The outcome, or result, of my exposition of the peculiar significance of
this wonderful art, which is given in the passage of the first volume
referred to below, and which will here be present to the mind of the
reader, was, that there is indeed no resemblance between its productions
and the world as idea, _i.e._, the world of nature, but yet there must be
a distinct _parallelism_, which was then also proved. I have yet to add
some fuller particulars with regard to this parallelism, which are worthy
of attention.
The four voices, or parts, of all harmony, the bass, the tenor, the alto,
and the soprana, or the fundamental note, the third, the fifth, and the
octave, correspond to the four grades in the series of existences, the
mineral kingdom, the vegetable kingdom, the brute kingdom, and man. This
receives an additional and striking confirmation in the fundamental rule
of music, that the bass must be at a much greater distance below the three
upper parts than they have between themselves; so that it must never
approach nearer to them than at the most within an octave of them, and
generally remains still further below them. Hence, then, the correct triad
has its place in the third octave from the fundamental note. Accordingly
the effect of _extended_ harmony, in which the bass is widely separated
from the other parts, is much more powerful and beautiful than that of
_close_ harmony, in which it is moved up nearer to them, and which is only
introduced on account of the limited compass of the instruments. This
whole rule, however, is by no means arbitrary, but has its root in the
natural source of the tonal system; for the nearest consonant intervals
that sound along with the fundamental note by means of its vibrations are
the octave and its fifth. Now, in this rule we recognise the analogue of
the fundamental characteristic of nature on account of which organised
beings are much more nearly related to each other than to the inanimate,
unorganised mass of the mineral kingdom, between which and them exists the
most definite boundary and the widest gulf in the whole of nature. The
fact that the high voice which sings the melody is yet also an integral
part of the harmony, and therein accords even with the deepest fundamental
bass, may be regarded as the analogue of the fact that _the same_ matter
which in a human organism is the supporter of the Idea of man must yet
also exhibit and support the Ideas of gravitation and chemical qualities,
that is, of the lowest grades of the objectification of will.
That music acts directly upon the will, _i.e._, the feelings, passions,
and emotions of the hearer, so that it quickly raises them or changes
them, may be explained from the fact that, unlike all the other arts, it
does not express the Ideas, or grades of the objectification of the will,
but directly the _will itself_.
As surely as music, far from being a mere accessory of poetry, is an
independent art, nay, the most powerful of all the arts, and therefore
attains its ends entirely with means of its own, so surely does it not
stand in need of the words of the song or the action of an opera. Music as
such knows the tones or notes alone, but not the causes which produce
these. Accordingly, for it even the human voice is originally and
essentially nothing else than a modified tone, just like that of an
instrument; and, like every other tone, it has the special advantages and
disadvantages which are a consequence of the instrument that produces it.
Now, in this case, that this same instrument, as the organ of speech, also
serves to communicate conceptions is an accidental circumstance, which
music can certainly also make use of, in order to enter into a connection
with poetry; but it must never make this the principal matter, and concern
itself entirely with the expression of what for the most part, nay (as
Diderot gives us to understand in _Le Neveu de Rameau_), essentially are
insipid verses. The words are and remain for the music a foreign addition,
of subordinate value, for the effect of the tones is incomparably more
powerful, more infallible, and quicker than that of the words. Therefore,
if words become incorporated in music, they must yet assume an entirely
subordinate position, and adapt themselves completely to it. But the
relation appears reversed in the case of the given poetry, thus the song
or the libretto of an opera to which music is adapted. For the art of
music at once shows in these its power and higher fitness, disclosing the
most profound ultimate and secret significance of the feeling expressed in
the words or the action presented in the opera, giving utterance to their
peculiar and true nature, and teaching us the inmost soul of the actions
and events whose mere clothing and body is set before us on the stage.
