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he so expanded them and filled them with his poetry and emotion
that no further growth was possible to them. These are the fugue
and the suite.

V
Most of Bach’s predecessors and many of his contemporaries
regarded the fugue as the highest form of instrumental music. It was
the form in which they put their most serious endeavor. The
harmonic basis of music was generally accepted and skill in weaving
a contrapuntal or a polyphonic piece out of a principal motive or
theme, and two or three subsidiary ones, was more or less common
to all musicians. Yet fugues up to the time of Bach lacked a logical
unity of construction. Excellent as the craftsmanship displayed in
them might be, the effect was not satisfactory. There seemed, for
instance, to be no very clear reason why a fugue should end except
that the composer chose to end it. There was no principle of balance
governing the work as a whole. It was architecturally out of
proportion, or it failed to impress its proportions upon the listener.
Bach alone seems to have given the fugue a perfectly balanced
form, to have endowed it not only with life but with organization as
well.

The secret of this is that at the bottom of his fugues lies a broadly
conceived, well-balanced and firmly constructed harmonic plan. It
must be granted, besides, that the subjects out of which he builds
them have a singular vitality and are full of suggestion. But Bach,
with his fertility in highly charged musical ideas and his apparently
unlimited power to weave and ravel and weave musical material in
endless variety of effects, rarely let his skill or his enthusiasm betray
his sense of proportion. There is a compactness in nearly all his
fugues which results from the compression of expressive ideas
within the well-defined limits of a logical, harmonic plan.

Doubtless, the definiteness of this harmonic plan is more or less

concealed from our modern ears by the uninterrupted movement of
the voice parts, which was part of the conventional ideal of
polyphonic writing. We are used to the pauses or stereotyped
repetitions of the more modern style, which throw harmonic goals
into prominence whereon the mind may perch and rest for a
moment. Such perches are for the most part lacking in the Bach
fugues. The subject takes flight and flies without rest until the end.
Moreover, the art of playing Bach which brings out more than the
regular and mechanical march of the voice-parts is unhappily
extremely rare. Evenness of execution, that unhappy bête-noire of
the striving student, is exalted far above any really more difficult,
subtle variation of touch which may veil the flow of the various
independent melodies in order to bring out the beautiful changing
harmonies, arising from them like colored mist. But a simple analysis
of any fugue will reveal the clear, well-balanced plan underneath it.

Pause for a moment at one or two of those that are better known.
Take, for example, the fugue in C-sharp major from the first book of
the ‘Well-tempered Clavichord.’ There is the conventional opening
section, in which the theme and secondary themes are announced.
We have tonic, dominant, and a clear cadence again in the tonic.
Then begins the strong pull toward the dominant, so nearly inevitable
in most kinds of musical form, and finally the dominant triumphant
with the main theme strong and clear, and a solid cadence.

Here, on the basis of harmony, the first broad part ends, and the
music goes on to explore and develop through other keys. The
harmonies are rich, the counterpoint melodious, the theme
whispered as a recollection from the first land of familiar tonic and
dominant. Then clearly we are held for a moment to enjoy E-sharp
minor before we play back again, with fragments of the theme, to our
well-known dominant and tonic. Off again on motives we cannot fail
to recognize, as if we were again to wander afield in harmonies. But,
no; we sink firmly upon a swelling G-sharp, our dominant again, the
best known note of our theme. The captive harmonies rise and fall.
Movement they have, but escape is impossible. The return home is
inevitable, it is imminent, it is done. Cheerfully our theme traces its
old ground. It pauses a moment as if contemplating further flight, but
the tonic key is all-powerful and the flight is ended and with it our
fugue.

It is all lucid and logical: the first broad section with its twice-told
tonic and its accustomed urge to the dominant; the many measures
of wandering that yet pause to make harmonies clear; the long
struggle against the anchoring G-sharp that pulls ultimately home.

