Professional Documents
Culture Documents
Haydn's "Farewell" Symphony and the Idea of Classical Style: James Webster
Edited by
THOMAS CHRISTENSEN
Associate Professor of Music, University of Iowa
CAMBRIDGE
UNIVERSITY PRESS
CONTENTS
page
ix
3
25
25
55
55
64
66
67
69
74
76
II Musical issues
1 Music
2 Composition
3 Painting in music
81
81
85
89
vu
27
32
34
37
41
43
46
48
50
viii
List of contents
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
Tone painting
Melody
Song
Instrumental music
Harmony
Main theme
Sonata
Symphony
90
91
92
95
97
100
103
105
ESSAY
ON COMPOSITION,
VOL. II (1787),
111
Preface
137
Introduction
139
I The aim and the inner nature of compositions and,
above all, the way in which they arise
144
[Music and feeling]
144
[The primary matter of music; melody and harmony]
157
[The order of composing]
159
[The plan: 1. The mechanical elements]
160
[The plan: 2. The skills of melodic and harmonic invention] 177
[The plan: 3. The spiritual condition of the composer]
186
[The realization: 1. The mechanical elements]
188
[The realization: 2. The spiritual effect of modulation and
form]
191
[The elaboration]
200
[The completed composition]
202
Index
205
xi
xii
PART I
INTRODUCTION BY
THOMAS CHRISTENSEN
I
"Can genius suffer to be shackled and imprisoned by rules?" the
architectural theorist Charles Briseux worried in 1752. "Would it not
suffocate its fire to fix limits to the sphere of its activity?"1 Goethe was
treating much the same question when he narrated the tragic struggle
of the impetuous young Werther, who tried in vain to tame the fires
of his hearts passions within the unyielding confines of society's moeurs.
The tension both Briseux and Goethe addressed was a critical one in
the self-proclaimed age of Enlightenment: How does the artist reconcile
the competing demands of imagination and reason? To what degree can
the artist submit to the more volatile forces of inspiration and passion
while the art work itself remains bound to the rules of propriety and
convention? To be sure, these were not questions posed only in the
eighteenth century. Since Plato's criticisms directed to the Rhapsodes
in his dialogue Ion, one of the central problems in Western philosophical
aesthetics or, as it was more commonly called before Alexander
Baumgarten coined the term "aesthetics" in 1750, "poetics" has always
concerned the fixing of artistic boundaries, reconciling the Dionysian
urge for expression and originality with an Apollonian demand for
order and control. It may not be too much of an exaggeration to say
that the development of Western aesthetic thought can be plotted out
upon a continuum running between these two antipodal positions.
But if this tension is an ageless one, it was in the eighteenth century
that the dialectic of reason and imagination was pursued most
tendentiously, whether in a French treatise on aesthetics or a German
Bildungsroman. For it was during this period that the two opposing
aesthetic doctrines that define this polarity most sharply met in
dramatic collision. On the one side, there was an entrenched neoclassical tradition articulated by French writers such as Boileau and
l
Quoted in Francis X. J. Coleman, The Aesthetic Thought of the French Enlightenment (Pittsburgh,
1971), 69.
In this and all subsequent references to "psychology"- a science that properly was not established
until the nineteenth century - I use the term to designate the general empirical concerns of
philosophers and natural scientists in the eighteenth century with the cognitive implications of
sense perception.
3 This story is richly narrated and documented by Bellamy Hosier in Changing Aesthetic Views of
Instrumental Music in 18th-Century Germany (Ann Arbor, 1981).
The most detailed biography of Sulzer is Hans Wili, Johann Georg Sulzer: Personlichkeit und
Kunstphilosophie (Ph.D. dissertation, Freiburg University, 1945;published St. Gallen, 1954). Also of
value is Anna Tumarkin's study, Der Asthetiker Johann Georg Sulzer (Frauenfeld, 1933). I have drawn
freely from both of these works for most of the biographical information that follows.
One of his earliest passions was the study of the natural sciences,
stimulated under the tutelage of Johann Gessner and Johann Jakob
Scheuchzer. As a young student at the university, Sulzer became
fascinated by all aspects of natural science, and he avidly read many
of the newest writings on biology, astronomy, and geology. (He was
particularly enamored by Linnaeus s system of botanical classification.)
Through his study of the natural sciences, Sulzer learned the value
of careful empirical observation and systematic analysis, qualities he
strove to incorporate in his first scientific publications.7 Moreover, he
learned a valuable lesson in metaphysics: behind the great diversity of
nature, there was a unity that could be discerned by the patient and
observant scientist, and this unity could be expressed deductively in
the laws of that particular science. Sulzer saw the task of the aesthetician
to be much like that of the scientist: to analyze carefully all the various
arts in their great diversity in order to discover the unifying laws that
underlie them.
Sulzer s involvement in science never took the materialist turn that
was characteristic of so much other scientific thinking in France
during the Enlightenment. Instead, for the pious Sulzer, natural science
offered the greatest proof of an omnipotent and benign Deity.
Following the lead of Leibniz, Sulzer expressed awe at the order,
purpose, and morality that nature seemed everywhere to display,
qualities that for Sulzer were obvious evidence of Gods handiwork.
There was no greater act of devotion and piety in his view than for
one to pay homage to the Creator by the most careful, disciplined,
and systematic study of His creation.
While a student in Zurich, Sulzer also fell under the sway of two
of the most prominent and important literary critics at mid-century:
Johann Jakob Bodmer and Johann Jakob Breitinger. It was through
his studies with Bodmer and Breitinger the former eventually
becoming a life-long friend and correspondent - that Sulzer s interests
turned to aesthetics. The most consequential contribution of the two
"Swiss Critics" (as they were dubbed in their own day) was the
loosening of the rationalist literary poetics laid down by Gottsched.
Contrary to Gottscheds strict neo-classicist prescripts, Bodmer and
Breitinger argued for a greater role for the imagination of the artist
(or, as it was also called in the eighteenth century, the "fantasy").
7
Versuch einiger Moralischer Betrachtungen uber die Werke der Natur (Berlin, 1745); Unterredungen uber
die Schonheiten der Natur (Berlin, 1750).
Conventions of genre and mimesis were all well and good, Breitinger
had argued in his 1740 treatise Critische Dichtkunst, but they should
never constrict the creative impulse and poetic enthusiasm of the
artist.8 Neither Milton nor Shakespeare adhered to the classical unities
in their poetic and dramatic works, Breitinger would often point out;
yet their writings undeniably constitute some of the most sublime
and emotionally moving literature of any nation. In his Critische
Abhandlung von der Natur (Zurich, 1740), Bodmer argued that the
artist's job was not the slavish imitation of nature, but rather a more
creative expression of nature. Whereas Gottsched had argued for the
verisimilitude of art by its remaining within the realm of the probable,
both of the Swiss critics allowed the artist more freedom by alluding
to an inner moral truth that could be known not rationally but only
through feeling.9 The true artist of genius would have the ability not
only to perceive this inner truth, but to give it expression. And such
expression should not be shackled by time-worn literary conventions.
Despite the Swiss critics' attempts to leaven Gottscheds rationalist
poetics, they agreed with many of its major parts. Art was still
considered to be morally edifying and its content mimetic, even if
the nature of its imitation became less clear. While Bodmer and
Breitinger offered a privileged place for emotion in their aesthetic
theories, the emotion they had in mind must not be identified with
the more powerful passions of the Sturm und Drang. Their ideals were
far closer to those associated with the Pietistic movement that gained
many adherents throughout German-speaking lands in the eighteenth
century. The elevation by the Pietists of personal devotional experience,
introspection of one's soul and heart, and, above all, the moral value
and truth of naive sentiment, proved compatible with and indeed
was one of the catalysts of an emerging empfindsam aesthetic in the
secular arts.10 Pietistic ideas enjoyed widespread currency in Sulzer's
hometown of Winterthur during the eighteenth century, and we know
8
The title of Breitinger s work is obviously drawn from Gottscheds locus classicus, the Versuch einer
critischen Dichtkunst.
9 This transition in aesthetic thought is discussed more fully by Steven D. Martinson, On Imitation,
Imagination and Beauty: A Critical Reassessment of the Concept of the Literary Artist During the Early
German "Aufkldrung" (Bonn, 1977), 56-94.
10 The close relationship between German empfindsam aesthetics and Pietist ideals has long been
noted by scholars, although its particular role in Sulzer's own intellectual development has rarely
been stressed. For a valuable discussion of the Pietistic movement and its general influence upon
German aesthetic thought in the eighteenth century, see Ernst and Erika von Barries, Aufkldrung
und Empjindsamkeit, Sturm und Drang (Munich, 1991), esp. 30-32.
that Sulzer was one of those identifying with many of them.11 His
unshakable faith in the moral integrity of the unmediated emotional
response is an unambiguous reflection of Pietistic ideals. At the same
time, though, his life-long suspicion of unbridled emotional expression
the poetic and even agonistic outbursts that would be characteristic
of the radical Sturm und Drang reveals an entrenched Calvinistic
conservatism. The passions were certainly natural and even vital
qualities of mankind, Sulzer agreed, but they were potentially dangerous in excess, and always needed to be kept in check lest they seduce
or overpower us.
Sulzers accent upon the cultivation of individual morality is
symptomatic of the general character of the German Enlightenment
- the Aujkldrung. The socially prescriptive orientation of the French
philosophes with their many ambitious programs of political and
economic reforms, faith in technical progress and the general material
betterment of mankind - was less characteristic of German critics of
the time.12 The question "Was ist Aufklarung?," so famously answered
by Kant in his 1787 essay of the same title, captures in a curt
formulation the more personal, spiritual character that colored so
peculiarly the German experience of the Enlightenment: it was the
liberation of man from his self-incurred tutelage, Kant tells us. The
German Enlightenment, we might say, was more a process internal to
the individual than a social program. Sulzer shared this outlook,
although he did hold that a general elevation of social morality was
possible through a well-designed educational curriculum.
Pedagogy was in fact a dominating concern of Sulzer throughout
his life. One of his earliest publications was a treatise on the education
of youth.13 But virtually all of his writings were didactic in one way
or the other. Convinced as he was of the moral and ethical lessons
contained in both the sciences and the arts, he felt compelled to draw
these lessons out explicitly in his many writings. At times his moralizing
zeal verged on pedantry. (Not surprisingly, perhaps, overtly didactic
and moralizing works such as Rousseau's Emile and the novels of
Richardson were among his favorites.) Sulzer had a chance to exercise
11 Wi\i,Johann Georg Sulzer, 2.
12 See the useful collection of excerpts with intelligent commentary in RafFaele Ciafardone, Die
Philosophie der deutschen Aujkldrung (Stuttgart, 1990).
13 Versuch einiger vernunftiger Gedanken von der Auferziehung und Unterweisung der Kinder (Zurich,
1745).
10
his pedagogical appetence in his first job. After graduating from the
university in Zurich, he accepted a teaching post in Magdeburg (1743).
Four years later, he moved to Berlin as professor of mathematics at
the Joachimsthalisches Gymnasium. He was also charged with the
reorganization of the Prussian educational system.
With his move to Berlin in 1747, Sulzer entered into an intellectual
world, which, if comparatively adolescent, was rapidly gaining in
prominence. Frederick II ("the Great") had just ascended to power,
and was beginning to lure prominent scientists, philosophers, and
musicians to his court. In quick succession, Berlin attracted the likes
of the mathematicians Euler and Maupertuis, the poets Gleim and
Lange, the theologian August Friedrich Wilhelm Sack, the aesthetician
Krause, and musicians such as Quantz, C. P. E. Bach, and Carl Heinrich Graun. To these, we must also add the numerous luminaries from
abroad who would make prolonged visits to Sans Souci as guests of
the King (Voltaire being perhaps the most famous of these).
Berlin soon became a center of progressive not to say, radical
intellectual thought in Germany.14 The most recent ideas from France
and England made their way to Berlin; indeed, several of the more
subversive works of the French philosophes were published in Berlin
before ever appearing in their native land. Writers such La Mettrie,
Voltaire, d'Holbach, and de Prades found a hospitable environment
for disseminating their deistic or materialist heresies.
Sulzer was certainly familiar with the ideas of all these writers. He
joined the Prussian Academie royale des sciences in 1750, through
whose regular meetings he would have contact with all the leading
intellectuals of Berlin. But he was shocked by the more radical strains
of materialism he would encounter in his Berlin years. He responded
to some of these in several of his publications from the 1750s, for
example, vigorously defending in one the doctrine of the immortality
of the soul.15
One area in which Sulzer evidenced substantially more progressive
views was in psychology. The nature of sensory perception and
cognition, as we have already noted at the beginning of this intro14 A useful collection of essays on Berlin intellectual life in the mid-eighteenth century is found in
Aujkldrung in Berlin, ed. Wolfgang Forster (Berlin, 1989). Unfortunately, Steffen Dietzch's essay on
Sulzer from this book (pp. 265-73) offers little insight.
15 For more on Sulzer s negative reactions to most of his Berlin colleagues and their tastes, see
Tumarkin, Johann Georg Sulzer, 54-57.
11
(Berlin, 1757).
18 A study that systematically traces the penetration of empirical psychology within aesthetics is
Horst-Michael Schmidt, Sinnlichkeit und Verstand: Zurphilosophischen und poetologischen Begriindung
von Erfahrung und Urteil in der deutschen Aufkldrung (Munich, 1982).
19 See Jeffrey Barnouw, "Feeling in Enlightenment Aesthetics,"Studies in Eighteenth-Century Culture
18 (1988), 323-42.
12
13
21 Sulzer's one colleague in Berlin upon whom he could count for support was Christian Gottfried
Krause, whose Von der Musikalischen Poesie (1752) took up similar positions of sentimental
morality and mimesis in music. But by the time Sulzer was preparing his encyclopedia for
publication, Krause's ideas were already old ones, ridiculed for their simplicity and conservatism
in the music-aesthetic writings of Johann Adam Hiller, Casper Ruetz, and Johann Adolph
Schlegel. On the rapid maturation of German music-aesthetical thought in the 1750s and 1760s,
see Lippman,/! History of Western Musical Aesthetics, 115-24.
14
The Allgemeine Theorie der schonen Kunste, published in two large volumes
15
16
17
18
19
emotion), and then set out to find the best means to convey it
(although Sulzer also recognized that some artists begin with material
and only later seek to find a suitable occasion in which to apply it).
As we have seen, the motivation must be morally infused; the artist
must have an ethically motivated sentiment (Empjindung) or emotion
fully in mind that aptly underlies the subsequent matter or action to
be portrayed.37 He then finds a suitable "invention" or idea which
best embodies this sentiment and will provide the central material for
subsequent development. Naturally, there can be no firm rules to guide
one in finding such an invention. Sulzer tells us that this is one of
the greatest secrets of genius. The most he can recommend is the
careful study of masterpieces as models, and the cultivation of one s
own empathy and moral sentiment (s.v. "Invention," and "Inspiration").
Once a suitable invention is found, the artist must begin to compose
his work. For Sulzer, this takes place in three idealized stages: Anlage,
Ausfuhrung, and Ausarbeitung layout, realization and elaboration (s.v.
"Layout").
In classical rhetoric, these three elements were part of the general
arsenal of ars inventi, in which, roughly speaking, arguments were
determined, developed, and refined. Again, we must keep in mind that
there was no canonic systematization of rhetoric that Sulzer drew
upon, hence it is not surprising that he himself was not systematic in
his use of rhetorical terms. (In some of his articles, for instance, he
asserted the second stage to be "disposition" [Anordnung] not "realization"; elsewhere, he was not consistent in distinguishing Anlage from
Plan, or, for that matter, Anlage from Entwurf [Sketch] or Erfindung
[Invention].) Nevertheless, a few general conclusions may be drawn.
In the "layout," the artist begins by taking the central invention
of the work and determines its major parts. This does not mean, it
seems, sketching out a formal schema. Rather, the layout should ideally
present the principal "ideas" that will embody the specific purpose,
sentiment, and nature of the work.38 The layout, he tells us, is a result
37 Empjindung is a difficult word to render precisely in English. I have generally used the word
"sentiment" w h e n it appears, as this seems to relate most closely to its empiricist etymology of
sensory perception. B u t as with eighteenth-century psychology in general, the distinction
between sensation and emotion or feeling was a porous one. H e n c e there are times w h e n
" e m o t i o n " or "feeling" seem to convey m o r e accurately the notion Sulzer was conveying.
38 Anlage is another tricky word to translate. It can mean the general " o u t l i n e " or "plan" of
something. (This is indeed h o w Koch seems to have used the word, as w e will see.) B u t it also
20
Mathematischen Erkenntnifi, 2 vols. [Riga, 1771]). Applied in this way, it is "form" in the
Aristotelian sense of potentiality. While Sulzer does not offer us a very penetrating definition of
the term in his surprisingly short article on "Anlage," he seems to have had this particular
meaning in mind. Thus I have chosen to translate the term as "layout," suggestive of its
etymological origin legen an, and more to the point, the general "laying out" of all possible ideas
in a potential art work that will subsequently need to be "realized" and "elaborated," which is to
say, selected, ordered, and refined.
39 It is worth pointing out again that Sulzer never interprets a work's dispositio in any schematic sense
akin to Mattheson s oratorical taxonomy. Sulzer was astute enough to recognize that any parsing
of some drama, poem, or musical piece into generalized subsections was bound to fail. The
rhetorical element in aesthetics, then, was not formal - as some contemporary historians such as
Bonds erroneously claim - but processive, hortatory.
21
22
23
The most important articles detailing the creative process of art are
here provided, as well as more background articles on Sulzer s general
philosophical views, in addition to a number of more specific articles
relating to music that help particularize Sulzer s approach to musical
aesthetics and composition.40 To provide a more coherent presentation
of Sulzer s ideas than an alphabetized ordering could, I have parsed
these articles into three conceptual categories: "Aesthetic foundations,"
"The creative process," and "Musical issues."
I should mention here that several of the articles included in the
third category may well be from the pen of Schulz, if Sulzer s own
testimony is to be believed. (See note 22, page 14 above.) This is
almost certainly the case with the articles "Symphony" and "Sonata,"
both of which contain enough technical descriptions of the genres
to suggest authorship other than Sulzer s. Still, given the many pertinent
remarks on musical aesthetics to be found in these articles, it is not
out of the question that Sulzer inserted many of his own comments
within Schulzs prose. In any case, I have deemed it appropriate to
conclude with these articles, which by characterizing the two most
important instrumental genres of the eighteenth century, serve as
fitting exemplars to the preceding articles. The symphony and sonata,
after all, are presumably built upon the same aesthetic and rhetorical
principles explicated by Sulzer. Yet in the lack of any detailed
description given by Schulz of the process by which either a symphony
or sonata may be structured and composed, a major gap in Sulzer s
prescriptive ideal was left unclosed. It was to this task that Koch would
apply himself.
All articles are translated from the second edition of Sulzer s Allgemeine
Theorie der Schonen Kunste, ed. Johann Gottfried Dyck and Georg
Schaz, 4 vols. (Leipzig, 1792).
Although the text of the articles in this edition is identical to those
found in the first edition brought out by Sulzer, I cite the second
40 A few additional articles not included here are translated in a companion volume to this series
which may serve as a supplement to the present translation. (Music and Aesthetics in the Eighteenth
and Early Nineteenth Centuries, ed. Peter le Huray and James Day [Cambridge, 1981], 12039.The
articles translated there are "Aesthetics," "Emotions," "Expression in music," "Genius,"
"Inspiration," "Music," "Natural," and "Sublime.") I have taken it upon myself to retranslate and
expand four of these articles, however - "Aesthetics," "Expression in music," "Inspiration," and
"Music" - in order to provide a slightly more literal reading, as well as to coordinate the
terminology with the other articles translated here.
24
AESTHETIC FOUNDATIONS
In his well-known and excellent work, Reflexions critiques sur la poesie and et la peinture (Paris, 1719).
[S.]
25
26
certain times has the need to exercise his emotions and engage his
feelings. However, he was content to limit himself to drawing only a
few basic rules from this premise, and thus remain as empirical in his
methods as were his predecessors. Still, his work is full of excellent
observations and rules.
It was our own Baumgarten who was the first to try to set the
whole philosophy of the fine arts upon firm philosophical grounding,
and for which he coined the name "aesthetics." He began with Wolffs
theory on the origins of pleasurable feelings, which this philosopher
believed to find in the indistinct perception of perfection. In the
theoretical part of his work the only one that has yet appeared
this sharp-minded philosopher treats the whole science of beauty or
sensible perfection in all its different forms, while at the same time
showing its opposite forms of ugliness. It is to be regretted, though,
that his much too limited knowledge of art precluded his extending
his theory beyond oratory and poetry. But even in these areas he
failed to treat the notion of beauty in all its manifestations.
