The Wayne Leupold Edition of Bach’s <i>Clavierübung III</i>

Jan-Piet Knijff has taught organ, harpsichord, fortepiano, chamber music, and performance practice at Queens College/CUNY for the past ten years. A Fellow of the AGO and a winner of the Grand Prix Bach de Lausanne, he holds the MM/Artist Diploma from the Conservatory of Amsterdam and the DMA from the CUNY Graduate Center; his organ teachers have included Christoph Wolff, Piet Kee, and Ewald Kooiman. Articles relating to performance practice of Bach’s music have been published in Bach Notes and the Dutch Journal of Music Theory; a series of articles on hymns in recent American Lutheran hymnals appeared in CrossAccent. In addition to music, he teaches community classes in Latin and Ancient Greek. He recently accepted a position as Lecturer in Music at the University of New England, Armidale, New South Wales.

Johann Sebastian Bach, Clavier-Übung III, ed. George B. Stauffer (The Complete Organ Works, Series I: Volume 8). Colfax, NC: Wayne
Leupold Editions, 2010, $58;
<A HREF="http://www.wayneleupold.com">www.wayneleupold.com</A&gt;.
Wayne Leupold Editions has embarked on what may be the publisher’s most ambitious project to date: a new edition of the organ works of J. S. Bach. The complete series will contain no fewer than fifteen volumes of music (Bärenreiter’s New Bach Edition managed with eleven) and three volumes of background information, in addition to introductions and commentaries in each music volume. The Wayne Leupold Bach edition clearly aspires to the highest level of present-day Bach scholarship; to make this possible, Leupold has enlisted the help of some of America’s (if not the world’s) most prominent Bach scholars: Christoph Wolff as consulting editor, George Stauffer as general editor, and Quentin Faulkner as performance issues editor. At the same time, the edition is to serve the very practical needs of the American organist. To meet this goal, every volume is extensively reviewed and “tested” by a large group of American organists and their students (p. vii of the present volume is filled with the names of all the reviewers). From one such survey Leupold learned, for example, “that having convenient page turns is one of the most desirable qualities of a Bach edition.”
My first impression is that the book doesn’t feel very pleasant in my hands. I personally like neither the quasi-calligraphic font nor the light-brownish color of the cover, but all this is, of course, a matter of taste. Inside the book, the margins seem remarkably small, both of the pages with text and of those with music. The music notation often looks quite dense to me. One might object that that is because I am used to the Bärenreiter edition, which Leupold, in the advertisement for the Bach edition, dismisses as “very widely spaced.” In fact, Leupold, with some 102 pages of music, is hardly 10% more concise than Bärenreiter (112 pages of music). By comparison, Bach’s own edition has less than 77 pages of music; and the Bach-Gesellschaft edition, much of which is now available in Dover reprints, 88. A very nice feature of the Leupold edition is the large number of facsimiles: no fewer than 22, with four of them in full color. (The color facsimiles are especially helpful, because in his personal copy, Bach made corrections in red ink.)
Aside from page turns, perhaps the biggest problem in editing Bach’s organ works is the notation of the pedal. Bach, after all, notated the vast majority of his organ works on two staves, with the pedal sharing the lower staff with the left hand. Of the works in this volume, Bach notated only the pedaliter settings of Dies sind die heilgen zehn Gebot, Vater unser im Himmelreich, and Aus tiefer Not on three staves. As convenient as three-staff notation may seem to the present-day organist, the process of assigning the correct notes to the pedal is not at all unproblematic in earlier music. I personally consider the notation on two staves the single most important advantage of Michael Belotti’s edition of Buxtehude’s organ works (Broude Brothers): it has clarified many passages that had puzzled me for a long time, and has helped me enormously to understand this repertoire better. Although the question of using pedal or not is, of course, much less of an issue in Bach’s organ works, problems do remain, and the best solution for these would be to offer the music on two staves, just as Bach did most of the time.
A well-known example of such a problematic passage is the echoes in the E-flat-major Prelude: it’s hard to believe that the bass note finishing off the echoes is to be played in the pedal (except if you quickly adjust the registration, which most people will find too cumbersome or else will dismiss as foreign to eighteenth-century performance practice). Yet, in Bach’s edition, the notation of that note with the stem down on the bottom of the staff, looks no different than the forte note two measures earlier—or, for that matter, the pedal part in the opening section of the piece (Example 1a). If one plays from two staves, the problem becomes a purely academic one: the obvious way of playing the passage is to use the pedal for the forte measures, and to play the piano bass note with the left hand on the echo manual. But for an editor having to decide which notes to put on the pedal staff, this passage can become something of a nightmare; in a way, no solution is fair to both Bach’s notation and the modern-day three-staff organist. The Leupold team has opted for a separate pedal staff; in the case of the echo passages in the Prelude, the bass part has been put in the left-hand staff; the pedal staff is empty apart from the barlines (no editorial rests have been supplied); with a symbol, the reader is referred to the Commentary, where the problem is explained in detail (Example 1b). On the other hand, both the Prelude and the E-flat-major Fugue are also printed on two staves in an appendix (Example 1c). (I personally greatly prefer this two-staff notation; not only does the pedal feel more like an integral part of the texture, the relationship with other keyboard pieces is much clearer this way.)
In the “great” Christ unser Herr zum Jordan kam, too, assigning the pedal part to its own staff can cause misunderstandings. Stauffer addresses the problem in the editorial report, pointing out that the left-hand part is really “the bass voice of a four-part score. Thus one would have the option of registering it with a 16′ foundation.” On the other hand, the pedal part carrying the cantus firmus “is the tenor voice . . . of the four-part score. Thus it would appear to call for an 8′ solo stop.” I think the problem is in fact a bit more complicated. In my mind, a 4′ stop for the pedal cantus firmus is at very least a possibility (I personally prefer it that way); but if one decides to play the cantus firmus at 8′ pitch, the left hand must have a 16′ in it to avoid undesirable inversions (for example in mm. 18 and 43 of Leupold’s edition; Example 2).
In the “great” Jesus Christus unser Heiland, the cantus firmus is also played in the pedal. Like Christ unser Herr, this piece was printed on two staves in Bach’s original edition: the right hand occupies the upper staff (with an occasional note on the lower staff), the left hand moves between the lower and the upper staff (using three different clefs!), and the cantus firmus is written on the lower staff with the stems consistently down. While I agree with Stauffer that the cantus firmus is best played “with an 8′ solo stop,” I don’t understand how he knows that “the Pedal part is the tenor voice . . . of the three-part score” (emphasis mine). Bach’s notation of the cantus firmus with the stems down doesn’t seem to support this (Example 3); and in almost half the number of its measures, the cantus firmus (when played at 8′ pitch) is the actual sounding bass of the piece (assuming the left hand is also played at 8′ pitch, as one would expect it to be). It seems to me that labeling the parts as voices is simply not very helpful in this piece; it is probably best to simply refer to them as right hand, left hand, and pedal.
An important advantage of the
