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AUGENER'S EDITION No. 9207. 
 
 CATECHISM 
 
 OF 
 
 MUSICAL AESTHETICS. 
 
 BY 
 
 D^- H. RIEMANN. 
 
 TRANSLATED BV 
 
 THE REV. H. BEWERUNGE, 
 
 ,'ROfESSCR OF ECCLESIASTICAL MUSIC, MAYNOOTri COLLEGE. 
 
 SECOND EDI^^foivh. • *•' • 
 
 AUGENER & CO., LONDON: 
 
 199 REGENT STREET, W. & 22 NEWGATE STREET, E.G. 
 PRINTED IN GERMANY. 
 
a 
 
 MUSIC LiiiftAW 
 
 UNivc^fSjry 
 
 or CAUFO/^MfA 
 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 IMore than thirty years ago Hanslick's work "Voni 
 Musikalisch-Schonen"* put an end to the previous 
 vague rhetorical declamation on the essence and object 
 of music, and ^stimulated to keener reflection on the 
 different factors which combine to produce that effect 
 which music produces,"" Since then a pretty extensive 
 literature has arisen, one portion of which retains 
 Hanslick's system of Formalism — that is to say, declares 
 the form of music to be its substance — , while the 
 other maintains that music is capable of rendering 
 poetic ideas musically, and that that is its office, and 
 rejects as an empty play with forms all music that will 
 be merely music. In addition to these two schools, 
 which until within a recent period were the only ones 
 existing, a third one would seem of late to have come 
 into existence. This school, in a certain sense, recon- 
 ciles the contradictory views of the other two, not 
 simply by way of compensation and compromise, but 
 by giving a third definition which combines and ma- 
 terially perfects the other two. 
 
 I became acquainted with those books, with whose 
 positive results the following pages fairly coincide, 
 only after I had written and partly delivered these 
 lectures; I do not, however, regret this, because they 
 undoubtedly would have influenced my train of thought, 
 
 *) Translated by G. Cohen and published by Novello under 
 the title "The Beautiful in Music". 
 
 258446 
 
IV 
 
 and hindered me from finding something, though it may- 
 be but little, that is new, and that gives to my work 
 the stamp of individuality. When Fr. von Hausegger 
 says that music is first and above all expression, and 
 when Arthur Seidl lays stress on "entering, with ones 
 feeling, into the forms of movement of music^' that, cer- 
 tainly, is something akin to the Subjectivation of music on 
 which I insist. Still I believe that by distinguishing 
 the elem.entary, which arises simply from the impulse 
 to impart oneself (Hausegger's "Music as Expression"), 
 from the formal, which belongs to the impulse to 
 play (which according to Hanslick is everything), and 
 from the characteristic, which in itself is alien to music 
 and is drawn into its sphere only by the impulse to 
 imitate (music not as the expression of the subject 
 but as expression of an imagined object) — I have 
 set up something that is worth developing. For the 
 listener there result principally two altogether different 
 ways of perceiving music, in one of which music is 
 felt as the manifestation of one's own will (complete 
 subjectivation), while in the other it is, partly at least, 
 objectivated by the imagination. But the more, in 
 absolute music, the formal preponderates over the 
 elementary, that is to say, the less music is felt, and 
 the more it is made — the more imperfectly shall 
 we subjectivate it, the more it will remain outside of 
 us-, on the other hand, imitative music, in spite 
 of scene and programme, — if only it does not proceed 
 too restlessly, but rather leaves time for the expression 
 of sentiment of the represented beings to develop 
 (that is to assume form) — can affect us so sym- 
 pathetically that, for moments at least, we can com- 
 pletely subjectivate it and identify ourselves with the 
 object represented. , 
 
I. 
 
 Elementary Factors: 
 
 Pitch of Tone, Strength of Tone, 
 
 Manner of Movement. 
 
 "Music is in its expression universally intelligible, not 
 only to the musician, but to men in general. Nor is 
 music essentially different in the folk-song and the Bach 
 fugue or the Beethoven symphony. Though the com- 
 plicated character of a work of art may render it hard to 
 understand, yet the same means, which when taken 
 separately are intelligible to all, are used in the largest as 
 well as in the smallest composition ^ music speaks to us in 
 a language the words and grammar of which we need not 
 first learn . . . What is musically inadmissible is so not 
 because it is contrary to a rule established by the musician, 
 but because it is contrary to a natural law imposed on the 
 musician by his hu?nan sentiment — because it is logically 
 untrue and self-contradictory". 
 
 By means of this pertinent remark of Moritz Haupt- 
 mann ("Natur der Harmonik und der Metrik", pp. 6 — 7) 
 I would wish, first of all, to remove the suspicion that 
 the subject of the following investigations belongs to the 
 "professional" study of music* On the contrary, we shall 
 keep altogether aloof from what is technical in music, in 
 its theoretical as well as its practical bearing — that is 
 to say, with regard to the mathematical, physical, and 
 
 * Even more precisely Lazarus says (Das Leben der Seele, 
 II, p. 323): "Psychology in laying down a principle explaining the 
 actual effect of a musical piece, is not justified in confining itself 
 to skilled musicians and taking no notice of more than nine tenths 
 of those who listen to the piece." 
 
 Rieraann, Catechism of Musical Aesthetics. 1 
 
psychological foundation of the rules of composition as 
 well as their management in composition, and the correct 
 exposition of the intention of the composer in reproduction, 
 in the performance — and shall give, in a form intelli- 
 gible to every educated person, a concise explanation of 
 the means which music generally employs to produce its 
 elfects. For the reply to the question "How do we hear 
 Music?" demands, in the first instance, an explanation of 
 the various means of musical art, that we may, then, be 
 able to determine how our ear, our heart, our intellect, 
 acts in reference to them. 
 
 The question concerning the object of music does not 
 occupy us in the following pages. Later on, we shall have 
 an opportunity of seeing that the object for which a certain 
 piece of music is conceived, can and must, indeed, exer- 
 cise an essential influence on its construction as well as 
 on the opinion formed of it by the hearer. But this object 
 lies outside music itself. The question as to an object of 
 music at all appears an idle one; "as the bird sings, that 
 dwells amid the boughs", thus man sings and makes music 
 from an mward necessity; the artist creates from an 
 inward creative impulse, following the innate desire to 
 impart and to play. To create is to him an enjoyment, to 
 impart a necessity. So soon as he creates for a definite 
 object, a part of the ideal freedom of the artist is lost, 
 though we cannot deny that this loss may be counter- 
 balanced by the inspiring loftiness of the proposed object. 
 
 On the other hand we shall be occupied, and indeed 
 quite specially, almost exclusively, with the question of the 
 capability Q)ixa\x%\c — the question what music can do, what 
 it effects, and what are the various means by which it 
 produces its effects. But the investigation of these means 
 should not be looked upon as undertaken in the interest 
 of their practical application, but rather as arising from 
 the natural desire to understand how, on the one hand, 
 the musical work of art is produced in the mind of its 
 creator, and how, on the other, the artistic effect upon 
 the hearer necessarily follows. 
 
 The first answer, and that which, without reflection, 
 would be given by everyone, to the question concerning 
 the means by which music produces its artistic effects, is: 
 The Tone — also called sound or note — or, to express 
 it quite generally: the audible. For even though, in the 
 
— 3 — 
 
 present state of musical development, the composer can, 
 without the aid of actual sound, write down the grandest 
 musical works in characters intelligible to the musician; 
 though Beethoven wrote his last symphonies and his Missa 
 Solemnis when his sense of hearing was entirely gone; 
 and though a capable musician is able to understand and 
 enjoy a musical work of art by simply reading it: still, 
 in both cases the objective sounds are only represented by 
 subjectively imagined ones, just as analogous mental images 
 of the visible world are familiar to everyone, and must be 
 present with the utmost vividness in the mind of the imita- 
 tive artist, if he is to create successfully. To whatever in- 
 tensity and distinctness this inward sight and hearing may 
 be brought, the imagined form and the imagined tone are 
 ever but the substitutes of the imagination for the actually 
 visible and actually audible* The question whether, as 
 Plato says, the image conceived by the artist, the Idea, be 
 not the prior and more perfect thing, and what appears 
 to the senses, only an earthly and imperfect imitation of 
 it, shall be left untouched: The idea eludes our investi- 
 gation; we are not concerned even with the notation of 
 the musical work, which, under circumstances, may be 
 nearer to the idea than the audible performance — our 
 object is mainly and solely the audible musical work of art. 
 To everything audible one property attaches which 
 may be called musical, and is often so called: we need 
 only think of human speech, in which, indeed, we shall 
 
 * Ed. Grell alludes to this in his ''Gutachten uber die Mu- 
 sikalische Kompositions-Schule der Kgl. Akademie der Kiinste" (Ges. 
 Aufsatze und Gutachten, p. 65): "What the pupil works out and 
 brings to his teacher, is neither for himself nor for the teacher real, 
 living music .... With the draughtsman the written notation — the 
 drawing — is the thing itself." A direct reproduction of the mental 
 image on the part of the musician is given only in the improvi- 
 sation, the fantasia, which, however, is distinguished from the finished 
 picture by the fact that the artist has no time to reflect and alter. 
 We see the two arts are so fundamentally different, that conclusions 
 cannot be drawn from the one for the other. If the teacher has 
 not enough imagination to hear distinctly the written composition 
 by simply reading it, or if he thinks the pupil has imagined it as 
 sounding differently from what it really does, there is only one 
 rational method to remedy that for the future; the work must be 
 made to sound, by being performed. 
 
 1* 
 
— 4 — 
 
 find even highly developed musical qualities, or of the 
 song of the birds, the howling of the wind, the rolling of 
 the thunder, the creaking of the mill wheel. That many 
 a musical idea has actually been evoked by this music of 
 nature, is a well known fact; and it is equally notorious, 
 that music likes to draw the idealised imitation of such 
 noises into the sphere of its representations. 
 
 • There are two things that seem to constitute the essence 
 of the tone, and in which, accordingly, we have to recognize 
 more special resources of music, namely pitch and strength 
 of tone — or rather, in as much as in the inarticulate 
 sounds of nature, both exist mostly in a fluctuating con- 
 dition — the rising a?id falling of the tone and the increase 
 and decrease of the tone. Where such constant transition 
 is absent, and sounds of different pitch follow each other 
 so that they can easily be distinguished, or where stronger 
 impulses mark difterent moments of time, as, for instance, in 
 the hoof-beats of a galloping horse, or in the sound of the 
 smith's hammer or of the cooper's mallet, a third quality of 
 sounds manifests itself, namely \\\q, quickness of movement ^o-^- 
 ing itself in their succession. But also in the rising and falling 
 as well as in the increase and decrease of the tone the effect 
 of quickness of change that takes place, can be observed. 
 If anywhere, then in music, the proposition of Hera- 
 clitos holds good that everything is in constant motion 
 {navxa qu). For even the single tone, whose pitch does not 
 vary and whose strength remains the same, is well known 
 to be the result of a constant motion in regular periodic 
 form, of vibrations of an elastic body propagated in the 
 air. Each single vibration, of which the higher notes 
 accomplish many thousands in the second, is as it were 
 a prototype of the form which underlies even the greatest 
 productions of art — rest, movement, and return to rest. 
 The departure from the state of equilibrium corresponds to 
 a violent tension, to excitement; and the return from this 
 to the former is equivalent to the reverse, to relaxation, 
 to a calming down. But in reality we are not at all 
 conscious of this continual change of tension and relaxation, 
 of the vibrating body; the tone which remains at the same 
 pitch and strength rather appears to us as something steady 
 and at rest. It is only the change of pitch or strength 
 that produces the impression of mo7'enient\ and, in par- 
 ticular, rising pitch and increasing strength appear to us 
 
as positive, that is to say, as developing, progressing, ad- 
 vancing movement, while falling pitch and decreasing 
 strength appear as tiegative, that is to say, as backward, 
 retrogressive movement. In an analogous manner increase 
 of quickness 'vs\ sequence of tones of recognisable difference in 
 pitch or strength, awakens the idea of intensification, that 
 is to say, appears as positive form of movement, while 
 lessening of speed appears as the negative form. 
 
 If in the first place we look more closely at the 
 changes of pitch, we see easily that in them the essence 
 of melody consists. It is not, however, the diff"erent posi- 
 tions of the single sounds that constitute this essence of 
 melody; but it is rather the actual raising and lowering of 
 pitch, the transition from lower to higher tones, or the 
 reverse, that produces the aesthetic eff'ect. The root prin- 
 ciple, therefore, of melody is the continuous change of 
 pitch, not the graduated change. Though, in spite of 
 this, there does not, and cannot, exist any melody which 
 consists only in continual alteration of pitch, in continued 
 sliding up and down, as when the storm howls, or when 
 one passes a finger along a vibrating string, this proves noth- 
 ing against the correctness of the above definition. It 
 only proves that, besides increase and decrease of pitch, 
 other factors contribute to produce the aesthetic impres- 
 sion of music. 
 
 This rising and falling of pitch appears io be continuous 
 even when it is graduated. Of the correctness of this 
 paradoxical statement we can convince ourselves by pro- 
 ducing the notes of a melody not in close connection, 
 legato, but interrupted by rests, staccato. Then only is ob- 
 tained the special impression of a graduated progression, 
 but at the same time that of a stilted gait, of the dainty 
 lifting and setting down of the little feet, the tripping, 
 and, with a vague line of melody, that of groping and 
 fumbling. Similar to this is the impression made when a violin- 
 player attacks every tone with great precision, as it is the 
 mannerism of some virtuosi who strive to produce a great 
 (volume of sound; the effect produced thereby is that of 
 firmness, while the warmth and liveliness of the playing lose 
 cons derably. We come, therefore, to the conclusion that the 
 sepairate definite tones are to be regarded as pausing upon 
 a certain pitch for the purpose of comparison, or control, of 
 the degree of increase or diminution, and that the legato 
 

 4 
 
 — 6 — 
 
 transition from one pitch to another appears not as a skip 
 but as a contmous increase or decrease executed rapidly. 
 
 That, finally, even a staccato melody, if only it really 
 appears as the movement of a single part, is to be tinder- 
 stood in the se?ise of a continuous raising and lowering of 
 pitch, certainly seems still more paradoxical, but is just as 
 true. For in the staccato execution we have always the 
 impression of leaping over the space of the continuous 
 line of tone that lies between the separate notes. 
 
 Perhaps, besides the possibility of swelling or diminish- 
 ing the strength of the tone at pleasure, the most impor- 
 tant factor of the warmth, liveliness, and heartiness of tone 
 in stringed instruments, as well as in the human voice, is 
 the fact that, in the transitions from one pitch to another, 
 they can really produce a continuous increase or decrease; 
 the Portaine7ito , accordingly, is the most concrete embo- 
 diment of the melodious principle, in so far as it is the audible 
 transition from one pitch to another in a continuous line. 
 But for the same reason, a frequent use of the Portamento 
 
 — as also of the chromatic scale, which is closely akin 
 to it — is rather naturalistic. Further on (II) we shall 
 have to examine more closely that principle which restricts 
 melody and makes it dependant essentially on the imagi- 
 nation, namely harmony, under whose spell the melodic 
 progression is idealised to graduated, not continuous, change 
 of pitch, while the really continuous transition remains 
 only as a product of our imagination, which understands 
 the sequence of separate tones as continuous, alike in 
 instruments in which the continuous increase is possible 
 
 — as in the human voice and stringed instruments — and 
 in those where it is impossible — namely in all instruments 
 with fixed intonation. 
 
 After the precedent set by Newton many attempts 
 have been made to draw a parallel between tones and co- 
 lours, and, misled by the old mysticism of the number 
 seven, writers have tried to establish a connection between 
 the seven degrees of the scale and the seven colours of 
 the rainbow. They have gone even further and attempted, 
 after the analogy of musical harmonies, by copying the 
 proportions of the numbers of vibrations, to compose 
 colour harmonies; thus first the inventor of the "colour 
 piano", Louis Bertrand Castel (1739), and even in most 
 recent times Fr. W. Unger in a paper in Poggendorff^s 
 
— 7 — 
 
 "Annalen" and in his work "Die bildende Kunst" (Gottingen 
 1858), also the aesthetic writer Zimmermann, and even 
 Helmholtz. According to them red-yellow-blue would be 
 a major colour chord, orange-green-violet a minor colour 
 chord. ■ But there have not been wanting thorough investi- 
 gators who repudiate this parallel. Thus E. Briicke, in 
 his "Physiologic der Farben fiir die Zwecke der Kunst- 
 gewerbe" (Leipzig 1866), does not consider a universal 
 law for the aesthetic effect of combinations of colours as 
 warranted, and also the philosopher Herrmann Lotze, who, 
 as a critic, has hardly been surpassed, in his "Geschichte 
 der Aesthetik in Deutschland" (Munich 1868), takes up 
 a position of absolute scepticism towards the doctrine of 
 colour harmonies. He rightly emphasizes that "two colours 
 like red and blue are incomparably more different than 
 two tones ever can be" (p. 290). In making this statement 
 he undoubtedly thinks in the first instance of two tones at 
 the interval which the colour-harmonists assume for red and 
 blue, that is, the interval of a fifth. If he had extended 
 his view beyond the octave, and left out of consideration 
 the scale of seven colour tones, which, after all, is only 
 a fiction, he would have recognised a different analogy 
 between the effects of colours and of tones, one in which 
 the whole range of tone, from the lowest depths to the 
 loftiests heights, comes into comparison with the spectrum. 
 
 The colours only with a certain minimum rate of vi- 
 bration come across the threshold of perceptibility, and 
 withdraw themselves again from perception as soon as 
 they exceed a maximum rate of vibration. It is well known 
 that dark red is the slowest, violet the quickest of colours, 
 and beyond either of them the colours cease to be per- 
 ceptible. Between the two terminals, however, there is evi- 
 dently a continuous transition from red towards yellow, 
 green, and blue, and the supposition of a limited number 
 of definite colours is more or less arbitrary. 
 
 A very similar thing must be said about pitch of tone. 
 The range of tone is limited below as well as above. 
 Vibrations that are too slow (less than about 16 in the ■ 
 second), and those that are too quick (more than 40,000 
 in the second) elude our perception. And in the transition 
 from the lowest depth to the loftiest height we can right 
 well verify differences of impression similar to those that 
 various colours produce. The analogy is not quite perfect 
 
in as far as the very highest tones are clearly in the 
 strongest contrast to the very lowest ones, while, strange 
 to say, the quickest colours, in their effect on our feelings, 
 again approach the slowest ones, both appearing as the 
 darker colours. By a common musical feeling the principal 
 colours of this musical spectrum, extending through about 
 eleven and a half octaves, are called by the principal 
 classes of the human voice: Bass, Tenor, Alto (Contralto), 
 and Soprano (Treble), although these four together comprise 
 only the four middle octaves. In addition to these we have 
 the intermediate colours Barytone (between Bass and Tenor) 
 and Mezzo-Soprano (between Alto and Soprano). A certain 
 instinctive comprehension of such a parallelism between 
 colours and regions of tone is shown, for instance, by the 
 fact that for a long time it has been usual to make red 
 the colour of the Soprano, yellow the colour of the Tenor, 
 green the colour of the Alto, and blue the colour of the 
 bass, whenever it is required to mark the voices of the 
 singers by means of coloured rosettes, or the part-books 
 by coloured labels. Bass and Tenor, then, on the one 
 hand, Alto and Soprano on the other hand, receive com- 
 plementary colours, and the pitch of the voices is only 
 apparently in contradiction to the order of the colours 
 in the spectrum, because the characteristic notes of the 
 Tenor are not the middle ones of its compass, but the 
 high ones, and similarly the characteristic notes of the 
 Alto are not the middle ones, but the low ones. 
 