One must thereby count aesthetics among the under-developed
philosophical sciences. Since it is the intention of the author that the
present work should encompass the whole of this science, even if it
does not at first appear so systematic, it should be appropriate to
outline here the general plan of aesthetics.
First of all, one must establish the purpose and nature of the fine
arts. After showing that the main purpose of the fine arts is to
manipulate emotions through the arousal of sensations, both pleasant
and disagreeable, we must look into the origin of these sensations,
discovering it in the nature of the soul, or deducing the answer from
the teachings of philosophers. Next, we must consider the various
kinds of pleasant and disagreeable objects, and see what their affect
is in relation to ones temperament. {49} In order to account
adequately for the specific varieties of pleasure and disagreeableness,
whether theoretically or by studying works of taste with the utmost
attention, one must thoroughly treat the subject in a hundred different
articles. All of these articles together will constitute the theoretical
part of the philosophy of art.
The practical part of this work must elucidate the different kinds
of fine art and establish their particular character and limits. (See the
articles "Art," "Poetry," "Eloquence," "Music," "Painting," etc.) At
the same time, we need to consider the question of genius, and
27
28
29
not just a gaggle of loose wenches one calls upon for diversion, they
must be guided by reason and wisdom in their stimulation of sentiment.
This is a law that also applies to the sciences. "Nisi utile est, quod
facimus, stulta est sapientia," one poet has written, as modest as he is
wise. ["Wisdom that produces nothing useful is foolish."]2 The science
that makes no discrimination in the elucidation and development of
ideas, for which every idea is treated as equally important whether
or not it may be useful or not, such a science spins a web in which
it will catch only flies. It makes a mockery of true knowledge.
Common sense dictates that we not take seriously those sciences and
mechanical arts that concern themselves with only wearisome trifles.
Should not this law of utility, this essential component of wisdom,
also then be part of the fine arts? What reasonable artist would debase
himself such that he would preclude himself and his art from the laws
of wisdom and its general philosophical tenets? [...] {55}
Since it is the primary duty of the fine arts to awaken sentiments,
and since in the carrying out of this task reason and wisdom are
indispensable, an important question then arises in the theory of the
arts: How should these sentiments be handled?
The most general answer to this question is not difficult. On the
one hand, a person must possess a degree of sensibility for the beautiful
and ugly, for good and for evil, since an insensible person may be as
amoral as some droll animal. On the other hand, it is important that
the sentiments this person have in his soul correspond to both the
general and specific circumstances of his life, and by whose harmonious
mixture arises a moral character fitting to his standing and vocation.
The fine arts must meet both these needs of man. They must provide
him with a moderate degree of sensibility as well as establish a good
mixture of dominating temperaments in his soul. Under certain circumstances, they must sometimes stimulate one's sensibilities to the
same degree as one s dominant temperament in order for them to be
effective. Anyone who thinks that the artist must do nothing more
than employ various kinds of sensations in a pleasant mix following
his own taste, and that by such a play of sensations an amusing diversion
may be created, such a person has a shallow conception of art. To be
2
From book 3 of Phaedrus s fables, "The Trees Under the Patronage of the Gods" ("Arbores in
Deorum Tutela"). Sulzer, however, slightly altered Phaedrus's penultimate line, which in the
original reads: "Nisi utile est quod facimus, stulta est gloria" (Unless what we do is useful, it is
foolish). From The Fables of Phaedrus, trans. P F. Widdows (Austin, 1992), 75. [C]
30
sure, we need not throw such works of art out. They serve, as do
many pleasant still-lives, to amuse the sensibility of the heart. But just
as the beautiful adornments of nature are only the clothing that
shrouds the driving forces necessary for the general support and perfection of all being, so do all pleasant works of art accrue their worth
by virtue of the greater power lying under their beautiful clothing.
A well-ordered sensibility of the heart is thus the most fundamental
goal of the fine arts. In this way every part of one's soul seeks to stir
those passions that awaken delight, as well as sorrow. As man has urges
that both drive him forward and hold him back, so must he have
sensitivity to the beautiful and the ugly, for good and for evil. To this
end, the almost unending variety of objects and scenes from the world
are useful, whether they be lifeless or animated, physical or ethical.
All matters of taste must be treated in every genre, whether the
painting, the narrative, the ode, the epic, or the drama, such that the
soul may exercise its sensibility, that it can feel the pleasure of the
beautiful and the good, the repulsiveness of the ugly and evil. {56}
The artist has only to take care that everything stands clearly before
us in its most authentic form so that we can sense it. He is on guard
against all that is vague or ineffective, zealous to find the most accurate
depiction of all objects, and diligent in thinking of a good form for
his work whereby its totality becomes interesting.
But he must not forget the common-sense rule that one not overstep the bounds of sensibility. Just as it is a great imperfection to lack
a reasonable amount of sensibility, since it causes one to be stiff and
dormant, so is an excess of sensibility very harmful, as it is effeminate,
weakening, and unmanly. This important admonition for moderation
seems especially appropriate for several of our German poets, who
are otherwise considered to be among the best. They seem to hold
the illusion that emotions can never be stimulated too much. They
would have all pain become madness and despair, abhorrence taken
to the highest degree of horror, every desire turned into delirium,
and every tender feeling to melting. This is done with the aim of
making man a pitiful, weak thing, one for whom desire, tenderness,
and pain become so overwhelming that no effective energy is retained,
and all steadfastness and manly courage is drained.3 [...] {57}
3
Sulzer is probably referring here to the circle of post-Anacreontic poets led by Friedrich Gottlieb
Klopstock (1724-1803). [C]
31
The most important service the fine arts can offer to man consists
without doubt in the well-ordered dominating desires that it can
implant, by which the ethical character of man and his moral worth
is determined. A sense for justice and a general uprighteousness, true
honor, patriotism, freedom, humanity, and so forth - all of these are
the general forces by which order, community, peace, and welfare are
achieved in the ethical world. [...]
The fine arts have two ways of unleashing man's sensibilities. One
way is to follow Horaces dictum, that in order to move someone,
you should be moved yourself.4 The other is the animated depiction
or performance of something by which sensibilities may flow forth.
Whoever will arouse pity must bring an object of pity before our
eyes in the most animated manner. Practically all kinds of poetry
follow one or the other of these two ways. Both the epic poet and
the playwright can stimulate our sensibilities in a way that is so vivid,
so strong and admirable, that our hearts are fully moved. In this way
Bodmer depicted Noahs overwhelming fear of God and his consequent guiltlessness and divine soul in such a way that every sensible
person could identify with it. The ode and song poet experiences
himself those feelings that he wishes to instill in our hearts. He opens
his own heart so that we can see for ourselves the most vivid effects
of these feelings, and we can open our own heart to his so that it
may be moved by the same feelings and inflamed by the same fire.
[...] {58}
One more comment should be added to our observations that will
make them truly useful to the artist. We wish to warn the artist who
would arouse sensibilities not to do this based on some general ideal.
Just as one who seeks all men as friends can be a friend to none, so
it is that there is no righteous citizen to be found in any society who
fits the universal ideal of a perfectly cultured man. {59} Any sentiment
that is to be truly effective must have a real and particular subject. To
be sure, there are quite general sentiments of mankind that are valid
in all lands, at all times, and among all people. But even these must
be particularized by each person according to his situation and context.
The universal righteous man must be educated differently depending
upon whether he is to be a good citizen of Sparta, of Athens, or of
4
Cf. Horace's famous maxim: "Si vis meflere,dolendum est primum ipsi tibi" (If you would have
me weep, you must feel grief yourself). Horace's exhortation to affective empathy was a mainstay
of German empjindsam aesthetics. [C]
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through a heightened ability of genius, through the richness, thoroughness, solidity and luster of one's ideas and thoughts. Thus enthusiasm is a double art: one part works primarily upon the senses, the
other upon the imagination.
Both have their origins in the vivid impression made upon the
soul by some object of particular aesthetic force. {350} If the object
is unclear such that the imaginative powers cannot develop freely, if
one's impression of its effects are more vivid than one's knowledge
of its essence, which is the case with all general passions, then in all
these cases attention is turned to one's sensations, and the entire power
of the soul unites in the most animated feeling. If on the other hand
the object that has made the strongest impression can be viewed in
a pure form, and its spirit captured in its many parts, then in such a
case one s power of imagination is agitated along with one's senses
and becomes firmly attached to the object. Reason and imaginative
powers both strive to present themselves fully and with the greatest
clarity and vividness. In the first case enthusiasm springs from the
heart, while in the second instance it comes from the inspiration of
genius. Both deserve to be viewed somewhat more intricately in their
nature and their effects.
The enthusiasm of the heart, or the heated efficacy of the soul that
are expressed primarily in one's sensations, are awakened by profound
works in which we see nothing very clearly that the imaginative
powers can hold on to, where the attention is directed from the object
itself to what the soul is feeling and its own desires. In this way, one's
mind loses sight of the object itself, and feels all the more its animated
effects. The soul becomes, in essence, all feeling; it knows of nothing
outside, but only of what is inside itself. All ideas of things outside
itself recede into darkness; the soul sinks into a dream, whose effects
for the most part restrain one's reason as much as enliven one's feelings.
In this situation, one is not in a position conducive to careful reflection
or reasoned judgment. One's inclinations are expressed freely and with
animation, the mainsprings of one's powers of desire develop unconstrained.
Since one's powers of imagination are no more capable of differentiating reality from fancy, anything possible seems to be real. Even
the impossible becomes possible. The coherence of things is evaluated
not through judgment, but through feeling. What is absent becomes
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present, and the future becomes now. Whatever has some connection
to the emotions present in the soul moves to center stage. [...]
4 ORIGINALITY [ORIGINALGEIST] (vol. Ill, pp. 625-28)
We call originality that quality of some men who in their thoughts and
deeds distinguish themselves from others through their uniqueness. Their
character is of a special, singular kind. But here we will consider
originality in so far as it relates to individual works of art and how it
contributes to the particular features that distinguish the work from
those of all other artists.
Originality must be distinguished from imitations, as we have
elsewhere remarked (s.v. "Imitation"). In numerous places in this work,
it has been pointed out that the true origin of all fine arts is to be
found in the nature of human feelings [Gemuthes]. Works of fine art
originate with men possessing greater sentiments and a livelier imagination than normal, yet who also possess a keen feeling for beauty;
such artists are inspired by an inner drive and not by foreign examples;
their works are essentially expressions of genius and sentiments which
are endowed with form and character only after careful consideration.
These artists are inventors, who although perhaps not the first in their
genre, as there were certainly predecessors, were original in that they
created the works of art out of an impulse from their own genius,
and not through imitation. Generally speaking, such geniuses possess
a sufficient amount of individuality in their inventions as well as their
taste, that they can be said to be original. If these individuals also
happen not to have had any forerunners, they were also the founders
of their art, as nature endowed them with all that was necessary for
this purpose. They are, as Young said, coincidentally original [zufdllige
Originate].
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36
justified in so far as the works are used for study of art. {627} But
if the issue is the capacity of a work effectively reaching the general
goal of art, an imitation can well have far more worth than an original.
This must always be kept in mind in the evaluation of originality,
where sometimes the most original work will not always be the most
preferred.
La Fontaine displayed the greatest originality in the narration of
his fables, while Aesop is to be preferred in his execution [of this
genre], at least in its most important parts.7 It could well be that some
writers could be simple imitators of the Phrygian author and produce
fables far exceeding in value those of the French author. As novelists,
both Richardson and Fielding are originals, each in their own way;
one appeals more to the heart, the other to the mind and temperament.
Perhaps Fielding is more original in his way than is Richardson, but
the art of the latter is more important.8
Montesquieu and Rousseau were just as original in their writings
on social contracts; each opened up a new area or provided a new
point of view. For the politician unconcerned with the welfare of
men, each of these authors is important, just as moral philosophers
acknowledge their worth. [...] {628}
We cannot let pass in silence the question why originality is so
rarely found. It is more likely due to a mania for imitation than any
stinginess on nature s part to distribute her gifts. One can find geniuses
who are perfectly capable of being original, yet who sometimes
succumb to this mania. Germany herself possesses men of great genius
who are gifted by nature with many choice talents, and who could
be extraordinarily original in more than one field. Yet one finds them
frequently imitating others, despite the fact that their originality always
shines through. Sometimes it is the young Crebillon who inspires
them to imitation, sometimes Diderot, sometimes Sterne. A few of
these original artists may also lack courage; seeing how certain existing
art works cause such general wonderment, how critics elevate these
same works as models, and how general rules are even deduced from
these works and applied to all works of the same kind, such artists
7 Jean de La Fontaine (1621-95), who along with Boileau, Moliere, and Racine comprised the
legendary literary sodete des Quatre Amis, was known primarily through his books of fables
modeled upon Aesop's more famous tales. [C]
8 Here the question is only the way a novel may be used to educate the heart, as there have been
considerable objections justifiably raised concerning the particulars of Richardson's style. The
author of Agathon [Wieland] has raised a number of important comments on this subject. [S.]
37
do not trust themselves to forge a different way. They fear that any
ode that is not Horatian or Pindaric, or any tragedy that is not
patterned after a Greek model, can never attain praise. Thus they allow
their own genius to be collared by the yoke of foreign rules. In France,
many original artists surfer from such anxieties, as they seem to hold
that no work is worth anything if it is not similar to something made
during the much-glorified reign of Louis XIV We [Germans] are
somewhat freer in our judgments, as we have not such a long tradition
of home-grown models. Still, it sometimes happens that some critics
withhold their approbation of certain art works simply because they
diverge from normal forms. The genius appears sometimes proud, but
always confident in his work, persevering against the nagging of the
imitative critic; an impartial public will call him to take encouragement
from Horaces words "Sapere aude" [Dare to Know].
5 ORDER [ORDNUNG] (vol. Ill, pp. 614-17)
One says that something is orderly when rules can be found that account
for how its parts are put together or follow one another. The word
"order" can also be used in a more general, metaphysical sense, in which
one or more rules govern the specific way all parts are positioned or
ordered in relation to the whole. In the majority of cases this results
in uniformity. A series of numbers such as 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 or 1, 2, 4, 8, 16
is orderly since in both cases the various numbers succeed each other
following a certain rule, and thus display a kind of uniformity. One can
easily see that in the first series, each successive number is greater by
one than the previous number, while in the second series, each successive
number is double that of the previous number. {615} Order exists, then,
whenever things stand in relation to, or follow one another, following
certain rules. It is determined by the rule or law by which these things
stand in relation to, or follow one another. And as soon as one discovers
it, one recognizes or notices that the things are related by a rule, even
when these rules do not seem to have any purpose or are the result of
any intention. One sometimes hears raindrops pattering upon the roof
in constant time. In the succession of raindrops one hears order without
purpose. Each drop seems to dissipate as the next drop follows it. This
is the law of succession by which order arises. It could happen that a
handful of round objects thrown randomly into the air fall to the earth
in straight lines and equally distant from one another. We discover order
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of fine art. {617} Still, if one were to rank works of art, any work
with a pleasing order, but whose contents lack any aesthetic worth,
would occupy the lowest class. An order that is perceived as too simple,
however, is not suitable for works whose contents have nothing of
excellence. They would be seen to be feeble since one would discover
at one glance what little aesthetic they had. Nothing is more insipid
than a poem of meager content following the same versification
throughout. Weaker contents must always be helped by sophisticated
order in which there is a kind of rhythm. This is how buildings that
otherwise have nothing remarkable about them sometimes convey an
artistic appearance. This is also how certain compositions, dances, and
sometimes even short lyrical poems become moderately pleasing; one
would pay no heed to them were it not for the decoration afforded
by their order.
The most important thing for the artist to keep in mind in regard
to order, at least as it impinges upon the form of a work, is that
anything which is a product of order must be perfectly suited to the
material of the work. In this way, weak content can be compensated
through the charm of order, and most crucially, no disadvantages occur
through the luster of order. The architect who has succeeded in finding
the basic form of a truly magnificent cathedral would want to tone
down the beautiful and intricate eurhythmy of the smaller parts lest
they detract from the main impression the building is to make. There
will be no more need to stimulate the fantasy where these impressions
are conveyed strongly enough. Perhaps this is why the Greeks, with
their refined taste, preferred to set those hymns in which the heart
was calmed through devotion and adoration not by complex lyrical
verses, but by simple hexameters.
Intricate order has more charm than simple order. But this charm
appeals more to one's fantasy, and can potentially weaken those
impressions conveyed to one's reason and heart. Also, intricacy is not
always as easy to remember as is simplicity. Thus, if one is dealing
with material of a work that should be firmly retained, the simplest
order is to be preferred over the most intricate. Everyone will see
that a song or ode set to our older simple lyrical verse forms is much
easier to remember than the more complex verse forms of the Greeks.
For the same reason, one will see in regard to music that melodies
composed for dancing, which by necessity should be quite easy to
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42
43
The notion of some object being "what it should be" makes reference to a venerable idealist
concept of ethical perfectionism and plenitude articulated most strongly in the eighteenth
century by Leibniz and Christian Wolff. [C]
44
45
cannot feel how the variety we see fits together, the individual parts
of some object may please us, but the whole will never be able to
awaken in us any pleasure.
It follows from this that every individual part of a work that is
conceptually ill-suited to the whole, that possesses no relation with
the other parts and thus stands in opposition to the unity, is an
imperfection and blemish that causes displeasure. This is what happens
in a story when we encounter an event that contributes nothing
essential to the spirit of the story, or in a drama when we find a
character who does not fit in with the others, and thus violates the
work's unity.
A far more substantial mistake occurs, however, if several essential
unities are haphazardly joined together in a single work. Such a work
relies upon two main ideas that have no connection other than a
casual one. Yet we are suddenly expected to conceive of them as a
single idea. It really becomes impossible to say what the work is
supposed to be. Examples of this that may be cited are Raphaels
famous painting of Christ's transfiguration, or Ludovico Carracci's
painting in which the Archangel Michael hurls fallen souls into the
abyss while at the same time St. George is slaying the dragon.10 {28}
In many plays there is sometimes more than one story, so it becomes
impossible to say what the whole is supposed to be.
Everything we have said concerning unity also applies to the unity
of an object's nature. Besides this kind of unity, though, there are other
kinds that one can more or less call accidental unities. A historical
painting might possess full unity with respect to its characters and
story, but be entirely without unity in regard to accidental things. For
example, the painter could portray each figure with a unique shading
of light and thereby dispense with the overall unity of lighting, or he
could paint each group of characters with their own particular color.
Even in these accidental things, however, any lack of unity is offensive,
since when we envision a particular history, the idea of unity in regard
to place and time will also occur to us. If we find something that
contradicts this idea, we will necessarily feel dissatisfied. Therefore, the
artist who wishes to make his work perfect must think about not
only the unity of its nature but also the unity of its accidental elements.
10 The painting of Christ's transfiguration by Raphael to which Sulzer refers was painted around
1520 and now hangs in the Vatican museum. I have not been able to identify the painting Sulzer
describes by Lodovico Carracci. [C]
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more will be his need to try to augment their number. This is how
man has slowly learned to utilize all his internal and external natural
abilities and talents, how he has slowly approached the condition of
perfection by being all that he is capable of.
Because works of art are supposed to be entertaining and provide
new stimulus to all parts of our imaginative powers, there must be
sufficient variety among the many things presented to us in every
work. All artists of genius reveal themselves in their works by the
fruitfulness of their genius. In the Iliad, the number and kinds of
battles is endless; the entries made by the various heroes are almost
too numerous to count. But each is still accurately and fully differentiated in character from all the others.
The variety that pleases most, though, is that which one finds in
objects that have a natural connection to one another. It would be
as annoying for every minute of the day to be totally new and without
any connection to the previous ones as it would be for every minute
to repeat itself endlessly. Any book that consists of an extensive
collection of disparate thoughts, each possessing no relation to one
another, although all of beauty and importance, would certainly be
varied. But it would be a book no one could read. For this reason,
there has to be a thread drawing together the many different things
so that they are not arbitrarily joined, but rather have a natural
connection to one another. {362} Variety must appear as the constantly
varied effects of a single cause, or as the different forces that act upon
a single object, or things of the same kind that are distinguished by
their individual shadings. The closer things cohere in their variety, the
more delicate will be the enjoyment they provide.
This kind of variety must always be strictly observed where much
is happening. A good historical painter will show us not only the
faces of various people, he will ensure that within the tableau there
is pleasing variety in their positions, their relative proportions, and in
their clothing. The poet is not satisfied only with a variety of thoughts;
he must also ensure variety in expression, idiom, rhythm, tone, and
other such matters. The composer must be concerned not only with
an agreeable variety of pitches, but that the harmonies and melodies
themselves are likewise varied.