Leupold edition is that the division of the inner voices over the staves is in principle identical with Bach’s original edition. In the fugetta (that’s how Bach spelled that word, although fughetta is correct Italian) on Dies sind die heilgen zehn Gebot, it is clear that the three upper voices are often to be taken together in the right hand. In the Leupold edition, these right-hand chords are clear right away, in contrast to the Bärenreiter edition, which tried to emphasize the polyphonic nature of Bach’s music by writing the tenor in the left-hand staff as consistently as possible. The problem however is that, on the one hand, Leupold is not always consistent in this regard and, on the other, that the space between the staves is so much bigger in Leupold’s edition than in Bach’s; so that where Bach could conveniently be somewhat ambiguous, placing notes exactly “in-between” the two staves, Leupold was forced to make many tricky choices.
Towards the end of the manualiter version of Aus tiefer Not, some notes are obviously to be played in the right hand, and this is clear from Bach’s original edition; Leupold places some of these notes in the lower staff—the player’s loss, I think (see, for example, Leupold’s mm. 68 [last two notes in tenor]; 69 [last two notes in tenor]; 71 [first two notes in tenor]; 74 [last two notes in tenor]). In the fughetta on Dies sind, the Leupold edition keeps the tenor notes in m. 31 in the upper staff, even though they technically landed in the lower staff in Bach’s original; I agree with Leupold here, as these notes can only be played in the right hand. But a measure later, Leupold places the tenor in the lower staff, while—as is clear from Bach’s original—these notes are obviously to be played in the right hand. The last note in the left hand of m. 25 in the same piece is double-stemmed in Bach’s original, underlining that it and the following two notes are obviously to be played in the left hand. The Leupold edition obscures this by separating the alto from the tenor and placing it in the upper staff.
Although it is understandable that Bach’s original stemming is not necessarily followed in the Leupold edition, it is sometimes unclear why this is not done. The very beginning of the fughetta on Dies sind is stemmed down in Bach’s original but up in the Leupold edition (Example 4a/b). It is true that this is technically the tenor part, but it is also true that the listener (and in a way the player) doesn’t really know this until the bass enters in m. 8. (Moreover, Leupold stems the tenor down all the way from m. 23 to m. 27.) By stemming the tenor up, a serious problem occurs in mm. 6–7. At the end of m. 6, the alto joins the tenor on the lower staff (in fact, this is somewhat arbitrary as the C is right in the middle between the two staves, at the same height as the alto C earlier in the measure). Of course, the alto is now the higher of the two lower-staff parts and is therefore written with the stems up. Consequently, starting with the last note of m. 6, the tenor is stemmed down. As a result, the voice leading is completely obscured; in fact, one is inclined to think that the alto crosses the tenor at the last eighth of m. 6.
In m. 14, the C-sharp in the alto—right in the middle between the staves—is stemmed up by Bach, with the following G stemmed down. From Bach’s notation, it is immediately clear that the C-sharp is to be played in the left hand; the
Leupold edition, by placing the note in the upper staff, obscures this—a great loss, in my opinion.
Although Leupold, supported by his reviewers, greatly prioritizes convenient page turns, one is surprised to find a number of unnecessary, awkward turns in this volume. In the Bärenreiter edition, I found 28 inconvenient page turns; Leupold does a much better job, but I still counted thirteen “bad” page turns. In some pieces, perhaps most prominently the “great” Jesus Christus unser Heiland, this is obviously unavoidable, but not always. In the fughetta on Jesus Christus unser Heiland, the very unpractical page turn is at the end of m. 38. A few measures earlier, however, I can easily free up my left hand and I have almost a measure to turn the hypothetical page (Example 5). In the third Duetto, turning after m. 24 is hardly possible; six measures later, it would have been a breeze. It seems to me that Leupold should have been able to print those six measures on the previous page; it is true that this would have meant five two-staff systems on pp. 96 and 97, but elsewhere, Leupold has no difficulty with as many as twelve staves on a page (see pp. 30 and 31, for example). In the E-flat-major fugue, too, Leupold missed a chance: the turn at the end of m. 109 is, I think, not possible unless one possesses three hands; but turning in the middle of m. 111 would have been quite manageable. A different problem is posed in the second Duetto, where one has to turn back to play da capo. In my experience, this is asking for trouble; I don’t see why the da capo couldn’t have been written out. Alternatively, the whole piece could have been printed on two pages, as it was in the old Breitkopf edition (the one edited by Heinz Lohmann; it is about to be replaced by a new edition).
The history of the corrections in the known copies of Bach’s own edition is a bit complicated—so much so that some corrections in a copy in the British Library seem to have been overlooked until now. This copy appears to be a second personal copy of Bach’s; at least, the corrections (in black ink) are thought to be in his hand. The most spectacular of these is the additional trill on the penultimate chord of the E-flat-major fugue: the trill in the soprano is “mirrored” by one in the tenor (on the F). The Leupold edition is the first to include the additional trill, a remarkable world première, to be sure (Example 6)!
Despite the extensive editing process, this first volume does contain a number of fairly serious errors. In m. 21 of the F-major Allein Gott, the third beat is simply missing. In m. 47 of the “great” Christ unser Herr zum Jordan kam, the prolongation dot is missing in the alto. In the second Duetto, it seems to me that a dashed barline is missing before the da capo. At the end of the “great” Jesus Christus unser Heiland, the two rests are missing in the soprano. In the introductory essay, Stauffer refers to variations 14 and 28 of the Goldberg Variations as a “Scarlatti-like Italian essercizo.” The word is indeed spelled with two s’s by Scarlatti himself, though standard Italian has only one; in any case, the singular of esercizi is esercizio. The list of known copies of the original edition includes one in “Gravenhage, Netherlands.” That village, home to the Dutch government as well as the International Court of Justice, is commonly called Den Haag in Dutch these days; the official alternative, ’s-Gravenhage, with its tricky beginning, is too cumbersome even for the Dutch. English on the other hand has long adopted the name The Hague for this fair city.
An interesting theoretical issue occurs in m. 61 of the fughetta on Aus tiefer Not (Leupold’s numbering; it is apparently unavoidable that three different Bach editions can count measures in as many different ways). The second half of the first beat has a B in the tenor, but Stauffer proposes in an “ossia” to play a C-sharp instead (Example 7). Although Stauffer suggests that the ledger line may be missing in the original, a simple glance at a facsimile edition proves that this is not the case: the note is written significantly lower than the two nearby C-sharps. The emendation may have a long history (it comes from the Bach-Gesellschaft edition), but I don’t agree with Stauffer that it “appears to produce a better harmonic effect”: I hear the C-sharp in the soprano and the A in the bass as passing tones over a held B-minor chord, which is indicated as minimally as it is beautifully by the B in the tenor.
It is perhaps fair enough that English translations of the titles of the chorales are included in this American Bach edition, yet I personally would have preferred these in a convenient table in the back of the book. And in addition to English, why not include the titles in French, Spanish, even Korean? Paradoxical as it sounds, that would make the edition even more American.
The Leupold Bach edition is an excellent initiative. With some improvements, this could well become the edition of choice for many American organists. 