 We have seen that change of pitch, the rising and 
 falling, appear as movement, either positive or negative, 
 as increase or decrease, — that is to say, as quantitative 
 change, as augmentation or diminution of the living power. 
 On the other hand, tones of different pitch, if there is no 
 transition from one to the other, but each is considered 
 by itself, whether they are in succession or simultaneous, 
 appear as qualitatively different, just like the colours, in 
 which, too, we do not perceive the varying quickness of 
 vibration. This probably is the consequence of the fact 
 that, in determining pitch, two kinds of quantitative dis- 
 tinctions stand in reciprocal relation to each other. The 
 higher the tone, the quicker the vibrations , but the smaller 
 the moving mass", the length of the sound-wave always 
 stands in inverse ratio to the number of vibrations in the 
 same time. Justly, therefore, Lotze says (loc. cit. p. 272): 
 
— 9 — 
 
 "Gradation, of some kind, indeed, is to be found as well in 
 the rising pitch of the sounding tones as in the increasing 
 number of sound-waves; but the increase of pitch implies 
 no impression of a growing number such as is to be 
 predicated of the sound waves. The rising pitch rather 
 gives instead of that something quite peculiar, a gradation 
 that we might call an increase of qualitative intensity, an 
 increase of liveliness. In addition to this we have to con- 
 sider another point. In proportion to its increasing pitch 
 and apart from its strength, the higher tone is perceived 
 as thinner, sharper, acuter, the lower one as broader and 
 blunter. Perhaps this peculiarity depends on the shorter 
 duration of each wave in the higher tones, through which 
 a greater rate of repetition in the same time becomes 
 possible .... Apart from its strength, therefore, each 
 tone, each apparent activity from within, on account of 
 its qualitative nature, has a measurable value of greater 
 or less liveliness. But in two directions this activity con- 
 sumes itself; it becomes impossible, and the tone dis- 
 appears from the range of the audible, when its liveliness, 
 its pitch, increases continually; for then the body from 
 which this life should go forth, becomes, as it were, 
 attenuated down to nothing; but it disappears also, when, 
 in the lowest degrees of the scale, the breadth and mass of 
 the audible crushes the liveliness. Thus the highest tones 
 resemble a movefnent of ever increasing velocity and ever 
 decreasing size of the thing moved; the loivest ones resem- 
 ble a?i ever slackening speed of a mass growing without limit'' 
 From this it is very easily intelligible how, contrary 
 to the usual acceptation, the falling of pitch may occasion- 
 ally appear as positive form of movement, and the rising 
 as negative. What asserts itself then is, in the former 
 case, not the decreasing velocity, but the growing mass; in 
 the latter, not increasing velocity but the diminishing mass. 
 Such a contrary effect regularly takes place whenever the 
 falling is combined with a crescendo, or the rising with a 
 diminuendo. Gust. Engel ("Aesthetik der Tonkunst", p. 48) 
 says: "In the lower regions of tone strength has the char- 
 acter of the massive, in the higher ones that of the ia- 
 tense". He does not, however, seem to me to be on the 
 right track when he continues: "The natural seat of the 
 crescendo is to be found from the lower tones to the 
 middle ones and from the higher ones to the middle ones, 
 
that of the decrescendo in the reverse order." Perhaps the 
 contrary would be more correct? Engel arrives at his 
 conclusion by the observation that the lowest and the 
 highest tones are weak, a statement with which I unfor- 
 tunately cannot agree. If a thirty -two foot C on the or- 
 gan does not speak easily, there is a special reason for 
 this (difficulty of wind supply); but I cannot possibly admit 
 that the tones of a contrabass tuba are weak as compared, 
 say, with those of a horn or a trumpet, or that the piccolo 
 flute is weaker than the clarionet. And with this premise 
 the conclusion also falls. 
 
 From the compensating co-operation of the two factors 
 indicated, namely, the mass and the velocity of the moving 
 thing, we get an explanation of the peculiar differences 
 of aesthetic value between high and low tones, which 
 though somewhat in contradiction to the wider acceptation 
 of the word, we may call the colour of the tone. The 
 general usage of language, calling tones that are produced 
 by slower vibrations and longer sound-waves, low and dark, 
 and those produced by quicker vibrations and shorter 
 sound-waves, high and clear, actually designates that different 
 quality in the sense of a different effect of light : the high 
 notes are clear, that is to say, exposed to more light, the 
 low ones are dark, that is to say, more hidden from the 
 light. True, we have here again in the first instance 
 essentially the quantitative distinction of more or less of 
 light; and, in fact, we had to admit above that the scale 
 of tones, unlike the scale of colours, does not, in the 
 highest pitch, return to the effect of more darkness, but 
 goes on advancing towards more brightness, we might say, 
 becomes an intolerably bright white, which has a dazzling 
 effect and thereby does away with the possibility of dis- 
 criminating. 
 
 If, for the present, we retain this conception of the 
 different pitch as a difference of colour, which in the 
 lowest depths vanishes into black and in the highest 
 ascends into white, still we have explained only a part of 
 the effect of a single tone, even though we leave its strength 
 as yet out of the question. For another peculiar quality 
 attaches to every tone according to the nstrument by 
 which it is produced. There only we arrive at what is 
 commonly called tone colour, — what Helmholtz, for instance, 
 means by the term. Whether one and the same tone, — say 
 
the once-marked c, — is sounded by a 'cello or a violin, a 
 bassoon or a flute, a male or female voice, makes a great 
 difference in its aesthetic effect. Produced by a 'cello, 
 bassoon, or a Tenor or Bass voice, it will sound high and 
 clear; produced by a violin, flute, or female voice it will 
 sound low and dark. Moreover it will sound differently 
 again according as it is produced by a 'cello or bassoon 
 or a male voice, and similarly with the others. Even the 
 'cello itself can give the same c a different colour by a 
 different kind of bowing, and with the singer, apart from 
 the special quality of his organ, the difterent manner of 
 attack, the vocalisation, etc., will produce a large number 
 of further modifications of the tone colour. 
 
 All these more or less important modifications are 
 designated, by usage, with the name of tone colour, 
 however different their causes seemingly are. An ingenious 
 and successful attempt to base all of them on the aesthetic 
 effect of pitch has recently been made by the well known 
 Berlin teacher of aesthetics and singing, Gustav Engel, 
 who, drawing his conclusion from Helmholtz's opinion 
 that tone colour is due to the sounds being com- 
 posed of overtones of varying strength, maintains that the 
 preponderance of higher overtones gives the tone sharp- 
 ness for this reason, because it represents and brings 
 into prominence high pitch along with the low one, that, 
 therefore, all sounds appear as dull and blunt which have 
 no high overtones. In truth, in this way we can explain 
 not only the different qualities of different instruments, 
 such as bassoon and flute, but also those produced by 
 the special kind of bowing, attack, etc. There remains 
 to be considered separately only the undeniable difference 
 of sound according to the difterent material of which the 
 instrument is made, a difterence which probably is to be 
 attributed to the diversity of manner in which the sounds 
 are transmitted to the air. It is known to everybody that 
 the quality of the sounding-board of stringed instruments 
 and the piano is of the utmost importance for the beauty 
 of the tone; it is also well known that it is not the same 
 whether the organ-builder uses tin or lead for his pipes; 
 but it appears that the sides of the pipes, in brass in- 
 struments especially the bells, act a similar part as the 
 sounding-boards of stringed instruments; that is to say, they 
 not only give fulness to the sound, but also influence its 
 
colour. It is quite possible, however, that even this aspect 
 of the "timbre" may be explained by the strengthening or 
 subduing of high overtones. 
 
 Through this identification of tone colour and pitch 
 the importance of the latter grows to an extraordinary 
 extent; it has its effect, first, as absolute pitch of the fun- 
 damental tone, which makes the main impression on the 
 ear; secondly, as relative pitch within the range of the 
 particular instrument, where, it appears, the dimensions of 
 the parts that act as sounding-board come into play 
 thirdly, as characteristic colour of the individual instrument 
 and, lastly, as specially modulated tone colour in conse- 
 quence of the peculiar treatment of the instrument. 
 
 Thus we see already the possibility of an abundance 
 of different auditory impressions, each of which has a 
 different aesthetic value, that is to say, touches the soul 
 differejitly; for every tofie sensation becomes a vital ex- 
 perience of our soul. While, as we have seen, a single 
 tone, sounding with uniform strength and pitch, produces 
 a uniform state of mind, — a mood, — this condition changes 
 from rest to movement, becomes fluctuating, as soon as 
 strength or pitch changes. Both effects are, in the first 
 instance, not perceived objectively , but experieticed sub- 
 jectively, a fact that should be carefully noted. The long- 
 ing, "wing expanding" of the horn sound does not present 
 itself to our ears as something outside of us, which we 
 examine as onlookers, but it directly becomes our own 
 feeling, we long, we expand our arms; and similarly we 
 do not see or hear a something ascending and descending, 
 rushing forward and sinking backward, but it is oiirselves 
 in whom the melody heard lives, we are drawn upward 
 and thrust backward, we strive and despond, we hope 
 and despair. These things are not combinations of ideas 
 suggested by music, not reflections nor associations, they 
 are rather the essence of music itself. As a living senti- 
 ment it arose in the mind of the composer; into living 
 sentiment, into mental experience, it is transformed directly 
 in the listener. As soon as music objectivates, it steps out 
 of its most proper sphere of actiofi, as we shall see later on. 
 
 Very beautifully Lotze (loc. cit. p. 79), in reference 
 to a thought of Herder, on the occasion of a criticism of 
 his Calligone, explains how the forms of the visible are 
 transformed into an experience of the soul, on which trans- 
 
— 13 — 
 
 formation the elementary etifect of the imitative arts is 
 based. As the passage may also serve as a key to the 
 transformation of the forms of the audible into an experience 
 of the soul, I give it in its entirety. 
 
 "We, these double beings of body and soul, not only 
 see movements happen, but, also, by our own action 
 produce them. And although we do not directly feel our 
 will in the motion which it imparts to our limbs, still 
 another privilege of our organisation allows here, where 
 the appearance is equal in value to the reality, this kindly 
 delusion. Of the changes which the operating power of 
 our will has produced in the condition of our limbs, from 
 moment to moment a sensation returns to our conscious- 
 ness; and the changes of this sensation follow with such 
 easy motion every smallest increase or decrease of the 
 tension and relaxation of our muscles, that in this mirrored 
 image of its effects, we immediately feel the will at work, 
 and imagine that we accompany it in all the variations of 
 its increase and diminution. 
 
 "Thus only we learn to understand movements 
 and to appreciate their significance. Without these recol- 
 lections any outward movement we observed would only 
 be the incomprehensible fact that formerly something was 
 here, and now it is there, and that in the meantime it was 
 in places between the two terminals. Only this own in- 
 ward experience of action and passion enables us to 
 enjoy the bolder or easier flight of a rising line, and to 
 feel offended by a sudden check of its equal course; only 
 because we feel ourselves the happiness of the equilibrium 
 of our bodies obtained by the exertion of our own ac- 
 tivity or by the favour of outward circumstances, and the 
 anxiety of unsteadiness arising from an unfavourable 
 shifting of their parts, — only for this reason equilibrium or 
 want of equilibrium in the distribution of masses are con- 
 ditions which we observe with the interest of sympathy. 
 And now, after thousands of these little sensations have 
 made us acquainted with the outlines of our bodies and 
 the forms of our limbs, and have explained to us what 
 fullness of elasticity, what delicate excitability and patient 
 strength, what tender fragility or stem firmness, slumber 
 in each separate part of these outlines, — now we are also 
 able to understand the strange form. 
 
 "And not only do we penetrate into the life -feelings 
 
— 14 — 
 
 of that which stands near to us in nature and kind, into the 
 happy flight of the bird, or the graceful agihty of the ga- 
 zelle; not only do we draw together the sensitive fibres 
 of our mind into the smallest possible compass, in order 
 to participate dreaming in the narrow ly cir cumscribed 
 existence of amollusc, and in the monotonous enjoyment 
 of its opening and shutting its shell; we not only sym- 
 pathetically expand ourselves into the slender forms of the 
 tree, whose delicate twigs are animated with the pleasure 
 of graceful moving and bending; but, with a presaging 
 power of interpretation that can dispense with any definite 
 remembrance of our own form, we are able to compre- 
 hend even the strangest forms of a curve, of a regular 
 polygon, of any symmetrical arrangement of points, as a 
 place of organisation, or as an arena in which to move 
 with nameless powers appears to us as a characteristic 
 happiness in whose enjoyment we are able to participate. 
 And thus all forms of space produce an aesthetic effect 
 in us, in so far as they are symbols of a peculiar weal or 
 woe that we may experience ourselves!''*') 
 
 *) It was doubtless this disquisition of Lotze's that led Dr. 
 Heinrich Wolfflin in his Dissertation "Prolegomena zu einer Psy- 
 chologie der Architektur" (Munich, 1886), to the assertion quoted 
 by Dr. Arthur Seidl in his Dissertation "Vom Musikalisch Erhabenen'', 
 that the impression made by architecture on our feelings rests solely 
 on the fact that "we involuntarily endeavour to imitate the strange 
 forms with our organisation , in othei words , that we judge the 
 feelings of architectural structures according to the bodily condition 
 which they effect in us (p. 13) ... . Strong pillars arouse in us 
 strong innervations .... as if we were ourselves those supporting 
 pillars." Wolfflin also does not omit to make the practical applica- 
 tion to music (p. 4): "If we had not the faculty of expressing 
 emotions in tones, we could never understand the significance of 
 foreign tones." I insert these sentences under the text, because I 
 became acquainted with Seidl's pamphlet only after I had delivered 
 my second lecture. We need not quarrel about priority in stating 
 the thought, because Lotze has suggested it clearly enough to all 
 of us. Also the leading thought of the exceedingly attractive publi- 
 cation of Dr. Friedrich von Hausegger, "Musik als Ausdruck" (Vienna 
 1885), which, unfortunately, in its final conclusions comes to a 
 one-sided glorification of dramatic singing, contains nearly the 
 same idea (Hausegger, however, makes the same mistake as 
 Ed. Grell, supposing that the word, even in the fully developed 
 language, is still an elementary means of expression). With 
 
— 15 — 
 
 Although for music the case is essentially different, 
 still it is not difficult to transfer this attractive description, 
 mutatis mutandis, to the field of auditory perceptions. The 
 main thing is the inner experience of the perceived — its 
 subjectivation, so to speak. This transformation of anything 
 perceived into feeling is the more easily done in the case 
 of the audible than in that of the visible, because the 
 audible is not extended in space, but passes in time, and 
 presents itself even in the mere psychological perception 
 as being in constant transition. In reality, indeed, every 
 visual as well as auditory impression is a fiervous aftection. 
 But the former requires time only to obtain a more per- 
 fect and more detailed picture, which may be complete 
 in the first moment. The action of hearing on the other 
 hand, consists essentially in connecting auditory impressions 
 following one another, or, to speak more generally, in 
 observing the temporal course of the sounds. The aesthetic 
 enjoyment of musical hearing does not, however, consist 
 in investigating the cause of the sound and of its changes, 
 but in the pleasurable perception of the successive con- 
 ditions of the soul produced by it, and in fully giving 
 oneself up to the objectless affections aroused by it. 
 
 It even appears that, as with visual perceptions, 
 so also in the auditory enjoyment the remembrance 
 of what we ourselves have experienced, the feeling of our 
 own corporeity, plays a chief part; so that the comparison 
 shows a much closer parallelism than appears at first sight. 
 For we are enabled by nature to produce sounds ourselves, 
 we even habitually manifest the disposition of our soul 
 just as well by tones — namely, in the sound of our language 
 and even in real singing, — as by visible movements of our 
 body, by gestures. For although the man of modern 
 culture only rarely gives free course to his emotions to 
 such extent that the gesture will step out of the conven- 
 tional track and become real expression, and that the 
 voice will cast away the equally conventional forms of 
 language, and, in cheering and groaning, in cries of 
 jubilation or lamentation, become real music — yet, thank 
 God, we have not lost the understanding of the natural 
 meaning, of the intrinsic significance, of gestures as well 
 
 Hausegger's book I did not become acquainted until after the con- 
 clusion of my lectures. 
 
— i6 — 
 
 as of the passionate utterances of the voice. By the 
 latter I mean no more a well ordered melody than by 
 the former a characteristic dance or an artistic pantomime. 
 In both cases I rather refer to the most primary elements, 
 the very simplest motions ; in the one to the longing expand- 
 ing of the arms, the inclining towards anything, or the warding 
 oft", the turning away^ in the other, to the gladsome outburst 
 or the shrill cry, the joyous shout of welcome or the 
 horrified silence, the dull, voiceless despair. And thus I 
 think it is not a daring thing to assert that also the move- 
 ments of tone are felt by us sympathetically as perfectly 
 intelligible manifestations of conditions and processes of 
 the soul ; that in observing their succession and experienc- 
 ing them in our own soul, there must be a truly wonderful 
 refinement and specialisation of sentiment, such as we 
 cannot fathom even approximately by mere reflection on 
 
 ' our own feeling — in other words, that music not only beats 
 all philosophy, but appears to be destined in an eminent 
 manner to enrich and fructify the life of the soul by 
 compelling souls that feel less intensely or less delicately, 
 to take part in the richer emotions vouchsafed to heaven- 
 favoured artists. 
 
 It is not my intention to go more deeply into details 
 by investigating the aesthetic value of certain combinations 
 of tones or rhythmical figures, and, perhaps, by demon- 
 strating what formations exactly correspond to this or 
 that affection. For, in the first place, the question is not 
 about the expression of emotions, but, as we shall see and 
 further prove, music moves the soul only in a fashion 
 analogous to that of the emotions, without pretending in 
 any way to awaken them (wherefore it is of no conse- 
 quence that quite heterogeneous affections have similar 
 forms of movement and can, therefore, be "expressed" by 
 the same music, as Hanslick rightly remarked); but I 
 should also, by such an attempt, act contrary to my ex- 
 pressed intention not to treat of anything technical. 
 
 But I have already indicated the general foundation 
 of those relations between movements of tone and move- 
 ments of the soul, namely, the fact that increasing pitch, 
 strength, and rate of movement, have the significance of 
 positive forms of movement, of coming forward, of a 
 more energetic manifestation of the will, and that the 
 
 , contrary has the meaning of negative development. Why 
 
— 17 — 
 
 is this so? To this question we hardly need a special 
 answer; for self- observation proves to us that every 
 increase in the energy of our will, every increase of 
 emotion, raises our voice without our knowing it, tliat 
 with every increase of excitement we speak not only more 
 loudly, but also more quickly, and that, when we become 
 calmer again, the pitch of our voice becomes lower, its 
 strength reduced, its quickness less rapid. 
 
 Accordingly it is probably not by chance that we 
 are more forcibly compelled to feel in ourselves, or to 
 subjectivate, those tones that lie within the range of the 
 human voice itself. The feeling that we ourselves can 
 produce the tones heard, undoubtedly is of some impor- 
 tance in this matter. But its influence is not restricted to 
 such an extent that each individual would be moved only 
 by the tones attainable by his own voice. The range of 
 these tones rather extends over the whole compass of the 
 human voice; and a certain power of sympathy which can 
 be more easily divined than expressed in words, and which, 
 without doubt, has its last roots in love, gives the strongest 
 hold upon our soul just to those tones which belong to 
 the range of voice of the other sex. This power de- 
 creases, it cannot be denied, the more the tones approach 
 the extreme limits above and below, that is to say, if, 
 generally, the female voice and the instruments akin to it, 
 namely, violin, viola, oboe, and clarionet, attract and move 
 most forcibly the man, and the female soul is affected 
 most vehemently by the male voice, and the horn and 
 cello, that are akin to it, still we have to state that this 
 sympathetic power is less prominent in the high clear 
 soprano and the deep bass, and that also the instruments 
 lose more and more the power of directly exciting sym- 
 pathy, the more they depart from the centre of the tone 
 region. VioHns in high positions and double-basses in their 
 exclusive depth hardly affect the soul directly; we feel 
 with more or less distinctness that their melodies remain 
 outside of us , we hear them more objectively , than sub- 
 jectively. By this they gain a special importance for those 
 branches of music in which this art is made to appear 
 not merely as subjective, but as objectivating, as represent- 
 ing. On this point, however, I shall have more to say in 
 my third lecture. 
 