Or take, for example, the more complicated fugue in G minor (Book

I). We find, with few exceptions, the same plan. There are four
voices to enter, and the exposition of the theme and counter-subjects
is consequently longer. But they come in regularly, one after the
other, tonic, dominant, tonic, dominant; and then the irresistible sway
of the whole fabric to the relative major, made clear by an unusually
obvious cadence. There follows the development section and the
various episodic modulations, all held intimately together by
recurrences of the main theme. The keys are well-defined. Then,
instead of a firm anchoring of all this variety on a pedal point, we
have a descending, regular sequence which inevitably suggests an
objective point to be reached—the return of the music at last to the
keys in which it was first made known to us. And now in this final
restatement, instead of retracing step by step the opening measures,
we hear the entrances of the theme pressed close together,
overlapping, a persistent leading F-sharp from which there is but one
escape, the final chords settling majestically into G minor.

Both these fugues are built upon a well-balanced and yet varied
harmonic groundwork. The art of Bach shows especially in the
middle or developing section in the clearness with which he brings
out the various harmonic stages through which he leads his music,
and in the manner in which, by the unmistakable method of a
persistent pedal point or a regular sequence, he brings back the final
restatement of his material in a section balancing the opening
section.

Other fugues in the same collection, such as those in C-sharp minor

and in B-flat minor, are more architectural. But, though the
marvellous building up of themes and counter-themes, as in the C-
sharp minor fugue, seems to outline a very cathedral of sound, we
shall find none the less the same tri-partite harmonic base
underneath the work as a whole.

In longer fugues, such as the great one in C minor coupled with a

toccata and that in D minor which is associated with the ‘Chromatic
Fantasy,’ the balance between the opening and closing sections is
somewhat obscured by the long free section in between. But even
here a unity is maintained by the skillful repetition of striking
passages and the return to the final section is always magnificently
prepared.

Bach did not bind himself to rules in writing his fugues. He handled
his material with great freedom. Witness many fugues like that in F
minor in the second part of the ‘Well-tempered Clavichord,’ in which
he often subdued the main theme to a capricious, obvious second
theme. Such a treatment of the fugue approaches the dramatic; and
this, together with the division, quite clear in so many, into three
sections of exposition, development and restatement, cannot but
suggest some sort of kinship between the fugue as Bach conceived
it and the movement in so-called sonata form which grew to such
splendid proportions in the half-century after his death. At any rate,
we are compelled to recognize that in spite of the contrapuntal style,
inherited from an age in which harmonic sequence was a secondary
element in music, the Bach fugues owe their imperishable form to
the same principles of harmonic foundation as those upon which the
sonata-form of Mozart and Beethoven is known to rest.

VI
Though in the matter of musical form the name of Bach at once
suggests the fugue, he brought the suite to no less perfection and
significance. It must, however, be granted that the suite suffers by
comparison with the fugue as a great form in music. First, the
convention that all its movements be in the same key is more than
likely to make the work as a whole monotonous. Secondly, the more
or less obligatory dependence upon dance rhythms tends to restrict
emotional vivacity and subtlety. Thirdly, since there can be but little
contrast and variety among the separate movements, the suite lacks
organic or internal life.

On the other hand, the emphasis laid upon rhythm may give the
individual movements more obvious charm than the fugue is likely to
exert. Furthermore, though the scope of the movements is more
restricted than that of the fugue, the form is freer. And the neat
balance of structure, with its two repeated sections, is undoubtedly
more sympathetic to our modern ear than the involved architecture
of the fugue. Lastly, though the sequence of allemande, courante,
bourrée, gigue and other conventional movements may give us too
much of a good thing, the sarabande does afford that striking point of
contrast which is the precious asset of the great cyclic forms,
whether sonata, string quartet, or symphony.

Bach wrote three complete sets of suites: the so-called French

suites, which seem to have been written for his second wife during
the time of his stay at Cöthen; the English suites,[20] and the
‘Partitas,’ which we may call the German suites. Both the English
suites and the Partitas were written at Leipzig, and the latter were
among the few works engraved and printed during his lifetime.

Inasmuch as the form of the suite, its sequence and normal number
of movements, had been clearly defined both by Froberger and
Kuhnau some time before Bach began to write, he cannot be said to
have assisted in its creation, as he did in the creation of the fugue.
From the point of view of form he neither added anything nor, strictly
speaking, improved upon what he inherited. What he did do was to
expand the limits of the various movements to great and noble
proportions, and to fill them with a wealth of musical vigor and
imagination hardly suggested before his day in any instrumental
music except Corelli’s.