With regard to this superiority of the music, and also because it stands
to the libretto and the action in the relation of the universal to the
particular, of the rule to the example, it might perhaps appear more
fitting that the libretto should be written for the music than that the
music should be composed for the libretto. However, in the customary
method, the words and actions of the libretto lead the composer to the
affections of the will which lie at their foundation, and call up in him
the feelings to be expressed; they act, therefore, as a means of exciting
his musical imagination. Moreover, that the addition of poetry to music is
so welcome to us, and a song with intelligible words gives us such deep
satisfaction, depends upon the fact that in this way our most direct and
most indirect ways of knowing are called into play at once and in
connection. The most direct is that for which music expresses the emotions
of the will itself, and the most indirect that of conceptions denoted by
words. When the language of the feelings is in question the reason does
not willingly sit entirely idle. Music is certainly able with the means at
its own disposal to express every movement of the will, every feeling; but
by the addition of words we receive besides this the objects of these
feelings, the motives which occasion them. The music of an opera, as it is
presented in the score, has a completely independent, separate, and, as it
were, abstract existence for itself, to which the incidents and persons of
the piece are foreign, and which follows its own unchanging rules;
therefore it can produce its full effect without the libretto. But this
music, since it was composed with reference to the drama, is, as it were,
the soul of the latter; for, in its connection with the incidents,
persons, and words, it becomes the expression of the inner significance of
all those incidents, and of their ultimate and secret necessity which
depends upon this significance. The pleasure of the spectator, unless he
is a mere gaper, really depends upon an indistinct feeling of this. Yet in
the opera music also shows its heterogeneous nature and higher reality by
its entire indifference to the whole material of the incidents; in
consequence of which it everywhere expresses the storm of the passions and
the pathos of the feelings in the same way, and its tones accompany the
piece with the same pomp, whether Agamemnon and Achilles or the
dissensions of a bourgeois family form its material. For only the
passions, the movements of the will, exist for it, and, like God, it sees
only the hearts. It never assimilates itself to the natural; and
therefore, even when it accompanies the most ludicrous and extravagant
farces of the comic opera, it still preserves its essential beauty,
purity, and sublimity; and its fusion with these incidents is unable to
draw it down from its height, to which all absurdity is really foreign.
Thus the profound and serious significance of our existence hangs over the
farce and the endless miseries of human life, and never leaves it for a
moment.
If we now cast a glance at purely instrumental music, a symphony of
Beethoven presents to us the greatest confusion, which yet has the most
perfect order at its foundation, the most vehement conflict, which is
transformed the next moment into the most beautiful concord. It is _rerum
concordia discors_, a true and perfect picture of the nature of the world
which rolls on in the boundless maze of innumerable forms, and through
constant destruction supports itself. But in this symphony all human
passions and emotions also find utterance; joy, sorrow, love, hatred,
terror, hope, &c., in innumerable degrees, yet all, as it were, only _in
abstracto_, and without any particularisation; it is their mere form
without the substance, like a spirit world without matter. Certainly we
have a tendency to realise them while we listen, to clothe them in
imagination with flesh and bones, and to see in them scenes of life and
nature on every hand. Yet, taken generally, this is not required for their
comprehension or enjoyment, but rather imparts to them a foreign and
arbitrary addition: therefore it is better to apprehend them in their
immediacy and purity.
Since now, in the foregoing remarks, and also in the text, I have
considered music only from the metaphysical side, that is, with reference
to the inner significance of its performances, it is right that I should
now also subject to a general consideration the means by which, acting
upon our mind, it brings these about; therefore that I should show the
connection of that metaphysical side of music, and the physical side,
which has been fully investigated, and is well known, I start from the
theory which is generally known, and has by no means been shaken by recent
objections, that all harmony of the notes depends upon the coincidence of
their vibrations, which when two notes sound together occurs perhaps at
every second, or at every third, or at every fourth vibration, according
to which, then, they are the octave, the fifth, or the fourth of each
other, and so on. So long as the vibrations of two notes have a rational
relation to each other, which can be expressed in small numbers, they can
be connected together in our apprehension through their constantly
recurring coincidence: the notes become blended, and are thereby in
consonance. If, on the other hand, that relation is an irrational one, or
one which can only be expressed in larger numbers, then no coincidence of
the vibrations which can be apprehended occurs, but _obstrepunt sibi
perpetuo_, whereby they resist being joined together in our apprehension,
and accordingly are called a dissonance. Now, according to this theory,
music is a means of making rational and irrational relations of numbers
comprehensible, not like arithmetic by the help of the concept, but by
bringing them to a knowledge which is perfectly directly and
simultaneously sensible. Now the connection of the metaphysical
significance of music with this its physical and arithmetical basis
depends upon the fact that what resists our _apprehension_, the irrational
relation, or the dissonance, becomes the natural type of what resists our
_will_; and, conversely, the consonance, or the rational relation, which
easily adapts itself to our apprehension, becomes the type of the
satisfaction of the will. And further, since that rational and irrational
element in the numerical relations of the vibrations admits of innumerable
degrees, shades of difference, sequences, and variations, by means of it
music becomes the material in which all the movements of the human heart,
_i.e._, of the will, movements whose essential nature is always
satisfaction and dissatisfaction, although in innumerable degrees, can be
faithfully portrayed and rendered in all their finest shades and
modifications, which takes place by means of the invention of the melody.