 The strength of the tones also greatly influences our 
 
 Riemann, Catechism of Musical Aesthetics. 2 
 
behaviour towards them. This is not so evident in the 
 direction of the weak, because naturally even the most 
 evanescent pianissimo finds an equivalent in our inner life, 
 be it dreamy musing, or tremulous foreboding, or anxious 
 listening, etc. But the thundering power of trombones 
 and tubas, as well as the piercing shrillness and the ring- 
 ing clang of trumpets, are in too harsh disproportion to 
 the strength of the human voice to affect us sympatheti- 
 cally, — the former as male voices, or, still less, the latter 
 as female voices. These instruments consequently appear 
 in an eminent degree as objective, or, what means the 
 same thing, as dramatic or epic; and the fact that the 
 classical composers, in purely instrumental works, almost 
 completely exclude them from rendering the melody, 
 plainly enough demonstrates that they looked upon their 
 art as a subjective one, while, on the other hand, it is 
 quite natural that the objectivating music which develops 
 more and more in modern times, requires them in ever 
 increasing measure. 
 
 The enormous power of the fortissimo of the full 
 orchestra with its three trumpets, four horns, three trom- 
 bones, and possibly several other gigantic bass instruments, 
 undoubtedly exerts also an elementary influence on our 
 sensation; but it can hardly be subjectivated as a mani- 
 festation of our inner life; it rather stands opposite to us, 
 crushing and annihilating, as the superior power of so7ne- 
 thing outside of us, producing thus the effect of the sublime, 
 which we admire in rapture, while, at the same time, con- 
 scious of our own smallness we are filled with awe by its 
 greatness.*) But as Schiller, towards the close of his 
 
 *) Also this idea I find in Seidl's book (p. 85): "The sublime 
 will make manifest our inability to put our individual organisation 
 on a par with the immense, by its towering above this individuality. .. . 
 or better, it will excite its conception in the subject by means of 
 the fact that we fail to conform, ourselves to tty He has this 
 thought from Wolfflin's dissertation (p. 12), who continues by saying: 
 "We feel the impossibility of putting ourselves on a par with the 
 immense — our joints are loosened — " , a remark that explains the 
 peculiar phenomenon of giddiness which the sublime awakens 
 whenever the subject does not succeed in finding in itself the fixed 
 point that is imperishable. Still more distinctly Seidl says p. 82: 
 "The human voice is the measure for the power of all other in- 
 struments." For the rest I cannot reconcile myself to Seidl's con- 
 
— 19 — 
 
 treatise on the sublime, says so beautifully of imitative 
 art, that it gives only the appearance of the sublime, not 
 its reality, we can, in a similar manner, require the same 
 for music, and expect from the sublime in music, just as 
 in the otherarts, that it will steel our mind and give fresh 
 strength to our susceptibility of the merely beautiful. 
 He says: 
 
 "Sometimes a single sublime emotion is sufficient to 
 give back at once to the fettered spirit its entire elasti- 
 city .... As long as man was only the slave of physical 
 necessity, as long as he had not found a way out of the 
 narrow circle of his needs, and did not divine the lofty 
 GodUke freedom in his breast, so long the intangible in 
 nature could only remind him of the limits of his imagin- 
 ation, and the destructive in nature only of his physical 
 impotence. Thus he was compelled to pass by the for- 
 mer (the intangible) with fear and trembling, and to turn 
 away from the latter in horror. But no sooner does free 
 contemplation make room for him in the blind rush of 
 the natural forces, and no sooner does he discover amidst 
 this flood of phenomena something lasting in his own 
 breast, than the wild masses of nature around him begin 
 to speak quite a different language to his heart, and the 
 relatively great outside himself is the mirror in which he 
 beholds the absolutely great within himself. Fearlessly 
 and with pleasure mingled with awe, he then approaches 
 those frightful products of his imagination, and inten- 
 tionally calls up the whole power of this faculty to re- 
 present what is infinite for the senses, in order that, failing 
 in this attempt, he may feel all the more vividly the 
 superiority of his ideas over the highest that the senses 
 can achieve." 
 
 The superhuman in the form of superhuman strength 
 of tone and of expansion of the range of tone upwards 
 and downwards, contrasted in this way with the human, 
 
 ception of the sublime, because he tries to draw too much into it 
 (namely, also the stepping beyond the pure line of beauty caused 
 by the preponderance of the elementary over the formal). But I 
 gladly accept his definition: "Sublimity is infinity suggested by 
 an objective greatness or strength that is overpowering, trans- 
 cending far beyond human analogy, and leading the mind beyond 
 all proportion appreciable by the senses," recognising thereby the 
 conditional possibility of subjectivation of the sublime. 
 
cannot, indeed, completely be absorbed by the subject so 
 that it would be intelligible as the utterance of human 
 sentiment. Still it can be experienced humanly, in as far 
 as it can enter our feelings as a phantom, shaking them, 
 in the way explained by Schiller, with the double power 
 of the sublime, at the same time depressing and elevating, 
 destroying and re-animating. Its power, however, will 
 always be conquered in the musical work of art by the 
 purely human re-asserting itself, by the return to degrees 
 of strength and pitch which bring the subjective sentiment 
 again into the foreground and replace the passiveness of 
 the will by its active exercise. 
 
 We must not overlook, however, that, by way of 
 gradual heightening, it is quite within the power of the 
 musical artist so to steel, strengthen, and expand the human 
 feeling that it can experience even the /oriissifuo tutti as 
 the expression of the grandeur of the human mind and 
 will, developed to their fullest power. This Beethoven 
 often has succeeded in accomplishing. 
 
 But not only does what is too powerful, or too high 
 or too low, refuse subjectivation if presented to us without 
 
 - preparation; but, in addition, a whole category of qua- 
 lities which have the ugly as a common notion, are re- 
 fused by our feelings as "unsympathetic", that is to say, 
 are heard not subjectively, but objectively. Here, too, 
 however, many gradations are possible. Certain instru- 
 ments, the bassoon for instance, possess a tone colour 
 which, in the first place, absolutely repels, and does 
 not touch "sympathetically", but has a comic or ridiculous 
 effect. This quality, of course, is most prominent when 
 they are contrasted with other instruments of a nobler 
 sound, and Haydn, for instance, has oftentimes made 
 
 ' capital use of this contrast. But the effect is diminished 
 to a great extent, when such an instrument is used either 
 altogether by itself, as a solo instrument, or in combination 
 with other instruments of a similar quality. It is then as 
 when we become accustomed, on nearer acquaintance, to 
 the repulsive outward appearance of a person, and at last 
 completely cease to be aware of it. This ridiculous 
 quality attaches especially to instruments whose tone we 
 
 ' call "nasal", — besides the bassoon principally to muted 
 trumpets and, in a less degree, to the oboe. It appears 
 that the expression "nasal" is so aptly chosen for this 
 
that it even implies the psychological cause for this repul- 
 sive effect. Apparently the human singing voice is the 
 standard by which we measure the aesthetic value of the 
 "singing" of instruments; and consequently all instruments 
 whose tone reminds us of any morbid affection of the 
 human voice, must touch us just as disagreeably as the 
 singing of a person suffering from a cold. To no one 
 can such a thing be sympathetic; the place of the inner 
 experience of the sentiment expressed in music, is taken 
 by a sensation of pity, which, of course, may be diametri- 
 cally opposed to the sentiment of the music. The melan- 
 choly effect of certain tone colours must be traced back 
 to this. Both, however, the ridiculous as well as the 
 miserable, are aesthetic values arising from the want of 
 subjectivation. There is no doubt that music, when it 
 wants to objectivate, can make characteristic use of such 
 colours to a great extent and for very different purposes, 
 and we shall have to consider this more in detail later 
 on. At present we have only to state what are the ele- 
 mentary tneatis of musical art, abstracting as well from the 
 form-giving principles which make music an art, as from 
 all associations, which, whether intended or not, add on 
 to the purely musical perceptions others, that either give 
 to the musical perceptions a different value, or, on the 
 contrary, are altered in their aesthetic value by them. 
 
 Looking back upon the result of our considerations, 
 we see that the elementary effect of music consists in this: 
 Combinations of tones striking our ears have peculiar 
 aesthetic values according to their properties of pitch and 
 strength, in consequence of our own natural disposition 
 to produce tones ourselves, and to express by our voice 
 the conditions and experiences of our inner life; they are 
 perceived not as being outside of us, but subjectively, that 
 is to say, as being experienced within ourselves while we 
 hear them. We had to state more specially that, in general, 
 rising of pitch, growing of strength, and increase of the 
 pace of this rising and growing, appear as positive develop- 
 ment, as increase of energy, vital power, or will; and that, 
 on the contrary, falling of pitch, diminishing of strength, 
 and decrease of the pace of this falling and diminishing, 
 appear as negative development. 
 
 The total effects of the various combinations of these 
 factors are, accordingly, movements of the soul correspond- 
 
ing exactly to those movements that are experienced in 
 affections like longing, joy, sadness, anger, fright, fear, etc., 
 but sharply distinguished from them by the fact that they 
 are altogether objectless, severed from all relation to 
 reality, without that "remainder of earthliness" that to bear 
 would be painful. Although all music, and the best 
 in particular, most probably has arisen from a mood of 
 the composer in which the actual world, fortune or mis- 
 fortune, fulfilled or disappointed hopes, bore a part, it is 
 just the glorious side of art that the work elevates the 
 creator himself, that the plaint which his tortured heart 
 pours forth in sounds, comforts him like soothing balm 
 by the beautiful form it has taken. The relation to the 
 visible world from which his creation emanated, disappears 
 even for the artist himself^ his mood becomes generalized 
 by being poured into the forms of the musical work of 
 art; and it is a hyena's work worthy of little gratitude 
 that is carried on with great delight in modern times by 
 our all too industrious aesthetic analysts, when, by con- 
 sulting sketch-books and diary notes that were by no 
 means intended for publicity and posterity, they follow 
 up the roots of the musical work of art down into the 
 soul of the composer, and are happy on finding at last 
 the clod of earth from which the flower drew its juice 
 of life. 
 
 The answer to the question regarding the elementary 
 factors of musical effect has become also the answer to 
 the question regarding the substance of music, that is to 
 say, in the first instance, of absolute music, of music that 
 freely emanates from the heart, and that does not want 
 to be anything else than what, as spontaneous out-pouring 
 of the artist's sentiment, it must be. In what the essence 
 of musical form consists, we shall have to consider in 
 our next. 
 
II. 
 Form-giving Principles: 
 Harmony and Rhythm, 
 
 The movement of the human voice in tonic, dynamic 
 and agogic*) changes, as we have seen, is to be referred 
 to the innate impulse to impart. As prompted by this 
 impulse the manifestations of our emotions have a merely 
 natural expression, though one capable of awakening 
 sympathy, that is to say, of causing us to experience per- 
 sonally what we hear, as we explained above. Another 
 impulse, then, namely the impulse to play, comes in, giv- 
 ing these manifestations of our emotions a well ordered 
 and pleasing form. Th. Fechner, in his "Vorschule der 
 Aesthetik" (Part i, page 54), by saying "that man, to find 
 pleasure in the receptive occupation with a subject, must 
 find in it a variety connected in a uniform manner," states, 
 as a general principle for all artistic creation, the uniform 
 connection of the manifold. This manifestation of the 
 impulse to play may have for its object either to impart 
 to the communication an intensified interest for him to 
 whom it is addressed, or to give purely subjective pleasure 
 to the subject. The latter is probably that which deter- 
 mines the artist, the former the consequence which naturally 
 follows from this. But the former object may be taken 
 into account by an artist who creates with rellection, not 
 with ideal spontaneity. 
 
 Hanslick, in his much read work on "The Beautiful 
 in Music", says that for music there is no prototype in 
 nature. This statement must be admitted in as much as 
 really nothing audible in nature has such a regulated and 
 pleasing course as, for instance, even the simplest folk- 
 song. But Hanslick makes a mistake when he feels 
 obliged to assume such a "beautiful object in nature" for 
 the other arts (excepting, strangely enough, architecture). 
 This statement may be maintained, with comparative ease, 
 for painting and sculpture, which, under circumstances at 
 
 *) This term (from dyu)y^, the Greek word for "time") has been 
 introduced by Riemann to denote all changes of the tempo, 
 especially those that take place in the smallest rhythmical com- 
 binations. (Translator s note.) 
 
— 24 — 
 
 least, can confine themselves to mere imitations of nature. 
 But what about poetry? If Hanslick says that nature knows 
 no sonata, no overture, no rondo; it is equally indisputable 
 that it knows no sonnet, no ode , no rondel. Or is 
 not what distinguishes a sonata from a rondo just as much 
 a mere form as what distinguishes the rondel from the 
 sonnet? But nature knows, according to Hanslick, genre- 
 pictures, idylls, tragedies 1 There Hanslick overlooks that 
 just what distinguishes the tragedy from a misfortune that 
 has actually happened, is the artistic representation, the 
 beautiful appearance of reality instead of the reality itself 
 which is disturbed by a thousand interfering circumstances.*) 
 But is such an imitation, such an imaginary represen- 
 tation, really denied to music, is it less within its possibi- 
 lity, than, for instance, within that of painting? Painting, 
 in representing, for instance, a summer's day in the country, 
 can only imitate the visible, and must leave it to the 
 imagination of the looker-on to supply what is wanting — 
 the warm air redolent of luscious aroma, the chirping of 
 the grasshoppers and the jubilations of the birds, etc.-, does 
 music remain, to any considerable extent, or even at all, 
 behind painting? Beethoven's Sinfonia pastorale might rout 
 many an excellent landscape painter, although here music 
 is not even quite at home, but encroaches on the domain 
 of the sister arts. But why does the painter paint a 
 landscape? Is it in order to portray on canvas in tiny 
 dimensions what stands before him, in grand proportions, 
 
 *) Neither is the drama benefited by the illusion being carried 
 to such extent that even all kinds of accessories of no necessary 
 connection with the course of the action, are represented in true 
 likeness to nature. Who has not been annoyed by seeing, on 
 the stage, accumulations of dummy personages, such as promenaders, 
 market goers, etc., and this all the more the more lively their be- 
 haviour? For, strictly speaking, only those persons ought to find a 
 place in the drama that e.xert an influence on the main plot. The 
 drama, too, is not a mere imitation on the stage of a piece of 
 real life, but is an artistic representation, an idealisation, a logical 
 concatenation of actions, for the purpose of producing a series of 
 emotions that, in their entirety, will purify and ennoble the soul. 
 The historical painter will also produce a greater effect, not by 
 multiplying the figures, but by eliminating, as far as possible, 
 everything that is not calculated to strengthen the chief idea, that 
 is to say, by idealising. 
 
— 25 — 
 
 in nature? If that were so, the doom of paintmg would 
 have been signed and sealed by the invention of photo- 
 graphy. But the painter paints the piece of nature not 
 as it is, but as he sees it, that is to say, he paints a 
 piece of his emotional life, and only where this is the 
 case, can we speak of the art of the landscape painter. 
 Just in the same way the musician may proceed, and, 
 indeed, thus does he always proceed. The musician also 
 in every phrase he writes, in every melody, gives a bit 
 of imitation of nature, that is to say, a bit of his emotional 
 life, painted with the material of the musician instead of 
 that of the painter — with tones instead of colours. Only 
 that with the musician the servile imitation of nature plays 
 a still more subordinate part than with the painter. Could 
 not, for instance, the musician imitate a tempest with 
 more fidelity to nature than a painter? The howling of 
 the storm, the roaring of the sea, the rolling of the thunder 
 are directly perceptible to the musician, and even the light- 
 ning he can imitate, because our perception readily lets' 
 the ear do duty for the eye when light is to be repre-j, 
 sented by sounds. But how does the musician accomplish ' 
 his task? Instead of the bare imitation of nature, which 
 would be quite in his power, he gives an idealised imi- 
 tation, instead of the howling up and down in continuous 
 change of pitch, he gives the graduated progression through 
 the steps of the scale; instead of the whirling noise of thunder 
 and billows, indifferent in tone and of no interest as to 
 rhythm , ^ he gives well regulated harmonies and recog- 
 nisable measure of time. What is it that makes him do 
 so? And what are the laws that regulate this idealisation? 
 If we first inquire about the division of time, about 
 measure, we cannot deny that the idea of partitioning off 
 a space of time into comparable sections is suggested to 
 man by nature; the change of day and night, and the 
 recurrence of the seasons, are, on a large scale, what the 
 undulating movements of a twig moved by the wind, or 
 the regular beat of the flying bird's wings, or the hoof- 
 beats of the horse, or the beating of the human heart are 
 on a small scale. Indeed, our real clock is the heart.*) 
 
 *) M. Steinitzer, "Ueber psychologische Wirkungen musikalischer 
 Formen" fp. 67) says: "The assumption of a medium tempo which 
 is homogeneous to our life-movement (lieart-beat), forms the measure 
 for the comprehension of the others" (quoted by Seidl). 
 
— 26 — 
 
 The rate of the movements of our heart, the heart- 
 beat, is the metronome by which we measure not only- 
 musical movements, but all movements. It has been shown 
 by scientific investigation (Vierordt), by means of the 
 inductive method, through collecting a large number of 
 opinions, that the impression of the quick and the slow 
 in a sequence of tones, or any sequence of sensations, is 
 produced according as the rate of movement diverges, to 
 the one side or the other, from a medium rate which cor- 
 responds to about the normal quickness of the pulse. 
 
 In this metronome, however, which is inseparable 
 from us as long as we live, we have only a standard for 
 judging time values, not a division of the time itself. For 
 though the pulse beat is a proof that the functions of our 
 organisation are continuing regularly, on account of this 
 regular continuance itself we do not become conscious of 
 it. But it does fix the aesthetic value of other divisions 
 of time entering our sensation, in as far as it gives to all 
 slower movements the character of the slow, quiet, and in 
 a higher degree that of the retarded or forcibly restrained, 
 and to all quicker movements the character of the quick, 
 excited, even hurrying. It seems to be established that 
 our movements, especially our walking step, stand in re- 
 lation to the quickness of the pulse; it is hardly by chance 
 that the normal velocity of walking coincides with the 
 normal quickness of the pulse. Thus it is that the ramming 
 of the steam-hammer recurring after long pauses (of the dura- 
 tion of several pulse beats) appears as slow, even very slow, 
 so slow that the equality or inequality of the intervals es- 
 capes our judgment unless we have recourse to special 
 means of control (counting between the different beats); 
 on the other hand we get the impression of quickness 
 from the sequence of the beats of three men threshing 
 together, each of whom, strikes about once in every second. 
 
 From the comparison of audible divisions of time with 
 the pulse beat, therefore, there results for music the idea 
 of the tempo, that is to say, of the aesthetic value of the 
 single units of time into which a tone-movement divides 
 itself for the ear, and which correspond approximately to 
 the pulse beat {iinits of counting, beats, or pulses). 
 
 The necessity of dividing a melody into small sections, 
 arises, in the first instance, from the impossibility of com- 
 prehending anything passing in time otherwise than in 
 
— 27 — 
 
 small fragments. At least, the conscious comparing of, 
 and the pleasurable application to, the changes of pitch 
 and strength of tone, would hardly be possible, unless, by 
 a perceptible division, occasion were given to look back, 
 at a certain moment of time, to what had passed. This 
 comparison is made possible, in the first instance, by the 
 gradation of the change of pitch. 
 
