Aesthetics and the Art of Musical Composition in the German Enlightenment: Selected Writings of Johann Georg Sulzer and Heinrich Christoph Koch (Cambridge Studies in Music Theory and Analysis)

Can an abstract theory of empfindsam aesthetics have any value to a musician wishing to study composition in the classical style? The eighteenth-century German theorist and pedagogue Heinrich Koch showed how this question could be answered with a resounding yes. Starting with the systematic aesthetic theory of the Swiss encyclopedist Johann Sulzer, Koch was creatively able to adapt Sulzer's conservative ideas on ethical mimesis and rhetoric to concrete problems of composition. In this collaborative study, Thomas Christensen and Nancy Baker have translated and analyzed selected writings of Sulzer and Koch, respectively, bringing to life a little-known confluence of philosophical and musical thought from the German Enlightenment. Koch's appropriation of Sulzer's ideas to the service of music represents a fascinating chapter in the evolution of Western musical thought.

TITLES IN THE SERIES 1

Haydn's "Farewell" Symphony and the Idea of Classical Style: James Webster

2

Ernst Kurth: Selected Writings: Lee A. Rothfarb

3

The Musical Dilettante: A Treatise on Composition by J. E Daube: Susan P Snook-Luther

4

Rameau and Musical Thought in the Enlightenment: Thomas Christensen

5

The Masterwork in Music, Volume I (1925): Heinrich Schenker, edited by William Drabkin

6

Mahler's Sixth Symphony: A Study in Musical Semiotics: Robert Samuels

CAMBRIDGE STUDIES IN MUSIC THEORY AND ANALYSIS GENERAL EDITOR: IAN BENT

AESTHETICS AND THE ART OF MUSICAL COMPOSITION IN THE GERMAN ENLIGHTENMENT

Engraving from the frontispiece to volume I of Johann Georg Sulzer, Allgemeine Theorie der schonen Kunste (1792 edition)

AESTHETICS AND THE ART OF MUSICAL COMPOSITION IN THE GERMAN ENLIGHTENMENT SELECTED WRITINGS OF JOHANN GEORG SULZER AND HEINRICH CHRISTOPH KOCH

Edited by

NANCY KOVALEFF BAKER and

THOMAS CHRISTENSEN Associate Professor of Music, University of Iowa

CAMBRIDGE

UNIVERSITY PRESS

Published by the Press Syndicate of the University of Cambridge The Pitt Building, Trumpington Street, Cambridge CB2 1RP 40 West 20th Street, New York, NY 10011-4211, USA 10 Stamford Road, Oakleigh, Melbourne 3166, Australia © Cambridge University Press 1995 First published 1995 A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress cataloguing in publication data

Sulzer, Johann Georg, 1720-1779. [Allgemeine Theorie der schonen Kiinste. English. Selections] Aesthetics and the Art of Musical Composition in the German Enlightenment: Selected Writings of Johann Georg Sulzer and Heinrich Christoph Koch / edited by Nancy Baker [2nd work] and Thomas Christensen [1st work]. p. cm. — (Cambridge Studies in Music Theory and Analysis: 7) Contents: pt. 1. General theory of the fine arts: (1771—4), selected articles /Johann Georg Sulzer - pt. 2. Introductory essay on composition: vol. II (1787) / Heinrich Christoph Koch. ISBN 0 521 36035 8 (hardback) 1. Music - Philosophy and aesthetics - Early works to 1800. 2. Composition (Music) - Early works to 1800. 3. Enlightenment - Germany. II. Baker, Nancy KovalefF, 1948-. II. Christensen, Thomas Street. III. Koch, Heinrich Christoph, 1749-1816. Versuch einer Anleitung zur Composition. 2. Theil. English. IV Title. V. Series. ML3877.s8513 1995 781.17 - dc20 94-47623 CIP ISBN 0 521 36035 8 hardback Transferred to digital printing 2003

CONTENTS

Foreword by Ian Bent

page

ix

PART I: JOHANN GEORG SULZER GENERAL THEORY OF THE FINE ARTS (1771-74): SELECTED ARTICLES,

translated and edited by Thomas Christensen Introduction by Thomas Christensen I Aesthetic foundations 1 Aesthetic 2 Sentiment 3 Inspiration 4 Originality 5 Order 6 Relation 7 Unity 8 Variety 9 Taste 10 Musical expression

3 25 25

II The creative process 1 Invention 2 Sketch 3 Layout 4 Form 5 Plan 6 Disposition 7 Elaboration

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

PART II: HEINRICH CHRISTOPH KOCH INTRODUCTORY

ESSAY

ON COMPOSITION,

VOL. II (1787),

translated and edited by Nancy Kovaleff Baker Introduction by Nancy Kovaleff Baker

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

FOREWORD BY IAN BENT

Theory and analysis are in one sense reciprocals: if analysis opens up a musical structure or style to inspection, inventorying its components, identifying its connective forces, providing a description adequate to some live experience, then theory generalizes from such data, predicting what the analyst will find in other cases within a given structural or stylistic orbit, devising systems by which other works — as yet unwritten — might be generated. Conversely, if theory intuits how musical systems operate, then analysis furnishes feedback to such imaginative intuitions, rendering them more insightful. In this sense, they are like two hemispheres thatfittogether to form a globe (or cerebrum!), functioning deductively as investigation and abstraction, inductively as hypothesis and verification, and in practice forming a chain of alternating activities. Professionally, on the other hand, "theory" now denotes a whole subdiscipline of the general field of musicology. Analysis often appears to be a subordinate category within the larger activity of theory. After all, there is theory that does not require analysis. Theorists may engage in building systems or formulating strategies for use by composers; and these almost by definition have no use for analysis. Others may conduct experimental research into the sound-materials of music or the cognitive processes of the human mind, to which analysis may be wholly inappropriate. And on the other hand, historians habitually use analysis as a tool for understanding the classes of composition repertories, "outputs," "periods," works, versions, sketches, and so forth — that they study. Professionally, then, our ideal image of twin hemispheres is replaced by an intersection: an area that exists in common between two subdisciplines. Seen from this viewpoint, analysis reciprocates in two directions: with certain kinds of theoretical inquiry, and with certain kinds of historical inquiry. In the former case, analysis has tended to be used in rather orthodox modes, in the latter in a more eclectic fashion; but that does not mean that analysis rx

x

Foreword by Ian Bent

in the service of theory is necessarily more exact, more "scientific," than analysis in the service of history. The above epistemological excursion is by no means irrelevant to the present series. Cambridge Studies in Music Theory and Analysis is intended to present the work of theorists and analysts. It has been designed to include "pure" theory — that is, theoretical formulation with a minimum of analytical exemplification; "pure" analysis - that is, practical analysis with a minimum of theoretical underpinning; and writings that fall at all points along the spectrum between the two extremes. In these capacities, it aims to illuminate music, as work and as process. However, theory and analysis are not the exclusive preserves of the present day. As subjects in their own right, they are diachronic. The former is coeval with the very study of music itself, and extends far beyond the confines of Western culture; the latter, defined broadly, has several centuries of past practice. Moreover, they have been dynamic, not static fields throughout their histories. Consequently, studying earlier music through the eyes of its own contemporary theory helps us to escape (when we need to, not that we should make a dogma out of it) from the preconceptions of our own age. Studying earlier analyses does this too, and in a particularly sharply focused way; at the same time it gives us the opportunity to re-evaluate past analytical methods for present purposes, such as is happening currently, for example, with the long-despised methods of hermeneutic analysis of the late nineteenth century. The series thus includes editions and translations of major works of past theory, and also studies in the history of theory. The current volume brings together two works of compelling historical interest, presenting them in such a way as to facilitate for the first time their comparative study in English. Thomas Christensen and Nancy Kovaleff Baker have provided new critical translations from the German of portions of those works, have set them out in a broadly parallel arrangement with cross-references, and have furnished introductions that bring new light to bear on both texts. Comparison of these materials will be rewarding not only for aestheticians and music theorists, but also for historians of the eighteenth century and students of the history of ideas.

Foreword by Ian Bent

xi

Heinrich Christoph Koch's Introductory Essay, written between 1782 and 1793, reaches out across more than two centuries and speaks to the modern reader with an immediacy that perhaps no other eighteenth-century work of music theory can equal. What gives it this special quality? For a start, it is brimful of quotations from the music of Koch's contemporaries - symphonies by Rosetti and Haydn, keyboard sonatas by C. P. E. Bach, Singspiele by Hiller and Benda, operas by Graun, Holzbauer and Schweitzer, cantatas by Graun and Scheinpflug, and so forth — and tells us also about the latest quartets of Haydn, Pleyel, Hoffmeister and Mozart. This exemplification affords a window on to the musical world of a German court during the Enlightenment; at the same time, it breathes life into the principles of Koch's theories. Secondly, this is an eminently practical manual — a comprehensive course of instruction for the would-be Kapellmeister, down-to-earth, pragmatic, and couched in language vivid enough to hold the reader's attention over long spans. Thirdly, nearly two thirds of its 1,200-odd pages is devoted to the art of melody writing — melody in what may broadly be called an Italianate style, with simple harmonies and clear-cut, shapely, balanced phraseology. This part of his text has already been available to readers for more than a decade in a skillful translation by Nancy Baker that has itself served to promote Koch's voice. In addition, however, Koch was brave enough to tackle questions that concern us today — questions that have particularly preoccupied musicians since the 1960s, when a surge of interest in the Beethoven sketchbooks kindled a fascination with the "compositional process." How did a composer in the eighteenth or nineteenth centuries originate a musical composition? How did he (or she) conceive the initial ideas, and capitalize on those ideas so as to bring the composition to final shape? How did the mechanics of that process work? These questions, along with underlying ones as to the nature and purpose of music, Koch tackles in the material that is translated here from 1787 — and absorbing reading it makes. In shaping his answers to these questions, Koch turned to Johann Georg Sulzer's General Theory of the Fine Arts, first published between 1771 and 1774, which, as the subtitle says, is "expounded in a series of separate articles that are arranged alphabetically by the terms relating to art." It is, in other words, an encyclopedia — of art in general, and of each of the schone Kunste individually — driven, so far as Sulzer

xii

Foreword by Ian Bent

could ensure, by a single, overarching theory. It encompasses aesthetic matters, issues of creative process, and technicalities of each of the fine arts. So many of the articles of Sulzer and his collaborators come alive to us today — in particular, for musicians, those that Koch adapted to the concrete problems of musical composition. The process of adaptation, the extent to which Sulzer s ideas lent themselves to musical application, the gaps that Koch had to bridge, the subtle shadings of meaning that Sulzer s terms underwent in the process, and the very adjustment from encyclopedic format to theoretical discourse — all of these are in themselves fascinating to observe. Ian Bent

PART I

JOHANN GEORG SULZER GENERAL THEORY OF THE FINE ARTS (1771-74) SELECTED ARTICLES translated by Thomas Christensen

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.

4

Johann Georg Sulzer

Batteux (and propagated by German proselytes such as Gottsched), in which rationalized norms of decorum, style, and genre governed the composition and function of art. On the other side, there was an emerging "sensualist" aesthetic favored by British critics that was largely inspired by Locke's pioneering work in empirical psychology. In the writings of Addison, Hutcheson, Hume, Young, Harris, and Burke, attention turned from the objective conventions governing the art work itself to the more subjective conditions of its reception: our sensory perceptions and emotional responses. Reduced to a curt formula, one may say that criticism began to focus less upon the product than the process of art.

Now, properly speaking, there was nothing essential to the sensualist position that was incompatible with neo-classical doctrines. Granting a larger role to the senses did not necessarily entail any slackening in the tenets of mimesis or the unities. It is thus not odd that many of the earliest empirical aestheticians - such as DuBos and Hutcheson — remained adherents to the strictures of Aristotelian poetics. Indeed, we might say that the essential challenge of empirical aesthetics in the early eighteenth century was to explain how psychology could be integrated into received classical doctrines.2 By the middle of the eighteenth century, though, it was becoming increasingly clear that any accommodation would not be an easy one. This was particularly true in Germany, where nascent Romantic notions of Empjindsamkeit and the cult of the sublime — volatile ingredients that would be ignited in the intense but brief outbursts of the Sturm und Drang in the 1770 s - together would help to corrode the atrophizing conventions and porcelain sentimentality emblematic of Rococo aesthetics. Tensions between neo-classicism and sensualism were especially apparent in discussions of music. It was in the eighteenth century, as we know, that instrumental music attained a relatively commensurate position of practice and social acceptance in relation to vocal music.3 Yet there was no firm mimetic foundation (the ut pictura poesis) upon which this music could be grounded comparable to that traditionally 2

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).

Introduction by Thomas Christensen

5

granted to vocal music. If music was to imitate the passions - the traditional means by which music could be accommodated within Aristotelian mimetic theory - then what exactly did instrumental music imitate? Lacking any words or programmatic context to define its affective motivation, instrumental music was necessarily nonsensical and incapable of moving the heart of any listener. The task of finding an aesthetic justification for instrumental music was thus an urgent one in the eighteenth century And not surprisingly, a solution was found precisely in the psychological processes studied so intently by the empiricist philosophers. It was only by enfranchising the sentient responses of a listener that the strictures of traditional mimetic theory could be countered. If instrumental music was ever to attain a worth commensurate to vocal music, a strong aesthetic of sentiment needed to be formulated and defended. Again, it must be kept in mind that such a development was hardly a uniform one; the trajectory of eighteenth-century musical aesthetics cannot be plotted as a single teleological course in which mimetic theory evolved into a doctrine of aesthetic autonomy, as at least one recent study portrays it.4 But if German musical thought in the later eighteenth century developed in ways that were neither uniform nor directed, it did grapple with a common core of questions, ones that can with qualification be plotted as a dialectic between rationalist and sensualist poles.5 Johann Georg Sulzer (1720—79) stands at an important juncture in this history. His many collected writings together constitute the most ambitious attempt in mid-century Germany to integrate the new sensualist epistemology with classical aesthetic doctrine. Above all, Sulzer was interested in explaining the process of artistic creation. Taking the perspective of the natural scientist, Sulzer hoped to analyze the psychological conditions by which the artist conceives his art work, without, however, enervating his subject by over-rationalizing those refractory qualities of inspiration, genius, and passion. If his answers were not uniformly convincing, it was not because his effort was lacking, or his intellect and insight deficient; the neo-classical framework he struggled mightily to salvage simply could not bear the 4 John Neubauer, The Emancipation of Music from Language (New Haven, 1986). 5 Edward Lippman, in his helpful study of historical musical aesthetics, pithily characterizes this polarity as one of imitation versus expression. See his A History of Western Musical Aesthetics (Lincoln, Nebr. and London, 1992), 83-136.

6

Johann Georg Sulzer

weight of the empirical apparatus that he placed upon it. A complete reconceptualization and rebuilding of the rationalist framework was required for this integration to take place, something that was only accomplished at the end of the century with Kant's critical philosophy. Nonetheless, Sulzers writings are valuable and revealing to us today, since in an almost innocent fashion they betray so transparently the forces acting upon German aestheticians in the mid eighteenth century. For music historians, Sulzer s writings are particularly valuable, since in them we find problems of musical aesthetics addressed with a perspicacity not to be encountered again until the nineteenth century. The most important topics of musical creation, expression, and meaning found a place in Sulzer s systematic theory. Of particular originality was his appropriation of traditional rhetorical tropes to explain the process of musical invention. Sulzer s revitalization of rhetoric, as we will see, would offer part of the solution for an aesthetic grounding of instrumental music. It is true that Sulzer stopped short of offering a detailed analytic application of this relation; this was to be the important contribution of Heinrich Koch. But, aided by the many professional musicians whose advice he solicited, Sulzer was at least able to make a start in that direction, one which would provide the bearings for the next generation of musical aestheticians. II Johann Georg Sulzer was born in 1720 in the Swiss city of Winterthur - the twenty-fifth child of a minor civil servant. When just a young boy, Sulzer left home for nearby Zurich, where he also eventually attended university6 Zurich in Sulzers day was a conservative place, pervaded by an orthodox Calvinism that was to be a lasting influence upon his own personality. Nonetheless, Zurich was hardly insulated from the more progressive ideas associated with the still-young European Enlightenment. While at the university studying theology, Sulzer cultivated a number of interests that would prove to be influential in his subsequent intellectual development. 6

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.

Introduction by Thomas Christensen

7

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).

8

Johann Georg Sulzer

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.

Introduction by Thomas Christensen

9

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

Johann Georg Sulzer

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.

Introduction by Thomas Christensen

11

duction, became a dominant topic of concern among European intellectuals at mid century. Spurred above all by Locke's groundbreaking Essay Concerning Human Understanding of 1690, in which

Locke argued that knowledge has its roots in sensory perception, subsequent generations of philosophers developed Locke's ideas and extended them to the fine arts. The development of a sensualist aesthetic, as we have seen, helped to counter and eventually turn back the rationalist neo-classical doctrines that had so entrenched themselves in France and Germany Sulzer was fascinated by empiricist philosophy, and he avidly read all contemporaneous literature he could find on this topic, particularly those works emanating from Britain. (Indeed, he took it upon himself to translate and annotate Hume's famous Essay on Human Understanding in 1755, although he rejected the materialist underpinnings and skepticism implicit in Humes theory.16) Sulzers interest in psychology was understandable as it impinged directly upon his most favored subjects of science, pedagogy, and, above all, the fine arts. Like so many of his contemporaries, Sulzer was keen to define and distinguish the peculiar conditions of the aesthetic experience. What is the origin and nature of the pleasurable feelings aroused by works of art, he asked in his earliest aesthetic writings?17 What criteria can be laid down for the creation and judgment of art capable of instilling such emotions? In order to answer these questions, Sulzer believed it was necessary to go back and study the nature of human perception. Now the coupling of psychology and aesthetics was certainly not new with Sulzer.18 Again relying upon Locke, many continental philosophers had tried to analyze artistic beauty as commensurate with sensation.19 In the cruder materialist philosophies, artistic beauty was explained as a mechanistic resultant of pleasurable sensory stimulation. Christian Wolff tried to be more discriminating. Taking his cue from Leibniz, Wolff had sought to differentiate systematically in his 16 D. Hume, Philosophische Versuche iiber die menschliche Erkenntnis; Aus dem Englischen ubersetzt und mit Anmerkungen des Herausgebers begleitet (Hamburg and Leipzig, 1755). 17 Untersuchung iiber den Ursprung der angenehmen und unangenehmen Empfindungen (Berlin, 1751); and Gedanken iiber den Ursprung und die verschiedenen Bestimmungen der Wissenschaften und schb'nen Ku'nste

(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

Johann Georg Sulzer

Psychologia empirica of 1732 between "higher" and "lower" kinds of perception. Art appeared to offer perceptions that were by their nature "confused" and indistinct. That is to say, our experience of beauty is sentient, not cognitive, hence our knowledge of it is more obscured. Still, the kinds of sentiments art works were capable of instilling were indubitably strong. Building upon Wolff, Baumgarten sought in his Aesthetica to validate and incorporate this sensory element within his broader philosophical epistemology. But Baumgarten s systematization of aesthetic psychology, for all its clarifying virtues, was delimited by the author s ignorance of art. While applauding Baumgarten s attempt to legitimize the sensory responses associated with the artistic experience, Sulzer was loath to accept the epicurean implications in Baumgarten s aesthetics. Perhaps aesthetics was the science of sensuous cognition, Sulzer acceded, and the kind of knowledge it offers is "obscure" in comparison to that afforded by the "higher" rational faculties of the mind. But in one critical sphere, Sulzer was convinced that art possessed a quite distinct and superior virtue: morality. The most beautiful art works, Sulzer was certain, have a moral content that resonates in our soul when perceived, and the pleasure we have upon experiencing art is the intuitive recognition of this morality by our soul. Put differently, we may say that Sulzer saw art as suited to - indeed obligated to - beautifying natural truth. Sulzer s elevation of moral sense to that of epistemology may be seen as an obvious manifestation of his Pietist leanings (although the tenacious legacy of German Baroque poetics undoubtedly also played a role). Like morality, art had its roots in feeling since it was immediately apprehended by the soul (as opposed to the mind or the raw senses). The idea of beauty, Sulzer believed, arises from a moral resonance in the soul rather than either a rational judgment of the mind or an epicurean stimulation of the senses. Just as we can intuitively recognize the truth of the scriptures by the resonance they will have in our soul, he claimed, so too will we know an art work to be beautiful by our response to it. And of the arts, none was such a pure expression of natural sentiment as music, for none acted more viscerally upon the inner senses of our soul.20 20 Another writer who articulated a similar thesis of acoustic moralism was Johann Mattheson, whose writings we know Sulzer studied carefully. I have explored Matthesons views on this question in some detail in an article, "Sensus, Ratio, and Phthongos: Mattheson s Theory of Tone Perception," in Musical Transformation and Musical Intuition, ed. Raphael Atlas and Michael Cherlin (Boston, 1994), 1-16.

Introduction by Thomas Christensen

13

Naturally, Sulzer recognized that there are elements of rational cognition and sensual stimulation involved in the perception of art. But it is primarily through the arousal of emotions consonant with our most virtuous sentiments that an art object is perceived as beautiful. In this way, Sulzer was able to reformulate a basic tenet of classical mimetic theory. Art works were not imitations of nature as Batteux claimed, rather, they were expressions and catalysts of natural morality. (Hence Sulzer s rejection of any kind of onomatopoetic imitation for music [s.v. "Painting in music"].) This is why, on the one hand, Sulzer was critical of most Rococo art as superficial and morally vacuous, while, on the other hand, he rejected the extreme empfindsam aesthetic as licentious and hedonistic. Art, he would frequently remind us, appealed less to the intellect or imagination than it does to the heart. It should thus have an ennobling and edifying effect upon us, and this could only be accomplished when the artist was capable of endowing ("beautifying") those art works having the most virtuous contents. Sulzer s aesthetic theory, then, possesses a fundamentally conservative core, however progressive it may have feigned to be with its patina of empirical psychology. His concern — we might better call it an obsession — with the moral value of art and its pedagogical potential for promoting personal as well as civil virtue was comparable in conviction only with Shaftesbury, and was increasingly out of step with the more licentious tastes championed by his Berlin colleagues.21 It was clear to Sulzer that some kind of detailed manifesto of his beliefs was demanded, one that could elucidate the general tenets of his aesthetic theory, while at the same time show their justification and application in each of the particular arts. It was this goal that Sulzer sought to realize when he began writing a comprehensive dictionary of the fine arts in the early 1750s, a project that would not be completed until some twenty years later.

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

Johann Georg Sulzer III

The Allgemeine Theorie der schonen Kunste, published in two large volumes

in 1771 and 1774, is the summa of Sulzer s views on aesthetics, and in many senses, the culmination of German aesthetic thought in the early Aujkldrung. In a systematic collection of essays "nach alphabetischer Ordnung," Sulzer comprehensively defines general aesthetic concepts and processes that are common to all the fine arts, as well as hundreds of more specialized terms that are peculiar to its individual branches: poetry, drama, dance, drawing, painting, sculpture, architecture, oratory, and, of course, music. Sulzer did not actually compose the work on his own. He solicited contributions from a number of writers, including Wieland and Bodmer, for some of the articles on literature. For the music articles, he had the help of Johann Philipp Kirnberger and of Kirnberger's student, Johann Adolph Peter Schulz.22 But the contributions of Kirnberger and Schulz were restricted to technical matters of music and music theory. The articles on aesthetic questions — including those translated in the present volume — are almost certainly all from Sulzer s own pen.23 In this regard, it differs from the great French Encyclopedic of Diderot and d'Alembert, which truly was a collaborative project of many hands. Sulzer s model for his own work was actually a smaller dictionary of the arts by the French academician Jacques Lacombes: Dictionnaire portatif des Beaux-arts (Paris, 1752). Indeed, his Allgemeine

Theorie originally began as a translation of Lacombes s work, a project he quickly abandoned as inadequate for fulfilling the more ambitious aims he had in mind. The Allgemeine Theorie was received with distinctly mixed reviews. Upon its publication, C. G. Neefe declared that Sulzer had proved 22 Specifically, Sulzer tells us in the preface to the second volume that Kirnberger assisted in the writing of musical articles u p to the letter K, while Schulz helped with the articles from the letter L up to R ; for the remaining articles from S to Z , Sulzer says that Schulz wrote t h e m entirely o n his o w n . Schulz offers a more detailed description of the collaborative effort in the Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung II (1800), cols. 2 7 6 - 8 0 . 23 Still, it is n o t possible to disentangle with certainty the respective contributions of Sulzer and Kirnberger or Schulz in the music articles. Articles such as "Symphony," " M a i n t h e m e , " and " M e l o d y " have such a mixture of technical and aesthetic discussion, that it is reasonable to conclude that they were collaborative productions (with Kirnberger and Schulz writing the more technical aspects, and Sulzer interspersing his o w n aesthetic commentaries). Certainly an article like " H a r m o n y " betrays multiple authorship, with its unresolved tension between (Sulzer's) endorsement of melodic expressiveness and (Kirnberger's) defense of harmony.

Introduction by Thomas Christensen

15

himself to be one of the greatest philosophers and aestheticians of their time.24 Kant, too, had warm words of praise for Sulzer's work, finding it one of the most thoughtful studies ever written on the artistic imagination.25 Herder was particularly impressed by Sulzer's penetrating insights and systematic analysis of psychological faculties in relation to the creation and perception of art.26 In an unguarded moment of enthusiasm, Herder went so far as to exclaim: Sulzer's theory of sensation is, excluding some ornamentation and the too facile pace of the academic lecture, a small monument in Germany that stands among so much aesthetic rubble and worthy of the hand of a Leibniz or Wolff.27 Yet Herder also found fault with its pedantic and moralizing tone. It was in general much too abstract and prescriptive, he was forced to admit, with too little attention paid to the actual history of art.28 The young Goethe had much the same complaint. In a review he wrote for the Frankfurter Gelehrte Anzeigen, Goethe chastized Sulzer for thinking he could penetrate the mysteries of artistic creation from the perspective of a detached philosopher. Dry theoretical generalizations and optimistic moralisms could never begin to convey the true spiritual meaning and power of art. Besides for Goethe, nature was not the benevolent force of virtue Sulzer assumed; it could just as well be violent and cruel, deaf to the suffering of humanity.29 Still, despite the expected negative reaction of the young Sturmer und Drdnger, Sulzer's encyclopedia was highly influential as a reference work, often cited by authors and used as a learning text well into the nineteenth century.30 It was the largest and most encyclopedic attempt made in the German language during the eighteenth century to define and codify systematically all aspects of the arts, and to draw out common aesthetic principles in a useful, didactic manner. Sulzer's work was popular enough to demand several reprintings. In 1786, seven years after Sulzer's death, Christian Friedrich von Blankenburg brought out a new and expanded edition of Sulzer's encyclopedia. 24 25 26 27

C. G. Neefe, Beitrdge zur Geschichte meines Lebens (Cologne, 1775), 34. TumaiVinJohann Georg Sulzer, 13. J. G. Herder, "Johann Georg Sulzer," in Herders sdmtliche Werke (Berlin, 1877), vol. X Y 52. From the fourth Kritisches Wdldchen, quoted in R o b e r t E. N o r t o n , Herder's Aesthetics and the European Enlightenment (Ithaca, 1981), 190. 28 Herders sdmtliche Werke, vol. V, 3 7 7 - 4 0 0 . 29 Johann Wolfgang Goethe, Sdmtliche Werke (Artemis-Gedenkausgabe, 1954), vol. XIII, 2 6 - 3 2 . 30 Tumarkin,Johann Georg Sulzer, 11.

16

Johann Georg Sulzer

(The additions consisted mostly of extensive bibliographies appended to many of the articles.) Yet another re-edition of the work came out in 1792, with further bibliographic additions by Johann Gottfried Dyck and Georg Schaz. Sulzers moralistic voice, however stridently conveyed, was not without effect. As already indicated, Kant recognized at the end of the century that the moral foundations of his critical philosophy had a worthy forerunner in Sulzers Encylopedia.31 Certainly the seeds of a Romantic aesthetic may be detected in Sulzers rapture over the ethical and spiritual unity of the art work that infuses its material form or mimetic function, as well as his recognition of art s capacity for arousing intense, almost transcendental, emotions. At the same time, it can also be argued that many of the doctrines of Weimar classicism were foreshadowed in Sulzers Encyclopedia. Sulzers endorsement of Hellenic art, with its ideals of noble simplicity, restrained ethos, and moral integrity, were shared by Winckelmann, and taken up by Schiller and Goethe - at least after the latter two had passed through the more impetuous emotionalism of their Sturm und Drang phases. From any neo-classical perspective, there need be no contradiction between propriety and rationality on the one hand, and expressions of feeling and inspiration on the other. Even in that proto-Romantic notion of the sublime, there are paradoxical elements of restraint and even of detachment infused with the more obvious qualities of grandeur and pathos. Finally, as Nancy Baker s ensuing translation will reveal, Sulzer s prescriptive aesthetics would find fruitful application within the field of musical composition thanks to the efforts of Heinrich Koch. IV As I have already indicated, one of Sulzers principal aims with his Encyclopedia was to discover and elucidate a creative process common to all art. Since at least Aristotle's Poetics, there has been a persistent effort in Western art criticism to discern some idealized process of artistic creation, one which had both historical validation and prescriptive potential. While the specificity of such a process may have varied 31 Although it is surely pushing things too far to claim, as do some of Sulzers apologists, that his aesthetic theory can be read as an anticipation of Kant's (e.g. Wili, Johann Georg Sulzer, 76—77). Kant's well-known demarcation between morality and aesthetics is the exact opposite of Sulzer s position.