Thus we see here the movements of the will transferred to the province of
the mere idea, which is the exclusive scene of the achievements of the
fine arts, for they absolutely demand that the _will itself_ shall not
interfere, and that we shall conduct ourselves as pure _knowing_ subjects.
Therefore the affections of the will itself, thus actual pain and actual
pleasure, must not be excited, but only their substitutes, that which is
agreeable to _the intellect_, as a _picture_ of the satisfaction of the
will, and that which is more or less repugnant to it, as a _picture_ of
greater or less pain. Only thus does music never cause us actual sorrow,
but even in its most melancholy strains is still pleasing, and we gladly
hear in its language the secret history of our will, and all its emotions
and strivings, with their manifold protractions, hindrances, and griefs,
even in the saddest melodies. When, on the other hand, in reality and its
terrors, it is our _will itself_ that is roused and tormented, we have not
then to do with tones and their numerical relations, but are rather now
ourselves the trembling string that is stretched and twanged.
But, further, because, in consequence of the physical theory which lies at
its foundation, the musical quality of the notes is in the proportion of
the rapidity of their vibrations, but not in their relative strength, the
musical ear always follows by preference, in harmony, the highest note,
not the loudest. Therefore, even in the case of the most powerful
orchestral accompaniment, the soprano comes out clearly, and thus receives
a natural right to deliver the melody. And this is also supported by its
great flexibility, which depends upon the same rapidity of the vibrations,
and shows itself in the ornate passages, whereby the soprano becomes the
suitable representative of the heightened sensibility, susceptible to the
slightest impression, and determinable by it, consequently of the most
highly developed consciousness standing on the uppermost stage of the
scale of being. Its opposite, from converse causes, is the bass,
inflexible, rising and falling only in great intervals, thirds, fourths,
and fifths, and also at every step guided by rigid rules. It is therefore
the natural representative of the inorganic kingdom of nature, which is
insensible, insusceptible to fine impressions, and only determinable
according to general laws. It must indeed never rise by one tone, for
example, from a fourth to a fifth, for this produces in the upper parts
the incorrect consecutive fifths and octaves; therefore, originally and in
its own nature, it can never present the melody. If, however, the melody
is assigned to it, this happens by means of counterpoint, _i.e._, it is an
_inverted_ bass—one of the upper parts is lowered and disguised as a bass;
properly speaking, it then requires a second fundamental bass as its
accompaniment. This unnaturalness of a melody lying in the bass is the
reason why bass airs, with full accompaniment, never afford us pure,
undisturbed pleasure, like the soprano air, which, in the connection of
harmony, is alone natural. We may remark in passing that such a melodious
bass, forcibly obtained by inversion, might, in keeping with our
metaphysic of music, be compared to a block of marble to which the human
form has been imparted: and therefore it is wonderfully suitable to the
stone guest in “Don Juan.”
But now we shall try to get somewhat nearer the foundation of the genesis
of melody, which can be accomplished by analysing it into its constituent
parts, and in any case will afford us the pleasure which arises from
bringing to abstract and distinct consciousness what every one knows in
the concrete, so that it gains the appearance of novelty.
Melody consists of two elements, the one rhythmical, the other harmonious.
The former may also be described as the quantitative, the latter as the
qualitative element, since the first is concerned with the duration, and
the second with the pitch of the notes. In the writing of music the former
depends upon the perpendicular, and the latter upon the horizontal lines.
Purely arithmetical relations, thus relations of time, lie at the
foundation of both; in the one case the relative duration of the notes, in
the other the relative rapidity of their vibrations. The rhythmical
element is the essential; for it can produce a kind of melody of itself
alone, and without the other, as, for example, on the drum; yet complete
melody requires both elements. It consists in an alternating _disunion and
reconciliation_ of them, as I shall show immediately; but first, since I
have already spoken of the harmonious element in what has been said, I
wish to consider the rhythmical element somewhat more closely.