 As we have seen above (i.), the essence of melody 
 is properly the continuous, not graduated, change of pitch; 
 that is to say, the peculiar elementary effects of the rising 
 and falling of pitch attach not to the graduated pro- 
 gression through the scale, not to the skip from one pitch 
 to another, but to the raising or lowering of the tone, 
 which, for our sensation, translates itself naturally into a 
 striving upwards or sinking backwards. Now we come to 
 investigate why this continuous change is replaced by the 
 graduated one, notwithstanding which, however, as we have 
 seen, the ear hears as though there were continuous change. 
 
 Although tones of dift'erent pitch are, as we know, of 
 different qualitative value for our feeling, this dift'erent 
 quality could hardly be perceived if they proceeded in 
 continuous change from one pitch to another without resting 
 at certain degrees, even though perhaps by some other 
 means (by dynamic accents, for instance) the division of 
 time might suggest a comparison at certain moments. In 
 order, therefore, to facilitate the comparing of the changes 
 in pitch, these changes are graduated, that is to say, we 
 rest at certain degrees of pitch, and from them proceed 
 to others not by gliding over, but by quickly stepping 
 over. The selection and number of these steps found 
 suitable for this comparison, is by no means arbitrary. 
 Nature rather has indicated definite ways. We know now, 
 and for about two hundred years past, that what is usually 
 called a tone, namely the single sound of a musical instrument 
 or a human voice, is in reality a complexity of tones of 
 different pitch, and that the lowest of them, that which we 
 commonly beUeve we hear by itself, is only the strongest 
 of them. This phenomenon of the so-called overtones 
 was first discovered by the acoustician Sauveur (1700), who 
 was born deaf, and it forms the starting-point of the epoch- 
 raarking theoretical system of the well known composer 
 Jean Philipp Rameau. 
 
 But it did not need this discovery to show musicians 
 
the right way for graduating the pitch. From the times 
 of hoary antiquity, musical practice, and, at least since 
 Pythagoras, also musical theory, have recognised the 
 meaning of the simplest tone ratios, the same ratios which 
 the phenomenon of overtones shows as the first elements 
 of the series of overtones, namely the octave, fifth and 
 fourth, from whose combination all the other intervals of 
 the scale were derived. But long before the halting theory 
 was able to fix definitely the tone ratios, the complete 
 scale had been developed, first as pentatonic scale, which 
 knows no semitone (the so-called old Chinese and Gaelic 
 scale), and very early also as heptatonic scale with serai- 
 tones alternately after two and three tones, and finally, but 
 also several thousand years ago, in China, India and 
 Greece, as transposition of this heptatonic scale in the 
 complete chromatic scale of twelve steps within the octave. 
 Traces of naturalistic melody formation, that is to say, 
 recollections of the continuous change of pitch, for which 
 the graduated change is to be substituted, are to be found 
 in certain small intervals of the scales of oriental nations 
 (the quarter tones of the Indians, the third-tones of the 
 Arabs, the enharmonics of the Greeks), as well as in 
 the portamento of our modern singers. 
 
 Both on account of our limited time and special pro- 
 gramme, we cannot occupy ourselves more particularly 
 with the various scales on which the nations of antiquity 
 and of the middle ages founded their melodies. But we 
 may emphasise this much as established, that theory, 
 indeed, that is to say the attempted philosophical foundation, 
 has exhibited considerable differences at various periods, 
 but not so practice, at least not in what regards the form 
 of the gradation of pitch. There is, accordingly, every 
 reason for the assumption that our present tone system 
 is not, as some think, a thing depending on the condition 
 of taste, not a free creation of the human intellect, but, 
 in its foundation at least, something in accordance with 
 the nature of our minds, something necessary by nature. 
 
 The simple relations of tone which the series of har- 
 monics suggests, form the foundation of harmony, in the 
 first instance of the major harmony; as the strict opposite 
 of this appears the minor harmony, which, as it seems, 
 was the more favourite one with the nations of antiquity. 
 The fact of a tone belonging or not belonging to the 
 
— 29 — 
 
 harmony taken as starting point, constitutes the ideas of 
 consonance and dissonance, which attain their full sig- 
 nificance only when several parts moving simultaneously 
 emphasise the question of compatibility more sharply than 
 is the case with tones following each other in melodic 
 succession. 
 
 The idea of key, or, as it is now called, of tonality, 
 simply results from the natural indolence of the perceiving 
 mind, or, as Lotze more euphemistically expresses it, from 
 the economy of perception, which tries to hold fast what 
 it has, and, therefore, understands the second thing not 
 as another separate entity, but as something that receives 
 its peculiar value from its relation to the first. 
 
 Thus the scale results as a scheme for melodic motion 
 dependant on harmonic relations. Lotze says (page 468): 
 "For our modern feeling the charm of a melody never 
 consists in the mere motion through different pitch, but 
 always in this, — that this motion, liowever incalculable in 
 other respects its swing and direction may be, still at 
 certain moments is sure to touch certain definite steps of 
 the scale which stand to each other in harmonic relations, 
 well-known and always present to our memory. Melody 
 does not soar up and down, like a bird, m the empty 
 realms of the air, but it moves, as we say, on a "ladder", 
 the scaler our enjoyment of it consists in the certain 
 anticipation that its next step will not sink into indefinite 
 space, but that it will reach one of the steps which, in 
 the general organisation of the realm of sound, have been 
 fixed, not only for this melody, but also for every other. 
 This is not a special pecuharity of musical beauty, but 
 a general quality of beauty of every kind ... In no free 
 game, not even in the throwing of balls, could an interest 
 be conceived, were it not that the quite arbitrary motions 
 which we produce are only the introduction to the mani- 
 festation of a series of effects connected by natural laws. 
 It is not the unrestrained freedom by itself that delights 
 us, but the simultaneous perception of a necessity which 
 is constantly ready not only to limit the licence of that 
 freedom, but also to impart to it support, aid, and security. 
 For this reason music, too, delights in the free swing of 
 melody through difterent tones merely because this free- 
 dom affords it an opportunity of becoming conscious of 
 the firmness and the reciprocal relations of those 
 
— 3° — 
 
 points of rest between which this free motion takes 
 place." 
 
 It may be doubted whether music as it presents itself 
 now when the rate of movement in time and the change 
 of pitch in the region of tone that has become measurable 
 by the scale, have been determined — is really still the same 
 as we felt bound to define it when explaining the elemen- 
 tary factors. Has it not, by these relations of the tones, 
 received an altogether new complexion? Do not the ele- 
 mentary factors appear as subordinate and unimportant 
 if compared with harmony and metre? 
 
 It can in no wise be denied that, to a certain extent, 
 for the consideration of the essence of music the danger 
 exists of falling into formalism and of overlooking, in 
 following out the manifold relations of pitch and duration 
 of tone, the chief thing; namely that the melody movement 
 must be, first and above all, the free out-pouring of emotion. 
 On the other hand, indeed, the foi'tn of music determined 
 by harmony and metre, is indispensable*, in fact it is 
 through it that the art becomes art. 
 
 I have already (i.) pointed out that music, by the 
 irresistible elementary effects of melodic, dynamic and 
 agogic changes forces even the poorer-souled man to 
 participate in the richer spiritual life of genius. Let us 
 now realise more accurately what this means. If we call 
 to mind any of the magnificent long-drawn Adagios of 
 Beethoven, we find therein such a variety, such a multipli- 
 city of shades of sentiment, such a wealth of manifold 
 niceties of expression, that really the sympathetic listening 
 to such a movement can be compared to the hearing and 
 seeing of a drama, which likewise leads the soul through 
 a series of emotions, logically connected, elevating and 
 purifying. 
 
 A great part of the magic sway such a work of art 
 exerts upon the listener, depends on the beautiful form in 
 which the vigorous and healthy feelings sympathetically 
 accost us; this beautiful form does not produce its effects 
 upon all persons in the same decisive manner; for it 
 requires cotnprehension and loving application, full attention. 
 
 The ^illimitable cultiv ability of the ear", as Wagner 
 calls it, is the faculty that increases with practice, of 
 apprehending tone relations. People that occupy them 
 selves little or not at all with music, find pleasure only 
 
— 31 — 
 
 in the simplest harmonic and melodic turns, in the simplest, 
 clearest thematic arrangements, in the simplest, directly 
 intelligible rhythmical combinations; and the works of a 
 Bach, a Schumann, a Wagner, a Brahms, are to them, to 
 use their own expression, too learned, that is to say, too 
 complicated. This is more than a mere phrase, and all 
 the arguments in the world will not persuade these amateurs 
 into a liking for the above-named composers. I emphati- 
 cally repeat that practice and goodwill are required for 
 the understanding of a great complicated musical work of 
 art. If the whole is not to fall asunder in a number of 
 loosely connected separate impressions, each of which is 
 of little intensity, — if, rather, each is to support, raise, 
 heighten the others either by analogy or by contrast, then 
 not only the comprehension of the separate is required, 
 but also conscious attention to the connection, which means 
 a strong exertion of the memory and synthetic activity of 
 the mind. In other words, when the higher forms of art 
 begin, the possibility ceases of getting on with mere 
 passive reception of the impressions, be it ever so willing 
 and devoted, and the necessity for active co-operation 
 arises. 
 
 Not that special technical knowledge is indispensable 
 for the enjoyment of musical works of art of the highest 
 order; such knowledge is no more required for the enjoy- 
 ment of the beauty of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony, than 
 for that of the beauty of Cologne Cathedral. But what 
 is certainly indispensable, is practice and preparation by 
 the hearing of simpler music. We can easily convince 
 ourselves of this when we observe how people who them- 
 selves do not practise music at all, and perhaps do not 
 even know the notes, but who hear a great deal, are 
 capable of giving a sound judgment on new works. The 
 professional musician only has names and notions of the 
 details of the technical construction. In these, however, 
 the essence of the work of art is not contained, and by 
 the non-musician who is trained only by listening, they 
 are considered, not as elements of the form, but only in 
 their relation to the substance of the whole. 
 
 But the beholder of Cologne Cathedral who is not 
 himself an architect, is at a considerable advantage in 
 comparison with the hearer of the Ninth Symphony who 
 is not a musician. The former quietly stands before the 
 
— 32 — 
 
 Cathedral and allows its figure to work on his imagination 
 as long as he chooses; he first understands the construc- 
 tion as a whole and by degrees enters into details; he 
 first comprehends the symmetries of the great outlines, 
 and from these gradually proceeds to appreciate those of 
 the smaller parts. It is otherwise with the hearer of music. 
 Speedily the tone picture passes by his ear, and if he 
 does not succeed in apprehending it at once, the possi- 
 bility of understanding it better by comparison with what 
 follows, is lost. Everything depends on the sharp com- 
 prehension of the smallest formations and their tone re- 
 lations, that is to say, on the understanding of the most 
 minute symmetries. 
 
 In the face of such difficult tasks we can well under- 
 stand the indispensibility of the double division mentioned 
 already, that of the time into equal sections of a size we 
 can easily grasp, and that of the change of pitch into few 
 steps whose distances are made intelligible to us by the 
 harmonic relations manifested in the nature of sounds. 
 
 Listening to music, therefore, like looking at work 
 of architectural art, is, in its formal aspect, an appre- 
 hension of symmetrical formations. But in architecture 
 these symmetrical formations stand side by side at the 
 same time, so that we may, indeed, call the one the 
 counterpart of the other, but also may at any time reverse 
 the order. In music, on the other hand, really always the 
 one thing is first, and the other is the subsequent, entering 
 into symmetry with the former, establishing the symmetry, 
 completing it, and, therefore, in a certain sense forming 
 a conclusion. All these corresponding parts, therefore, 
 possess a concluding force that more or less makes itself 
 felt, and, in contradistinction to those that have not this 
 concluding force, are called strong or accented. As the 
 smallest symmetry in music the juxtaposition of two units 
 of counting must appear, of which the second is felt as 
 contrasting with the first; I cannot omit mentioning here 
 that such concluding time.values are made more easily in- 
 telligible as such by a slight prolongation, a lingering on 
 them. This lingering, if prolonged to the doubling of the 
 concluding time-value, has as its result the prototype of 
 triple time. As in the smallest symmetry, namely the bar, 
 or measure, we distinguish one strong and one or more 
 weak pulses, so, in a higher order, we distinguish strong 
 
— 33 — 
 
 and weak measures ; that is to say, the measures that form 
 the corresponding part of a symmetry, possess a concluding 
 force, which is the stronger according as the formation 
 concluded by them is larger. Here we must well observe 
 that the original formation cannot consist in the sequence 
 strong-weak, but that the sequence weak-strong must form 
 the starting point. I mention this because the reform of 
 the theory of rhythm which I advocate, starts from this 
 proposition, and combats a contrary mode of conception 
 that of late has taken deep root. This so-called "system 
 of phrasing" keeps many a pen busy at present, and 
 probably will cause many a literary combat in future. 
 My so-called "phrasing editions" of the sonatas of Mozart 
 and Beethoven, of the sonatinas of Clementi and Haessler, 
 as well as of some piano compositions of Bach and 
 Schubert,*) try to enforce this consistent conception of 
 thematic formations in the sense of proclitic rhythm (in 
 the order weak-strong), by means of a more complete 
 method of marking. I request those who take an interest 
 in questions of this kind and have not yet had an op- 
 portunity of seeing one of my editions, to pay some at- 
 tention to them when an occasion turns up. In a series 
 of theoretical books, especially in my "Musikalische 
 Dynamik und Agogik", I have fully explained the foundation 
 of this system; my teaching, too, consistently keeps to the 
 points of view indicated. 
 
 The symmetrical formations alluded to are the found- 
 ation on which the themes of a piece of music are con- 
 structed; but between themes that are to form a significant 
 contrast, as a rule, smaller parts are introduced which are 
 wanting in this clearly transparent, crystalline formation. 
 This metrical distinction of larger separate parts of the 
 work of art is supported by analogous harmonic formations. 
 The first form in which the idealising substitution of 
 graduated change of pitch for the continuous change 
 makes the harmonic relations of the tones intelligible, is 
 the adherence to a definite key, that is to say, the re- 
 striction to tones that are easily intelligible in their relation 
 to one principal tone, the tonic. The second is the aban- 
 doning of this key in favour of one nearly related to it, 
 
 *) Meanwhile other works have been included in these editions so 
 that now they comprise nearly all the standard works of the whole 
 classical piano literature (Translator's note). 
 
 Riemann, Catechism of Musical Aesthetics. i 
 
— 34 — 
 
 and the subsequent return from this strange key to the 
 original one. This appearance of a new key (the modu- 
 lation) is generally associated with the construction of a new 
 theme, thus helping to distinguish the antithetical parts and 
 to secure greater effects of contrast. 
 
 We have not, as yet, devoted a word to the con- 
 sideration of what, in a narrower sense, is called Rhythm, 
 that is to say, of the formations produced by contraction 
 and division, as well as by deviating combinations of con- 
 traction and subdivision, of the units of counting. Rhythm, 
 too, must be considered as being originally quite free 
 and not measured. We have pointed out already (i.) 
 that the velocity of the change of strength and pitch 
 of tone produces an elementary effect. By this we meant 
 primarily the difference it makes for our feeling, whether, 
 for instance, the howling storm changes its pitch of tone 
 quickly or slowly. Now we see that, after the substitution 
 of the graduated change of pitch for the continuous 
 change, that change in the rapidity of motion must be 
 transformed into a sequence of tones of different length 
 and of equal or different pitch. Naturally, then, this se- 
 quence leads us to compare these different values of du- 
 ration, and thus becomes a direct occasion of an arrangement 
 in equal units of counting. As a matter of fact rhythm is 
 older than the plain measure, that is to say, the oldest 
 melodies did not move in equal and unvaried units of 
 time, but in simple rhythms repeated regularly, as has 
 been proved alike in the case of ancient Greek music, 
 and in that of the western music of the Middle Ages. 
 
 If we consider the immense wealth of graduated re- 
 lations which tones of different pitch, strength, and duration 
 can enter into, the most interesting of which, namely 
 Polyphony, that is to say, the simultaneous sounding of 
 different independent parts, we have not even mentioned 
 — we cannot, certainly, be surprised that the formal may 
 engage the whole interest, nay the entire strength, the 
 entire learning, of a man to such an extent that over it 
 he may forget everything else. The Genius, the artist by 
 vocation, is forced by enthusiasm to give expression to 
 what is going on within him, and the form is to him only 
 the inevitable means of communication. But he who lacks 
 this divine fire will cling to the external which he observes 
 in the works of the inspired Masters, he will imitate their 
 
— 35 — 
 
 harmonies, their rhythms, their modulations, their thematic 
 constructions. Still, though everyone will admit that 
 everything has been faultlessly and cleverly done, that the 
 form is irreproachable and imposing, never can the fact 
 be obscured that the main thing is wanting, namely, the 
 elementary, the spontaneous outpouring of emotion, for 
 which beautiful melody is only the chosen form, never the 
 end and aim. 
 
 We do not mean, however, to say that harmony and 
 rhythm are only form, only a beautiful garb, and have 
 no connection with the substance of the work of art. 
 Harmony is a manifestation of the relations of tones given 
 by nature, that is to say, a manifestation of a law that, 
 as everywhere, so here, governs nature in the smallest as 
 in the greatest things; it is a cosmos in itself whose 
 wonders unfold themselves to the astonished gaze in a 
 form the more radiant, the more deeply the beholder enters 
 into its cont£mplation. This law, which may be defined 
 as unity in variety, can be recognized as well in the single 
 melody, — in monody — , as in the combination of 
 several parts, — in polyphony. The composition in full 
 harmonies only represents Ib a clearer and more obvious 
 fashion the principles of harmony, which equally hold 
 for composition in one part. If the principles of harmony 
 (with the exception of the primary beginnings of the doc- 
 trine of consonance and dissonance alluded to above) 
 did not receive any considerable attention until music 
 was written in different parts, this only goes to prove 
 that free, natural invention could deal with the one- 
 part melody without the help of "theory", but that the 
 more complicated apparatus of writing several parts 
 simultaneously, rendered the technique so much more difficult 
 that unschooled naturalness was bound to fail. 
 
 If, looking at the polyphony of an orchestral com- 
 position, we remember our definition of the significance 
 of the elementary factors, one point forces itself upon our 
 attention with irresistible power, namely this, that in many 
 instances hardly the whole of a polyphonic movement can 
 be subjectivated; but that — as, in listening to a drama, 
 we identify ourselves with one or a i&^ persons who touch 
 us sympathetically, and conceive the others objectively in 
 their relation to us or to those with whom we identify 
 ourselves — so also in the instrumental work only a few 
 
- 36 - 
 
 prominent parts moving us sympathetically are the real 
 representatives of the subject-matter with which we iden- 
 tify ourselves, while others either appear as remaining 
 outside of us, fighting against us, receding from us, or 
 like delicate tendrils surround us. Naturally, as a rule, 
 the melody proper, which is characteristic of all modern 
 works of art, will be the part that enlists our sympathy. 
 
 With regard to the different aesthetic values of high 
 and low tones we have further to remark that in full- 
 voiced compositions the special effect of the different pitch 
 must lose somewhat on account of the various degrees of 
 pitch being represented in a significant manner simultane- 
 ously, and this all the more, of course, the less the single 
 voices get an opportunity of free display, of soaring aloft 
 into higher or descending into darker regions of tone. 
 Naturally, therefore, a certain heaviness and monotony 
 will be peculiar to the full-voiced composition as com- 
 pared with the freely moving monody. On the other hand 
 the simultaneous production of the various colours of 
 different pitch is a new factor of a specific elementary 
 effect; even abstracting from the peculiar fact that the 
 tones of diiferent pitch sounding simultaneously either 
 blend together in consonant harmony so as to produce 
 the effect of one compound tone, or that this harmony 
 is disturbed by dissonant elements, — the various com- 
 binations of high and low tones manifest a quite peculiar, 
 soul-moving quality, as, for instance, the combinations of 
 male voices alone, or of female voices alone, or of male 
 and female voices, or further those of low male voices and 
 high female voices, etc., and similarly with instruments. 
 
