Louis Couperin, de Grigny, and Bach

Matthew J. Hall, organ

“In the art of the organ, he took the works of Bruhns, Reincken, Buxtehude, and several good French organists as models.” So wrote Johann Friedrich Agricola and Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach in 1754 in Johann Sebastian Bach’s obituary. C. P. E. Bach reiterated this in 1775 when he wrote to Johann Nicolaus Forkel that his father had “heard and studied…some old and good Frenchmen.”

Who were these Frenchmen? Jacques Boyvin’s two organ books (1689 and 1700) are transmitted in the hand of Bach’s apprentice Johann Caspar Vogler. Bach copied de Grigny’s organ book (1699), as well as the harpsichord collections of Charles Dieupart (1701) and Jean-Henri d’Anglebert (1689); the latter volume includes six organ pieces. In addition, there are historical hints that Bach may have had more personal engagement with French musicians: the encounter with Louis Marchard in Dresden in 1717 is well known, though what exactly actually transpired is less clear. Even more foggily, a nineteenth-century member of the Couperin family stated that her ancestor François Couperin had exchanged letters with Bach, but that Bach’s letters had been used to cover jam pots.

How did French music influence Bach? In some cases, we know that Bach adopted French repertory. One of François Couperin’s pieces was copied into the Notebook for Anna Magdalena Bach. Jakob Adlung remembered hearing Bach “play the pieces of Marchand from memory in his own way, that is, briskly and ingeniously.” There are also examples of clear, direct influence of specific French pieces on Bach’s compositions: Boyvin’s Grand plein jeu continu seems to be the basis for the middle section of Bach’s Pièce d’orgue BWV 572. Bach arranged a trio from François Couperin’s Les Nations for organ as the Aria BWV 587; some of the obbligato pedal writing in this arrangement reappears in Bach’s trio sonatas. Some scholars believe that d’Anglebert’s five organ fugues, all on the same subject and each exploring a different contrapuntal procedure and rhythmic cast, was a source of inspiration for Bach’s Art of Fugue.

Such influences are easiest to trace, but ultimately are not those that I am exploring on this recital. Instead, consider the similarities between Bach’s music and what I will call Couperin’s “narrative” sense and de Grigny’s “mystical” sense.

The influence of the North German organ school is so central to Bach’s organ music that its influence on other organ traditions is easily overshadowed. Such is the case with Louis Couperin. Louis Couperin’s connection with German repertory and techniques comes through Johann Jakob Froberger, whom he met in 1651–2. Although the influence is best known through the free unmeasured Prélude à l’imitation de M. Froberger, Froberger, who studied counterpoint with Johann Ulrich Steigleder (him of the Tabulaturbuch das Vater Unser) and Samuel Scheidt, also influenced Couperin in the strict style. Figural elaborations of a cantus firmus in polyphonic style like the Cantus firmus en alto on Pange Lingua recall the music of Scheidt and Steigleder. Couperin’s Trio on Pange Lingua is in a mixed style: the texture and imitative technique is typical of the North German school, but the written-out ornamentation recalls Froberger’s assimilation of Italian models. Like Louis Couperin’s music, Bach’s Fuga sopra il Magnificat BWV 733 is in a mixed style. The harmonies and treatment of the cantus firmus in the pedal recall French models; the systematic layout of canonic cantus firmus entries is indebted to North German models.

Couperin’s use of dissonance in durezze e ligature movements like the Fantaisie Duretez seems to me to be aiming for more than the cheap thrills that often characterize such movements. Instead of, “Hey, listen to these whacky chords,” or “Watch me paint myself into a corner and then get out if it,” the techniques take a back seat to the unfolding of a musical-emotional narrative: dissonant, angular melodies and false relations are tempered by smooth sequences, and intermediate crests lead inexorably to a point of maximal passion. Surprisingly, the ultimate climax is relatively consonant, high, and thinner in texture. I hear in this a musical depiction of a psychological drama of mounting confusion, anxiety, and fevered thinking that is relieved in an instant by serendipitous but fleeting insight. Such is the drama that I hear also in Bach’s setting of Nun komm, der Heiden Heiland BWV 659, particularly at the line where “the Virgin’s child is recognized as the Savior, and the whole world wonders.” There is no evidence that Bach knew Louis Couperin’s music; instead, it is a question of two masters working in shared rhetorical forms — though in different musical genres.

