The Clavier Challenge
Emanuel Bach paused, considering how best to put his next remark.
“My father could have been quite wealthy had he truly exploited his one undisputed area of genius—his extraordinary playing ability. He could do things on the clavier I have never seen anyone else do. I remember watching him as a small child with awe. He could baffle other musicians with his sight-reading ability. He would sit at the keyboard surrounded by students. Then, he would put, not the score, but individual players’ parts, of a score he had never seen, in front of him, in a row across the clavier. He would briefly run his eyes over the whole and then play, at sight, the entire piece, taking in whole phrases at a glance, reading left to right, from start to finish, with hardly a mistake!
“And if this wasn’t enough to knock you down, he would add embellishments to the written parts with his own improvisations. My father had a cantabile touch—a singing tone. Some people play as if their fingers are glued together; their touch is so deliberate and they keep the keys down for too long; while others, attempting to avoid this defect, play too crisply, as if the keys burn their fingers. The right method lies between the two extremes. As a performer, father had no equal. This was where his true fortune lay but he didn’t pursue it. I recall the contest with Marchand.
“I was just a small child at the time, three years old, but my older brother, Friedemann, told me the story many times.”
The tremors ceased in Emanuel Bach’s hand as he waved it about, letting his thoughts drift.
“Music and theatre had been flourishing greatly under the extravagance of Friedrich August I. My father had many friendships amongst the court musicians in Dresden and so, always seeking to improve his craft, he travelled there in the autumn of 1717.
“By coincidence, Jean Louis Marchand was also in Dresden at that time. Marchand was the private organist to the King of France and also to the Church of Saint Benedict, in Paris. France swore by him and his reputation had preceded him to Dresden.
“Father knew of him, as did most musicians at that time. Marchand had been acclaimed as France’s finest clavier virtuoso and his appearance at the court in Dresden greatly interested father. Rumour had it that Marchand possessed an uncanny and original technique on the harpsichord and mastery over all keyboard instruments.
“Naturally, this piqued father’s interest for, being self-taught and sixteen years Marchand’s junior, he always sought out masters from whom he could learn.
“So, in a spirit of humility, and as curious as any good student, my father approached the Dresden Town Hall where Marchand was to give a clavier demonstration. He arrived early and made his way to the antechamber where the Frenchman was preparing. He wanted to introduce himself before all the public commotion began.
“The door to Marchand’s room was closed and father heard voices—a woman’s voice—so, out of politeness, he sat there in the hallway and waited. The voices became louder and there was shouting. Father heard Marchand cursing at the woman, insulting her in the vilest manner, accusing her of flirting and being a whore. Suddenly, there were blows and the woman screamed. Marchand continued to strike the woman and father moved to the door to intervene when the rector of the hall, who had come to fetch Marchand, stopped him. The rector cautioned father that the woman was Marchand’s wife. Neither of them wanted to interfere in a matter that was personal, so they refrained from entering. The blows continued. Then there was quiet.
“Shortly, Marchand emerged from the room, walking past my father, straightening his waistcoat and wig, and made his way to the clavier, where a large group had gathered.
“My father was so shocked at such a crude and cruel display, in such a public place, that he decided against making Marchand’s acquaintance at that time, but still wished to observe his playing ability, so he slipped upstairs, into the loft, to listen undisturbed. Father could overhear Marchand’s loud voice and vainglorious remarks about the new French music and its impact on European culture, and his personal pride at being part of its spread into Saxony and Italy.
“My father remarked that if Marchand seemed overbearing and full of himself, his playing left no doubt. Although accomplished technically, and precise, Marchand possessed poor improvisational ability and his compositions were banal. My father couldn’t believe that he had garnered such a reputation with such a lack of true musical depth.
“When father returned to his friends at court and related his experiences to them, an argument broke out over who was the greater player: my father or Marchand. Urged by his friends to seize the opportunity, my father issued a challenge.
“He sent a letter, by messenger, offering to play at sight any music put before him if Marchand would consent to the same. The challenge was accepted and a jury was selected.
“Now, at that time, Dresden society enjoyed these types of contests between virtuosi, and the great encounter, between Handel and Scarlatti in Rome, was still talked about. The scene of the confrontation was to be in the salon of Count Fleming, a powerful minister and music lover, who kept his own private band.
“On the day of the contest, the salon was packed with men and women, the judges were in place and father was prompt and ready. But all waited in vain. Apparently, Marchand had also been curious and had managed to listen in on father rehearsing a toccata on the organ. The sight of father’s feet alone, moving across the pedals, with greater dexterity than most players could achieve with their hands, broke his pluck. Afraid of being humiliated, and being the coward he was, that morning at dawn, Marchand had departed by mail coach, back to Paris.
“Father performed alone that afternoon and received a huge ovation from the gathering and from the court musicians. Afterwards, his reputation, and the story, began to spread rapidly across the country to all quarters. It was heralded as a great victory for German music.”
Joe Dolce, who lives in Melbourne, is a regular contributor of poetry and prose.
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