When speaking of variety, an artist need not be a genius to realize
that it arises through the accumulation of many differing ideas and
pictures. It does require true genius and a sure taste, however, to be
48
able to find a diversity of appropriate things that can serve ones needs,
select and use the right quantity so that it does not cause confusion,
rather it appears to be a whole that cannot be altered in anyway In
works of artists that lack these two qualities, one will find either a
poverty of thought, or an inappropriate piling up of ideas not well
related to one another. This is what happens in the music of some
composers, who either repeat the same idea throughout a single work
in different keys and rely upon the same two or three chords for the
entire harmony, or on the contrary, write a series of individual musical
ideas totally unrelated to one another. Only the composer possessing
the necessary genius for his art knows how to present the main idea
in a variety of forms by changing its accompanying harmonies,
developing it, and altering it through the addition of subordinate but
still coherent ideas, so that the ear is continually engaged from
beginning to end.
It has already been noted that a lack of variety betrays a poverty
of genius. Could we not deduce from this, at least in a few' cases, a
rule for judging the genius of an entire nation? For instance, would
one not conclude that a nation lacks genius whose works of art all
had the same identical form, whose houses were all built following
the same model, whose comedies were all modelled upon the same
plan, and whose odes were all written in the same key and performed
in a single way?
9 TASTE (GESCHMAK) (vol. II, pp. 371-73)
Taste is really nothing other than the capacity to sense beauty, just as
reason is the capacity to recognize that which is true, perfect and just,
and morality the capacity to feel that which is good. Sometimes the
word is used in a narrower sense to designate the general taste of man
and the degree to which it has developed.
One calls something beautiful when it presents itself to our
imagination in a pleasing manner and with no reference to any other
quality; it pleases us despite our not knowing what it is or what
purpose it serves. Beauty pleases us not because reason finds it perfect,
or our moral sense finds it good, but because it flatters our imagination
by presenting itself in an attractive, pleasing form. The inner sense by
which we may enjoy this pleasure is taste. If, as we have elsewhere
shown, beauty is real and not just something imagined (s.v. "Beauty"),
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50
species, whose works never penetrate the fantasy, never touch our
reason or heart. [...]
On the other hand, there are men of reason and genius who lack
taste. They fancy themselves as artists, although their works are never
true works of art. Their ideas and inventions are excellent ones, but
they are unable to achieve the effect one expects in a work of art.
Artists of great talent who lack taste are like those learned and
loquacious men one often meets whose gloomy and awkward nature
frightens others into not profiting from their good sense and heart.
{373} Thus the unity of every higher gift with taste constitutes the
true artist.
It has been noted already that true beauty exists in pleasing forms.
One also sometimes applies the term beauty more broadly to include
that which has qualities of notable, sensible perfection, truth, correctness, and perhaps even of goodness (in so far, at least, as this last
quality is evident from ones intuitive understanding). Taste can also
be of service to this broader sense of beauty. It suggests to the
imagination not only a beautiful form, but can unite to it beauty
(which originates in the domain of truth and goodness) in such an
integral manner, that the resulting object draws together all at once
ones reason, imagination, and heart. [...]
10 MUSICAL EXPRESSION
[AUSDRUCK IN DER MUSIK] (vol. I, pp. 271-74)
51
52
53
54
II
56
57
58
whole will themselves become clear and therefore bring to light other
concepts and ideas that border upon them. Whoever possesses this
skill will not only be able to see beyond every clear idea to discover
a further set of related ideas, but on other occasions be able to present
in an entirely new manner ideas that at one time seemed perfectly
clear. In this way the power of invention can open up entirely new
terrain. In every case, though, invention will be made easier if the
imagination upon which it is based is allowed the greatest degree of
clarity attained through attention and leisurely contemplation. Thereby
an even greater number of differing but related ideas will come to
light, facilitating their selection by the inventor.
That things actually proceed in this manner seems to be confirmed
by those individual cases of successful invention we know of. Those
who are possessed by some passion always seem to be the most creative
in finding satisfactory means. The most imaginative of them find
opportunities in those places where others would not suspect it. The
idea of abundance as the highest good always exists with the utmost
clarity in his soul, and everything else that is related to it lies nearby.
Such a man is able to draw all consequences from his dominant
desires. Somehow he is able to find things that others overlook, and
he is able to recognize quickly their connection to his main ideas, to
see how they can be appropriated as a means for his purpose and do
so. This is why we can say that as soon as the artist has attained a
clear conception of his work, he has begun to invent. [...] {89}
Here, then, is an important lesson for the artist striving to invent
something suited to his purpose. He should banish all other thoughts,
leaving only a clear conception of his goal in his soul. His attention
should be focused only upon this. If this does not happen, he should
withdraw himself into isolation. He will eventually begin to associate
everything that comes to mind with his subject, just as the spiritual
leads to abundance, devotion to salvation. If his spirit is disposed in
just this way, he can be assured that what he seeks will reveal itself
little by little. A host of useful ideas will slowly collect in his mind,
and he will eventually be able to select the best of them without
difficulty
It is of the utmost importance, though, that the artist have his
purpose so clearly and completely fixed in his mind that nothing
uncertain remains. How could a speaker possibly find some justification
for a proposition that he has not thought out fully or clearly himself?
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And so it is for every invention. The poet would look in vain for
some ode, or the artist the image for some painting, so long as each
had a goal so indefinite as trying to be touching, or hoping to make
something pretty. Any work whose invention is not based upon ideas
that are clear and distinct can never become perfect. Mengs praised
Raphael for always first focusing his attention upon the meanings of
that which he wished to portray.1 One seeks through invention to
find that which makes a work perfect; but it will become perfect only
when it is exactly that which it should be. It is thus apparent that
the inventor must know precisely what the work he is laboring upon
is to be. {90} Accordingly, the invention is dependent upon a very
exact determination and very clear idea of that which the work is to
be. One sees all too often works whose author had no idea what he
was trying to do. Haven't we heard enough concerts in which the
composer seems to have intended only to make sheer noise by
wandering from one key to another? And haven't we seen enough
dances that betray no intention other than aimless poses, jerks, and
jumps? Such a lack of clear intention can turn a work into nothing
less than an enigma. One cannot say for sure what such a work may
be, even if it shares the same outer form of works possessing
unambiguously clear character.
The artist, then, must first try to form a clear and exact idea of
the work he wishes to create in his mind so that he can evaluate
whether every idea that comes to him can contribute to making the
work what it should be. If he has such a conception in mind, then
his whole attention is directed towards it; it becomes the dominating
idea in his mind, and that to which he relates all other ideas that may
occur to him, seeing if they might have some kind of relation to it.
In this way he will gather many ideas that can serve his purpose, and
it will only remain for him to choose the best of them.
Perhaps it would not be impossible to set down a few specific rules
for every artist concerning the gathering of ideas and concepts,
although this would not help those possessing neither genius nor the
requisite experience in exercising their power of imagination and
especially their fantasy. Rhetoric is probably the field of study most
experienced with such rules. The ancient rhetoricians seemed to have
l
Anton Raphael Mengs (1728-79) was a painter and art critic known for his strong championing
of neo-classicism. In 1762 he published a small treatise in which he outlined his views: Gedanken
iiber die Schonheit und iiber den Geschmak in der Malerei (Zurich, 1762). [ C ]
60
The loci communes ("commonplaces") and status quaestionis ("issue of discussion") were some of
the elements taught in classical rhetoric. Hermagoras (fl. ca. 150) and Hermogenes (late second
century) were two widely known authors of rhetoric texts. [C]
Vollkommener Capellmeister, part 2, chapter 4. [S.]
61
Philopoemen (252-183 BC) was a Spartan statesman and general whose legendary exploits were
chronicled by Polybius. [C]
62
eyes of the disciples. But the painter could just as easily present the
entire story from the perspective of Christ's enemies. And in order to
make everything even more interesting, he might choose to depict
the moment of terror in which the earthquake took place. The
invention could be a good one, despite arising as a kind of imitation.
Whoever chooses to invent by this means must discover in some preexisting artwork what specific purpose its inventions served, and then
take and adapt a few of them so that the same material now becomes
suited to its new purpose. {93} This is how it comes about in music
that the same phrase or motive, when set in a different tempo or
meter, is capable of expressing a totally different sentiment. Whoever
can notice these things will find success in making inventions through
imitation. One can just as surely arrive at new inventions by taking
a few principal ingredients away from some preexisting work, or
adding others, or even leaving the basic content of some work alone,
but appropriating the spirit of its presentation. In this way, many
dramatic poets have taken the spirit or principal impression of a drama
by someone else, and come up with a whole new story, as did Voltaire
when he based his own drama Semiramis upon Shakespeare's Hamlet.
There are thus many roads to base invention in the arts besides
the one shown to us by nature. Primarily among them is a constant
study of art and preexisting works.
Everything we have said in regard to invention up to this point
has dealt with the main material or subject of the whole. But all this
can be applied to the invention of individual parts. To a certain extent
every section of a work comprises a whole, whose individual parts
can likewise be found just as the section was itself found from
contemplation of the whole. Without doubt there are times when the
invention of individual parts is as difficult for the artist as is the
invention of the whole, and the lack of one part can bring the whole
thing to a halt. When facing such a situation, one is advised not to
become discouraged, but to take time. Invention never allows itself to
be forced, and will progress the least through the most concerted
efforts. We know the story of Nealies, who had finished everything
in his monumental painting except the foam he wanted to draw upon
the snouts of the horses.5 But one is not always as lucky as he was.
The best thing to do at such moments is to relax, and try not to
5
Possibly Sulzer is referring to the Italian painter Ottaviano di Martino Nelli (1375-1444). [C]
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force matters. The artist should take a break from his work, even for
a long while, as if he almost wanted to forget it. Whenever one
encounters such great difficulties, he is surely going down the wrong
path. It is best that one extract oneself from this situation. Otherwise
the obscure idea one seeks will always remain hidden to view. Little
by little matters will take a turn, and with ever increasing astonishment,
he will discover that which he could not find with the greatest
exertion soon presents itself in the most natural manner.
It is one of many remarkable secrets of psychology that apparently
clear thoughts can, when one turns to them for deeper contemplation,
refuse to be developed or comprehended in a clear way. But when
they are left alone they will by themselves grow in greater clarity,
much as that period in which plants germinate unnoticed and all at
once burst into full bloom. {94} Some concepts will gestate little by
little in our mind, so to speak, and extract themselves from the mass
of obscure ideas into the clear light. Every artist must rely upon such
fortunate moments of genius, and if he cannot always find what he
diligently seeks, he must await with patience that moment when his
thoughts ripen.
The selection and disposition of parts is often considered to be an
aspect of artistic invention. But we have already said enough concerning this. Properly speaking, invention means only the creation of parts,
and often far more than might be necessary. In the selection, the most
appropriate of these are sought, and the remainder thrown out; in the
disposition, they are connected to form the best whole.
It seems appropriate here to conclude by saying something about
the judgment of invention. Following the ideas discussed above, we
have seen how invention comes about either by thinking of the means
to achieve something, or by applying already existing things to a
certain purpose. Every good work of art must have a fundamental
purpose against which everything can be measured. Where no purpose
can be discovered, the invention cannot be judged. In reality one often
finds works of art whose author had no clear idea as to a goal.
Consequently the work lacked invention. The parts are cobbled
together haphazardly following the fantasy of the artist, but without
any connecting thread to tie them together. It is obvious why anyone
wanting to judge the work would be utterly at a loss in discovering
its underlying purpose. But here we are speaking about the judgment
of connoisseurs. Whenever after careful contemplation one cannot
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discover how the parts of some work cohere, or what the aim of the
artists invention is, one has good reason for supposing that the
invention itself is faulty. If, however, the purpose of the work is evident,
one will be able to recognize the worth of the invention by the fitness
of the material. In any antique statue, one either knows ahead of time
what the sculptor had in mind - which god or hero he wished to
portray or one can determine this by careful contemplation of the
work itself. In the latter case, there must be something of value in
the invention, since one's recognition of the meaning of the work
proves that the artist had not entirely missed his goal. In the former
case, one recognizes the value of the invention if everything in the
work agrees with the idea of the object. A painting in which no one
can tell what the painter had in mind is deficient at least in respect
to its invention, despite whatever pleasing lines or colors it may have.
If, however, one knows what the painter had in mind, but finds that
he has not succeeded in conveying this in his painting, then the
invention is misconceived.
2 SKETCH [ENTWURF] (vol. II, pp. 78-80)
To sketch a work, one sets down its principal sections without working
out any one of these sections, such that one sees nothing except their
assemblage into a whole. The sketch necessarily precedes the invention
of the whole and its attendant sections. {79} It is the first glimpse one
has of the whole work, and must be complete in itself so that one can
form a secure judgment of the perfection of the whole before each
individual part can be worked out.
In speech, a sketch consists of the disposition of sections through
which the purpose of the speech is realized. If a speaker outlines his
ideas without any development and confirmation, without the transitions by which connections are made, he has sketched his speech.
The painter can be said to have sketched his painting if he drafts and
roughly fills out its main parts in the order or relation he imagines
them to have, but without worrying at this point about the realization
of the drawing. The poet sketches a tragedy if he jots down the main
events of the story in the order they will follow.
In any sketch, then, one's complete attention must always be focused
upon the whole so that one can see how every section fits in, and
eventually, so one can then work out his ideas while perfecting the
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individual parts. And herein lies the reason for the artist sketching his
work before trying to realize it. Because the realization of a work
demands so much attention paid to many individual details applying
only to specific parts, the artists attention to the whole may be
distracted.
Without a sketch, the artist will often find himself bogged down
in the exposition of individual parts, and afterwards discover that his
carefully worked-out ideas must be thrown out since they do not fit
in with the whole. The sketch serves to ensure that an invention,
which can otherwise quickly evaporate in one's mind as soon as it is
conceived, is firmly retained.
For all these reasons, then, it would be advisable for the artist to
practice sketching out every work as quickly and immediately as
possible after he has thought of its invention and disposition. The
slightest slackening of his attention upon the composition of the whole
can result in the loss of ideas that may never be retrieved again. It
often happens that one finds things of great beauty at certain fortunate
moments of inspiration without any premeditation, simply through
the given occasion or the chance connection of certain ideas. The
artist must never let these fortunate moments slip by. He must attempt
to make a sketch of what he has discovered, even if he does not yet
have any idea as to what their use might be. Otherwise, he risks having
the beautiful whole that he had so happily conceived in his imagination
suddenly disappear, or at least some sections whose absence would
mar the whole invention.
It would thus be good for the artist to learn a quick method of
sketching, so that in those fortunate moments when his powers of
inspiration are fired up, he may make use of this fire before it becomes
extinguished. (More observations relevant to this topic can be found
in the article "Inspiration.")
It is essential that the artist diligently practice rapid sketching so
that he may attain ever greater proficiency in it. As soon as a good
invention occurs to him, he should sketch it out. {80} Even if he has
no intention of completing it, such practice will be beneficial to him
in the future.
This is what all great painters do, and how it also comes about
that some art-lovers prefer to collect the rapidly tossed-off sketches
of the best of these masters rather than the fully finished paintings.
Particularly when done by a master, such sketches are often more
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highly valued than finished paintings because the full fire of the
imagination, which is often dampened in the final realization, is more
in evidence. The sketch is a work of genius, the elaboration primarily
a work of art and taste.
3 LAYOUT [ANLAGE] (vol. 1, pp. 148-49)
A layout is the presentation of the most essential sections of which
some work is composed.6 Every great art work is the result of a three-fold
process: the layout, the realization, and the elaboration. We will here deal
with the topic of the layout, and consider the other two topics
elsewhere.7
In the layout, the overall plan of the work along with its sections
is decided upon. The realization gives each of these sections its own
characteristic form, while the elaboration works out and ties together
the smallest parts in an optimal manner and form. If the layout is
complete, nothing more that is essential to the work should have to
be added. The work already contains the most important ideas, and
therefore this demands the most genius. A work accrues its greatest
value on the basis of its layout. It constitutes the soul of the work,
and firmly establishes everything that belongs to its inner character
and intended effect. For this reason a work that is partially, or even
poorly worked out might still be valuable on account of its layout.
According to the testimony of Pausanias, this was true of the works
of Daedalus; they struck the eyes as somewhat informal, yet one could
still detect in them something great and sublime.8
I would thus advise every artist to apply the utmost concentration
to the layout of the work and to deem it his most important job. He
should not consider any other part of his work until the layout is
brought to as happy and as satisfying a state as possible. Only with
difficulty will a work attain a modicum of perfection if its layout is
not adequately thought out before its realization. An imperfection in
the layout robs the artist of the fire and fortitude necessary for a
work's realization. Partial elements of beauty will not be enough to
6
7
8
For a discussion concerning the translation of the term "Anlage," see note 38, p. 19 above. [C]
Sulzer never did write the promised article on "Realization." [C]
Pausanias (14376 BC) was a Greek writer famous for his geographic guides with their detailed
descriptions of the architecture and artworks of the many Greek cities he visited. Daedalus was
the legendary Athenian sculptor and architect (father of Icarus). [C]
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kind of inert beauty that, as philosophers have noted, arises from both
unity and diversity.
This is form in the narrowest of senses, but a sense which is still
important in the pictorial arts. It is what the designer has in mind
when choosing the wallpaper for a room or the parquetry for the
floor; it is what the painter is thinking of when he groups his various
figures following some regularized order. These forms have a simple
pleasingness that satisfies the eye.
If however we add functionality and propriety [Schicklichkeit und
Tiichtigkeit] to this kind of beauty, the form attains more animated
energy. We can take an architectural column as an example. {251}
The proportion between its height and width, the gradual narrowing
of the column as it ascends from its bass to its top, with a rectangular
slab at the bottom and a smaller slab at the top, all these things and
more are qualities of functionality and propriety. Through them the
column shows off whatever proficiency it has. It is also the same with
a beautiful pitcher or a beautiful vase. Here material beauty is
combined with propriety, so that the form is absolutely appropriate
for its function, and may even enhance it. Such is the case with our
wine glasses; their small conical and easily held bowls sit upon a
narrow stem connected to a wide base. The combination of material
beauty with functionality and propriety is to be observed everywhere
in the forms of plants and animals. It is often lacking in works of art,
however, where thoughtless embellishments are introduced, such as in
those carving knives that are so massive and overlaid with the most
loathsome decorations that one cannot hold or use them comfortably.
Good form of the second category can awaken a great degree of
pleasure. Plants and animals are so replete with such form, that one
cannot view them without inner pleasure. In the fine arts, architecture
reveals this kind of beauty. Columns constructed following the Greek
architectural orders reveal the closest unification of beauty with
propriety and functionality. What coheres more tightly and better,
what fulfills its function more perfectly, yet with greater regularity,
than the parts of the Dorian order? [...]
The most important forms in which beauty ascends to the sublime,
are those in which beauty is united with both functionality and a
moral essence, where the matter conveys an impression of spiritual
power, where the soul becomes visible, so to speak. This may be
observed already in the animal world, and rises slowly in almost
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entirely wanting. This is because the artist lacks the necessary knowledge and skill to carry it out. In both the mechanical and the fine
arts, it is possible for someone inexperienced in art to compose the
principal sections of the plan or instruct someone in this skill. It can
also be that he could determine the disposition of a work but still
be fully incapable of realizing the plan himself. The average handyman
who wants a house built might know enough to be able to determine
how many and what kind of things the house should consist of. {697}
But he might be inept in arranging them. And if he has no concept
whatsoever of the disposition of his house in relation to its comfort,
it could well turn out that the house will have a most inelegant form.
We can see by this that many things relating to a plan have nothing
to do with art, and can be understood by someone completely
inexperienced with art, while other things are fully dependent upon
one's artistic knowledge and experience. But in this article, we must
limit ourselves to examining those things relating to works of art.
It first seems worthwhile asking whether works of taste should be
created following some plan. The plan would be determined by its
aim, and the more precise this aim is, the more particular will be the
plan. There are works of art that have no other purpose than to be
pleasing to the senses, and their entire value lies in form. Many short
musical compositions like a sonata, a decorative vase, and many
comparable such things are not made to engender a specific effect.
They have no plan other than to be beautiful, and their aim is achieved
when such a work is pleasing to the senses. Quite simply, they are
works of taste only, needing no reflection and contemplation in their
completion.