_Rhythm_ is in time what _symmetry_ is in space, division into equal parts
corresponding to each other. First, into larger parts, which again fall
into smaller parts, subordinate to the former. In the series of the arts
given by me _architecture_ and _music_ are the two extreme ends. Moreover,
according to their inner nature, their power, the extent of their spheres,
and their significance, they are the most heterogeneous, indeed true
antipodes. This opposition extends even to the form of their appearance,
for architecture is in space alone, without any connection with time; and
music is in time alone, without any connection with space.(26) Now hence
springs their one point of analogy, that as in architecture that which
orders and holds together is _symmetry_, in music it is _rhythm_, and thus
here also it holds true that extremes meet. As the ultimate constituent
parts of a building are the exactly similar stones, so the ultimate
constituent parts of a musical composition are the exactly similar beats;
yet by being weak or strong, or in general by the measure, which denotes
the species of time, these are divided into equal parts, which may be
compared to the dimensions of the stone. The musical period consists of
several bars, and it has also two equal parts, one rising, aspiring,
generally going to the dominant, and one sinking, quieting, returning to
the fundamental note. Two or several periods constitute a part, which in
general is also symmetrically doubled by the sign of repetition; two parts
make a small piece of music, or only a movement of a larger piece; and
thus a concerto or sonata usually consists of three movements, a symphony
of four, and a mass of five. Thus we see the musical composition bound
together and rounded off as a whole, by symmetrical distribution and
repeated division, down to the beats and their fractions, with thorough
subordination, superordination, and co‐ordination of its members, just as
a building is connected and rounded off by its symmetry. Only in the
latter that is exclusively in space which in the former is exclusively in
time. The mere feeling of this analogy has in the last thirty years called
forth the oft‐repeated, daring witticism, that architecture is frozen
music. The origin of this can be traced to Goethe; for, according to
Eckermann’s “Conversations,” vol. ii. p. 88, he said: “I have found among
my papers a page on which I call architecture a rigidified music; and
really there is something in it; the mood which is produced by
architecture approaches the effect of music.” Probably he let fall this
witticism much earlier in conversation, and in that case it is well known
that there were never wanting persons to pick up what he so let fall that
they might afterwards go about decked with it. For the rest, whatever
Goethe may have said, the analogy of music and architecture, which is here
referred by me to its sole ground, the analogy of rhythm with symmetry,
extends accordingly only to the outward form, and by no means to the inner
nature of the two arts, which is entirely different. Indeed it would be
absurd to wish to put on the same level in essential respects the most
limited and the weakest of all the arts, and the most far‐reaching and
powerful. As an amplification of the analogy pointed out, we might add
further, that when music, as it were in a fit of desire for independence,
seizes the opportunity of a pause to free itself from the control of
rhythm, to launch out into the free imagination of an ornate _cadenza_,
such a piece of music divested of all rhythm is analogous to the ruin
which is divested of symmetry, and which accordingly may be called, in the
bold language of the witticism, a frozen _cadenza_.
After this exposition of _rhythm_, I have now to show how the nature of
melody consists in the constantly renewed _disunion and reconciliation_ of
the rhythmical, and the harmonious elements of it. Its harmonious element
has as its assumption the fundamental note, as the rhythmical element has
the species of time, and consists in a wandering from it through all the
notes of the scale, until by shorter or longer digressions it reaches a
harmonious interval, generally the dominant or sub‐dominant, which affords
it an incomplete satisfaction; and then follows, by a similarly long path,
its return to the fundamental note, with which complete satisfaction
appears. But both must so take place that the attainment of the interval
referred to and the return to the fundamental note correspond with certain
favourite points of the rhythm, otherwise it will not work. Thus, as the
harmonious succession of sounds requires certain notes, first of all the
tonic, next to it the dominant, and so on, so rhythm, on its part,
requires certain _points of time_, certain numbered bars, and certain
parts of these bars, which are called strong or good beats, or the
accented parts of the bar, in opposition to the weak or bad beats, or
unaccented parts of the bar. Now the disunion of these two fundamental
elements consists in this, that because the demand of one is satisfied
that of the other is not; and their reconciliation consists in this, that
both are satisfied at once and together. That wandering of the notes until
they find a more or less harmonious interval must so take place that this
interval is attained only after a definite number of bars, and also at an
accented part of the bar, and in this way becomes for it a kind of
resting‐point; and similarly the return to the keynote must take place
after a like number of bars, and also at an accented part of the bar, and
thus complete satisfaction is then attained. So long as this required
coincidence of the satisfaction of both elements is not attained, the
rhythm, on the one hand, may follow its regular course, and, on the other
hand, the required notes may occur often enough, but yet they will remain
entirely without that effect through which melody arises. The following
very simple example may serve to illustrate this:—
[Illustration: Music]
Here the harmonious sequence of notes finds the keynote just at the end of
the first bar; but it does not receive any satisfaction from this, because
the rhythm is caught at the least accented part of the bar. Immediately
afterwards, in the second bar, the rhythm has the accented part of the
bar, but the sequence of notes has arrived at the seventh. Thus here the
two elements of melody are entirely _disunited_; and we feel disquieted.