 As a general rule composers keep the parts of a 
 harmonic passage pretty close to each other, so that the 
 combined compass of the voices occupies either a middle, 
 or low or high position, and accordingly produces its 
 aesthetic effect, and also remains free, by change of this 
 position, to produce effects analogous to those of a single 
 voice rising or falling. But when the parts, instead of 
 rising or falling together in parallel motion, adopt con- 
 trary motion, that is to say either depart from each other 
 or draw closer together, then that new effect is produced 
 which opens up, to the musical development, a third 
 dimension. While rising and falling appeared to us as a 
 vertical motion, crescendo and diminuendo as advancing and 
 
— 37 — 
 
 retiring, that is to say as moving in a horizontal line that 
 runs straight forward, we may consider the effects produced 
 by the enlarging and diminution of the distances between 
 the parts as a broadening and narrowing, therefore as 
 being in the direction of a transverse horizontal line. 
 Thus we might say with truth that only in polyphony 
 music has attained its full corporality, its third dimension. — 
 In order fully to understand the essence of Rhythm, 
 we must revert once more to its natural foundation. Our 
 bodily organism carries on its functions in a manner 
 clearly divided into small sections of time, first in the 
 pulsations of the heart, secondly in the breathings in 
 addition to these two we might mention the shutting of 
 the eyelids repeated at short intervals in order continually 
 to renew the sensitiveness of the retina, from which has 
 arisen the idea of the "twinkling of an eye" — a moment. 
 All these three are by no means unchangeable, nor are 
 they exactly in direct connection with each other. Still 
 it is certain that sudden, violent excitement quickens the 
 beating of the heart, as, on the contrary, terror can cause 
 it to stop; also that the breath of an excited person goes 
 quicker, or, as the saying is, flies; while, on the other 
 hand, quiet respiration, inhaling and exhaling long breaths, 
 is a sign of a quiet mind. Respiration takes place far 
 more slowly than the beating of the heart; on an average 
 six to eight beats of the pulse correspond to a long breath 
 (inhaling and exhaling). While, therefore, we compared 
 the pulse beat with the units of the musical division of 
 time, the so-called units of counting, we shall not be doing 
 wrong by finding an analogy for the respiration in the 
 phrase, as Dr. Fuchs has done in his works on phrasing. 
 If we keep in mind that singing is the natural foundation 
 of music, the eminent practical significance of the pheno- 
 menon of breathing for the musical structure becomes 
 manifest. As we can sing only while exhaling, the possible 
 duration of a series of tones that can be rendered in a 
 strictly connected way is approximately determined by the 
 possible duration of exhaling. Consequently every song 
 melody, and, in imitation of it, every other melody, divides 
 itself into a number of small sections which may be com 
 pared to breaths. But as the breath itself may be longer 
 or shorter so the melody divides itself now into longer, 
 now into shorter phrases. The short-windedness or breath- 
 
- 38 - 
 
 lessness of the hurrying sequence of short motives of some 
 scherzo-hke movements, as well as on the other hand the 
 long-vvindedness of Beethoven's melodies, especially in his 
 slow movements, are so familiar to all that I may quote 
 them in order to show that we are not dealing here with 
 idle comparisons, with barren analogies. 
 
 The architectural construction of themes referred to 
 above, which renders the comprehension of great forms 
 possible to the apprehending mind by establishing small 
 symmetries that combine in a higher order into greater 
 symmetries, begins, as a rule, with phrases which we must 
 call short or short-winded, but then takes a wider range, 
 and finally not unfrequently exceeds the limits of the 
 human breath to a considerable extent. Such formations, 
 however, do not lose thereby their close relation to human 
 nature, but rather, as it were, enlarge its strength and 
 size, extend and widen out our feelings to the all-embracing, 
 as Schiller's sublime words express it, "Be encompassed, 
 O ye millions!" — ■ — — 
 
 If we compare pulse and breathing, we find the 
 former not nearly so variable as the latter. We cannot, 
 therefore, measure so well the rate of the pulse by the 
 rate of respiration, as, on the contrary, the rate of respi- 
 ration by the rate of the pulse. Naturally, then, the 
 foundation for the musical measurement of time is formed 
 not by the phrasing, but by the "measure", that is to 
 say, by the counting of the units of time proper, that 
 approximately correspond to the pulse beats, and of the 
 small symmetries that first arise from their combinations. 
 The possible deviations from the medium rate of move- 
 ment do not extend, on the one side, to one half, and, 
 on the other side, to the double of the normal rate of 
 about 75 — 80 per minute, which appears neither slow nor 
 quick. A rate of 50 pulses per minute appears already 
 as very slow, and a rate of 140 per minute already as 
 very quick. The varying quickness of the units of count- 
 ing very materially determines the Ethos, the character 
 of a piece; as tempo it forms, as is well known, one of 
 its main marks. The tempo is the substitute for the ele- 
 mentary factor of the velocity of change of pitch and 
 strength of tone, while rhythm only appears as one 
 means of the distinct representation of this change, the 
 other being the gradation of pitch. 
 
— 39 — 
 
 It would lead us too far and, in the end, would prove 
 a vain attempt if we were to weigh more particularly all 
 the various combinations of factors which here appear 
 possible. Let it suffice to call to mind that musical theory 
 is a very wide subject, whose separate branches: harmony, 
 melody, rhythm, form, can fill large volumes and have 
 filled many. Only in general we may state that harmony 
 and metre awaken a new intellectual interest for this 
 reason, that what in its mere tonic, dynamic, and agogic 
 movement would be but a natural occurrence , is trans- 
 formed by them into an agreeable event that gives aesthetic 
 pleasure to the contemplating soul. The measurableness 
 of the values of duration, the recognisable preservation of 
 a unity in the relations of pitch, the easily observable 
 recurrence of equal or similar formations (the melodic- 
 rhythmic motives and phrases) are followed by the per- 
 ceiving spirit with pleasure. This enjoyment in the order 
 of art, in the cosmic development, associates itself, indeed, 
 as a new factor with the emotion that music produces by 
 means of the elementary factors of pitch, strength, and 
 rate of movement. Its effect is that of ennobling and 
 softening- the natural impulse loses its rude violence, the 
 last remains of dross adhering to music from the earthly 
 passion that gave birth to it, are purged away, and thus 
 the work of art becomes capable of fulfilling what we had 
 already to name as its highest task, namely the ennobling 
 and purifying of the sentiment not only of the hstener, 
 but also of the master himself who produced it. 
 
 If, before passing to the consideration of what music 
 can effect by means of all kinds of associations of ideas, 
 we survey once more the means of effect of absolute 
 music, that does not intend to be an)1:hing but expression 
 of sentiment, that does not want explanations, prefaces 
 or footnotes, and that is without connection with other 
 arts, we have to distinguish the following: 
 
 I. The aesthetic effect of pitch, and this in a twofold 
 manner, (a) as actual change of pitch, as rising and falling, up 
 and down, and (b) as fixed different pitch, as high and low, 
 above and below. The elementary power of change of pitch 
 was not lost when we substituted the graduated transition 
 for the continuous one; our perception, rather, notwith- 
 standing the gradation, which appeared only as a means 
 for the easier recognition of the actual change, held fast 
 
— 4° — 
 
 to the continuous transition, in whose sense it understood 
 the graduated one. But on the other hand, instead of 
 possible loss of rude natural efficacy, we gained a great 
 amount of aesthetic enjoyment in the manifold natural 
 relations of tones, which we were able to reduce essen- 
 tially to two principles opposite to each other like poles, 
 namely the major and minor harmony, the former rising 
 brightly and vigorously, the latter pointing downwards 
 mournfully and gravely. Through these means of easily 
 comparing the degrees of rising and falling we attained 
 the possibility of the construction of larger forms, that is 
 the possibility of greater climaxes and contrasts. We point 
 out once more that in place of simple rising of pitch we 
 have first the rising within the same harmony, next the 
 transition from one harmony to another which appears as 
 heightening, and finally the transition from one key to 
 another heightened one. For the continuous change of 
 pitch, therefore, is substituted, besides the melodic pro- 
 gression, progression of harmony and modulation. The 
 guide through this apparent labyrinth of possibilities of 
 relations of tones, is 
 
 Unity in Variety. 
 
 the highest law in all artistic creation generally. 
 
 The simultaneous sounding of several parts of different 
 pitch we had to designate as a kind of third dimension 
 in music, producing, however, not entirely new effects, but 
 only varied combinations and gradations of those already 
 considered. 
 
 2. A second specific means of effect of absolute 
 music is different strength of tone, (a) as continuous change, 
 as crescendo and dimmuendo, and (b) as co?itrast, as forte 
 and piatio, etc. 
 
 In consequence of the division of time into small 
 sections, which is necessary to make a development of 
 longer duration and a grander plan comprehensible, an 
 increasing and decreasing of strength in large outlines 
 must be replaced by changes in smaller periods or by 
 contrasting dynamic effects. If we assume that stronger 
 emotion will select, as its natural expression, rising pitch 
 as well as increasing strength, every small period of 
 emotion will represent itself, primarily, as a rising and 
 subsequent falling of pitch, and increasing and subsequent 
 
— 41 — 
 
 decreasing of strength. But in the division of time referred 
 to, there is an essential difference between what regards 
 pitch and what regards strength. The variation of pitch can 
 begin again at the point where it was left, and develop further, 
 because this can easily be understood. Strength, on the other 
 hand, will not allow such resuming of the degree at which the 
 preceding period ended, but it will have rather to start 
 anew from the zero point, or, at least, from a certain 
 minimum. In other words, each small tone figure will re- 
 present in dynamic rather than in tonic aspect, a growing 
 and subsequent vanishing away; it will, as regards strength, 
 develop, in a positive direction, to a certain culminating 
 point, and then take a retrograde course. This period of 
 dynamic development will place certain moments of time 
 in which it culminates, into prominence and suggest to the 
 perception to take these as guiding points for the com- 
 bination of several units of counting to groups representing 
 a higher unit. 
 
 3. The third elementary means of effect of absolute 
 music is the quickness of change of pitch or strength. If 
 we consider, instead of the rude formations of nature, the 
 simpler forms of art, that is to say the small independent 
 sections characterized by their tonic and dynamic develop- 
 ment, the motives and phrases which the perceiving mind 
 compares to each other, it is clear that the quickness of 
 actual change cannot be observed so easily in different 
 tone figures following each other, as within each one of 
 them. Naturally here again the positive development, 
 namely the increase of velocity will combine most readily 
 with the C7-escendo and the positive melodic development. 
 The means of measuring the increase and decrease of 
 quickness of motion, is the consistent division of time 
 into equal units of counting, whose duration, as we saw, 
 approximately corresponds to the medium velocity of the 
 pulse. We have to distinguish, therefore, (a) the general 
 rate of movement: the tempo, which derives its aesthetic 
 value from its relation to the normal quickness of the 
 pulse; (b) the small modifications of the values of counting, 
 on which the elementary effect of siringendo and ritar- 
 dafido depends: the Tempo rtibato, Mouvement passionel\ 
 (c) a varied form of movement within conditions fixed by the 
 general movement of the units of counting: the Rhythm. 
 
 Concerning the effect of rhythmical formations, which 
 
— 42 — 
 
 we have touched as yet only cursorily, we have to make 
 the supplementary remark that it is to be referred altogether 
 to their relation to the value of the units of counting. 
 The motion in plain units of counting is rhythmically in- 
 different, it produces its effect merely by the melodic, 
 dynamic and agogic changes. The simplest rhythmical 
 formations properly so called are the contraction of several 
 units of counting to one long note, and the subdivision 
 of the unit of counting into two or more shorter ones; 
 more complicated formations arise from abnormal sub- 
 division of contracted values (triplets, etc.) and from ab- 
 normal contraction of subdivided units (syncopation). In 
 general we have to say about the aesthetic value of these 
 rhythmical means that the contraction of several units ot 
 counting appears as a stopping of the motion, and has a 
 retarding, separating, concluding effect; while subdivision, 
 giving a fresh opportunity for recognising the continuation 
 of uiovement, has a stirring, enlivening effect, and marks 
 a new beginning. 
 
 But the most characteristic effects on our feelings 
 result from the combinations of contraction and subdivision. 
 Amongst them we will mention specially the syncopation, 
 that anxious and exciting formation whose essence con- 
 sists in this, that at the moments of time when we expect 
 an entry of tone, that is to say at the commencement 
 of the units of counting, none occurs, but the entry does 
 take place between, when we expect none. Syncopation, 
 therefore, combines the retarding of the contraction with 
 the stirring of the subdivision. Finally, we have to take 
 into consideration the rest, the interruptit n of the sounding, 
 which, of course, only as contrast can attain musical sig- 
 nificance. It would lead us too much into the detail of 
 technology, were we to discuss in particular the various 
 meanings rests can have. I must confine myself to re- 
 marking that rests are not zero values, but minus values, and 
 that the absence of sound can be felt with a very varying 
 intensity according as the rest takes the place of a more 
 or less important value. While rests following tones that 
 form a natural conclusion have scarcely any importance 
 for our feelings, others that interrupt a phrase, and parti- 
 cularly those that occur before the centre of gravity, have 
 a frightening, alarming, breath-stopping effect. 
 
 The eminent significance of rhythm as means of ex- 
 
— 43 — 
 
 pression of the subjective sentiment is manifest enough. 
 Still we cannot reckon it under the elementary factors, 
 because it pre-supposes the gradation of pitch and the 
 division of time into equal parts; its relation to agogic 
 effects, to the acceleration and retardation of the move- 
 ment, is clear; both have a common root; but rhythm is 
 an artistic formation belonging to the same category as 
 melodic formation within the regulated sequence of the 
 scale. This can easily be seen from the fact that its 
 essential effect is fully attained only when it is continued 
 according to the general rules of art, that is to say, when 
 it is repeated or contrasted. Elementary effects, generally 
 speaking, are only those that result without active co- 
 operation of the mind; but the mind has actually begun 
 its operations when it compares durations of time or re- 
 cognises relation of pitch. Once again I must refer to 
 the howling storm in order to explain what are the ele- 
 mentary effects of changes of pitch, strength, and quick- 
 ness; but let it not be forgotten that these elementary 
 effects remain when art substitutes graduated changes for 
 the continuous changes, and thus gives the intellect an 
 incitement to exert its activity in following the movements 
 that have become measurable. 
 
 Quite another kind of activity, however, is demanded 
 of the mind, when music ceases to be subjective, when 
 it undertakes to describe, to paint; for while the obser- 
 vation of the formal construction, the control of harmonic 
 and rhythmic relations, is, after all, only a perception of 
 something present, an acceptation of something offered, 
 objectivating music requires that the listener should add 
 something, that his imagination should work productively. 
 Of this we shall have to speak in our next. 
 
 III. 
 Associative Factors: 
 Characteristic Expression, Tone- 
 painting, Programme Music. 
 
 In the investigation of the elementary factors of the 
 musical impression as well as of the form-giving principles, 
 we repeatedly had occasion to observe that music has 
 
— 44 — 
 
 the faculty of objectivating; for we recognised that certain 
 quantitative or qualitative sound phenomena that are either 
 too alien from human nature or affect it, instead of sym- 
 pathetically, in an antipathetic or even pathological manner, 
 more or less opposed themselves to subjectivation; that 
 which is too low, like that which is too high, did not 
 appear as adapted for the expression of subjective senti- 
 ment; likewise that which is too powerful in the strength 
 of tone could not be absorbed by the subject, but rather 
 entered our sensation as a phantom with the effect of 
 the sublime. We now set about seeking intentionally all 
 that music can do as an objectivating art; we will throw 
 some light on the associative factors by means of which 
 music can produce in our imagination the representation 
 of definite persons, situations, and, in general, events of 
 the outward world, which have a connection with music 
 only in so far as the sensations produced by them are 
 similar to those that the applied forms of movement of 
 music are known by experience to produce. Already we 
 can see that all objectivating music is reflected, that is to 
 say, not direct expression of sentiment, but expression of 
 sentiments engendered by imagining oneself in a certain 
 situation, therefore expression of imagined sentiments of 
 others. In other words, we have to recognise that the 
 notions subjective and objective are to be taken in a 
 sense almost contrary to the general acceptation; for we 
 find that those composers who treat music as an imitative, 
 objectivating art, are usually considered as the more sub- 
 jective ones, as those with whom subjectivity is more 
 prevalent, while to the classics, with whom, as we have 
 seen, the art remains quite subjective, objectivity is gener- 
 ally attributed. Apparently two ideas are here confounded 
 that have nothing in common, or a word is used for two 
 altogether different things. Finally, however, it appears 
 that music when it undertakes to objectivate, is forced to 
 let recede into the background the only thing that in 
 purely subjective, absolute music might be called objec- 
 tive, in as far as it occupies the mind with its contem- 
 plation, namely the formal of the harmonic and metric 
 structure and the development of rhythms (therefore the 
 symmetrical, the architectonic), while it utiHses to a higher 
 degree the elementary factors , that is to say, those that 
 most directly effect subjectivation (melodic, dynamic, and 
 
— 45 — 
 
 agogic elements). Consequently, objectivatiag music usually 
 (more exactly: as far as its individual form is concerned) 
 will be a less perfect object of Art\ the specific beauty 
 of music which consists just in the perfect architecture of 
 harmony, rhythm, and metre, will appear in a less degree, 
 because the intentional reference to the actual world, the 
 intention of characterizing, necessarily must bring forward 
 that disparity of proportion and those manifold deviations 
 from the ideal lines of beauty in which all individuality 
 consists. But let us not begin at the end, but rather 
 proceed successively from the modest appearance of asso- 
 ciative factors in absolute music, to the radical objectivation 
 of the most extreme programme musicians. 
 
 It is by association that horn fanfares remind us of 
 forest and hunting, trumpet blasts of fight and victory, or, 
 at least, of warlike spirit and festive pomp, that the sound 
 of oboes and bassoons calls up before our imagination 
 rural scenery with herd and flock. For we know the horn 
 as signal horn of the hunters (though now chiefly confined 
 to the stage); the cavalry trumpet and the shepherd's pipe 
 are familiar enough to us as a sort of natural music, 
 which art imitates; for nobody will object that because 
 the pipe is made by man it is, therefore, a product of 
 art — as, for the painter, houses are part of a landscape, 
 so are hunting-horn and shepherd's pipe for the musician. 
 Still, the fact that the cuirassier does not give the signal 
 for charge on an oboe, and that the shepherd in his quiet, 
 peaceable occupation in snug solitude does not love the 
 blast of trumpets, has a deeper reason too. For the ex- 
 citement of battle, as, in a less degree, also of the hunt, 
 requires greater strength of tone, and even the harmonic 
 rigidity caused by the limitation to the component parts 
 of a single harmony with, at the most, incidental touching 
 of foreign tones, is more suited for the situation than the 
 chromatic multisonance and harmonic mobility of the wood 
 wind instruments. The importance of their being heard 
 at a distance also necessitates for the trumpet and the 
 horn the use of longer tones, while it is more natural to 
 the shepherd to imitate on his instrument the light mobility 
 of the birds' voices. In passing we may remark that the 
 Alpine herd, whose attention is directed by nature to the 
 grand, prefers an instrument of the horn species to the pipe. 
 
 In a similar way the religious solemnity which we 
 
- 46 - 
 
 associate with the sound of trombones, is not only the 
 result of our experience that trombones are used by pre- 
 ference for the accompaniment of slow Chorale singing-, 
 unquestionably, rather, the sound of this instrument appears 
 to our sensation as a gradation of the human voice towards 
 the grand, the majestic, without any screaming; according 
 to what we have seen above, therefore, it is adapted either 
 to widen our feeling into the great, the broad, that is to say, 
 to elevate us, or, on the other hand, to stand opposite us 
 with the effect of the sublime: in both cases it appears 
 as the appropriate organ for the solemn devotion of divine 
 service. As far as we can determine now, with the Greeks, 
 too, the solemn religious songs (the Spondees) had the 
 same slow emphatic movement as our hymns, and even 
 the Hebrews, and still earlier the old Egyptians, used in 
 their Temple service instruments of the trombone kind 
 with a strong, far-reaching tone. 
 