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.

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.

Jan-Piet Knijff teaches organ and chamber music and is organist-in-residence at the Aaron Copland School of Music at Queens College/CUNY. He holds the Doctor of Musical Arts degree from The City University of New York as well as the Artist’s Diploma from the Conservatory of Amsterdam and is an Associate of the American Guild of Organists. He won both first prize and the Audience Prize at the International Bach Competition Lausanne, Switzerland. His organ teachers have included Piet Kee, Ewald Kooiman, and Christoph Wolff. Visit his website at <www.jpkmusic.com&gt;.

Introduction

Although only a handful of his organ works survive, Nicolaus Bruhns was undoubtedly one of the most important organists of his generation; the famous Bach Obituary mentions him as one of the composers Johann Sebastian took “as a model” for his own work.1 Bruhns was born less than twenty years before Bach, in December 1665, to a family of musicians in Schwabstedt in North Frisia. At the age of 16 he went to Lübeck to study violin with his uncle Peter Bruhns and organ and composition with Dieterich Buxtehude. On the latter’s recommendation, Bruhns worked in Copenhagen for a few years, but in 1689 he returned to the land of his birth to become organist at the Stadtkirche in Husum. He declined an offer from the city of Kiel to become organist there, accepting a 25% raise in Husum instead. After almost exactly eight years in the position, Bruhns died on March 29, 1697, only 31 years old. He was succeeded by his brother Georg, who had succeeded their father in Schwabstedt at the time Nicolaus was appointed in Husum. Georg stayed in Husum until his death in 1742.

Nicolaus must have been an equally virtuoso organist and violinist, and the story that he sometimes accompanied himself on the organ pedals while playing the violin rings true (Harald Vogel was apparently the first to suggest that the arpeggio passage in the “Great” E-minor Preludium may reflect this practice). Although Bruhns’s organ in Husum was not particularly large, it must have been a very fine instrument, as it was built by Gottfried Fritzsche (1629–32), one of the foremost builders of the time. After various alterations, it had 24 stops on three manuals (Hauptwerk, Rückpositiv, and Brustwerk) and pedal in 1723. In addition to a number of sacred cantatas, Bruhns’s works for organ include two preludia in E minor, one in G major, the chorale fantasy on Nun komm, der Heiden Heiland, and an Adagio in D major (surely a fragment from a larger preludium in that key, the Adagio was first published by Carus Verlag in the Husumer Orgelbuch, Stuttgart 2001). The authorship of the Preludium in G Minor, first published by Martin Geck in 1967, remains uncertain: its only source mentions a “Mons: Prunth” as the composer, and even if the last name is to be read as Bruhns, it is possible that the work is Georg’s, not Nicolaus’s, as Barbara Ann Raedeke has suggested;2 the piece is definitely much less convincing than Bruhns’s other organ works.3

Editions

Three editions of Bruhns’s organ works are currently available in print:

• Doblinger (Vienna & Munich, 1993), edited by Michael Radulescu. Vol. 1 contains the preludia in G major and E minor, vol. 2 the preludium in G minor and two versions of the chorale fantasy Nun komm, der Heiden Heiland.

• Breitkopf & Härtel (Wiesbaden 1972), edited by Klaus Beckmann. Contains the four preludia and the chorale fantasy. A revision of this edition that will include the Adagio in D Major is scheduled for publication.

• C.F. Peters (Frankfurt & New York, 1967), originally edited by Fritz Stein for the series Das Erbe deutscher Musik in 1937–9, revised by Martin Geck. Contains the four preludia and the chorale fantasy.
Although no longer in print, the following edition can still be found in libraries and sometimes turns up in book sales:

• Kistner & Siegel (Organum series IV, vol. 8), edited by Max Seiffert. Contains only the preludia in E minor and G major.

Although all four editions can be considered scholarly “urtext” editions in their own right, there are vast differences among them. As welcome and “modern” as Seiffert’s editions in the Organum series were at the time of their publication, they are now mostly outdated, sometimes because new sources have turned up, sometimes because eighty years of scholarship (and performance) have led to new conclusions. Important to know is that Seiffert generally supplied tempo indications; he also generously added ties without telling you. The Peters edition, too, is now outdated.

Klaus Beckmann’s editions of the North German organ repertoire (his complete Buxtehude edition is best known, but he also did Böhm, Lübeck, Tunder, and many others) have often been criticized. Given the absence of autographs (manuscripts in the hand of the composer), Beckmann feels it is his task to establish as best a text as he can. In practice this often leads to changes that are arbitrary at best in the eyes of many scholars and performers. While Beckmann mentions everything (or most everything) in his critical commentary, the format he uses is not particularly inviting, to say the least; and if you don’t read German, the abbreviations are practically undecipherable. Although Beckmann’s Bruhns edition is certainly usable, you have to watch out, and better spend a couple of hours figuring out all the changes he made if you want to know what’s actually in the source.

The edition by Michael Radulescu stays much closer to the original: corrections are noted in an accessible commentary; editorial ties are dotted and editorial rests and ornaments put in brackets. The result is an edition that is very trustworthy but at the same time looks a little pedantic. An interesting feature is that Radulescu offers most pieces on two staves, with the pedal notes on the lower staff with the stems down. This is how an organist of Bruhns’s (and even Bach’s) time would have read virtually every organ work (assuming they used staff notation), but it is probably a little unpractical for most organists today, and there is hardly ever any doubt as to which bass notes belong in the pedal in Bruhns.

