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Matthias Schulz

Bach’s Little Hercules Opera

The cantata performed today is often simply referred to as the “Little Hercules Opera.” During the Baroque period, the mythical hero Hercules was a popular symbol of princely virtue. As the son of Zeus, he had already distinguished himself as a hero in infancy: the serpents sent by Hera, the queen of the gods and his lifelong adversary, were effortlessly crushed in his cradle.

Bach’s cantata, based on a text by Picander, portrays the episode in which Hercules encounters two women at a crossroads. One promises him a life of comfort, pleasure, and abundance if he follows her path; the other foretells hardship and struggle, yet rewards him in the end with virtue and lasting glory.

BWV 213 is rightly regarded as the most operatic of Bach’s cantatas. Bach himself points us in this direction by simply calling the work a Dramma per musica—a term commonly used at the time to describe an opera. He used the same designation for several of his other cantatas, and such drammi per musica often held particular appeal for Leipzig audiences after the city’s opera house had closed for financial reasons.

Indeed, in its musical language, dramatic construction, and duration of around forty-five minutes, this cantata comes closer than any of Bach’s other congratulatory or homage cantatas to contemporary opera. Here, Bach transforms emotional states into dramatic characters. The cast consists of Hercules, Virtue, Pleasure, and Mercury, the messenger of the gods, who finally proclaims Hercules’ choice.

The plot serves as an appeal for exemplary leadership. Behind the ancient story of Hercules wavering between virtue and vice lies the hope for an ideal ruler—one who cannot be seduced by extravagance or favouritism. This inevitably raises the question whether music can admonish rulers and whether it can exert political influence.

I believe it can.

Not through direct political programmes or explicit messages, but as an alternative voice—a voice that keeps values alive, reminds us of responsibility, and speaks where politics often resorts to circumlocution.

Already in antiquity, art fulfilled precisely this role in relation to power. Tragedies, satires, and even court jesters were permitted to express truths that would otherwise have been dangerous to utter. Many of these works remind us that power entails responsibility, and that art often finds the courage to speak where politics remains silent.

During this year’s Baroque Festival at Zurich Opera House, while attending the concert performances of the St John Passion and the St Matthew Passion, I was once again struck by how often Bach seems to think in theatrical terms. Both Passions possess an emotional intensity and vivid dramatic imagery that one can scarcely avoid describing as operatic. The characters are vividly drawn, conflicts become audible, and the music tells its story with an immediacy that reaches far beyond the liturgical setting.

Sir John Eliot Gardiner addresses precisely this point in his book Music in the Castle of Heaven. He explicitly compares the orchestral introduction to the St John Passion with an operatic overture, drawing a direct line to Mozart’s much later overtures to Idomeneo and Don Giovanni. As in Mozart, Gardiner argues, the entire tragedy and dramatic tension of the work are already anticipated in its opening bars. In its pictorial power, he considers this introduction unsurpassed.

Personally, I would go even further. For me, the entire opening of the St John Passion, culminating in its monumental and deeply stirring opening chorus, ranks among the greatest achievements in all of music. It begins, appropriately enough for today’s subject, with the words:

“Lord, our ruler, whose glory is magnificent in every land.”

From the very outset, there can be no doubt who the true ruler is—and that no one else should consider themselves too important.

Bach’s Passion settings can readily be brought to the stage using the means of opera. This is by no means a new idea. Ferruccio Busoni already proposed it in 1921 in his essay On the Concept of a Staged Performance of Bach’s St Matthew Passion, and since then it has repeatedly been realised at festivals, in concert halls, and even in opera houses—notably by the director Peter Sellars with the Berlin Philharmonic, and by the choreographers John Neumeier and Sasha Waltz.

As an opera director, I naturally regret that, as far as we know today, Bach never composed a genuine opera. This is all the more remarkable considering that he lived during the first half of the eighteenth century, the golden age of Baroque opera. Why he never emerged as an opera composer may simply be due to the circumstances of his life and, quite possibly, to a lack of time. As Thomaskantor in Leipzig, Bach bore responsibility for the music in the city’s four principal churches. One can easily imagine that these demanding obligations directed his energies elsewhere.