The French suites are the simplest and the most conventional. The
style of them is unquestionably lighter than that of the later suites;
but this may well be due less to an attempt to write in the style galant
of Couperin, than to a desire to compose music technically within the
grasp of his young and charming second wife. The sequence of the
movements is conventional. All six have as their first three
movements the normal allemande, courante and sarabande. All
close with a gigue. Between the sarabande and the gigue he placed
a number of extra dances, two minuets in the first suite, an air and
minuet in the second, two minuets and an Anglaise in the third. The
fourth and fifth have each three of these intermezzi, including
gavottes, a bourrée and a loure; and the last has an odd group of
four, consisting of a gavotte, a polonaise, a bourrée and a minuet.
Only two of the courantes follow the French model with its
complicated shifting rhythm. The others are of the more rapid Italian
style.

The movements are all short and in the now familiar binary form,
with its first section modulating from tonic to dominant, and repeated;
and its second section going by way of a few more complicated
modulations back again from dominant to tonic. There is little trace of
a marked differentiation between the musical material given first in
the tonic, and that given later in the dominant.

The hand of Bach is, however, not to be mistaken even here in these
relatively simple pieces. The style is firm and for the most part close
upon the organ style; the melodies—and there are melodies—are
surprisingly sweet and fresh; the rhythm, delightfully crisp and
vivacious. It is to be regretted that these early suites have generally
dropped from the concert stage.

In looking over the English suites, which are undoubtedly the

greatest works of their kind, one is first struck by the magnificent
preludes. Each of the six suites has its prelude, longer by far and
more powerful than any of the subsequent movements. In breadth of
plan, in all-compelling vigor and vitality, in a magnificent, healthy
emotion, these preludes may hold their places beside any single
movements which have since been written. It cannot be denied that
their style is more the style of organ than pianoforte music. A certain
severity must also be admitted, which may leave something lacking
to the modern ear that in a relatively long movement craves
something of sensuous warmth. But their power is truly immense.

The style is highly contrapuntal and with few exceptions follows the
convention of uninterrupted movement. This tends, as in many of the
fugues, to hide the formal outline. The listener hears the music
flowing on page after page and may be pardoned if, being able to
recognize in the torrent of sound only one distinctly recurring theme,
he thinks he is hearing music akin to the fugue. As a matter of fact,
however, with the exception of only the first, the structure of these
preludes is astonishingly formal and astonishingly simple. The
second, fourth, fifth and sixth are fundamentally arias, on a huge
scale.

The aria form is one of the simplest in music, one of the most
effective as well, and was the first to develop under the influence of
the Italian opera of the seventeenth century. It has frequently been
called the A-B-A form. This is because it is made up of three distinct
sections of which the first and last, predominantly in the tonic key,
are identical, and the middle in some contrasting key or keys and of
contrasting musical material. To spare themselves the trouble of
writing out the last section, composers adopted the convention of
merely writing the Italian words da capo (from the beginning) at the
end of the second section, and of placing a double bar at the end of
the first, over which the singer or player was not to pass upon his
second performance of this section. Bach could have adopted this
economical device, had he so desired, in the four preludes just
mentioned; for each of them proves, upon examination, to be
composed of three distinct sections, the middle more or less the
longest, the first and last note for note the same.

We have already remarked how most of Bach’s fugues, especially

the shorter ones, can be divided into three sections based upon
harmony. In the preludes to the English suites the question of
musical material enters into the division. Take for analysis the
prelude in A minor to the second suite. The first section ends at the
beginning of the fifty-fifth measure. It will be seen to open with a bold
figure, the first notes of which are at once imitated in the left-hand
part. There follows then a constant flow of figure work over a
relatively simple harmonic foundation and through orderly
sequences, the hands frequently imitating each other. Fragments of
the opening phrase are heard five times. In the thirty-first measure a
very distinct phrase is introduced, still in the tonic key, it will be
observed, though in dominant harmony; and this is repeated in
purely conventional manner in three registers, giving way to formal
passage work which, falling and rising, leads to a good stout
reiteration of the opening motive. With this the first section ends, in a
full tonic cadence.

The second section begins at once with a wholly new figure which
dominates the music from now on up to the one hundred and tenth
measure. At this measure the second section ends, and here Bach
might have written the words da capo; for what follows is but a
repetition of the first fifty-five measures.