Most organists may prefer to play from the Beckmann edition after correcting the text on the basis of Radulescu’s edition. As an alternative, I have prepared an edition on three staves in which I have made suggestions for hand division by assigning right-hand notes to the top staff and left-hand notes to the middle staff. Since the source is written in German organ tablature (a kind of letter notation), any hand division is editorial anyway. The practice of indicating hand division however is widely used elsewhere in seventeenth-century keyboard music, and there are very few places open for serious discussion in the “Little” E-minor. The edition will be made available on-line, but for now, simply contact me by e-mail if you want a copy ([email protected]).

Overview

Let’s start off with getting an idea of the whole piece. Don’t start playing right away; just take a look at the score and see what’s going on. At the very beginning, you will notice the pedals rushing in with a dazzling solo, resulting in a “drum roll” (m. 5 ff.), supported by strong off-beat manual chords. This section is followed by a short Adagio (mm. 10–16). Then follows an Allegro in 12/8 with extensive use of the echo effect. Notice how at the end (mm. 33 ff.) the roles are inverted: the echo comes first this time!

Another short Adagio (mm. 39–46) leads to a fugue, marked Vivace (mm. 47–84). Take a look at the pedal and notice how the fugue can be divided in three short sections: mm. 47–67; 67–76; and 76–84. Once again a short Adagio, and we arrive at the final Allegro (mm. 90–105), a dialogue between soprano and pedal, ending in a playful series of arpeggiated chords.

The concluding Adagio begins with off-beat repeated chords in the hands (mm. 106–110), followed by a pedal point supporting expressive harmonies. A diminished-seventh chord is emphasized by a rhetorical pause before it resolves into the final cadence.

Beginning to play

Now that you have an idea of the piece as a whole, it’s time to start playing. But, unless you’re an experienced player and a good sight reader, don’t try to sight-read the whole piece at once. Why not start with the opening pedal solo, clearly conceived for alternating toes and really not very hard to play at all. Play the first four measures (finishing of with the first notes of m. 5) and notice how Bruhns already has told you a whole story! To get an even better idea of the expressive writing, try playing the pedal solo as “solid” chords, either with a hand (or both hands) or actually in the pedal (Example 1).
Now that you have the opening measures under your belt, let’s take a look at the very end of the piece: simply sight-read the last three measures—no big deal. Now, why not connect the beginning four measures and the last three: after the first note in m. 5, simply jump to m. 117. Play this combination of beginning and end a few times; it gives you a sort of “summary” of the piece, a “framework” to fill in the rest of the music. It’s a good idea to return to your little “summary” regularly when working on the piece; it helps you to bear in mind the end-goal of your journey.

For now, continue with the opening section, trying the pedal “drum roll.” This works best when played mildly staccato (as if repeating the note at the same pitch). Forget whatever you may have learned about keeping your knees together when playing the pedals: that doesn’t help very much in this kind of situation. Instead, think of your right knee moving out over your right foot when playing that high b. Once the pedal part feels comfortable, try adding those off-beat manual chords. You want them to be strong and expressive, sure, but since they come on light beats, try not to give them their exact full length (rather something like a dotted eighth note).

In m. 8, there is a mistake in the manuscript; the most logical solution may be to play quarter-note chords (as in Radulescu’s edition), but many organists have become used to hearing eighth-note chords here (as in Beckmann), which does give a little change of pace. See what you like best; it doesn’t really matter too much, and from the point of view of the source, you could argue either way.
When arriving at the Adagio in m. 11, be sure to keep (approximately) the same tempo by “thinking” sixteenths in that measure.

The 12/8 echo section

Think of the eighths in the right hand as triplets; you can maintain the same tempo for this section. It’s easiest to reserve the right hand for the “triplets” and take all the other manual notes in the left hand. Here are some fingering suggestions for the first two measures (Example 2).
Using the same finger for neighboring notes helps creating a clear, slightly detached sound. Make sure not to overdo it: you don’t want the music to sound too jumpy (at least, I don’t). If you feel really uncomfortable using this kind of fingering, you can easily change it, for example by using a thumb on the e'' before the d#'' in m. 18; just try to avoid a “Romantic” legato. For the left hand, you may find it easiest to start with the index finger on the first two notes. The pedal won’t give you much trouble; I would avoid heels, simply playing right-right-left-right in m. 27. In m. 36, simply stick with the right toe; “lean” a little into every note so that they don’t become too short, but you still want them to be clearly articulated.

Take your time for the manual changes to the “echo” manual and back (no matter which manual you use for the echo); the little bit of time it takes to get from one manual to another (and vice versa) actually helps making the echo effect clearer. In general, try to make your movements easy and pleasant; when it feels that way, there’s a good chance the music will also sound that way.

The fugue

Again, resist the temptation to sight-read the whole fugue. Instead, pick out the entries of the theme first and then play them in the appropriate hand or feet. Here’s how it works:

m. 47: theme in soprano, played in the right hand;

m. 50: theme in alto, left hand;

m. 53: theme in tenor, left;

m. 56: theme in bass, pedals.

Those four entries constitute the exposition of the fugue. After an “episode,” a kind of development of the motive from m. 48, we’re back to business:

m. 67: theme in alto, left hand;

m. 70: theme in tenor, left;

m. 73: theme in bass, pedals.

Finally, there are two incomplete entries of the theme:

m. 76: in alto, right hand (but put the left index finger on the long g' in m. 77);

m. 77: in soprano, right hand (with the thumb going under the left index finger on the first beat of m. 78).

This gives you the outline for the fugue. Here, by the way, is my fingering for the theme (Example 3). In the pedal, once again try to avoid the heels (Example 4).

While we’re at it: what is the reason for avoiding the heels in this kind of music? Well, first off, it makes you look good in historically informed organ circles, where the general assumption is that the heel was not (or very rarely) used in organ music up to (and including) Bach. Although we have no idea what virtuoso performers like Bruhns (and Bach) did in real life, most if not all of their music can be comfortably played without using the heel. More importantly, it’s usually easier to get a good sound and the “right” kind of touch that way. It is not true that it was (or is) impossible to use heels on seventeenth-century pedals, although it’s generally more difficult at the center (around c) than at the extremes. If you find it hard to imagine that an inventive virtuoso like Bruhns never ever in his lifetime hit on the idea of using the other part of his foot, you may want to support your theory by pointing out m. 60 in the G-major preludium, where the left foot plays two neighboring sixteenths (B–c) while the right foot is otherwise engaged. However, using the heel does not make this spot particularly easy to play either! In the end it’s not so much what you do in those exceptional cases that matters but your general approach.