Introduction by Thomas Christensen

17

depending upon the particular author, there was a shared assumption among most aestheticians in the eighteenth century that some common elements of artistic method could be defined. The systematic aesthetic treatises of French neo-classicists such as Boileau, DuBos, and Batteux were all written with such didactic aims in mind. If the British moralists were less explicit than their continental counterparts about the viability of legislating any program of artistic creation, critics such as Hutcheson, Young, Harris, and Burke never doubted that practical advice to the aspiring artist could be offered. Even practicing painters such as Reynolds and Hogarth did not hesitate to lay down principles of their art that they believed should guide the beginning student in the studio.32 The obstacles to any fully systematized pedagogy of artistic method by the empirical aestheticians, though, have already been indicated. By placing the burden of aesthetics upon psychology, and more specifically, by accepting emotional reaction as the best measure of a work s beauty, the empiricists greatly complicated the task of defining any objective rules for the composition of art works. Received doctrines governing the propriety of art, such as the vaunted unities or theory of mimesis, lost much of their prescriptive efficacy when the domain of aesthetics was transferred from the external character of the art object itself to the internal experience of an observer. It was one of Sulzer s original contributions to aesthetic theory to recognize that any process of artistic creation must be a dynamic one that is coordinated with the commensurate dynamics of psychological perception. As we have already seen, Sulzer proffered morality as the ultimate purpose that would unify these two processes (Aristotle would have called it the "final cause"). To discover the means by which this morality could be communicated in art (the "material cause"), Sulzer reverted to a fully unoriginal and traditional resource: classical rhetoric. Since antiquity, rhetoric had been known to offer a method for the composition of speeches that could be applied to other creative activities. Quintilian delineated five parts of the oratorical process: invention, disposition, style (elocutio), memory, and delivery (actio), although many variations of this list were put forward by Roman rhetoricians and their subsequent exegetes in the Middle Ages and 32 The overtly didactic nature of Enlightenment art criticism is well underscored by Peter Gay in his indispensable - if tendentious - study: The Enlightenment, vol. II, "The Science of Freedom," (New York, 1969), esp. 290-318.

18

Johann Georg Sulzer

Renaissance.33 For Sulzer, the relevance of rhetoric to his aesthetic program was the underlying commensurability between the aims of art and rhetoric. Rhetoric had been understood since Aristotle, after all, to be nothing less than the art of persuasion - the skill of an orator to charm (delectare), to teach (docere), and, above all, to move (movere) his audience. With the emphasis of neo-classical aesthetics upon the manipulation of emotions, a natural kinship was recognized between art and rhetoric.34 This was particularly true in regard to music, where analogies between the composer and the orator were commonplace.35 Of course rhetoric had been applied to music before Sulzer. Since at least the sixteenth century, musicians had drawn freely from rhetoric for the classifications of musical style, figures, and genre. Mattheson was one of the first to analyze the parts of a musical composition as though it were verbal discourse. The six parts he identified - exordium, narration, proposition, confutation, confirmation, and peroration appeared to offer a valuable heuristic for the analysis and composition of all music. In fact, though, Mattheson s rhetorical analysis is more a taxonomy of musical structure than a prescription for the compositional process — and upon closer inspection not a very convincing one at that. (Mattheson did not develop these ideas very far, and his one analytic application of this — to a da capo aria of Marcello — breaks down quickly with structural discrepancies.36) Sulzer appropriated from rhetoric not to parse art works into the partes orationis of Mattheson, but to divide the artistic process of creation into rhetorically inspired stages. He began with the assumption that the creation of any art work was much like the composition of a speech. As described in his lengthy article on "Invention," the artist should begin with a clearly defined topic of discourse (or 33 For a concise b u t lively history of rhetorical t h e o r y in Western t h o u g h t see Brian Vickers, In Defense of Rhetoric (Oxford, 1988). 34 T h e penetration o f rhetorical theory within eighteenth-century psychological aesthetics has been explored by Uwe Moller, Rhetorische Uberlieferung und Dichtungstheorie im friihen 18. Jahrhundert (Munich, 1983). 35 Extensive citations of such correspondences are given by M a r k Evan Bonds t h r o u g h o u t his book, Wordless Rhetoric: Musical Form and the Metaphor of the Oration (Cambridge, Mass., 1991). 36 Der vollkommene Capellmeister (Hamburg, 1739), 236. A g o o d analysis of Mattheson s difficulties with applying rhetorical t a x o n o m y to musical form - as well as a salutary critique of those w h o w o u l d t o o facilely apply rhetorical categories literally to music analysis - is found in Peter H o y t s extensive review ofBonds's Wordless Rhetoric, Journal of Music Theory 3 8 / 1 (1994), 1 2 3 - 4 3 .

Introduction by Thomas Christensen

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

Johann Georg Sulzer

of inspiration and genius, for it represents that creative moment when the artist first conceives his work and defines its scope. Once an artist has succeeded in finding the initial layout of his art work, he must then step back and begin the more dispassionate, although by no means easier, processes of realization and elaboration. In the realization, the ideas of the layout are apparently selected and ordered. (It is difficult to be sure exactly what process Sulzer envisioned, as he strangely included no article on "Ausfuhrung." The article on "Anordnung," however, seems to cover the steps an artist would follow after the initial Anlage is created.) Sometimes an artist finds that he has too many ideas, and some will have to be omitted or shortened. Sometimes he will discover that new ideas need to be introduced. In all cases, the general form of the art work begins to take shape. It is in this second step, further, that an art work accrues the essential balance between unity and diversity; the parts must all be sufficiently different and varied so as to provide diversity and enjoyment to the observer, while at the same time cohering within a single whole by contributing to a unified sense of expression39 (s.v. "Unity" and "Variety"). Once again, it is the moral theme of an art work that serves to underpin this unity. While a host of different emotions may be portrayed in the art work - whether musical, dramatic, or pictorial - there will be a single, unifying "dominating sentiment." The soul is the faculty most capable of apprehending this unity of purpose, as it alone is the faculty capable of perceiving the moral meaning to which an art work appeals. suggests something of a quality or character. (A German would speak of the Anlage of one's mind to refer to temperament or psychological constitution.) In the eighteenth century, the term was often used to designate the scope and content of something, without, however, determining the particular order or disposition of those elements (e.g. as used in Johann Heinrich Lambert's treatise Anlage zur Architectonic, oder Theorie des Einfachen und des Ersten in der Philosophischen und

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.

Introduction by Thomas Christensen

21

Finally we come to the elaboration. This is the last step of artistic creation. Here the final details are added, the harmonies of the music filled out, the colours of the painting shaded, the last lines of a poem polished. This last step is one in which greater care and discipline is required of the artist. It is best, Sulzer reminds us, that the artist undertake this in a dispassionate, almost objective mood — long after the embers of creative inspiration needed in the layout and realization have cooled down. This will give a refinement and polish that guarantees its overall excellence and effectiveness (s.v. "Elaboration"). We can now begin to see why Sulzer was accused of being such a pedant by his contemporaries. His abstract prescription for the process of artistic creation was considered stultifying, his incessant moralizing too didactic. Few critics in his own generation still accepted that artistic creation could be so systematically divided into such a neat, tripartite process. Further, increasing fire fell upon the neoclassicist dogma which maintained that the aesthetic norms of all the arts could be unified. Contemporary critics like Lessing and Herder had already argued for distinctions between the various arts by the time Sulzer s encyclopedia was published. In his famous essay Laocoon (1766) written as a response to Winckelmanns reiteration of ut pictura poesis, Lessing admonished that not all arts were like painting; every art, every genre, had its own demands and limitations. We can vividly see the problems of such a generalized aesthetic theory when we look at Sulzer s particular discussion of music. Music, of course, is a temporal art, and the "invention" of a particular piece will be presumably "dispositioned" and "elaborated" over time. Yet Sulzer s general model of artistic invention was consistently a spatial one, modeled, it seems, upon pictorial arts. How, it can be demanded, can one conceive of a musical "layout" as defined by Sulzer without at the same time conceiving of its "realization" or "disposition"? This is not even to debate the priority of melodic and harmonic invention. (Sulzer accepted Rousseau's thesis that melody and not harmony was the primary element of musical expression, and hence it should be the initial focus of composition — s.v. "Song" and "Harmony") Finally, in what way can the musical "invention" of instrumental works be endowed with the specific emotional content and moral meaning demanded by Sulzer? (Sulzer suggested a partial answer in several articles in which he argued that the origins of music lie in the movements and rhythms associated with quotidian human activities,

22

Johann Georg Sulzer

to which are coupled vocal utterances engendered by our feelings associated with these activities - s.v. "Music"; to the extent instrumental music imitates these rhythms and vocal expressions - although never in a literal way — it may arouse the same primeval sentiments.) As already noted above, classical aestheticians had difficulties rationalizing instrumental music given its lack of clear mimetic function. Sulzer certainly understood that instrumental music might be pleasing on purely sensual grounds. Indeed, in his articles "Plan," "Symphony", and "Instrumental music", he goes to great lengths to analyze the pleasure offered by disinterested contemplation of musical sounds, rhythms, and forms. The question for Sulzer was not whether non-mimetic music was possible, or whether such music could stimulate the senses in pleasurable if undefined ways, but rather whether music should do this. It was really a moral question. If art was to be edifying, then any such concept of "disinterested contemplation" strayed perilously close to the unethical. Of course for increasing numbers of German critics, it was just this lack of tangible meaning that endowed music so peculiarly with affective power. But it was an affective power that Sulzer was reluctant to sanction. Still, it is obvious Sulzer realized that musical invention did exist without mimetic underpinnings, and that the rhetorical process (and not the product) could offer at least part of the explanation for musics intelligibility. He also knew that the laws of musical grammar (which he would have included primarily under the stages of "realization" and "elaboration") could be defined and systematized regardless of any purported moral intention or mimetic function. Such an autonomous grammar of music was revealed, after all, in Rameau s theory of the fundamental bass, which was with some minor revisions conveyed faithfully in Sulzer s encyclopedia in the articles of Kirnberger and Schulz. But all these autonomous musical processes remained largely unintegrated within Sulzer s greater aesthetic theory. For all its suggestiveness, his prescriptive process would probably have remained an abstraction for musical composition were it not for the efforts of Koch, since it was Koch who was able creatively to adapt Sulzer s aesthetic and rhetorical ideals to concrete problems of musical composition. The particular passages I have chosen for translation offer the Englishspeaking reader a representative overview of Sulzer s aesthetic theory.

Introduction by Thomas Christensen

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], 120—39.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

Johann Georg Sulzer

edition as it is conveniently available to most readers in the facsimile edition produced by Georg Olms Verlag (Hildesheim, 1970). The original page numbers are indicated within curly brackets in the text. Original German words are given in square brackets. Footnotes are numbered consecutively within each of the three conceptual categories. I have indicated their authors by an initial: Sulzer s notes are followed by [S.], my notes by [C.]. I would like to take the opportunity here to thank Nancy Baker for inviting me to join her in this collaborative translation. I had independently been studying the writings of Sulzer when Dr. Baker approached me and suggested that a translated selection of Sulzer s writings would complement her own work on Koch. The present book, Sulzer would surely appreciate, is an Ausfuhrung of her Anlage. A summer "Old Gold" research fellowship granted to me in 1994 by the University of Iowa greatly facilitated my completion of the project, and for this I am deeply appreciative. For his customary care in reading an initial draft of the introduction and the ensuing translations, I offer my thanks and acknowledgement to the series editor, Professor Ian Bent. Professor Eugene Wolf of the University of Pennsylvania also generously provided me with much useful criticism, and saved me from committing a few egregious errors. Another large debt I owe is to Amy Petersen, who offered much valuable linguistic insight while I was struggling with Sulzer s notoriously intractable prose. Finally, my thanks to Donna Parsons for her research assistance and for helping to type and edit the final manuscript.

AESTHETIC FOUNDATIONS

1 AESTHETIC [AESTHETIK] (vol. I, pp. 47-50) Aesthetics is the philosophy or science of fine arts in which the general theory as well as the rules of the fine arts are drawn from the nature of taste. Properly speaking, the word signifies the science of feelings, which in Greek is called aistheses. The primary goal of the fine arts is to awaken in us a vivid feeling for the true and good. Thus, the theory of fine arts is based upon the theory of indistinct knowledge and feelings. Aristotle long ago noted that all art precedes theory. Even the rules governing an art are known before the general principles upon which they are based. A few lucky artists endowed with genius have been able to produce a variety of works that could please before one recognized the reason for this pleasure. Aristotle was one of the first to draw rules from them. But neither his work in poetry nor that in rhetoric can be considered to constitute a complete theory of these arts. {48} Drawing upon the best examples of speech and poetry from his time, he was able to note carefully what was pleasing and to deduce rules. But he remained at the level of feeling, without trying to discern the reason for these rules, or to inquire if the orator or poet had exploited the full potential of their arts. Subsequent critics who came after this wise Greek followed his steps, and offered some new observations and rules, without however, finding any new principles. As far as I know, it was DuBos who was the first of the modern critics to construct a theory of art upon general principles and to draw from these the justification for its rules.1 His theory is founded upon the premise that every person at l

In his well-known and excellent work, Reflexions critiques sur la poesie and et la peinture (Paris, 1719). [S.]

25

26

Johann Georg Sulzer

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

Aesthetic foundations: sentiment

27

determine whether taste is inbred or may be acquired through education. We will also need to identify the foremost aids for attaining a satisfactory completion to each art. Each of the fine arts produces works that differ from others both in their inner structure and their specific purpose. All of these various types are strictly determined. This can be seen in the case of poetical forms such as the epic, the lyrical, and the didactic; in respect to painting, such genres as the historical, allegorical, and the moral can be strictly determined and the character of each type deduced from firm principles. From these sources, the rules governing the realization of an art work can be drawn. This is as true of the most general rules concerning the invention, disposition and the general working out of the whole as it is of the rules that determine the selection, invention, assessment, coordination, and effect of every individual part. This, then, constitutes the subject of aesthetics, a science that can aid the artist in the invention, disposition, and realization of his works, that can help the amateur form his judgments, and even help him derive greater pleasure from the work of art. This is a use that coincides with the aims of philosophy and morality. Aesthetics is based, as are all other theories, upon a few simple principles. One needs to know from psychology how our sensations arise, whether they be of a pleasant or disagreeable nature. Two or three propositions that may offer a general solution to these questions can constitute the principles of aesthetics. From them, one can determine, on the one hand, the nature of all aesthetic objects, and on the other hand, the procedure or rule by which these objects ought to be presented to ourselves or the state of emotion we should be in to best enjoy their affect. All of this can be laid down in just a few words, and should be sufficient to teach any sensible person how to finish a work of art. [...] 2 SENTIMENT [EMPFINDUNG] (vol. II, pp. 53-59) This word possesses a psychological as well as a moral meaning, and both are encountered frequently in the theory of art. Used in the first, more general sense, sentiment is to be understood in contrast to clear knowledge, and signifies some notion only in so far as it makes a pleasing or displeasing impression upon us, affects our desires, or awakens ideas

28

Johann Georg Sulzer

of good or evil, the pleasing or the repugnant. On the other hand, knowledge of an idea may affect our powers of imagination, or allow us to recognize the character of a thing with some degree of clarity. (The reader who has paid careful attention to the specific differences we have described between sentiment and knowledge will easily see how it can happen that sentiments can sometimes contradict knowledge, how the former can find something good that the latter rejects. Sentiment differentiates between things that please us, while knowledge judges that which is true or false.) With knowledge, we deal with objects that lie wholly outside ourselves. {54} With sentiments, however, we are concerned less with an objects character and more with whether it makes a good or bad impression upon ourselves. Knowledge can be either clear or obscure; it can be unambiguous and complete, or it can be confused and circumscribed. Sentiments, however, are either keen or weak, pleasant or unpleasant. Taken in a moral sense, sentiment is a feeling that through constant repetition and reinforcement, becomes the cause of certain inner or external actions. This is how it comes about that when we encounter objects similar to those that at one time aroused in ourselves sentiments of honor, integrity, or thankfulness, these same sentiments can be quickly resurrected and become the dominating force behind our actions. These are the sentiments that in their differing mix and strengths determine the moral character of men. In this way, one says of some men that they have no feelings or sentiment, which is to say, no dominating sentiment of honor, integrity, humanity, patriotism, etc. Those persons with somewhat dulled senses who have never felt anything with the slightest bit of animation, and for whom the most pleasant or disagreeable sentiments can be awakened only through the strongest impressions, such people have little sentiment in the psychological sense of the word. Those, however, upon whom objects have only temporary effect, whether they be strong or weak, and for whom no particular sentiment may dominate, such people lack that moral feeling that the French call sentimens, and what we often designate as character [Gesinnung]. Just as philosophy and science have knowledge as their ultimate goal, so the fine arts have the goal of sentiment. Their immediate aim is to arouse sentiments in a psychological sense. Their final goal, however, is a moral sentiment by which man can achieve his ethical value. If the fine arts are ever to become the sister of philosophy, and

Aesthetic foundations: sentiment

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

Johann Georg Sulzer

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]

Aesthetic foundations: sentiment

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]

32

Johann Georg Sulzer

Rome. We would advise no artist to try to work with an eye to all people and all posterity; this would be a way of no use for any people and for no time. Homer and Ossian, the Scottish bard, thought neither of posterity nor of universality, but rather of the people who lived among them, when they dictated the songs that would end up being read for generations after them. Sophocles, Euripides, and Horace did not write for mankind, but rather for the Athenians and Romans. The more the artist keeps the particular conditions of his time and place in mind, the more likely it is he will find the right means by which to stir sentiments. At the very least, the artist should pass by those subjects that lie on the distant horizon in favor of those closer to home. [...] 3 INSPIRATION [BEGEISTERUNG] (vol. I, pp. 349-50) 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 them flow forth in such abundance as if 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 art work 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. The inspired poet pours out spontaneously the most excellent thoughts and ideas; the orator is able to judge his words with the greatest confidence, feel with the keenest sensitivity, and find words possessing the most powerful and lively expression; the inspired painter suddenly finds the picture he had sought standing complete right in front of his face. All he need do is put it down on canvas to the best of his ability; his hands appear to be guided by some extraordinary force, and with every movement of his finger, the work takes on added life. What is one to make of such an unusual occurrence, something whose origins are of such interest to philosophy, and whose effect so indispensable to the artist? Whence comes this extraordinary effect of the soul, and how can it have such a happy effect? Such heightened effects reveal themselves either in the craving or imaginative forces of the soul, both with equal success; in the one through devotional, mannered, tender, or cheerful rapture; in the other

Aesthetic foundations: inspiration

33

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

34

Johann Georg Sulzer

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].

One can recognize such originality in persons by the irresistible drive they have for their art, by the way they overcome all obstacles that lie in the way of their work, by the way invention and practice come so easily to them, {626} by the way all necessary material for a work flows instantaneously from their imagination, and by the way they are always able to find something special and unique, even in those fields where nature has already provided an abundance of similar geniuses. Of course there are gradations even here, and some original artist may have more fortitude and cleverness than another. This is

Aesthetic foundations: originality

35

how it comes about that some produce inventions of a totally new kind, while others retain the forms and styles they have received. In this sense, they are imitators. This is how the poet Horace, who imitated well-known forms, still possessed originality; Klopstock, however, invented new forms. In music, our Graun was undoubtedly original, although none of his forms were. In painting, Raphael was certainly original, although he retained unusually more received forms than someone like Hogarth. One can thus be original and still conform in many other ways to the ordinary. In many of his works, Virgil is a simple imitator; yet he is still individual enough so that we consider him to possess originality. [...] Sooner or later, every artist with originality will be a cause of notable change in the domain of taste, one that might even influence the general ethical climate of his time. This is because the greatest riches will always be found in those places that can only be seen by the few daring men who have forged new paths. They are the true leaders of men. Thus, Luther was a great original in that he led many people from the well-trodden paths of their faith and religious practices, and established a new way. In matters of taste, such changes are much easier since there is nothing to constrain ones freedom. Those of our poets who had the audacity to liberate German verse from the shackles of rhyme schemes were the cause of an important revolution in our poetry. Although Gleim was himself an imitator of Anacreon, he was still original enough to found a new school of poetry.5 Bodmer and Breitinger were also coincidentally original art critics, although they were still responsible for significant changes in the domains of taste in Germany.6 Glory is always the most lustrous gift of originality; but its most precious treasure is the originality it may confer upon the most important parts of the fine arts. Anything original possesses a kind of value that is impossible to achieve by imitation, however excellent the latter may be. Art alone profits from this. But sometimes imitation can attain the goal of art that not everything original can. There are connoisseurs in the pictorial arts who prefer original works over copies, and they are of course Johann Ludwig Gleim (1719-1803) was one of the most prominent of a group of German Rococo poets, active at mid century, known as the "Anacreontics" because of their imitations of the amorous and hedonistic poems of Anacreon. [C] For more on Bodmer and Breitinger, see the Introduction by Thomas Christensen, p. 3 above. [C]

36

Johann Georg Sulzer

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.]

Aesthetic foundations: order

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

38

Johann Georg Sulzer

and laws in this pattern even though it is not a consequence of anyone's intention. Where no law can be discerned to account for the connection of things, no rule of uniformity found, then we say that things are unorderly. For example we say this about trees in the woods if we cannot notice any rule by which uniformity in their position might be discerned. Order can be quite simple, but it can also be quite intricate, as its laws can have more or fewer connections depending upon the number of parts. There are many different kinds of order determined by the differences of intention in which one assigns a rule of uniformity to any succession of things. However, so that we do not get mired in metaphysical speculations that are too general, but stay with that which is essential to the general theory of the fine arts, we will only speak of those things that accrue aesthetic energy through order, even if this order is not everywhere so uniform. Only in this way can the primary effects of order be distinguished from its secondary effects. We might react with complete indifference to a collection of stones that we casually observe scattered in a field. But when these same stones are transformed into some artistic object through order, then we contemplate them with attention and take great satisfaction in them. Here no individual part possesses any aesthetic power or meaning by itself; it is the specific ordering of stones that pleases us, and the material itself- that which makes up each individual stone - takes no part in this effect. Isolated taps upon a drum or anvil do not interest us. But as soon as we notice any order in these taps, especially if they become metric or rhythmic, they accrue aesthetic force. It is a totally different matter with those things whose individual parts already possess such force, as in speech, where each word means something, or in a painting, where every figure can engage our mind or heart. If order is brought to such objects, a kind of effect arises caused not only by the order, but also by the material of the ordered things. {616} In that we are here concerned with order and its effects, it is better to consider the material force of the ordered objects separately. That is, we should contemplate the pure form of the objects without regard to their material. In short, we are here interested in order, not disposition (Anordnung), since this last word always seems to be confused with order, but is really determined only by the material of

Aesthetic foundations: order

39

the things. Order is not simply a consequence, though, of the rules of contiguity or succession. When a single rule defines the ordering of something, it can be said to produce what we generally call "regularity" {Kegelmdfiigkeii), as when soldiers stand in lines and columns. If, however, the ordering of something is defined by several rules, such that several conditions must be met to produce this ordering, we would consider the result to be somewhat more elevated than simple regularity. Herein arise qualities such as symmetry, eurhythmy, and beauty. Order calls attention to the object; it conveys pleasingness and makes the object intelligible by impressing it upon our imagination. That which is unordered is unremarkable. When contemplated, it is not retained in our memory, since it has no intelligible form. The effect of order upon our power of imagination on the contrary, attains a high level of pleasingness and enjoyment. When it unites much variety with exactness in a whole, it can cause a kind of beauty that is extraordinarily pleasing. Such order can be seen in many beautiful mosaics or parquet floors made of wood, in which many small triangular and rectangular pieces are set, producing a very pleasurable variety of forms and relations. Even things of a moralistic or emotional nature can be laid out in a kind of pure ordering. The ordering might be fanciful, but also something well thought out, something simple and pleasing, or also something complex and lively. So multifarious is the effect of order, that a simple change in the order of beats played upon a drum is sufficient to distinguish one piece from another and provide all varieties of passionate expression. The artist can thus employ order in a number of ways. In some works, it is the only aesthetic means by which they may become truly tasteful. This is how many buildings can be considered as works of fine art; while the various parts of the building were made not on account of genius or taste, but rather by plain necessity, they are placed in an orderly way in relation to each other. Some gardens also have the character of a work of taste solely on account of order. In music, there are many short but pleasant melodies that have no real aesthetic other than a pleasing order of notes. A poet might pen an epic verse whose contents are also without aesthetic, but through the ordering of syllables produce a beautiful tone that approaches epic dignity. This is not seldom the case with Homer. Just the tiniest amount of order or trace of regularity can be sufficient to elevate a work to the rank

40

Johann Georg Sulzer

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

Aesthetic foundations: relation

41

comprehend, must always have much simpler rhythms than those of a similar character composed for the harpsichord. 6 RELATION [VERHALTNISS] (vol. IV, pp. 646-48) The size or prominence of a part is understood in comparison to the whole to which it belongs. Size and prominence are indeterminate ideas that can increase and diminish without limit. One can speak of things being large or small, heavy or light, only in relation to one another. In an object composed of parts, a good relation between parts exists when no single part is either too large or too small in comparison to the whole. Our judgment concerning the relation of parts arises either from the nature of things or from custom. These have made us so used to specific proportions that any deviation from them strikes us as contradictory or exaggerated. Upon viewing an object that is quite familiar or commonplace, we cannot help but expect to see what we are used to. Thus if something is notably larger or smaller than expected, it will awaken two sorts of ideas that are in some respects contradictory. In things that are determined only by custom, judgments concerning relations can differ from one person to another. However, there can also be judgments concerning relations that originate from the nature of a thing itself. If a part of some whole is of a size that contradicts its nature or arrangement, we would certainly find this disparity offensive. {647} A column that is extremely high and narrow strikes us as too weak to carry its load. Two identical parts of the body that serve the same function, such as the arms, feet, or eyes, must be of equal size according to their nature. A violation against such a relation contradicts this fundamental rule. An object will be perceived as well proportioned only if no one of its parts is of a size that contradicts either custom or nature. When no single part calls attention to itself owing to its size, one has the complete freedom to comprehend the whole and feel its effect. It is through good relations, then, that one perceives the true unity of a thing; the impression it makes can become perfect because no one of the parts from which the whole is made calls attention to itself. A lack of such good relations, however, is harmful in that the disproportionate parts distract our imagination away from the whole, and subsequently gives offense through the contradictions that every

42

Johann Georg Sulzer

misrelationship causes. Nothing can be beautiful, then, without perfection of relations. Relations are manifested in many ways other than extension. In any object in which parts should coalesce in a harmonious whole, relations and misrelations can occur. Even in those things that are meant to arouse inner feelings, a part can possess too much or too little stimulation for the purpose of the whole. The contemplation of relations occurs whenever there are parts whose effect can be measured. In objects visible to the eye, there can be relations between the sizes of parts in which some of them might be too large or too small; there can also be relations of light by which a part might be too bright, or in another too dark. Further, relations can exist based on strength or stimulation, in which one part might be judged prettier, or more stimulating, quieter, or stronger as stipulated by the whole. In objects that are heard, relations occur between notes in regard to their duration, loudness, pitch, and in their charm or vigor. It would thus be a mistake to believe that good relations are to be found only in the pictorial arts or architecture. Every artist must observe them, since from them comes symmetry, or harmony, or the true unity of the whole. The question then arises as to what the artist must think about in order to secure good relations between parts in each work. Various philosophers and artists have remarked that the most pleasing relations are those that can be expressed by the most easily measured numbers, such as those used for the consonances of music. One need not seek, however, answers that are so secret or mysterious here. The reason soon becomes clear when we view things in their proper perspective. A relation consists of two elements, since it entails comparison or contrast. The size of every part is determined only in relation to the size of the other part with which is compared. If the parts are too disparate there can be no juxtaposition of the two. {648} One compares the size of the mouth or the nose with the size of the face, but not with the size of the whole statue. If, however, some object is a part of a main part, then one compares it with this main part, and in turn with those [minor] parts that themselves make up the parts of this part: the finger with the hand, the hand with the arm, and all of these with the entire body and its main parts - the limbs and torso. Thus one should compare like parts to one another, or to the parts that directly constitute a whole. Things of widely differing

Aesthetic foundations: unity

43

sizes cannot make a whole when considered together. A town can become a district when joined to a few nearby fields, hills, and woods. But a town joined to a small garden can never make up a district, rather it will remain a town. The garden can be taken out and the town remains. In just this way, a man might have a finger that is too large or too small, or even missing altogether, yet remain beautiful. It is his hand that is no longer beautiful. We can thus clearly see that one can judge the relation between parts only when these parts are on the same level. In music, one compares the notes of chords distant from the tonic to one another, and no longer to those belonging to the tonic. In architecture, one compares smaller elements not to the whole building, rather to the cornice or whatever other section they are a part of. [...] 7 UNITY [EINHEIT] (vol. II, pp. 26-28) Unity is that in which we envision multiple things as parts of a single thing. It arises from a connection between parts that disuades us from seeing anything other than a single entity. Drinking glasses that are placed upon a table close to one another have no real connection; one can consider each as a single entity. On the other hand, springs and other such parts of a clock have such a connection to one another that any one of them separated from the others can never constitute a whole, rather only a part. Thus there is unity in a clock, but not in the collection of drinking glasses upon a table. The nature of a thing is the cause of its unity, since it is by this that we know why every part is there, and even why this nature would surfer change if some part were not there. Unity is thus in every object that has a nature, and consequently in every object in which it is possible to say or conceive what it should be. When something is just what it should be, that means that everything that appertains to it is really present.9 Unity, then, is the cause of perfection and beauty; perfection is that which is entirely and completely what it should be, while beauty is that perfection one senses or feels. It follows, then, that an object displeasing to contemplate has no unity, or its unity is hidden from 9