It must be noticed that, although the middle section is decidedly

dominated by a figure which does not appear in the first, still the first
theme is not allowed to be forgotten. It may be found five times in the
course of the middle section, dividing, as it were, the new material
into distinct clauses, and serving as well to impress upon our ears
the unity of the piece as a whole.

This device is not truly germane to the aria form. It is suggestive of

the rondo in general; and in particular of the modified rondo form of
the Vivaldi violin concerto, of which we know Bach made a minute
study.

In the splendid prelude to the third suite, in G minor, this concerto

form is far more in evidence than the aria form. But the fourth, fifth,
and sixth (barring the slow introduction) are like the second in
superbly simple three-part aria form. This fact is well worth
recollecting in connection with the development of the sonata form of
a later period.
The remaining movements of the suites present no irregularities.
These are the dignified allemandes, the Italian or French courantes,
the elusive, sad sarabandes, always one or two Intermezzi, a
Gavotte, a Bourrée, a Passepied or a Minuet, and the final Gigues
with their conventional contrapuntal tricks and turns.

The Partitas are far less regular in structure. The opening

movements are called by various names. There is a prelude for the
first, short and in simple, rich style; a Sinfonie for the second, with
three distinct parts, suggesting the French overture; a Fantasie for
the third; and for the fourth, fifth, and sixth, respectively, an Overture,
a Preamble, and a Toccata. The second and third have odd
movements, such as a Rondo, a Caprice, a Burlesca, and a
Scherzo. On the whole, in spite of the technical perfection never
absent in Bach’s work, and some movements such as the closing
Gigue of the first partita, these suites are inferior to the English
suites. There is something tentative about the new styles of preludes
and about the interpolation of freakish intermezzi, which rather mars
them from the point of view of unity and balance in the cyclic forms.

But the English suites stand out as magnificent specimens of

vigorous and yet emotional music, great and broad in scope, perfect
in detail—keyboard music which in many ways has never been
surpassed.

VII
Besides the fugues and the suites there is a great deal of other and
less easily defined harpsichord and clavichord music. We are not
wanting in titles. We have Preludes, Toccatas, and Fantasias, also
some Capriccios. These are, on the whole, of free and more or less
whimsical structure. The preludes, and one thinks of the forty-eight
little masterpieces of the ‘Well-tempered Clavichord,’ are usually
simple and short. They are for the most part clearly harmonic music.
Some are nothing more than a series of chords, notably those in C
major, C minor, D minor, in the first part. The origin of this simple
form of music has already been discussed; but the origin of the
particular and well-nigh matchless beauty of these of Bach’s
preludes can be found only in the great depths of his own genius,
which here more almost than anywhere else, is incomprehensible.
The subtlety of the modulations, the great tenderness and poetry of
the chords, the infinite suggestion of feeling—all these within little
pieces that might easily be printed on half a page, that have no
definite outline, no trace of melody: we can but close our eyes and
wonder.

Other preludes which are far more articulate, so to speak, are still
fundamentally only harmonic music. So we may reckon the preludes
in C-sharp major, in C-sharp minor, in E-flat minor, in G minor, in E
major, in the first book. In these there is but a faint network of
melody, usually contrapuntally treated, thrown over the profoundly
moving harmonies underneath. Some others are little studies in
fleetness or brilliancy of playing, such as those in D major and B-flat
major; and still others are lyrical, suggesting Couperin, or even the
Preludes of Chopin. It may be mentioned in passing that there is little
internal relationship between preludes in the ‘Well-tempered
Clavichord’
and the fugues which follow them. Nor is there evidence to show that
the ones were composed for the others. Rather there is in many
cases reason to believe that the preludes were composed often
without any consideration of a fugue to follow. Still one cannot fail to
observe, or rather to feel, a subtle affinity between most of the little
pieces so united, which must have guided Bach in his selection and
pairing.
Fac-simile of Bach's Manuscript of the Prelude in C major (Well-
Tempered Clavichord).
The toccatas and the fantasias are on a much broader plan than the
preludes. The former are essentially impressive, if not show pieces.
They are usually built up upon a series of brilliant runs, oftenest
scales or close arpeggios, with slower moving passages of chords
and contrapuntal weavings scattered here and there. The fantasias
are, as the name implies, quite free and irregular in form. Both
fantasias and toccatas are for the most part distinctly in organ style.
Their glory is, like the beauty of the preludes, a glory of harmony.
The long, rapid runs may have lost their power to thrill ears that have
heard the studies of Liszt; but the chords which lie under them have
a majesty that seems to defy time.