Here are some more fingering suggestions for the fugue (Examples 5a and 5b). In mm. 59–61, reserve the right hand for the top voice only, combining alto and tenor in the left hand. In mm. 65–67, I recommend taking the three middle voices in the left hand, again reserving the right hand for the top line. It’s nice to have all of your right hand to shape this nice melodic line as well as possible, and to play a trill on the dotted quarter b¢ in m. 66 (see below).

The section ends with the same two measures three times (Bruhns did that more often, see the end of the second fugue of the “Great” E-minor). What to do? Well, unless you want to be boring, I wouldn’t play them the same three times. Here are some options:

• Change manuals, perhaps playing forte, piano, and pianissimo. On Buxtehude’s organ, the manuals would probably have been Hauptwerk, Rückpositiv, and Brustwerk, respectively. The problem with this is the pedal: you will probably need to adjust the pedal registration at least once (or even twice). It is possible, of course, to play the pedal part in the left hand (combining the three upper parts in the right) when going to a quieter manual (even though Bruhns’s writing does not seem to suggest it).

• Add a few ornaments the second time, and perhaps some more (or different ones) the third time.

• Play on the same manual throughout but “think” different dynamics: really strong the first time, milder the second, as light as you can the third time; or: loud at first, then more quietly, and loud again. Don’t worry too much about how the difference in sound happens; if you have a clear concept and communicate it to the organ the best you can, the result will be noticeable somehow to a sensitive listener.

Finally, a combination of two or all of the above may be even more effective. Whatever you do, if you use pedals, again reserve the right hand for the soprano and make sure to play the left hand pick-up chord really light (and short) in order to make place for the right-hand f#¢. Radulescu’s edition has a half-note chord at the beginning of m. 83; this certainly needs to be shortened to a quarter to make the soprano clear (you find this kind of thing frequently in chorale preludes by Buxtehude, for example).

The Allegro

Since this section is essentially a dialogue between right hand and pedals (think of it as the first violins on the one hand and the cellos and double basses on the other), why not begin with playing just that dialogue, without the supporting chords. To get an idea of how things sound, you can even start off with playing the pedal part in the left hand. However you do it, try to get a smooth dialogue going without “waiting for the bus” at every barline. The fingering is pretty obvious; the pedaling is a little more challenging, although there are really not that many options. Here is my suggestion (Example 6).


Yes, the left foot has to leap around a bit. And yes, you have to be a little careful to make the left-foot notes sound not too hacked (particularly the first g#). But using heels (and, for my part, silent substitution) doesn’t make things much easier either. In my experience, as long as the bench is at the right height and if you let go of the idea of keeping your knees together at all costs, the toe-only solution is easiest and sounds best. Here are some ways to play around with this spot in order to get the music “into your feet” (Example 7).

Make up your own variations! Much better to play around and have fun with a little tune like this than banging out the notes in the score a zillion times. While you’re playing around, try to make things feel as comfortable as possible. If things don’t feel quite right, try to adjust the height of the bench just a little or to move it back or forward a bit; small things can make a huge difference. Become sensitive to the way you move and try to find ways to make it easier for you.

One finger is crucial to keep you going: no matter what finger you’re using right before it (chances are it’s a thumb or else the index), put your little pinky on the third beat in m. 97.

When adding the chords to the soprano-bass dialogue, make sure not to make the quarter notes too long. The eighth-note pick-ups can be nice and short (without making them too jumpy, of course).
In m. 104, the manuscript has g¢¢ followed by f#¢. Clearly, the two notes must be in the same register. It’s really up to what you think sounds best and/or makes most sense here (Beckmann goes for high, Radulescu for low).

At the beginning of the last Adagio, imagine the repeated chords as played on one bow by a group of string players, and remember they’re off-beat, and therefore light (Example 8).

Ornaments

In a number of places, this music needs ornamentation to be at its best, either simple or more elaborate. The soprano d in m. 10 needs a trill which would probably best start with the main note, although starting with the upper note e is certainly a possibility (see below). In m. 39, the long d in the pedal followed by the written-out turn cries out for a virtuoso, long trill, something like Example 9, or perhaps Example 10. In mm. 66 and 75 of the fugue, the dotted quarter in the soprano sounds best with a simple trill, starting with the main note, something like this (Example 11).

The suggested fingering helps to create a nice, clear trill; the articulation before the turn actually sounds good and suggests a bit of a diminuendo. But if you don’t like putting the middle finger over the index, simply put a thumb on the last note of the trill.

Most of the trills I have suggested here start with the main note. But isn’t there some kind of rule that trills in Baroque music always start with the upper note? Well, yes, but that’s one of those gross oversimplifications of popularized historically informed performance practice. In the seventeenth century, main-note trills seem to be the rule, although upper-note trills certainly exist, and apparently became quite fashionable in France in the second half of the century. A rule of thumb: if the note with the trill is itself consonant, start with the upper note; but if the note itself is dissonant, then start with the main note. In both cases, the first note of the trill is dissonant, creating that nice little bit of friction. Also, if the note immediately before the trill is already the upper note, you may not want to repeat it as the beginning note of the trill.

If you want to add a trill on the soprano d#'' in m. 85 (which would sound very nice), consider starting with the upper note. A trill on the soprano b¢ on the second beat of m. 97 could go either way, as long is the trill is short. The soprano c'' on the last beat of m. 100 could also go either way, depending on whether you want to emphasize the c'' (start with the main note) or whether you want to incorporate the preceding sixteenths in the trill (start with the upper note).

More ornamentation: the Adagios

The four Adagio sections, with almost exclusively whole notes and half notes, may sound lovely the way they are written—they would probably be considered an opportunity for (quite) extensive ornamentation by any performer of Bruhns’s time. How much and what exactly you want to do is ultimately up to you, but here are some ideas for mm. 10–16 (Example 12).

With these ideas as a basis, try to work something out for the other sections. Bear in mind that the ornamentation is supposed to make the music more expressive, not to show off your virtuosity or to emulate the composer. Try not to write your ornaments down, but instead play around with as many different ideas as you can come up with. Ideally, your ornamentation is going to be different from performance to performance! In the final Adagio, Bruhns uses imitation: the chromatic line a–g#–g–f# appears in the soprano (m. 111), tenor (m. 113) and, sort of, in the bass (m. 115). In order to bring out the imitation, you may want to use similar ornaments for both the soprano and the tenor line.

Registration

Large-scale pieces like preludes and toccatas are played with an organo pleno registration: principals 8', 4', 2', mixtures, the Quint 22?3' if there is one, and perhaps a flue stop 16' in the manuals (Bruhns might have used his Quintadena 16¢), and the same plus reeds in the pedals (use at least a Posaune 16' if you have one). You can add an 8' flute stop in the hands to make the sound a bit fuller, but avoid throwing in tons of 8' and 4' stops; that tends to make the sound muddy. You probably want a really big pedal registration for the solo at the beginning; if the pedal is not loud enough by itself, couple to one (or more) of the manuals.