However extensive and expansive any work may be whose plan
counts on beauty for its effect, all its parts must constitute a wellordered whole. Variety and good proportion must exist between all
parts. The smallest parts must be precisely connected and enchained
in larger sections. Everything must be well grouped and be fitted
following the best metrical symmetries. Any fault in the plan of such
a work is necessarily a major one since there is nothing else to
compensate for it. In music, all pieces that contain no depiction of
an emotion must be worked out following the rules of harmony and
melody with far more care than arias or songs which express the
language of passions. A dance lacking pantomime must follow much
more strictly in every small movement the rules of art than a
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persons of high character, decisiveness, and action, involving undertakings of great audacity, or some other very important thing of a
moral and passionate nature. Let us imagine that our artist then decides
to depict this as a tragic drama, an epic, or a great historical painting.
Here the question arises what he must think about in regard to the
plan.
The first thing would be that he examine himself to see what he
feels about the subject, and to determine and clarify these feelings as
much as possible. The next thing to do would be to search for the
cause of these effects, paying particular attention to the character of
the subject. He should determine whether [his subject] is to be
absolutely grand and instill complete admiration, or whether on
account of its scope, it should suggest ideas of good or of evil; whether
it speaks more to reason than to the heart, or whether it appeals only
to ones fantasy.
The same kind of questions will help determine more precisely
what the main theme and intention of the work is. Then it will
become clear whether from this material a work can be created that
raises notions of the pathetic, the tender, the fantastic, or whatever
other primary character should reign in the mind, imagination or
senses. {699} Once the primary character of the work is determined,
the purpose of the whole work is also thereby determined. The artist
will find that a particular kind of impression should predominate. He
will also see that if his subject is a story, this impression will remain
strong and vibrant to the end. A truly insightful artist will thus try
not simply to offer a moral that will be allegorically understood by
its story, as a few heroic poets have recommended, but he will try to
establish a more or less defined primary effect according to the nature
of the matter. Beyond this, however, he must necessarily aim for the
same goals of any work of art; everything he presents must be assembled
as clearly as possible, and nothing should take place that might offend
the general taste and distract one's attention.
From this, then, we can see what the plan of such a work requires.
Because the subject matter is of primary importance here, the first
thing one must think about in regard to the plan is that the narration
or presentation appear truthful and cohere naturally. The artist must
contemplate how everything should be arranged so that whatever
happens ensues naturally from that which is already given, that the
story of some person corresponds to the situation and character of
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Annibale Carracci (15601609) was a noted Bolognese painter famous for his classicist style.
Along with his brother Agostino and cousin Lodovico, he founded an art academy that sought to
recover the classicizing tradition of the High Renaissance from the affectations of Mannerism.
[C]
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The beauty of a plan [Plan] acts as a salutary influence upon his mind,
and lightens his work. This is attested to by the Greek playwright
Comicus Menander.10 Once shortly before the festival of Bacchus, he
was asked by a friend why he had not yet finished the comedy to be
performed at the upcoming festival. He answered: "But I am finished
since I have both the invention and disposition already in mind."
It is understandable, then, why only the artist who can pleasurably
envision the main sections of his work because of their good disposition, as well as envision the whole in terms of its parts, can work
with the freedom and delight essential to making good progress. On
the other hand, if an artist is uncertain or insecure in regard to his
plan, the anxiety he is certain to feel because of this will deleteriously
influence his work. We would thus advise every artist, that in those
fortunate moments when his imagination is fired with the heavenly
inspiration of the muses, he apply himself to the disposition and
completion of his plan. A happily inspired imagination is usually of
far more value in works of art than are rational rules.
The disposition of every work must be determined in accordance
to its aim or intended effect. They are all related in that each is to
be viewed as a whole, each is to arouse our interest, and all the
individual sections must appear in their proper place such that a single
desired effect is produced. Only with such an aim can individual
elements be connected within the a whole. Every work of taste must
arouse a single main idea, no matter how extensive it may be, and its
sections must help make it complete and lively. Otherwise the work
is not a whole, but a hodge-podge of several works. If the artist begins
to labor upon some work before having a clear conception of the
whole, or before it is distinct enough, he will certainly never be
successful in its disposition.
The whole that incontestably pleases the imagination the most is
the one made up of a few, well-connected sections, although these
sections may themselves be divided into a number of even smaller
parts. A good example of this is the human body; it appears to be
the most perfect whole made up of only a few main sections, even
though it is actually composed of countless smaller elements. Every
section appears at first to be an inseparable whole until one looks
more closely and sees how each is actually made up of many smaller
10 Menander (ca. 342-290 BC) was an Athenian playwright noted for his comedies. He is supposed
to have written over one hundred plays, although only a handful have survived. [C]
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parts. Each is found in the place best suited to its use as well as for
producing the closest connection to the whole. {153} In such a perfect
construction one cannot change anything either by displacing the
parts, or by bringing them closer together - without disturbing the
appearance of the whole. So is it with every true work of art. One
believes it impossible to move a single part; everything appears to be
where it must, and no part can be understood except when viewed
in the context of the whole.
There are three primary elements that make a works disposition
perfect: the proper connection of all parts, a sufficient contrast or
diversity in the succession of these parts, and the intricacy of ideas.
It follows from this that the artist must constantly pay attention to
the disposition of his plan, that he focus the powers of his imagination
upon its content such that every part leads back to the whole in the
most natural manner, that he also makes sure the imagination and
heart are engaged by a variety of changing subjects, and that the
development of the main theme is carefully controlled such that
curiosity is evermore aroused until finally everything is reunited in a
single primary idea.
Among the serious mistakes marring good disposition that can be
mentioned are: a plan is difficult to comprehend because of the great
number of individual parts; it is difficult to recognize the aim and
essence of some idea; one can transpose, augment, or diminish an
entire section without harm to the work; secondary or subsidiary
parts are more conspicuous than are essential parts. [...]
7 ELABORATION [AUSARBEITUNG] (vol. I, pp. 246-50)
Elaboration constitutes the last but hardly least important part of the
artist s job. {247} In the layout, the sections of a work are selected and
ordered according to the nature of their character. In the realization
and development [Ausbildung], the smaller parts of these main sections
are carefully determined such that the work appears essentially complete.
In the elaboration, though, everything still left undone in these parts
would be attended to, thereby truly finishing the work.
Consider the creation of a portrait. The artist would begin with a
basic layout of the picture in mind by envisioning as accurately as
possible how the person to be drawn appears. Each section would
have its own appropriate mix of light and color. In the realization,
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Ill
MUSICAL ISSUES
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the aural nerves air is much coarser and more physical than
ethereal light, which affects the eye. The aural nerves consequently
transmit to the entire body the impact of the shock they receive. This
is not so with vision. Hence it is understandable how the body, and
consequently the soul, can be intensely affected by sounds. Little
thought or experience is needed to discover the power of sound; the
most unobservant of men feel it.
A man who is prey to strong emotions similarly often tries to
intensify them with cries of joy, rage, etc. Children and other temperamental people likewise express themselves spontaneously, inflaming
and intensifying not only their own emotions but those of others by
means of a whole range of varying sounds. Admittedly this is not yet
a song; but it can be seen as the first natural seed of one. If we just
add to it a few easily made refinements along with a bit of taste, one
quickly will see the emergence of a real song.
The aforementioned reminders serve to underscore the power of
rhythmic movement when coupled with sounds. {423} We find
enjoyable any measured movement proceeding in regular beats such
as walking: such rhythmic regularity sustains our attention in tasks
that would otherwise be wearisome. This is known or felt by the least
reflective of men. And this is how it comes about that any lengthy
repetitive movement such as walking or lifting a load (or as Ovid
somewhere remarked, rowing a boat) is done in regular rhythm. This
regular movement becomes even more pleasant when it is rhythmically
accented, which is to say, when there is a small differentiation in
strength and weakness between each step or beat, wherein continued
variety may be attained. Examples of such rhythms can be heard in
the hammers of the blacksmith or the threshing of wheat. Such work
is made easier as one finds strength to continue in a task that would
otherwise be tedious.
This measured motion can be easily joined to a series of musical
sounds, since musical sounds themselves always imply an idea of
movement. Such is the origin of rhythmical songs and the dance. On
the basis of these observations, one should not be surprised to find
that the most primitive of peoples have discovered music, and taken
at least a few steps toward its perfection. Music is thus an art that is
rooted in the nature of man. It has immutable principles that one
must always keep in mind if one will try to compose music or perfect
the art itself. And here it is necessary to clear away a prejudice widely
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Agesilaus II (444-360 BC) was King of Sparta. The legend of Agesilaus imitating the song of the
nightingale was reported by Plutarch. [C]
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how it happens that there are those who fancy themselves good
composers simply because they know how to avoid mistakes. {225}
When conceived in such a restrictive sense, composition in music
is akin to grammar in speech. One can be perfectly grammatical and
speak with utter clarity and precision, without however, having
anything worthy of attention to say. Just so, one can compose correctly
and still produce a wretched piece. This art, as with any of the other
fine arts, requires above all genius and taste in order to invent and
select that which will give a work its energy according to the nature
of the idea. Composition also demands the ability to perform or
express the work following the mechanical rules of art in order to
avoid anything that might be shocking. Only these last skills are subject
to specific rules that can be learnt and followed by anyone not blessed
with genius or taste.
If one understands by the word composition only the knowledge
and observance of these rules, then it does indeed become an easy
thing to learn. It consists of rules governing harmony, the treatment
of consonances and dissonances, modulation, meter and rhythm. But
clearly this is not enough, since one must have an instinct for these
rules beyond any practical knowledge of their use. It would be possible
to make a deaf man understand the rules so that he could discover
mistakes in a written piece of music. But he would never be able to
sense them in a performance nor be capable of composing anything
using only his well-mastered rules.
Whoever thus wishes not only simply to understand the mechanics
of composition, but also to master its practice, must possess a clear
understanding of song and harmony, and an ability to sense with
absolute clarity what is agreeable and repulsive, what is pleasing and
harsh. But beyond a good ear, a great deal of practice is required. In
vain would one teach the rules of composition to anyone who could
neither sing nor play. It might happen that such a person could learn
these rules and recognize their correctness, but he would never be
able to apply them in practice. This practice really involves nothing
less than setting down in notes the melody and harmony one feels
and hears. Only after this is done does one proceed to correct whatever
might be offensive or against the rules.
It can be assumed, then, that only someone who possesses a good
ear and is well-versed in practice is in a position to judge a composition
or compose a piece of music. Only this person could look at a score
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and immediately sense its melody and harmony, or upon hearing it,
write it down in musical notation. It follows that one must first be
skilled in the practice of music before studying composition.
Everywhere this is acknowledged. The true hallmark of the master
in composition is a capacity for rational contemplation. This is a
capacity almost always lacking in school masters, who thereby cause
their students such incredible frustration and irretrievable loss of time.
These teachers are so dim-witted that they try teaching students the
rules of composition, that is, the grammar of the language, before
their students can even understand the language themselves. That
means teaching someone who cannot even hear yet, and who must
learn to do so by himself, little by little. {226} If one is led so astray
in music, then the time spent in instruction will be as futile as it is
in school.
Music thus rightly begins with practice. The aspiring composer
learns first to sing and play. Thereby he becomes sensitive to harmony
and melody, learns to fix a melodic composition in an ear capable of
sensing shades of light and darkness, and gains a surer feel for keys,
whose tones whether heard simultaneously, or in succession strike
the ear as being harmonious or not. He can then finally come to the
point where he can distinguish musical sounds from one another, and
even specify the notes of every voice in a polyphonic composition.
This is what is meant by a capacity for language: not only can one
understand what others are saying, but one can also express thoughts
in that language.
So just as it is assumed in languages and rhetoric that only one
fluent in a given language will be capable of understanding all aspects
of grammar and eloquence, so it is assumed in music that only
one versed in the language of music will be capable of learning to
compose.
Here, then, is another noteworthy parallel between music and
oratory. Sometimes one who learns a language through common
practice is able to become a great speaker or poet without further
guidance. And so it sometimes happens that a singer or performer
becomes a composer without further instruction. Such untutored
composers are generally called prodigies [Naturalisten]. But here we
must note in respect to subject matter, that it is much easier to
become a prodigy in oratory or poetry than it is in music. Musical
composition has such a quantity of rules that are difficult to discover,
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The opera ensemble pieces - and particularly the duets - of Carl Heinrich Graun were particular
favorites of Sulzer and Kirnberger, above all on account of their judicious balance of contrapuntal
sophistication and galant melodiousness. With Sulzer s support, Kirnberger brought out a lavishly
produced collection of them: Duetti, terzetti, sestetti ed alcuni chori delle opere del Signore Carlo Enrico
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it is from just such innocuous tones that a deeply moving song can
be made. It is well worth inquiring how this comes about. {371}
One can certainly hear passionate notes in music that are, by
themselves and with no help of the composer, painful, sad, tender, or
gay But such impressions come about through the artistry of the
singer and belong properly to performance. This has nothing to do
with the writing of a good melody, except perhaps in so far as the
composer might offer the singer or player some guidance as to how
the written notes may be performed with feeling.
The essence of melody lies in expression. It must always depict
some kind of passionate feeling or mood. All who hear it should try
to imagine listening to the speech of a man seeking to convey to us
the particular emotion with which he is filled. In so far as this melody
is a product of art and taste, though, this passionate discourse must
constitute a whole in which unity and variety are combined, as should
be the case with all other art works. Such a whole must be of a
pleasing form and be so constituted, both overall and in its individual
parts, that the attention of the listener is continually maintained. The
impression it makes should be received without offense or distraction,
but with delight. Every song that has these twin qualities is deemed
good. Any in which the whole is lacking is completely bad; any in
which the individual parts are lacking is faulty. Hence, we must clearly
delineate the various particular qualities of melody.
First, it is absolutely imperative that a single key be maintained so
that a good modulation be had that is appropriate to the various
gradations of expression. Second, there must be a perceptible meter
with precise division into shorter and longer parts [Glieder]. Third, the
truth of expression must be everywhere observed. Fourth, every
individual note and every part must be easily perceptible in accordance
to the content. Fifth, if the melody is meant to be set to words or
correspond to some text, it must agree with the declamation of the
words and the division of the text. Each of these requirements will
be more fully treated in the following articles. [...]
6 SONG [GESANG] (vol. II, pp. 368-71)
Nothing is easier to feel than the difference between song and speech,
but nothing is more difficult to describe. Both consist of a succession
of differing sounds that may be distinguished as much by their particular
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character as by whether they are high or low. {369} It does seem that
the sounds of a song are somewhat more sustained and resonant than
those of speech. They originate as rapid blasts from the throat that are
sustained for various lengths of time. They impress the ear with a specific
sentiment based upon their pitch, character, and relation to one another.
Since one can sense the difference between song and speech so clearly,
music does not lose anything by being so difficult to analyze.
Song is no less natural to man than is speech. Both are inventions
of genius, one occasioned by need, the other by emotion. It is difficult
to know the various stages that the genius must have followed in
order for these inventions to have been developed. It is certainly
doubtful that man learnt song simply through the imitation of
songbirds. The individual sounds that comprise song are the expressions
of animated sentiments, since man expresses pleasure, pain, or sadness
through sounds, and the sentiments aroused demand to be expressed,
even if against ones will, by the sounds of song, not speech. Thus the
elements of song are not so much the invention of man as of nature
herself. Rather than calling these the extracted sounds from the
sentiments of man, we will simply call them passionate tones [leidenschaftlicheTone]. The sounds of speech are designators, which originally
served to awaken the idea of something when they or some other
similar sounds were heard. Most such sounds are arbitrary signs, while
the passionate tones are natural signs of sentiment. A succession of
arbitrary sounds designates speech, a succession of passionate tones,
song.
Man is naturally inclined to succumb to both pleasurable and sad
emotions (especially when they are of a tender nature), and indeed,
even to indulge in them. The ear appears to be the sense most suited
to the stirring and sustaining of sentiments. One can observe children
who know nothing of song amuse themselves with appropriate tones
when they are in either happy or sad moods. Through these tones,
one s mood gains something corporeal about it, by which it can be
grounded and prolonged. We can thus see to some extent how in
certain emotional states, man was able to think of a succession of
singing tones, and thereby maintain himself in that mood.
This alone, however, does not make up song, since it is necessary
to add measured movement and rhythm to the preceding in order to
have true song. Like the passionate tones, these elements also seem
to have their basis in the nature of sentiment. A simple repetition of
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its fullest expression when united with poetry, when vocal and
instrumental music are brought together. {678} One can still summon
the emotions of all men, however [without recourse to words]: a
calming duet played by two instruments or sung by voices in a language
that we do not understand may certainly convey the greatest part of
its power. Instrumental music alone is certainly sufficent for stirring
and sustaining ones passions through sensibility when there is no
particular situation in mind.
For these reasons, instrumental music is most effectively utilized
for dancing, marching, and other festive occasions. These are its most
appropriate places. It can also offer a service to dramatic plays, in that
it can prepare the audience through the overture or symphony for
the main affection that will be found in the play. Instrumental music
can also be used simply for diversion or as practice material, whereby
the composer and performer work to perfect important technical
matters. Concertos, trios, solos, sonatas, and the like are all useful for
these purposes.
Some of these pieces have a particular character, such as the ballet,
dance, and march, and the composer has a plumb-line as to their
character by which he may proceed in its composition. The more
precisely he observes the character of each art, the better his work
will appear. In the cases of overtures and symphonies that will serve
to open a play, the composer already has to a certain extent something
by which to base his invention, since his music must express the main
character of the play for which it is made. But the invention of a
concerto, trio, solo, sonata, and the like, all of which have no specific
purpose, is left almost entirely to chance. One can understand how a
man of genius may arrive at some invention when he has something
in front of himself that he can hold on to. But where it is not possible
to say what he is to create, or what he should have in mind, then he
seems to work only by good luck. Thus it happens that most pieces
of this kind are nothing other than pleasant-sounding noise that strikes
the ear either violently or gently. In order to avoid this, the composer
would do well to imagine some person, or a situation or passion, and
exert his fantasy to the point where he can believe that this person
is ready to speak. He can help himself by seeking out poetry that is
pathetic, fiery, or tender in nature, and declaim it in an appropriate
tone, and after that sketch out his composition following this sentiment.
He must never forget that music that expresses no kind of passion or
97
Pierre-Jean Burette (16651747) was a historian who specialized in Greek writings on music and
music theory. Many of his publications appeared in the pages of the Histoire de VAcademie royale
des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres the source from which Sulzer draws. [ C ]
98
voices disposed according to the best rules of harmony, but gains much
in expression. It is true that a four-voiced song is worse when not
perfectly harmonious than if it was single-voiced. But it is infinitely
more moving when composed by a competent harmonist and performed by skilled singers such that the voices flow together and cohere
into a single song. There is little in music to compare to the power
and expression of a well-composed and perfectly performed four-part
chorale.6 And who cannot sense that a good duet or well-composed
trio is more beautiful and charming than a solo? We can conclude,
then, that although harmony may not be essential in music, in most
cases it is very useful, and that art has profited greatly from its invention.
[...] {473}
Undoubtedly, music has thus gained much from the introduction
of harmony. But one pushes things too far, as does Mr. Rameau, in
maintaining that the entire art is based upon harmony, and that melody
itself originates in harmony. There is nothing here by which one can
deduce movement and rhythm, which are the most essential qualities
of music. One can also not claim that the rules of harmonic succession
flow from a consideration of harmony. Everything that Mr. Rameau
has said with such confidence and in such a demonstrative tone of
voice has been convincingly refuted by Mr. Rousseau.7
One often hears debated whether melody or harmony is the more
important element of music, just as in painting it is debated whether
line or color takes precedence over the other. {474} The resolution
of this question should not be in doubt, since it has been shown that
music has long existed without harmony. Can one doubt anymore
that a composition resembles speech only through melody, and that
it is thereby capable of rendering the sentiments of the singer even
if it lacks words? The expression and especially the degree of passion
can be made sensible only through melody and meter. Which composer would say that by following the rules of harmony, he was able
6
Undoubtedly this paragraph reflects the prejudice of Kirnberger, who, citing the authority of his
teacher Johann Sebastian Bach, upheld four-part chorale harmonizations as the most efficacious
medium for learning composition. [C]
7 Rameau had claimed to find the origins of harmonic succession in the geometric "triple
progression"- the concatenation of fifths in the fundamental bass connecting the tonic chord to
its upper and lower dominants. This triple progression was itself deduced by Rameau from the
harmonic ratios engendered in the static overtones produced by a resonating string - the corps
sonore; hence in Rameau s system, the ideal progression of perfect fifths in the fundamental bass
underlying all harmony was drawn from harmony itself. [C]
99
100
101
102
103
See the second part of his Vollkommener Capellmeister, where he treats in a few sections melodic
invention. Among all the pedantic rubbish, one can find many insightful and even important
observations. [S.] The particular passage Sulzer is referring to comes in chapter 4, "Von der
melodischen Erfmdung,"pp. 121-32. [C]
Another translation of this famous article with commentary is found in William S. Newman, The
Sonata in the Classical Era (Chapel Hill, 1963), 23-24. [C]
104
105
repertoire behind vocal pieces. And because they can be played one
to a part, they can be performed without too much difficulty by even
the smallest chamber ensembles. {426} A single musician can sometimes entertain a whole audience with a single harpsichord sonata
better and more effectively than the largest concert can.
