost the mast.

His chorale fantasy follows the same principle. It is based on O Heiland, Reiß die Himmel auf (text by Friedrich von Spee, 1623). The author’s chorale melody is stated twice in the pedal throughout the piece, citing the text’s first stanza:

O Heiland, reiß die Himmel auf,
Herab, herauf vom Himmel lauf,
Reiß ab vom Himmel Tor und Tür,
Reiß ab, was Schloss und Riegel für.

O Saviour, tear open the heavens,
flow down to us from heaven above;
tear off heaven’s gate and door,
tear off every lock and bar.

The Sephardic song Morenica is the cantus firmus of the three chorale preludes of the same name by Sabin Levi. The first chorale uses “coloristic” chorale technique, adding ornaments to the soprano solo line. The second chorale employs a contrasting melody that interplays with the original chorale melody (in the tradition of Bach’s Wachet auf, BWV 645), while the third is a six-voice structure with double pedal. These pieces are tonal, albeit not traditionally so. Levi is working on a cycle of chorale preludes based on Sephardic songs.
Neva Krysteva’s Sonata da chiesa is scored for organ and three different flutes that do not play together. The first movement calls for a normal flute, the second for a piccolo, and the third for an alto flute (in G). The multi-layered structure is often alternated with a light and clear one in all three movements and the vibrati. This is so characteristic of Krysteva’s style and can be seen in numerous places. The flute part is quite idiomatic. The author uses flute harmonics in the first movement. The second movement (with organ and piccolo) is built around an ostinato principle, and the third resembles some scores of Luigi Nono, with a twist. The author’s striving for multi-layered structure is combined with modality, and the lower register of the organ is combined with the sound of an alto flute (Example 6). This movement employs some of the author’s frequent deliberate citations of the opening theme of Bach’s Prelude and Fugue in A Minor, BWV 543.
Landscapes of the Soul, for organ and trombone by Krassimir Taskov, is the last piece in the fifth volume, and the second representative of chamber music with organ. This atonal work of quite large scale (duration of more than fifteen minutes) is an experiment in color. While there are no registration instructions, the player must use all of the keyboard’s range. There are numerous clusters, glissandi, etc. in the organ part (Example 7).
The sixth volume was published in two formats, A3 (in landscape position) and A4, also in landscape, with the intention that the larger format would be better for performers. This volume opens with Adrian Pavlov’s Sonata Breve, also called Les escaliers enigmatiques, written in 2009. The piece is inspired by the following verse of Bulgarian poet Edvin Sugarev:

Descending, among the closed doors
remembered he, the one, always open
always for him open
alone, among the closed doors.

Thinking about her, he went on,
descending, on and on, and even when
there were no more steps anymore,
there were no more doors.4

The composer seems to favor metric modulation, since it is in almost constant use. In addition to the obvious use of word painting, rhythmic variation is an important source of form building. Serial techniques are in use, employing both rhythmical and tonal sets, which further undergo series of permutations throughout the piece, called “Sonata” only metaphorically by the author. According to him,5 traditional form-building is a term that should be treated more widely, not always implying strict, uniform schemes. The piece is more math-oriented than poetry-derived, and the author placed the verse at the end, after having finished writing it.
Quite different are Yordan Goshev’s two organ sonatas, works written and premiered approximately 30 years ago. While leaning on the traditional side of form and metro-rhythmic language, the melodic language is somewhat chromatic, with quasi-tonal elements and without a written key signature. A German style prelude-and-fugue influence is evident, combined with some recitatives (Example 8).
Artin Poturlian completed his Five Pieces in Memory of Friedrich Goldmann in 2009.6 Here Poturlian’s musical language is different from that used in the Four Spiritual Chants (published in the first volume). For the most part, the pieces’ building blocks consist of multi-rhythmic structures, often imitating bells. Bells are referenced in one way or another in all of the five pieces, and, at the end, the composer wrote the following phrase: “Listen to the bell of your heart!” The subtly mathematical, subtly atonal approach is characteristic throughout. There are changes in rhythmic proportions in addition to the composer’s favorite atypical rhythmic divisions (Example 9).
Kiril Lambov’s boisterous Prelude and Toccata, written in the 1980s, is representative of this composer’s style: “spiced-up,” rather energetic and temperamental, with a solid, albeit ambiguous, tonal base. While the Prelude is rather short, mostly preparing the listener for the Toccata (segue), the latter is extensive, with Prokofiev-like rhythmic ostinati, jazz elements, and a final “apotheosis” section. This is a brilliant and effective concert piece (Example 10). 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Der grosse Brahms hat's neulich ausgesprochen:

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

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

Denn nur auf diesem Punkt ist Werth zu legen

Als Weib und gute Brahmsianerinn!

(As the great Brahms recently proclaimed:

"A clever woman is a thing of naught!"

So let us diligently cultivate stupidity,

That being the only quality demanded

Of a female Brahms-admirer!)8

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

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

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

O Traurigkeit, O Herzeleid

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

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

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

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

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

O Gott, du frommer Gott

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Smyth felt herself an outsider on several counts:

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

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

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

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