With de Grigny, however, the influence was direct. Bach could not have failed to notice de Grigny’s contrapuntal sophistication, particularly the skillful and frequent use of five-part texture, when he copied out de Grigny’s organ book. The Fantasia in C minor BWV 562 — in de Grigny’s organistic SATTB, not Bach’s more Italianate SSATB configuration — is the work most clearly influenced by de Grigny. But again, the influence extends beyond technical aspects: Bach adopted de Grigny’s aesthetic sensibility as well. De Grigny’s five-part fugues are all severe treatments of severe subjects, with sudden changes of texture and rhythm. Unlike the stringing together of sections in North German ricercars or the short-breathed quality fugues of other French Classical composers, the “scenes” in de Grigny’s fugues organize an architecture of the whole. In each section of the fugue on the Eucharistic hymn Pange Lingua, a climactic note, a striking harmony, or an ornamental flourish is achieved and then held, as if out of time, meter, and harmony; as the sections accumulate, the ear and mind are drawn to ever deeper contemplation. Likewise in Bach’s Fantasia, the counterpoint is larded with dissonances and ornaments; the sequential episodes in triple counterpoint, although in a thinner texture, intensify the discourse with ever harsher cross relations and wilder modulations. The heart of the Fantasia, a quiescent pedal point on E-flat, is balanced (or rather countered) by the final, tortured pedal point on C, in which painful dissonance is maintained until the last possible moment before dissolving ecstatically to a major chord. The brilliant coloraturas over the pedal point in this work and at the end of Nun komm, der Heiden Heiland are borrowed — practically lifted verbatim — from de Grigny, and are deployed, it seems to me, for a similar transcedent effect.

In this recital I try to use different colors of the Cornell Baroque Organ than are ordinarily heard. I am experimenting with registrations on a 16-foot basis, inspired by the 16-foot Montre and Bourdon manual stops that characterize so many French organs. (To do this, I am frequently playing higher-pitched stops at lower octaves.) I also omit the use of the plenum. In such dark, passionate music as I offer today, and as we brace for winter, these shadowy colors reflect my inner mind’s ear.

François Couperin, Messe pour les Paroisses pour les fêtes solomnelles (1690)

Classic French organ music, ca. 1660–1750, occupies a minor place in the modern organ repertory. It developed in the context of the rigid liturgical norms of French Catholicism and the special tonal characteristics of French organs of the period; in the absence of both of these contexts the music can (but need not!) seem meagre. The playing of the organ was highly ritualized in French Catholicism, confined to adorn and amplify the chants of the Mass and Office. The principle genre of the classic French organ is therefore the verset, a short composition designed to take the place of one phrase of plainsong and to be played in alternation with the choir. After the Revolution and the dissolution of the monarchy, French liturgy underwent reforms (that is, after Catholicism became legal again) which made much of the classic repertoire obsolete — not least because of its monarchal associations. The organ-and-choir alternatim practice was abolished by Motu proprio in 1903, which sealed the deal: this music has no liturgical place nowadays, not even (or, especially not) in a Catholic service.

Perhaps because large-scale formal development was inhibited by liturgical constraints, classic French organ music found recourse in the particular tonal qualities of the organs themselves. Like all organ-building traditions, classic French organs had a basic principal chorus based on 8-foot pitch going up through mixtures, but placed special emphasis on solo colors provided by tierces (‘third-sounding’ mutation stops, supporting the fifth harmonic) and reeds. The reeds themselves were not designed to support the principal chorus, but constituted the foundation of a distinct (in both senses) chorus of reeds. The pedals were not used for playing the bass at 16-foot pitch, but were used rather to play cantus firmi in the tenor or bass register (as you hear in the first and last versets of the Kyrie, respectively) or for supplying a soft flute bass at 8-foot pitch (as you will hear in the Qui tollis verset). Many organs were smashed during the Revolution, redolent as they were of the ancien régime, and many that survived were replaced or substantially rebuilt according to nineteenth-century designs.