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

Johann Georg Sulzer

us because we cannot determine whether the thing is that which it should be. If we have some kind of tool, but no idea as to what it is to be used for, we are incapable of judging whether it is perfect or not. So it is for any object that either pleases or displeases us. Whenever our attention is focused upon an object, we form in our mind either a clear or obscure idea of its nature, which is to say, we imagine what it should be, or at least what its nature might be. We then compare this ideal to the object, much as we might compare a picture to our own conception of the original. An agreement between reality and our ideal pleases us, while any discrepancy between the two displeases us, since we have found a contradiction, and it is impossible to imagine at the same time two contradictory things. These thoughts on unity may seem to be overly subtle. {27} But they are critical to the precise meaning of several fundamental aesthetic ideas. When philosophers tell us that perfection and sensible beauty are related in that both consist of variety in unity, the artist can easily understand this explanation through the help of the preceding discussion. He will understand that every work that should be perfect or beautiful must have a specific nature by which it becomes a single thing, and from which one can form a clear conception. He will see that its diverse parts are such that through them the work becomes the thing that he envisions it to be. In this way an architect who is charged with designing a building will first try to form as clear a picture of it in his mind as possible. He will then seek out and coordinate the diverse parts of the building such that from their coalescence, the building becomes exactly what it should. The painter will first let himself form a clear idea of the thing he is envisioning, and only thereafter use his imagination to seek out the details whereby the thing becomes what it should. One s idea of the nature of some object by which it achieves unity may not always be clear, and it is worth noting that perfection or beauty are not always essential to an object. It is sometimes sufficient simply to feel the perfection and beauty of some object, even if these qualities are somewhat obscured. It is in just this way that we can feel the perfection and beauty of the human body, despite possessing a very obscure notion of its nature. We might have only the slightest idea concerning the specific affection a song, ode, or elegy seeks to express, yet it can still be sufficient enough to find the work very beautiful. But when we can form no idea of unity, and when we

Aesthetic foundations: unity

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]

46

Johann Georg Sulzer

From these remarks, it is easy to see how important to the evaluation of any work is the discovery or recognition of a work's nature and its ensuing unity. Whoever cannot at least dimly feel what a thing should be and how its parts cohere will be able neither to recognize nor to sense its perfection. This is undoubtedly how it happens that there can be so many differing opinions about the same thing. Without any doubt, we judge every object following an innate concept of the ideal, and by which we accept or reject things that are in some object as either suitable or contradictory. Whoever cannot imagine such an ideal will be incapable of judging anything that he hears or sees. He will notice only the impression of each individual part as a selfsufficient thing. If he is satisfied with these parts, he will judge the whole as beautiful. So it happens that one person might find a given speech beautiful since he is pleased by individual elements of style and expression by themselves, while another person who perceives a glaring deficiency in the plan of the whole finds the speech unbearable to listen to. 8 VARIETY [MANNIGFALTIGKEIT] (vol. Ill, pp. 361-62) During the evolution of man's faculty of reason, there seems to have arisen a natural need for diversity in our ideas and sentiments. As pleasant as certain things are, one can become immune to them through continual repetition, and eventually even weary of them. Only by frequent changes, which is to say, variety in those objects which are the concern of the spirit and mind, can one's attention be retained. The reason for this natural inclination is easy to discover: it is part of the inner activity of the spirit. But it reveals itself only after man has attained a certain ability for self-reflection, and after he has enjoyed pleasures that are deeply moving. Semi-primitive people who cannot count beyond the number three, such as the American Indians, can sit the whole day long and mindlessly play the same tune upon their flutes a thousand times without feeling bored. This desire for change contributed greatly to the gradual perfection of man, since it sustained and expanded his activities, and caused almost a daily increase in his ideas. This is what really constitutes the true inner richness of men. Even though the love of variety arises from its inner effectiveness, the latter is strengthened through the former. The more one wishes to enjoy changing and varied ideas, the

Aesthetic foundations: variety

47

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

Johann Georg Sulzer

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"),

Aesthetic foundations: taste

49

then taste is also something real in our soul to be distinguished from other faculties. Namely, it is the intuitive capacity to recognize beauty, and something that aids us in enjoying this recognition. The nature of taste can be known only as clearly as the nature of beauty allows it to be known and analyzed. But as we have already treated this last point in the article on "Beauty," we will restrict ourselves here to that which relates to the effects of taste. One can consider the faculty of taste in the soul from two perspectives: {372} as an applied tool with which the artist can choose, order and decorate, and as something enjoyable for the amateur in that it arouses pleasure and enhances one's disposition to better enjoy works of art. The artist of taste tries to give every object upon which he works an attractive form as well as to make sure that it also engages the imagination. His precedent here is nature, who is never satisfied in only making her work perfect and good, but everywhere strives for beauty of form, pleasingness in color, or the closest conformity of form with the inner nature of the thing. The artistss reason and genius ensure that his work possesses all parts necessary to its inner perfection. But taste is what makes it a work of fine art. A house which provides everything that is needed for shelter becomes a work of fine architecture when someone with taste also ensures that the whole has a pleasing appearance, and every part of the house has a decorous form appropriate to its function and place. A speech in which one says everything that serves his purpose becomes a work of eloquence through a pleasing disposition of its parts, through beautiful turns of phrases, through harmony, and other sensible manipulations of expression. Taste, then, is as essential to the artist as is reason and genius. Each of the higher gifts of decorum, sense, and invention cannot make an artist. But, so too, taste without the accompaniment of reason and genius can never make a great artist, as a beautiful form can never be a substitute for material that has no intrinsic worth. One occasionally meets men whose souls are filled with an excess of taste, yet who are lacking in reason. These are men who observe nothing but extrinsic beauty, and are fully content with a beautiful piece of clothing, paying no heed of what lies underneath it. This is characteristic of the refined taste of a dilettante, someone to be found in all the fine arts. They constitute the superficial element of the human

50

Johann Georg Sulzer

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)

The most important, if not the only, function of a perfect musical composition is the accurate expression of sentiments and passions with all their particular shadings. Any work that fills our imagination full of harmonious tones but without touching our heart can be compared to a painting of the sky at twilight. We may be entranced by the pleasing mixture of differing colors; but we certainly will not see anything in the patterns formed by the clouds which will touch our heart. Now; if we hear in a song not just the most perfect succession of notes, but also a speech that seems to be the outpourings of a sensitive heart, the pleasing engagement of the ear serves as a kind of inducement to the soul by which it can succumb to all the sentiments brought forth through the expressiveness of the song. The harmony commands our complete attention, stimulating the ear so that it can give itself over to the more refined feelings aroused when the nerves of the soul are touched.

Aesthetic foundations: musical expression

51

Expression is the soul of music. Without it, music is but an entertaining diversion. But with it, music becomes the most expressive speech overpowering the heart. It compels us to be tender, then to be resolute and steadfast. It can quickly bring forth our pity, and just as quickly, admiration. At times it ennobles and elevates our soul, while at other times it enfeebles it with effeminate emotions. But from where does the composer attain this magical power by which he so irresistibly controls our hearts? Nature herself must have endowed him with the basis of this power, as his soul responds to every kind of sentiment and passion. After all, he can only express that which he himself keenly feels. The effect of temperament upon art is illustrated by the cases of two of the most admired composers in Germany: Graun and Hasse.11 Nature endowed Graun with a soul full of tenderness, gentleness, and kindness. Although he had mastered all the secrets of his art, he was most comfortable in expressing tender, pleasing, and altruistic feelings. More than once Graun failed miserably when trying to express emotions of boldness, pride, or resolution. On the other hand, nature endowed Hasse with greater courage, bolder emotions, and more passionate desires, and he was more successful in expressing these emotions which were closer to his character than those that were tender or delicate. It is important that the artist know himself, and whenever possible decline undertaking anything contrary to his character. But this is not always up to him. {272} An epic poet must be able to place himself in a variety of conflicting emotions in order to portray a character who is submissive, or perhaps even cowardly, or one who is bold. This also happens to the composer, who must seek recourse in diligence and practice when nature refuses him her support. Here it is appropriate to reiterate what we have recommended in the previous article to the artist in regard to practice. Beyond this, the composer must undertake special study of the character of all passions, and view all men from only this perspective. Every passion must be seen not simply in respect to its idea, but in respect to its particular character: voice, register, tempo, and rhetorical accent. Whoever notices these things can correctly understand a speech even if he cannot understand the words. The tone betrays joy or pain. In 11 Carl Heinrich Graun (1701-59) andjohann Adolf Hasse (1699-1783) were the two composers of opera seria most favored by Frederick the Great, and whose works received almost exclusive royal privilege in Berlin. [C]

52

Johann Georg Sulzer

the individual notes one can even distinguish intense or moderate pain, deep-rooted tenderness; strong or mitigated joy. The musician must apply the greatest care in studying natural expression, for however much song may differ from speech, it has much that it can learn from it. Joy is expressed with full tones, a tempo that is not rushed, and moderate gradations of dynamics and pitch. Sadness expresses itself more slowly; it wells up from deep within the breast and with subdued tones. Every sentiment of language has something special about it. The composer must study and learn these with the greatest care, for only by this means will he attain correct expression. Next, he should consider the effects of these various passions upon ones temperament; the flow of impressions and sentiments. Every passion is actually a series of moving impressions. This is already revealed by the phrase we use to express passion: the movement of emotions [Gemuthsbewegung]. There are passions in which impressions flow evenly like a gentle brook. There are other passions which flow onward faster and with more turbulence. In a few, the succession of impressions rush forward as if a raging stream whose banks are swollen after a heavy rain, sweeping away everything that stands in its way. Sometimes the feelings caused by these impressions are like the wild sea crashing before the shore, retreating back only to surge forth again with renewed strength. Music is perfectly suited to portraying all kinds of these movements and making them sensible to the soul via the ear. But this can only be done if the composer is sufficiently accomplished and possesses enough knowledge to imitate these movements in harmony and melody. If he is not lacking in talent, he will find numerous means available for this purpose. These means are: (1) The basic progression of harmony without regard to meter. This harmony should be light and unconstrained so to express gentle and pleasant affections. One should not find too many intricacies or ponderous suspensions. However, to express violent or other vehement affections, the harmonic progressions should be interrupted by modulations to distant keys; {273} there should be greater intricacy, the use of many unusual dissonances, and quickly-resolving suspensions; (2) Meter, by which the general character of every kind of movement may be imitated; (3) Melody and rhythm, which are themselves capable of portraying the language of all emotions; (4) Changes in the dynamics of notes, which may contribute much to expression; (5) The accompaniment

Aesthetic foundations: musical expression

53

and particularly the choice and mixture of accompanying instruments; And finally, (6) Modulation to, and digression in, foreign keys. The composer must carefully think about each one of these, weighing critically the effect of any changes. In this way he will be in a position to express every passion with the utmost precision and energy. We have examples of passions that differ from one another in only the smallest gradation, yet which prove to be no obstacle in the art of music. One such example, found in Graun s comic opera Europa Galante, is the aria "Dalle labbre del mio Bene." The qualities of tenderness and authority are combined, expressing perfectly the character of an Ottoman Seraglio. This is a wonderful proof of musics capacity to express the most nuanced emotions. But even Graun and other composers of the first rank will often be found committing errors of expression, proving the need for the greatest care and diligence in order to achieve the most perfect expressiveness. We thus exhort all who seek to attain what is most essential in art to take careful note of the preceding remarks as well as what follows. Every composition, whether it is vocal or instrumental, should possess a definite character and be able to arouse specific sentiments in the minds of listeners. It would be foolish of the composer to begin composing without having established the character of his work. He must know whether the language he will set down is that of a man who is proud or humble, courageous or timid, master or servant, tender or tempestuous. Even if he stumbles upon his theme by chance, or he arbitrarily selects it, he must still examine its character carefully so that he can sustain it while composing. Having established the character of the piece, the composer must next place himself in the emotional state to which he would wish to bring others.12 The best thing to do would be to imagine some event, situation, or state which highlights most naturally what he wishes to present. When his imaginative forces have been sufficiently fired up, he should begin working, being on guard against mixing any musical period or figure that is inconsistent with the character of his piece. Many composers are often seduced by a fondness of certain pleasant sounding and expressive musical ideas into over-repetition. One must keep in mind that such repetition weakens the expressiveness, and is 12 See note 4, p. 31 above. [C]

54

Johann Georg Sulzer

appropriate only for certain narrowly-centered sentiments and passions. {274} But there are other emotions in which ones impressions are always changing, sometimes becoming stronger, sometimes weaker, or sometimes transforming by degrees into something entirely different. In such cases, the frequent repetition of the same expressive idea is unnatural. If the composer is to set in song some pre-existing text, he must first contemplate what is the true spirit and character of the words, as well as the essential mood in which such a text would be delivered as a speech. He would consider the circumstances and intentions of the speaker in order that he might determine the general character of the song. He would choose the best key, the most appropriate meter and rhythms that reflect the emotions, and intervals that are naturally suited to the ebb and flow of the emotions. These characteristics should be maintained through the whole piece, but especially in those places where the words require particular emphasis. [...]

II

THE CREATIVE PROCESS

1 INVENTION [ERFINDUNG] (vol. II, pp. 86-94) This word is customarily understood in a narrow sense and applied to those things that are universally recognized as having increased knowledge or augmented the arts. Those kinds of inventions that relate to science or commerce are actually less common, and are not of concern here. Instead we are interested in those inventions that make every work of fine art, and even every part of a work, just what it should be. In the most general sense, something is an "invention" so long as it satisfies the intentions of its creator. In the fine arts, every work can be viewed as a tool for arousing certain effects in human temperament. If after considerable reflection and thought the artist is able to create a work appropriate for attaining this intended effect, then the invention is deemed good. When one speaks of the kind of invention that is demanded of every artist, one really is talking about the thought and the reflection by which he invents those parts of his work that make it what it should be. In this way the speaker will be able to write his speech if, after reflection, he discovers ideas that will be capable of conveying the truth that he wants to demonstrate. In general, whenever one has a specific intention or goal in mind, one must find the means by which it can be attained, and this is called invention. There are two general ways by which inventions are made. Either the goal or the intention of the work is established, and one seeks the means by which it can be attained; or one already has some material or idea, and discovers upon reflection that it might be useful for attaining a specific goal, which is to say, that it is suited for certain intentions. 55

56

Johann Georg Sulzer

The speaker usually proceeds by the first way; he normally has a certain goal in mind before he writes his speech, and he seeks a means to achieve it. The dramatic poet or the painter usually take the other route; they discover, for example, that a particular history they might happen to be reading could, upon reflection, make an excellent subject for a drama or a historical painting. Invention is always a product of reason that discloses the exact connection between subject matter and goal. But because any appropriate effect occurs in the fine arts via sensible ideas, one must possess more than reason; one must also possess experience, a rich and lively fantasy, and refined sentiment. Together these things constitute competence in invention. If the artist decides upon a specific goal, which is to say, a specific impression to convey with his work, his animated imaginative powers will present to him many sensible objects that will be all the more appropriate and fertile as is his experience and sensibility. His poetic imagination helps him to discover yet more ideas, while his reason will determine the degree to which each of these is suitable. {87} In this way his work may be said to be invented. The power of invention, like the power of judgment, is a natural and inborn faculty that all men possess in proportion to their own genius. And just as one may turn to reason to aid one's power of judgment, so can one's talent for invention be augmented, in as much as it might be treated, like logic, as a part of philosophy Until now, this has not happened. Young and aspiring artists who wish to profit from these pages by learning what is essential in working out an invention, and further how to enhance their power of invention, should take close note of the following general guidelines. It has already been noted above that as in other things, works of taste can be produced in two basic ways. And it will be useful perhaps to elucidate these in a bit more detail. One may either have a goal in mind and seek the means to reach it, or already have in hand some interesting subject and seek to discover whether it might be suitable for attaining a certain goal. The first way, as I said earlier, is the path of the speaker who plans out a specific goal before he begins his speech, the carpenter who wishes to construct a certain kind of building, the composer who plans to set a preexisting text to music, the poet who wishes to treat and develop a specific character or passion, the painter who has decided for a certain occasion to arouse some specific sentiment, the poet and the engraver who seek some

The creative process: invention

57

human figure or event that embodies certain qualities they wish to make sensible. The second way belongs to the poet who begins writing a dramatic story or the artist who begins painting a historical picture, in which they discover that the particular story they are treating could be successfully employed so as to lead to a specific effect. The composer might by chance think of an idea, or hear something in some composition, and by reworking this material while trying to express a certain emotion, end up inventing something new. It is just as if one discovers an application for a machine for which it was not originally invented; through careful observation of the thing, one hits upon the idea of applying it in a new way. This is probably how the sailboat was invented; it was noticed with what force wind could drive some object to which an unfurled cloth was attached. It would be of the greatest benefit to the understanding of human genius if someone were to write a history concerning the inventions of the most important works of art. Artists would be able to draw from it many useful lessons. Of course, if one followed the wrong model, no help would be had for finding good inventions. For all that, it is likely that much useful stuff might be gleaned in regard to artistic creation if a history of inventions was written. {88} At the very least, the job of inventing might be made a bit easier. According to Leibniz, nothing in our imagination is new; everything is ultimately innate in our minds. But of the almost infinite quantity of innate [ideas], only a few are so clear to us according to the nature of our external disposition that we are made aware of them and may turn our attention to them. When this happens, other ideas that stand in close relation to them begin to assume ever greater degrees of clarity. Their numbers will increase in proportion to the clarity of the main idea and the length of time one contemplates them. Thus it sometimes happens that a great number of ideas are presented to our imagination all at once that are dependent upon a single notion. One can consequently seek out all those things that suit one another by virtue of having the closest relationship, and order them together in some object. In Leibniz's system, this is called invention. If the above analysis has any validity, then it is possible to draw a few basic lessons by which invention can be facilitated. Above all, one's power of invention may be strengthened by paying the strictest attention to the details of every clear idea, so that the parts of the

58

Johann Georg Sulzer

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?

The creative process: invention

59

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

Johann Georg Sulzer

sought out with unbelievable diligence every possible means by which one could discover some useful idea. With what thoroughness did Aristotle, Hermagoras, Hermogenes, and the others expound upon the so called loci communes, the status quaestionis, the affects and morals?2 If too much has been said here, in other arts the critic has neglected his duties, since many useful things could be said concerning specific methods of invention. In music Mattheson made a start that is not without use in providing the foundation for a more detailed elaboration.3 [...] {91} The second way to invention is much more fickle and seems to be subject to no secure guidelines, since one discovers something that might comprise the material of some work of art only by chance. Nonetheless, some advice can be given here to the artist to help him be ready and prepared for this event. In general, one can say to him that he will often stumble upon inventions if he is constantly occupied with matters of his art. What has already been noted when discussing the first way of invention concerning the particular notions of the invented work applies to all branches of art that one may treat. Whoever occupies himself incessantly with his art, whoever judges everything that he sees and hears in relation to it, this person will encounter opportunities for invention everywhere. The historical painter, for whom everything belonging to his art is part of the present, sees every person in terms of whether they might be appropriate or not as a historical figure. If he encounters someone whose face impresses him by the exquisiteness of its character or sentiment, he cannot let it go; he will desire to use this person right away in some painting, and will think of some invention for which this would be appropriate. This is also true for the comic poet. Since he is constantly dealing with characters and events that are fitted to the comic stage, he will judge all men from this vantage point, and instinctively notice everything around him that might be usable. If he by chance comes across a comical figure, an eagerness to use this character right away will seize him, and he will strive to think of some fable in which this character could be interwoven. In this manner, every artist whose mind is occupied with his art will have occasion 2

3

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.]

The creative process: invention

61

for invention. Even innocuous objects can inspire him to invention. Leonardo da Vinci is said to have often found useful ideas in the paint flecks of old fences and walls. [...] {92} Without question this is the most common kind of invention. The artist notices in all objects he happens to encounter everything that is useful to his art. We often wonder how it is that an artist could have come upon some particular invention, and we perhaps ascribe it to his extraordinary genius for invention. But if we knew the actual history of the invention, it might be seen that it was only through chance that it came about. The most important inventions probably do not arise through the first deductive manner described above, but rather by the second way: the main subject appears only dimly at first to the artist; he recognizes its importance and takes time to think about its contents so it can be set in its proper light. This is how a famous composer told me he worked. He had more than once saved material that he heard by chance to use as a theme or subject for a composition. He never could have invented anything as good had he decided ahead of time to look for something having the identical character of expression. Therefore, the artist should always be thinking about his art, having his net always cast no matter where he is so as to be able to snare some nearby object that could be turned into something useful by him, just as if he was Philopomen waging battle.4 Voltaire, who was so fertile in good ideas, always had his notebook in hand so that no matter where he was he could write down anything he saw or heard that might be useful to his art. This is also what many painters do, who regularly carry paper and pencil to sketch some cloud or person they happen to see, anticipating that it may make a good subject for a painting. Even an artist of only moderate genius can produce successful inventions by this means, as the previous examples have shown. These, then, are the two main ways to produce good, original inventions. However, one can also invent in sundry ways through imitation. An object often has more than one side that might be interesting. Whoever, therefore, considers a preexisting work of art that is multifaceted can produce an invention if he looks at the whole thing from another viewpoint. If, for example, a painter wished to depict the crucifixion of Christ, he might do so through the grieving 4

Philopoemen (252-183 BC) was a Spartan statesman and general whose legendary exploits were chronicled by Polybius. [C]

62

Johann Georg Sulzer

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]

The creative process: invention

63

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

64

Johann Georg Sulzer

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

The creative process: sketch

65

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

66

Johann Georg Sulzer

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 (143—76 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]

The creative process: form

67

hide the flaws in the layout. It is better to throw out completely a work with an imperfect layout than it is to expend effort in trying to carry out its realization and elaboration. {149} 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 layout, since such satisfaction will be a catalyst to the works realization. 4 FORM [FORM] (vol. II, pp. 250-52) In the most general figurative sense of the word, form means the way that variety is united with wholeness in some object. Hence, it is a particular art of composition. Here, however, we will speak of form only visually, which is to say, as the material shape of objects. One says in this sense that a pitcher may have a beautiful form. The word has been taken from such a context and used to describe art, and even human figures. One says of Michelangelo, for example, that he saw his works in terms of their overall form, and understood the shape of the human figure in this way. Because of the rich aesthetic power it possesses, form is the primary concern of the pictorial arts, and it must be treated according to its three main types: those that possess simple material beauty, those that possess functionality and propriety in addition to material beauty, and finally those that, in addition to all these, also possess moral power. To the first kind belong all figures and bodies that are orderly, but lack any particular function [Bestimmung]. To the second class belong all those objects whose shape is a result of properties particular to their specific function. And to the third type belong those forms in which may be discovered, in addition to all the previously mentioned qualities, an inner life and moral efficacy. There are many figures and bodies in nature whose purpose we do not know. Still, to the extent they have any form, we may be either pleased or displeased by them. Such is the case of stones scattered upon a field, whose shapes seem to the eye to have remarkable consistency. We are likewise pleased when we see clouds dispersed by the wind in which we can recognize certain regularities in their shapes and various configurations. We ascribe whatever beauty they may have to the fact that their form is easily perceived, and is one of which we can fashion a more or less clear and distinct idea. They possess a

68

Johann Georg Sulzer

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

The creative process: plan

69

imperceptible gradations to the highest ideal of human beauty that we can attain. The nature and energy of this form, which is quite simply nothing other than beauty — indeed, the highest beauty — is, because of its importance, discussed in some detail in the article "Beauty." One should always think about the differences between these three kinds of form when speaking of form in relation to the pictorial arts. This is because similar names may be used to express quite dissimilar things. When the beauty of form is spoken of, much depends upon which variety of form is referred to. 5 PLAN [PLAN] (vol. Ill, pp. 696-700) Every work that has a specific aim, if it is to be perfect, must be constituted in both subject and form so as to be able to attain this aim. In so far as the author of such a work keeps in mind the effect that this aim is to achieve, he will consider carefully the means by which this aim may be realized. When he has discovered this means, he will then seek the best disposition of his material by which each element follows another. In the course of these considerations, he will establish the main parts of his work based upon the nature of the subject and the order they must follow. This is called the plan of the work. If, for example, the aim of a speaker is to convince us of the truth of some matter, he will think of whatever suitable ideas there may be that could contribute to this purpose. To this end he will find the most persuasive arguments and ideas for his particular purpose, which is to say, an argument that convinces us completely on account of its great clarity. He will then consider the best form this argument should take according to its nature, discovering that, for his purpose, points A, B, C, etc. need to be developed, and that they must stand in the order A, B, C, etc. or perhaps C, B, A. Now the plan of his speech has been sketched. In just this way, every other plan is made; the plan tells us what principal sections a work requires, and in what order they must stand. When this is determined, we then proceed to fashion each section following the plan, and in the order prescribed. Therefore, it is critical to discover the plan of any art work if it is to achieve its intended aim. Meanwhile, we must remember that since the plan reveals only the essentials of a work, it is possible that its invention might be satisfactory, but its elaboration poor, or even

70

Johann Georg Sulzer

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

The creative process: plan

71

pantomimed ballet. In painting of profound content, one may overlook small defects in composure, harmony, or colouring. But in those smaller paintings whose contents have nothing interesting about them, everything must be perfect. It is different with works whose contents are intrinsically notable or important. Unlike those works in which the beauty of the plan is the essential matter, for these latter works, the plan can be a secondary matter. Still, if a work is not completely to cease being a work of art, one cannot totally lose sight of the plan, as a few of our most recent art critics apparently believe. It has become modish among German art critics to speak with disdain about rules of art. Many of these same critics seem almost to impute an abusive meaning to words such as theory, plan, rules, and criticism. {698} We must ascribe this to the general follies of our time committed by people who, just like the common mob, feel and think too much to allow themselves to be tied down with general formulas. But these people don't try hard enough to penetrate to the true nature of things, and from there to observe everything from a truly reliable standpoint. Whoever claims that an artist like Shakespeare was able to forgo following any rules solely on account of the profundity of his topics speaks without having thought about the matter very carefully. Follow-ing this reasoning, it would be necessary to admonish a young painter to disparage and throw out something as stiff and artificial as perspective, since some older masters who did not observe these rules were able to draw individual figures more beautifully and expressively than the moderns. He would have to argue that in many older paintings where one finds figures not connected or grouped in any straight line, the impression is more beautiful precisely because these works ignore all rules sanctioned by art. One would also have to say that in music, a fantasy by a Bach or a Handel has far more worth than any other composition written by one of these virtuosi in which the rules of meter and rhythm are more scrupulously observed. Finally, one would have to grant that because a Gothic building causes astonishment through sheer audacity and magnificence, it has more worth than the rotunda or temple of Theseus in Athens. These conclusions are unavoidable as soon as one absolves all works of profound subject matter from all the shackles of the fine arts. But it is time for us to take a closer look at the plans of such works. Let us imagine that an artist learns of an event or story involving

72

Johann Georg Sulzer

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

The creative process: plan

73

events, that this character is itself believable or appears to be grounded in nature, and that, finally, things end the way they should, such that everything works together to convey a single impression — the same one that it made upon the artist in the first place and the one for which he undertook to create his work. The artist will continually be anxious that no gaps remain by which the coherence of things could be severed and become incomprehensible, that nothing is present that is superfluous or for which there is no justification, and so forth. Therefore, he will always use a plan to order his material as well as to discover or select the individual elements in it. After everything necessary has been procured and ordered, he will finally think about the plan of beauty. Since, however, he has worked with subject matter that does not require outward beauty to please, he need not necessarily worry about this as much as he would with material of lesser significance. He never sacrifices intrinsic beauty to outward appearance, and if both cannot exist simultaneously, he then gives the former preference. Since it is apparent that inner beauty accrues greater force through the beauty of form, the artist of taste will always try to attain both as much as possible. Because this is what nature favors, it follows that anyone dealing with the history of some character possessing greatness, piety, or charity will imagine that such a person also possesses an external nature that appears to correspond well to this quality. Everyone is inclined to imagine the young Scipio [Africanus] as a great but amiable person, and everyone who admires the inner greatness of Socrates would be unpleasantly disconcerted if this philosopher was depicted as a common, or perhaps even despicable person. {700} Therefore, good taste demands careful treatment of the plan in both content as well as form. The more perfectly both can coincide, the more excellent will be the work. One gladly pardons an external defect on account of inner excellence. One can see figures in the paintings of Annibale Carracci which while unpleasantly drawn, are nonetheless inordinately pleasing owing to the greatness of their character.9 And in antique paintings and wall carvings, one can find historical depictions that offer the greatest satisfaction, despite the fact that they completely lack proper disposition and violate all rules of 9

Annibale Carracci (1560—1609) 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]

74

Johann Georg Sulzer

perspective. This is because each figure is animated. But who would deny that such depictions would possess yet one more degree of excellence were their external features more fully perfected without detriment to their inner features? 6 DISPOSITION [ANORDNUNG] (vol. I, pp. 151-53) One should understand the art of disposition in works of art as the assignment of every element to its proper place. To present an entire work with imagination and in the most advantageous manner following the nature of one s intention; to make it appear as an inseparable whole without either deficiency or excess; to achieve the very best effects in the placement of every section; to be able to envision the entire work with pleasure yet at the same time distinguish each part (or what is much the same thing, to be able to contemplate each individual section and be led in the most natural manner to an idea of the whole) — all of these are manifestations of good disposition. Without it, no work can be accepted as completely perfect, despite whatever individual elements of beauty it may possess. It is true that badly disposed works can occasionally be acclaimed as excellent on the basis of individual elements of beauty. This is the case with various tragedies of Shakespeare, paintings by the immortal Raphael, and numerous works by other artists. Such praise is too shallow, though, and bestows excellence upon the whole based only upon that of the parts. This should never slow the artist from diligently striving for good disposition. The individual elements of beauty that we admire in a poorly ordered work would charm us far more if the whole of the work was more perfect. One should not be deceived into occasionally excusing improper disposition. This part of art is simply too important for that. It is certainly true that a work that is correctly disposed will still be a bad work if its individual parts lack any vitality or charm. {152} On the other hand, beautiful parts can exercise their full effect only when optimally disposed, much as a beautiful face best conveys the full vitality of its charm in relation to the beauty of the whole person. Disposition is without question the most important element of art after invention. If the artist is successful in both of these, then he will certainly never lack the inspiration and imagination necessary to elaborate his work, and without which no work would be bearable.