Sonatas with two main parts and a single accompanying or
concerted bass part are discussed thoroughly in the article "Trio."
11 SYMPHONY [SYMPHONIE] (vol. IV, pp. 478-80)
The symphony is a multi-voiced instrumental piece that is used in place
of the obsolete overture.11 The difficulties involved in performing an
overture well, and the even greater difficulties of writing a good overture,
gave rise to the lighter form of the symphony. In the beginning, this
consisted of one or more fugal pieces alternating with various kinds of
dances, and generally called partitas [Partie].12 To be sure, overtures were
largely played before long sacred works and operas, while partitas were
employed in chamber music. But since dance pieces without any dance
become quickly wearisome, they were turned into one or two fugal or
non-fugal allegro movements alternating with slower andante or largo
movements. This genre was called a symphony, and was introduced
before operas, and sacred music, as well as in chamber music, where it
is still found today. The instruments found in the symphony are violins,
violas, and bass instruments. Each voice is doubled [stark besetzt].
Sometimes horns, oboes, and flutes are utilized to fill out or strengthen
the music.
One can compare the symphony to an instrumental chorus, much
as one can compare a sonata to an instrumental cantata. In the latter,
the melody of the main voice, which is played by only one instrument,
may not only tolerate some embellishment but even require it. In the
symphony, on the other hand, where each voice is doubled, the greatest
emphasis lies in the written notes of the melody; no voice should
11 A differing translation of this article with extensive commentary by Bathia Churgin is found in
"The Symphony as Described by J. A. R Schulz (1774): A Commentary and Translation,"
Current Musicology 29 (1980), 7-16. [C]
12 Schulz is here distinguishing the older "French" style overture (which in Germany was typically
understood by the simple designation of "Ouvertiire") from the more contemporary threemovement Italian "Symphony," which, according to Schulz, originated in the dance partita. Koch
discusses these different genres in some detail in his Lexikon (s.v. "Suite,""Parthie," "Ouverture,"
and "Symphonie"). [C]
106
107
108
PART II
An eighteenth-century view of Rudolstadt, where Koch wrote his theoretical works and served as a chamber musician
at the court. The residence of the nobility, SchloB Heidecksburg (no. 1), now houses the archives of Rudolstadt.
This engraving is the frontispiece of the Neuvermehrtes Rudolstddter Gesangbuch, 10th edn. (Rudolstadt, n.d.).
INTRODUCTION BY
NANCY KOVALEFF BAKER
Heinrich Christoph Koch's central aim in writing his Versuch einer
Anleitung zur Composition was to provide comprehensive instruction in
composition.1 In this three-volume work, Koch formulates many rules
and guidelines based upon his study of the current repertory to aid the
beginning composer. He was aware, however, that theory alone could
not account for all characteristics of music and therefore could not
provide a complete foundation for compositional pedagogy. He thus
sought to relate theory to aesthetics in order to explain the more
intangible aspects of the art of composition. What in fact is the general
purpose of a fine art such as music and how does this purpose help
shape a given work? How would such a composition arise in the mind
of a composer? Koch's answers to these and other questions in the
following translation outline a process of composition which is guided
by aesthetic considerations. His primary source was the extensive writings
of Johann Sulzer, discussed and translated in this volume. Sulzer's theory
of the fine arts was elaborate, but abstract with regard to particular arts,
especially music. Koch, however, applied Sulzer's aesthetic ideas
specifically to music and provided concrete illustrations. Irrespective of
the question whether these ideas offer a practicable approach to learning
composition, this portion of Koch's treatise is unique in the field of
music theory and a significant contribution to the growing body of
works concerning the process of composition in the latter part of the
eighteenth century.
Heinrich Christoph Koch was born on October 10, 1749 in
Rudolstadt, a small town located in Thuringia, in eastern Germany.2
1
The Versuch einer Anleitung zur Composition was published by Adam E Bohme of Leipzig; the first
volume was printed in Rudolstadt in 1782, the second and third volumes in Leipzig in 1787 and
1793, respectively. Georg Olms Verlag issued a facsimile edition of the Versuch (Hildesheim, 1969)
and a substantial portion of the treatise was translated by this author as Introductory Essay on
Composition: The Mechanical Rules of Melody, Sections 3 and 4 (New Haven and London: Yale
University Press, 1983), hereafter referred to as Mechanical Rules.
2 For information on Koch's life, see two articles in the Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung,
"Nachrichten," 18 (1816),cols.302-04 and "Necrolog,"22 (1820),cols. 133-37;Hans Heinrich
111
112
113
Ernst I. Gerber, Neues historisch-biographisches Lexikon der Tonkunstler, 4 vols. (Leipzig: A. Kiihnel,
1812-14), "Koch (Heinrich Christoph)," vol. Ill, cols. 81-83 and "Nachrichten," Allgemeine
musikalische Zeitung 18 (1816), cols. 302-03; Koch's works for the period 1768-94 are listed in
Ludwig Friedrich Hesse, "Verzeichnis geborner Schwarzburger, die sich als Gelehrte oder als
Kiinstler durch Schriften bekannt machten" (21 parts, 1805-30) in Programme des Rudolstddter
Gymnasiums von 1802-1846 (Rudolstadt, n.d.), 11-14.
These symphonies formerly belonged to the court chapel and are now in the Staatsarchiv
Rudolstadt, where they have been designated K. 59-65. They do not appear in the list cited in
note 6 above and it is by no means certain that Heinrich Christoph Koch composed them.
Musikalisches Lexikon welches die theoretische und praktische Tonkunst, encyclopddisch bearbeitet, alle alten
und neuen Kunstworter erkldrt, und die alten und neuen Instrumente beschrieben, enthdlt (Frankfurt, 1802;
facs. edn., Hildesheim: Georg Olms Verlagsbuchhandlung, 1964).
114
the Versuch, aus der harten und weichen Tonart ... auszuweichen, and at
Kurzgefafites Handworterbuch der Musik fur praktische Tonkiinstler und fiir Dilettanten (Leipzig, 1807;
facs. edn., Hildesheim: Georg Olms Verlag, 1981).
10 T h e Danish translation by H . C. E Lassen was entitled Musikalsk haand-lexicon ... Udtog afH. C.
Kochs musikalske Encyclopaedic (Copenhagen, 1826); Arrey von Dommer s work appeared as
Musikalisches Lexikon auf Grundlage des Lexikon von H. Chr. Koch, 2nd edn., rev. and enl. (Heidelberg: J. C. B. Mohr, 1865).
11 T h e Versuch, aus der harten und weichen Tonartjeder Stufe der diatonisch-chromatischen Tonleiter vermittelst
des enharmonischen Tonwechsels in die Dm- und molltonart der ubrigen Stufen auszuweichen (Rudolstadt:
im Verlage der Hof- Buch- und Kunsthandlung, 1812) received a rather mixed review in the
Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung 14 (1812), cols. 679-84. This prompted a response from Koch,
which necessitated the reviewer's reply; both are found in AmZ 15 (1813), cols. 1-9. One of the
unfinished works was a comparison of harmonic systems in which Koch responded to Jerome
Joseph de Momigny s new theories; the other was a study of the physical and mathematical
characteristics of music which explored yet again the relationship of harmony and melody. The
manuscripts have not been found.
115
"Untersuchung der sorgischen Lehre von der Entstehung der diBonirenden Satze," in
Historisch-kritische Beytrdge zurAufnahme der Musik, 5 vols. (Berlin, 1754-68;facs.edn.,Hildesheim:
Georg Olms Verlag,1970) vol. V, 131-220. These writings were the means by which Koch became
acquainted with the theories of Rameau, although it should be noted that, in critical areas, they
do not accurately reflect the Frenchman's ideas.
13 For a detailed discussion of Koch's deviations from the theories of Marpurg and Rameau and his
new concept of the primary matter of music, see Nancy K. Baker, "Der Urstqff der Musik:
Implications for Harmony and Melody in the Theory of Heinrich Koch," Music Analysis 7(1988),
3-30.
116
study.14 But in the five years following his initial publication, he revised
his plan and instead made the guidelines for creation in the fine arts
the launching point for the remainder of his treatise. It is this discussion,
interwoven with aesthetic considerations, which opens the second
volume of the Versuch; in the technical section which follows, entitled
"The mechanical rules of melody," he often refers back to the concepts
developed therein when he can formulate no definite theoretical rules.
The reason Koch gives for his change in plans is that he now
believes the composer should be aware of the aim of music and how
best to achieve it before actually studying composition; in this way,
he hoped the beginner would avoid forming bad habits. What caused
Koch to alter his outline and thus to give this subject such prominence?
He did not mention the aesthetician Johann Georg Sulzer (1720-79)
in the first volume of the treatise and it is by no means certain that
he was then familiar with his ideas. But by 1787 he had eagerly seized
upon Sulzers aesthetic system as presented in the encyclopedic
Allgemeine Theorie der schonen Kunste.15 In volume II, he also makes
14 Koch outlines his plan for the treatise in the Introduction to Volume I; see especially p. 14.
Additional subjects which he intended to explore in his appendix were a discussion of the forms
of various genres and information concerning the instruments in greatest use, their range,
fingering, and how their parts should be composed. He never wrote the section concerning
instruments; he did, however, include many detailed descriptions of forms comprising the
majority of the third volume, which is not designated as an appendix.
15 Johann Sulzer, Allgemeine Theorie der schonen Kiinste, in einzeln, nach alphabetischer Ordnung der
Kunstworter aujeinanderfolgenden Artikeln abgehandelt, 2 vols. (Leipzig: M. G. Weidmanns Erben und
Reich, 1771-74). Georg Olms issued a facsimile of the revised edition of 1792-99 (Hildesheim,
1967). The collaborative effort of Sulzer, Schulz, and Kirnberger in compiling this work has
already been described in the Introduction by Thomas Christensen, p. 14 above. In the useful
anthology Music and Aesthetics in the Eighteenth and Early Nineteenth Centuries (ed. Peter le Huray
and James Day [Cambridge University Press, 1988]), the editors state (p. 96) that Koch also was
one of Sulzers advisors on music. I have found nothing to support this claim. Schulz did not
mention him at all and, at the time the first edition of this work was published in 1771-74, the
young Koch was seeking further musical training and had published nothing.
16 Ramler s work was a translation with commentary of the Cours de belles lettres ou Principes de la
litterature (174750) of Charles Batteux. Batteux s work was a four-volume treatise which
incorporated with but minor revisions his Les beaux arts reduits a un mime principe (1746) in the
first volume and continued with a lengthy application to literature of the principle of imitation
of "la belle nature."
117
118
119
120
121
achieve the aim of art. Sulzer describes the plan principally in terms
of prose or painting; he is unclear whether this stage of creation exists
only in the mind of the artist or is written down.
The sketch [Entwurf] is the written version of the plan ("Sketch,"
p. 64: "To sketch a work, one sets down its principal sections without
working out any one of these sections, such that one sees nothing
except their assemblage into a whole." Described mainly in terms of
painting and a speech, the sketch is a product of genius created during
periods of inspiration.
While the preceding terms all concern important aspects of creation,
in the article "Layout" [Anlage], Sulzer focuses upon three specific
stages in creation (p. 66):
A layout is the presentation of the most essential sections of which some work
is composed. Every great art work is the result of a three-fold process: the
layout, the realization [Ausfuhrung], and the elaboration [Ausarbeitung] ... In the
layout, the overall plan of the work along with its sections is decided upon.
The realization gives each of these sections its own characteristic form, while
the elaboration works out and ties together the smallest parts in an optimal
manner and form.
Sulzer s layout appears equivalent to the plan of a work but it seems to
be written, like the sketch, since it involves the presentation [Darstellung]
of the essential sections. A product of inspired genius, the layout contains
everything that is essential to the artwork, that is, all the ideas crucial
to the attainment of its intended effect.
Koch seized upon Sulzer s article on "layout" as the cornerstone
of his description of the process of composition. It was one of the
briefest entries in the encyclopedia, but Koch was perhaps attracted
to it by reason of the clarity and simplicity of the three-step process
it outlines, which might be useful to explain the compositional process
to the beginner. Koch applies the concept of Anlage to composition
and defines it as
the main ideas of the piece already connected with one another which present
themselves together to the composer as a complete whole, combined with its
main harmonic features [harmonische Hauptzuge].
In reaching this stage, the composer will already have gone through the
mental processes preparatory to this total vision. Unless the main ideas
immediately appear as a complete whole, producing an instant "layout,"
then two procedures are necessary to create the Anlage: invention
122
123
124
125
126
In the realization and development [Ausbildung], the smaller parts of these main
sections are carefully determined such that the work appears essentially complete.
The smaller structural elements are defined at this second stage and
Sulzer gives a detailed illustration from painting.
Sulzers explications of the terms "disposition" and "plan" [Plan]
make it clear that the overall plan results from the disposition of the
material. Yet there is some slight ambiguity in his description of
disposition. Sulzer says (see "Disposition," pp. 75-76),
The whole that incontestably pleases the imagination the most is the one made
up of a few, well-connected sections, although these sections may themselves
be divided into a number of even smaller parts ... There are three primary
elements that make a work's disposition perfect: the proper connection of all
parts, a sufficient contrast or diversity in the succession of these parts, and the
intricacy of ideas.
Smaller sections would not be present in either the Anlage or the Plan;
it is debatable whether intricacy of ideas and attention to variety have
a place in the first general outline of a composition. Since Sulzer said
that in the realization, the smaller parts of the sections are carefully
determined, one could interpret this description of disposition as
equivalent to realization. I believe, however, that Sulzer conceived of
disposition primarily as the arrangement of ideas which gives rise to
the plan. With the exception of the entries Anlage and Ausarbeitung,
Sulzer seldom used the term Ausfuhrung and, indeed, often seemed to
omit this stage of creation. For instance, at the close of the entry
"Sketch," he states (p. 66): "The sketch is a work of genius, the elaboration primarily a work of art and taste." Sulzer was very ambiguous
with regard to the second stage of creation, which he did not even
recognize with an entry. In most cases, he seems to have merged it with
the other two stages; the initial disposition of the ideas into sections
took place in creating the plan or layout, and the intricate manipulation
and polishing of these ideas took place in the elaboration.
For Koch, however, the realization was an essential part of the
creative process, for it was at this stage that a composition was given
its form. The composer realizes the potential of the ideas contained
in the plan by manipulating them, fragmenting them, and then
elaborating upon them in various principal periods. There should be
variety in the ideas, their treatment, and the harmonies, but this variety
is always subsumed within the overall unity of the work and its focus
127
128
musical composition the terms which Sulzer had used to describe the
process of creation in the fine arts in general. It is interesting to see
which of these terms connected with the creative process Koch defined
in his Lexikon of 1802 and what, if any, are the changes that took
place in his thinking over those fifteen years. Koch's intended readership for his encyclopedia was more limited than that of Sulzer.
Sulzer s Allgemeine Theorie was meant to serve as a useful reference for
anyone with an interest in the philosophical and aesthetic bases of
any of the fine arts; although it included some technical material, it
was not intended for the practicing artist. Koch's Lexikon, however,
was written for those who sought specific factual information on
music. An exposition of the aesthetics, philosophy, and history of music
was not Koch's aim; rather he concentrated upon the formal and
technical aspects of the field. Mathematical illustrations, scientific
explanations, and a host of musical examples make evident that this
is a reference book for students of music, composers, dilettantes, and
musical scholars.
Koch omitted many of the terms defined by Sulzer, either because
they did not have enough importance for the musician or because
their contents were best subsumed under another entry. "Disposition"
[Anordnung], "Sketch" [Entwurf], and "Plan" [Plan] are not included,
perhaps because they are more relevant to the visual arts than to
music. "Invention" [Erfindung], "Form" [Form], "Order" [Ordnung], and
"Relation" [VerhdltniJJ] are also excluded, perhaps because of their
abstract nature. The only relations or proportions that Koch explores
in his dictionary are those of tones and intervals, which he discusses
from a mathematical perspective.
Koch expounds on certain terms which Sulzer had defined and
discusses their significance in music, often providing many technical
details. Thus, for instance, Sulzer had described composition [Satz] in
rather general terms; he had stressed the need for genius and taste in
order to invent, and then the need to observe all the rules of the art.
Koch gives four meanings of the word, and for the last of these, the
art of writing music according to its mechanical rules, he enumerates
fourteen of the most important of these rules. In his entry "Symphony"
[Symphonie], Sulzer had concentrated on the general nature of this
genre and indicated what character the movements can best express.
In his article on this term, Koch includes a lengthy quotation from
129
130
variety in the ideas at this stage, for this will ensure the continued
stimulation of the feeling, which itself is experienced in different
degrees of intensity. His description of Ausarbeitung is concise and
contains nothing new.
In his preface to the Lexikon, Koch speaks of the current "crisis
of aesthetics" caused by newer ideas which has necessitated his reliance
on other works. This, he says, explains his quotation from Rochlitz
to explain the term "sublime" [erhaben], and he notes that he often
uses excerpts of considerable length from other writings.27 Especially
with regard to aesthetic matters, these excerpts are usually taken from
Sulzer.
In a review of the Lexikon which appeared in the Allgemeine
musikalische Zeitung (1803), the reviewer credits Koch with having
provided lucid definitions of aesthetic issues that could be of use even
to practical musicians.28 Koch had been quite deferential in quoting
the recognized authorities, but the reviewer feels that this practice
weakens the aesthetic portion of the Lexikon. He singles out Koch s
favorite source, Sulzer, and criticizes the aesthetician for lack of clarity
on many points. Consequently the entry on "Taste" [Geschmack] earns
the comment "How vague and meaningless!," and he feels the entry
"Feeling" [Empfindung] needed revision and greater clarity, for music
in itself is not feeling, but is able only to present the form of feeling.
He objects to the superficial treatment of "Genius" [Genie], and notes
that Koch did not differentiate it from talent. And he also criticizes
Koch for equating "Affection" [Affect] with "Passion" [Leidenschaft].
Certain words which he considers important are omitted altogether,
such as "noble" [edel], "art" [Kunst], "artist" [Kunstler], "originality"
[Originalitdt]. In short, he feels that the aesthetic portion of the Lexikon
would benefit from revisions which would bring it more in accord
with current concerns.
The mechanical rules of melody
At the beginning of volume II, Koch had explored the inner nature of
27 Friedrich Rochlitz (1769-1842) was a prominent writer on music and the first editor of the
influential Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung. Koch quoted from his essay "Rhapsodischen Gedanken
iiber die zweckmaBige Benutzung der Materie der Musik," which appeared in part 10 of Der neue
Teutsche Merkur of 1798.
28 "Recension: Musikalisches Lexikon ... ," Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung 6 (1803),cols.33-45; see
in particular cols. 35-37.
131
music and the process of composition most appropriate to its aims. The
next section of the Versuch, entitled "The Mechanical Rules of Melody,"
comprises the remainder of the second and all of the third volumes.
Koch here discusses the external nature of music, its mechanical aspects:
modulation, meter, melodic sections, their connection, and the current
genres used in music. Although these nominally pertain to melody, Koch
always considers the harmonic dimension as well; he stresses the
codependence of melody and harmony at every level of composition.
Every composition should have both unity provided by its being
written in one key, and variety attained through temporary modulation
to other keys. The composer therefore must be aware of the musical
relationships among keys. It is also necessary for the composer to have
studied the nature of feelings and their relationships, which Koch had
discussed in the preceding section of the treatise; specific keys are
appropriate to different affections and modulation itself affects the
listener.29 Without this knowledge, therefore, the beginner might
introduce arbitrary modulations which had no musical or affective
justification. Since modulation changes the primary material of a
composition, key, it affects both harmony and melody; conversely,
modulation can only be achieved through the collaboration of harmony and melody.
Koch was aware that he was venturing into uncharted territory
when he described the melodic sections of music and their proper
connection. He recognizes Joseph Riepel (1709-82) as the first to
have attempted to treat this subject in his Anfangsgriinde zur musikalischen Setzkunst.30 But while Riepels discussion was somewhat diffuse,
Koch's approach is comprehensive and clear. Koch systematically
describes the characteristics and appropriate treatment of phrases and
their endings; with regard to their connection, he emphasizes the
importance of periodicity.