There are several ‘concertos’ and ‘sonatas’ of which to say much is

to repeat what has already been said of other forms of his music.
Both are obviously indebted to Vivaldi for style, or the external
features of style, as well as for form.

The idea of the concerto in Bach’s day was not the idea which
Mozart planted firmly in the mind of musicians. To show off the
special qualities of the harpsichord against the background of an
orchestra is not often evident as a purpose in Bach’s concertos. He
wrote for the harpsichord much as he wrote for the orchestra; or for
the orchestra as he wrote for the harpsichord. To the solo instrument
he allotted passages which required a fineness in execution of
details, or passages which he wished to be softer than the general
run of the music. There is a clear intention to get contrast between
the group of instruments and the solo instrument, but apparently little
to write for the two in a distinct style.

One may take the D minor concerto for harpsichord and a group of
instruments, or even better, the Italian Concerto, for a single
harpsichord, preferably with two manuals, as the perfect type. The
arrangement and number of movements is well worth noticing. There
are three, of which the first and last are in the same key and of about
the same length and style. The middle movement is in a contrasting
key, is shorter and nearly lyric in character. The scheme is perfectly
balanced as a whole, and, it will be noticed, shows little kinship with
the suite.

The first and last movements are in the same rapid tempo and both
are treated contrapuntally throughout. Their internal structure is
fundamentally tri-partite, like the fugues and the preludes in the
English suites, the opening and closing sections being the same.
The middle section brings out new material, but also retains
suggestions of that already announced; the new material tending to
take on an episodic character, like the couplets in Couperin’s rondos.
This is unusually clear in the middle section of the last movement of
the Italian Concerto, in which there are three very distinct episodes,
one of which appears twice, quite after the manner of the Beethoven
rondo. But one feature, which Bach probably acquired from Vivaldi,
makes the whole procedure different from Couperin’s. This is that the
main theme, either the short or long part of it which may be restated
between the episodes, appears in different keys. The same feature
is evident in the preludes to the English suites.

The slow movements in both the D minor and the Italian concertos
are written upon a favorite plan of Bach’s. The bass repeats a certain
form or ground over and over again, above which the treble spins an
ever varied, rhapsodical melody, highly ornate in character. The plan
is an exceedingly simple and a very old one. It may be traced in the
old motets of the mensuralists of the thirteenth century, with their
droning ordines; and in the favorite ‘divisions’ of the early English
composers. The Chaconne and the Passacaglia are but variants
from the same root. It is, of course, a simple form of variations.

This leads us, at last, to a brief consideration of what is perhaps from

the point of view of the pianist, if not indeed from that of the
musician, the most astonishing of Bach’s harpsichord music,—the
Goldberg Variations. The story of their origin will bear repetition for
the light it throws on the mood in which they were written.

A certain Count Kaiserling, at one time Russian ambassador to the

court of Saxony, supposedly suffered from insomnia and nervous
depression. He had in attendance a clavecinist named Goldberg, a
pupil of Bach’s, who, among other duties, had by his playing to wile
away the miserable night hours of his unhappy patron. Hearing of
the great Bach through Goldberg, Kaiserling requested him to write
some harpsichord music of pleasant, cheerful character especially
for these weary vigils. Bach composed and sent back a theme and
thirty variations, which so pleased the count that he presented Bach
with a goblet filled with one hundred Louis d’or.

One cannot but smile; the mere thought of thirty variations is

soporific. Yet an examination of them will convince one that
Kaiserling must have rewarded Bach for sheer delight in the music,
not for the blessed forgetfulness in sleep to which it may have been
expected to seduce him. The quality of these variations is
inexpressibly vivacious and charming. Bach shows himself, it is true,
always the master of sounds and the science of music; but this may
be taken as the secure foundation on which he allows himself for
once to be the brilliant and even dazzling virtuoso.

With the object in view of enchanting an amateur who must have

been, ex officio, very much a man of the world at large, Bach
composed objectively. That is to say he wrote not so much to
express himself as to please another. The same might be said of two
other of the latest harpsichord works, the Musikalisches Opfer and
the Kunst der Fuge; except that in both of these masterpieces his
aim was more technical. In the Goldberg Variations he is, so to
speak, off duty.