Allow me now to take a closer look at two musical examples from BWV 213 that reveal its operatic character with particular clarity: the opening chorus and the aria of Pleasure, “Schlafe, mein Liebster, und pflege der Ruh” (“Sleep, my beloved, and cherish your repose”).

The opening chorus, “Ratschluss der Götter” (“The Counsel of the Gods”), functions as a classic operatic prologue and displays a remarkable musical interpretation of the opening text. In the descending melodic line accompanying the words “Lasst uns sorgen” (“Let us care”), one senses the protective solicitude of the gods. By contrast, the ascending phrase “Lasst uns wachen” (“Let us keep watch”) musically expresses their readiness to ward off danger.

The movement gains vitality through its lively staccato writing and the interplay between horns, oboes, and strings. Yet the music remains deliberately restrained. Bach dispenses with trumpets and timpani, avoiding any overtly heroic splendour. Instead, the opening chorus reflects the dramatic situation with remarkable sensitivity. Hercules does not yet appear as the triumphant hero he will become, but as a child entrusted to the care and protection of the gods.

After all, Elector Prince Friedrich Christian, for whose eleventh birthday the cantata was composed, was himself still a child—someone in need of guidance and protection. These are music-dramatic devices that could hardly have been more expressive in Bach’s own time.

A second striking example of Bach’s use of musical affect is the aria of Pleasure. She is the first character to attempt to win Hercules over:

“Sleep, my beloved, and cherish your repose;
Yield to the lure of passionate desires.
Taste delight,
The pleasure of longing hearts,
And know no boundaries.”

Who could resist such seductive words?

This aria is among the most sensual movements in the entire cantata and represents the young hero’s first real trial. Since it is written as a da capo aria, Hercules must hear these temptations twice. Pleasure quite literally lulls him into submission.

What is especially remarkable is that Pleasure has not previously been introduced in a recitative. She appears entirely without warning, and Bach underlines this dramatically in the music itself. Her first entrance comes unexpectedly before the natural midpoint of the bar, deliberately anticipating the beat.

If the cantata was indeed intended for scenic performance, one might even imagine that Pleasure is not yet visible on stage at the beginning of the aria, only appearing with her very first sung phrase. Once again, Bach demonstrates a remarkably theatrical conception that unmistakably recalls contemporary opera.

BWV 213 clearly held a special place in Bach’s own estimation. This is evident from the fact that every non-recitative movement—with the sole exception of the closing chorus—was later reused as a so-called parody in Parts I to IV of the Christmas Oratorio. Bach evidently regarded this music as among his finest creations.

At the same time, this reveals something fundamental about his art. The expressive power of Bach’s music transcends its original text. Tenderness, consolation, joy, and longing remain intact even when placed within an entirely different dramatic or theological context.

BWV 213 is therefore far more than a preliminary version of the Christmas Oratorio. It stands as an independent masterpiece. Here, perhaps more clearly than anywhere else, Bach demonstrates his extraordinary ability to transform human emotions into music of universal significance—music that speaks with equal force in a miniature opera and within the sacred world of the church.

Bach is one of those rare composers whose music has lost none of its power over the centuries. On the contrary, every generation rediscovers him and finds new ways of approaching his work.

For many years, the Zurich Opera House was home to one of the great pioneers of historically informed performance practice: Nikolaus Harnoncourt. The movement towards historically informed performance is often misunderstood. The term itself may evoke ideas of museums, reconstruction, and preservation. In reality, however, its proponents sought precisely the opposite: vitality, immediacy, and a renewed freshness in the performance of early music.

In the decades following the Second World War, Bach was frequently performed within a broadly Romantic sound ideal. Historically informed performance offered a different perspective: a more direct, transparent, and at times even rougher sound. Vibrato was used more sparingly, musical structures became clearer, and performers embraced the small irregularities that make music feel genuinely human and alive.

The goal was to liberate Bach’s music from a certain sonic sterility and to allow it to be experienced once again as something immediate and contemporary.

What I find especially fascinating is that even within historically informed performance there exists an astonishing diversity of approaches. Comparing different ensembles and conductors clearly demonstrates how many interpretative possibilities Bach’s music offers.

At the Zurich Opera House, I recently experienced this richness first-hand through the St John Passion and the St Matthew Passion: on the one hand in performances by La Scintilla, on the other in those by Raphaël Pichon and his ensemble Pygmalion. You, too, will experience this diversity this evening. It is precisely this wealth of interpretations that has contributed so significantly to the remarkable flourishing of Bach performance over recent decades.