The question is to what extent you want to vary registration for the various sections of a piece like this. Obviously, you will need an echo manual for the 12/8 section. You sometimes hear this section with a “small” registration (8+4+2, or 8+4+1, or something like that) and something like flutes 8+2 for the echo. As always, much depends on the organ and the particular situation, but I like to use at least a small pleno for this section with a few stops for the echo (which could effectively be played on the Brustwerk on an organ similar to Bruhns’s).
It could be nice if the fugue is a little quieter than the first and last sections; you could use a slightly lighter pleno or even principals 8+4+2, for example; of course, you would have to lighten the pedal, probably by taking off the reed(s) and perhaps the mixture. M. 85 could be a place to go back to a bigger registration, with further opportunities for a crescendo in m. 90 (marking the beginning of the Allegro), m. 106, and m. 117.

Tempo

The tempo of any performance of any piece of music depends on many factors including the acoustics of the hall, the time of the day, and without a doubt the mood of the performer. Many compositions can sound surprisingly convincing at very different tempi; the most important thing is that the tempo feels right to you! Nonetheless, here are some metronome markings for the piece; take them for what they are: a ballpark indication.

Beginning: ~66

12/8: ~60–66

Fugue: ~60

Allegro: ~96

Discography

Finally, for CD collectors, the following recordings of Bruhns’s complete organ works may be worth considering:

• Piet Kee: Bruhns and Buxtehude. Roskilde Cathedral, Denmark. Chandos CHAN0539.

• Lorenzo Ghielmi: Bruhns, Buxtehude, and Brunckhorst. Basilica San Simpliciano, Milan, Italy. Winter & Winter 910 070-2.

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”??

Markus Rathey, Ph.D. is Associate Professor of Music History at the Yale Institute of Sacred Music and the Yale School of Music. His research focuses on Johann Sebastian Bach and the relationship of music, religion and society in the 17th and 18th centuries.

Buxtehude’s chorale variations
The number of chorale variations in Dietrich Buxtehude’s organ works is considerably smaller than in the oeuvre of other northern and central German composers like Samuel Scheidt, Georg Böhm, and Jan Pieterszoon Sweelinck. Among Buxtehude’s organ works the chorale variations form a rather small group of six sets:1

BuxWV 177, Ach Gott und Herr, 2 variations
BuxWV 179, Auf meinen lieben Gott, 5 variations
BuxWV 181, Danket dem Herren, 3 variations
BuxWV 205, Meine Seele erhebt den Herren, 2 variations
BuxWV 207, Nimm von uns Herr, du treuer Gott, 4 variations
BuxWV 213, Nun lob, mein Seel, den Herren, 3 variations

An overview of Buxtehude’s chorale variations would, however, be incomplete without considering the use of chorale-based variation in other genres. Among his organ works, we find traditional techniques of the chorale variation in his chorale fantasies. Here, each phrase of the melody is treated “separately and in different voices,”2 whereas in the chorale partita (or chorale variation) the technique of variation changes with each stanza of the hymn.3 Yet another type of “chorale variation” in Buxtehude’s oeuvre is the variation of chorale melodies in his numerous chorale cantatas. The chorale cantatas are based on the texts and melodies of Protestant hymns, in which each movement (or larger section) treats a single stanza employing a different technique.4 Buxtehude’s chorale cantatas range from rather simple settings like In dulci jubilo, BuxWV 52, to complex compositions that transform the traditional melody into an expressive vocal concerto, like Jesu, meine Freude, BuxWV 60.5
While there is no doubt that Buxtehude’s chorale cantatas and chorale fantasies are significant contributions to their respective genres, his chorale variations stand, as far as their reception goes, in the shadow of these more elaborate compositions. Kerala Snyder, in her seminal biography of Buxtehude, gives a rather negative assessment:

Chorale variations play the least important role in Buxtehude’s keyboard music. Not only are they few in number, but the style in which most of them are composed is not distinctive. [...] With one significant exception [BuxWV 179] these variation sets do not form convincing cycles, and they appear to have been composed either for alternatim performance or for teaching purposes.6

Similarly, Kathryn Welter states that Buxtehude’s chorale variations have a “non-distinctive style.”7
Arnfried Edler, on the other hand, in his recent history of keyboard music, finds more positive words for Buxtehude’s chorale variations:

The principle of a unifying climax in sound and tension can be seen [in Buxtehude’s chorale variations] to different degrees; it is most obvious in Nun lob mein Seel den Herren (BuxWV 213), where the variations begin with a bicinium; then follows a tricinium with cantus firmus in the upper voice until the set is closed by a tricinium with bass cantus firmus.8

For other chorale variations, however, the unifying elements are less obvious and often nonexistent.
While the chorale partitas seem to lack the compelling structural coherence and the depth in text interpretation exhibited by the fantasies and the cantatas, they are more than simple Gebrauchsmusik, compositions that fulfill a merely utilitarian purpose. The following essay will focus on Buxtehude’s chorale variations on the hymn Nimm von uns Herr, du treuer Gott, BuxWV 207, examining its musical structure, its function, and its contexts in contemporary piety.

Nimm von uns Herr, BuxWV 207
The variations are based on a Protestant chorale from the second half of the 16th century. The text has seven stanzas and was published in 1584 by the 16th-century poet and theologian Martin Moller (1547–1606); the words were traditionally combined with Martin Luther’s melody for the hymn Vater unser, im Himmelreich. (See Example 1: Melody, “Nimm von uns Herr.”)

First movement
Buxtehude’s set of variations consists of four verses. The first verse is a three-part setting, with the cantus firmus in mostly unembellished fashion in the upper voice. The occasional embellishments of the melody (mm. 8, 11, and 27) occur only at the beginning or the middle of a phrase, never at the end. This movement is basically a figuratively embellished chorale harmonization. The harmonic backdrop is dissolved into a continuous sixteenth-note motion. The lower voices serve primarily as accompaniment. Only occasionally (in the interludes between the lines of the chorale or later in mm. 21–24) does the alto voice develop a certain degree of independence and engage into a motivic dialogue with the bass.
The texture of the movement resembles the type we find in the chorale variations of Buxtehude’s contemporary Johann Pachelbel, and even in the works of Johann Gottfried Walther, who was of a later generation. Buxtehude himself used this type only rarely. The single chorale setting Jesus Christus, unser Heiland, BuxWV 198, is very similar to the first verse of BuxWV 207. In both pieces Buxtehude employs an analogous “running” sixteenth figuration in the lower voices, while the chorale melody is played in the upper voice. Like BuxWV 207/1, the piece is not a strict trio but rather a figuratively embellished chorale harmonization. The same is true for the first verse of the chorale variations on Danket dem Herren, BuxWV 181, and the second verse of the chorale partita Nun lob, mein Seel, den Herren, BuxWV 213. Even though he used it only rarely, Buxtehude seems to have preferred this type of chorale setting mostly in his chorale variations rather than in independent chorale preludes. Only one such individual setting (BuxWV 198) has come down to us; however, it cannot be ruled out that other, similar compositions by Buxtehude have been lost.