Consequently, there is in them little trace of the stern, albeit tender

idealist, or of the teacher, or of the man sunk in the mystery of
religious devotion. There are nine canons, at every interval from the
unison to the ninth, some in contrary motion. But even in these
learned processes there is a social suavity and charm. Witness
especially the canon at the third (the ninth variation), and that at the
sixth (the eighteenth variation). Only the twenty-fifth variation seems
to show Bach entirely submerged within himself. Elsewhere he is for
the most part primarily a virtuoso. In the matter of wide skips, of
crossing the hands, and of sparkling velocity, he outruns Scarlatti. In
fact the virtuosity of the variations as a whole is far beyond Scarlatti.

To begin with, he wrote for a harpsichord with two manuals; and in

many of the variations, conspicuously in the eighth, the eleventh, the
twentieth, and the twenty-third, he availed himself to the uttermost of
the advantages of such an instrument. The hands constantly pass by
each other on their way from one extremity of the keyboard to the
other, or cross and recross. The parts which they play are
interwoven in complications which, unhappily, must forever be the
despair of the pianist. In such cases, of course, he may not justly be
compared with Scarlatti, who wrote always for one manual.

But take for example the twenty-eighth and twenty-ninth variations,

which may be played on either one or two manuals. The trills and
double trills in the former, together with the wide and sudden
crossing of the hands, savor of Paganini and Liszt. So do the
interlocked chord trills in the latter, and the airy, whirring triplets
which follow them. Indeed, leaving aside a few effects in double
notes, and certain others of the thunder and lightning variety which
were wholly beyond the possibilities of the harpsichord, the modern
pianoforte virtuoso style has little to show in advance upon the style
of the Goldberg Variations.

Furthermore, if the Goldberg Variations are thus amazing from the

point of view of the pianist, they are none the less so to the musician
regarding their general form. There is in them positively no trace of
the stereotyped form of variations of that day, which consisted either
of a repetition of the theme with more and more elaborate ornament,
or at best of a series of arabesques over the more or less bare
harmonic foundation of the theme. The theme is for Bach but the
simple germ of an idea, which, throughout the whole elaborate
series, undergoes change, transformation, metamorphosis, hardly to
be recognized in any of its varied forms, scarcely suggesting a unity
to the work as a whole. Mood and rhythm change. New ideas sprout,
seemingly quite independent of their origin. Even the harmonic
foundation is veiled and altered. Bach speaks, as it were, in beautiful
metaphors.

This conception and treatment of the variation form render it true

greatness; endow it, indeed, as a form, with immortal life. External
figurations will grow old-fashioned, or the ear will become satiated
with them. But the Goldberg Variations have an inner life that cannot
wither or decay. Bach’s warm imagination inspired them, gave them
poetry as well as brilliance. No more modern variations are quite
comparable with them except Brahms’ great series on a theme of
Handel, in which, however, there is less warmth than severity, less
imagination than art.

VIII

How shall Bach be placed in the history of music, in particular of

pianoforte music? What part may he be said to play in the
development of the art? The paternity which most composers of the
nineteenth century rejoiced to fasten upon him, is hardly fitting. Bach
was the father of twenty-two children in this life, but musically he
died without heir. His sons Emanuel and Christian were two of the
most influential composers of the next generation; but both
discarded their father’s inheritance as of little service to them in the
forward march of music.

Even before his death Bach knew that the forms and style of music
which he had given his life to perfect and ennoble were already of
the past. That he invented a simple system of temperament in order
to afford himself the harmonic freedom necessary to his expression,
or that he devised a system of fingering which considerably
facilitated the playing of his difficult music, does not constitute him
the progenitor of the new style of the eighteenth and nineteenth
centuries. The composers who followed him knew little or nothing of
his music. They were far less likely to appropriate what they might
have found useful in his old-fashioned art, than to meet the problems
inherent in the new, which they served, with their own ingenuity.
Accept, if you like, Scarlatti as the founder of the modern pianoforte
style; Couperin as the creator of the salon piece. The fugue had had
its great day, and so had the suite. The flawless counterpoint of
Bach, with its involutions and its smoothness, was of too compact a
substance to serve the adolescent, transparent sonata. His
harmonies were too rich and fluent. And Bach had been but once the
Bach of the Goldberg Variations.