 We have seen already that a different aesthetic value 
 attaches to the instruments according to their relation to 
 the human voice; but perhaps also the similarity to certain 
 animals' voices peculiar to instruments whose sound is far 
 removed from that of the human voice, gives them a 
 special characteristic meaning. The similarity of the higher 
 wood wind instruments, especially of oboes and flutes, to 
 birds' voices is obvious; for the explanation of their rural 
 character, therefore, this circumstance must not be lost 
 sight of. The gruff voice of the bassoon, especially in 
 its lowest tones, and still more of the now obsolete ophi- 
 cleide or the modern bass tuba, makes us imagine in- 
 voluntarily some uncouth animals, be they roaring bulls 
 or lions, or even fabulous monsters like the dragon that 
 Siegfried slays. Why does it appear to us now almost 
 ridiculous that in the year 585 B. C. the flute-player 
 Sakadas got a prize at the Pythian games with a noftws 
 that represented in tones the combat of Apollo with the 
 dragon Python? Why does it appear to us as ridiculous? 
 Only for this reason, that the weakly and pretty high 
 sounding voice of the flute appears as too tiny to paint 
 in tones a monster like Python. 
 
 Thus we have already advanced so far as to recognise 
 the direct parallelism of pitch and the dimensions of 
 beings whose voice the tones are to represent; this 
 parallelism probably has to be referred to the fact already 
 
— 47 — 
 
 mentioned, that the vibrating mass is larger with low tones 
 than with high ones. 
 
 The high region of tone appears to us as light, bright, 
 mobile, winged, ethereal; the lively vibrations of higher 
 tones not only carry us upwards, but also, when we do 
 not subjectivate them, appear as ati above; the heavy, 
 slow vibrations of the low tones not only draw us down- 
 wards, but also can represent a below \ the low region of 
 tone is the dark, horrific, gloomy, spectral. The powers 
 of darkness sing bass, the angels of light, soprano. 
 
 These various observations show, in the first instance, 
 a significant meaning of pitch and of the timbre related 
 to it. That is to say, when the musician, instead of 
 simply pouring out his emotion in tones, undertakes to 
 represent events of the world of phenomena or mental 
 conditions of others, even the selection of timbre and of 
 degree of pitch affords him many very important means 
 of characterising. Let us think, for instance, of the dark 
 colour of Brahms' Rhapsody, which as well by the 
 selection of an Alto voice for the solo (and, later on, the 
 selection of the accompanying male choir kept in quite 
 sombre tints), as by the low position of the accompanying 
 instruments, at once transports us not only into the heart 
 of the queer misanthrope himself, but also into the land- 
 scape in keeping with his state of mind, into the density 
 of the forest into which only here and there a glaring ray 
 of light falls when he bends the twigs asunder. Or let 
 us think of the Lohengrin prelude with its four solo violins 
 in highest pitch without any support, do they not appear 
 as a something floating in the loftiest sunlit heights, gra- 
 dually sinking down to the earth, just as Wagner really 
 intended to represent by it the carrying down of the holy 
 Grail by the angels? Or let us think of the striking effect 
 produced by the sound of the muted stringed instruments 
 in the tenor aria before the thunder-storm in Haydn's 
 "Seasons"; do we not see there, as it were, the glowing 
 air that cannot be breathed and that paralyses all the 
 senses by its sultriness? Or, to take an example where 
 not only sensations of vision or touch, but even of smell- 
 ing are awakened by music — think of the beginning of the 
 evening scene before Hans Sachs' workshop in the second 
 act of the "Meistersinger" where to the words "How breathes 
 the lilac so mild, so strong and full" the swelling, welling 
 
- 48 - 
 
 sound of the horns (pimiisswio) over the gently floating 
 tremolo of the stringed instruments, conjures up before 
 our imaginations, almost in transporting delusion of 
 our senses, the fragrance of the midsummer night I 
 
 As pitch of tone, so also strength of tone gives rise 
 to associations, if once we have been directed to hear 
 objectively. As the low, so also the weak is the dark; 
 as the high, so also the strong is the bright; night-pieces, 
 therefore, do not admit a real forte, and the breaking in 
 of light demands crescendo or sudden forte, as Haydn, in 
 his "Creation", to the words "Let there be light" has given 
 a model for all time. The veiled light of the moon 
 cannot well, indeed, do without high pitch, but it requires 
 mutes, or, at least, piatio and pianissimo. If strong low 
 tones can appear to us now as powerful and gigantic, 
 now as uncouth and churlish, on the other hand staccato 
 rune of low bass tones in pianissimo have certainly no- 
 thing heavy about them, but can rival the highest flute 
 and violin figures in shadowy fleetness and spectral im- 
 materiality. 
 
 We have to distinguish three degrees of the charac- 
 teristic meaning of musical elements. The first consists 
 in this, that generally a piece of music is suited to a 
 particular object. The second, which requires more at- 
 tention to details, consists in this, that, in the connection 
 of music with the word or mimic representation, or both, 
 the musical effect is in keeping with that of the other 
 arts. And finally, that which requires the greatest precision 
 of expression, when music undertakes to represent without 
 the aid of word or gesture an action, or any piece of 
 real life, indicated by a title, a programme, a poem pre- 
 viously known, or by some similar means. We see that 
 these three degrees more and more recede from the funda- 
 mental essence of music. This does not mean, however, 
 that the artistic effect must be of less and less value; for 
 we must not forget that music, from its connection with 
 other arts, and even from the mere awakening of asso- 
 ciations of ideas, derives a more or less important enhance- 
 ment of its effects, as, for instance, it often happens that 
 a most insignificant piece of music attains a good result 
 in consequence of the beautiful words to which it is 
 set; really good music, of course, in such a case v/ill all 
 the more produce a heightened effect. 
 
— 49 — 
 
 If we now first turn once more to the characteristic 
 formation of music with reference to a proposed object, 
 we remember that above (i) we had to reject altogether 
 the question as to an object of music in general. We 
 had to state that the practice of musical art, like that 
 of any other art, is, in the first instance, a manifestation 
 of impulses common to all men, — of the impulse of com- 
 munication and the impulse of playing. "Out of the abun- 
 dance of the heart the mouth speaketh". Joy and grief 
 man is not prone to keep to himself. "Imparted joy is double 
 joy, imparted pain, reduced by half." If man abandons 
 himself to his natural impulse, he will, like the child or 
 the savage, shout and leap for joy, weep and shudder 
 with pain. Thus music and dance, at least, are the direct 
 outcome of strongly aroused sentiment and of the impulse 
 to communicate, which, as is well known, in default of 
 sympathetic reasonable persons, directs itself towards the 
 unreasoning creation, the animal and plant world, even 
 towards the lifeless inorganic world, towards anything 
 visible or tangible. The child talks not only to its dolls, 
 but also to the chairs, tables, plates, and tells them its 
 grief as well as its joy. 
 
 The impulse to play, then, gives to the manner of 
 communication its special form by v-ying to put every- 
 thing in an easily comprehensible order, that is, by composing 
 parts to a whole, showing the parts in symmetrical relation, 
 — in a word, by consistency. Thus the joyful jumping 
 becomes dance by keeping to certain movements and re- 
 peating them periodically; thus, too, the joyful shouting be- 
 comes a well ordered combination of tones, — a melody. 
 Poetry, in a manner just as clear, shows the same ele- 
 ments: the communication of sentiment by means of words 
 (pure lyric poetry), and the ordering of the form of the 
 communication in the shape of measured verses with or 
 without rhyme (metre). 
 
 It is the manifestation of another impulse that gives 
 rise to the imitative arts, namely the impulse to imitate, 
 the desire to copy something existing outside of us, 
 something complete in itself, instead of what manifests 
 itself in the action of the impulse to play, namely imi- 
 tation during the making, that is, development of a motive. 
 Architecture shows a decided amalgamation of the two 
 forms of imitation; it imitates nature by borrowing its 
 
 Riemann, Catechism of Musical Aesthetics. 4 
 
- 5° — 
 
 pillars and buttresses from the forms of the trees, its 
 vaults from the sky, etc.; but it also imitates — though 
 again in copying nature — in the smaller and smallest 
 details, its own formations during the process of forming, 
 that is to say, it develops motives. Painting and sculpture 
 appear still more dependent on the imitation of something 
 existing as a complete thing, in as far as they copy 
 figures and landscapes of the visible world or reproduce 
 them from memory, — though they, too, like the other 
 arts, may create with some freedom, combining the ele- 
 ments in a varying fashion, in which, indeed, an imitation 
 of the smallest forms cannot be so clearly recognised, but 
 at all events a symmetrical grouping can be observed, 
 such as pyramidal arrangement, pleasant shading of tints, 
 or something similar. Poetry and music likewise can 
 widen their sphere by imitation of the world of pheno- 
 mena; poetry by description, that is to say, by awakening, 
 through the help of words, mental images corresponding 
 to reality; music by imitation of the audible, by copying 
 the forms of movement of the visible, and especially by 
 the substitution of different timbre or pitch for effects of 
 light and colour. Still the original forms of music as well 
 as of poetry are those arising not from the impulse to 
 imitate, but from the impulse to impart, — absolute music 
 and pure poetry. 
 
 Considered in this way the essence of poetry, music, 
 and dance (pantomime), appear as a going out of oneself, 
 as it were, as an objectivation of the subject; and the 
 essence of the imitative arts, on the other hand, as arising 
 from the desire to make our own what is outside of us, 
 to draw it into ourselves, therefore as a subjectivation of 
 the object. Descriptive poetry and pictorial music give 
 to the object itself life and voice, place the subject in 
 the object, so that the work of art appears as life mani- 
 festation not of the artist, but of the persons or natural 
 forces, scenes, landscapes, etc., imagined by him. Thus 
 it is not Franz Liszt who imparts himself to us in longing 
 grief and afterwards in proud exultation of artistic triumph, 
 when we hear Tasso lamento e trionfo, but Tasso himself, 
 as he lives in Liszt's imagination. And similarly in the 
 second movement of his "Pastoral" symphony, it is not 
 Beethoven who depicts for us his feelings as he gazes on 
 the brook meandering through green meadows with its 
 
— 51 " 
 
 overshadowing trees, and on the feathered singers that hop 
 among the branches and on the ground — rather there 
 are painted the hfe manifestations of the landscape itself, 
 which Beethoven experienced in his heart and which he, 
 in the second instance, makes us experience with him. 
 
 Imitative music and descriptive poetry, therefore, 
 like painting and sculpture, are the objectivations of sub- 
 jectivated objects, while lyTic poetry and absolute music 
 are objectivations of the subject itself. But this is to be 
 understood only for the creating artist. The listener, 
 looker on, or reader, has to subjectivate the work of art 
 again: in music, therefore, what was a subjective feeling 
 of the composer, but was secreted, so to speak, by him 
 as a work of art, was objectivated — that the listener has 
 again to experience as his own feeling, therefore to sub- 
 jectivate again. In absolute music he has to do this not 
 by placing himself in the stead of the composer, but with 
 the full delusion of feeling himself what the author felt; 
 in descriptive music, however, for instance in the Tasso 
 Symphony, only in this way that he is sympathetically 
 touched by Tasso or rather by this particular Tasso, and 
 that with him he suffers and rejoices. 
 
 It is clear that in imitative music something inter- 
 venes between hearer and composer, namely the re- 
 presented object, which the composer has subjectivated 
 only again to objectivate it as artistic work. 
 
 This repeated subjectivation and objectivation suffi- 
 ciently explains the contradiction between the distinc- 
 tion given above regarding subjective and objectivating 
 music, and the distinction commonly made regarding 
 subjective and objective composers, subjective and ob- 
 jective players or singers. For he plays objectively 
 who does not subjectivate, absorb, his object, namely the 
 work to be played, to such an extent that it is, as it 
 were, newly created by him, and appears with true tokens 
 of a new creation, namely fresh, throbbing warmth of life 
 in the dynamic and agogic shadings, that it carries us 
 away and warms us whether we will or not; but who 
 rather, with a kind of cool reserve, avoids approaching 
 the object closely, and in consequence only as it were 
 copies with rule and compass the drawing before him. 
 
 An objective composer is he who does not so much 
 give himself up passionately to his feelings while creating 
 
— 52 — 
 
 a work of art, but rather himself rehshes with special 
 delight the beautiful form his work takes; therefore the 
 Classicist who never loses sight of the beautiful form, in 
 contradistinction to the Romanticist who revels in sentiment. 
 
 Thus we see that there may be subjective composers 
 who write objectivating music, even that just they who 
 care less about beautiful form than about characteristic 
 substance, can be in a position to create objects having 
 all the notions of subjectivity, — objects, therefore, that 
 appear as endowed with life in a higher degree than the 
 conventional creations of a formalist into which no real 
 blood is infused. In as much, therefore, as the more sub- 
 jective composer can imagine himself more vividly in the 
 place of the objective character to be represented, the 
 latter will appear with all the more vitality and truth. 
 
 This more marked prominence of subjective feeling 
 in composers who write objectivating music is probably 
 by chance, it is rather a peculiarity of our art-epoch to 
 be explained by other reasons, than a logical necessity. 
 Accidentally the idea that a kind of music representing 
 not the interior life of the composer, but that of any 
 historic or mythical personage, or some action or a piece 
 of nature, has a more intense effect, came to be accepted 
 at a time when the subjective mode of writing, — that 
 is to say that which favoured the elementary factors more 
 than the form-giving principles — also developed more 
 strongly, namely after Beethoven. But Beethoven him- 
 self furnishes the most striking proof that the more 
 decided breaking through of the emotional element does 
 by no means urge towards objectivating music. For 
 Beethoven is greatest where he manifests his own indi- 
 viduality, and therein precisely the elementary overpowers the 
 formal most. There can hardly be anything more mistaken 
 than the attempt to furnish a programme of Beethoven's 
 last quartets, sonatas, and symphonies, and to show what 
 Beethoven might have intended to represent in them: they 
 are purely subjective music, in which not even the formal 
 — the only thing, as I pointed out above, that might be 
 called objective in the subjective work of art — is finished 
 to such perfection that it could fully accomplish that 
 process of purifying and redeeming which the work of 
 art is called to achieve in the artist's soul. It is similar 
 with Brahms, with whom also often enough the "world's 
 
— 53 — 
 
 pain" peeps through, that is to say, art has not succeeded 
 fully in sweetening, by the perfection of the formal, the 
 pain from which the work of art sprang.*) 
 
 A peculiar physiognomy is shown by Schumann who 
 loves to divide his fanciful natural disposition, which on 
 the one side is meditative and dreamy, on the other 
 strongly effervescing and impetuous, into its separate 
 potentialities, and as it were to represent himself as the 
 object with a more prominent or exclusive development 
 of the one or the other side of his temperament. Thus he 
 succeeded in creating a large number of pictures of mental 
 dispositions of marvellous sharpness and characteristic 
 distinction, which do not belong to imitative music, 
 although they often have titles; nor properly to purely 
 subjective music, because they have not the fluctuating, 
 developing character of pure subjectivity, but are, as it 
 were, instantaneous photographs of the subject made the 
 object. 
 
 Purely subjective is Chopin who revels in the ele- 
 mentary as hardly any other musician; I say "revels", for 
 a Beethoven and a Brahms do not revel in it, but the 
 former struggles with the expression of the ideas stirring 
 up his whole soul, and Brahms immerses himself in dark 
 depths of human sentiment with a certain blissful awe, 
 with the lust of pain, while Chopin abandons himself to 
 a sweet dreaming, to an agreeable vision, a charming 
 illusion, to which broad daylight would bring death. Chopin 
 never objectivates, not even himself 
 
 The two most exclusive masters of imitative music 
 are Berlioz and Liszt, both fiery spirits and capable in an 
 eminent degree of transferring themselves into the soul 
 of another, therefore what we call truly subjective natures. 
 
 *) Arthur Seidl, in his recently published degree dissertation 
 "Vom Musikalisch-Erhabenen", calls this remainder of the elementary 
 which the formal has not been able to overcome, or rather this 
 breaking of the elementary through the fetters of the formal , the 
 "sublime in music". According to Seidl the ugly is "not yet 
 beautiful", and the sublime, "no longer beautiful". I hereby 
 emphatically call attention to this little book written with great 
 industry and acute critical power, with which, unfortunately, I did 
 not become acquainted until after my second lecture. Seidl in 
 several places comes very near to the principle set up by myself, 
 of subjectivating the work of art. 
 
— 54 — 
 
 To prove this we need only point to Liszt's piano playing 
 which, more than that of any other, always was new 
 creation of the work. 
 
 What, then, are the means by which these associations 
 of ideas are aroused of necessity in our imagination, — these 
 associations of ideas whose development renders possible 
 the comprehension of the imitative musical work of art? 
 
 Up to this we have made only a few remarks about 
 the characteristic effects of timbre or pitch, and of strength 
 of tone; it is obvious that also the manner of movement, 
 as rhythm and tempo, hr.s to contribute essentially to 
 producing the intended effects. All forms of movement 
 that are to be imitated, or somehow suggested to the 
 imagination, are made clear in their course by means of 
 crescendo and diminuejido, as well as stri?igefido and 
 ritardando; they are placed into bold relief by dynamic 
 and agogic shadings. All combinations of the elementary 
 factors retain their peculiar effects even when we hear, 
 not subjectively, but objectively, when we do not identify 
 ourselves, but only sympathize; thus diminuendo towards 
 the higher notes becomes a fleeting, evanescing, crescendo 
 towards the deep notes, a powerful rush of great masses, 
 the piatiissimo of sustained or vibrating harmonies cover- 
 ing the whole compass of tone, a wide plain, be it of the 
 calm, smooth ocean, or of the bare, burning desert, or 
 perhaps the unmeasured space of the bright, starry noc- 
 turnal sky. Jagged or waved lines of all kinds, as the tone 
 movement (melody) exhibits them, become directly the 
 adequate expression of visible motions of a correspond- 
 ing form. 
 
 Rhythm naturally gains prominent importance. Hopping, 
 violent bouncing, soft clinging, running, stopping, and all 
 the thousandfold graduated and intermixing possibilities, 
 become as many easily intelligible manifestations of the hfe 
 and of the forms of movement of the represented object, 
 if once we are directed to experience music not actively, 
 that is, with the will, but as spectators, that is, with the 
 imagination. 
 
 Which is to be placed higher, subjective or objectif 
 vating music? This question is better not put at all. I- 
 the same tone combinations can mean now a passionate 
 emotion of the heart, at another time the galloping of a 
 horse, or something else taken from the world of pheno- 
 
— 55 — 
 
 mena, it is idle to dispute about the superiority of the 
 one or the other. This, indeed, seems to be quite un- 
 questionable, that all objectivating music has a transferred, 
 not an original, meaning, as can be sufficiently seen from 
 the fact that in many cases without a knowledge of the 
 programme little or nothing can be made of the music. 
 
 Under all circumstances, therefore, we are referred 
 back to the characteristic property, that is to say, the 
 agreement of the effect produced and the object proposed. 
 We will add, first, a few words more about that general 
 characteristic property mentioned above, according to 
 which dance music, for instance, is not suitable during a 
 funeral procession, as on the contrary it is impossible to 
 trip a merry dance to a funeral march; or as noisy fan- 
 fares of trumpets and kettle-drums do not appear adapted 
 to lull a child to sleep, while an army would hardly care 
 to charge to the sounds of a gentle, insinuating melody. 
 For divine service, — and here again difterently according 
 to the festivals of the ecclesiastical year, — for festive pro- 
 cessions, for a burial service, for a serenade, etc., — in a 
 word according to the special occasion that requires 
 music, music must have a more or less pronounced 
 character, or at least must not be altogether in con- 
 tradiction to the required state of mind. 
 
