Evening in the Palace of Reason Read online

  This brother, also named Christoph, the oldest child of Sebastian’s parents, had left home when Sebastian was an infant to apprentice himself to the composer and family friend Johann Pachelbel. Now he was the organist in Ohrdruf, a town much smaller than Eisenach but, in spiritual terms at least, a great deal more intense. While Eisenach was orthodox Lutheran to the core, Ohrdruf was riven, a center of the fierce rivalry between orthodoxy and a more ascetic, devotional form of Protestantism known as Pietism. Over the past century and a half of the Reformation, orthodox Lutheranism had gradually allowed itself to be ground into doctrinal minutiae by constant intersectarian brawling. Lutheran pastors were reduced to giving long-winded sermons on petty theological issues useful mainly for showing how important it was not to be Calvinist or Anabaptist. Pietism, drawing inspiration from such Christian mystics as Thomas à Kempis, Johannes Tauler, and Bernard of Clairvaux, set out to reclaim some of the spiritual energy of the early Reformation by stressing the inner, spiritual life, the daily struggle for meaning, and in doing so they drew sympathizers from all Protestant sects. The Calvinist king of Prussia, Frederick William I, father of Frederick the Great, was one. His Lutheran contemporary Sebastian Bach was another. Though he remained in the camp of the orthodox Lutheran church all his life, Sebastian’s sense of vocation as a church musician was rooted in the mystic spirituality of Pietism, an influence that took hold of him here, in Ohrdruf, and in the deepest grief of his childhood.

  His commitment to religious studies at the Ohrdruf Lyceum, where the Pietist-orthodox struggle was played out every day, is plain to see in his class standing. When he left Eisenach he was twenty-third in his class at St. George’s (he had missed weeks of school during his parents’ illnesses, so he did well to keep his standing that high). Despite Ohrdruf’s more rigorous standard’s, he finished his first year of tenia in fourth place, and the next year, at age twelve the youngest in his class, he finished first.

  There is something melancholy about this academic success, however, the suspicion that his redoubled focus on his work was more than anything else a distraction from his pain—that he was drawn to theology, as he would be drawn to the cold logic of counterpoint, out of a wish for order in his life. The death of both parents is not easily overcome in an adult, not to mention a small, unready adult. Maybe it is never overcome. In any case, from this time forward and for the rest of his life, Sebastian would pursue order, perfection, and spiritual meaning in his music, and never more movingly so than on the theme of triumph over death.

  ONE OF THE MOST vivid stories of Sebastian’s years in his brother’s house in Ohrdruf concerns a collection of music Christoph had got from Pachelbel. He kept it locked in a cabinet, but one whose door was a grille through which ten-year-old Sebastian could just barely squeeze a hand. At night, when his brother was asleep, he would reach in, roll up the book of music, pull it out, and since he had no lamp, so the story goes, he would copy it by moonlight. Six months later, just about the time he had finished copying the manuscript, his brother discovered what he had done and took his copy of the book away. Sebastian himself had to have perpetuated this story, perhaps to demonstrate his youthful defiance, a quality that would have been healing for him at such a time. Increasingly that quality would come to the foreground of his character, and naturally so: Martin Luther was his model, after all, a man whose entire career was a heroic act of defiance.

  The meaning taken from the story of the “moonlight manuscript” is usually the drive with which Sebastian undertook his own musical education, a drive sufficient to keep him up all night copying music, but the oddest part of the story is his brother’s role in it. Why would he have taken away the copy Sebastian had made, and why did he forbid its use in the first place? This part of the story would make no sense if there were not other stories like it. The organist and Bach scholar David Yearsley cites a letter from the composer and theorist J. G. Walther to the well-known cantor Heinrich Bokemeyer—both of whom were renowned for their knowledge of counterpoint—in which Walther complains that his teacher had made him pay to see a musical treatise, then stood over him as he read it and only allowed him to copy a little at any one time. Finally, Walther resorted to bribing his teacher’s son to smuggle the work to him at night, when he was able to copy it in one sitting.