The creative process: disposition

75

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]

76

Johann Georg Sulzer

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,

The creative process: elaboration

77

each individual part would be shown in its correct proportion and form, with its appropriate lighting and true color. But we are still lacking the most detailed connections between the smallest parts — the shadings, reflections, and hues by which a picture accrues its essential truth and nature. These last qualities are supplied in the elaboration. If the portrait achieves a certain resemblance of the subject at the start, it is only through a perfect elaboration that it attains life such that it appears less as a picture anymore than the person himself. The character of a work should already be determined in its layout; the active force by which it is to achieve its primary effects should be known. In the realization, these forces are more precisely determined, and their true relation with one another established. In the elaboration, their effect is enhanced and all obstacles are removed. The work becomes a perfection to which one can think of nothing more to add. Without this elaboration, then, no work can become perfect. If it is not the most important part of the actual work of the artist, it is certainly the means by which all the other parts accrue their most profound significance. Careful elaboration is of the highest importance in those arts in which illusion is essential for their optimal effect, such as in painting or acting. This is because elaboration contributes the most to illusion. In oratory, the most elevated tone of truth, simplicity, and transparency is achieved only through the most perfect elaboration. To be sure there are works of great value that lack perfected elaboration. Objects that lie distant in our vision do not need any detailed elaboration; indeed, elaboration here would be detrimental. A musical composition written for many instruments, or one to be performed outside or in a large hall should not be so elaborated as a trio. In general we may say that in all pieces in which bold impressions are to be conveyed, detailed elaboration is inappropriate, whereas such elaboration is indeed appropriate for works whose character is graceful and quiet. Elaboration never appears in the earliest stages of some art form. That which is most general always precedes the beautiful. When, however, elaboration begins to be mistaken for the essence of some art, then we know its decline is at hand. Some French writers believe that their nation is presently at such a stage. It is a fact that, with the possible exception of the Greek rhetoricians active during the reign of the Roman Emperors, there

78

Johann Georg Sulzer

has never been a people who have pursued elaboration in oration to the degree French authors have. {248} But what they do too much of, the Germans do too little of. Only a handful of German authors view elaboration as a part of their art. One might be consoled if this lack were to lead the artist, as it did with Aeschylus, to compensate us with greater perfection. But this does not mean that each excellent characteristic can be attained only through long and concerted effort. Elaboration is not always so difficult, nor always so disassociated from the other tasks of the artist. There are works that achieve perfection in a single working (although this happens rarely). Complete perfection in a piece is so dependent upon minute details, that prolonged contemplation and concerted reflection is required to notice them. As long as one is preoccupied with the most intense sections of an art work, one will tend not to pay attention to the smaller parts. When we see an attractive person for the first time, we tend not to notice whatever small faults there may be, whether in appearance or behavior. The power of the initial impression provides us no opportunity to observe them. This is also how we judge art works. In the heat of inspiration, the artist is preoccupied with the essentials and not the details. Only in completely still water can the image of an object be reflected perfectly. Likewise, only when the temperament of the artist is completely calm can he see every minor deficiency in his work, and bring out every small detail of beauty. Quite often, the most perfect art work conveys the appearance of having been created without the least effort at one stroke, as it were, instead of having come into being laboriously only after several attempts. But one can hardly believe that such facility could be obtained without effort. In general, that which is most easily comprehended has cost the artist the most effort. We can read, in this regard, what the astute author of the essays on Pope s genius and writings says: Moliere is supposed to have toiled a whole day over a clever adjective or rhyme, despite the fact that his verses possess the fluency and freedom of the most natural speech. It is also told that Addison was incredibly fussy in refining his prose, and that he would sometimes recall an entire work from the printer just before it was to go to press in order to substitute a new preposition or conjunction.11 ll Published by Nicolai in Berlin, part 6, p. 136. [S.]

The creative process: elaboration

79

Horace was so convinced that elaboration was essential to perfection, that he advised the artist "Nonum prematur in annum" (persevere nine years). It is thus easy to see why any work needing to be perfected requires a lengthy period of contemplation. Only in those things we know from daily use can we recognize every small defect and every element of perfection. So it is in the fine arts. Only when one knows an object virtually by memory is one in a position to notice the smallest details. This is a matter absolutely relevant to elaboration. {249} Whoever will not neglect the elaboration, then, must, after establishing all parts of his work through the realization, carry them in his bosom for sufficient time so that they can be viewed as a whole as well as individual elements. Only by such exact knowledge of his work is the artist in a position to carry out the elaboration successfully. It is helpful for this purpose to be cold-blooded. As important as it may be to the creation of a work to possess the fires of imagination, in the elaboration such a state of mind can be detrimental. Philosophers can offer psychological reasons for this. An inflamed fantasy envisions in every thing more than is actually there. The artist working in the initial heat of inspiration, then, leaves much out, since he envisions his work without it actually existing. If he could somehow see what he is creating in the finished form it would finally take, then there would be no need for elaboration at all. One stays with a work so long as it takes to reach the point where one can look at it without the noticeable emotion of paternal tenderness, without resurrecting those animated emotions by which it was created, and to the point where the work has even become in one sense unfamiliar to us. Only then is ones judgment truly objective and elaboration thereby possible. This part of art also has its pitfalls. One can oversharpen a knife to the point that its blade is completely worn away. Likewise a work can lose the elevated power it once possessed through excessive elaboration. Those who believe that every single detail that can be imagined should be expressed are gravely mistaken. They will certainly spoil their work through this kind of elaboration. It depends entirely upon the particular work which of the smallest ornamentations are the most essential and appropriate to be utilized, as one can always think of more to add than is actually needed. An anecdote I heard from a good artist is relevant here:

80

Johann Georg Sulzer

A certain painter had copied a picture of David Teniers, and despite his utmost care in its execution, found it without composure.12 In inspecting every part piece by piece, he could find no faults. Yet as a whole, the painting was dissatisfying. A friend was called upon to compare the original with the copy so that an unprejudiced pair of eyes might see what was missing. A seemingly trivial discrepancy was discovered. In the foreground of the original, a piece of white canvas dangled from a pole, and this small detail was left out in the copy. The connoisseur surmised that this might be an important element. A small piece of white paper was glued at the place where the white canvas was missing. By this one thing, the whole painting acquired a comportment that no reworking could have given. In a landscape of Rembrandt depicting a very dark forest with a heavily shaded pond in the foreground, a white crane appearing as no more than a tiny white fleck in the air stands out against the dark green of the forest. This tiny detail lends to the painting an essential vitality that would be lost were it obscured. Those who are gifted in the skill of elaboration will know how to introduce a few small details of beauty within their work so as to attain the greatest perfection, and to avoid an excess of elaboration which would harm more than help. {250} In music, the greatest beauty of expression usually does not depend upon the quantity of embellishments, but rather upon a single appoggiatura, some vibrato in the voice, or even a short pause. The same is true in other works of art. The most perfect elaboration depends upon the judicious selection of details, not the quantity selected. 12 David Teniers (1610-90) was a prolific Flemish painter noted for his genre scenes of peasant life. [C]

Ill

MUSICAL ISSUES

1 MUSIC [MUSIK] (vol. Ill, pp. 421-26) If we wish to have a correct idea concerning the essence and true nature of this delightful art, we must try to study its origins in nature. This can be made easier if we are able to observe how it is composed and perhaps see its first, crude beginnings in the songs of primitive peoples. {422} Nature has established a direct connection between the ear and heart. Each emotion suggests particular sounds, while these sounds may in turn awaken in the heart those deep-felt emotions from which they sprang. A cry of fear terrifies us; joyful sounds awaken happiness. The cruder senses of smell, taste, and touch can only stimulate feelings of blind enjoyment or disagreeableness; sometimes they may consume us with pleasure, sometimes with revulsion; but they can never elevate the soul since their effect is mainly corporeal. But that which we sense through the ear and eye can affect the spirit and heart. In these two noble senses lie the mainsprings of rational and moral behavior. And of the two, hearing has by far the greater power. An out-of-tune note is incomparably more disagreeable and disturbing than is a clashing color; likewise, the most lovely concordance in the colors of a rainbow cannot affect us as strongly as perfectly harmonized tones such as a triad played on a justly tuned organ. Hearing is thus the most effective sense for awakening the emotions. Who would claim to have been painfully moved by inharmonious or ugly colors? Yet the ear can be so smitten by inharmonious sounds as to drive one almost to despair. The difference undoubtedly arises because the material that affects 81

82

Johann Georg Sulzer

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

Musical issues: music

83

held in music (but also in other arts) against universal principles. It is said that the Chinese have no ear for European music, while Europeans cannot bear to hear Chinese music. The conclusion, then, is that this art has no general principles grounded in human nature. We will see. If music had no other purpose than to arouse momentary emotions of joy, fear, or honor, then any spontaneous expression of joy or fear by any person would be sufficient for the job. When a crowd of men shout in jubilation or out of terror, we can be violently moved, despite however unruly, harsh, and disorderly their voices may be. Certainly no principles or rules are needed here. But such noise cannot be sustained, as it would quickly lose its energy and our attention would wane. If musical sounds are to be sustained, then, meter becomes essential. {424} All people with any degree of sensitivity feel this, whether they be Siberians, Indians, Iroquois, or the refined Greeks. Whenever there is meter and rhythm, there is order and rule. This is the first principle [of music] obeyed by all people. Because meter is subject to almost infinite variety, all people have their own taste, as is made clear by the many kinds of dance melodies to be found. Only general rules of order and regularity remain the same everywhere. It is perfectly natural that some people prefer faster movement in their music than others, that more primitive folk want less variety and not such determined symmetry in their music as do people who have a more cultured sensibility for beauty, that some men can bear greater dissonance in their music than others who are far more practiced in perceiving individual tones. All people make an application of general principles to their own particular situation, whence arises the variety of rules. This does not mean, however, that taste is arbitrary. One may observe that those among us with experienced and sensitive ears hear more details and observe more rules than those who discover and eventually follow these rules only after attaining more skill in harmony. Thus, differences in taste here — as in other arts — do not demonstrate the absence of any firm basis of human nature. We have seen that music is essentially a succession of sounds that originates as a passionate emotion, and which has the power to depict, arouse, and strengthen such emotions. It now remains for us to inquire what kinds of experience, taste, and reflection are needed in music to make it a real art, and the purpose musical compositions can serve.

84

Johann Georg Sulzer

The purpose of music undoubtedly lies in those first germs that brought forth music, which is the desire we all have to stimulate and deepen our emotions. And of all emotions, happiness seems to have been the first step leading to song. The next step was the desire to lighten heavy labor. [...] Tenderness, sadness and various emotions of discontent do not seem to have called for such original music. {425} But after learning how this art could express such passions and consequently awaken them in oneself, it was used for this purpose. Since the differing degrees of animation of individual men and the way they express their emotions have the greatest influence upon their moral character, music can often be used to express the morality of such men and entire people, in so far as they may be sensed. So indeed are national songs and dances a true reflection of morality. They can be as sprightly or serious, tender or tempestuous, refined or coarse, as the morals of the people themselves. However, it is difficult to explain when one considers its nature as expressive of emotions, how music depicts objects of the imagination. Speech was invented in order to express thoughts and ideas. This, and not music, aspires to instruct us and communicate the pictures of our imagination. It is contrary to the nature of music to depict such pictures. (See the article "Painting in music") Music always affects man not in how he thinks or imagines, but in how he feels. Thus, any piece of music that does not arouse feelings cannot be considered as true music. Even if all the notes of such a piece were scrupulously composed, every harmony carefully thought out, and the most fussy rules observed, such a piece would be worth nothing if it did not touch our heart. It is possible for someone not versed in the art of music to judge whether a composition is good or not provided he possess a sensitive heart. If his heart understands nothing of the music, he can justly dismiss it as good for nothing. If, however, his heart is smitten, he can declare it right away as good; its goal has been achieved. Everything by which this goal is achieved is good. Whether such a piece could be even better, whether the composer might have weakened or spoiled something through his ignorance or lack of taste, such questions could be left to more knowledgeable critics. For only they understand the means by which art achieves its goal, and can judge according to their own talent. It is therefore of utmost importance to remind both musical amateurs as well as seasoned masters that those composers who seek

Musical issues: composition

85

applause by employing technical tricks in their music (involving melodic leaps, arpeggios, harmonies) end up saying nothing at all, however virtuosic it all may be. They are as artificial as a circus performer dancing or singing on a tightrope; the purpose of some challenging composition comes off like a horse running in full gallop. It is no more natural than Agesilaus s mimicking the song of a real nightingale in a composition.1 Having considered music s purpose, it now is time to consider its means. This constitutes the true knowledge and application of this art. {426} Here we must also ask, though, how the notes of music can become an intelligible language of sentiment, and how such notes can be set in a composition such that anyone hearing them not only finds his emotions stirred for a sustained period, but gently coaxed to give in to them. The answers to these questions comprise the whole subject of this art, whose individual parts cannot be fully treated here, but only indicated to the best of our abilities. These means are (1) melody; (2) key; (3) meter and rhythm; and (4) harmony. [...] 2 COMPOSITION [SATZ; SETZKUNST] (vol. IV, pp. 224-27) The invention and working out of a piece of music is called composition because the inventor of such a piece uses notes to express or notate tones, in harmony and melody. Often this is called counterpoint because in older times the notes were simple points, and the primary job of the composer was to compose additional voices to some preexisting melody. Hence a given point had other points set against it. The word composition is sometimes understood to include everything that has to do with the invention and notation of a musical work, which is to say, all that needs to be done in order for it to be performed. It seems, though, that one uses this word somewhat narrowly by having it express only that work which is governed by specific and somewhat mechanical rules, and through whose strict observance one may avoid offending the ear. One often hears a piece of music that, to use a colloquial expression, lacks sap and energy, even though it is correctly composed, which is to say, it does not violate the rules and contains nothing shocking to the ear. This is l

Agesilaus II (444-360 BC) was King of Sparta. The legend of Agesilaus imitating the song of the nightingale was reported by Plutarch. [C]

86

Johann Georg Sulzer

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

Musical issues: composition

87

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,

88

Johann Georg Sulzer

and techniques that one learns only through much experience. It is highly unlikely that the most gifted prodigy will ever be able to discover them all. Only the music instructor who dedicates himself to the task of testing all rules of composition, examining their justification, basing them upon the fewest enlightened principles, discovering their applications in the works of the best composers, pondering their origins and use, and so forth, is capable of teaching in a short time all the rules, refinements, and virtues of composition to those who already understand the language of music, but who would be incapable themselves of discovering them all. This is timely advice, especially given the large numbers of singers or performers today who imagine they can become accomplished composers without any schooling whatsoever. We do not deny that, as in other arts, there exist extraordinary geniuses who have become accomplished composers without outside instruction. But no reasonable person will draw the conclusion that because there are men who become rich through no effort of their own, one therefore need not have to expend any effort to master something; nor would one conclude that because someone lost all his possessions in spite of exercising great caution, there is no point in any of us ever behaving cautiously. {227} Whoever has not carefully mastered the rules of composition runs the risk in even his most pleasing, expressive, and excellent inventions of committing errors that will be offensive and deform his work of genius. Often even a prodigy will discover that there is something missing in a piece worked out only through pure genius, but he will not be capable of seeing wherein this mistake lies or how to correct it because of his ignorance of rules. Many pieces - especially polyphonic pieces - require specific techniques according to their nature that are not easily acquired by oneself. And in other pieces it is not seldom that the prettiest melodic thoughts are completely obscured by a bad or forced harmony resulting from the composers ignorance of the rules. The more one possesses a true genius for art, the more important it is that the rules of composition be studied, since only a genius will profit from them. I cannot restrain myself from ending this article with a remark that may offend many readers. But a love of truth is dearer to me than any fear of rebuke. Hasse, whose fame is well deserved, is surely a man of true musical genius. But one notices in his duets, especially when compared to Graun s, a defect attributed by many to his use of

Musical issues: painting in music

89

superfluous embellishments.2 Had this otherwise great man understood composition as thoroughly as Graun, his works for several voices might today be held as worthy as are his arias. But in these pieces, he truly cannot compete since he simply did not understand the art of composition as well as Graun. This is said as a warning to all young composers. I cannot undertake any closer examination of composition here, and must refer the reader to Kirnberger s new book, which has guided me in all the articles on composition. When the long-awaited second part of this book finally appears, we shall have available the most complete, thorough, and comprehensive work that has ever been written concerning composition.3 3 PAINTING IN MUSIC [MAHLEREY] (vol. Ill, pp. 356-57) One can paint not only for the eyes, but also for the imagination, and even for the ears. The poet does this for the former sense, the composer the latter. The poet can depict some things so vividly, that we may think we see a picture before us. But we have already spoken of this kind of painting elsewhere. As for musical painting, for which a few composers seem to have developed a particular fondness, we will offer here a few remarks, although we have already touched upon this question in a separate article (s.v. "Tone painting"). The essential element servicing music is passionate emotions. Thus it is properly concerned with the depiction of character, at least in so far as this can be depicted by notes and rhythms. {357} This is why many dance melodies are essentially nothing other than depictions of character. Couperin, as well as a few other French composers, have depicted quite specific characteristics of individual men. And after him, C. E E. Bach has published some short keyboard pieces that express quite strikingly the various characteristics of his friends and acquaintances. This entails more than painting inanimate elements of nature in music - impressing the ear with the 2

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

3

Graun, 4 vols. (Berlin, 1773-74). [C] In 1774 - when this article first appeared - Kirnberger had only issued the first volume of his treatise, Die Kunst des reinen Satzes in der Musik (Berlin, 1771). Volume II would not appear until its publication (in three parts) between 1776 and 1779. [C]

90

Johann Georg Sulzer

sounds found in nature itself such as thunder or storms. It entails painting those emotions that stir our soul through specific sentiments, such as the tenderness of a quiet, pastoral scene. This is only possible when music is accompanied by poetry, by which the painting whose effect is sensed by the ear also presents itself to our imagination. But no sensible composer should let himself succumb to the kind of painting in which the poet incidentally seeks not to arouse sentiments, but tries instead to superimpose them in order to throw more light upon his ideas. This often happens in the so-called arias in which music itself attempts to express the truths of the expression that should dominate throughout the whole piece, and thereby ends up weakening this expression. The poet may well remember the most pleasurable feelings aroused by a storm, even if they may also have been unsettling, and make mention of these. But it is nonsensical for the composer to mention them with notes. It would be just as silly for the composer in other circumstances to paint material objects with no relation to sentiment. One occasionally experiences in the middle of an expressive composition some composer or singer who, wishing to display their skills by mimicking the calls of a nightingale or the hoots of an owl, thereby completely destroys the sentiment. By all means, the composer must restrain himself from such nonsense, except when he is truly trying to be farcical. He must always remember that music is written not for the mind or imagination, but for the heart. 4 TONE PAINTING [GEMAHLD IN MUSIK] (vol. II, p. 357) One applies the names painting or picture to all melodic passages in music in which the composer tries to imitate strictly inanimate nature through notes and rhythm. Using only notes and rhythms, it is possible to imitate wind, thunder, the roar of the ocean, or the gurgles of a brook, a flash of lightning, and other such things. Even the most learned and skilled composers can be found doing this. But such [tone] painting violates the true spirit of music, which is to express the sentiments of feeling, not to convey images of inanimate objects. One can compare this kind of painting to the false gestures of ignorant speakers who try to illustrate with arm movements things they may be speaking about — such as something that is high or broad, distant or near, straight or

Musical issues: melody

91

crooked. It is certain that such childish mannerisms divert one s attention from primary matters to secondary ones. Tone painting is to be valued no more than word games in speech. A connoisseur will always feel uneasy when he hears a thing that repels his taste, even if it may be praised as having the most excellent beauty by ignorant amateurs. It is inconceivable to me how a man of Handel's talent could sink so low in his art by trying in an oratorio about the plague in Egypt to paint the jumping of locusts and other such tasteless things.4 A more nonsensical perversion of art can scarcely be imagined. 5 MELODY [MELODIE] (vol. Ill, pp. 370-71) Melody is the succession of tones that comprise the singing part of a composition in so far as it is to be differentiated from the accompanying harmonies. It is the essence of a composition; the accompanying voices serve only to support it. Song is the primary aim of music, and all harmonic elaboration ultimately serves the goal of beautiful song. Thus it is futile to ask whether melody or harmony takes precedence in a composition. Without question the means is always subordinate to the goal. It is more important for the composer continually to keep in mind the essential characteristics of a good melody, and to think about the best means by which they may be attained, at least as far as this depends upon art. However, the present work is written not so much for artists as for philosophically minded amateurs who are not content merely to feel what characteristics every work of art in their favored subject should possess, but want to know as far as it is possible the reasons for this. It is thus necessary here that we deduce the various characteristics of song or melody from their nature. It has already been demonstrated in two articles ("Music" and "Song") that song arises from the over-abundance of pleasing, passionate emotions that one freely gives in to. A natural, spontaneous and unaffected song is a series of impassioned notes having the character of the emotion from which it sprang. Art imitates these expressions of passion through notes, which by themselves are unremarkable and betray nothing of emotion. No one would say that a single tone played on the organ or harpsichord sounds passionate. Yet 4

Reference is to Handel's oratorio Israel in Egypt, first performed in 1739. [C]

92

Johann Georg Sulzer

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

Musical issues: song

93

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

94

Johann Georg Sulzer

such tones is not sufficient to induce us to succumb to these sentiments for any length of time. This is better accomplished by uniform, sustained motion. Just as the cradle can calm the many animal spirits and maintain the spirit in the state into which it has fallen, so there are similar movements which may help prolong other sentiments. {370} Even the most unreflective man or inattentive child can feel this. We can observe the same movement of their bodies rocking to and fro in regular and even rhythm when they hear a repetition of passionate tones. Undoubtedly this is the natural origin of meter. There is nothing better for sustaining ourselves in the same emotion than a uniform, evenly measured motion, by which attention to a given object may be secured. The origin of song thus begins to reveal itself in the uniform motion of passionate tone as a flowing succession. In even the most primitive of nations, we may find dance songs with clearly determined meters and rhythms. This observation confirms what we have said concerning the origins of song. It is not necessary that a song be produced by the human voice, since even a basic instrumental melody can be considered a song. From this, we see that words, song, and melody are most often of equal importance. But the song produced by the human voice is clearly the oldest and most perfect of these, since it alone can finely shade every tone with the particular character required by the affect. A few' instruments, such as the harpsichord, cannot modify tones the way the throat of a singer can, while a few other instruments can only partially modify their tones. The essential energy of music truly is found in song, since the accompanying harmonies, as Rousseau correctly noted, have little power of expression; harmony helps only to establish and fortify the key, enhance the modulation, and make the expression more vigorous and pleasing. But melody alone possesses the irresistible power of animated tones one recognizes as the utterance of a sensitive soul. Thus song is to be preferred above all other arts for the arousal of passions. Lines offer us an understanding of form, while song arouses an immediate feeling for passions. But we have already spoken about this elsewhere (s.v. "Music"). {371} Here it only remains for us to convince the composer who reads this that his greatest merit will be gained through song. He must of course be a true harmonist, but more importantly, his songs must be completely refined. Because song

Musical issues: instrumental music

95

without expression is worthless, he must give the greatest consideration to passionate song. Melody, movement, and rhythm are the true means by which to stimulate emotionally one's mood. Where this is lacking, even the most highly refined harmony will be impotent. We thus would advise the young composer not to spend all his time on the study of harmony, but rather on song, as it should be considered the main subject of his art. Melodic beauty is the inspiration of genius. But through work and study, the composer can gain a complete understanding of movement and rhythm and have both at his command. The dance melodies of different nations contain nearly every kind of movement and rhythm. Only he who is sufficiently accomplished in them can become a master of song. 7 INSTRUMENTAL MUSIC [INSTRUMENTALMUSIK] (vol. II, pp. 677-79) Instrumental music employs tones, not words, to make comprehensible what it is expressing. It is to be understood in opposition to vocal music, in which comprehensible words are sung. All music is rooted in the energy contained in simple tones in order to express various passions. And no music would be possible if one could not speak the language of sentiment. It seems, then, that instrumental music is the most important of the fine arts in this regard. One can easily dispense with vocal music for dancing, festive celebrations, and military marches, since instruments alone are sufficient to arouse and sustain the appropriate sentiments for such occasions. But where the subjects of sentiment must be portrayed or made recognizable, then music must have the aid of speech. We can be very moved if we perceive tones of sadness, pain, or even misery in a language we do not understand. When, however, the speaker of these emotions speaks in a language we do understand, when he makes us aware of the occasion and cause of his distress, and the particular depths of his suffering, then we are moved much more strongly. Without the aid of tone and sound, without movement and rhythm, we can still be moved when reading of the love pangs of Sappho. But when musical tones are called upon to help express the heaviest sighs of the lovers pain, when a rapturous movement in the succession of tones provokes our ears and sets our nerves in motion, then our sentiments are incomparably stronger. From this, we learn with complete certainty that music achieves

96

Johann Georg Sulzer

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

Musical issues: harmony

97

sentiment in a comprehensible language is nothing but sheer noise. [...] {679} Among all instruments that can produce expressive tones, the human voice is without doubt the one to be preferred. One can deduce from this the fundamental maxim, then, that the most excellent instrument is that which is most capable of imitating the human voice. By this reasoning, the oboe is one of the best. 8 HARMONY [HARMONIE] (vol. II, pp. 470-75) This word is used today in more than one sense. It can signify (1) the simultaneous sounding of several individual tones within a single triad, which is to say, the harmony of chords ... (2) the quality of a composition in so far as it is viewed as a succession of chords {471} and (3) the pleasant sounds produced by good consonances or several tones melded together ... {472} The question has lately arisen as to the part harmony plays in music. A few writers assert that it is the principle of all music. Without a knowledge of harmony, they believe, it is impossible to write a good piece of music. This opinion is handily refuted by Mr. Burette, who has convincingly shown that the ancients knew nothing of harmony, yet still possessed music.5 Those for whom this evidence is insufficient need only consider how many peoples there are with dance melodies who know absolutely nothing of harmony; that there are countless numbers of beautiful dance melodies lacking a bass or harmonic accompaniment. It cannot be doubted that melodies made for dancing are real works of music when one considers how perfectly movement and rhythm are utilized in them. These are the very qualities that are the most essential in music and turn a song into passionate speech. And no one will deny that excellent dances can be produced without the help of harmony. We can conclude, then, that harmony is not essential to music. The ancients were able to produce songs of great power without it. But we thereby cannot conclude with Rousseau that it is a gothic or barbarous invention, one more detrimental to music than helpful. A single-voiced melody not only does not lose anything when accompanied by a good bass line and a few inner 5

Pierre-Jean Burette (1665—1747) 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

Johann Georg Sulzer

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]

Musical issues: harmony

99

to find a beautiful theme or develop an idea that closely expresses the language of some passion? That which makes a composition the comprehensible utterance of an emotionally wrought individual is without question independent of harmony. And don't we regularly encounter beautiful pieces of music written by self-taught composers who know little about harmony? If we grant melody greater preference over harmony, it is not to denigrate the importance of harmony. We have already noted that multi-voiced works like duets, trios, and choruses are among the most important works of music. A composer of the greatest melodic talent might not be capable of setting even a single measure of a duet or trio, since this demands the greatest competence in harmony. But even besides these cases, a knowledge of harmony is either indispensable or of the greatest use in music with only a single melody. It is essential in such works as todays opera arias, where short melodic phrases that contain the true expression of a texts sentiment must be treated thoroughly and shaded through good modulation. Without any knowledge of harmony, no modulation is possible. And everyone senses how powerfully harmony can sometimes reinforce expression. Not infrequently do tones penetrating deep within our heart accrue their power through harmony. This can be demonstrated by the various chromatic and enharmonic passages that often underlie the most expressive of melodies, and whose applications would be impossible without a thorough knowledge of harmony. Besides, it is undeniable that a strong element of expressivity already is inherent to harmony itself. A powerful harmony, without the aid of melody, movement and rhythm, can express many passions and agitate or calm ones soul in many ways. Are there not individual tones that will sometimes press with the greatest intensity upon the innermost sanctuaries of our soul with feelings of pain, horror, or despair? These tones can certainly be sensed only through the support of harmony, since their power lies entirely in dissonance. A single tone from a consonant triad is always pleasant and delightful. But a triad that is not entirely consonant is not necessarily unpleasant; on the contrary, it can be the source of truly expressive tones. {475} If the sound of a consonant triad is composed of harmonious tones, the sound of a triad that is not consonant is composed of both harmonious and inharmonious tones. Only someone versed in harmony will be able to recognize and imitate them.