 If we said that attention to a definite object itself 
 deprives music of a part of the ideal artistic freedom, — ■ 
 a statement that must decidedly be adhered to, — we 
 must not consider music of a special kind, suited for a 
 particular case, as composed as a provision for emergen- 
 cies, but as created out of the situation. It does not 
 matter that this situation may have existed only in the 
 imagination. Music of this kind need not have even a 
 touch of objectivating meaning, but may be altogether 
 subjective. We have to remark, however, that a march, 
 dance, cavalry fanfare, or cradle -song, has each its 
 own natural rhythm, which hardly can be called a means 
 of artistic effect, but is rather a kind of vessel into which 
 music is infused, a sort of fetter which it has to bear 
 under the given circumstances, simply because we walk 
 slowly in a funeral march and spring quickly in the Galop. 
 It must not be overlooked, however, that everything else 
 is not thereby directed into a special course; it is quite 
 possible to make most merry, playful music within the 
 
- 56 - 
 
 general rhythm necessitated by the walking pace of the 
 funeral march, while on the other hand the rhythm of the 
 Galop might be distinctly marked, and still a strictly 
 ecclesiastical stamp given to the whole by means of a 
 Cantus firmus in long notes. 
 
 What regards Church music in particular, its conception, 
 besides comprehending what is suited for the situation, 
 namely, slow movement and dignified harmony, is frequently 
 modified by something that can only be called historic 
 characterisation, namely, that strange formation of har- 
 mony which, instead of the clarified modern tonality, 
 favours the peculiar, not strained but straining turns of 
 the so-called Church tones. If by that means a proposed 
 object is more easily attained, for instance, in the opera 
 or any other piece of imitative music, no objection 
 can be raised to it. But it must be called entirely wrong, 
 if a composer of our days whenever he wants to raise 
 his voice fervently to his God, thinks himself obliged to 
 use the dialect of a by-gone time. 
 
 Up to this moment, that is to say, to the end of our 
 reflections, we have intentionally avoided vocal music, not 
 as if we had shunned the discussion of its principles, but 
 rather in order to let it be seen unambiguously that we 
 do not need the reference to vocal music for the ex- 
 planation of any principle of absolute music. For of 
 absolute music, vocal music forms no part. 
 
 It is an old point of dispute; Which is the older, vocal 
 music or instrumental music? This dispute, as a general 
 rule, is decided in favour of vocal music; for, as they 
 say, the singing voice is the oldest, because the natural, 
 musical instrument of man ; instrumental music is taken as 
 originating in vocal music, and laws for the former are 
 derived from the latter. The most prominent represen- 
 tative of this one-sided view, which not only favours vocal 
 music by preference, but even declares instrumental music 
 to be an aberration, was Eduard Grell, Professor of the 
 department of composition at the Berlin Academy, who 
 died in August 1886. I may be permitted to quote here 
 a few samples from his collected Treatises and Opinions 
 on music, published after his death by Heinrich Beller- 
 mann, who, by the way, is of the same way of thinking. 
 In the introduction Grell states his principle in a very 
 plain and unmistakable way (page 3): "A musical idea 
 
— 57 — 
 
 comprises three things: i. Words, 2, Harmony, 3. Rhythm, 
 which are most intimately connected and exist simulta- 
 neously; of these three, the words not only supply the soul, 
 the substance of the subject-matter, but they also give 
 rise, by their vowels, to harmony (?), and, by their con- 
 sonants, to rhythm (?)." On page 127 he says: "Music 
 without words and ideas, that is instrumental music, would 
 be sensuality that we abhor; it would correspond in 
 painting to a mixture of figures and colours without 
 subject-matter." Page 40: "To future times it will appear 
 inexplicable that in our times singing was considered so 
 low and unessential, instrumental music so high and 
 important . . . For designing and painting without subject- 
 matter, for instance patterns for clothes and tapestry [thus 
 a Beethoven symphony = tapestry pattern 1] are not 
 easily advocated by anyone or considered as art. But 
 the most intellectual people are charmed by the mixture, 
 devoid of ideas, of merely rhythmic and harmonic relations, 
 that is to say by instrumental music . . But this is an effect 
 of an altogether sensuous nature, not in the remotest 
 degree warranted or having a definite direction, an effect 
 which no art is required to produce, but mere nature, the 
 mere noise of nature, is sufficient and even capable of pro- 
 ducing with more intensity and power." Finally on page 144: 
 "Nature herself has led up to the art of raising speech to 
 singing by the measurement of time and sounds — 
 rhythm and harmony. Thus it appears that instrumental 
 music is an extremely beautiful garment in which only 
 the chief thing, namely the body, is wanting. Or we may 
 say that it is a wonderfully beautiful body, but without 
 soul, without idea, without word. (It is written: In the 
 beginning was the Word!) From the explained genealogy 
 it appears that of all instrumental music the sublimest is 
 dance music. The dance is the rhythmical element, the 
 metre, of poem and words. No instrumental music, there- 
 fore, comes as near to the expression of ideas as dance 
 music. For although it cannot give the word, still it re- 
 calls it by retaining the scheme of the metre, of the verse 
 and of its words. And as a matter of fact, what nowadays 
 is considered as the highest degree of instrumental music, 
 namely the symphony, is nothing else than dance music. 
 The symphony, like the sonata . . . has originated in the 
 so-called suites, that is to say, serieses of dances, which, 
 
- 58 - 
 
 because people ceased to dance to them, have so terribly 
 degenerated that, when hearing modern symphonies, we 
 can think no longer of dances, of dancing, or even of 
 verses. The only pieces that sometimes are left are the 
 Minuet and the March, and of these the Minuet in such 
 a corrupted form that not even the three-four time is sure 
 of its life. So far progress can lead. Instead of the various 
 characteristic dance rhythms, nowadays in the symphony 
 the wildest and most unintelligible rhythms are presented", 
 and so forth. Page 145: "As soon as the musician makes 
 the handicraft, the manufacturing of the product as it were, 
 the main thing, the wordless implements come into acti- 
 vity. Then the idea flies away, and poetry is gone." 
 
 He who wrote this was for many years one of the 
 most esteemed musical authorities for the highest admini- 
 strative organs of the Prussian state! Hence it is well worth 
 while to take note of the extreme narrowness of his 
 standpoint. 
 
 The fundamental error of Grell, out of which every- 
 thing else follows as a natural consequence, is the sup- 
 position that music has developed out of speech, the 
 exact opposite of which, of course, must be true. Does 
 singing really arise from a heightening of speech, or is 
 speech, originally, perhaps only faded singing? 
 
 That the singing of the human voice is the "beautiful 
 of nature" in music, or, better, the prototype of music, 
 the criterion, the canon by which all aesthetic values of 
 musical productions are measured, was the red thread that 
 ran through our considerations. But this by no means 
 proves that singing in connection with words, that is, the 
 combination of music and poetry, forms the foundation 
 of music. What are words? Words are nothing else 
 than conventional symbols to designate concrete things 
 or abstract notions. Naturally the conventional formulas 
 for abstract notions are of much more recent origin than 
 those for concrete things. It is well known that many 
 words are so-called onomatopoetic imitations of the audi- 
 tory or visual impressions made by the things or phenomena 
 designated by them, for instance, rattling, creaking, whistl- 
 ing, glittering, etc. But generally the origin of language, 
 which naturally cannot clearly be defined, has its last 
 recognisable traces in crude utterances of joy and pain, 
 of desire, detestation or anger, in a word, of affections, 
 
— 59 — 
 
 and it is to be understood in a similar way as the ele- 
 mentary factors of music, of which we have treated at 
 length. Beyond all doubt these original utterances were 
 the starting point for the development of language as well 
 as of singing. But the word proper, as such, as symbol, 
 not as expression of feeling that is generally intelligible 
 and affects us in an elementary manner by the elementary 
 effects of change of pitch, etc., but as formula fixed by 
 conventional usage to designate a thing or a notion, a 
 feeling, a desire, like heat or thirst, — is certainly not a 
 development of primitive e'ements, but a fading and 
 ossification of the original meaning of sounds, brought 
 about by the development of other mental faculties, name- 
 ly reason and memory, and under the influence of the 
 impulse of communicating, for the purpose of a more 
 manifold and at the same time more definite use. The 
 original meaning of sounds, however, did not become 
 forgotten or obsolete, but rather, without any doubt, 
 simultaneously with the development of languages, became 
 heightened to singing. But from that point word and 
 singing diverge; from the moment when the word passes 
 from the absolute meaning of its sound to the conventional 
 and traditional, the tonic (vocalic) and rhythmic (which 
 does not consist, as Grell indicates, in the consonants but 
 merely in the weight of the syllables; the consonants 
 only effect a smoother connection or varying sharp sepa- 
 ration of the vowels), in a word, the musical, elements 
 attaching to the word, become merely the means necessary 
 for hearing, the material, as it were, of the words, while 
 with their meaning they retain less and less connection. 
 Still speech retains the capability of utilising these ele- 
 mentary means again in a higher degree according to 
 their original meaning, and it does this in measured speech, 
 from the melodic cadences of an elaborate oration up to 
 the real declamation and recitation of a poem. The word 
 cannot do without tone, and it does not fail to make use 
 of it to greater extent for the highest gradation of its 
 effect. We can certainly say with the same right that 
 poetry desires the tone, that is, ordered combinations of 
 tone, real music, as it has often been declared that 
 (absolute) music desires the word. How rarely has any- 
 body been tempted to compose words to a beautiful 
 melody, although that would often enough be quite 
 
— 6o — 
 
 possible! But no verse capable of music is safe from being 
 flooded again and again with music. Would that be 
 intelligible if music with words were a gradation of music 
 without words? But it is quite inteUigible, because words 
 with music are a gradation of words without music. And 
 in what could the gradation of music without words to 
 music with words consist? Apparently only in the reception 
 of an altogether new element, not in the gradation of one 
 contained in it already. For this new element would be 
 the meaning which the word has, abstracting from its 
 sound, the meaning given to it by convention and tradition, 
 without its being warranted by its vocalic, consonantic, 
 and rhythmic effect. It is different when music is added 
 to the word, changing the speaking tone into singing. 
 The task that then confronts the composer may be defined 
 as consisting in his having to bring back language to its 
 original condition, and to give back to its vowels, con- 
 sonants, and rhythm the same significance which they must 
 have had in the primitive utterances of sentiment. It is 
 manifest that this task can be only partially fulfilled. 
 Otherwise there would be, for each poem, only one melody, 
 namely, that which alone would give the single words 
 their true accentuation. But according to our explanation 
 of the development of language, it is impossible that 
 every word should find an equivalent in the musical 
 expression, for the simple reason that a large number of 
 words, especially abstract notions and auxiliary words, 
 are formed in an altogether conventional manner, are merely 
 the result of the protracted living together of men. Not 
 the emphasising of the significance of the single wo7'd, 
 therefore, can be the task of singing, but rather the 
 expression of the meaning of the single thoughts. Only 
 for these will it be possible to find, unless the idea be 
 too abstract and devoid of every sentimental element, 
 a really equivalent musical expression, and not only one, 
 but many. Some influence on the formation of the melody, 
 indeed, will be exerted by the single words, because, above 
 all, their rhythmical element cannot be ignored without 
 interfering with their intelligibility. The so-called correct 
 declamation of the words in singing consists merely in 
 the elaboration of the natural rhythm of the words, that 
 is, of the difterent weight of the syllables. And this 
 difference of treatment is not to be confined to the correct 
 
— 6i — 
 
 distinction of strong and weak in the single word, but, I 
 am inclined to say, it is of still more importance regarding 
 the syllables which require emphasis according to the 
 sense, those on which the chief stress of the se?itence falls. 
 
 This necessity of paying attention to the rhythm of 
 language may have given rise to the error that singing 
 generally is only a gradation of the natural cadence of 
 the words, a view which, I think, I have refuted in my 
 preceding observations. The natural cadence is the same 
 in all sentences of equal construction, that is to say 
 according as they are question or statement, command or 
 request, and as they have subordinate sentences of this 
 or that kind; and the greater or less number of words 
 that may be used, is hardly of importance for anything 
 but the tempo. The cadence of the single words requires 
 special attention only when the meaning requires emphasis 
 for them, that is, when they contain the main idea of the 
 sentence. Then the musical formation, too, must culminate 
 in them; but sufficient consideration is given if only the 
 syllable that has the principal weight in the particular 
 word has it also in the whole phrase or period. The 
 proper musical structure of the melody, however, will de- 
 pend on the sentiment which the words, or rather the 
 sentences, express, and in this respect, as we know, the 
 elementary factors will be of most importance. Compare, 
 for instance, Mendelssohn's "Spring Song": "Es brechen 
 in schallenden Reigen die Friihlingsstimmen los", and 
 Schubert's "Du bist die Ruh, der Frieden mild!". The 
 restlessly flickering melody of the former song, rushing 
 quickly from depth to height, and taking a fresh start 
 again and again, in its contrast to the quiet lines of the 
 latter, that strive upwards with energy, indeed, but not 
 quickly and jerkily, but in long-drawn strokes, forms a 
 characteristic example of the effect of the elementary 
 factors. 
 
 While thus, indeed, song music is eminently adapted 
 to be heard subjectively, that is to say, with the full 
 delusion of personal experience, because singing is the 
 manner peculiar to us of giving audible expression to our 
 feelings, still we must not overlook that for the composer 
 the case is essentially different. If the composer is not 
 also the poet, and even in that case, if the words are 
 there completed, and the music is not composed simul- 
 
— 62 — 
 
 taneously with the words but afterwards, (which, as we 
 know, was always the case even with Wagner), then the 
 music to be invented belongs to the objectivating class; 
 for the composer cannot let his imagination work freely, 
 but is bound to the musical illustration of the text before 
 him; he, therefore, can make mistakes which would be 
 impossible if he were to create quite unhindered, from 
 within himself. He can mistake the character of the 
 whole, he can fail to bring out sufficiently some main 
 features of the poem, he even can sin, by a contradiction 
 of the expression of the music and the meaning of the 
 words, to such an extent that the effect is altogether 
 ridiculous, however correct and pleasing the music separat- 
 ed from the words may be. It is a bad sign, of course, 
 for the quality of his artistic power, if such a thing happens 
 to him. 
 
 The converse, the case that the music well agrees 
 with the expression of the words, but without them has 
 no real musical meaning, is also unpleasant enough, but 
 at least not ridiculous. Only where the subject-matter of 
 the words is sufficient compensation for the loss of musical 
 effect, such a formation can be considered as warranted; 
 so, for instance, in the often long spun out secco-reci- 
 tatives of the older operas, in which the musical interest 
 is almost equal to zero, while, in compensation, the action 
 advances more quickly, and also a foil is gained by which 
 subsequent numbers constructed on purely musical lines 
 are set off to better advantage. The modern opera 
 dispenses with this kind of recitative, which is hardly 
 heightened speech, but only speech on a definite pitch, 
 and to which recourse is had in order to prevent the 
 glaring contrast of the key of the instruments and the pitch of 
 the declaimer, which is so disagreeably felt in the melodrama. 
 Instead of this, the modern opera uses the accompanied 
 recitative, that is to say, the voice, indeed, speaks more 
 than it sings, but the purely musical interest is satisfied 
 by the thematic formations displayed in the accompaniment. 
 This kind of singing, which is developed to the highest 
 perfection especially by Wagner, is, indeed, only heightened 
 speech, but for that same reason not real singing. The 
 real singing takes place whenever not the single word, 
 but the meaning of the phrases and sentences, finds its 
 musical expression, whether a transition is made to the 
 
- 63 - 
 
 formal structure of song on a large scale, that is to the 
 aria, or whether only a few bars assume an arioso 
 character.*) 
 
 The relation of the accompaniment to the singing 
 voice can be of a very varying kind. If the thematic 
 structure is in the song, if, therefore, we have real singing 
 before us, the accompaniment may confine itself to 
 explaining the melody of the voice in its harmonic struc- 
 
 *) Strangely G. Engel (Aesthetik, p. 115) asks: "Who can know 
 whether, while he wrote a vocal composition, the melody invented 
 floated before the mind of the composer as a purely melodic for- 
 mation, or influenced by the incitement and reflection of the words 
 for which he invented it?" Can a worse reproach be made to a 
 composer than that he had invented the melody of a vocal com- 
 position without reference to, without being influenced by, the 
 words? Apparently Engel has overlooked that the possibility of 
 melody formation in connection with words is of a two-fold kind: 
 in broad outlines, and in detail. The singer, however, (with whom 
 Engel is concerned primarily) will in any case have a good deal 
 of work left for him to do; it will be easiest for him to bring 
 out the meaning of the words when the composer has worked in 
 detail. But where the melody expresses the feeling in great out- 
 lines, he certainly must have enjoyed some "style-culture", if he 
 is to be able to let the meaning of the words appear clearly as 
 light undulations on the surface of the deeper waves of the 
 general emotion. Very appropriately Richard Wallaschek remarks 
 in his "Aesthetik der Tonkunst" (1886) that things which, in a 
 prosaic description, would be quite in their place, easily receive 
 from music a tone of solemnity which would create general 
 laughter if the regard for the composer or the place of the per- 
 formance did not preclude such a thing; (p. 345) "when the evan- 
 gelist (in Bach's 'Passion according to St. Matthew') announces 
 in the most solemn Andante, with the accompaniment of long-drawn 
 chords .... with most serious voice: 'now the coat was without 
 seam, woven from the top throughout' etc." These are cases where 
 the composer, if he cannot avoid the composition of such words, 
 must confine himself to fixing the cadence and rhythm of the words, 
 because a musical interpretation of the meaning is impossible. By 
 the way, Wallaschek's book is one of the most barren and un- 
 pleasant that have appeared for a long time on the field of musical 
 aesthetics. One sentence may suffice to characterise it (p. 205): 
 "The human voice could not then serve as a regulator because it 
 was too uncertain as long as one could not learn, from instruments 
 (!), the strict limitation and invariable pitch of the tone". This 
 passage is a nice pendant to Grell's views on instrumental music ' 
 
— 64 - 
 
 ture, and thereby to supporting and strengthening its 
 efifect; or it may participate in the thematic treatment by 
 imitating parts of the vocal melody, in which case it 
 combines more intimately with the voice part, but also 
 easily runs the risk of making itself intrusively prominent; 
 third, the accompaniment may illustrate, in an independent 
 manner, the meaning of the words. This latter case 
 requires a little more attention. We have to distinguish 
 again several methods of treatment. The accompaniment 
 may confine itself to maintaining the general expression 
 of the text, which does not exclude its painting, for in- 
 stance, the whispering of the evening breeze, or the 
 rippling of the brook, or the roaring of the storm. It 
 will be the business of the singing voice, then, to express 
 sharply the difterent features, the varying phases of feel- 
 ing, which the words suggest. But also, on the contrary, 
 the singing voice can undertake to draw the general 
 outlines, to maintain the general sentiment, while the 
 accompaniment goes into detail, particularises, illustrates 
 the meaning of each line of poetry. In the larger forms 
 of vocal music, namely the opera and the oratorio, seve- 
 ral other combinations are possible; for instance, the 
 accompaniment may carry on the action, or at least 
 portray by objectivating independently and not in connec- 
 tion with the meaning of the words, of the singing voice. Or 
 the accompanying music may betray the most secret 
 thoughts, while the singing conceals them; it is possible 
 for the accompaniment to give a processional march or 
 something of the kind, while one or more singing voices 
 express themselves subjectively. Think also, for instance, 
 of the first scene of the "Meistersinger" (in the Church), 
 where, during the singing of the chorale, the solo parts 
 of the orchestra (violin, 'cello, oboe) interpret the love 
 dialogue of Walther and Eva who talk in silent signs. 
 