  Yearsley cited Walther’s letter to demonstrate the connection between the practice of learned counterpoint and that of alchemy, the then still-active search for the elusive “philosopher’s stone” that could mediate the transformation of base metal into gold, and the connections he found are indeed intriguing. Like alchemy, the roots of counterpoint were centuries old. Ever since the early Middle Ages, when the single chanted line of Gregorian plainsong gave way grudgingly to the presence of another voice, the rich acoustic medium of the medieval stone church had encouraged composers’ experiments writing note against note (punctus contra punctum) and eventually of braiding related vocal lines through one another to form increasingly rich weaves of melody. The most rigorous such part writing, such as canon and fugue, came to be known collectively as learned counterpoint, and its elaborated codes and principles were handed down as carefully and discreetly as the secrets of alchemy, from artifex to artifex (the Latin term for alchemist, which Bokemeyer used to describe the composer of counterpoint as well).

  Just as the alchemist’s ambition was to discover God’s laws for “perfecting” iron into gold, the learned composer’s job was to attempt to replicate in earthly music the celestial harmony with which God had joined and imbued the universe, and so in a way to take part in the act of Creation itself. Understanding what possessed young Sebastian to spend his nights trying to steal his brother’s notebook (after very long days at school and more daily hours at his music practice) requires understanding how the practice of threading musical voices into the fabric of counterpoint could have been endowed with such metaphysical power.

  The key is music’s relation to number, a connection that was as old as Plato and as new as Newton, dating from the mythic day in the sixth century B.C. when Pythagoras heard a hammer strike an anvil. In his Textbook of Harmony of the second century A.D., Nichomachus of Gerasa recorded the moment:

  One day he was out walking, lost in his reflections [when he] happened by a providential coincidence to pass by a blacksmith’s workshop … and heard there quite clearly the iron hammers … giving forth confusedly intervals which, with the exception of one, were perfect consonances. He recognized among these sounds the consonances of the diapason (octave), diapente (fifth) and diatessaron (fourth).… Thrilled, he entered the shop as if a god were aiding his plans.…

  It is a lovely and dubious story that later gets a bit loopy, perhaps through centuries of retelling. As a historical figure, Pythagoras is irretrievably lost in myth, in part because he forbade his disciples to write down anything he said. There is little reason to believe he did not exist, but it may have been someone else, perhaps one of his followers, who figured out Euclid’s “Theorem of Pythagoras,” which states that the square of the hypotenuse of a right triangle is equal to the sum of the squares of the other two sides. That was one of the Pythagoreans’ more useful ideas. They also posited the existence of a “counter-earth” because they could make out only nine planetary bodies and there had to be ten because ten was the perfect number.

  For Western music, the most important discovery attributed to Pythagoras was that halving a string doubles its frequency, creating an octave with the full string in the proportion of 1:2. A little further experimentation showed that the interval of a fifth was sounded when string lengths were in the proportion of 2:3, the fourth in that of 3:4, and so on. This congruence was taken to have great cosmic significance. As elaborated over a few centuries around the time B.C. became A.D., the thinking (much oversimplified) was that such a sign of order had to be reflective of a larger, universal design—and sure enough, the same musical proportions were found in the distances between the orbits of the planets. Further, since
such enormous bodies could not possibly orbit in complete silence, they must be sounding out these intervals together, playing a constant celestial harmony. Certified by Plato’s Republic and Timaeus, where the celestial music is said to be sung by sirens seated aboard their respective planets, the mathematical-cosmic nature of music was transmitted to Baroque composers and their predecessors by the Roman scholar Ancius Manlius Severinus Boethius, whose sixth-century writings constituted the most widely read treatise on music theory for the next thousand years.

  Of course such a perfectly ordered universe could only be the work of God, the all-encompassing One (represented by the unison in the proportion 1:1), and the unswerving reliability of this order was taken as proof of His continuing presence in the world. Despite that, the early church fathers continued to oppose anything but plainsong in the liturgy, hearing the work of the devil in more elaborate music. Saint Augustine finally resolved the question in favor of liberating music to glorify God, but not without torment.

  I waver between the danger that lies in gratifying the senses and the benefits which, as I know from experience, can accrue from singing. Without committing myself to an irrevocable opinion, I am inclined to approve the custom of singing in church, in order that by indulging the ears weaker spirits may be inspired with feelings of devotion. Yet when I find the singing itself more moving than the truth which it conveys, I confess that this is a grievous sin, and at those times I would prefer not to hear the singer.