100

Johann Georg Sulzer

Thus, a good composer must necessarily be competent in both melody and harmony. It cannot but be seen as a decline of art when we look at the changes in music, and see how today the study of harmony is undertaken with far less seriousness and diligence than it was at the beginning of our century as well as in the preceding two centuries. Because a full knowledge of harmony can only be achieved by a kind of practice and work that many find wearisome and dry, it is often viewed as pedantry. But this pedantry — the full-voiced chorale, fugue, and other kinds of counterpoint — are the only works by which true competence in harmony may be attained. It is thus to be hoped that the kind of study that was once commonplace not be forsaken by the student when learning all the many intricacies of harmony. This is how Handel and Graun became great composers, and also why other composers, who were perhaps of equal talent, lagged far behind them on account of their negligence. Since almost an eternity, the science of harmony was transmitted orally as the secret teachings of a few philosophical schools. What was written down by the best harmonists covered only the initial and most elementary foundations of this art. It seems as though the greatest masters of harmonic rules felt these rules more than they understood them, and consequently why they taught more through example than through rules. We must grant Rameau the honor of being the first to have tried to explain this science methodically. If much remains in his system of harmony that is arbitrary or weakly developed, he still will always deserve the glory of being its discoverer. And it is not to be doubted that harmony, as with other sciences, will little by little be elucidated within a thorough and coherent system. 9 MAIN THEME [HAUPTSATZ] (vol. II, pp. 488-90) The main theme of a composition is a period which contains the full expression and nature of melody. It may be found not only at the beginning of a composition, but throughout, and repeated in various keys and with variation. The main theme is commonly termed the thema. Mattheson justly compared it to the Biblical verses upon which a sermon is based, and which must contain in a few words all that will be developed more fully in the course of the sermon. Music is properly the language of feeling. Its expressiveness is always of a short duration since the feelings that it presents in a few utterances

Musical issues: main theme

101

are themselves simple. This is how a very short melodic phrase of only 2, 3, or 4 measures may express some sentiment so clearly and so perfectly, that a listener can recognize right away the emotional state of a singer. Thus, if a composition has no other purpose than to present clearly some emotion, such a short phrase can be perfectly adequate provided it is well thought out. But this is not the purpose of music. Its purpose should be to maintain a listener in the same emotional state for a period of time. This is not possible by simply repeating the phrase, no matter how excellent it may be, since the repetition of anything is boring, and one's attention can quickly wane. One must thus find a kind of melody in which a consistent sentiment is expressed so that it can be continually repeated with appropriate changes and various modifications until it has succeeded in its intended impression. This is how most of today s compositional forms have arisen: the concerto, symphony, aria, duet, trio, fugue, and so forth. They are all related in that in any one of their main sections there is only a single, short main theme established that expresses the respective sentiment of the period. Such a main theme should be supported or even interrupted by smaller subsidiary ideas [Zwischengedanken] that are appropriate to it. This main theme should be repeated along with those subsidiary ideas using various harmonies and keys, as well as with slight melodic variations (providing they are all appropriate to the main sentiment expressed) to the point where the listener himself has been completely overtaken by the sentiment of the music, and he has experienced it from all sides. {489} In each of the afore-mentioned musical genres, the main theme is always the most important element. Its invention is the product of genius, while its performance a product of taste and art. If a composer is not fully successful in finding a main theme, he could still compose a correct and clever, not to say even perfectly enjoyable, piece of music if he understands his craft well enough. But he would not be able to awaken the real energy of any lasting sentiment. The most important quality of a main theme is a sufficient clarity and comprehensibility of expression such that anyone hearing it will immediately understand this language of the heart, or be able to identify with the sentiments of whomever is singing. If the sentiments are not clearly defined or comprehensible, then the work can never become a truly complete composition, even were it to be written by

102

Johann Georg Sulzer

the worlds greatest composer. Such intelligibility depends as much upon the tempo and meter of the music as it does upon the melody or melodic progression. And as already mentioned, it is one whose invention is fully a work of genius and for which no rules can be laid down. Meanwhile, genius is itself not sufficient in giving a main theme all necessary perfection; art must also do its share, since all qualities which do not belong to the comprehension of expression depend primarily upon art. The main theme must be of a certain length. If it is too short, it cannot be subject to the requisite changes and repetitions that are needed for its variety of uses; if it is too long, the whole of it cannot be retained clearly enough in one's memory. Thus in pieces of faster tempo, it should be not less than two measures in length, while in pieces of a slower tempo, it should not exceed four measures. If a composer has found an idea with fully intelligible expression, he must know when to lengthen or shorten it. He must be especially careful when composing longer main themes that consist of several smaller segments [Einschnitten] to observe the closest cohesion so that the main theme possesses real unity and is not just a pairing of two different ideas. One must not sense any kind of closure in the theme before it is completely finished. This demands much skill and reflection. The main theme must further allow for the introduction of secondary themes by which the most beautiful elaboration of melody may be maintained. These secondary themes [Zwischensdtze] normally occur after rests or after a sustained tone in the main theme, and should seem to designate more closely and precisely the sentiment of the music. This is why the main theme should reflect the sentiment only in the most general way, and allow for the addition of more refined decorations that may take place along with the requisite elaboration, without the slightest detriment to the unity of rhythm. These secondary themes sometimes enter only at the end of the main theme. It is also a requirement of art, then, that the subsequent repetitions of material be brought off with a natural and easy connection. In this regard, composing for instruments offers fewer difficulties than when one attempts to set a text. {490} This is because the composer must make sure that the meter of the poem strictly agrees with the movement and length of the phrases, as well as its

Musical issues: sonata

103

shorter segments or resting points — something that often causes no little difficulty. One can easily see then how the invention and treatment of a main theme requires more than just genius; it requires taste, art, and experience. It is thus a grave omission in the theory of music that so little has been written about such an important subject. We can at least thank Mattheson, as for so many other things, for having made a try, although he may not have been the ideal person to treat this matter.8 It would be of the greatest value were a discriminating connoisseur to search the music of the greatest composers for the most beautiful main themes so as to illustrate and explain that which appertains to art and taste. Such beautiful examples can serve to instruct us in those matters for which no firm rules can be laid down. 10 SONATA [SONATE] (vol. IV pp. 424-26) The sonata is an instrumental work consisting of two, three, or four consecutive movements of different character, and one or more instrumental parts that are not doubled.9 Depending upon the number of principal concerting instruments performing, it will be called sonata a solo, a due, a tre, etc.

There is no form of instrumental music that is more capable of depicting wordless sentiments than the sonata. {425} The symphony and overture have a somewhat more fixed character, while the form of a concerto seems suited more for providing a skilled performer the opportunity to be heard accompanied by many instruments than for the depiction of passions. Other than these (and dances which also have their own character), no form other than the sonata may assume any character and every expression. In a sonata, the composer might want to express through the music a monologue marked by sadness, misery, pain, or of tenderness, pleasure and joy; using a more animated kind of music, he might want to depict a passionate conversation between similar or complementary characters; or he 8

9

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

Johann Georg Sulzer

might wish to depict emotions that are impassioned, stormy, or contrasting, or ones that are light, delicate, flowing, and delightful. To be sure, only a few composers will have such intentions in mind when composing a sonata, and still fewer of the Italians and their imitators. A cacophony of arbitrarily connected tones without any further purpose than pleasing the ears of insensible amateurs, bizarre and sudden changes in character from joy to despair, from the pathetic to the trivial, without one knowing what the composer has in mind — all of these characterize todays Italian sonatas. And if a performance of such a sonata engages the imagination of a few excitable fellows, the heart and sentiments of any listener with taste and knowledge will be entirely unmoved. The possibility of endowing sonatas with character and expression is shown in a number of easy and challenging harpsichord sonatas written by our Hamburg Bach. The majority of these are so eloquent that one almost believes to be hearing not a series of musical tones, but a comprehensible speech that moves and engages our imagination and emotions. It cannot be denied that the composition of such sonatas requires genius, knowledge, and above all, a refined lyrical and delicate sensibility. Such pieces also demand a kind of expressive performance that no German-Italian is in a position to deliver, although sometimes children are, at least those who have over time been exposed to such sonatas. The sonatas of C. P. E. Bach for two concerted instruments accompanied by a bass are truly passionate conversations in tone. Those who do not believe they can either feel or hear this would do well to consider whether they have heard them performed as well as they should be. Among these sonatas, there is one that stands out as so excellent and so full of invention and character, that it can be considered as a masterpiece of good instrumental music: the conversation between a certain Melancholicus and Sanguineus published in Nuremberg.10 Any aspiring composer who wishes to compose a sonata would do well to take the music of Bach and other similar pieces as his model. Sonatas are the most common and efficacious practice pieces for performers since there is such a quantity of both easy and difficult pieces for all instruments. They stand in the first rank of chamber 10 The Trio Sonata in C minor, H. 579. [C]

Musical issues: symphony

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

Johann Georg Sulzer

need the least amount of embellishment or coloration. And because the symphony must be read directly from the printed music and is not a practice piece (as is the sonata) there should be no difficulties in it that could not be handled by the players and performed crisply. The symphony is most excellently suited to expressions of grandeur, passion, and the sublime. Its purpose is to prepare the listener for profound music, or in a chamber concert, to offer a splendid display of instrumental music. {479} If it is to be successful in the former goal, and an integral part of the opera or church music it precedes, it must express more than grandeur or passion; it must have a character that puts the listener into the mood of the following piece, and differentiate itself by the style that is appropriate for either the church or the theater. The chamber symphony, which constitutes a self-sufficient whole and is not dependent upon any subsequent music, achieves its aim with a sonorous, polished, and brilliant style. The allegros of the best chamber symphonies contain profound and clever ideas, a somewhat free treatment of the parts [freye Behandlung des Satzes], an apparent disorder in the melody and harmony, strongly marked rhythms of different types, robust melodies and unison passages, concerting middle voices, free imitations of a theme (often in fugal style), sudden modulations and digressions from one key to another that are all the more striking the more distant their relation, strong gradations of loud and soft and especially of the crescendo, which when used in conjunction with an ascending and swellingly expressive melody, is of the greatest effect. To this is required the skill of combining all the voices with one another such that the resulting sound seems almost like a single melody that is in need of no accompaniment; rather, each voice contributes its own share. Such an allegro is to a symphony what a Pindaric ode is to poetry; it elevates and profoundly moves the soul of the listener, and to be successful, demands the same spirit, the same sublime imagination, and the same knowledge of art. The symphonic allegros of the Netherlander Van Maldere can be considered to be models of this genre of instrumental music.13 They possess all the afore-mentioned characteristics, and testify to the greatness of this composer, whose untimely death has robbed art of many more masterpieces of this kind. 13 Pierre van Maldere (1729-68) was a Belgian composer noted for his innovations in symphonic writing. [C]

Musical issues: symphony

107

The andante or largo movement that comes in between the first and last allegro movements does not have so determined a character. Rather, it is often of pleasant, pathetic, or sad expression. Still, it should have a style that is appropriate to the dignity of the symphony, and not as has seemingly become the mode today, be composed of mere trifles. If one wished to write such trifles, he would find a better place to do so in a sonata or a symphony preceding a comic opera. The opera symphony more or less takes on the traits of the chamber symphony, depending upon its suitability to the character of the ensuing opera. Still, it seems that it allows fewer digressions and needs less elaboration since the listener will be more attentive to what follows than the symphony itself. Since the majority of our large operas have the same character and are performed, it seems, primarily in order to dazzle our eyes and ears, these symphonies are effective simply by sounding pleasant. Certainly the opera symphonies of the Italians have no other characteristic. In their allegros, instruments will bawl above a repeating bass line [Trommelbass] and three chords;14 in andantinos, they will dawdle without energy or expression. {480} Certainly no listener in Italy will pay much attention to the symphony. [Carl Heinrich] Graun, in contrast, has brought more art and character to his opera symphonies. But even his tender soul lacked the requisite fire. The beautiful songs that were never wanting in his music, however estimable they may be, usually have but a feeble effect in each of his symphonies. One believes one is hearing a fiery opera aria performed by instruments. Graun seems to have been superseded in this skill by his brother, the late concertmaster [Johann Gottlieb], who in a few of his chamber symphonies captured the true spirit of the symphony. Hasse also excelled here, especially in the lyrical quality of his symphonies. The French try to alternate trifles with sublime thoughts in their opera-comique symphonies. But all their sublimity soon degenerates into bombast. To convince oneself of this, one must only look at or listen to any of the most popular French symphonies in score. Since opera-comiques generally have more that is characteristic than the 14 The "drey Accorden" are the three principal harmonic functions defined by Rameau: tonic, dominant seventh, and subdominant with an added sixth. The theory of "three chords" was made famous in Germany through the writings of Johann Friedrich Daube. Schulz cites them in this context as evidence of the simple harmonic vocabulary characteristic of the Italian symphony. [C]

108

Johann Georg Sulzer

serious operas, it is not to be assumed that each must be preceded by a symphony. Many can have a character inappropriate to the grandeur of a symphony. Here is an opportunity to invent a new form of music appropriate to each piece, and which one could give the general name of Introduction. This is so it would not be confused with the symphony, whose aim should really only be the pomp and grandeur of instrumental music. The church symphony differentiates itself from the above-mentioned symphonies by the gravity of its style. Often it consists of only a single movement. It cannot bear the digressions or disorder in the melodic and harmonic progressions that one finds in chamber symphonies. Rather, it should proceed at a fixed pace, in either a quick or slow tempo depending upon the nature of the music s expression, and strictly follow the rules of composition. Instead of being splendid, it will sometimes seek to convey a quiet sublimity best accomplished by a pathetic and carefully worked-out fugue.

PART II

HEINRICH CHRISTOPH KOCH INTRODUCTORY ESSAY ON COMPOSITION VOL. II, PART I (1787) translated by Nancy Kovaleff Baker

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

Heinrich Christoph Koch

Following in the footsteps of his father and grandfather, both of whom were instrumentalists in the court chapel of Rudolstadt, Koch became second violinist there at the age of fifteen. He performed his duties well, although his remuneration was apparently unsatisfactory. Gradually he ascended through the ranks, attaining the post of first violinist, the title of court musician, and soon thereafter of chamber musician. The Kapellmeister at Rudolstadt, Christian Gotthelf Scheinpflug, himself a minor composer, gave Koch his first lessons in composition.3 Because of ill health, Scheinpflug could not devote full attention to his teaching; he advised Koch to study the scores of famous composers and thereby gain insights on composition and develop his taste.4 Years later in the Versuch, Koch frequently advised beginning composers to study the scores of the masters; he evidently felt that such training had been profitable. In 1773, with the support of his patron Count Ludwig Gunther, Koch traveled to Weimar, Dresden, Berlin, and Hamburg to study violin and composition.5 He may have become familiar with current intellectual and aesthetic ideas on his travels, particularly in Berlin, which, as Thomas Christensen has shown, fostered the most progressive thinking of the time; however, no influence of these ideas is evident in his earliest work, volume I of the Versuch. After this brief contact with nearby cultural centers, Koch spent the remainder of his life in Rudolstadt fulfilling his various responsibilities, performing and composing occasional music. He was appointed Kapellmeister in 1792, but, after approximately one year, Eggebrecht, "Heinrich Christoph Koch," in Die Musik in Geschichte und Gegenwart, 14 vols. (Kassel: Barenreiter-Verlag, 1949-68), vol. VII, cols. 1296-99; Gotthold Sobe, "Heinrich Christoph Koch, Lebensbild eines Musikers der Goethezeit," in Beitrdge zur Heimatkunde des Kreises Rudolstadt (Rudolstadt: E MitzlaffKG, 1958), 168-73; Peter Giilke, Musik und Musiker in Rudolstadt, Sonderausgabe der Rudolstadter Heimathefte (Rudolstadt: E MitzlafFKG, 1963); and Leonard Ratner, "Koch, Heinrich Christoph," in The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, ed. Stanley Sadie, 20 vols. (London: Macmillan Publishers Limited, 1980), vol. X, 132-33. 3 Christian Gotthelf Scheinpflug (1722-70) became Kapellmeister at the court of Rudolstadt in 1754. He supplied the required incidental music, overtures, symphonies and cantatas, many of which are now in the archives of Rudolstadt. Although none of his works was published, his pupil Koch made frequent use of them for musical illustrations in the Versuch, and thus gave his mentor posthumous recognition. 4 In a letter ofJune 27,1771, Koch asked Prince Friedrich Karl whether he should devote himself principally to the violin or to composition; see also his letter of the same date to his patron Count Ludwig Gunther. Both letters are located in the Staatsarchiv Rudolstadt, A XV 4e Nr. 49; see also Sobe, 169. 5 He studied violin for six months with Carl Gopfert (1733—98) in Weimar; we do not have any further information on the nature of his education on his travels, what music he heard, what books or scores he studied, or what musicians he met.

Introduction by Nancy Kovaleff Baker

113

he asked to be relieved of this office and to return to the orchestra as first violinist. He may have wished to devote himself more fully to composition and the theoretical writings now considered to be his most significant contribution. Koch died on March 19, 1816, after having had the satisfaction of seeing his eldest son Johann Benjamin (1779—1864) continue the family tradition and enter the service of the court chapel at Rudolstadt. Through contemporary accounts we know Koch composed primarily occasional music for the court.6 He wrote birthday cantatas, mourning cantatas, a chorale book for the chapel, a drama "Die Stimme der Freude in Hygeens Haine," various brief dramatic pieces for the school theater, motets, arias, concertos, trios, and solos for various instruments. These works are now lost, except for excerpts that Koch cited in his theoretical writings. There are seven symphonies in the archives of Rudolstadt formerly belonging to the court chapel that have the name "Koch" on the title page, but no further attribution is given.7 Unlike his musical compositions, Koch's critical writings have survived, and they constitute his most substantial contribution to posterity. He wrote reviews and articles for various periodicals such as the Musikalische Realzeitung of Speyer in 1788-91, the Jenaische allgemeine Literatur-Zeitung in 1804-11, and the Allgemeine musikalische

Zeitung in 1807-11, some under his name, and some anonymously. He conceived of and edited the periodical Journal der Tonkunst in 1795, which lasted for only two issues owing to lack of public interest. Much more successful was his monumental Musikalisches Lexikon of 1802, an exhaustive encyclopedia of music.8 This volume filled a gap in the music literature of the time by defining current terms and stylistic aspects of the music of the late eighteenth century. Written 6

7

8

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

Heinrich Christoph Koch

by a musician for professionals and amateurs, the Lexikon reached a wide audience and was the primary basis of Koch's fame until the mid-twentieth century. Koch greatly revised the Lexikon in 1807 and published the more concise Kurzgefafites Handworterbuch der Musik,

which was intended for still broader consumption.9 Selected entries from the Lexikon were translated into Danish in 1826 and the entire volume was revised and enlarged by Arrey von Dommer in 1865.10 Koch also wrote a treatise on modulation toward the end of his career,

the Versuch, aus der harten und weichen Tonart ... auszuweichen, and at

his death was reportedly working on two other studies.11 Of all his writings, though, Koch's Versuch einer Anleitung zur Composition was the most original and significant, although not as widely disseminated as some of his later works. The three volumes of this manual were published successively in 1782, 1787, and 1793; thus the author was but thirty-three years old when he began to expound upon the written and unwritten rules of his art. It is a work authored not by a seasoned theorist reflecting upon a lifetime of musical experience, but rather by an enthusiastic young teacher who sought to make the craft of composition more accessible to fledgling composers. A comprehensive study of the art of music, the Versuch systematically discusses theory, aesthetics, methods of composition, and current musical forms. It serves in the twentieth century as an invaluable window on musical thought of the time. One of Koch s aims in the Versuch is to advance a new theory of harmony that will provide a satisfactory resolution to the eighteenthcentury debate over the primacy of melody or harmony. For this, he goes back to the very origins of sound and demonstrates that the 9

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.

Introduction by Nancy Kovaleff Baker

115

processes which give rise to the tones of a scale created a certain hierarchy among them. He cites as evidence two works of Marpurg that claimed to present and develop the theories of Rameau.12 Although Koch accepts many of Marpurg s ideas contained therein, he also deviates considerably from these teachings; the most significant deviation is that he does not subscribe to the view that harmony is the dominant element of music. Although his terminology in volume I did give rise to some confusion on that point (see below, pp. 137, 157—59), Koch believes that neither harmony nor melody takes precedence; the key or mode is the primary matter of music, the Urstqff der Musik.13 If its tones are used simultaneously, harmony results; if successively, melody results. Because of their common origin, harmony and melody are of equal importance and, throughout his treatise, Koch stresses the need to consider them both simultaneously. Koch's concept of the Urstoff der Musik, the primary matter of music, was in a sense the Urstoff of his theory; the resulting equal and cooperative relationship between melody and harmony informs his teachings at every level of composition. The treatise progresses systematically from the origins of tones, to various types of phrases, to large compositional structures, and all of his instruction is based upon this one principle. In his aesthetic writings concerning the very purpose of composition, Koch also founded his ideas upon one unifying principle.

The purpose of music At the time volume I of the Versuch went to press, Koch had the intention of treating the rules of the fine arts and how they might be applied to music in an appendix to his projected two-volume technical 12 Friedrich Wilhelm Marpurg (1718-95), Herrn Georg Andreas Sorgens Anleitung zum Generalbafi und zur Composition, mit Anmerkungen von Friedrich Wilhelm Marpurg (Berlin: G. A. Lange, 1760) and

"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

Heinrich Christoph Koch

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

frequent reference to the ideas of Charles Batteux (1713-80), whose writings concerning the fine arts he had come to know through the translation entitled Einleitung in die schonen Wissenschaften, nach dem Franzosischen des Herrn Batteux, mit Zusdtzen vermehret (1756—58) of

Karl Ramler (1725—98).16 Koch now sought to relate his technical

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 (1747—50) 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."

Introduction by Nancy Kovaleff Baker

117

instruction in composition to the higher aesthetic aims of all the arts. He was a young man who was responding to the intellectual ferment of the time. Quite possibly he was also seeking to give his work added credibility by depending upon such recognized authorities. Koch believed that the purpose of the fine arts is to awaken feelings in the audience which would educate their heart and inspire noble resolutions. If that result is not achieved, then the fine arts have no moral justification. This philosophical backdrop is clearly derived from Sulzer, who stressed the importance of the ethical function of art, as has been shown in the Introduction to the Sulzer translation and in the entry "Sentiment." Yet Koch mentions only in passing the ultimate aim of art, its ennobling effect. He is concerned more with the immediate aim, the awakening of feelings in the audience, for this has a bearing on the process of composition. In the latter part of the eighteenth century, there was considerable debate concerning aesthetic issues, particularly with regard to the imitative capacities of the arts.17 Batteux had stated that the very aim of art was imitation, either the representation of the external world or, more desirable, the imitation of human nature, its passions or affections. He exhorted the artist to copy la belle nature, not nature as it is, but as it should be.18 Sulzers approach to the representation of feelings in art was essentially mimetic, but was informed by new ideas on psychology and expression. He distinguished between sentiment as a type of moral guide or reflex and sentiment in the psychological or emotional sense. Arousal of the latter type by its representation through art will ideally stimulate the former type.19 Although in Sulzers writings the concept of feeling became more complex and the effect on the listener more important, still in essence he viewed the artwork as embodying the expression or imitation of an emotion. Koch believed the artist may arouse feelings through kunstliche Veranlassungen, which can be translated as either "artistic means" or "artistic inducements." His subsequent discussions indicate that it is 17 See Introduction by Thomas Christensen, p. 3 above. Edward Lippman gives an excellent summary of the aesthetic ferment taking place in the eighteenth century in his A History of Western Musical Aesthetics (Lincoln and London: University of Nebraska Press, 1992), 59-136. 18 Charles Batteux, Les beaux arts reduits a un meme principe, new edn. (Paris: Durand, 1747), 24-28 and 78-93. 19 See entry "Sentiment." Sulzer believed that to represent feelings in art effectively, the artist must imitate nature in her "general method" of awakening feelings. See his discussion of imitation in the entry "Nachahmung," Allgemeine Theorie, facs. edn., vol. Ill, 488-89.

118

Heinrich Christoph Koch

by representation or expression of a particular emotion and sometimes also by representation of the situation that caused that emotion that the artist is able to arouse a corresponding feeling in his audience. Although in order to avoid misinterpretation and to discourage literal representation, Koch seldom used the term "imitation" [Nachahmung] in connection with the subject matter of music, there is nevertheless a strong element of the theory of imitation in his explanation of the chain of events. Because in his writings he is concerned almost exclusively with the psychological, rather than the moral, sentiments of Sulzer, I have chosen to translate Empfindung by "feeling," rather than by "sentiment." Music could, Koch felt, arouse emotions and passions; the word "sentiment" seems devoid of the emotional energy and force required to convey Koch's meaning.20 A relative valuation of vocal and instrumental music resulted from these theories concerning the aim of art. Since Batteux believed that the imitation of unseen human affections was a more worthy endeavor than the depiction of the external world, he favored vocal music: As music is significative in the symphony, where it has only a half life, only a portion of its being, what must it be in song, where it becomes a canvas of the human heart?21 Sulzer, however, felt that musical sounds originated as passionate emotions and have the power to "depict, arouse, and strengthen such emotions" ("Music," p. 83). In the entry "Instrumental music," he says that "no music would be possible if one could not speak the language of sentiment. It seems, then, that instrumental music is the most important of the fine arts in this regard." Although he recognizes the immediacy of its effect on our hearing and thus on our emotions, nevertheless he believes that "music achieves its fullest expression when united with poetry, when vocal and instrumental music are brought together" ("Instrumental music," pp. 95—96). The text supplies explanations for the emotion and a fuller description of it; the emotions aroused in the listener are much stronger as he knows their cause as well as their effect, and the aim of music may thus be attained. 20 In his entry for "Empfindung" in the Lexikon, Koch states that "the goal of music is the expression of feelings and passions" ["Ausdruck der Empfindungen u n d Leidenschaften der Zweck der Tonkunst ist"], col. 534. 21 Batteux, Les beaux arts, 284: "La Musique etant significative dans la symphonie, ou elle n'a qu'une demi-vie, que la moitie de son etre, que sera-t'elle dans le chant, ou elle devient le tableau du coeur humain?" See 2 7 7 - 8 6 .

Introduction by Nancy KovalefF Baker

119

Koch agreed that instrumental music has secondary status as it cannot fully achieve the true purpose of art, and he was very thorough in explaining his preference for vocal music. In this discussion (below, pp. 150—52), one hears frequent echoes of Sulzer. Music by itself may move the heart since it speaks the language of feeling, but the feelings aroused have no definition, no known cause or context. Thus they cannot bring forth lofty resolutions or contribute to the listeners moral development. By contrast, when poetry is united with music, the whole is greater than the sum of its parts. The words provide a context for the feeling and the music can express intense passions for which there is no verbal equivalent. Vocal music can portray nearly all feelings and their subtle gradations. The listener is moved and inspired to form noble resolutions, and art then achieves its highest aim. Yet Koch observes that, despite the greater expressive power of vocal music, recent compositions have been predominantly instrumental. His own treatise is concerned primarily with instrumental music, although, significantly, in the portion translated here, the examples are generally taken from vocal works. Why composers would choose to lessen the effect of their music by writing only for instruments is a question that Koch does not address, perhaps because it might weaken his ideological system, perhaps because he had not thoroughly considered it. He does admit, however, that many symphonies, concertos, and quartets are capable of awakening pleasure through arousal of feelings, however undefined they may be, and could therefore achieve the aim of art. Although the emotional effect of instrumental music had not yet been validated by aesthetic theory, implicit in Koch's discussion of the process of composition is the idea that, by following certain guidelines applicable to the fine arts in general, the composer of instrumental music could achieve the ultimate aim of art. Koch's discussion of the purpose of music and related philosophical fine points is very brief. His interest in aesthetics extended only so far as it could provide a foundation for instruction in composition. On the other hand, he was able to dissect and analyze with some degree of success the process of musical creation. The creative process In his discussion of the process of composition, Koch relied exclusively

120

Heinrich Christoph Koch

on the ideas and rhetorical terminology of Sulzer, who had outlined the stages of creation for the fine arts in general.22 Sulzer had, as has been shown, conceived of these stages primarily in abstract terms; when he illustrated his meaning by reference to a specific art, he generally chose painting. It was Koch's challenge to translate the application of these concepts from a visual to a temporal art. Sulzer expatiated upon many terms connected with artistic creation, among them "Inspiration," "Imagination," "Genius," "Invention," "Disposition," "Plan," "Layout," "Sketch," "Realization," and "Elaboration." On occasion his definitions of these terms overlapped with one another or contained ambiguities. It would be useful to review briefly the process of creation as Sulzer understood it and compare it to Koch's conception. Sulzer describes three procedures which are essential prerequisites for any artistic creation - the invention, the selection, and the disposition (see "Invention," p. 63): Properly speaking, invention [Erfindung] means only the creation of parts, and often far more than might be necessary. In the selection [Wahl], the most appropriate of these are sought, and the remainder thrown out; in the disposition [Anordnung], they are connected to form the best whole. Sulzer says that through the disposition, one must be able to envision the entire work with pleasure and simultaneously distinguish each part (see "Disposition," p. 74). There are definitely elements of disposition in the preliminary mental processes of creation, but the disposition may also signify a later stage of the creative process; certainly for Koch there are two stages during which the composer is concerned with the disposition of ideas, as will be evident in the discussion of his conception of the Anlage and Ausfiihrung.