In his treatment of larger compositional forms, Koch focuses upon
the principal period [Hauptperiode], which consists of several phrases
the last of which is articulated by a formal cadence. Although created
in conjunction with melody, this unit is defined mainly by harmonic
29 Koch's discussion of the equation of keys and affections is very brief; he was more interested in
practical aspects of modulation. See Koch Versuch, vol. II, 1 7 1 - 7 3 .
30 Joseph Riepel, Anfangsgriinde zur musikalischen Setzkunst: nicht zwar nach alt-mathematischer
Einbildungsart der Zirkel-Harmonisten, sondern durchgehends mit sichtbaren Exempeln abgefasset, 5 vols.
(Frankfurt, Augsburg, and Regensburg: J. J. Lotter, C.U.Wagner, J. C. Krippner, 1752-68).
132
133
of the composer, the work is his own, although I have found occasional
omissions of attribution. The majority of the examples for which a
date can be established were composed in the 1760s and 70s. Yet,
despite the cultural limitations of Rudolstadt, Koch managed to keep
abreast of current developments. He recognized Mozart's mastery in
his "Haydn" Quartets written in 1785 and always listened with a
critical ear. In the Versuch, his discussion of the concerto was based
upon the works of C. P. E. Bach, but, eight years later in the Lexikon,
he made minor changes in his description of the form, which he now
modeled on the works of Mozart.31 Always the pedagogue, Koch
consistently sought to base his theoretical writings upon contemporary
practice, for this would be of the greatest benefit to the student of
composition.
In his Versuch, Koch presents us with a complete description of the
musical creative process. For some aspects of the process he formulates
definite rules; for the more inexplicable aspects he relies on intangible
gifts and skills. Just as his rules of composition were all founded upon
the unifying concept of the Urstoff der Musik, so his aesthetic ideas
were all based upon the principle that music must be expressive in
nature. In the practical section of his treatise, he discusses the building
blocks of music and gradually goes from Teil to Tonstiick, from segment
to complete composition; in his discussion of the origin of a musical
work, he outlines the stages of its creation from an inspired plan to
a fully elaborated work. Was the method of composition he described
practicable, and, if so, was it ever used, even perhaps by Koch? Mozart,
it was said, conceived of compositions in their entirety, telescoping all
three of Koch's stages into a single act of writing out the finished
composition. Beethoven, on the other hand, wrestled with single
motives, and often did not appear to have a plan; rather the work
laboriously evolved as the music demanded. It is doubtful that the
method described by Koch was ever used in composition, and probably
Koch himself would have admitted that the act of creation could
seldom be divided into such discrete abstract stages. The purpose of
this exercise was clearly to offer a heuristic approach to the beginning
composer. In this fascinating, albeit retrospective section of his Versuch,
Koch related the abstract aesthetic theories described by Sulzer to the
31 Compare the descriptions of concerto form in the Versuch, vol. Ill, 327-41 (Baker, Mechanical
Rules, 207-13) with that in the Lexikon, "Concert," cols. 349-55.
134
specific domain of music, and came the closest of any writer to explain,
in eighteenth-century terms, the inexplicable in music.
In reviewing my earlier translation of Koch's Versuch, several people
expressed regret that I had not included the section on his aesthetic
ideas. I am grateful to Professor Ian Bent for having encouraged me
to translate this material and for giving me the opportunity to include
it in his series. I hope that it will cause even more people to study
in depth the works of this most interesting eighteenth-century mind.
I have tried to retain the original meaning and individual flavor of
Koch s writing while putting it into readable, accessible prose. Thus I
have frequently broken up long sentences into more manageable units
and streamlined their structures. I have omitted words which do not
add to the meaning and, when necessary, have altered the voice of
the verb to ensure the proper flow. I have consistently tried to avoid
introducing concepts and ideas not proper to Kochs theoretical or
aesthetic system. Thus, because Koch did not use the terms tonic and
dominant in the Versuch, I refer only to the scale degree in question.
This portion of the treatise presents fewer terminological problems
than that which describes and analyzes musical sections and forms. In
general I have adhered to the terminology I used in my earlier
translation. Since Koch often uses the same term in different ways, I
have translated by means of its context and occasionally added a word
which elucidates the meaning intended. Grundabsatz, for example,
which can designate either a phrase which ends on scale degree 1 of
the prevailing key or solely the ending of such a phrase, is translated
as I-phrase or I-phrase ending, depending upon its context. For the
quotations from Sulzer, I have used the translations in this volume,
and have indicated the few instances when I chose a different English
equivalent for a term.
The original page numbers are indicated within curly brackets in
the text. I have also inserted subheadings within square brackets to
orient the reader. The original German is given in brackets for key
terms, usually after their first appearance. An asterisk precedes any
significant occurrence of a term for which there is an entry by Sulzer
translated in this volume. The examples are numbered consecutively
and every fifth measure is indicated. The footnotes too are numbered
consecutively, instead of being designated by an asterisk. I have
135
PREFACE
I am indebted to the connoisseurs for the good reception and review1
of the first volume of this Introduction to Composition and for the
encouragement to continue, {iv} and hereby discharge the debt. Partly
for these readers and also partly to announce the reasons which led me
to modify my outline slightly, a brief preface became necessary, which
otherwise would have been superfluous.
According to the outline in the introduction to the first volume,
this second volume was to begin and end with the {v} mechanical
aspect of melody. Only in volume three, promised as an appendix, did
I intend, among other things, to find an opportunity to apply a few
general rules of the fine arts specifically to composition. Before the
composer begins to invent melodies according to his training in the
mechanical aspect of melody, I thought it necessary to pay more
attention to the teaching of {vi} melody with a view to its usefulness
for beginners and to make some observations on their often incorrect
ideas about the way in which compositions arise in the mind of the
composer. I wish first to instruct the beginning composer in the way
that a composition must take shape in his mind if it is to attain the
l
Much as I have reason to be happy with the reviews of the first volume of my Introduction to
Composition that have come to my attention and with their authors, I nevertheless cannot refrain
from correcting a passage in the second issue of volume LXIV of the General German Library
[Allgemeine deutsche Bibliothek]. In the introduction of the first volume, in connection with the
definition of harmony, I found that this concept was formed too broadly, because in it was
contained all that needs to be assumed before both harmony as well as melody, if one wished to
reduce the entire mass of a composition to its primary components and to avoid the well-known
circular argument which emerges upon the question, which came first, melody or harmony.
Furthermore I had deviated from the teaching of my predecessors in connection with the way in
which tones and keys arise and a few other matters. All this was the reason that I made use in the
preface of the following passage: "I could justify many an unusual point; but in deference to what?
What is good recommends itself on its own, what is not well done no commendation will
improve. If, for example, I define the concept of harmony in an unusual way, many may disapprove.
Nevertheless, the advantages of this concept remain and justify it sooner or later even with him
whom it initially had not pleased." Clearly in this passage I speak only of the given concept of
harmony, which must necessarily be vital to anyone who is not indifferent to the confusion over
the concepts of the main components of art.
My reviewer seems to wish to find fault with this passage; probably he remembered it only after
reading the entire volume and then his memory failed him (for his friendly tone does not permit
me another interpretation). He says on p. 475: "He would like to see whether the expectation
137
138
aim of art and to warn him of wrong and, for him, deleterious ways
of proceeding in the invention of his future pieces of music.
For that reason, I believed that this part of my book would be
more useful to the beginner if I were to apply a few general rules
of the fine arts specifically to composition, those originally promised
for the appendix. By this means, not only could I make him aware
of the highest aim of art which he must try to attain with his artistic
products; not only could I explain the main aesthetic characteristics
{vii} of compositions to him; but also, most important, I could describe
to him how he must conduct himself in the invention of his
compositions if they are to be commensurate to the proper aim of
art. Thus the first part [Abtheilung] of this second volume came about.
Those of my readers who know the frequently wrongheaded
method of beginners in the creation of their compositions can judge
the consequences to which such poor and erroneous procedures
(which soon become a habit very difficult to break) may lead in the
future. They will absolve me from the necessity of detailing the reasons
which induced me to have this first section on the aim and inner
nature of compositions and, above all, on the way in which they arise,
precede the discussion on the mechanical aspect of melody.
This should suffice to justify the existence of this first part of the
second volume. The conclusion {viii} of the teachings on melody,
expressed in the preface came true, that many would disapprove, yet, sooner or later, would
recognize the advantages of this system."
As is evident, it did not occur to me to speak of my entire system in this tone and to determine
its fate and worth with such certainty Rather in this passage the subject is no more and no less
than the entire concept of harmony. Thus I have no need to explain myself further. [K.]
The passage in question is found in the Preface to volume I, pp. xiii-xiv. Koch's ultimate
refinement of his definition of harmony occurs in vol. II, pp. 47-50, translation below, pp. 157-59.
A thorough discussion of his ideas on harmony appears in Nancy K. Baker, "Der Urstoffder Musik:
Implications for Harmony and Melody in the Theory of Heinrich Koch," Music Analysis 1 (1988),
330. The review to which he refers is quite positive; it appeared under "Kurze Nachrichten" in
the Allgemeine deutsche Bibliothek 64, Issue 2 (1785), 473-76. The author (identified as "Xw")
objected to certain aspects of Koch's treatment of intervals and chords and commented that the
subject matter of volume I had already been discussed by several theorists; this could account for
the tone of Koch's note. Nevertheless, the reviewer concludes (p. 476): "Von Hr. K[och]. aber laBt
sich viel Gutes erwarten; davon hat er uns schon in diesem Theile iiberzeugende Beweise
gegeben." Another review of volume I of the Versuch which was generally favorable was published
in Carl E Cramer, ed., Magazin der Musik (Hamburg, 1783-86; facs. edn., 4 vols., Hildesheim:
Georg Olms Verlag, 1971), "Recensionen, Ankiindigungen: Versuch einer Anleitung zur Composition von Heinrich Christoph Koch," (December 7,1783) vol. II, 1304-08. This same review
appeared the next year in J. N. Forkel, ed., Musikalischer Almanack fur Deutschland, 4 vols. (Leipzig:
Schwickert, 1782-89), "Anzeige und Beurtheilung musikalischer Werke: Versuch einer Anleitung
zur Composition, von Heinrich Christoph Koch," vol. Ill, 1-4. [B.]
Preface
139
INTRODUCTION
The very relationship between tones which makes it possible to join
them harmonically also enables them to be connected melodically A
series of successive tones which share this relationship, that is, tones of
an underlying key connected in a successive series, is called a *melody.
A composition contains just as many different melodies as there
are voices present.2 {4} Although (as we shall see) the main directions
of these voices must arise in the soul of the creating composer together
as one single picture to attain the proper aim of art, nevertheless these
voices are not of one and the same nature, they do not have a common
purpose. One of them contains, as it were, the sketch of the painting,
the precise content of the ideal of the composer; this is called the
principal part. Another serves him as the basis for the harmonic texture
with which this picture is painted; this is called the bass voice. Others
are present to contribute the drapery, the decoration, and finishing
touches; these are called middle, filling, or subsidiary voices. The
principal part of a composition is the one which, in the mechanical
section of this treatise, I call the melody.
Remark
There are compositions, and even more single movements of them,
in which {5} more than one voice has the character of principal
part; in such pieces, the proper melodic content of the composer s
2
Even the so-called filling voices are included, as long as they do not proceed with other voices in
unison or at the octave. [K.]
Preface
139
INTRODUCTION
The very relationship between tones which makes it possible to join
them harmonically also enables them to be connected melodically A
series of successive tones which share this relationship, that is, tones of
an underlying key connected in a successive series, is called a *melody.
A composition contains just as many different melodies as there
are voices present.2 {4} Although (as we shall see) the main directions
of these voices must arise in the soul of the creating composer together
as one single picture to attain the proper aim of art, nevertheless these
voices are not of one and the same nature, they do not have a common
purpose. One of them contains, as it were, the sketch of the painting,
the precise content of the ideal of the composer; this is called the
principal part. Another serves him as the basis for the harmonic texture
with which this picture is painted; this is called the bass voice. Others
are present to contribute the drapery, the decoration, and finishing
touches; these are called middle, filling, or subsidiary voices. The
principal part of a composition is the one which, in the mechanical
section of this treatise, I call the melody.
Remark
There are compositions, and even more single movements of them,
in which {5} more than one voice has the character of principal
part; in such pieces, the proper melodic content of the composer s
2
Even the so-called filling voices are included, as long as they do not proceed with other voices in
unison or at the octave. [K.]
140
Introduction
141
142
and Regensburg: J. J. Lotter, C.U.WagnerJ. C.Krippner, 175468). The titles of the four volumes
(chapters) to which Koch refers are: i. "De Rhythmopoei'a oder von der Tactordnung" (first edn.,
1752); II. "Grundregeln zur Tonordnung insgemein" (1755); III. "Griindliche Erklarung der
Tonordnung insbesondere, zugleich aber fur die mehresten Organisten insgemein" (1757); IV
"Erlauterung der betriiglichen Tonordnung" (1765). Riepel's influence upon Koch is
unmistakable, but the later theorist presented a more coherent and fully developed description of
the components of melody in the Versuch. [B.]
Introduction
143
begun, I found {12} that they could not be separated without excess
diffuseness and detriment to the overall coherence [Zusamrnenhang].
For example, if I wished to begin with the length of sections and
their relationships with each other and show the beginner how the
melody consists of sections which, depending on their size, have a
certain relation among themselves, I could not do it without
acquainting him with endings of phrases [Absdtze] and of incises
[Einschnitte] and cadences [Cadenzen].4 These contain precisely the
resting points of the spirit by means of which elements of a certain
length become sections of the whole. If, on the other hand, I wished
to begin with the various resting points of the spirit, that is, with
incise- and phrase-endings and cadences, and, for instance, wished
to show the difference between the endings of an incise and a
phrase, this would not have been possible without determining the
size of these sections. In addition, these matters would have to be
far more intermingled in order to show what relation the sections
should have with regard to length and ending if they were to be
joined into a whole.
{13} In short, these are the reasons why I unite these two subjects.
Thus (1) I consider the different sections of the melody by themselves
and find in each two characteristics, namely (a) the length, and (b)
that which makes it into a section of the whole, that is, the resting
point of the spirit contained in its ending. These two points united
also enable me to give the beginner a complete idea of every large
or small section of the whole. And (2) if I wish to show the relation
of these sections as determined not only by their length, but also by
their ending, I will have no need to describe the method of
connecting these sections twice, namely once considering rhythm,
and the second time considering their punctuation.5
These are the various items to discuss in connection with the teaching
of melody.
Finally, if we examine the melody in connection with its accompaniment, then {14} meter or the weight of the measure is of particular
importance in a consideration of its mechanical aspects. Yet I refrain
from analyzing this subject further for the moment because, due to
the quantity of the preceding material, it will be discussed in the third
volume which will conclude this Introduction.
4
Koch uses the terms Einschnitt and Absatz to designate both the unit itself and the ending which
articulates it; see Introduction by Nancy K. Baker, p. 134 above. [B.]
5 Rhythm in this context is the length of the melodic sections. [B.]
145
Johann Georg Sulzer, ed., Allgemeine Theorie der schonen Kiinste in einzeln, nach alphabetischer
Ordnung der Kunstworter auf einander folgenden Artikeln abgehandelt, 2 vols. (Leipzig: M. G. Weid-
manns Erben und Reich, 1771-74). Karl Wilhelm Ramler, Einleitung in die schonen Wissenschaften
[1756-58],4th revised edn.,4 vols. (Leipzig:M.G. Weidmanns Erben und Reich, 1777). The latter
work was a translation with commentary of Charles Batteux's Cours de belles lettres ou Principes de
la litterature (1747-50), in which Batteux had further discussed the ideas advanced in his Les beaux
arts reduits a un meme principe (1746); see note 16, p. 116 above. Ramler (1725-98) was a
well-known German poet many of whose works were set to music; his Der Todjesu provided the
text for Carl Heinrich Graun's famous cantata of 1755, to which Koch frequently refers. [B.]
146
ear nor heart for the effect of music; with these, I will not concern
myself other than to give them the well-meaning advice never to
attempt to feel and still less to judge the effect of music.
{19} A composition can have an effect only on those listeners
whose souls and nerves are attuned to this art. Yet these also are of
different types. Some come entirely dispassionate to the place where
music will be performed, they come merely with the intention of
abandoning themselves to the pleasure which music affords them. As
yet no specific emotion has seized them; their hearts, open to every
beautiful sentiment, are receptive to all those feelings which the music
will arouse. These listeners are the only kind with whom music can
achieve its proper goal, for only they can completely feel the pleasure
of music. Others, although equipped with the most refined capability
of feeling, come already overpowered by a definite sentiment or
passion, and are unlikely to be affected by a composition which aims
to arouse an incongruous feeling.
A person might be eager to attract somebody else's attention
inconspicuously, not in a direct, but rather in a seemingly accidental
manner. Knowing that the other will attend the opera or a concert,
he goes there too, full of schemes and projects to realize his plan.
{20} Is music indeed capable of arousing feelings in such a listener?
Another one has met with some good fortune. He is filled with
joy over his good luck, and, under these conditions, a composition
aiming at putting its listener in a sweet melancholy mood will hardly
be able to have that effect on him.
Still another is perhaps a luckless lover "whose idol ignores him,"
who, furthermore, comes to the concert hall solely to see the object
of his affection. Will indeed a composition whose character is joy
affect him with its full strength? No! music will be able to draw this
one to itself only through melancholy feelings.
And who can see so deeply into men as to know all hindrances
which diminish the listeners' receptiveness for the particular feeling
which music is endeavoring to awaken?
Thus we see that, if it is to attain its aim, music requires only such
listeners {21} in whom no impediments to its effect are present, only
those who possess receptiveness for the feelings which are to be
awakened.
The question arises whether the composer could not discover means
to make his music imperceptibly overcome those listeners whose minds
147
148
attract the listener more strongly, and to awaken in him the feeling
she is seeking to bring forth. Unfortunately this and similar means
can be used but seldom, if they are to have any effect.
{24} Another means for music to have an effect upon this type of
listener appears to me to be the opposite of the previous one, namely
to arouse in the listener the expectation of the specific feeling which
the music is to produce. Supposing that the listener knows in advance
that in the concert hall a composition of a specific content is to be
performed, then this knowledge will let him easily determine what
sort of feeling he can expect from the music. Therefore should not
the thought of these feelings and the expectation of them be able to
diminish the obstacles present in these listeners? This appears to me
to be very likely, for the memory of a feeling, the anticipation of it,
is indeed already one hindrance less. But even this means is not
generally applicable, for in very few places is it customary to announce
in advance which compositions will be performed in a concert. And
even if this were done, one would have to perform either vocal works
with quite specific contents or customary pieces containing nothing
but similar feelings.
{25} The same is true with all means one might find intending a
composition of a certain feeling to affect listeners who are already
too carried away by another feeling or passion. I currently do not
wish to investigate the reasons that at times bring about a general
effect of such smaller compositions, for they are usually a combination
of circumstances which depend entirely neither on the music nor on
the listener. Thus, for example, a composition written for a particular
ceremony as a rule would have a stronger and more widespread effect
with its solemn performance on that occasion than when presented
at other times.
This should suffice to demonstrate that the composer can awaken
feelings in his listeners only if no obstacles are present.
We shall now leave the listeners and examine the question "Under
which circumstances can the composer awaken feelings?" by focusing
on aspects of the music. There are two main points to consider: the
nature of the composition itself and the {26} manner of its performance. How a composition must be formed if it is to awaken feelings
is really the subject of the following pages; thus I will only say a word
about the performance.
If a composition has all the qualities necessary to attain its goal,
149
150
noble resolution having heard the utterance of the oracle. She becomes
dear to us, we love her. In brief, after the most tender parting from
her husband and her children, we see her finally die. We shed many
tears over her. Strong as the illusion may be, {29} nevertheless the
feeling aroused in us by the dying Alceste ultimately is very different
from the emotion which a beloved person who were really dying
would cause us. Now, would we hurry to a second performance of
this opera if these feelings, unpleasant in the abstract, had made a truly
disagreeable impression upon us, if they had not really pleased us?2 Is
it not in our nature to shun genuinely unpleasant feelings? Enough
of this. I intend now to examine briefly which types of agreeable or
disagreeable feelings music would be capable of arousing. In examining
this matter, the main point is whether music is to awaken feelings by
itself or in connection with poetry.3
To be sure, music itself speaks the language of feeling. It needs
neither {30} representation through pantomime, nor ideas or images
expressed through words; it affects our heart directly and elicits pleasant
as well as unpleasant feelings. But music is not capable of making
known to us the reasons why this or that feeling is aroused, why we
are led from one feeling to the other; it can make us comprehend
neither the image of a pleasure whose enjoyment is to gratify us, nor
the image of a misfortune which is to arouse fear. If the emotion
caused by music alone cannot on the occasion of its creation forge
a close relationship to our heart, if the music does not arouse joy in
connection with a joyous occasion or sorrow in connection with a
melancholy one, then the joy or sorrow aroused is without purpose.