At the same time, Bach possesses an extraordinary resilience. His musical architecture is so strong and his musical language so compelling that even vastly different interpretations rarely diminish the greatness of his works. Few composers share this remarkable quality.

Bach always remains Bach.

For performers, however, his music presents an exceptional challenge. The pianist Alfred Brendel describes it beautifully in one of his books. The interpreter’s task, he writes, is to reconcile two equally essential poles: emotion and musical form.

In other words, one must reveal the architecture of a work while never losing sight of its emotional intensity. Those who focus exclusively on structure risk producing an interpretation that is technically impeccable but emotionally dry. Those who surrender entirely to passion, on the other hand, risk losing the work’s formal coherence.

Finding the right balance between these two extremes may well be the greatest challenge any performer faces—and one that must be met anew every single evening.

With Bach, this balance is especially crucial. As a pianist, I have experienced this challenge personally, particularly while studying The Well-Tempered Clavier. It has long been regarded as the “Old Testament of pianists,” while—if I may add in passing—Beethoven’s piano sonatas may justly be considered the “New Testament” of the piano repertoire, as Hans von Bülow famously observed.

Anyone who has seriously engaged with these works and learned to navigate these two poles possesses an invaluable foundation for almost the entire piano literature.

The Well-Tempered Clavier (BWV 846–893) marks a decisive turning point in the history of music. For the first time, it became possible to compose systematically in all twenty-four major and minor keys. This was made possible by new tuning systems that opened the door to every key.

Here we encounter one of music’s most fascinating phenomena: the so-called Pythagorean comma. It arises when twelve perfectly tuned fifths are compared with seven pure octaves. In an ideal mathematical world, both paths should arrive at exactly the same pitch. In reality, however, the chain of fifths ends slightly higher than the chain of octaves.

To make it possible for a keyboard instrument to play convincingly in every key, the tuner must therefore narrow each fifth ever so slightly. This creates a subtle tension—a beating between pitches—that, I would argue, adds another layer of vitality and humanity to the sound.

Perhaps it is precisely this inexplicable remainder, this small imperfection for which no purely rational explanation exists, that touches us so deeply and ultimately makes life worth living.

As I have often said, I do not long for perfection. I long for authenticity—for what is distinctive, individual, and not completely smooth.

Of course, one may also understand this process of bringing the fifths into harmony in a metaphorical sense: as a task for politics, for example, or equally as a task for the director of an opera house. For me, it is always about finding a way to accommodate that “inexplicable remainder”—those inevitable tensions that can never be entirely resolved—and, in doing so, arriving at something even better.

Bach, in any case, did not merely exploit these possibilities on a technical level; he transformed them into artistic expression. His music unites mathematical order with profound emotional depth. Many of his works reveal a beauty that seems almost governed by the laws of nature. Just as mathematical structures are woven into the natural world, they are equally present in his compositions. Yet his music never feels abstract or detached. It remains deeply human.

There is another remarkable aspect of Bach’s music. Every individual voice carries responsibility for the musical whole. It is not only the principal melody that matters; every line possesses its own independence and significance. This polyphonic way of thinking is one of the defining characteristics of Bach’s art and one of the reasons for its inexhaustible richness.

Perhaps this explains why Bach has remained an indispensable point of reference for generations of musicians. Many artists begin or end their day by playing Bach. His music serves as a compass, a benchmark, and a constant source of inspiration.

The great cellist Pablo Casals once said that he played Bach every day because it filled him “with a consciousness of the incredible wonder of being alive and being human.”

Bach reconciles order and freedom, mathematics and emotion, intellect and sensuality. His music speaks both to the mind and directly to the heart. Its humanity is universal. It is alive today, this evening, and it will remain alive in the future.

Returning to our cantata, BWV 213 appears to me today not merely as a congratulatory work, but as an astonishingly contemporary piece of music theatre. It tells a story of choice, responsibility, and temptation. It asks what constitutes the right measure in human conduct.

Above all, it reminds us that music can be far more than beautiful sound. It can admonish, reflect, preserve memory, and perhaps—even if quietly, yet enduringly—exercise political influence.