The plan [Plan], according to Sulzer, appears to pertain to the general structure of the work: "the plan tells us what principal sections a work requires, and in what order they must stand." It is not a form imposed from without, except when the sole aim of the work is to be beautiful; rather it arises from the nature of each particular artwork. The plan is the product of the best disposition of the ideas and contains all the essentials of a work arranged in a way which will 22 As has been shown in the preceding introduction, Sulzer s definition of distinct stages in creation had several precedents in writings about art, music, and rhetoric. See also Ian Bent, "The 'Compositional Process'in Music Theory 1713-1859," Music Analysis 3 (1984), 29-55.

Introduction by Nancy Kovaleff Baker

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

Heinrich Christoph Koch

[Erfindung] of the sections and their disposition [Anordnung] or connection [Verbindung] into a whole. The process of disposition definitely takes place before the Anlage is conceived. Koch remains quite close to Sulzer in his description of these preliminary processes and the roles played in them by genius and inspiration. They diverge, however, on the concept of Anlage, by reason of the nature of music. Sulzer s Anlage was comprised of the most important ideas and an outline of all the sections of a work. Koch believed the Anlage should contain the main melodic ideas of the composition, but it may have seemed impossible to present all the sections of a work without, in effect, composing the entire piece. Koch's Anlage is contained in the first main section of a finished musical composition and does not give an idea of the entire structure. Although in his initial definition of the musical Anlage, Koch mentions the principal harmonic features of the whole, later in the treatise he makes it clear that he is speaking of harmony only in a very local sense. Those "main harmonic features" refer only to the amount of dissonance and consonance used in the accompaniment for the main ideas; his Anlage does not provide a harmonic precis of the entire composition.23 It would appear, therefore, that Koch's concept of Anlage was more circumscribed than that of Sulzer. It would, indeed, have been possible to devise a musical Anlage more in accord with Sulzer s conception; Koch could have sketched out the main harmonic centers of each section, and he could have indicated what sort of treatment the main melodic ideas were to receive in each section. Instead he chose to present these ideas only in their original and complete form, that in which they presumably best expressed the emotional content of the work. Since he had the vocabulary to describe a more complete representation of the Anlage, it is possible that he chose to concentrate on the main ideas rather than the overall structure for pedagogical reasons; he did not wish to overwhelm the beginner. In addition, the emphasis of this portion of the treatise is on the "inner nature" of music, rather than its technical characteristics. The primary function of the Anlage is to present the essence of the emotion to be expressed; if Koch also were to have sketched the harmonic structure and some melodic manipulation, this might have distracted the beginner from 23 See Koch's comments and illustration below, pp. 161-64.

Introduction by Nancy Kovaleff Baker

123

the main concern. While the presentation of the emotion in a Sulzerian "layout" for a painting would only be strengthened by outlining the sections and giving indications for details, such a spatial approach might have alloyed the purity of the Anlage in music. The painters Anlage could indeed express and arouse an emotion; in the temporal art of music, a full-fledged plan of a work would not have a comparable effect. Koch believed that the composer should consider the harmonic implications of melody when creating the main ideas of the composition. The greatest skill of a composer and the one most to be cultivated by beginners is the ability to conceive a melody harmonically, that is, to invent it in such a way that one is also simultaneously able to imagine the principal features of its harmonic accompaniment. He discusses at length the various levels of this skill and explores its significance. This idea, of course, is in accord with his concept of the primary matter of music, which gives equal importance to harmony and melody. Both Sulzer and Koch felt that the Anlage must present in a distilled form the emotion to be expressed in the artwork, but their views of how to achieve this differed. Sulzer believed that it is melody which is "the essence of a composition," and the essence of melody is expression; harmony only functions to support melody (see "Melody," pp. 91—92). Koch's conception of the primary matter of music obviated the time-honored debate over the primacy of harmony or melody; they arose at the same time and are of equal importance. A corollary to this belief is that, during the compositional process, melody and harmony must be conceived simultaneously: in the Anlage, the main ideas are conceived simultaneously with their accompanying harmony; at a later stage, the melodic manipulations are conceived with suitable and expressive modulations. In this way, the composer can best express the feeling of the work, and all its components can contribute to the strength of the expression. Koch's recommendation of conceiving melody harmonically thus offered a resolution to the eighteenthcentury debate whether expression in music arose from harmony, as Rameau claimed, or melody, as Rousseau believed. Sulzer and Koch define the concept of Anlage differently, in part because of the arts upon which their theories are based. It is for this

124

Heinrich Christoph Koch

reason that I translate the term differently from Thomas Christensen in his translation of Sulzer's usage. The word "layout" is an apt equivalent for Anlage as Sulzer understood it for it denotes an inventory of specific sections in some degree of detail. For Koch, however, the word is inappropriate. Only in the next stage of creation would the sections of a piece be determined, only then would there be the equivalent of Sulzer's Plan, Anlage, or Entwurf. Therefore I chose the word "plan" to translate Koch's Anlage, because this term connotes less specificity. A plan can also be purely conceptual, and Koch does say that sketch [Entwurf] is the written version of Anlage, thus differing from Sulzer in implying that it is only a mental construct. (It should be noted that Koch does not adhere to this distinction and consistently refers to his notated plan for the Graun aria as an Anlage.) In addition, plan has the meaning of intention, which is here appropriate as it leads into the realization of these ideas in the second stage of composition, when the work itself literally takes shape. As Koch did not use the word Plan in connection with compositional process except when quoting Sulzer, there is no problem of redundancy within this translation. Koch provides a valuable illustration of this stage of composition by abstracting what he considers the plan of the second aria from the cantata Der Todjesu (1755) of Carl Heinrich Graun.24 Koch's plan and a piano-vocal version of this aria are found in Example 1 (pp. 164—72). The finished first section contains no main melodic ideas other than those found in the plan; all is repetition, elaboration, or continuation of these ideas. He justifies the inclusion in the plan of certain figures which might be questioned as essential elements. The sixteenth-note figure of the violins in mm. 32—33 and again in mm. 34—35 he considers part of the plan because it connects two main phrases of the whole. The figures in the violins beginning in m. 41 are also essential, he says, as they belong to the total melodic picture of the movement. Koch believed that the specific content of the accompaniment should be determined in the plan; these particular figures recur throughout the first section of this aria and are thus essential to its overall effect. What Koch has omitted from the plan is of equal interest. The repetition of "dringt zum Herrn" [presses forward to the Lord] with 24 I am grateful for permission to draw on the discussion of the Graun aria in my article "The Aesthetic Theories of Heinrich Christoph Koch," International Review of the Aesthetics and Sociology of Music 8 (1977), 197 and 199.

Introduction by Nancy Kovaleff Baker

125

a slight variation in the melody, mm. 38—40, is not included in the plan. Koch evidently considers it a part of the realization. He did, however, include the second statement of "teilt die Wolken" [parts the clouds], mm. 35-36, which also has a musical accompaniment that is little varied. The repetition of "dringt zum Herrn" takes place over the same harmony as that with which the first statement ended; it is essentially a prolongation of the D-major triad. By contrast, the repetition of "teilt die Wolken" is accompanied by the same melodic figure as the first statement, but on different scale degrees. With the change in harmony, this repetition becomes significant. While the first statement goes from the tonic to the dominant, the repetition goes from the dominant back to the tonic. These two statements thus contain in microcosm the harmonic plan of the entire first section of the aria. In addition, this brief juxtaposition of the two tonal areas foreshadows the movement to the dominant. Since the repetition is thus connected with "the main harmonic features" of the composition, it qualifies for inclusion in the plan. Koch's own interpretations, however, are flexible. Although he initially states that "no more and no less" may be considered part of the plan of this aria, he later allows that the repetition of "dringt zum Herrn" might indeed be included, because this emphatic repetition appears immediately after the idea is first stated. He had, after all, included the repetition of the phrase with which the vocal part began, mm. 29—32. Koch may have seen some inconsistency in his exclusion of the one repetition and the inclusion of the other two. His reasoning, however, is rather weak; the initial exclusion of this repetition from the plan seems more in keeping with his ideas concerning the three stages of the compositional process. It is interesting to compare Sulzer s and Koch's treatments of the second stage of composition, the realization. The description of Sulzer is brief, to say the least ("Layout," p. 66): "the realization gives each of these sections their own characteristic form." Although in the entry Anlage he promised to treat the subject of the realization elsewhere, he oddly neglected to include an entry on Ausfuhrung. Since the main sections of a work were already laid out in the Anlage, as well as in the Plan and the Entwurf, which are basically equivalent stages of the compositional process, the realization and the elaboration were merely successive stages of refinement. In the entry "Elaboration," Sulzer says (p. 76):

126

Heinrich Christoph Koch

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

Introduction by Nancy Kovaleff Baker

127

upon the expression of one emotion. Through these melodic and harmonic operations, the plan blossoms and the form of a composition takes shape: 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. Therefore Koch's realization completes some of the processes finished earlier in Sulzer s tripartite theory of creation. The disposition [Anordnung] of ideas which form a plan [Plan] in Sulzer is now accomplished; the main sections of Sulzer's layout [Anlage] are established in Koch's realization. Koch, however, does not use the term "disposition" in connection with this stage of composition. Koch's plan is contained in the first main period, discounting the introductory ritornello, but in the realization, the principal ideas may be manipulated in this first period, as well as in the succeeding periods; the plan is but an abstraction, the contents of which are absorbed into the larger form. This is shown in the Graun aria which Koch used as an illustration and is especially true for works of greater scope, such as the movements of a symphony.25 In the realization, the composer also completes the entire bass part and some of the secondary parts. Despite their differences regarding the first two stages of creation, Sulzer and Koch are in complete accord on the contents of the third stage, the elaboration. Sulzer sees it as the time to complete those parts that remain incomplete and ("Elaboration," p. 80) to add "a few small details of beauty," rather than an "excess of elaboration." Koch says the full score must be completed: the accompanying voices must be added and/or finished, and ornamentation applied in a way that advances the expression of the composition. Both agree that reason and taste help to determine the degree of elaboration that is appropriate. For his introduction to composition, therefore, Koch adapted to 25 Koch makes this clear in his description of the symphony, Versuch, vol. Ill, 304-11 (Baker, Mechanical Rules, 199-201). The plan is present in the first section of a symphony, and the main ideas appear in their original order, but "interpolations" are also possible. See Nancy K. Baker, "Heinrich Koch's Description of a Symphony," Studi musicali 9 (1980), 306-07. In his discussions of sonata form, Leonard Ratner stresses that the areas of statement and development are not mutually exclusive, but instead are combined throughout a composition; see his article "Harmonic Aspects of Classic Form,"Journal of the American Musicological Society 2 (1949), 159—68, and Classic Music: Expression, Form, and Style (New York: Schirmer Books, 1980), 217—47. For a discussion of Koch's methods of manipulation of the main ideas, see Elaine Sisman, "Small and Expanded Forms: Koch's Model and Haydn's Music," The Musical Quarterly 68 (1982), 444-75.

128

Heinrich Christoph Koch

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

Introduction by Nancy Kovaleff Baker

129

Sulzer, and then gives an abbreviated description of the forms of the movements, which he had already done in great detail in the Versuch. Most relevant to this discussion, Koch includes the three terms Anlage, Ausfuhrung, and Ausarbeitung in his dictionary, for these he had tailored to music; Ausfuhrung here receives its own entry. Under Anlage, Koch outlines the three stages of creation, as had Sulzer in his parallel entry, and emphasizes the importance of the plan in establishing the character or feeling of the work, which it will then arouse in the listener. His description of this term does not differ from that in the Versuch; the Anlage is the essence of a composition and the determinant of its value: The plan thus contains all the essential phrases of a composition. All completed elements of it which are not already contained in the plan, no matter how much they might contribute to the whole, can only be considered as incidental beauties, which can easily be replaced by beauties of another kind; on the other hand, never can an excellent work of art arise from a deficient plan. Therefore, the completeness of its plan gives to every artwork its greatest value, and thus it requires the most genius on the part of the composer.26 Koch insists on the importance of the plan, even though that of the realization and elaboration may change "with the taste of the time." In a note he comments that some people are so dazzled by fashionable beauties in the elaboration that they cannot believe that the works of older composers can be accorded so much worth. He does not provide any further explanation for this remark, but it would seem to indicate that some of his readers might not subscribe to the idea of the importance of the Anlage, and thus perhaps also to its crucial role in the awakening of a feeling. In the entry Ausfuhrung, by far the longest of these three, Koch defines two meanings of the term: the second stage of composition or the realization, and the execution or performance of a work. He goes into some detail on the process of manipulation by which a composition attains its form. He stresses the importance of maintaining Koch, Musikalisches Lexikon, "Anlage,"col. 147: "Die Anlage enthalt also alle wesentlichen Theile eines Tonstiicks. Alle Vollkommenheiten desselben, die nicht schon in der Anlage enthalten sind, konnen, so vortheilhaft sie auch dem Ganzen seyn mogen, nur als zufallige Schonheiten betrachtet werden, deren Mangel durch Schonheiten anderer Art wieder ersetzt werden kann; aus einer mangelhaften Anlage hingegen kann nie ein vorziigliches Kunstwerk entstehen. Jedes Kunstwerk erhalt demnach seinen vorziiglichsten Werth durch die Vollkommenheit seiner Anlage, und eben daher erfordert sie auf Seiten des Tonsetzers das meiste Genie."

130

Heinrich Christoph Koch

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.

Introduction by Nancy Kovaleff Baker

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

Heinrich Christoph Koch

means. The forms of longer compositions are therefore described in terms of the harmonic centers of their principal periods, their establishment, repetition, and relative positions in the hierarchy of the prevailing key. Originally he had not intended to discuss vocal music in his treatise, both because a certain ability in the composition of instrumental music is a prerequisite to that of vocal music and because it has unique rules. Nevertheless, Koch devotes a considerable amount of attention to vocal music before he discusses the larger instrumental forms. This may be explained in part by his uncertainty regarding the relative merits of vocal and instrumental music. His descriptions of vocal genres are of necessity text-oriented and his musical comments relatively cursory. He refers readers to other sources for more information and continues with a description of instrumental genres. For this, there were no adequate alternative sources available. Koch frequently begins his consideration of genres with a quotation from Sulzer s Allgemeine Theorie, perhaps to provide aesthetic justification. But he always moves beyond this to a careful examination of the structure of the music, its harmonic plan and its melodic manipulations. The symphony receives the most detailed attention, for its forms are common to many genres, such as the sonata and the concerto. For the first movement of a symphony, Koch outlines a binary form which consists of three principal periods. The first section, the first of these periods, contains the plan [Anlage] of the work. His reference to this concept here again demonstrates his desire to relate the inner nature of music to external considerations in the practice of composition. Koch's descriptions of form are characterized by great flexibility; he does not dictate a single right way to compose, but rather presents several options drawn from his observations of the music of the time. He hopes, of course, that the beginning composer will then examine the contemporary repertory for himself, as Koch had when he was a student. The Versuch is rich in musical illustrations of the various techniques, styles, and genres which Koch discussed. Included are excerpts from Singspiele of Johann Adam Hiller and Georg Benda; a passion cantata by Carl Heinrich Graun; operas by Ignaz Holzbauer and Anton Schweitzer; symphonies by Franz Joseph Haydn and Francesco Antonio Rosetti; clavier sonatas by Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach; numerous vocal and instrumental works by Scheinpflug; and, of course, his own compositions. It is probable that where Koch does not give the name

Introduction by Nancy Kovaleff Baker

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

Heinrich Christoph Koch

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

Introduction by Nancy Kovaleff Baker

135

indicated their authors by an initial: Koch's notes are followed by [K.], my notes by [B.]. Many people have helped in this endeavor. I am particularly grateful to Mrs. Inge Chafee, who is responsible for numerous improvements throughout my translation. Her knowledge of the subject matter and the language were invaluable. Mrs. Margot Wittkower also read a portion of the manuscript and her suggestions aided me greatly. Dr. Langhof, the Director of the Thiiringisches Staatsarchiv Rudolstadt, was very helpful in providing information. It has been a pleasure to work with my collaborator Professor Thomas Christensen; I have benefited greatly from his expertise. The editor of this series Professor Ian Bent gave valuable, constructive comments which helped to shape my work. The editor at Cambridge University Press, Penny Souster, was very helpful and also understanding with regard to the lengthy gestation period of this project. And finally, thanks go to my husband James and my children Christopher and Elizabeth, who have had to accommodate my preoccupation with this eighteenth-century theorist for quite some time.

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

Heinrich Christoph Koch

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), 3—30. 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

namely the lengthy section on the structure of melodic periods, is thereby deferred until the following third or last volume. It will attach itself more completely to the first two volumes and will therefore appear not under the title of an appendix, but rather as the third volume. I am convinced that it is immaterial to my readers what title the third or last volume carries, since it will not deviate from the promised contents and will come with an index for all three volumes. Thus I need satisfy only those who wish to use these pages for their instruction. To them I promise that, in order not to delay their progress through the yet missing section on the structure of melodic periods, this last volume shall follow with all due speed.

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

namely the lengthy section on the structure of melodic periods, is thereby deferred until the following third or last volume. It will attach itself more completely to the first two volumes and will therefore appear not under the title of an appendix, but rather as the third volume. I am convinced that it is immaterial to my readers what title the third or last volume carries, since it will not deviate from the promised contents and will come with an index for all three volumes. Thus I need satisfy only those who wish to use these pages for their instruction. To them I promise that, in order not to delay their progress through the yet missing section on the structure of melodic periods, this last volume shall follow with all due speed.

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

Heinrich Christoph Koch

idea may be realized only through the uniting of these voices. To cite a well-known example, the two vocal parts of a duet are of this nature where they either have imitations or proceed together in unequal figures. To continue the comparison, the combination of several such principal parts with a common feeling is related to a single principal part as in painting a group is related to a single figure. Everything here is aimed to combine several elements of one type for a common purpose. In this case, the main voice is the one in which the various sections and phrases are expressed most clearly. We do not need to examine the combination with respect to the mechanical rules, because the melodic connection occurs according to the general rules. {6} With regard to melody, we look either to the aim of its ^invention [Erfindung] or the manner of its construction. In the first case, it is an emanation of genius [Genie], united with taste [Geschmack] and knowledge of those means through which music can arouse feelings [*sentiments, Empfindungen] and sustain them in various modifications. In the second case, we must separate its structure into individual sections; from the manner of their connection and from their external characteristics, we must try to abstract the rules and maxims which were the basis for their original combination. In the introduction to the first volume when I explained the plan for the teaching of melody, I said that discussions of genius and taste and their judgment are not a part of my proposed design because I wished to expound only on the mechanical rules of art. Now the beginning composer wishes himself to compose and thus to let his genius and his taste operate. On reconsidering the matter, I find I can make these mechanical rules of melody far more useful to him and can warn him of many wrong ways {7} if I do not pass over these matters in silence; hence the slight alteration of my plan. Thus the teaching of melody contains two parts. As much as the length and the more precise purpose of these pages permits, I will in the first one try to explain the inner nature [innere Beschaffenheit] of melody, and in general the spirit of compositions, which must animate them if they are to attain their proper aim. In this first part, therefore, I deal with the aim, the inner nature and, above all, the mode of origin of compositions. Whereas in the second part I intend to explain the external nature of the melody and will try to show how it is connected with regard to mechanical rules.

Introduction

141

The following must be considered in an examination of the external characteristics of melody: 1. the succession of tones, 2. the variety of figures formed from these tones, 3. the length and the nature of the measure in which these tones and figures occur, {8} 4. the components of the whole considered as sections, and 5. the way in which these sections are connected with each other. These are the external characteristics which may be distinguished from one another in a melody First, what is meant by the succession of tones? One can consider it as succession in general or as a series of tones [Tonfuhrung], but also more specifically as the change of the basic key with other subsidiary keys, that is, as modulation [Tonausweichung]. The first chapter of the first section will treat the former, the second chapter the latter. The second external feature of melody is the grouping of tones in various figures. I find it unnecessary, however, to treat this in particular. If this matter is considered with regard to the inner nature of melody, that is, how these figures can be different with the various feelings to be awakened, then no rules can be established. Thus the use of any particular figures with a view to {9} the feeling to be aroused remains exclusively a matter of genius and of taste. If the external nature of a grouping is examined, one can take account only of the superficial variety of certain well-known figures under general names, as, for example, trills, running passages, triplets, and so on. Knowledge of them really is a rudiment of music and is assumed to be a given in a composer. Therefore, figures cannot be the source from which to derive rules for the composition of a melody. The two rules, that (1) a single figure may not be used throughout an entire movement without special reason, and that (2) too many kinds of figures may not be applied in a single movement, pertain more to the intrinsic nature of the subject, and their basis must be deduced from and explained in the first part. These are the reasons why I do not present this subject in a special section. The third characteristic, which may be discovered in connection with the mechanical aspect of the melody, is the division of the sequence of tones into measures. In the second section, therefore, we must {10} become familiar with the nature and character of meter and its different varieties. The nature of the components of the melody regarded as sections

142

Heinrich Christoph Koch

is the fourth point to be considered. The characteristics of these sections are determined by (1) their length, and (2) their endings, that is, the extent to which they furnish resting points of the spirit [Ruhepuncte des Geistes]. Thus the third section explores how the endings of these melodic sections of the same or different length can be formed, and, conversely, what length these sections have with a particular ending. Finally, the method of forging these melodic sections into a whole is the fifth point to be considered in connection with the melody. We shall examine not only how these sections must be constructed with regard to their length, but also how with a particular length they must be formed with regard to their ending. That is why the fourth section deals with the connection of the sections of the melody in {11} view of their length and ending. Remark Here I feel compelled to indicate the reasons why I have not treated the length and ending of sections as two separate subjects in two different chapters. Riepel was the first (and happens to be the only theorist I know of) who has treated these matters in detail. The first chapter of his Elements of Musical Composition concerns periodicity [Tactordnung], or the relationship of the length of melodic sections. The three following chapters, on the other hand, are concerned with harmonic progression [Tonordnung], that is, the relationship of melodic sections with respect to their endings. These four chapters shed the first rays of light over these matters, which at that time, considered in terms of theory, were still entirely shrouded in darkness.3 Initially I, too, was inclined to expound on these two characteristics of melodic sections, namely length and ending, in different chapters. But treating these subjects in the way in which I had 3 Joseph Riepel (1709—82) was an Austrian composer, violinist, and theorist; during the latter part of his life, he held positions of increasing importance in the service of the Count of Thurn and Taxis at Regensburg. It was there that he wrote his most significant theoretical work, Anfangsgriinde zur musikalischen Setzkunst: nicht zwar nach alt-mathematischer Einbildungsart der ZirkelHarmonisten, sondern durchgehends mit sichtbaren Exempeln abgefasset, 5 vols. (Frankfurt, Augsburg,

and Regensburg: J. J. Lotter, C.U.WagnerJ. C.Krippner, 1754—68). 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.]

THE AIM AND THE INNER NATURE OF COMPOSITIONS AND, ABOVE ALL, THE WAY IN WHICH THEY ARISE

[MUSIC AND FEELING] *Music is a fine art which has the intention of awakening noble feelings [*sentiments, Empfindungen] in us. Feelings lie dormant in man's nature and are properly aroused only by certain natural causes. For example, the possession of something which we suppose to be good engenders pleasure, and the idea that we might meet with misfortune awakens fear in us. Feelings bring about resolutions: pleasure prompts us to seek certain possession of the good which produced it, and fear causes us {16} to take measures to prevent the dreaded misfortune from befalling us. The fine arts in general, and thus also music, possess a unique property which enables them through artistic means [kunstliche Veranlassungen] to awaken feelings in us. They awaken pleasure through the enjoyment of a good represented through art and fear through an evil brought forth by it. Thus, if the fine arts make use of their special power to have the feelings they arouse inspire noble resolutions, to affect the education and ennoblement of the heart, then they serve their highest purpose and show themselves in their proper worth. If deprived of this noble function, if used to another end, then the fine arts are degraded, they are dishonored. Therefore, the proper aim of music is to awaken feelings. Accepting this as a given, we now wish to consider more closely the principal aspect of this art, that is, compositions and the works arising therefrom. 144

Music and feeling

145

First, I consider it necessary to examine the conditions under which the composer can awaken feelings and which feelings he is able to arouse. Then I can proceed to my real purpose and can try to show the beginner how {17} a composition must form in the mind of the creating composer and what it must be like in order to attain the aim of art. Should I have to demonstrate that these are genuine issues which the beginning composer must understand properly to avoid the danger of following wrong paths in his work and missing the goal of art? I do not believe so. Furthermore, neither the size nor the proper aim of this endeavor permits me to treat all these subjects in sufficient detail. At present, I intend only to make the beginning composer more familiar with the course which he must follow in order to reach his set goal and to show him the point of view from which he must consider his art. In short, I wish to give him the opportunity to ponder subjects of his education and to read the relevant treatises on the fine arts and belles lettres. Besides those works which belong entirely to the field of {18} music, these writings include above all Sulzer's General Theory of the Fine Arts, and Ramler's Introduction to Literature

[Einleitung in die schonen Wissenschaften], from the French

of Mr. Batteux, etc.1 The first matter to be examined concerns the question: Under what circumstances can the composer awaken feelings? Even minimal attention to the effect of music is sufficient to show that the performance of some compositions has no effect, while others transport most listeners. The reasons for such differences of effect may lie partly in the composition itself, partly in the manner of its performance, but partly also in the listeners. Before I examine the reasons for this difference in the music, I wish first to say a word about the listeners. Experience obliges me to divide these into three types. There are people who possess neither 1

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

Heinrich Christoph Koch

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

Music and feeling

147

were preoccupied with certain feelings? As long as we are speaking of several such listeners who are already mastered by different feelings or as long as these feelings are predominant, it will be difficult to bring these very different feelings of several listeners to one stable point which music could use and from which it could draw in the listeners to itself. Larger works in which music is combined with poetry and in which different kinds of feelings follow one another, as, for example, an opera or a cantata, already contain a means to arouse in now one, now the other of the listeners described above the feeling that the music has tried to awaken. In these compositions, there need be only one passage which portrays a feeling {22} in harmony with that of such a listener; this passage will strike the tone in accord with the listeners heart and it will affect him, it will draw him in. Once having gained this advantage, the music will be able to retain this listener. The feelings may follow one another only as they do according to the nature of our soul. The composer may not leave any gaps, and he may not jump randomly from one feeling to the other; everything must be connected according to the nature of the feelings and passions. By proceeding in this way, the music will not allow her listener, once affected, to retreat into himself so easily; the music will carry him along and will be able to impress upon him the feelings which it aims to awaken. Shorter compositions, which aim to arouse only one feeling, lack the advantage we have just shown in longer works. Thus it is very difficult for short pieces to shake a preoccupied listener out of his mood and to awaken that feeling which is the aim of the music. {23} To be sure, even here a few means may be used which can be effective with this or that listener; but in general the effect of these resources is just as slight as the possibility of their use. One of these means is the unexpected. This can manifest itself in various ways; it can be contained in the ideas themselves and also in the way they are presented. For now, I shall give only one such example in which the unexpected is of an external nature. That is, the beginning of a concerto usually is an Allegro; but if a brief Grave precedes this Allegro, the unexpected happens, which, although it consists in merely ignoring the customary approach, is nevertheless capable of arousing attention. Precisely this attention can cause the feeling filling the listener to be driven away, or at least to be weakened. Thus music finds a means to

148

Heinrich Christoph Koch

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,

Music and feeling

149

then, in order to do so, it must be played by all the musicians together according to its character. The difficulty of having an accurate presentation of his works is peculiar to the composer and perhaps unique in the fine arts. The poet, the painter, and the sculptor needs no middleman for the proper presentation of his work or for the effect which he aims to produce; he can affect feelings directly with his works. With the work of the composer, this must occur indirectly as he must leave his work to the discretion of the performers. A single one can destroy the spirit of the piece necessary for the faithful presentation of the work, be it from lack of *taste [Geschmack], from incorrect interpretation of this or that idea, at times, I daresay, also from malice. {27} This is not the place to speak of the execution or of the performance of compositions in general. Yet it is to be hoped that amateurs in music accustomed to judge the merit of compositions exceedingly quickly might take this crucial fact into consideration. Therefore, the composer can attain the goal of his art only if the essence of his works is revealed in their performance. The answer to the question under what circumstances the composer can arouse feelings will become still clearer once we examine which are the feelings the composer can awaken. At the very beginning of this treatise, I said that the proper aim of music is to awaken in us noble feelings. Should therefore disagreeable feelings such as fear, sorrow, and the like by definition be excluded from music? One would have to consider whether feelings which are unpleasant due to their natural causes would prove similarly so when awakened through art. {28} Certainly outside the sphere of the fine arts an unpleasant feeling may not always affect us as unpleasant. If, when presented through art, such unpleasant feelings can affect us in a pleasant way, why should we not be entitled to awaken them through art! Fear is an unpleasant feeling and will always affect us as such if we are threatened by an evil or a misfortune. Yet, for example, we hear a friend in whose fortune we take great interest relate how some disaster threatened him. With his account, we experience all the degrees of fear caused by the misfortune menacing him; but is, indeed, the fear produced by his story unpleasant to us? We see Alceste between anguish and hope; we see her form her

150

Heinrich Christoph Koch

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 (1733—1813). 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.]