No; Bach’s harpsichord music attained perfection. A river flowed into

the sea. Further than this no art can go. Where a parallel excellence
seems since to have been achieved, the growth of which it was the
ultimate perfection was from another root. Bach is hardly more the
father of Beethoven, Schumann and Chopin, than Praxiteles is the
father of Michelangelo, or Sophocles of Shakespeare. But he left a
standard in music of the complete mastery and welding of all the
elements which make an art everlasting,—of form, of texture, of
noble and impassioned emotion. And by virtue of this standard which
he fixed, he has exercised over the development of music down to
the present day a greater spiritual influence than that of any other
single composer.

The harpsichord works of his great contemporary Handel are far less
significant. Several sets of suites were published in London between
1720 and 1735, also six fugues for organ or harpsichord. In the third
suite of the first set (1720) there is an air and variations. In the fifth of
the same series is the so-called ‘Harmonious Blacksmith,’ the best
known of his works for the harpsichord. It is a theme and variations.
The air and variations in B-flat major which has served as the
groundwork of a great cycle of variations by Brahms constitutes the
first number of the second series (1733). There are in other suites a
Passacaglia and two Chaconnes, all of which are monotonous series
of variations. One Chaconne has no less than sixty-two varied
repeats. In these works Handel shows little ingenuity. His technical
formulas are conventional and in general uninteresting. The dance
movements of the suites are worthier of a great composer.

Scarlatti, Couperin, and Bach are the great names of harpsichord

music; great because each stands for a supreme achievement in the
history of the art. It may be questioned whether, if the pianoforte had
not come to supplant the harpsichord, composers would have been
able to progress beyond the high marks of these three men, either in
style or in expressiveness. New forms had made their appearance, it
is true, before the death of Bach. These would have run their course
upon the harpsichord without doubt; but it is not so certain that they
could have brought to light any new resources of the instrument.
These had been not only fully appreciated by the three great men,
Scarlatti, Couperin, and Bach, but had been developed to their fullest
extent. And, indeed, it may be asked whether any music has more
faithfully expressed the emotions and the aspirations of humanity
than the harpsichord music of Bach.
 FOOTNOTES:
[11] An Englishman, organist at St. George’s, Hanover Square, from 1725 to 1737,
when he became insane. He died about 1750. He had made the acquaintance of
both Scarlattis during a stay in Italy, and was instrumental in bringing D. Scarlatti’s
operas and harpsichord pieces before the British public.

[12] A learned Roman collector, born in 1778, died in 1862. Mendelssohn had the
free use of his library and wrote that as regards old Italian music it was most
complete.

[13] This collection is available to students in America. The sonatas contained in it

are representative of Scarlatti’s style, though, of course, they represent but a small
portion of his work. The collection can be far more easily used for reference than
the cumbersome Czerny. Unfortunately the complete Italian edition is still rare in
this country.

[14] J. S. Shedlock writes in ‘The Pianoforte Sonata’: ‘The return to the opening
theme in the second section, which divides binary from sonata form, is, in
Scarlatti, non-existent.’ Out of some two hundred sonatas which I have examined,
I have found but one to disprove the statement. This one exception, No. 11 in the
Breitkopf and Härtel edition of twenty, is so perfectly in sonata form that one
cannot but wonder Scarlatti did not employ the form oftener. [Editor.]

[15] See articles by Edward J. Dent in Monthly Musical Record for September and
October, 1906.

[16] See Chrysander’s articles prefatory to his own edition (Denkmäler), edited by
Brahms, in the Monthly Musical Record for February, 1889, et seq.

[17] The pieces in one ordre may be in major or minor. The first ordre is in G, that
is the pieces in it are either in G minor or G major. The second is in D, minor and
major, the third in C, etc.
[18] That which appeared in 1713. The earlier set is not commonly reckoned
among his publications.

[19] Musiciana, Paris, 1877.

[20] The origin of the title is rather doubtful. On the first page of the manuscript
copy, which was in the hands of Christian Bach, of London, were written the
words: Fait pour les anglais. The first prelude is on a theme by Dieupart, a
composer then popular in England.