It interests our heart very little because we do not understand why
the composer wishes to make us happy or sad. And these feelings
present without reference cannot bring forth in us noble resolutions
and cannot influence the education of our heart.
But the case is altogether different if music is combined with poetry
or dance. Poetry not only precisely defines those feelings whose {31}
expressions are similar to one another and protects the composer from
being misunderstood, but it also makes known the reasons why
Koch is probably referring to the opera Alceste (1773) composed by Anton Schweitzer (1735-87)
to a libretto by Christoph Wieland (17331813). Koch thought highly of this very successful
work and mentioned it several times in the Versuch. [B.]
It would take too long to deal with the union of music and dance in particular. What I observe
about the union of music with poetry will be applicable to the union of music with dance. [K.]
151
particular feelings are aroused, why we are led from one feeling to
the other. Thus it has an effect on the higher powers of the soul; it
lets us compare cause and effect, action and feeling. As a result, not
only is our heart interested in these feelings, but also these feelings,
present for a purpose, will now bring about resolutions in us and will
be able to contribute to the ennoblement of our heart.
The means through which both these arts have an effect are
continuous. Thus, not only can they let rise and fall any one feeling
or passion, but also they can pass from one feeling to the other and
lend each other a helping hand for the accomplishment of their
common goal. This is possible because through the poetry the subject
matter as well as the aim of the whole becomes clear.
The pleasure produced by music in combination with poetry is no
longer a feeling existing without reference, without reason and
purpose; no! we {32} now know the source whence it flows, we
perceive, as it were, the object of our pleasure in all its charm, we
see every terrible characteristic of the evil which appears to threaten
us. Poetry inspires feelings through ideas and images, and, with the
feeling which they awaken, music penetrates directly to the heart.
Thus both arts united bring about a high degree of feeling and the
subsequent pleasure which neither of these arts could arouse alone.
Thus music in combination with poetry may attempt to awaken
nearly all kinds of pleasant and unpleasant feelings and to maintain
them in various modifications. But both arts may not be able to
stimulate all feelings to the same degree. Now and then, music will
have to yield to poetry the stronger degree of effect and will serve
merely as a support; it will be able to affect the heart of the listener
only slightly. Thus, for example, in an opera music is not capable of
arousing contempt over the cruelty of a tyrant. Instead it will try to
reach the listener indirectly by portraying only one characteristic {33}
of the feeling of contempt, namely how the spirit raises itself above
the despised subject. Still less will music be able to attempt to portray
the two feelings of hatred and envy. With most of the other types of
feelings, unpleasant and pleasant, music not only will be able to have
an effect equal to that of poetry, but often will bring forth the highest
levels of various passions, for which poetry has no more indications,
speech no further expression. Of this nature is, for example, the feeling
of anguish, or a high degree of tenderness, of joy, of sorrow, of
compassion, and so forth.
152
All this goes to prove that music can attain its highest aim and
proper goal only in combination with poetry, and to be separated
from poetry is most detrimental to its effect.
Now we are in a position to define the limits within which music
must keep when arousing emotions if it is to strive for its effect alone,
without combining with any of the other fine arts.
{34} When music is united with poetry, it can have a definite effect
upon the listener, because the ideas and images contained in the poetry
do not so easily expose the composer to the danger of being
misunderstood. But if music alone is to awaken feelings, then the
composer must adhere to more general feelings. To be sure, pleasant
and unpleasant emotions also belong in his sphere, but he must beware
of choosing to portray specific types of these feelings, if they are
distinguished by similar expressions. He may only try to awaken a
specific kind of pleasant or unpleasant feeling in his listeners in so
far as he is capable of making the expressions of this feeling distinctive
enough. For example, in the class of pleasant feelings, the composer
can most clearly differentiate for the hearts of his listeners joy from
tenderness, the sublime [Erhabne] from the playful; he will therefore
also be able to awaken in them these different kinds of pleasant feelings.
But never will he be able to bring forth a precise enough distinction
{35} between fear and pity through his music alone, without running
the risk of being misunderstood by all his listeners. Thus, if it is to
awaken feelings, more narrow limits are set for music by itself than
when it is united with poetry.
Now we can form a realistic idea of what effect we can expect
from music alone when it is used not for joyous or sad occasions, but
in ordinary concerts or chamber music. At most, there are a few
specific feelings which have no relation to our heart, which are there
for no particular reasons, and in which then we take an interest only
if we are already in accord with one of them. And yet, if we look at
recent compositions, we have to contrast an almost countless number
of instrumental pieces with a small number of vocal pieces. How
much the possible effect of music is lessened with this prevalent
separation from poetry is easy to understand. Much harder it is to
comprehend {36} why, in a concerto, which is often performed with
so much pomp, one is content with the mere effect of instrumental
music, since the pleasure could be greatly increased and ennobled
through combination with poetry! Neither the scope nor the aim of
153
154
Romance and rondo both have their proper worth, which I do not wish to dispute; but there is
the ridiculous tyranny of fashion that allows approval of no other type of Adagio movement than
the romance, and no other last Allegro than the rondo. Might they both be in danger of being
forgotten? Still, what will we gain if instead of romances and rondos we incessantly introduce brief
movements with variations? [K.]
5 [Christian Fiirchtegott Gellert (1715-69)] G E Gellerts sdmmtliche Schriften, rev. edn., 10 books in
5 volumes (Leipzig: M. G. Weidmanns Erben und Reich, und Caspar Fritsch, 1784), vol. I, Book
2 (1748), "Die Nachtigall und der Kukuk," 224. To reinforce his point, Koch paraphrases the last
three lines of this fable: "Der Ausbruch einer stummen Z'ahre / Bringt Nachtigallen weit mehr
Ehre, / Als dir der laute Beyfall bringt." [B.]
155
Ramler, Einleitung, vol. I, 72. The minor deviations from the original in the quotations from
Ramler may be caused by Koch's having used a different edition. [B.]
A reference to Horace, Ars poetica in Horace: Satires, Epistles and Ars poetica, translated with
commentary by H. Rushton Fairclough, rev. edn. 1929, reprinted, Loeb Classical Library
(Cambridge, Mass, and London: Harvard University Press, 1991), 479 and 481: "But when the
beauties in a poem are more in number, I shall not take offence at a few blots which a careless
hand has let drop, or human frailty has failed to avert. What, then, is the truth? As a copying clerk
is without excuse if, however much warned, he always makes the same mistake, and a harper is
laughed at who always blunders on the same string: so the poet who often defaults, becomes,
methinks, another Choerilus, whose one or two good lines cause laughter and surprise; and yet I
also feel aggrieved, whenever good Homer 'nods,' but when a work is long, a drowsy mood may
well creep over it." [B.]
156
157
Among all occasions at which music is customary, the tables of the great are probably the most
inappropriate. If used on an exceptionally festive day to augment the pomp and the magnificence,
then there is no objection if only a few compositions which have the character of the sublime or
pomp are performed; in such cases they will always attain the desired goal. But with the ordinary
use of them, not only the listener, but also the art loses in more than one respect. On such
occasions, not only are many who do not naturally like music obliged to become listeners; they
have to be quiet, contrary to habit. Necessary etiquette forces them to swallow many a learned or
witty idea unspoken, and thus they become enemies, secret persecutors of music. [K.]
158
159
of what must precede both, namely the size of the tones determined
through an accepted fundamental tone, or what on page 16 [of Volume
I] I called "mode." This size of all musical tones as determined by a
fundamental tone is the primary material of a composition from which
all elements of the entire composition are formed. If this material or
if these tones are heard successively, then the material is melodically
manipulated; but it is used harmonically if some of these tones are
heard together. Thus I said in the introduction on page 7: "To produce
a composition, tones are joined either in a series or together; thus
they may be heard successively or simultaneously. Accordingly, there
are three different ways of connecting tones, and so forth." Thus I
understand by the improper expression simple harmony (which I
could have designated more clearly by the expression primary matter
of music [Urstoff der Musik], had I not wished to retain the word
harmony to show that the concept attached to it is too broad), all
that belongs to the way in which both modes originate {50} from
one accepted fundamental tone. And accompanying harmony,
composition, or counterpoint means the simultaneously audible
connection of this material, either in single chords or in entire
movements.
Viewing the issue in this way, it appears to me that the question
if considered materially is no question at all; for neither harmony nor
melody can constitute the final reduction of a composition. The two
originate in one and the same material; only this material is manipulated differently in the context of melody or harmony.
Consequently I clearly could not have intended to indicate through
the passage cited in the introduction to volume one that the working
composer should first think of harmony.
[THE ORDER OF COMPOSING]
This will become still more evident if I now proceed to the formal
consideration of this subject. The question previously raised will now
be: What arises first in the mind of the composer in the creation of a
composition, melody or harmony? Or, in words more in keeping with
our proper aim: How does a composition arise in {51} the mind of
the composer, how does he invent it, how does he work?
This question is far more difficult to answer than the previous one,
because it concerns a matter which is better felt than described, and
160
in connection with which one easily runs the risk of being misunderstood. Thus I would prefer to pass over this matter in silence.
But I am convinced that most beginners tend to form an entirely
incorrect idea of it, and I know that most teachers of composition,
in their verbal instruction, do not allude at all to this matter, so
important for the beginner. Therefore I wish to try to address the
beginning composer on this subject in a manner useful to him.
Let me remind you that when, in the course of this treatise, I deal
with the way in which a composition is formed, actually only one
movement of any composition will be discussed at a time, for example,
only the Allegro of a symphony or a concerto, or an aria of a vocal
work, and so on.
In discussions about the way in which works of the fine arts are
created, one speaks of *invention [Erfindung], a *sketch [Entwurf], a
{52} plan [*layout, Anlage] and a *disposition [Anordnung],11 likewise
also of realization [Ausfuhrung] and ^elaboration [Ausarbeitung], and so
on.
[THE PLAN: 1. THE MECHANICAL ELEMENTS]
As composers, we have essentially to consider three different stages in
the making of a composition: the plan, the realization, and the elaboration.
In the article "Plan" [Layout] of his General Theory of the Fine Arts,
Sulzer gives the following explanation of these three different types of
operation:
A plan is the presentation of the most essential sections of which some work
is composed. Every great art work is the result of a three-fold process: the plan,
the realization, and the elaboration. [...] In the plan, the overall design [Plan]
of the work, along with its sections is decided upon. {53} The realization gives
each of these sections its own characteristic form, while the elaboration works
out and ties together the smallest parts in an optimal manner and form. If the
11 Our current topic is not the composer's plan nor the disposition by means of which the composer
who, for example, wishes to work at a cantata, initially must decide for which voice this or that
aria is the most appropriate; or which wind instrument he considers the most fitting with this or
that aria, in order to maintain the necessary variety, and so on. The sole topic here is each separate
movement of a composition, for example, each aria in particular, as a self-contained unit. [K.]
Note that Anlage is always translated as "plan," rather than "layout," the term chosen for the
Sulzer translation. To avoid confusion in this portion of the volume, I have therefore altered the
quotations from Sulzer accordingly; in the first of these, I have also changed the translation of Plan
to "design." See Introduction by Nancy K. Baker, pp. 121-24 above. [B.]
161
plan is complete, nothing more that is essential to the work should have to be
added. The work already contains the most important ideas, and therefore this
demands the most genius. A work accrues its greatest value on the basis of its
plan. It constitutes the soul of the work, and firmly establishes everything that
belongs to its inner character and intended effect.12
162
163
enough to hide the flaws in the plan. It is better to throw out completely
a work with an imperfect plan than it is to expend effort in trying to carry
out its realization and elaboration. One of the most important rules of art
seems to be not to begin working out something before one is fully satisfied
with the perfection of its plan, since such satisfaction will be a catalyst to
the work's realization.13
These are the reasons, therefore, why, with regard to the plan, I
require of a composition (1) that {58} its main sections be connected
with each other, or that their sum not be considered a plan until
these parts appear to the composer as an entirely complete picture;
because it is still uncertain whether indeed he will be able to find a
suitable way of connecting these sections. (2) That it also is necessary
for a complete plan that the main harmonic features and the type of
harmonic accompaniment contained in the other parts be completely
determined and follow from the plan, since it is to establish everything
that belongs to the intrinsic character and to the effect which the
whole should have. But now it is well known that each movement
produces a different effect as soon as its accompaniment or the
subsidiary parts associated with the principal part are altered in the
harmony or also in their movement and figures. For example, a
composition will of necessity produce an entirely different effect if
either few dissonances are used in the parts which accompany a
principal melody or if these accompanying parts only sound the simple
harmonic tones of the underlying chords, than if the dissonances are
used more frequently or these accompanying parts, instead of simply
sounding {59} the harmonic tones of the underlying chords, are
elaborated with metrical figures.14 From this it is now clear that the
specific content of the accompaniment is an integral part of a complete
plan.
It appears to me to be still necessary to clarify this matter through
a practical example. But in order to avoid inserting not only the plan
of a composition, but also its realization and elaboration, thereby
making these pages more extensive, I will choose the movement of
a composition which is in everyone's hands, so that the beginner may
be able to compare that which I here call the plan with the realization
and form for himself a correct idea of the matter. For this example,
13 Sulzer, "Layout," above, pp. 66-67. [B.]
14 A harmonic tone is an overtone (mitklingenderTon) of the fundamental underlying a chord; Koch
is referring here to the octave, perfect fifth, and major third. [B.]
164
^ 3
Ein
Ge - bet
- hort
um
gern
er -
neu - e
hort
I
Star-ke,
es -
gern _ der
zur
Voll - en
Herr er-hort es
dung
gern.
Example lb
Arie
Allegretto
,.
Fl. I/II
Vie I/II
Via
Fg. I/II
B.c.
15 Carl Heinrich Graun (ca. 1704-59) was a German singer and composer. He became Kapellmeister for Frederick the Great of Prussia and wrote numerous Italian operas for Berlin, as well
as sacred works and chamber music. His most famous work is the Passion cantata Der Todjesu of
1755, composed to words by Karl Ramler (see note 1 above, p. 145). Koch had the highest
regard for the works of Graun and frequently used them to illustrate the Versuch. [B.]
nr
7TT
165
LJ
Ein
r i r r f i r cf-Cf-ir r ' T r r ir r r
Ge - bet
um
neu - e
Ij
Star-ke,
ed - ler _
166
r rr T
zum Herrn,_
dringt
- hort
r ' n
es
der
Hierr
er -
er - hort
es
I*
gern,
der
*r T T
r ^' '
er - hort
r r r 'h I- h
'J r
es gern,
""I ii
und
gern,
Herr_
si
zum Herrn,_
der Herr
er-hort es
7#i;
er - hort es
gem
IJ.
167
I] I]
neu - e
Star - ke,
fz u r _i rVoll-
168
J'UJ r i
teilt
-i
zum
Herrn, _ dringt
zum
Herrn,
r r ir cj
und der
m
Herr _
er - hort
es
gern, _
er - hort, _
I 1
n r
r r plP
er - hort es
lli
'lJ
gern,
teilt die
teilt
und der
hort
es
Herr
er - hort
es
zum
gern, _
gern,
ifc
er - hort,
der Herr _
rrr
m
r r r irrr irrr
und _ der _ Herr,
Herrn
gern, _
j r'P
<r
er-hort es
169
der Herr
er-hort
es
ger
170
140
r r r
m
i J
r=f
Allegretto
Klimm' ich
trfrg
^F^
>
Fine
145
LJ
LJ
zu
der
Tu
LJ
TTem
gend
- pel
matt
den
- em
ii
pel,
'urch _ die
ber
mir
J*> P
- leicht'
re
er
Hoff - nung _
nen
ner
Sze -
nen,
scho - nen
und
mm
ir
mei
hab'
je
171
nen
r fr
Gang
:J==3=
mit
Ge
bet,
er
172
p r cj"'P
- sang,
,mp
bet,
Ge - bet
v P IT
und
mit
Ge -
From the pianovocal edition by Ulrich Haverkampf of Carl Heinrich Graun's Der Tod Jesu.
Breitkopf and Hartel, Wiesbaden. Used by permission.
173
174
Since we will discuss the aria later, a word concerning its second
section is not entirely inappropriate here. The second section of an
aria can be handled in different ways. {65} Guided by the text,
the composer may or may not find it necessary to present the
second section of the aria in an entirely different guise from the
first. If he does, the second section is not connected with the plan
of the first; rather it requires its own particular plan. If the composer
still feels strong enough after having completed the plan of the
first section, he can try to invent the plan of the second section
immediately. If he is capable of doing this, both sections of the aria,
to be sure different in themselves, gain a certain relation to one
another, which would not be so easy to obtain if he first realized
and elaborated the first section. But if the composer finds that with
the completion of the plan of the first section his facility to invent
or his fire of imagination [Feuer der Einbildungskraft] is beginning
to diminish, then he would do better to abandon this subtle relation
of the two different sections, which moreover only a very refined
artistic feeling perceives, rather than risk filling the second section
of his aria with an insipid invention.
{66} In the second case, if the composer, following the indications of the text, does not find it necessary to present the second
section of the aria in a way different from the first, then this second
section is part of the realization of his movement, and the ideas
contained therein are partly repetitions and partly also continuations
of the main ideas present in the plan. And if indeed the composer
feels obliged to use in this type of treatment an idea which has
nothing in common with what preceded, then this idea (just as
any other new phrase) must still be constructed so as to connect
well with the rest of the ideas.
Custom has made it almost a law to treat the second section of
the aria quite briefly and without perceptible realization. If the first
section is realized extensively, then this custom is, to some extent,
necessary; otherwise, if one wished also to realize the second section
and then to repeat the entire first section, the movement would
be extended to a tiresome degree. For the time being, I shall ignore
the question whether it {67} might be better to treat the first
section briefly, contrary to custom, in those arias in which the
175
second section of text is especially striking, and thus put off the
more extended realization until the second section.
In many recent compositions, the very tiresome Da capo, frequently existing without any purpose, has come either to be
abandoned altogether or, should the text have been written with
that form in mind, to be curtailed. This is done either by repeating
only half of the first section or by abridging its contents concisely
and writing out the movement entirely.
Third remark
It is probably not surprising to the beginner in composition that
I said in the First Remark that the ritornelli of the aria and
consequently also the beginning ritornello belong to the realization;
thus, with the invention of an aria, the ritornelli cannot be thought
of until the plan is completed, or even until the first solo of the
vocal part is completely {68} realized. One will find this procedure
still less strange in connection with the invention and working out
of a chorus. In both cases, the text necessitates this manner of
treatment; it would be entirely inappropriate to handle these
movements differently. But this procedure is just as necessary when
dealing with a concerto, if one does not wish to double one's work.
Many who are only concerto composers for their instrument make
the treatment of these compositions much more difficult for
themselves by beginning with the invention of the ritornello which,
just as in the aria, is nothing but the introduction to the principal
material, or to that which the solo part should contain.
Does not an orator have to have determined most precisely the
contents of his address before he can, in the introduction, draw the
attention of his listeners to its contents? And does not the first
ritornello of a concerto have just the same relationship with the
contents of the solo part as the introduction of a speech with its
contents?
{69} Thus if the beginning composer does not wish to treat a
concerto contrary to its nature, and thereby make the work yet
more difficult for himself, he will first complete the plan and even
the realization of the first solo of his composition. Subsequently,
he will not lack in material for his ritornello, and with this manner
of treatment he will not run the risk of exhausting his creative
176
178
benefit to him in the future. For without this skill, he will never be
capable of composing, unless he resorts to picking out melodies on
his instrument {74} to help him invent and write down all the
thoughts he wants to join in a composition, instead of their arising
directly in his fantasy [Fantasie] and staying there until they are formed
into a well-connected unit. The bad effects of this method upon genius
and taste, and on the invention of a composition through which
feelings are to be awakened, are so obvious as to make it unnecessary
to explain myself further.
To avoid these bad consequences, the novice who finds himself in
this situation has no choice but to strive diligently for practice in
melodic thinking and to acquire the skill of notation. Every musician
possesses the ability to think or sing in his mind a melody which he
can play by heart on his instrument; therefore, if he cannot notate his
melody properly, what he lacks is the habit of paying attention to the
specific size of the different intervals which make up the melody.