So the classic organ repertoire fell into disuse once its liturgical function became obsolete and as instruments no longer had the tonal capacities to realize it. It is true that this was principally an improvised, short-form repertoire performed by workaday church musicians — and for this reason even the published organ music by great composers of the period may have something of an austere quality when compared to the same composers’ theatre or domestic works. Couperin’s Messe pour les Paroisses, written by the time he was 22, is, in my opinion, head and shoulders above any other French organ music of the period. Even de Grigny’s organ music, a master composer whose music Bach copied and revered, does not equal the ease of expression to be found in Couperin’s mass, in which the exquisite finesse of French ornament is leavened by the brio of Italian melody, particularly in the versets of the Gloria. Willi Apel had this to say about it:

This music shows a sense of natural order, a vitality, and an immediacy of feeling that breaks into French organ music like a fresh wind. Couperin surely learned from Lully, but the simplicity and grace of his melodies go far beyond Lully.

Couperin learned this manner from Charpentier, who studied in Italy with Carissimi — a rarety at the time and certainly a factor underlying the emnity between Charpentier and Lully, who disavowed his own Italian origin and actively discouraged musicians from traveling to Italy. Charpentier’s Messe pour tous les instruments, a kind of ersatz organ mass for orchestra for use in churches where the organ was out of service, was probably performed at Couperin’s parish of St-Gervais in 1685, just as Couperin was finishing his apprenticeship there under his uncle. The Kyrie of Couperin’s mass makes clear allusion to Charpentier’s mass. Also clear is Corelli’s influence, particularly in the trio textures; the middle section of the Offertoire, with its distinctive chromatic harmonies, is more or less a recomposition of a passage from one of Corelli’s sonate da chiesa from opus 3 (1689).

Even after we feel ready to appreciate the music — and if not the severe obscurity of Nivers then surely the cantabile sunniness Couperin — the relative rarety of Classic French organs might pose another barrier to hearing it. But we shouldn’t forget that French organ music was received avidly in Protestant lands already in the eighteenth century. The legendary meeting of Marchand and Bach in Dresden is perhaps the best known example of this exchange. To take another well-known example, Georg Böhm’s Vater unser setting is itself a kind of récit du cornet, and its floridly elaborated melody is a veritable glossary of French ornaments. After all, do we imagine that Bach didn’t play his copy of de Grigny on his organ?

Lyriques bibliques of Antoine Houdar de La Motte (1672–1731)

This is a practical study in the pronunciation and declamation of the metrical French verse of La Motte, perhaps the greatest Classic French poet of the generation after Molière. La Motte was the librettist of André Campra’s L’Europe galante (1697), for instance. The texts were analyzed according to the principles of Bacilly (1668) and other writers who describe françois restauré. This research was undertaken for Brandywine Baroque’s recording project of Élisabeth Jacquet de La Guerre’s Cantates françoises sur sujets tirez de l’écriture (1709/11), which set La Motte’s poetry. The recording will be released by Plectra Records. The following is an example of one of the lyriques; there are a dozen total. Please contact me if you are interested in this project.

Ce projet est une étude pratique sur la prononciation et la déclamation du vers métrique de La Motte, poète et académicien peut-être le plus grand dès Molière. C’était lui qui a écrit le livret de L’Europe galante (1697) de Campra. On a analysé ces textes d’après les principes de Bacilly (1668) et d’autres auteurs qui ont traité le « françois restauré », ce qui veut dire un français qui conserve des traits du langage soutenu des XVe et XVIe siècles et qui s’employait encore dans le XVIIe et au début du XVIIIe chez les rhétoriciens et les prédicateurs. Ces recherches provenaient d’un enregistrement des Cantates françoises sur sujets tirez de l’écriture (1709/11) d’Élisabeth Jacquet de La Guerre. L’album va bientôt paraître chez Plectra Records. Mon travail sur une de cettes lyriques suit; il y en a une douzaine en total. S’il vous plaît me contactez si ce projet vous intéresse.

L’Histoire de Jonas (1709)

Texte et transcription phonétique [s’ouvre dans une nouvelle fenêtre]