  Of critical importance for Bach and his time, Martin Luther sided with the Platonic idea of music as evidence of divine order, and he set out to rehabilitate Pythagoras as a servant of God. In his commentary on Genesis he laments the fact that “we have become deaf toward what Pythagoras aptly terms this wonderful and most lovely music coming from the harmony of the spheres.” No less than the seventeenth-century astronomer Johannes Kepler gave Luther’s position the stamp of scientific certainty in his great work, Harmonices Mundi, where he correlates the orbits of the planets to the intervals of the scale and finds them to be “nothing other than a continuous, many voiced music (grasped by the understanding, not the ear).” This last point was debated: Some thought the celestial music was abstract, an ephemeral spiritual object, but others insisted it was real, inaudible to us only because it had been sounding constantly in the background from the time of our birth. In either case music was a manifestation of the cosmic order. “Now one will no longer be surprised,” Kepler wrote, “that man has formed this most excellent order of notes or steps into the musical system or scale, since one can see that in this matter he acts as nothing but the ape of God the Creator, playing, as it were, a drama about the order of celestial motions.” One of his chapters is titled “There Are Universal Harmonies of All Six Planets, Similar to Common Four-Part Counterpoint.”

  Never were allegories packed into music more enthusiastically than in Bach’s time. Andreas Werckmeister was far from alone in attaching specific integers, for example, to the Trinity: 1 stood for the Father, 2 for the Son, 3 for the Holy Spirit, the last being the sum and proportion of Father and Son (1:2, a unison at the octave). Elsewhere we find that 4 represented the four elements of matter and the four seasons, that 5 meant justice (because it stands at the center of the first ten numbers) and humanity (five senses and the five appendages of arms, legs, and head). Saint Augustine favored the number 6 (creation took six days, so God must have found 6 to be a perfect number), 7 stood for the planets, virtues, liberal arts, deadly sins, and ages of man (although sometimes it is said not to stand for anything, since on the seventh day God rested). Twelve covered apostles, months, prophets, etc. Then there were the combinations, for example: 7 being 3 (the Trinity) plus 4 (elements of matter), and 12 being 3 (ditto) times 4 (ditto), it followed (trust me) that 7 and 12 were perfect numbers. And so on. All this from Pythagoras, whose followers thought the best number was 10 because it was the sum of 1, 2, 3, and 4, elemental components of the “figured number” known as the Pythagorean Tetraktys:

  It is easy to have fun with number theory, and some of the best such fun is in the distant reaches of the Bach literature, where one can read, for example, that he left a prophecy in musical code of the date of his death on the Rosicrucian calendar. On the other hand, it is only the extent to which Bach’s music contains meanings coded in numbers that is hotly debated. The fact that it contains such coded meanings is not.

  Cosmological harmony was actually one of the few ideas on which the philosophers, scientists, and theologians of Bach’s time were agreed. Newton, for example, could not imagine that a world as orderly as this one could have occurred by “natural Cause alone.” A “powerful, ever-living Agent … governs all things,” he concluded, “not as the soul of the world, but as Lord over all.” Newton’s Agent was Luther’s Celestial Contrapuntist, whose woven voices were like so many planetary orbits.

  We marvel when we hear music in which one voice sings a simple melody, while three, four, or five other voices play and trip lustily around … reminding us of a heavenly dance.

  This heavenly dance was nowhere more sublime than in canon, the strictest form of contrapuntal writing, in which an entire piece of music is built from a single melodic phrase playing over itself at different intervals of time and key, in varying rhythms and tempi, sometimes appearing backward, inside out, or upside down, and sometimes continuing, at least theoretically, forever. Andreas Werckmeister drew the analogy of cosmos to counterpoint even more explicitly than Luther had done:

  The heavens are now revolving and circulating steadily so that one [body] now goes up but in another time it changes again and comes down.… We also have these mirrors of heaven and nature in musical harmony, because a certain voice can be the highest voice, but can become the lowest or middle voice, and the lowest and middle can again become the highest.…[In the case of canon] one voice can become all the other voices and no other voice must be added.…