Therefore, the beginning composer should now make it his {75} main
exercise to sing in his mind and to pay close attention to the width
of the intervals between every tone of the melody and the next, or,
better still, he should form the habit of accompanying the sequence
of tones he is singing in his mind with their corresponding letters as
if as a text. Once he has reached the proficiency of pronouncing the
correct name of the tones which he sings mentally as a text, then he
can write the proper sequence of tones and intervals that form the
melody. Next he needs only to determine precisely the duration of
every tone in order to express correctly the figures of which the
melody consists; and the latter usually tends to be far easier for the
instrumentalist than the former. But as the beginner should not yet
invent, he should take for this exercise those compositions which he
practices on his instrument and should sing those phrases which he
knows by memory a few times in the previously described manner;
subsequently he should try to write the piece in notes and compare
it with the already notated melody. He must continue with this exercise
until he is capable of writing with complete accuracy every {76}
melody which he sings in his mind, with regard not only to the
sequence of tones, but also to the figures of notes.
To those who do not like this exercise, the only advice I can give
is to let themselves be instructed by usual methods in the vocal art,
180
182
U 1
Adagio
2 Flauti et
2 Viole, in
ottava alta
J i
2 Violini
184
Allegro
Violino obi.
2 Violini
Fondam.
pr
r r
^, inffiimffli
J)
[ r
r r r rr
J
186
187
All artists, even those possessing just a little genius, confirm that they sometimes
experience an extraordinary feeling in their soul by which their work is made
uncommonly easier. Ideas suddenly develop themselves with seemingly no
effort, and the best of themflowforth in such abundance as if {95 } the product
of some higher force. Without doubt, this is what one calls "inspiration." An
artist finding himself in such a state looks at his artwork in a totally different
light. His genius, led as if by divine force, discovers ideas without effort, and
is able to express them in an optimal manner.19
If you wish, you can look up this fine article in Sulzer. But you
will best be able to philosophize with him about inspiration if you
yourself have been inspired.
In this article, Sulzer has also shown the means to attain skill of
placing oneself in an inspired state. Besides these, the following
ploys appear to me to be appropriate particularly for the beginning
composer to coax at least the first signs of this spiritual condition.
The first is reading in the works of fine minds passages with vivid
descriptions of the feeling into which one wishes to submerge
oneself. And the second is the attentive singing or playing, repeated
a few times, of such passages from the works of good composers
which have as their subject just the emotion {96} one wishes to feel.
With the use of this last means, though, the beginner must take care
afterwards not to transfer unwittingly to his own invention any ideas
of the piece through which he wished to fan the fire of his own
imagination.
If the composer has invented in this spiritual condition the principal
phrases of his piece, and if they appear to him as a complete whole,
connected and accompanied by their principal harmonic features; if
he is entirely satisfied, not only with regard to the phrases, but also
considering their sequence and connection; if this beautiful whole
existing in his imagination completely engulfs him and heightens his
inspiration - then he should lose not a moment to put it on paper
as quickly as possible so that no idea, indeed, no feature of it is blurred
or even obliterated by other ideas perhaps still crowding his fantasy;
for what is lost from this image of fantasy often is irretrievable, and
the loss of a single passage and connection often makes an entirely
new plan necessary.
This plan visibly presented or written in notes is called the sketch
19 Sulzer, "Inspiration," above, p. 32. [B.]
188
189
190
22 Horace, Ars poetica, 451 and 453: "If a painter chose to join a human head to the neck of a horse,
and to spread feathers of many a hue over limbs picked up now here and there, so that what at
the top is a lovely woman ends below in a black and ugly fish, could you, my friends, if favoured
with a private view, refrain from laughing? Believe me, dear Pisos, quite like such pictures would
be a book, whose idle fancies shall be shaped like a sick man's dreams, so that neither head nor
foot can be assigned to a single shape. 'Painters and poets,' you say, 'have always had an equal right
in hazarding anything.' We know it: this licence we poets claim and in our turn we grant the like;
but not so far that savage should mate with tame, or serpents couple with birds, lambs with tigers
... In short, be the work what you will, let it at least be simple and uniform." [B.]
191
this or that idea would not fit in immediately with the phrases of the
plan, it might fit all the better in the realization.
This should be sufficient on what the length of a composition
makes necessary. It would be superfluous to put up more rules and
principles in connection with this subject {103} because they cannot
help the beginner in the realization of his compositions. More
appropriate and of more use here are good practical examples, because
the completely suitable connection of the essential as well as the
subsidiary phrases of a piece is better felt than described. But since
the narrow limits of this treatise do not permit me to insert completely
realized compositions and to analyze them, I refer those desirous of
learning to the study of the scores of good masters. During this study,
one must first necessarily imagine the plan of the movement in order
to study the realization, that is, one must first determine which are
the principal ideas of it, which have been realized through different
configurations and fragmentations joined with extension and mixed
with subsidiary ideas.
Usually one considers the modulation and the form of the composition as the mechanical component of the realization; and the latter
is, for the most part, determined through the former. The form depends
partly upon the specific number of principal periods, partly upon the
key in which this or that period is presented, and partly also upon
the place where a principal section is repeated.
{104} Following my plan, I have allotted to these mechanical
elements of the realization their own section. Nevertheless, in conformity with the aim of this present division, I cannot refrain from
noting the effect which modulation and form can have upon the
spirit of the composition.
[THE REALIZATION: 2. THE SPIRITUAL EFFECT OF
MODULATION AND FORM]
First a word concerning modulation. The beginner must become familiar
with this subject considered in itself, not only as a mechanical element
of the composition, but also with regard to its aesthetic power. The
mechanical element includes the knowledge of the closer or more
distant relationship of keys to each other and also the way in which to
proceed from one key into another. In addition, the modulation from
one key to another may give to the idea in which it occurs a turn, an
192
, J , ,
;
\
i j i
~k~
Die
h 1
-r#==#=
h~ fban
tn
/
ge
Violoncelli
T3
$
dir
un - ser Ge
lieb - ter,
r j rf
|?
23 Johann Heinrich Weismann (1739-1806) wrote fiction, philosophical works, and a great deal of
poetry while serving as a private language instructor in Rudolstadt. According to a list of his
works, this ode was entitled " O d e auf das Geburtsfest der Fiirstin Aug. Luise Frid., Erbprinzessin
von Schw"; most likely it first appeared in the poet's Allmanach der Belletristen und Belletristinnen
fur's Jahr 1782. In that same year, Weismann wrote an essay on the cantata and included this poem
in his discussion: Ode auf das Geburtsfest ... nebst einer Abhandlung u'ber die Kantate. 1782. See the
entry on Weismann in Ludwig Friedrich Hesse, "Verzeichnis geborner Schwarzburger, die sich
als Gelehrte oder als Kiinstler durch Schriften bekannt machten" (21 parts, 1805-30) in
Programme des Rudolstddter Gymnasiums von 1802-1846 (Rudolstadt, n.d.), part 19 (1828), 16. [B.]
24 This was o n e of t h e four unpublished birthday cantatas written by Koch for the court at
Rudolstadt; as the manuscript is n o t extant, the portions cited in the Versuch are all that remain of
the work. [B.]
194
o
end - lich
J-
sie
ist
Won
ne!
i "i
J
Freu - de ihn wie-der zu
rr
jLAn
sehn!
Fei
fei
ert
das
/]J~lh
{110} The entire movement from which this example is taken, was,
as previously mentioned, the last chorus of a substantial vocal work.
This had to have all possible aesthetic power, partly because of its
content and also as the close of the entire work.25 {111} The first
period of the chorus distinguished itself by a full chorus and force of
harmony. Therefore, for the second strophe an entirely contrasting
25 As well with shorter compositions it remains an extremely important principle not to use the
greatest strength of expression until the piece hastens to a close. Only then it becomes imperative
for the expression of emotions to overwhelm the listener; else the sensation might diminish and
the end of the piece coincide with the disappearance of any pleasure the music provided. [K.]
195
means was chosen; the passage was made into a solo and modulation
employed. The minor key begins without melodic transition immediately at the beginning of this [second] period, with the effect of
translating the anxious longing of the poet into the melody. Moreover,
it provided an essential opportunity to follow the lead of the poet
through the immediate entry of the key F major with the words:
"Delight! at the day of joy" [Wonne! am Tage der Freude] and so on.
Through this turn of modulation, the composition assimilates the
picture, the very sequence of ideas, that distinguishes the poetry of
this strophe from the preceding one, and poetry and its musical
transformation are all the more closely united. Through the words:
"Delight! at the day of joy" and so on, the hearts of the {112} listeners
were again attuned to joy, and not until now was it appropriate to
let the entire chorus sing in the main key, entering again with varied
realization of the tones of joy which accompanied the first strophe:
Delight! at the day
Of joy to see him again!
Celebrate, celebrate the good fortune to see him again!
This period of the chorus re-entering closes in the main key. The
following brief ritornello introduces at its end the key of the fourth,
with which the last strophe begins. This I will use as my second
example [Example 6]. For the sake of the connection, I quote a few
measures of the ritornello.
Example 6
CJ
Noch
196
* J
J t
des,
Lan
ter de
des de
be
r rr
4=fe
Fur
Lan
f I w_r
-
sten
fur
U U \
schon ist
ge
ist
-J
dein
Herz
J
er
ahrt;
I *
i
nicht o
r j M > r j t
Fiirst
ganz von
Se
lig - keit
r r rr
J-J J J
voll
ein
Him -
mel in
dir?
197
198
199
Example 7
Allegro
J J J
Schan
de
Mensch-heit,
der
J J J
J K
der
JJ J J J
Fiir - stin
rich - ten-der
g " mty
Blick,
dir, ist
dir, hin-
"' ^ If J"
r
K K |
ab
10
der
JTT
= * =
i^
H61
-LW
u nd
le,
|9
stirb!
4^
p
und
j
stirb!
_eJ
{123} In the three last measures, this modulation into the fourth
misleads the expectation of the ear and the close of the entire period
is given a turn which corresponds to the underlying feeling.
The form is just as flexible in view of the number, the length and
200
[THE ELABORATION]
Once the composer has decided how he intends to present the main
phrases of the movement contained in his sketch [plan] through various
turns and dissections, and, of course, in different periods; once he has,
at the same time, established the distinguishing harmonic features related
to the entire succession of the main melody arising in this manner, or
the distinguishing content of the subsidiary voices; and once he has
committed all this to paper together with the entire succession of the
bass voice or has begun his full score, the last step necessary for the
completion of his movement is the elaboration. This involves the
completion of those voices whose content has been determined in part,
and in the realization has been indicated in the score. Also, all the
remaining voices {125} meant to accompany the main part and whose
contents or tonal sequence is as yet undetermined throughout, must be
completed in conformity not only with the harmony underlying the
bass, but also with the feeling prevailing in the composition.
The beginning composer will have attained the skill necessary for
the mechanical aspect of the elaboration through his exercises in
counterpoint. Yet the application of this acquired skill to the character
and to the effect of a composition is a matter of a well-refined taste.
The elaboration is determined primarily by the feeling which the
composition seeks to awaken and by various incidental details. To these
chance particulars principally belong:
1. The actual kind of composition. Thus, for example, in the elaboration the symphony is treated differently from an aria; and both
are treated differently from a chorus, and so on.
The elaboration
201
202
203
204
INDEX
Addison, Joseph, 78
Aeschylus, 78
Aesop, 36
aesthetics, 3-6, 8-9, 11-13, 16, 21-22,
23n, 25-27, 111, 114, 117, 119, 128
Agesilaus, 85
Alceste, 150n
chorale, 98
Churgin, Bathia, 105n
Ciafardone, Raffaele, 9n
Coleman, Francis X. J., 3n
composition (Satz), 18, 85-89
concerto, 132, 133, 153, 154, 160;
composition of, 175-76, 190, 201;
form of, 156
counterpoint, 85
Couperin, Francois, 89
Cours de belles lettres ou Prindpes de la
Daedalus, 66
dance, 97
Daube, Johann Friedrich, 107n
Der Todjesu (Graun), 124-25;
aria "Ein Gebet um neue Starke,"
164-72;
discussion of aria, 173-75;
plan of aria from, 164
Diderot, Denis, 14, 36
Dietzch, StefFen, lOn
disposition (Anordnung), 38, 63, 74-76,
120, 122, 126-27, 128, 160, 162, 176
Dommer, Arrey von, 114
Du Bos, Jean-Baptiste, 4, 25
Dyck, Johann Gottfried, 16, 23
Einleitung in die schonen Wissenschaften
205
206
Index
Euler, Leonhard, 10
expression, 8, 99, 117-18, 123, 127, 151,
182-83, 192, 202
(see also musical expression)
feeling (Empjindung), 8-9, 11, 25-26,
27-32,130,162,200-01;
awakening of, 117-18, 140, 141, 144,
145-57, 182-83, 189, 202-04;
importance of plan in arousal of, 129,
180-81, 186;
modulation affecting, 197, 199;
nature of, 131, 147, 157, 188-89,
202-03;
types of, which music can arouse,
149-56;
(see also sentiment)
Fielding, Henry, 36
Forster, Wolfgang, lOn
form, 40, 67-69, 70, 114, 120, 121, 128,
132;
aria, 174-75, 197-99;
as created through realization, 126-27,
129, 188, 197-200;
concerto, 132, 133, 156, 175-76;
in elaboration, 121;
relationship to modulation, 191;
ritornello, 127, 173, 175-76, 190, 193,
195;
romance, 154n;
rondo, 154n, 200;
symphony, 128, 132, 156;
tyranny of, 154n, 156-57, 197, 200
Frederick the Great, 10, 51
Friedrich Karl, Prince, 112n
fundamental bass, 22
fundamental tone, 159
Gay, Peter, 17n
Gellert, Christian Fiirchtegott, 154
General German Library, 137n
General Theory of the Fine Arts, see
Allgemeine Theorie der schonen Kunste
188;
role of, in creation, 128, 161, 177,
178, 185, 186-87, 203;
role of, in realization, 198
Gessner, Johann, 7
Gleim, Johann Ludwig, 10, 35
Gopfert, Carl, 112n
Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von, 3, 15, 16
Gottsched, Johann Christoph, 4, 7, 8
Graun, Carl Heinrich, 10, 35, 51, 53,
88-89, 100, 107, 124, 127, 132,
164, 173, 182; (see also Der Todjesu)
Graun, Johann Gottlieb, 107
Handel, George Frideric, 91, 100
harmony, 14n, 21, 97-100, 122, 125,
131, 157, 163, 194,201,202;
accompanying, 159;
invention of, with melody, 177-86;
primacy of melody or, 114-15, 123,
131, 137n, 157-59;
simple, 158n, 159;
(see also modulation)
Hasse, Johann Adolf, 51, 88-89, 107
"Haydn" Quartets, 133
Haydn, Franz Joseph, 132
Herder, Johann Gottfried von, 15, 21
Hermagoras, 60
Hermogenes, 60
Hiller, Johann Adam, 132
d'Holbach, Baron Paul, 10
Holzbauer, Ignaz, 132
Homer, 155
Horace, 31, 35, 37, 79, 155n, 190
Hosier, Bellamy, 4n
Hoyt, Peter, 18n
Hume, David, 11
Hutcheson, Francis, 4
illusion, 77
imagination, 57, 59, 61, 79, 120, 126,
177, 203, 204;
in initial conception, 174, 184, 185,
187
imitation, see mimesis
incise, 143
Index
inner nature of music, 122, 130, 132,
140-41, 144, 161, 188, 197
inspiration (Begeisterung), 3, 8, 19, 23n,
32-34, 58, 60, 65, 78- 79, 83-84,
120, 162, 177;
role of, in creation, 121-22, 161, 176,
186-88
instrumental music, 22, 95-97, 118, 119,
132, 150-53 (see also sonata, concerto, and symphony)
Introduction to Literature (Ramler), 145
Introductory Essay on Composition (Koch),
see Versuch einer Anleitung zur Composition
207
worterbuch der Musik, 114; Musikalische Realzeitung of Speyer,
113; Musikalisches Lexikon, 1 1 3 14, 128-30; Versuch, aus der harten
und weichen Tonart.. .auszuweichen
114; Versuch einer Anleitung zur
Lacombes, Jacques, 14
La Fontaine, Jean de, 36
Lambert, Johann Heinrich, 20n
La Mettrie, Julien Orfrey, 10
layout (Anlage), 19-20, 66-67, 76, 77,
120-24, 125, 126, 127, 160 (see also
plan)
Le Huray, Peter, 23n, 116n
Leibniz, Baron Gottfried Wilhelm, 7, 15,
43n, 57
Les beaux arts reduits a un meme principe
208
Index
Menander, Comicus, 75
Mengs, Anton Raphael, 59
Michelangelo, Buonarroti, 67
Milton, John, 8
mimesis (imitation), 5, 8, 13, 22, 3435,
62,93,117-18, 154-56
modulation, 131, 141;
effect of, 191-97;
form, shaped by, 188, 191, 197-99
Moller, Uwe, 18n
Moliere, 78
Momigny, Jerome Joseph de, 114n
Montesquieu, Baron de, 36
morality, 9-10, 67-68
Mozart, Wolfgang, 133
music, 21, 23n, 26, 81-85, 91, 94, 118;
need to touch the heart, 84, 89;
power of, 81;
relation to speech, 82, 84, 87, 104
musical expression (Ausdruck in der
Musik), 23n, 50-54, 202
(see also expression)
Musikalisches Lexikon (Koch), 11314,
128-30;
Danish translation of, 114n;
review of, in Allgemeine musikalische
Zeitung, 130;
Pausanias, 66
periodicity, 131
Phaedrus, 29n
Philopoemen, 61
Pietism, 8-9
plan (Anlage, Plan), 22, 69-74, 75, 12021,124-25, 126,127,128,129,
133, 160-61, 173-75, 180-81, 19091,201,203;
example of, based on Graun aria, 164;
first principal period, containing the,
127, 132;
invention of, 177, 186-88;
mechanical elements of the, 160-76;
Sulzers and Koch's understanding of
Anlage, 19n, 121-24;
(see also layout)
Plato, 3
Plutarch, 85n
Polybius, 61n
de Prades, 10
primary matter of music (Urstoff der
Musik), 114-15, 123, 131, 133,
157-59
principal period, 131, 132, 188, 190,
191, 193, 196
psychology, 4, 11,27, 28, 63
punctuation, 143
purpose of the fine arts, 117-19, 138,
144-57, 176, 181, 186, 202, 204
Quantz, Johann Joachim, 10
Quintilian, 17
Rameau, Jean-Philippe, 22, 98, 100,
107n, 115, 123
Ramler, Karl, 116, 145, 155n, 156, 164n,
181n
Raphael, 35, 45, 59, 74
Ratner, Leonard, 127n
realization (Ausfuhrung), 20, 6667, 120,
121, 124, 125-27, 129, 160, 162-63,
173, 174-75, 180-81, 195, 200;
mechanical aspects of, 18891;
shaping of form during, 197-200
relation (Verhaltnifi), 41-43, 128
Index
Rembrandt, 80
rhetoric, 6, 60;
applied to music, 18, 21;
processive elements, 18-19;
relation to art, 16-18
rhythm, 21,82-83, 93-94
Richardson, Samuel, 9, 36
Riepel, Joseph, 131,142
Rochlitz, Friedrich, 130
romance, 154
rondo, 154, 200
Rosetti, Francesco Antonio, 132
Rousseau, Jean-Jacques, 9, 21, 36, 94, 97,
98, 123
Rudolstadt, 111, 112, 113, 133;
illustration, 110
rules, necessity in art, 59, 71, 86, 99
Sack, August Friedrich Wilhelm, 10
Schaz, Georg, 16, 23
Scheinpflug, Christian Gotthelf, 112, 132
Scheuchzer, Johann Jakob, 7
Schiller, Johann Christoph Friedrich
von, 16
Schmidt, Horst-Michael, l l n
Schulz, Johann Adolph Peter, 14, 23,
105n
Schweitzer, Anton, 132, 150n
secondary themes, 102
sentiment (Empfindung), 8-9, 19, 27-32,
117-18, 144, 146 (see also feeling)
Shaftesbury, Anthony, 13
Shakespeare, William, 8, 62, 71, 74
Sisman, Elaine, 127n
sketch (Entwurf), 64-66, 120, 126, 128,
160, 200;
notated version of plan, 121, 124,
187-88
Socrates, 73
sonata, 23, 96, 103-05, 132
song (Gesang), 21, 91, 92-95
Sterne, Laurence, 36
Sturm und Drang, 4, 8, 9, 15
209
aesthetic views, 11-13;
education, 6-7;
interest in rhetoric, 17-18;
interest in sensual psychology, 10-11;
moral views, 9-10, 12-13, 16;
three stages of creation according to,
19-20, 120-30, 160-63, 201
(see also Allgemeine Theorie der schonen
Kunste)
210
Index
Young, Edward, 34
Zergliederungssatz, 189