28 July: Boreham on Johann Sebastian Bach

A Master Maestro
Two hundred years ago, there passed from the scene of his triumphs an irresistible master of men.[1] To look upon the face and form of Johann Sebastian Bach was to become instantly conscious of his extraordinary magnetism. Those who met him on the street instinctively turned to enjoy a second and lengthier glance. Wherever he came, he conquered. Frederick the Great commanded him to visit him at Potsdam. Bach, who was 62, regarded the invitation as the climax of his renown. "Here comes old Bach," exclaimed the King, under his breath, as the gallant figure was ushered into his presence. But a day or two later, having cultivated his guest's acquaintance and been held spellbound by his artistry, he shouted amidst the applause: "There is only one Bach! There is only one Bach!" The episode is typical of the impression that the eminent organist invariably created.

Bach was a gigantic human. He loved life, he loved men and women; he loved boys and girls; he loved congenial company, convivial conversation, hearty laughter, woodland scenery, fragrant gardens, and he dearly loved a good square meal. It goes without saying that he loved music. He was drenched in it. Coming of a long line of musicians, sweet sounds were to him the light of his eyes and the breath of his nostrils. He thought musically; he talked musically; he walked as if he were marching through this world to the music of some fair world unseen.

At His Best At His Own Fireside
He was essentially a home-bird. Twice married, he had seven children by his first wife and thirteen by the second. As was usual in those days of prodigious families, many of these youngsters died; but their father dearly loved and cherished the survivors. One or two of them involved him in heartache and heartbreak; but his affection never wavered. His golden hours were the hours in which he sat with them at meals: chatted with them by the fireside; played and sang with them in their domestic concerts; or picnicked with them in the primrosed woods. Although the image of gravity and even severity on serious occasions, he secretly overflowed with fun. When he married his second wife, she begged him to teach her music that her life might be the more perfectly attuned to his. "My dear," he replied, "there's nothing to learn. You merely strike the right note at the right moment and the organ does the rest!"

Sometimes his sense of humour invaded his art, as in The Coffee Cantata, based on the story of a girl who was so addicted to coffee that her father swore that he would never consent to her marriage till she gave it up, a threat which the daughter countered by saying that she would never accept a proposal unless her lover promised that she should always have her coffee. And, in the home, Sebastian composed all sorts of quodlibets, gay little minuets, and catchy snatches of nonsense-song for the delectation of the bairns. But he knew how to be stern. As a teacher, he was a benevolent tyrant. A student one day rejected his advice. "I think it sounds better this way," the youth explained. "Sir," Bach replied, "thou art too advanced for my teaching; we must part!" And they did. But he knew also how to be gentle. If he found a student doing his best, but doing it badly, he would say: "My son, suppose you were to try it this way!" And he would play it himself with the air of a fellow-learner who was making a modest suggestion. Is it any wonder that his students worshipped him? "Master," burst out one of them, "when I hear you play, I feel that I cannot do anything wrong for at least a week!"

His Finest Music Was Mere Self-Expression
An intensely devout man, his great religious masterpieces were the natural outpouring of his inmost soul. In her "Little Chronicle of Magdalena Bach," Esther Meynell credits Magdalena with saying that, "deep down in his great heart he always carried his crucified Redeemer, and his noblest music is his secret cry for a clearer vision of his risen Lord. In his lullaby in the Christmas Cantata he could write music tender enough for the Babe of Bethlehem; in the Crucifixion of his Great Mass he could find strains grand enough for the Saviour of Calvary. At the end of his earlier scores he always inscribed the letters S.D.G.—To God be the glory!" It mirrored the motive of the man.

One of the most fascinating realms of biographical conjecture is presented by the speculation as to what would have happened if Bach and Handel had met and formed each other's friendship. It is passing strange that they never did. Each talked of it; planned for it; but let it go at that. Born within a month of one another, their lives ran along parallel lines. They were moved by the same lofty ideals; each admired the other's work; both became blind and both were operated upon by the same surgeon. Bach did even more than Handel to lay the massive foundations on which much of our modern music securely rests. Masters like Mendelssohn, Schumann, Wagner, and Brahms have gratefully and eloquently acknowledged the incalculable debt that they owed to that lovable creator of a million harmonies who, amidst the tears of his admiring contemporaries, died suddenly of apoplexy.

[1] This editorial appears in the Hobart Mercury, on July 29, 1950.

F W Boreham

Image: Johann Sebastian Bach