  Another of Bach’s contemporaries imagined the moment when the first contrapuntist, stumbling on a perpetual canon, found “the beginning and end bound together” and discovered “the eternal unending origins as well as the harmony of all eternity”

  From such a celestial height, perhaps it is possible to look again at a young boy copying music from his brother’s notebook on a moonlit night and see what he is doing a bit more clearly. The composers in the “moonlight manuscript”—Kerll, Froberger, Pachelbel—were the reigning masters of counterpoint, men who knew about the great design, who plied its strings and levers. To a boy so recently an orphan, simply the belief that there was such a design—that God was present in an orderly universe—must have been as comforting as it was elusive. His brother’s notebook was the closest Sebastian had ever come to such an idea of life and music, and the gesture of putting his hand through the grille of that cupboard was about more than the desire for a musical education: He was reaching for answers. Christoph had been Pachelbel’s (the sorcerer’s) apprentice, so the secrets in his notebook were worth any amount of lost sleep to Sebastian. But in this light, Christoph’s attitude is no less understandable: What gave his little brother, a schoolboy, the right to such precious and hard-won knowledge? Of course his brother took away Sebastian’s copy of the notebook, and of course he would have forbidden anyone to copy it in the first place.

  Such a reading of this anecdote requires no great psychoanalytic reach. Sebastian’s worldview was profoundly allegorical, like that of his time and culture. The favored allegories at the time were Lutheran, of course, but not exclusively so. After all, Kepler had read horoscopes, and both Newton and Leibniz still had hopes for alchemy. Efforts to advance the education of Sebastian’s day could hardly be called enlightened, confounded as they still were by ignorance and superstition. The seventeenth-century educational reformer Jan Amos Comenius, for example, introduced physics into the curriculum, but it was a physics in which the world’s qualities were exactly three: “consistence, oleosity and aquasity,” the attributes of salt, sulf
ur, and mercury, a decidedly medieval stew. So Sebastian’s education was as thoroughly theological, or, more broadly, mythological, as his father’s and grandfather’s had been.

  In tertia, where Sebastian began his Lyceum studies in Ohrdruf, there was some reading of classics and history, but it was carefully edited for religious content; most of his class time was spent on Scripture and the catechism. In secunda and the first part of prima, he got lots of Latin—especially rhetoric and oratory—as well as some Greek, math, history and science, but his hardest work was on Leonhard Hutter’s exhaustive and exhausting exegesis on Lutheran doctrine, the Compendium locorum theologicorum, hundreds and hundreds of pages in Latin, great chunks of which he was expected to memorize.

  Given his class standing, he obviously mastered it, but it is difficult to see how, even for someone trying to throw himself into work. Outside of class, the lovely singing voice that got him his scholarship made him an anchor not only of the chorus musicus but also of a smaller group that did advanced works for the church as well as weddings and funerals. At the same time he must have been practicing the organ and harpsichord for long hours every day. He credited his brother Christoph with giving him his first keyboard lessons, but by the time he left Ohrdruf, after only five years, his technical mastery was already prodigious. The transformation of a novice into a budding virtuoso in five years would have been a remarkable feat even without all his other work, an accomplishment for which even the best teacher could not take credit.

  TEN DAYS BEFORE his fifteenth birthday, Sebastian put his clothes in a bag, strung a violin over his shoulder, and set out, on foot, for a new school more than two hundred miles away. Nobody in his family had ventured so far from their Thuringian heartland, but of course Sebastian was not anybody else. The move was forced on him. Christoph’s home was becoming overcrowded as his family grew, and Sebastian could no longer pay for his keep because for unknown reasons he had lost his job as a tutor to the children of wealthy citizens. He may have felt he was being orphaned yet again, but in fact the offer of a choral scholarship to St. Michael’s Lyceum in Lunüeburg, a town almost four times the size of Ohrdruf, was providential. His brother would probably have told him not to go there but to apprentice himself to a master as Christoph had done at this age. None of Sebastian’s siblings or ancestors had gone as far in school as he had gone already. But there was a wonderful library at St. Michael’s, with a famous collection of all the contrapuntal art of Europe; and Lüneburg was not far from Hamburg, the largest and most musical city in Germany.