Music and feeling

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

Heinrich Christoph Koch

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

Music and feeling

153

these pages permit me to engage in this inquiry. Nor shall I examine how many of the multitude of these instrumental pieces, how many of our symphonies, concertos, quartets, and so on, really are adequate to the aim of art, how many of them are capable of awakening pleasure through arousal of this or that feeling! I now wish to warn against two dangerous ways of action. Some beginning composers devote themselves to one instrument as concert performers and study composition only with the intention of learning to compose instrumental works, especially concertos, for their instrument. Skill on the instrument is a highly necessary characteristic to every player. It is undeniable that in this specialty music has made giant strides in the past eighteen to twenty years. Concert performers on all instruments who have acquired quite extraordinary skill are no longer a rarity. {37} There are even entire orchestras where all parts are played by musicians every one of whom is an accomplished soloist. Thus how great could be the effect of music if this generally apparent skill, if this mechanical dexterity were applied throughout to the true goal of music. How fortunate for music where this occurs! But this aspect which might improve music s effect is very often wrongly used and causes the greatest damage to the essential goal of art. The majority of concert performers merely aim at displaying mechanical dexterity; far from applying this acquired skill in order to arouse in their listeners beautiful feelings and to gratify them in a noble way, they seek only to call attention to the mechanics of their art; they require from their listeners nothing more than applause of their skill. If such performers happen to be also composers, it should come as no surprise that they stuff their concertos with nothing but difficulties and passages in fashion, instead of coaxing the hearts of their listeners with beautiful melodies. {38} This way, they achieve what they wish, namely the approval of the masses. But the young musician who does not think independently enough to strive only for the genuine approval of a few high-minded men is thereby carried along; he tries to play only concertos which abound in difficulties; for the most part, he torments himself in vain, because he may have more natural predisposition for truth in art than for difficulties, and he gradually succumbs to poor taste. Even many of those young artists who recognize the false glamour of these so highly esteemed difficulties, because they themselves may not be able to compose their concertos, are often obliged to have recourse to such pieces, if they

154

Heinrich Christoph Koch

wish to have sufficient variety. Unfortunately, there are places where the performer nowadays may never hope for applause unless his concerto features a romance and a rondo.4 — Thus chance circumstances make evil more universal and gradually drive away good taste. {39} One should not be surprised that men of good taste now consider our concertos, chamber music, and table music merely as mechanical exercise of the musicians and as idle amusement on the part of the listeners. Now you young artists who read these pages for instruction, avoid this fallacy and strive only towards the lofty calling of a practitioner of one of the fine arts; may your single aim be to please your listeners through beautiful feelings. Endeavor to attain this high goal of art through the writing of your compositions; do not hanker after the applause of the masses, because for you too Gellert wrote the fine fable: "The Nightingale and the Cuckoo."5 You too should learn to feel what means The escape of a silent tear, Brings (to true artists) far more glory, Than loud applause. {40} If you have attained a high degree of skill on your instrument, if the execution of even the greatest difficulties comes to you easily, all the better for you. Good taste does not require you never to show off your skill. Only use it with taste, and beware of seeking approval merely through virtuosity, else you resemble the buffoon, who gets applause for mere mechanical skill. The second fallacy of which I intend to warn you consists in a wittiness detrimental to the purpose of music. "People who are called witty have always started the decline of the fine arts (says Batteux). They have done more harm to the arts than the Goths, who only carried out what a Pliny, a Seneca and their imitators had begun. — Wittiness is dazzling, and the easier to imitate, the more contagious 4

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.]

Music and feeling

155

it is."6 Therefore, beginning composers in particular must take this hint, as that malpractice has tried to wangle its way into the world of music. This happened in two ways. On the one hand, people wrote compositions filled not with feeling, but with entertainment for the {41} intellect. How, for example, does the composer represent an absent-minded person in an instrumental piece? The distinguishing traits of his composition are extrinsic; he connects sections which properly do not belong together; he makes a triple rhythm where we expect a duple; without reason he alternates the minor mode with the major, and so on. These aspects embody the essence of such compositions. Now (since the composer does not appear to aim at any feeling) will the spirit of the listener be engaged by such a piece, will he perhaps delight in guessing what the composer has wished to represent? No, listeners will never be able to do this; thus one tries to make the defining characteristics of such a composition known to them in advance by writing them on the cover and over the parts. In this way, music can paint hypochondriacs and music boxes, thunderstorms and lovers' quarrels, and so forth. Thus instead of having an effect on the heart through art, the intellect of the listener is engaged through wit. The most amusing aspect of this subject is that many such compositions please simply as abstract music [Ideal des Componisten], that is, as long as their pictorial nature is unknown, {42} and only displease when heard for their intended purpose. This type of wit in music, however, is as yet not sufficiently widespread as to threaten great damage to the art. Only it is regrettable that at times even Homer nods off.7 But far more dangerous and far more damaging it is for art when it is allowed to become clownery. For some time this evil has begun to be contagious. Those who make this mistake do not know how 6 7

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

Heinrich Christoph Koch

to differentiate between the comic and the vulgar. They commit a fault comparable to telling a dirty joke to a gathering of intellectuals. Again the reason for this evil is the desire to gain the approval of the masses. It appears that this thirst cannot be quenched with respect for music; even extraordinary difficulties no longer help, and thus the acquired skill is applied towards provoking laughter in order to reach ones goal. Batteux and Ramler and others teach that the artist is to imitate {43} nature. Thus it is no wonder that at times one hears in music old women weep, posthorns sound, and cuckoos cry; and the musical jesters refer to Batteux and Ramler, whom they have neither read nor understood.8 Beware, young composers, also of these gross mistakes; strive to attain good taste; never seek the approval of the masses through your art or through your future compositions. Then you will not be subject to the temptation of transgressing the limits of your art. I have shown above what we can expect from music when it is separated from poetry and from dance, and the nature of the feelings which it can awaken by itself. Even the best compositions of the kind which avoid all the errors I have mentioned and in which the composer is aiming solely at arousing beautiful feelings yet show the art much in need of improvement. Consider the form of our usual compositions. Does not custom show herself as a tyrant? What else forces us {44} in a symphony or in a concerto to listen to three consecutive movements, each of which is different with regard to the feeling to be aroused? Take the most beautiful instrumental piece, in which not only the first and last Allegro, but also the Adagio is able to awaken the feelings which were the aim of its composer. Now let these three different movements with their very different contents follow one another as quickly as is usual, without any mediating ideas or feelings; study whether under these circumstances they can indeed bring about just what they would have had they been either connected through mediating feelings or performed as entirely separate movements. In the performance of a symphony, for example, the first Allegro will lift us to a noble emotion. Hardly has this feeling taken possession of us, than in the Adagio it gives way to sadness; in order, as it were, to compensate for this sad feeling, which came suddenly and without 8

See Introduction by Nancy K. Baker, pp. 116-18 above. [B.]

The primary matter of music; melody and harmony

157

apparent reason, we jump just as quickly thence to even greater joy in the last Allegro. Does this treatment correspond to the nature of our souls, is it appropriate to the nature {45} of the succession of feelings? Is it just as easy for the listeners to proceed from sorrow into joy as it is easy for the musician to turn the page and begin the last Allegro after the Adagio? Consider now the usual sequence and contents of compositions, which are often played in concerts or in chamber and banquet music, and judge.9 Various of my readers will charge that my ideas are too farfetched! Good, I willingly resign myself to that - I let them have their pleasure in music and do not envy {46} their taste. Perhaps others will indicate that their patrons or their listeners desire no greater, no nobler pleasure! This bodes ill for good taste in music! I realize that often the artists are not solely responsible for choosing that which is nobler not only for the listeners, but also for art. But could they not now and then find an opportunity to let the performance of a vocal piece wrench from their listeners the acknowledgment, guided by their own feeling, that music can produce more noble pleasure than mere amusement? This truth has already been demonstrated where opera is customary and also where it is no extraordinary rarity to hear a vocal piece (be it of dramatic or lyrical content) in the concert hall or in chamber music. {47} I have deviated too far from my goal; now I shall return to the subject and will try to show the novice composer how a piece of music must arise in his soul if it is to attain the aim of art. [THE PRIMARY MATTER OF MUSIC; MELODY AND HARMONY] At the very beginning of the introduction to the first volume, I promised to draw a line between *harmony and *melody, and to answer the well-known controversial question whether harmony or melody came 9

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

Heinrich Christoph Koch

first, whether a composition may be reduced to melody or harmony in such a way that my readers could be at peace with the judgment. I do not know how, from what I said concerning this point on pages 7 to 9, some could have deduced I meant to say that, at the creation of a composition, harmony must arise first in the soul of the composer.10 This matter is too important to the beginning composer for me not to seize this opportunity to clarify my opinion. If the problem under discussion is to be completely resolved, it must be considered from two different points of view, the material and the formal. {48} Considered materially, the question can arise when the theorist tries to reduce the entire substance of a composition to its primary matter [Urstoff] in order to define rules of composition. The entire work was divided into melody and harmony, and here the question was raised, which of the two arises first, or more clearly, to which of the two may the composition be reduced? If one were to claim melody to be first, one still had to admit that its notes were always the tones of an underlying harmony; indeed, even successive tones, once heard together, already had all the characteristics of harmony. On the other hand, if harmony were given priority, it became evident that the mere combination of two chords contained just as many melodic progressions as the chords had parts; indeed, even the tones of a single chord, heard successively, manifested all the characteristics of melody. In short, the arguments were circular; one did not wish to admit that the subject itself was as yet not sufficiently defined to arrive at a definite principle. This gave me the opportunity for the passage cited above, for neither melody nor harmony can constitute the primary material of a composition. {49} Both bear characteristics 10 Koch did, in fact, say just that (Versuch, vol. I, 9): "Denn was kan [sic] in einem Tonstiicke eher entstehen als die einfache Harmonie?" His concept of "simple harmony, "however, differed from the generally accepted definition of harmony. The reactions prompted by this statement led him to refine his terminology in volume II of the Versuch; he introduced the term Urstoff der Musik to designate this primary material of music. See also his Preface to volume II, note I, above, p. 137, where he discussed a review of volume I. Misunderstandings may have arisen in part because in the first volume his definition of harmony or simple harmony seemed to include chords. He described three ways of connecting tones (Versuch, vol. I, 7-8): "die erste, wo die Tone, nicht in einer Reihe verbunden, bearbeitet werden, und diese wird Harmonie, Einfache Harmonie genannt, die zweyte, wo sie in einer nach einander horbaren Reihe verbunden werden, und diese wird Melodie genannt, die dritte, in einer zusammen horbaren Reihe, und diese nennet man Contrapunct, Satz, oder begleitende Harmonie. His subsequent clarifications lessened the possibility of misinterpretation concerning his view of harmony. [B.]

The order of composing

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

Heinrich Christoph Koch

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.]

The plan: 1. The mechanical elements

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

In pursuance of our aim, we must first of all try to form for ourselves a clear idea of what we as the composer mean by the plan of a composition, or how the concept advanced by Sulzer must be applied to composition in particular. And we will find that we must understand by the plan of a composition the main ideas of the piece already connected with one another which together present themselves to the composer as a complete whole, combined with its principal harmonic features [harmonische Hauptziige]. As we shall see immediately, the very nature of composition requires the conception of a plan in this way exclusively. {54} The composer working in the fire of imagination may be fortunate enough to invent the main ideas of his piece directly in such an *order and connection that these different ideas, as it were, immediately appear to him as a complete whole; or he may not be able to do this. In the first case, his plan is completed as soon as he has thought out how the harmony is to contribute to the effect, in other words, as soon as he has decided on the main features or the movements and figures of notes which are to support this envisaged whole in the accompanying parts. If the composer is able to invent his plan in this way, then he has great serendipity with regard to the effectiveness of his *genius [Genie] and his inspiration. But in the second case, when the composer hits upon no such auspicious moment, the situation is entirely different. Inspired genius is not always able to invent immediately such a series of ideas which present themselves to him as a harmonious whole and whose sections connect in such a way as to please good taste entirely; often many similar ideas adequate to the aim of the whole {55} occur to him at the same time, making either their selection or connection more difficult for him. Usually more ideas than he needs for his purpose emerge in this spiritual condition of the composer. Such superabundance of ideas really should not be detrimental to him, because he can choose the most beautiful and the most appropriate for his goal; nevertheless, the superfluity 12 Sulzer, "Layout," above, p. 66. [B.]

162

Heinrich Christoph Koch

often places the composer in difficulty, because usually various of these sections which he deems to be the most beautiful for his purpose may prove incompatible and incapable of joining together as a single, complete picture in the composers mind. Here the working composer often meets an unpleasant difficulty which slows down the completion of his plan. He has more sections than are necessary for his purpose; he feels that they are beautiful and suitable to his objective; nevertheless, a few of them present themselves as not completely appropriate to follow one another in the total picture. Thus, notwithstanding the abundance of ideas, this causes a real dilemma. The composer is obliged to wait for the lucky moment in which he {56} finds the thought which enables him to connect to his entire satisfaction the ideas which beforehand would not let themselves be joined appropriately without offending his sensitivities. For it is a principle of the utmost importance to us that the connection and the sequence of these sections not be at all inimical to the feeling of utmost tenderness which must accompany us in the fire of inspiration. If the composer now finds himself in the situation just described, then the plan of his composition requires two different types of procedure, namely the invention of the sections and their disposition or connection [Verbindung] into a whole. Herewith let me advise you beginners most urgently never to hurry, especially with the connection of these sections; and never to force the ideas together, as long as you do not feel that they present themselves automatically as a complete whole, of which nothing is too much or too little, and that all sections stand in such a relation and follow one another in such a manner that they simply could not be arranged otherwise. In short, the beginner must get into the habit of not seeking to complete his plan {57} until the developing whole affects himself in the highest degree and increases his inspiration. Sulzer says in the article quoted before: I would thus advise every artist to apply the utmost concentration to the plan of the work and to deem it his most important job. He should not consider any other part of his work until the plan 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 plan is not adequately thought out before its realization. An imperfection in the plan robs the artist of the fire and fortitude necessary for a work's realization. Partial elements of beauty will not be

The plan: 1. The mechanical elements

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.]

Heinrich Christoph Koch

164

I choose the second aria from the Todjesu by Graun.15 In my judgment, the following, no more, no less, could be considered the plan of this aria. Example la Allegretto

^ 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

m

,.

I

Fl. I/II Vie I/II Via Fg. I/II B.c.

m

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.]

The plan: 1. The mechanical elements

nr

^

7TT

165

LJ

r

Ein

r i r r f i r cf-Cf-ir r » ' T r r ir r r Ge - bet

um

neu - e

t

Ij

Star-ke,

r

zur _ Voll - en - dung

ed - ler _

Heinrich Christoph Koch

166

r rr T

zum Herrn,_

dringt

m

- hort

r ' n es

der

M

Hierr

er -

i

er - hort

es

I*

gern,

der

*r T T

r ^' '

er - hort

I

r

I

r r r 'h I- h

'J r

es gern,

i

""I ii

und

x

gern, —

Herr_

si

zum Herrn,_

der Herr

er-hort es

7#i;

^

The plan: 1. The mechanical elements

gern, der Herr

er - hort es

gem

uEin• JGe -l beti ? umJjJ

IJ.

167

I] I]

neu - e

Star - ke,

m

fz u r _i rVoll-

Heinrich Christoph Koch

168

J'UJ r i teilt

-i

die Wol - ken, dringt

zum

Herrn, _ dringt

zum

• i

Herrn,

r r ir cj

und der

m Herr _

er - hort

es

gern, _

er - hort, _

i

I 1

n r

r r plP

er - hort es

^

lli

'lJ

gern,

teilt die

The plan: 1. The mechanical elements

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
er-hort es

die Wol - ken, dringt

169

der Herr

er-hort

m

es

ger

Heinrich Christoph Koch

170

140

r r r

,

n

m i J

j

r=f

Allegretto

Klimm' ich

trfrg ^F^

> Fine

145

LJ LJ zu der

Tu

-

LJ TTem gend

- pel

matt

den

The plan: 1. The mechanical elements

- 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

Heinrich Christoph Koch

172

p r cj"'P

- sang,

,mp bet,

Ge - bet

v P IT und

mit

Ge -

i

From the piano—vocal edition by Ulrich Haverkampf of Carl Heinrich Graun's Der Tod Jesu. © Breitkopf and Hartel, Wiesbaden. Used by permission.

The plan: 1. The mechanical elements

173

{62} First remark If one considers this plan and contrasts it with the aria as Graun has realized it, one will find that it contains all essential phrases of the entire aria (until its second section, of which I will say a word afterwards). No new idea which is not already contained in the plan presents itself subsequently in the movement; everything is either repetition, clarification, or continuation of the main ideas contained in the plan. The figure of the violins entering in the eighth measure [m. 32] (counted from the beginning of the vocal part [in the completed aria]) I include as part of the plan, for the reason that the author thereby has connected two principal phrases [Haupttheile] of the whole. Also, the movement of the violins, which commences in the {63} seventeenth measure [m. 41] and continues in the following measures, is an essential part of the plan, because it belongs to the entire melodic picture of the composition. The realization includes not only the repetition of the second half of a principal idea [Hauptgedanke], which makes up the fifteenth and sixteenth measures of the aria [mm. 39—40], but also the continuation of the movement from the twenty-third measure [m. 47] until the conclusion of the first solo of the vocal part, as well as the ritornelli and the entire second solo up to the main cadence. In this case, I consider only the bass voice in combination with the vocal line as part of the main harmonic features of this plan. I assume that concurrently with the invention of his plan, the author had determined that the {64} accompanying parts should contain no special metrical figures. Rather, the first violin should support the vocal part in unison; the second violin, where the figures of the main part permit it, should accompany in thirds or sixths, and, furthermore, should play only harmonic notes of the underlying chords. Thus I consider the content of the second violin as well as the accompaniment of the bassoon and the melodic line of the viola, where it does not proceed with the bass at the octave, to belong to the elaboration of the movement. Incidentally, I purposely chose as an example a plan which is very simple and easy for the beginner to take in at a glance, not only with regard to its main harmonic features, but also considering the entire realization and elaboration.

174

Heinrich Christoph Koch Second remark

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

The plan: 1. The mechanical elements

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

Heinrich Christoph Koch

ability with the ritornello before he even approaches the invention of the principal matter itself, namely the solo. The first ritornello is generally very long in recent concertos, as is the first Allegro movement of instrumental pieces. When a master of the art does this, there is nothing at all to take exception to, as long as it is completely satisfactory to his listeners. But a beginner should beware of too lengthy movements; for it is always better if the movements please the listeners so well that they wish they could have lasted longer, than when they seem too long. {70} This should be knowledge enough of what is meant by the plan of a composition. Yet we still have to examine the most important aspect of this subject, namely the way in which such a plan originates in the mind of the composer or how the composer invents. There are essentially three important matters connected with the invention of compositions besides the knowledge of the mechanical aspect of composition: (1) the facility of invention and disposition, and also the innate feeling for the beauty of the musical sections and their suitability to form a beautiful entity which will attain the proposed aim; or, in other words, genius and taste; (2) the special spiritual condition [Seelenzustand] in which the composer must be when he wishes to invent a composition; and (3) the acquired skill of thinking melodically and harmonically. It is taken for granted that he who intends to become a composer must be a practicing musician (be it a singer or an instrumentalist), must possess the genius necessary for a composer, and must already have honed his taste through much practice and listening to good compositions. {71} These are characteristics to be expected of the beginning composer whose necessity I need not demonstrate further. I shall discuss the particular spiritual condition in which the composer must try to place himself for the invention of his compositions, usually designated by the expression *"inspiration" [Begeisterung]. First I will clarify what I understand by melodic and harmonic thinking [melodisch und harmonisch denken], and I will show that this skill is an essential characteristic of the composer.

[THE PLAN: 2. THE SKILLS OF MELODIC AND HARMONIC INVENTION] Even if the beginning composer is endowed with the greatest genius and has cultivated his taste to the most refined degree, even if he possesses a very lively imagination combined with the ability to raise it easily to inspiration, he will not be able to apply these gifts if he yet lacks the skill to think melodically and harmonically. To think melodically is the ability of a composer to retain for a while, completely pure in his mind, a melody or only sections of it, which he either has heard from others or has himself imagined and invented.16 {72} It is imperative that the composer be capable of keeping in his imagination the invented melodic sections which he wishes to combine until he has brought them into the configuration which I have called the plan. However, this art of thinking melodically would be of little help if he were not also capable of writing down the sequence of intervals or their figures. There are many composers who possess not only the skill of thinking melodically, but also the aptitude to notate correctly the melody present in their imagination, without having much practiced this. To these it may even appear somewhat ridiculous that I treat this matter as a skill especially to be acquired by the composer. Happy the young musician who possesses this skill, if he has the intention of becoming a composer, for there are {73} certainly many, if not most, composers who are incapable of notating correctly a melody which they can play by heart. As soon as they attempt this, they miss sometimes this, sometimes that interval leap. They cannot do this without resorting to their instrument in order to find the breadth of the intervals or the accidentals with which this melody is written on the staff, for they have not become accustomed to think of the names or signs corresponding to the sequence of tones in their imagination. Usually this deficiency is found in musicians who were not sent to singing school when they began to learn music. If a beginning composer finds he lacks this skill, I advise him with the best intentions not to proceed in composition and especially in the melodic component of it until he has acquired this ability, because the little effort which he now expends upon it will be of frequent 16 Completely unchanged, or so that fantasy does not introduce any other notes or sequence of notes to keep the picture or idea as pure as it was at its initial conception. [K.]

178

Heinrich Christoph Koch

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,

The plan: 2. The skills of melodic and harmonic invention 179 or they themselves must undertake the necessary exercises for the acquisition of this art. The melodic sections of a composition can be invented in different ways. One can invent them without taking into consideration anything but the melodic succession. Also, one can form a melody out of a series of different chords connected with one another and from the tones which they contain. Or one can have acquired the skill of inventing melodic sections in such a way that one is simultaneously able to pay attention to the ^variety [Mannigfaltigkeit] of harmony necessary for the accompaniment. And this acquired skill is what I call the ability to conceive of melody harmonically. Those who invent a piece of music solely melodically, without looking to a varied harmony, are either destitute of all harmonic knowledge or they possess {77} the necessary harmonic knowledge, but they have not gotten into the habit of making use of it when inventing their melody. Thus they are not able to invent a melody capable of skillfully accompanying the other parts and appropriate to the aim of their composition. They simply connect melodic sections leaving it to chance whether a great variety of harmony is possible. This manner of invention is the source of such compositions which, considering the multiplicity of harmony, have much similarity to the following dance melody.

{78} Let us suppose that he who composes in this manner invents the sections or the phrases of melody in such a way that they are capable of more harmonic variation. Nevertheless, when they are connected, it often turns out that the following phrase requires the same sequence of chords which was necessary in the phrase immediately preceding. To avoid this monotony, one is often obliged to compose forced bass and middle parts in an entirely inappropriate place. Now in this case the melody arises first in the soul of the composer, but without any regard for the harmony. What we have said makes it clear that the beginning composer must make no use of this manner

180

Heinrich Christoph Koch

of inventing if he does not wish to run the risk of allowing himself to be spoilt and of learning to invent melodies which are harmonically monotonous. Even with his first attempts to invent melody, he must, as we shall subsequently see, learn to take harmonic variety into consideration. For surely it is undeniably better for the beginner in composition to accustom himself from the very start to a good method of composing, even if it is slow, rather than inventing things sooner, {79} but by a bad method. To break that habit would be very time-consuming later. If harmony is to precede the invention of melody, then he who wishes to invent melody in this manner must connect a series of chords and, from the different tones of these chords, try to form his melody. There has been no lack of musicians who have maintained that, in the soul of the creating composer, the melody must arise from the harmony. This indeed cannot happen in a way other than that just described. It is assumed to be an acquired skill; nevertheless I am inclined to believe that a muse entirely unknown to other composers must inspire him who invents by this method compositions through which feelings can be awakened. This manner of invention appears to be quite similar to forcing a poet to construct a poem on a series of given rhymes, as has occurred now and then in the past. Granted an entity may result which has all external characteristics of poetry, but does {80} that make this process the ideal method of generating true poetry? I will not dispute that perhaps this method of composing could occur at a time when the attractiveness of melody was not appreciated and when the interest was solely directed towards harmonic elaborations and to polyphony. But as long as we are concerned with the invention of the plan of modern compositions through which feelings are to be aroused, we must declare this method of invention as wrong and to be avoided. And yet, one cannot do without this treatment in the entire range of composition. For the realization and the elaboration, it is indispensable. The composer may, for example, in the realization of his composition, wish to let this or that phrase of the melody be carried by the bass part. In that case, he has to conceive a series of chords for the tones of this melody in the bass voice and from the tones of these chords he must form the melody of his upper voice. Furthermore, the composition of the middle parts in the elaboration of the piece

The plan: 2. The skills of melodic and harmonic invention 181 depends entirely upon this procedure. We already know this method of composition from the exercises of counterpoint in {81} which we place the cantus firmus in the bass voice.17 The sole difference is that if we use it in the future with the realization and elaboration of compositions, we must pay attention to taste and to the specific goal of the composition. Incidentally, there is no denying that a beautiful melody could be produced in this way. Nevertheless it would be only an accident attributable wholly to mechanics, and certainly it is not the ideal method by which to invent the plan of a composition through which feelings are to be aroused. Never have great masters of the art tried in this way to invent the melodic phrases for the plan of their compositions. But what then is the highest degree of perfection of the creative mind of the composer? It is nothing other than the ability to conceive a melody harmonically, that is, to invent it in such a way that one is also simultaneously able to imagine the principal features of its harmonic accompaniment. Batteux teaches this in his reduction of the fine arts to a single principle, through a comparison drawn from painting. "The painter (he says) who has conceived the color and position of a head simultaneously also sees, {82} if he is a Raphael or a Rubens, the colors and folds of the garment with which he must clothe the remaining portion of the body."18 This parable of the creative painter and the creative composer shows us the method of inventing which the greatest masters of art have always used. According to this comparison, the composer who invents the plan of a piece of music which is to awaken this or that feeling must be capable of imagining the content of the voices accompanying his melody. In this way, he may create a more complete entity in which all components help to promote the proposed aim. The skill of conceiving melody harmonically manifests itself to varying degrees according to the differing aims of the composer. The composer who invents the plan of his composition either places the 17 In volume I, part 2, "Counterpoint," Koch provided a graduated course of instruction in the art of counterpoint and reduced composition to five different methods [Setzarten]. Based upon his explanation of the way in which tones and keys arise, these methods were of increasing harmonic complexity. He hoped by this means to make the beginning composer understand how the tones of a cantus firmus contained in themselves the basis for great variety in harmonic accompaniment; see Versuch, vol. 1,229-374, especially 299-300. [B.] 18 Ramler, Einleitung, vol. I, 80. [B.]

182

Heinrich Christoph Koch

entire expression [Ausdruck] of the feeling to be awakened in his principal voice; with the invention of this main part, he pays attention only to a variety of harmony suitable to the nature of the feeling, without attempting to outline particular melodic features which should help to portray the feeling itself. Or, {83} with the invention of his principal voice or his melody, he imagines the subsidiary parts as melodic elements so that they help to heighten the expression of the feeling through certain motions or metrical formulae. Or he creates the expression of feeling in the inseparable combination of several melodies or principal voices. In the first case, if the composer wishes to place the expression of feeling exclusively in his principal voice, then, with the invention of its phrases, he does not need particularly to imagine the content of his accompanying voices. It is enough if he envisages the intensity and change in the harmony or the underlying chords necessary for the feeling at hand, for the accompaniment of his principal voice should contain no special melodic characteristics. Usually in such a case the subsidiary voices are written so that they proceed in suitable melodic lines with the principal voice in thirds or sixths, or the tones of the underlying chords are either sounded simply or repeated several times. The composition inserted above, which I considered as the plan for the aria by Graun, is an example of this degree of skill at conceiving melody harmonically. {84} In the second case, if the composer wishes to enhance his melody and the feeling to be awakened through particular melodic passages in one or more accompanying voices, he must possess far more skill in thinking harmonically than in the first case; for here he must indeed invent completely according to the comparison cited by Batteux. Not only must he be able to imagine the color and position of a head, but he must at the same time have a mental picture of the colors and folds of the garment with which he intends to clothe the remaining portion of the body. In other words, not only must he be capable of imagining his melody-to-be with a view to the feeling to be awakened, but he must also notice the passages through which he will strengthen the expression of the feeling in this or that accompanying voice. This occurs usually through continued metrical formulae and so forth. The following passage from an aria can act as an example of this level of skill of conceiving melody harmonically. I have omitted the

The plan: 2. The skills of melodic and harmonic invention 183 vocal part which proceeds in unison with the first violin, because the text taken out of context may not define the prevailing feeling anyhow. Example 3

U 1

Adagio 2 Flauti et 2 Viole, in ottava alta

i

J

J i

i

J

2 Violini

{87} The highest level of skill of a composer to conceive melody harmonically manifests itself when he invents the essential portions of the expression of the feeling to be aroused in a composite picture, that is, in the inseparable union of two or more melodies. This manner of invention assumes the composer is thoroughly trained through long

Heinrich Christoph Koch

184

practice and has a very lively imagination. An example of this kind of inventing would be the following phrase from a vocal duet, in which both the upper voices are necessarily inseparable for the ideal of the composer and for the effect which the phrase is to have. For the sake of brevity, I again leave out the vocal parts, because in this composition the first soprano begins with the first violin in the second measure, and the second soprano begins with the obbligato viola in the third measure, and they continue with these parts without significant difference. Example 4 pia.

Allegro

Violino obi.

2 Violini

Fondam.