Second (and fourth) movement(s)
The second movement of Nimm von uns Herr is a traditional bicinium, standing in the tradition of similar pieces by Jan Pieterszoon Sweelinck and Samuel Scheidt. The melody in the upper voice, even less embellished than in the first movement, is accompanied by a lower voice of extraordinarily wide tessitura, spanning the range from alto (mm. 7–9) to a low bass voice (m. 28). (See Example 2.) A comparison with similar settings by Sweelinck (Example 3) and Scheidt (Example 4) exhibits Buxtehude’s roots in these traditions. All three examples begin with the first note of the cantus firmus; the accompanying voice enters later (here a quarter note) in unison, before it reaches the third of the chorale melody through passing notes.
The few embellishments of the melody (mainly simple passing notes) in Buxtehude’s bicinium are encountered at the same places as they were in the first movement: in the middle of the second and the beginning of the third phrase. Only the short melismatic embellishment of the last phrase in the first movement finds no correspondence in the second movement.
We pass over the third movement for a moment and come to the last section of Buxtehude’s chorale partita. It is another bicinium with the cantus firmus in the upper voice and a vivid, motivically independent lower voice of wide tessitura. The embellishments of the melodic line (again mainly passing notes) are at the same places as in the first bicinium—a feature that ensures a certain degree of motivic consistency between the two bicinia.
Monody and expression: the third movement of BuxWV 207
The third movement is exceptional. It conforms to the type of chorale setting that is traditionally labeled as “organ chorale” (Orgelchoral) or “monodic organ chorale” (monodischer Orgelchoral).9 The melody in the upper voice is highly embellished, while the lower three voices serve as an accompaniment and bridge the gaps between the chorale lines with short, imitative interludes. It is the type of chorale setting Buxtehude uses in most of his single-movement chorale preludes.10 The structure is the same as in the chorale preludes: the upper voice begins (here with a vivid embellishment of the first note of the hymn) before the three lower voices enter with a mostly homophonic accompaniment.11 (See Examples 5 and 6.)
While the majority of Buxtehude’s settings of this type begin with a simple long note in the upper voice,12 this one is opened by an extensive, octave-encompassing embellishment of the first note of the cantus firmus, establishing the d-minor tonality, which is later confirmed by the entrance of the lower voices. Example 6, Buxtehude’s setting of the hymn Komm, Heiliger Geist, shows that the composer occasionally employs a similar opening in other monodic chorale settings as well.
While the movement stays within the margins of Buxtehude’s style, it is unusual to find a setting of this type in the context of an otherwise rather simple chorale partita, breaking up the frame established by the other movements. It is also the only movement in the partita that requires pedal. The unusual structure of the set of variations requires explanation.
One explanation could be that the chorale partita, in its current form, is not the partita Buxtehude composed. A reduction of the work to verses 1, 2 and 4 would turn the composition into a more coherent set of three variations for manual only, with a three-part setting at the beginning and two bicinia following. In that way, the composition would somewhat resemble the chorale variations on Nun lob, mein Seel, den Herren, BuxWV 213 (Bicinium–Trio–Trio). However, the sources for the partita do not justify the exclusion of the third movement. Not a single source (even those with that are incomplete) preserves the chorale partita without the third movement.13 One manuscript (the now lost Königsberg manuscript, Sammlung Gotthold Ms 15.839, copied by Johann Gottfried Walther) contains only the third movement, but it is more likely that Walther (or the source he used) took the piece out of its original context than that the movement was inserted into the already existing set of the variations 1, 2, and 4.
The combination of unembellished and highly embellished verses in a chorale variation was not entirely unusual in the 17th century. We find similar combinations in the chorale variations by Heinrich Scheidemann (~1596–1663), who, as Kerala Snyder suggests, could have been Buxtehude’s teacher in Hamburg.14 But even if Buxtehude did not directly study with Scheidemann, the latter’s pieces were widely disseminated in manuscripts, and Buxtehude surely had access to compositions by the Hamburg organ master. In other words, Buxtehude’s chorale variations on Nimm von uns Herr—even though they seem to be incoherent—stay within the margins of both the composer’s style and the style of northern German organ music in the second half of the 17th century in general.

Form and function
How was Buxtehude’s chorale partita used? We know from Lübeck sources from the 17th and early 18th centuries that chorales were sung “alternatim,” which means that the congregation and the organ alternated in the performance of the hymns.15 One verse was sung by the congregation, which in Lübeck at this time still normally sang without the accompaniment of the organ. The next verse was then played by the organist while the congregation “sang” the text of the stanza, which they knew by heart, in their minds. Then another verse was sung by the congregation, and so forth. Furthermore, the hymns were preceded by an organ prelude.
We can assume that the chorale variations on Nimm von uns Herr were also used in alternation with the singing of the congregation. They were probably performed in the following way:

BuxWV 207/1 Organ prelude
Congregation Verse 1
BuxWV 207/2 Verse 2
Congregation Verse 3
BuxWV 207/3 Verse 4
Congregation Verse 5
BuxWV 207/4 Verse 6
Congregation Verse 7
The four movements fit perfectly into the seven-verse structure of the hymn. The first movement served as a prelude; the remaining movements replaced the even numbered verses, while the congregation sang the odd numbered.
A comparison between the hymn stanzas the organ replaced and Buxtehude’s compositional realization suggests a correspondence between musical form and lyrical content. The first bicinium in the set of variations (movement 2) replaced the following stanza:

Erbarm dich deiner bösen Knecht.
Wir bitten Gnad und nicht das Recht;
Denn so du, Herr, den rechten Lohn
Uns geben wolltst nach unserm Thun,
So müßt die ganze Welt vergehn
Und könnt kein Mensch vor dir bestehn.

Have mercy upon your evil servants.
We ask for mercy and not for justice;
For if you, Lord, wanted to give
The earned reward to us for our deeds,
The whole world would have to perish
And no man could stand before thee.