In the second half of the period everything is reversed, and in the last
note they are _reconciled_. This kind of thing can be shown in every
melody, although generally in a much more extended form. Now the constant
disunion and reconciliation of its two elements which there takes place
is, when metaphysically considered, the copy of the origination of new
wishes, and then of their satisfaction. Thus, by flattery, music
penetrates into our hearts, for it presents the image of the complete
satisfaction of its wishes. More closely considered, we see in this
procedure of melody a condition which, to a certain extent, is _inward_
(the harmonious) meet with an _outward_ condition (the rhythmical), as if
by an _accident_,—which is certainly brought about by the composer, and
which may, so far, be compared to rhyme in poetry. But this is just the
copy of the meeting of our wishes with the favourable outward
circumstances which are independent of them, and is thus the picture of
happiness. The effect of the _suspension_ also deserves to be considered
here. It is a dissonance which delays the final consonance, which is
awaited with certainty; and thus the longing for it is strengthened, and
its appearance satisfies all the more. Clearly an analogue of the
heightened satisfaction of the will through delay. The complete cadence
requires the preceding chord of the seventh on the dominant; because the
most deeply felt satisfaction and the most entire relief can only follow
the most earnest longing. Thus, in general, music consists of a constant
succession of more or less disquieting chords, _i.e._, chords which excite
longing, and more or less quieting and satisfying chords; just as the life
of the heart (the will) is a constant succession of greater or less
disquietude through desire and aversion, and just as various degrees of
relief. Accordingly the harmonious sequence of chords consists of the
correct alternation of dissonance and consonance. A succession of merely
consonant chords would be satiating, wearisome, and empty, like the
languor produced by the satisfaction of all wishes. Therefore dissonances
must be introduced, although they disquiet us and affect us almost
painfully, but only in order to be resolved again in consonances with
proper preparation. Indeed, in the whole of music there are really only
two fundamental chords, the dissonant chord of the seventh and the
consonant triad, to which all chords that occur can be referred. This just
corresponds to the fact, that for the will there are at bottom only
dissatisfaction and satisfaction, under however many forms they may
present themselves. And as there are two general fundamental moods of the
mind, serenity, or at least healthiness, and sadness, or even oppression,
so music has two general keys, the major and the minor, which correspond
to these, and it must always be in one of the two. But it is, in fact,
very wonderful that there is a sign of pain which is neither physically
painful nor yet conventional, but which nevertheless is suitable and
unmistakable: the minor. From this we may measure how deeply music is
founded in the nature of things and of man. With northern nations, whose
life is subject to hard conditions, especially with the Russians, the
minor prevails, even in the church music. Allegro in the minor is very
common in French music, and is characteristic of it; it is as if one
danced while one’s shoe pinched.
I add further a few subsidiary remarks. When the key‐note is changed, and
with it the value of all the intervals, in consequence of which the same
note figures as the second, the third, the fourth, and so on, the notes of
the scale are analogous to actors, who must assume now one _rôle_, now
another, while their person remains the same. That the actors are often
not precisely suited to these _rôles_ may be compared to the unavoidable
impurity of every harmonic system (referred to at the end of § 52 of the
first volume) which the equal temperament has introduced.
Perhaps some may be offended, that, according to this metaphysic of it,
music, which so often exalts our minds, which seems to us to speak of
other and better worlds than ours, yet really only flatters the will to
live, because it exhibits to it its nature, deludes it with the image of
its success, and at the end expresses its satisfaction and contentment.
The following passage from the “_Vedas_” may serve to quiet such doubts:
“_Etanand sroup, quod forma gaudii est,_ τον _pram Atma ex hoc dicunt,
quod quocunque loco gaudium est, particula e gaudio ejus est_”
(_Oupnekhat_, vol. i. p. 405; _et iterum_, vol. ii. p. 215).
SUPPLEMENTS TO THE FOURTH BOOK.
“_Tous les hommes désirent uniquement de se délivrer de la mort:
ils ne savent pas se délivrer de la vie._”
—_Lao‐tsen‐Tao‐te‐King_, ed. STAN. JULIEN, p. 184.