Page 120 - PDF Flip TR Program Demo

own—Allemande, Courante, Sarabande, and Gigue. But they are just a preface to what comes next: the Ciaccona, often known simply as the Chaconne. Nearly as long as the opening movements combined, it gives the Second Partita a peculiar asymmetry.
A chaconne is related to the Sarabande, also descending from a racy Spanish dance, but encompasses a sort of mantric repetition. By Bach’s time, it was understood more decorously as a variation form built on a repeated ground bass.
In the strictest sense, this is impossible to convey on the violin, as it can’t play a bassline or sustain two independent voices on its own. But shrewd writing with chords and arpeggios can give the impression of multiple things happening at once, channeling the power of an ensemble through the narrow conduit of a violinist.
Earlier composers had written similar solo pieces, the Passacaglia from Biber’s “Mystery” Sonatas being one exceptional precedent in the German tradition of polyphonic violin writing. But for most listeners, Bach’s Chaconne is the pinnacle, more affecting than anything before or after.
Some ascribe celestial perfection to the piece, others a tragic romanticism. Like many masterpieces, it has attracted its share of theories: historical, theoretical, and esoteric—all distrustful of the notion that it could be created without some scheme or stimulus behind it.
One story ties the Chaconne to the death of Bach’s first wife, Maria Barbara, in 1720—the same year he copied out (though didn’t necessarily write) the Sonatas and Partitas. Returning to Köthen after a lengthy stay in the Bohemian resort town of Carlsbad with Prince Leopold, Bach found his wife “dead and buried, though he had left her healthy and hearty on his departure.” This is as their son, Carl Philipp Emanuel, recalled it in his father’s obituary years
later. “The news that she had been ill and died reached him only when he entered his own house.”
The story resonates with the grief many people sense in the Chaconne, though only the thinnest circumstantial evidence actually connects the piece with Bach’s sudden loss. He might have written it in response, or might not have. Would it make a difference to know for sure?
A more nuanced understanding can come from within
the music itself. Consider the form of the Chaconne: elaborate variations over a repeated chord progression, sometimes present, sometimes only implied. At its heart
is the opposition between uniformity and variety, between staying and going, between confinement and release. You can hear it any number of ways, but here are two: it could be an explorative dance around a sturdy center, or a mournful dance trying to shed an ineluctable weight.
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