It would be too much to expect a set of chorale variations of this time to give a musical exegesis of the text; however, the movement clearly transfers the affect of the stanza into music. The restrained sonority of the two-part texture, the chromaticism and hushed thirty-second notes accompanying the third phrase of the melody (“for if you, Lord, wanted to give the earned reward,” mm. 12–14), and the restless sixteenth-note motion towards the end of the setting (“and no man could stand before thee”) capture the mood of the text, a feeling of trepidation and hope.
The second bicinium, replacing the sixth stanza, reflects the general affect of the words in a similar fashion:

Gedenk an deins Sohns bittern Tod,
Sieh an sein heilig Wunden rot,
Die sind ja für die ganze Welt
Die Zahlung und das Lösegeld,
Des trösten wir uns allezeit
Und hoffen auf Barmherzigkeit.

Remember your son’s bitter death,
Look upon His holy red wounds,
That are indeed for the entire world
The settlement and ransom,
From this we gain consolation always
And hope in your compassion.
The restrained sonority of the two-part texture underlines the meditative character of the text. An interesting melismatic embellishment appears in the second phrase, emphasizing the words “look upon His holy red wounds.” Furthermore, the textural similarity between the two settings (both are bicinia with the melody in the upper voice) underlines the theological correspondence of stanzas 2 and 6. Both focus on the juxtaposition of grace and justice, using monetary images (“reward” in verse 2 and “ransom” in verse 6). In other words, the musical structure reflects the theological structure of the hymn text.
Stanza four of the chorale was replaced with the extraordinarily embellished third verse of the partita.

Warum willt du doch zornig sein
Über uns arme Würmelein?
Weißt du doch wohl, du großer Gott,
Daß wir nichts sind als Erd und Kot;
Es ist ja vor deim Angesicht
Unser Schwachheit verborgen nicht.

Why would you be so angry
Against us poor little worms?
For you know well, great God,
That we are nothing but dirt and dung;
Indeed before your face
our weakness is not hidden.

Between wrath and melancholy
Even though is it possible to find correspondences between single words of the text and Buxtehude’s way of embellishing the chorale melody (the wrathful God, mentioned in the initial line, could be the reason for the rhythmically agitated embellishment of the first note of the melody), it is more important to see how the movement captures the mood of the entire stanza. The most agitated and graphic verse of the text finds its equivalent in the most agitated and expressive verse of the partita. That this correspondence between text and instrumental realization is more than a coincidence is revealed through a comparison with a vocal setting of the same hymn by Johann Sebastian Bach. While Buxtehude himself in his chorale cantata Nimm von uns Herr, BuxWV 78, leaves out verses 4–6 of the hymn and only sets 1–3 and 7, Bach in his chorale cantata BWV 101 (composed in 1724) employs all seven verses (even though some appear in free paraphrase). Bach writes a similarly agitated aria when he sets the fourth verse of the hymn.16 He even features an agitated broken minor chord at the very beginning, just as Buxtehude does. The paraphrase of the fourth stanza in Bach’s cantata can be read as a theological commentary on the chorale text, enforcing the dramatic affect of the hymn text:

Warum willst du so zornig sein?
Es schlagen deines Eifers Flammen
Schon über unserm Haupt zusammen.
Ach, stelle doch die Strafen ein
Und trag aus väterlicher Huld
Mit unserm schwachen Fleisch Geduld.

Why would You be so angry?
The flames of Your zeal already
Strike together over our heads.
Ah, leave off Your punishments
And out of paternal favor deal
Patiently with our weak flesh.17

The similarities between Bach and Buxtehude are rooted in a similar type of religiosity. In the fourth verse, the hymn talks about the remembrance of mortality, an aspect of central importance to the piety of the 17th and early 18th centuries. The recognition of one’s own fallibility and transience was a precondition for salvation. Only one who recognized one’s sinfulness was also able to embrace God’s grace. The Lübeck Superintendent August Pfeiffer, at this time serving at the same church as Buxtehude, in his Anti-melancholicus, oder Melancholey-Vertreiber (1691), gives a very graphic description of the final hours:

I take fright as well whenever I think that my limbs, which I so carefully nourished and clothed and so tenderly cared for in my lifetime and which did me such steadfast service, should moulder and rot in the earth, and become a stinking carcass, dung, and filth, and perhaps be carried off by a thousand worms or maggots.18

Pfeiffer’s text uses metaphors similar to the fourth stanza of the hymn. The memento mori, the remembrance (and awareness) of death, was a cornerstone of contemporary piety. Again, if one verse deserved an embellished treatment in the course of the chorale partita, it was the fourth one. Even if we mistrust a literal identification of single embellishments with individual words of the chorale text, we must concede that the emotional quality of the fourth stanza, a quality that found its equivalent in the contemporary religiosity, lends itself to a more emotional treatment in the set of chorale variations.

Conclusions
The initial question remains: What is a convincing cycle? The structure of the set of variations was obviously determined by the text of the chorale. It also reacts to the necessities of its intended performance practice (alternatim). The partita was not intended for performance in a recital, but was planned as a composition that needed the integration of congregational singing. In this context, the set of variations appeared as a prelude and an embellished organ chorale that was framed by two bicinia, with the congregation adding another layer of structure to the performance. One could label the resulting form a ritornello-structure—only that the “ritornello” was not provided by the composer because it was sung by the congregation.
In this way, BuxWV 207 is different from Buxtehude’s partita Auf meinen lieben Gott, BuxWV 179, where the five stanzas of the hymn are transfigured into five dances, forming the movements of a conventional dance suite. That piece was composed for use at home, specifically for individual religious edification in the realm of domestic piety. Each of the five instrumental movements replaces the singing of the five stanzas of the chorale, and Buxtehude chose the form of a suite as the external idea to connect the movements.19 In our example, the circumstances of the performance already provided a “convincing” cyclic concept, in which the composer only had to insert the movements of the chorale partita. This granted him the liberty to react to the individual texts of the chorale melody. The chorale variation is characterized not so much by a lack of structure, but by the freedom given the composer through the existent structure in the alternatim practice.
When we perform Buxtehude’s chorale variations today, we mostly do so in a concert setting and not in the context of the liturgy. However, a modern performance that simply strings together the four movements of BuxWV 207 neglects an important aspect of historical performance practice. Even if we do not ask our concert audience to sing the verses of the hymn (but why should we not?), we could insert hymn settings of the chorale between the single movements. This would also enable the listeners, most of whom are probably unaware of the actual melody, to recognize the hymn tune in the variations. This could be especially helpful for the highly embellished third movement of the chorale partita.