I

M

1

V

pr

r r

The plan: 2. The skills of melodic and harmonic invention 185

^, inffiimffli

J

J

J)

[ r

r r r rr J

I

{91} These different levels in the skill of conceiving the melody harmonically can exist together in the soul of the composer. His genius or the feeling to be expressed permit him in the fire of imagination to make use of now this, now that style, without his conceiving of them as special methods. I have presented them here as separate only in order to make this important matter (of which something yet remains which cannot be described) as clear as possible for the beginner. {92} Certainly each beginner has every reason to ask, how do I acquire this skill? How do I learn to compose? This skill, too, must be acquired following the general rules according to which one tries to acquire any skill. One must begin with the easier and the least complicated aspects of the subject, and progress gradually to its more difficult and more complex elements. The beginning composer who has attained the necessary skill in counterpoint, and thereby possesses the ability to conceive melodically, already has laid the proper foundation for this skill he seeks. And here now emerges the real reason why in the process of learning the art of composition one begins with its harmonic components. The exercises of counterpoint will have taught the beginner the skill of setting an appropriate bass voice

186

Heinrich Christoph Koch

to a melody. If he possesses the ability to conceive melodically, he can imagine most precisely a melody or its phrases in their succession of intervals. Thus he will easily acquire the skill of imagining for this melody the bass voice, which he can compose readily If subsequently he himself creates an entire melody or a section thereof, he can determine immediately {93} whether these invented ideas are capable of the necessary harmonic variety. Through both practice and attentive consideration of such melodies which are well formed with regard to harmonic variety, this multiplicity of harmony so necessary to a melody becomes an instinct which seldom will let the composer invent a melodic succession of tones which would not be useful in view of its variety in harmony. Once one can imagine an appropriate bass voice to a melody, one should go further and should try to attain this skill also relating to a middle voice. At the beginning, one should attempt this only with such a middle voice which either consists simply of a good series of single tones suggested by the underlying harmony, or, where the main melody permits it, [the middle voice] progresses with it in thirds or sixths. In this manner one becomes accustomed to conceive of subsidiary voices with a melody which contain different types of movement and metrical figures; indeed, eventually one will even be capable of inventing a compound melodic picture or {94} expressing ones feelings in the combination of two or more melodies. [THE PLAN: 3. THE SPIRITUAL CONDITION OF THE COMPOSER] Theory will never be able to invent a truly effective means to indicate just how the beginning composer should contrive that a beautiful melody arises in his soul. The source from which music flows is genius, and the judgment whether its elements are beautiful in themselves and appropriate to the goal of the composer, whether they make up a beautiful whole through which the purpose of art is attained belongs before the tribunal of taste. In order for some degree of facility in composing to manifest itself in the composer who wishes to invent the plan of a composition through which a certain feeling is to be aroused, he must be in a spiritual condition called inspiration. Sulzer declares in the article *"Inspiration" in the General Theory of the Fine Arts:

The plan: 3. The spiritual condition of the composer

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

Heinrich Christoph Koch

of a piece.20 {97} It is necessary partly so that nothing is lost of the whole formed in inspiration, especially when one begins to reflect on how to develop this most advantageously, but partly also so that with the realization one can take in at a glance the main phrases in their closest connection. This will ensure that fantasy will not lead the composer astray to unimportant subsidiary ideas [Nebenideen]. [THE REALIZATION: 1. THE MECHANICAL ELEMENTS] In the writing of compositions, the realization follows after the completion of the plan and its sketch. In the plan, the essential phrases of the whole were established and the task of the realization is to subject these phrases to various adaptations and fragmentations so as to form the assorted principal periods; this process gives the piece its scope. The number, the size and the placement of these periods, as well as the modulation seen therein, the place where this or that principal section of the whole is repeated, and so on, create the form of a piece. For the realization, we must consider two things, the spirit or the inner character of the composition, and its mechanical aspects. {98} In realizing a composition, the composer repeats now this, now that main idea, depending on how he wishes to modify the feeling which he is treating. He uses one or another main idea and pursues it by means of its prevailing figure, so that this continuation sheds more light and clarity upon the thought itself. Or he connects a main idea to a subsidiary idea which leads him back to another principal idea, and so on. This process corresponds most closely to the nature of our feelings, which likewise always return to the same main subject which aroused them in the first place, and which always gladly consider their subject from many viewpoints. Whereas the plan was mainly a matter of inspired genius, the realization is more a matter of taste, to which the higher spiritual powers such as intellect and judgment must contribute their effect. If, for example, in the realization the composer wished to handle a movement which features a fleeting feeling in the same way that he treats a movement whose feeling {99} willingly dwells on its subject, either he would show that he has not thought through, not judged 20 The sketch [Entwurf] is technically the notated version of the plan, while the plan [Anlage] is but a mental construct. Koch, however, does not stress this distinction and refers to his notated plan of Graun's aria as the Anlage. [B.]

The realization: 1. The mechanical elements

189

his subject, or he would reveal a complete lack of knowledge of the nature of feelings and of the manner in which they customarily manifest themselves. Moreover, this example also shows how necessary it is for the composer to study the theory of feelings, so that he is able not only to discover all means through which feelings can be awakened in music, but also so that he can adapt the realization to the nature and character of the feeling he has in mind, and that he can determine how one feeling must lead to another. I would deviate too far from my goal if I elaborated further on this subject. The beginning composer must himself try to acquire this knowledge. The realization itself requires mainly two things: (1) a sufficient variety of phrases, or enough modification and adaptation of the main ideas, joined with connective phrases [Verbindungssdtzen], phrases made up of fragmented ideas [Zergliederungssdtzen], or subsidiary ideas [Nebengedanken], and (2) a close and completely appropriate connection of all these ideas.21 In the realization, the composer must {100} be careful to bring the principal phrases defined in the plan in different configurations. He may cut them up, he may clothe them with connective phrases suitable to the main subject and in different periods and in keys related to the main key. Thus a sufficient variety and alternation in the succession of main and subsidiary ideas will be produced. For if he wished to repeat the phrases of the plan in the following periods in just the order and with the same connective phrases of the first period, then this process would prevent the arousal of the feeling, could not affect us from different points of view, could not heighten the feeling by means of the realization. Care and most importantly a refined taste is necessary in the presentation of this variety or in the process by which the main phrases get different turns through various clarifying and connecting subsidiary phrases, so as not to join an idea as a subsidiary phrase to the main phrases of the whole which, under the existing circumstances, 21 Zergliederungssatz is a difficult term to translate. At the time Koch was writing, it seems to have been a phrase which, in the realization, was fragmented, its parts were then manipulated, and the result was extension of the original material. In his Lexikon (col. 1756), Koch defines zergliedem as "das Verfahren, da8 man einen Theil eines solchen melodischen Satzes, der zwar an sich selbst einen vollstandigen Sinn bezeichnet, durch Versetzungen, durch andere Wendungen u. dergl. Hiilfsmittel erweitert, und dadurch dem ganzen melodischen Theile mehr Bestimmtheit seines Inhaltes ertheilet."Thus Zergliederungssatz is a phrase which undergoes this process. See Ian Bent, Music Analysis in the Nineteenth Century, 2 vols. (Cambridge University Press, 1994), vol. 1,21-23 for further discussion of the term. [B.]

190

Heinrich Christoph Koch

cannot suitably be connected with it. If one makes a mistake in this matter, {101} one falls into the error which Horace describes at the very beginning of his poetic art.22 One connects throughout phrases randomly collected and forms a ridiculous whole, whose parts by definition cannot be joined. Beginning composers frequently make this mistake, and nothing is able to prevent them from it other than a refined taste heightened to artistic sensitivity. Therefore, it is extremely important to plan on the necessary variety and, at the same time, to consider the suitability of the subsidiary ideas, which are to connect the principal phrases in various configurations. A continued principal idea properly can beget only a subsidiary idea; this subsidiary idea must always be composed so that it leads us back to the main conception, so that it again necessitates the succession of another principal idea. This last maxim is especially important in compositions which contain several principal periods, as, for example, the first Allegro of a concerto, in which the second or third solo usually begins with a new idea, connected with neither the close of the preceding ritornello nor a principal phrase of the whole. {102} All works of the fine arts must have *unity [Einheit]. To reach that unity in our piece of music, this newly entering idea must necessarily follow immediately after a principal idea, or must make necessary the succession of a principal idea. When dealing with lengthy realizations, it appears to me advantageous to the beginner if, after the plan is completed, he bears in mind or writes down for eventual use other ideas he had during the invention of the principal phrases. He may have been unable to use them at the time, partly because they would not combine easily with the rest of the plan, but partly also because they were superfluous. They may prove suitable for the realization, having originated in the very spiritual condition and mood as the main ideas themselves. If

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.]

The realization: 2. The spiritual effect of modulation and form

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

Heinrich Christoph Koch

expression and strength which under various circumstances can be obtained through nothing other than this means. Especially in the treatment of vocal compositions, the composer often finds with these or those turns of his text or in a particular flow of ideas no other means than the use of modulation for their expression and sensitive presentation. {105} This subject is indeed of great importance for beginning composers. Usually (I do not know for what reason) they consider the modulation merely as a formality, incapable of contributing to the expression of the feeling. Thus I wish to quote a few examples in which the composer, being deprived of all other means, had to strive for the effect of his composition solely by modulation. Although for the sake of brevity I must tear these examples from their context, which is absolutely necessary for the effect which they should produce, nevertheless I shall thereby have the opportunity to make a few observations useful for the beginner. The following three strophes make up the last chorus of a formal vocal composition: Be our joy, O day, honor to the princess! She is, for us, a blessing of the Lord. She, the sublime, Is, paragon of princes, your glory Our joy, she is for us a blessing of the Lord! The anxious longing for you, our beloved, It is finally satisfied. Delight! at the day Of joy to see him again! Celebrate, celebrate the good fortune to see him again! {106} Yet a single wish, father of the land, Best of the princes, for you — but it is already Granted; is thine heart not, O prince, Completely full of bliss, a heaven in thee? That is the concluding chorus of an ode arranged as a formal cantata. Though the two last strophes belong to the cantata, they are not part of the ode. Here is the explanation: The ode was dedicated to the first celebration of the birthday of our Most Serene Highness the princess, heiress apparent. I had received it ready for composition, and the ode ended with the first of the three strophes. Meanwhile his Most Serene Highness the prince, heir apparent, became very seriously ill. The prince being restored to health, it was decided to celebrate his public reappearance together with the birthday of his spouse. This combination

The realization: 2. The spiritual effect of modulation and form 193 of both these celebrations had to be acknowledged in the cantata. The author of the ode, schoolmaster Weismann, expressed his opinion that this combination was most highly desirable, only not for his ode, for as a complete entity, it permitted no addition. Nevertheless, he promised a compromise. Thus arose the last two of our three strophes.23 {107} The ode was later published by the author with a treatise on the cantata, demonstrating mainly how well one could be arranged as the other. The first of these strophes makes up the first principal period of the chorus, which is set in D major; as usual, this period turns towards the key of the fifth and closes therein. After the close in the fifth, a short ritornello leads the modulation back to the main key and makes a fermata on the fifth, as preparation for the second [strophe], which is here inserted as an example. For the sake of continuity, I show here the last measures of the ritornello.24 Example 5 Allegro moderato

, J , ,

t

; \

i j i

~k~ «

|

Die

h 1

-r#==#=

h~ fban

tn /

ge

Violoncelli

«T3 $

Sehn - sucht nach

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.]

Heinrich Christoph Koch

194

o end - lich

I

J

J-

sie

*

ist

uns end - lich ge - stillt.

r

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.]

The realization: 2. The spiritual effect of modulation and form

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

Heinrich Christoph Koch

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

J

dein

Herz

J er

ahrt;

J

^

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? ein Him-melin dir, ein Him-melin

dir?

{115} Note in this example the modulation of the passage on the words: "but it is already granted" [aber schon ist er gewdhrt] and the immediate return to the main key of the period. This last strophe was treated as a solo partly to distinguish it as a passage standing on its own and somewhat independent from the preceding strophe, but also partly in order to make for a certain correspondence of the principal periods to the form of the entire chorus. The thrust of this entire strophe is reflected in the music not only by a new key at the beginning of the passage, but also by a quick modulation into the fifth at the words "it is already granted," {116}

The realization: 2. The spiritual effect of modulation and form

197

immediately followed by a return to the principal key at the words "is thine heart not ..." [ist dein Herz nicht ...]. To emulate this turn of the text in the composition, under the existing circumstances there was hardly any choice but to represent this train of thought through the use of modulation. Towards the end of this example, the modulation turns again to the main key of the entire chorus. This pertains to the mechanical element of modulation; it was necessary so that this last strophe could be repeated with the principal musical phrases of the chorus as a closing period in the main key. I have analyzed these examples in detail partly to show the beginning composer how much modulation often affects the presentation of the flow of feelings, but also partly to give him an example of how to study scores. He must pursue not only the turns of modulation and their causes, but also the entire realization of a movement, as it were, step by step, if this study is to be useful for him. {117} I now come to the *form of the movements of a composition. It is undeniable that, on the one hand, their form is somewhat fortuitous, and actually has little or no influence whatsoever upon the inner character of the composition; on the other hand, there is just no reason to object to much in the form of our movements in larger and smaller compositions. This probably is the reason why many great masters have written their arias nearly all according to the same form. Yet it is equally undeniable that through the constant use of one particular form, often much of the beauty of a movement can be lost. For example, if one has heard a great many arias, all written according to the same scheme, their common form will become so familiar to our sensitivity that, already with the hearing of the first period, one can usually determine with certainty whither the modulation is to lead and which principal ideas will be heard again at this or that place. The composition must necessarily lose, if no special turn of the composer enlivens the form. Is it not intolerable, for example, when with so great a number of arias which are set in the major key, the second section always begins in the minor {118} key of the sixth! However, in recent compositions, this well-worn change into the key of the sixth for the second section of the aria has gone out of style. But how must the composer realize his movements with regard to the form? Is it better to work everything according to the customary

198

Heinrich Christoph Koch

form, or is it better to strive for new forms with the realization? In the first case, genius would be put in unnecessary shackles and be forced to leave unused many a fine turn it had produced, or to ruin them through the form. In the second case, a lot of nonsense might appear, if new forms were sought for their own sake only; for surely often situations would occur where the essence of art would be overwhelmed by considerations of form, and thus more would be lost than gained by the new form. Therefore, it is best to choose a reasonable compromise. If the contents of a movement possess enough aesthetic power in the usual form, or if there are beautiful turns in the realization which correspond to the customary form, why then consider a deviation from the usual form? But if a text requires an {119} entirely individual form and an unusual turn of expression, as, for example, the chorus described before, or if by chance a beautiful phrase is found which necessitates a variation of the usual form (and this can occur also in purely instrumental pieces), then one should not cling timidly to the familiar form, but should mould it according to the requirements of the movement, provided one is certain that this will lead to its genuine improvement, and if no other chance drawback appears in the whole. For example, for arias which have a major key as a basis, the customary form requires that in the first period of the first section the modulation be led towards the key of the fifth and be closed in it. And in this way, for example, the first period of the following aria could be treated: With terror sink down, as you call yourself, The judging eyes of the princess, you disgrace to mankind, Are your curse! They mean death to you. Go down below Into the steaming bottomless pit of hell and die! {120} The aria is set in the key of Et major, and thus, according to custom, the first period should close in the key of B!> major. But as I thought while working on this movement that the end of this first period would be more effective if the words "and die!" [und stirbf\ occurred here in an unusual key, I used the transition to the fourth of the main key in order to close in it with the words "and die!"; for example:26 26 This aria may be taken from one of the dramatic works which Koch composed either for the school theater or for the court. [B.]

The realization: 2. The spiritual effect of modulation and form

199

Example 7 Allegro

J

J J J

Schan

-

de

Mensch-heit,

der

J J J

m

i

J K

der

JJ J J J

Fiir - stin

rich - ten-der

J

J

g " mty

i

Fluch dir, ist Tod

Blick,

dir, ist

Fluch dir, ist Tod

dir, hin-

"' ^ If J"

•r K K | ab

10

in dem dam - pfen-den Pfuhl

in den dam - pfen-den Pfohl

der

JTT = * =

—i—^ H61

-LW

-

u nd

le,

—»F—

i

|9

stirb!

4^

p und

£

j stirb!

_eJ

J

{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

Heinrich Christoph Koch

the placement of periods, if other sufficient reasons exist for alteration of the norm. Otherwise, as already said, there is nothing much to object to in the usual forms of our compositions; only {124} excessive use renders certain ones eventually boring. The rondo is a case in point. This form, beautiful in itself, having provided the opportunity for many a coaxing or touching melody and having eliminated many a noisy Allegro from instrumental works, has become tedious through excessive use; it is pleasing, after so many rondos, to hear a well-realized last Allegro which is distinguished by a different form.

[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

2. The place where a composition is performed. A piece which is performed in a chamber, for example a concerto, bears greater and more precise elaboration than a piece which is to be performed in a very large hall or even out of doors. {126} 3. The number of parts written. In order to have a good effect, a composition with numerous parts should not be as completely elaborated as one performed by only a few artists. And there are more incidental circumstances of this kind. The most essential point the composer has to watch for in the elaboration of his compositions, however, is the feeling which prevails in every movement and the way in which he tries to rouse his audience to it. It is mainly this which determines whether the movement takes much or little elaboration; whether he must use the harmony in its full strength, or could use only the main intervals of the chords; whether he lets the subsidiary voices sound harmonic notes only, or can let them move ornamented with figures and metrical formulae; and so on. But even in this last case, when the existing feeling is compatible with a thundering or a gently moving accompaniment, it must not be used to excess. This is especially true if the motion of a particular voice does not belong to the plan of the movement, that is, if it was not intended to awaken a part {127} of the feeling but only to provide harmonic support. This part of art (namely, the elaboration, says Sulzer) also has its pitfalls. One can oversharpen a knife to the point that its blade is completely worn away. Likewise a work can lose the elevated power it once possessed through excessive elaboration. Those who believe that every single detail that can be imagined should be expressed are gravely mistaken. They will certainly spoil their work through this kind of elaboration.27 Too minute an elaboration and harmonic overrefinements should be avoided especially where the feelings rise to a high level of their expression; because the composer who on such occasions aims at harmonic tricks, at imitations at different intervals and similar superfluous ornamentation, as yet lacks the restraint of sacrificing small incidental beauties to the higher aim of his art.

27 Sulzer, "Elaboration," above, p. 79. [B.]

202

Heinrich Christoph Koch [THE COMPLETED COMPOSITION]

Now we are in a position to see what a composition must be like if it is to attain the aim of the art. The first and foremost characteristic of a composition is that it {128} be the expression of a specific feeling. The most important, if not the only, function of a perfect musical composition is the accurate expression of feelings and passions with all their particular shadings (says Sulzer in the article "*[Musical] Expression"). Any work that fills our imagination full of harmonious tones but without touching our heart can be compared to a painting of the sky at twilight. We may be entranced by the pleasing mixture of differing colors; but we certainly will not see anything in the patterns formed by the clouds which will touch our heart. Now, if we hear in a song not just the most perfect succession of notes, but also a speech that seems to be the outpourings of a sensitive heart, the pleasing engagement of the ear serves as a kind of inducement to the soul by which it can succumb to all the feelings brought forth through the expressiveness of the song. The harmony commands our complete attention, stimulating the ear so that it can give itself over to the more refined feelings aroused when the nerves of the soul are touched. Expression is the soul of music. Without it, music is but an entertaining diversion. But with it, music becomes the most expressive speech overpowering the heart.28 {129} When we wish to judge the nature of a composition, how can we tell whether or not it is the expression of a particular feeling? There are no external criteria to go by. Only taste and artistic sensitivity can recognize the presence or absence of the expression of feelings, and only the effect which the composition has on us lets us come to an informed opinion. A composition embodies the expression of a specific feeling to the same degree that it is capable of arousing that feeling in us. Thus it is self-evident that the nature of the matter does not permit us to look to other means by which we could judge the absence or presence of the expression of an emotion, because the decision of that question belongs before the tribunal of feeling only. Yet is it not enough that a composition awaken this or that specific feeling; is it not enough as it were to touch the nerve of this feeling. No! If the feeling is to become a pleasure, then the touching of these nerves must be continuous and, {130} indeed, must persist in differing strengths and weaknesses, that is, the feeling must be presented in 28 Sulzer, "Musical expression," above, pp. 50-51. Note that I have altered this quotation and translated Empjindung as "feeling"; see Introduction by Nancy K. Baker, p. 118 above. [B.]

The completed composition

203

various modifications. It is in the nature of our feelings to make themselves felt at times as stronger, at times as weaker, depending on the varied presentation of their causes; they move quasi in a circle or emerge from the very point in which the emotion really is concentrated, and proceed by means of such ideas as are connected most closely with their causes and effects, so that they always return to that initial point. The continuance of the feeling aroused remaining on the same level of strength or weakness is, indeed, unthinkable. If they are to last, they need, as it were, continually to receive new sustenance through the imagination. There needs to be a steady flow of ideas continually to attract us anew towards the pleasant feelings and cause more and more aversion towards the unpleasant ones. If, for example, we anticipate the enjoyment of an imminent pleasure, if the imagining of this pleasure lets us experience it in advance, then from how many aspects we savour it! To the anticipated enjoyment we will connect all possible details having any relationship to it; {131} now this, now that side of the matter will contribute to greater pleasure for us, and so on. In short, the feeling will be continuous by our imagining it in several contexts. Similarly, the feeling awakened in us through a composition must be maintained if its arousal is to cause pleasure for us. This can occur only if the principal ideas invented in the plan of the composition, which properly contain the expression of the feeling, have been taken in different turns through their subordinate ideas; this treatment gives variety to the composition, and this is the second main characteristic of musical works through which feelings are to be aroused and maintained. The beginning composer must take care not to form a misconception of the multiplicity of the elements of a composition. He must not believe, for example, that what matters is the amassing of many ideas; not the quantity of principal phrases, it is not the great number of the {132} figures of notes contained therein that make up the complexity of a composition. No! if arranged in different configurations, merely a few principal ideas, even with figures of notes similar to one another, can contain enough musical variety for the sustaining of the feeling; because what matters is not only the quantity of the principal phrases, but rather their appearance in several different connections. The composer working with genius and taste knows to connect the few principal ideas of his composition through several

204

Heinrich Christoph Koch

related subordinate ideas in such a fashion as to give the feeling ever new charm for its continuation. Not only the principal ideas of a composition, but also the subsidiary ideas must be formed so that together they amount to a beautiful whole, in which every phrase is concordant with the overall purpose and in its configuration with the rest harbors no contradiction. There can be no phrases which distract us from the {133} presentation of the main point or from the feeling to be aroused and sustained. All principal phrases must have one common goal, and the related subsidiary ideas must have the property of showing them from an ever new viewpoint; this requires unity as the third principal characteristic of a composition which is to attain the aim of art. For as soon as we hear thoughts which do not have the most intimate connection with the feeling to be portrayed, which are not constituted so as to keep leading us back to the main ideas, the imagination strays to ideas alien to the existing feeling and the feeling itself, instead of being maintained in a pleasant way, either fades greatly or relapses quietly into its former slumber. The aim of art cannot be attained if its harmonic or melodic rules are disregarded in a composition. When, for example, the dissonances have been resolved either not at all or in a manner contrary to their nature, or when the rhythmical nature of an idea is not in accord with that of the {134} preceding or succeeding idea, and so on, then the ear is offended and impediments are placed in the way of the awakening and sustaining of feelings. Therefore, the fourth and last main characteristic of a composition consists of the observance of the mechanical rules of the art.

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

d'Alembert, Jean le Rond, 14 Allgemeine deutsche Bibliothek, 137n Allgemeine Theorie der schonen Kunste,

14-16, 116, 128, 132, 145, 186

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

litterature (Batteux), 116n, 145n

(see also Sulzer) Anfangsgriinde der musikalischen Setzkunst

(Riepel), 131, 142 aria, 174-75, 197-99, 200 Aristotle, 16, 17, 18, 25, 60 Ars poetica (Horace), 155n, 190n Aufkldrung (Enlightenment), 9 Bach, Carl Philipp Emanuel, 10, 89, 104, 132-33 Batteux, Charles, 4, 13, 116, 117-18, 145, 154-55, 156, 181, 182 Baumgarten, Alexander, 3, 12, 26 Beethoven, Ludwig van, 133 Benda, Georg, 132 Bent, Ian, 120n, 189n Blankenburg, Christian Friedrich von, 15 Bodmer, Johann Jakob, 7, 8, 14, 31, 35 Boileau, Nicolas, 3 Bonds, Mark Evan, 18n, 20n Breitinger, Johann Jakob, 7, 8, 35 Briseux, Charles, 3, 12 Burette, Pierre-Jean, 97 cantata, 192-93 Carracci, Annibale, 73 Carracci, Lodovico, 45, 73n

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

(Ramler), 116, 181n elaboration (Ausarbeitung), 20-21, 76-80, 102, 120, 121, 125-27, 129, 160, 163,173, 180-81,200-01 Elements of Musical Composition (Riepel), 142 Empfindsamkeit, 4, 8 (see also aesthetics and sentiment)

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

genius, 33, 34, 37, 87-88, 120, 126, 130, 140, 141; relation to plan, 121-22, 129, 176,

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

invention (Erfindung), 18, 19, 55-64, 96, 102, 120, 128, 138, 140, 160, 173, 174, 175-76, 190; as prerequisite for creation, 120-22, 162; judgment, 41, 46, 56, 63-64, 86; of melody with harmony, 177-86 Kant, Immanuel, 6, 9, 15, 16 Kirnberger, Johann Philipp, 14, 89, 98nKlopstock, Friedrich Gottlieb, 3In, 35 Koch, Heinrich Christoph, 6, 16, 22, 23, 105n; ideas: mechanical rules of melody, 130-33, 140, 204; melodic and harmonic invention, 177-86; merits of vocal and instrumental music, 119, 132, 150-53; music and feeling, 144-57; primary matter of music, 114-15, 123, 131, 133, 157-59; purpose of fine arts, 117-19, 138, 144-57, 176, 181, 186, 202, 204; use of and deviation from Sulzer's ideas, 119-30, 160-201; life, 111-13; works: list, 113; "Die Stimme der Freude in Hygeens Haine," 113;

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

Composition, 111, 112, 114, 11516, 132-33, 137n, 138-40, 164-72 Koch, Johann Benjamin, 113 Krause, Christian Gottfried, 10, 13n la belle nature, 117

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

(Batteux), 116n, 117n, 145n Lessing, Gotthold Ephraim, 21 Lippman, Edward, 5n, 13n, 117n Locke, John, 4, 11 Ludwig Gunther, Count, 112 Luther, Martin, 35

main theme (Hauptsatz), 14n, 100-103 Maldere, Pierre van, 106 Marpurg, Friedrich Wilhelm, 115 Mattheson, Johann, 12n, 18, 20n, 60, 100, 103 Martinson, Steven D., 8n Maupertuis, Pierre-Louis, 10 melody (see also song), 14n, 21, 91-92, 93, 125, 138, 139, 153, 195; invention of, with harmony, 177-86; mechanical rules of, 130-33, 140-43, 204; writings: Allgemeine musikalische primacy of harmony or, 91, 97-99, Zeitung, 113; Jenaische allgemeine 114-15, 123, 131, 137n, 157-59; Literatur-Zeitung, 113; Journal der resting points of, 142—43; Tonkunst, 113; Kurzgefafites Handsections of, 142-43

208

Index

Menander, Comicus, 75 Mengs, Anton Raphael, 59 Michelangelo, Buonarroti, 67 Milton, John, 8 mimesis (imitation), 5, 8, 13, 22, 34—35, 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), 113—14,

128-30; Danish translation of, 114n; review of, in Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung, 130;

revision and enlargement of, 114 Neefe, C. G., 14-15 Nelli, Ottaviano di Martino, 62 neo-classicism, 3—5, 16 Neubauer, John, 5n Newman, William S., 103n "Nightingale and the Cuckoo" (Gellert), 154 Norton, Robert E., 15n oratory, 78, 87 (see also rhetoric) order (Ordnung), 37-41, 128 originality (Originalgeist), 34-37 ornamentation, 79, 83, 105-06 overture, 96, 105 painting in music, see tone painting passions, 52

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, 66—67, 120, 121, 124, 125-27, 129, 160, 162-63, 173, 174-75, 180-81, 195, 200; mechanical aspects of, 188—91; 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

sublime, 16, 68, 130, 152, 157n Sulzer,Johann Georg, 5-24, 111, 116, 117-19, 133, 145, 186-87, 202;

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)

symphony, 14n, 22, 23, 96, 105-08, 127, 128, 132, 153, 156, 160, 200 taste, 35, 48-50, 130, 156, 181, 190, 202, 203; genius, paired with, for invention, 128, 140, 141, 161, 176, 177, 178, 186; lack of, 149, 153-54, 157; role in elaboration, 126, 127, 200; role in realization, 188, 189 Teniers, David, 80 tone painting (Gemdhld in Musik), 13, 84, 89-90, 90-91 Tumarkin, Anna, 6n, lOn, 15n unity (Einheit), 20, 43-46, 126, 131, 190, 204 Urstoff der Musik, see primary matter of

variety (Mannigfaltigkeit), 20, 46-48, 126, 129, 141, 160n, 189, 190, 203; harmony a source of, 131, 179, 180, 186 Versuch einer Anleitung zur Composition

(Koch), 111, 112, 114; alteration in plan of, 138-40; initial plan of, 115-16; music cited in, 132-33, 164-72; reviews of, 137n Vickers, Brian, 18n, 33n Vinci, Leonardo da, 61 Virgil, 35 virtuosity, 104 vocal and instrumental music, valuation of, 22, 94, 95-97, 105, 118-19, 132, 150-53

210

Index

Voltaire, Francois Marie Arouet, 10, 61, 62

Winckelmann, Johann Joachim, 16, 21 Wolff, Christian, 11, 12, 15, 26, 43n

Weismann, Johann Heinrich, 193 Wieland, Christoph, 14, 36n, 150n Wili, Hans, 6n, 9n

Young, Edward, 34 Zergliederungssatz, 189