 It is not my intention to indicate here all the possi- 
 bilities of distributing the parts, much less to explain them 
 in detail. We had only to state generally how music and 
 word in vocal music are related to each other, and to get 
 a clear understanding whether vocal music is really the 
 Alpha and Omega of music, or only one of its forms. I 
 think we cannot remain doubtful on this point. Vocal 
 music is not "music simply", but a combination of music 
 with poetry, in the opera with acting also, made for the 
 
u 
 
 - 65 - 
 
 purpose of mutual support, of working in concert, 
 of attaining artistic effects of the very highest intensity. 
 
 I will not conclude my paper without acknowledging 
 that in the musical drama effects are possible that neither 
 music alone, nor poetry alone or in combination with acting, 
 could produce. The illusion of real occurrence is cer- 
 tainly effected most perfectly by the acting; in the word 
 the acting persons express their thinking and feeling 
 unambiguously, and whatever may be wanting, music 
 supplies by raising the expression high above the mere 
 conventional, and by making the meaning of the words 
 much more intelligible and forcible through its direct 
 action on the feelings. But it is not men alone who 
 speak this sublime language; even nature speaks to us 
 directly through the voice of the orchestra. 
 
 If now, looking back, we ask ourselves how the 
 listener acts with reference to the various kinds of music 
 that we considered, we must again and again put the 
 greatest stress on this, that absolute music, pure instru- 
 mental music as well as vocal music connected with 
 pure lyric poetry, must be subjectivated with the full 
 delusion of personal experience; but that also objectivating 
 music, — the illustrating, accompanying music of the song, 
 of the opera, of the pantomine, and of tlie melodrama, 
 as well as the independent programme-music — can produce 
 its full effect only when the listener succeeds in bringing 
 himself into sympathetic contact with the object. Thus 
 even when music actually paints nature, be it in storm 
 or in peaceful idyllic repose, he must try to transport 
 himself in imagination into the life-conditions of the ob- 
 jects which the music is to represent. 
 
 B_l the activity of the mind is essentially different 
 with objectivating music and with purely subjective music. 
 For with the latter only a sharp comprehension of the 
 passing tone -pictures, a retention in the memory and a 
 comparison, an attention to the symmetric formations and 
 proportions, — therefore, at all events, a pleasureable en- 
 joyment of what is offered, is required. With imitative 
 music, however, it is necessary to understand in detail 
 the intentions of the composer, by making one's ima- 
 gination work on in the direction suggested by the composer. 
 Nobody will deny that, in certain circumstances, this is 
 a very precarious thing. For when the word does not 
 
 Riemann, Catechism of Musical Aesthetics. e 
 
— 66 — 
 
 accompany us as a safe guide, and give to the ambiguous 
 formations of music their special meaning, it cannot but 
 happen occasionally that the imagination of the listener 
 runs away with him, and, through a misunderstanding of 
 the intention of the composer due not to a culpable want 
 of judgment, but explainable by the ambiguity of the 
 music, he completely loses the thread of the programme. 
 This is the reason why all protracted programmes, in 
 which an action develops itself, become more or less 
 impracticable, not for the composer but for the listener.*) 
 I remember a striking example, namely the orchestral 
 piece "Don Quixote" by Rubinstein. With the programme 
 in my hand I was not able to follow the thread, but 
 imagined at different places that the moment had come, 
 when the gallant knight fights against a flock of sheep. 
 Where the word keeps the mind au courant, bridles and 
 spurs the imagination, the capability of music is unlimited; 
 also where the programme only indicates, with a few 
 words, the situation (not a developing action), music is 
 capable of the highest effect. I recall, for instance, 
 Liszt's ingenious piano tone-picture "St. Francis of Paula 
 walking on the waves", which has an unsurpassibly plastic 
 effect. 
 
 The attempt of the founder of modern programme 
 music, Hector Berlioz, to give to the dissolving form of 
 the tone-picture a stronger skeleton by means of retaining 
 and transforming a few motives, must be recognised as 
 very ingenious, but will hardly ever attain great results*, 
 for even the leading-motive will lead safely only where 
 the word is at hand: there it can, as we know from 
 Wagner's works, enforce the most significant associations 
 of ideas with unfailing certainty. The recurrence of a 
 
 *) A little too sharp, indeed, but otherwise concurring in this 
 view is G. Engel's judgment (Aesthetik, p. 53): ''The most ex- 
 haustive programme cannot afford a full compensation for the want 
 of musical unity, because the poetic meaning is not imminent in 
 the composition, bar by bar, tone by tone, by means of the word, 
 as in vocal music. But since this is so, an exhatistlve programme 
 is of no particular value ; for it deflects the attention of the listener 
 from the piece of music, which, to be understood in its unity, de- 
 mands his attention in the fullest measure. Programme music, there- 
 fore, is a superfluous hybrid," etc. 
 
_ 67 - 
 
 motive, emphatically announced for the first time in a 
 situation of special importance, will each time recall this 
 situation to the memory ; the best instance of this continues 
 to be the "Never shalt thou question me" in Lohengrin. 
 But whether the extended use of the motives, as carried 
 out by Wagner in his latest music dramas, must not ossify, 
 in the hands of less ingenious composers, to a dry con- 
 ventionalism of the very worst kind, the future alone 
 will decide. 
 
 In any case, I think, the consideration of the 
 various means by which music produces its artistic 
 effects, has afforded us no ground whatever to at- 
 tribute less value to the works of any of our Classics 
 or Romanticists than to those of any other. Rather all 
 appear, notwithstanding all intended and more or less 
 successful objectivations, as reflected images of great in- 
 dividual artists; and the thought that we can feel our- 
 selves at one with them for minutes, elevates and strengthens 
 our minds. And so we shall not slight any one form of 
 art in favour of another, nor allow either pure instrumental 
 music, in which the subjective sentiment expresses itself 
 most directly, to be depreciated, or vocal music, which, 
 with the assistance of the word, is capable of leading the 
 mind to the most sublime conceptions, to be treated 
 with less respect. 
 
 5* 
 
Dr. HUGO RIEMANN'S 
 
 phrased and fingered Editions of 
 Pianoforte Classics. 
 
 Number Continental Fingering. 
 
 BACH, J. S. Wohltemperirtes Clavier (48 Preludes and Fugues). 
 New, carefully revised edition. 4". C. 
 6oiia-d Part I. Books i to 4 (each Book containing 6 Preludes and 
 
 Fugues). C. each 
 
 6oi2a-d Part II. Books 5 to 8 (each Book containing 6 Preludes and 
 
 Fugues). C. each 
 
 N.B. — For Analysis of Bach's 48 Preludes and Fugues by Dr. 
 Riemann, see Books Nos. 9205 and 9206, each 2s. 6d. 
 
 6015 • Kunst der Fuge (Art of Fugue). Revised and phrased by 
 
 Dr. H. Riemann 
 
 Inventionen fiir Piano. Mit genauer Bezeichnung der Phra- 
 
 sirung und neuem Fingersatz von Dr. Hugo Riemann. C. : — 
 
 6013 ist Book. 15 Two-part Inventions 
 
 6014 2nd Book. 15 Three-part Inventions 
 
 CLEMENTI, M. 12 Sonatinas. Phrasirungs-Ausgabe von Dr. 
 
 H. Riemann. Revised Edition. Folio. C: — 
 
 9902a Book I. (Op. 36) 
 
 99026 Book II. (Op. 37 and 38) 
 
 8113 CZERNY. Preparatory School of Velocity (Voischule der Ge- 
 laufigkeit). 100 selected studies, revised, phrased and 
 fingered by Dr. Hugo Riemann. 4". C . . . Complete 
 
 81130-^ The same in 3 Books each 
 
 HAYDN, J. Complete Piano Works. Revised, Phrased, and 
 Fingered by Dr. H. Riemann. C. : — 
 
 6i8ia Vol. I. Sonatas. No. i — 12 (1763 — 74) 
 
 6i8ii5 Vol. II. „ 13—22 (1774—76) 
 
 6181C Vol. III. „ 23—32 (1777—86) 
 
 6iSid Vol. IV. „ 33—39 (1786—92) 
 
 6i8n' Vol. V. Variations and Pieces (1766 — 89) 
 
 6181/ Vol. VI. Minuets and German Dances . 
 
 6181 I. — III. Or complete, bound in 3 vols., each, 6/ 
 
 KUHLAU, F. 19 Sonatinas, revised, phrased and fingered by 
 Dr. Hugo Riemann and Max Arend. 4'*. C. 
 
 8202a Book I. Sonatinas Nos. i to 6. Op. 55 
 
 82026 „ II. „ 
 
 8202c- „ III. „ 
 
 8202(i „ IV. „ 
 
 8202« » V. „ 
 
 tiel. 
 
 s.d. 
 
 I 4 
 I 4 
 
 7 
 
 9- 
 
 Op. 
 
 20 
 
 10 , 
 
 12. 
 
 Op. 
 
 59 
 
 13 
 
 16. 
 
 Op. 
 
 83 
 
 17 
 
 , 19. 
 
 Op. 
 
 60 
 
 AUGENER & CO., 199 Regent Street, & 6 New Burlington St. W. 
 City Branch : 22 Newgate Street. 
 
- 69 - 
 
 Professor E. PAUER'S 
 
 Ne^v Grradus ad iParnassuiii. 
 
 loo Studies for the Pianoforte, Selected, the Fingering 
 supplemented and Revised, by E. PAUER. Folio. E.: — 
 
 Edition Price 
 
 Number net. 
 
 9931 Section A. Scales and Velocity {12 Studies by Hummel, Berger, s.d. 
 
 Mayer, Kohler, Czerny, Chopin, Mendelssohn, Weyse, Kessler, 
 Liszt) Bound 2 6 
 
 9932 Section B. Studies in Thirds and Sixths (13 Studies by Seeling, 
 
 Mayer, Brahms, Hummel, Kalkbrenner, Kohler, Hiller, 
 Chopin, Kessler, Czerny, Henselt, Bendel, Liszt) . . Bound a 6 
 
 9933 Section C. School of the Shake (8 Studies by Kalkbrenner, 
 
 Berger, Mayer, Kessler, Hummel, Kohler, Hiller, Dohler) 
 
 Bound a 6 
 
 9934 Section D. School of the Arpeggio (15 Studies by Willmers, 
 
 Kohler, Mendelssohn, Berger, Hummel, Mayer, Seeling, 
 Loeschhom, Kessler, Heller, Chopin, Taubert, Henselt, 
 Liszt) Bound a 6 
 
 9935 Section E. Wrist Studies (4 Studies by Chopin, Henselt, Kohler, 
 
 Dohler) Bound l 6 
 
 9936 Section F. School of Octaves (12 Studies by Hiller, Taubert, 
 
 Brahms, Pauer, Hummel, Beethoven, Mayer, SchulhofT, 
 Kohler, Kessler) Bound a 6 
 
 9937 Section G. Studies in Chords (3 Studies by Hiller, Kessler, 
 
 Alkan) Bound i 6 
 
 9938 Section H. Extensions in Arpeggio Chords (3 Studies by Chopin, 
 
 Henselt, Seeling) Bound i 6 
 
 9939 Section L School of Staccato (12 Studies by Weyse, Kalkbrenner, 
 
 Hiller, Mayer, Loeschhorn, Kessler, Taubert, Mendelssohn, 
 Liszt, Dohler, Thalberg, Weber) Bound 2 6 
 
 9940 Section K. School of Legato (7 Studies by Mendelssohn, Schu- 
 
 mann, Hummel, Henselt) Bound i 6 
 
 9941 Section L. School for the Left Hand (12 Studies by Loeschhorn, 
 
 Mayer, Hiller, Brahms, Henselt, Chopin, Taubert, Dohler, 
 
 Pauer, Willmers) Bound 2 6 
 
 Or singly in lOO numbers from is. to 3s. each. 
 
 London: AUGENER&CO., 199, Regent Street, W. 
 22, Newgate Street, E.G. and 6, New Burlington Street, W. 
 
70 
 
 S', ETUDES DE CONCERT "t5 
 
 pour Piano, revues et doigtees par E. Pauer. 50 Numbers. C. each 
 
 Sgoi Th. Doehler. Eroica 
 
 5902 E. Prudent. L'Hirondelle 
 
 5903 J. Schulhoff. Cantabile 
 
 5904 Le Toumoi , 
 
 5905 H. Seeling. The Dance of the Gnomes 
 
 5906 R. Willmers. The Sylph 
 
 5907 Sehnsucht am Meere 
 
 5908 H. Seeling. Lurline 
 
 5909 Ch. Mayer. Triolino 
 
 5910 S. Thalberg. Les Arpeges 
 
 591 1 Ch. Mayer. La Fontaine 
 
 5912 Liszt-Paganini. La Campanella 
 
 5913 S. Thalberg. La Cadence ... 
 
 5914 LMoscheles. A Nursery Tale 
 
 5915 M. Moszkowski. Les Vagues 
 
 5916 II Lamento 
 
 5917 J. Schulhoff. Le Trille 
 
 5918 Ch. Mayer. Le Tourbillon 
 
 5919 F. Bendel. La Cascade 
 
 5920 Pastorale 
 
 5921 Le petit ruisseau 
 
 5922 H. Seeling. Graziosa 
 
 5923 C. Evers. Etude d'Octaves 
 
 5924 S. Thalberg. Romance et Etude 
 
 5925 Theme original et ttude 
 
 5926 Le Trille 
 
 5927 La Babillarde 
 
 5928 W. Taubert. Eroica 
 
 5929 Hector 
 
 5930 Th. Doehler. La Placidezza 
 
 5931 C. Mayer. Valse-etude 
 
 5932 F. Hi Her. Gigue 
 
 5933 Th. Doehler. II Tremolo 
 
 5934 F. Hi Her. Andante 
 
 5935 St. Heller. La Chasse 
 
 5936 S. Thalberg. Ondine 
 
 5937 La Rouette 
 
 5938 A. J a ell. La Sylphide 
 
 5939 F. Liszt. £tude 
 
 5940 C. Mayer. Tremolo 
 
 5941 Godefroid-Jaell. La Danse des Fees 
 
 5942 E. Haberbier. Le Ruisseau 
 
 5943 H- Seeling. Evening Bells 
 
 5944 X. Scharwenka. Preludium in c 
 
 5945 Arpeggio Study 
 
 5946 Staccato Study 
 
 5947 J. L. Nicode. Alia Tarantella , 
 
 5948 Staccato Study 
 
 5949 Elfin Dance 
 
 5950 S. Thalberg. "Nel silenzio" (L'Art du Chant) 
 
 London : AUGENER & CO., 199, Regent Street, W., 
 6, New Burlington Street, W , and 22, Newgate Street, E.G. 
 
— 71 — 
 
 New Pianoforte Studies and Schools, with 
 Continental Fingering. 
 
 THE SCHOOL OF TECHNIQUE 
 AND EXPRESSION 
 
 ("L'ficOLE DE LA TECHNIQUE ET DE l'ExPRESSION"). 
 
 Exercises, Studies, Easy, Melodious and Progressive Pieces 
 and Duets for the Pianoforte, by 
 
 E. PAUER. 
 
 PIANOFORTE SOLOS. 
 
 (With Continental Fingering.) 
 
 Edhfon'No TECHNICAL EXERCISES. ^""w 
 
 8329 The Book of Scales fl.ivre des Gammes) .3 — 
 
 8325 The Book of Finger Exercises (Exercices pour le developpement 
 
 simultane des deux mains) 5 — 
 
 STUDIES. 
 
 8326 24 Easy and Melodious Studies (24 fitudes faciles et melodiques) 2 — 
 8319 20 Easy aud Progressive Studies (20 fitudes faciles et progressives) 2 — 
 
 8327 20 Rhythmical Sketches, intended for the study of various rhyth- 
 
 mical expressions (Esquisses rhythmiques) 16 
 
 8328 The Culture of the Scale. 24 Original Scale Studies in all 
 
 Major and Minor keys 3 — 
 
 8330 Mozart Studies. 12 Special and Preparatory Studies, intended as 
 
 an assistance to a thoroughly artistic performance of Mozart's 
 Sonatas a — 
 
 MELODIOUS PIECES. 
 
 8314 Musical Sketches (Esquisses musicales). 20 Characteristic Easy 
 
 Pieces 2 — 
 
 8316 Suite facile: Prelude, Allemande, Bourree, Sarabande, Gavotte 
 
 et Gigue i — 
 
 8315 Three Sonatinas 2 — 
 
 8310a-/' National Sonatinas: a, Germany; b, Austria; c, Suabia; d, Italy; 
 
 e, Wales; /, Ireland each i — 
 
 8311 Sonatina in A major (Sonatine en la majeur) \ — 
 
 8312 Three Diversions ; Theme by Mozart, Valse by Hummel, and 
 
 Swedish Air i — 
 
 8313 A Child's Life (Jugend-Album) a — 
 
 FOR THE LEFT HAND. 
 
 8332 12 Characteristic Studies for the Left Hand 2 — 
 
 8331 Suite for the Left Hand : Prelude, Allemande, Gavotte, Sarabande, 
 
 Bourree, and Gigue 1 — 
 
 PIANOFORTE DUETS. 
 
 8591 12 Short, Easy, and Melodious Duets (12 petits duos faciles et 
 
 melodiques) t — 
 
 8592 Styrian Dances (Danses styriennes pour Piano a 4 mains) . . . 1 — 
 
 &UGENER& CO., 199, Regent Street, W., and 22. Newgate Street, E.G., London. 
 
-^ 72 — 
 
 THEORETICAL WORKS 
 
 BY 
 
 EBENEZER PROUT, 
 
 B.A. Lond., Hon. Mus. D. Trin. Coll. Dublin and Edinburgh, 
 and Professor of Music in the University of Dublin. 
 
 In Augener's Edition. Demy 8vo. 
 
 Augener's 
 
 Edition. Bound. 
 
 No. TTARMONY: ITS THEORY AND PRAC- Net. 
 
 Q182. I I 
 
 ^ -■--■- TICE. Twelfth Edition, with Analytical Index . . . . 5 _ 
 
 9182a. KEY TO "HARMONY: ITS THEORY AND PRACTICE." 
 
 Fourth Edition 2 — 
 
 9182*. ADDITIONAL EXERCISES TO E. PROUT'S "HARMONY: 
 
 ITS THEORY AND PRACTICE." Sixth Edition ...16 
 9182c. KEY TO THE ADDITIONAL EXERCISES TO E. PROUT'S 
 
 "HARMONY." Third Edition 26 
 
 « /COUNTERPOINT: STRICT AND FREE. 
 
 9183. I 
 
 ^~^ Sixth Edition, with Analytical Index 5 — 
 
 91830. ADDITIONAL EXERCISES TO ^'COUNTERPOINT : STRICT 
 AND FREE," with Melodies and Unfigured Basses for 
 Harmonizing. Fourth Edition 26 
 
 9184. 
 91S5. 
 
 DOUBLE COUNTERPOINT and CANON. 
 Third Edition, with Analytical Index 5 
 
 pUGUE. 
 
 -•- Fourth Edition, with Analytical Index 5 
 
 9186. pUGAL-ANALYSIS:aCompanionto"Fugue." 
 
 -*- Being a Collection of Fugues put into Score and Analyzed. 
 
 Second Edition 5 — 
 
 9187. 
 
 IV/rUSICAL FORM. 
 
 •^ ' -*- Third Edition, with Analytical Index 5 — 
 
 9188. A PPLIED FORMS: A Sequel to "Musical 
 
 ■^ *■ Form." Third Edition, with Analytical Index 5 — 
 
 9:89. "THE ORCHESTRA: Vol.I. -'The Technique 
 
 -*■ of the Instruments." Second Edition 5 — 
 
 9190. Vol. II. — Orchestral Combination. Second Edition 5 — 
 
 London: AUGENER & CO., 199, Regent Street, W. 
 22, Newgate Street, E.G. and 6, New Burlington Street, W. 
 
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