Thinkers

and Artists on the Hildebrandian Vision of Beauty

“How does the beautiful evangelize? Following Dietrich von Hildebrand,
we should say that the truly beautiful is an objective value, to be
distinguished from what is merely subjectively satisfying. This means that
the beautiful does not merely entertain; rather, it invades, chooses, and
changes the one to whom it deigns to appear. It is not absorbed into
subjectivity; it rearranges and redirects subjectivity, sending it on a
trajectory toward the open sea of the beautiful itself.”
—BISHOP ROBERT BARRON
Theologian, author, and founder of Word on Fire Ministries

“Dietrich von Hildebrand was among the first to recognize the magnitude
of the intellectual crisis. He understood the centrality of beauty not merely
to art but to philosophy, theology, and ethics. In his ambitious and
comprehensive Aesthetics, now translated into English for the first time, von
Hildebrand rehabilitates the concept of beauty as an objective rather than
purely subjective phenomenon. His systematic account renews the Classical
and Christian vision of beauty as a reliable mode of perception that leads
humanity toward the true, the good, and ultimately the divine.”
—DANA GIOIA
Poet and former chairman of the National Endowment for the
Arts “In Aesthetics II, Dietrich von Hildebrand offers a thorough
reflection on the distinctive characteristics of architecture,
sculpture, painting, literature, and music. He guides the mind
with clarity even if the reader is not used to systematic intellectual
reflection on a topic often relegated to the realm of subjective
taste. The objective splendor that lies within a work of art,
somehow transcending its human author, is one of many points
worth contemplating in this volume. I am convinced that the
section on music echoes not just my own experience but that of
many performers striving to do justice to the works they bring to
life. Whoever is looking for an aesthetic vision of the whole will
find Aesthetics II deeply insightful, challenging, and encouraging.”
 —MANFRED HONECK
Grammy-winning conductor
Music Director of the Pittsburgh Symphony Orchestra

“I remember so well when, as a young priest in the early 1950s, I was

invited to a house owned by the von Hildebrand family, which lay within
the boundaries of the parish where I was assigned, to attend one of the
conferences he was accustomed to give during his summer visits to Europe.
Not surprisingly his theme was ‘beauty,’ and with great eloquence and
enthusiasm he spoke of its philosophical and spiritual importance. The joy
and freshness of his understanding of Catholic doctrine were contagious
and stood in marked contrast to the dryness of a kind of scholasticism that
seemed then to have become stale and brittle. Listening to him, one
recognized that it was the transcendent beauty of truth that had captured
his heart and his mind….”
—JOSEPH CARDINAL RATZINGER

“Most philosophers of aesthetics content themselves with a few examples

from the realm of art, and make no attempt to explore the distinct
disciplines or to catalogue all the parts that contribute to the overall
aesthetic effect. One purpose of this second volume, however, is to show
the completeness of the artistic enterprise, and the way in which it
penetrates human life in its entirety, so that the idea of beauty enters our
practical activity at every point. We are seeking harmony and order in
everything we do, and even if the sublime effects of the most spiritual works
of art are beyond our everyday competence, we will always be motivated in
our everyday activities by a fundamental need for harmony and an aversion
to ugliness.”
—SIR ROGER SCRUTON
 Philosopher and author

“Dietrich von Hildebrand’s engaging studies of different art forms is a

marvelous illustration of the way phenomenology is uniquely accessible to a
wider readership. Here is philosophy for the sake of the world. The result is
a voracious, encyclopedic exploration—one is almost tempted to say a
‘romp’—through a range of concrete examples that would deepen anyone’s
appreciation for what the arts can do. Most importantly, in an age of
flattening reductionism, this book paints a picture of what it might mean
for humanity to find its fullness through cultivating the same range of
aesthetic curiosity.”
—JAMES K. A. SMITH
Professor of philosophy, Calvin College Editor in chief, Image
journal
Aesthetics
Dietrich von Hildebrand
Originally published in German as Ästhetik. 2. Teil. Über das Wesen des Kunstwerkes und der Künste.
Gesammelte Werke Band VI. Regensburg: Habbel; and Stuttgart: Kohlhammer. 1984.

English translation published 2018 by Hildebrand Project, 1235 University Blvd, Steubenville, Ohio 43952

Copyright © 2018 Dietrich von Hildebrand Legacy Project All rights reserved
Cataloguing-in-Publication Information

Von Hildebrand, Dietrich, 1889–1977 | Scruton, Roger, foreword author | McNeil, Brian, translator |
Crosby, John F., 1944–, translator and editor | Crosby, John Henry, translator and editor.
[Ästhetik. English]
Aesthetics : volume II / by Dietrich von Hildebrand ; foreword by Sir Roger Scruton ; translated by Fr.
Brian McNeil, John F. Crosby and John Henry Crosby; edited by John F. Crosby and John Henry Crosby.
Includes bibliographical references and index. | Steubenville, OH: Hildebrand Press, 2018.
LCCN 2018909970
ISBN 978-1-939773-10-4

Subjects: LCSH: Aesthetics. | Art—Philosophy. | Phenomenology and art. | BISAC: PHILOSOPHY /

Aesthetics | PHILOSOPHY Movements Phenomenology | ART / General Classification: LCC B3359 .V6
2018| DDC 701—dc23
Book design by Mark McGarry, Texas Type & Book Works
Set in Adobe Caslon

Cover Design by Marylouise McGraw

Cover Image: Hall of the Seasons, by Robert Hubert, in the Musée du Louvre, Paris.
Image from Wikimedia Commons.

Front Cover Font: Circular Bold by Laurenz Brunner www.hildebrandproject.org

SUAVISSIMAE DILECTISSIMAE UXORI
To my most sweet and beloved wife
 Contents

Foreword by Sir Roger Scruton

Note on the Text of the Current Edition
Preliminary Note to the German Edition

Introduction

CHARACTERISTICS COMMON TO ALL THE ARTS VARIOUS ATTITUDES TOWARD

ART

1. The Ontological Reality of Works of Art

2. The Work of Art Is Not a Projection of the Artist
3. Wrong Attitudes to Art
4. The Combinations between the Different Arts
5. The Claim Made by a Work of Art to Greatness and Depth

ARCHITECTURE

6. Architecture in General
7. Architecture as an Expression of History
8. Types of Buildings
9. How Architecture Combines with Sculpture, Mosaics, and Frescos
10. Interior Architecture
11. The Beauty of a City as a Whole
12. Architecture and Nature
13. The Architectural Forming of Nature
14. Applied Art [Das Kunstgewerbe]
15. Representation in the Imitative Arts

SCULPTURE

16. The Artistic Importance of That Which Is Represented in Sculpture

17. The Various Types of Sculpture
18. Factors Determining the Artistic Value of a Sculpture
19. Comedy and Grotesqueness

PAINTING

20. Representation [Darstellung] in Painting

21. Subject Matter [Stoff] and Form
22. The Artistic Means Employed in Painting
23. Drawing, Fresco, Mosaic, Illustration

LITERATURE

24. The Form of Existence of the Literary Work of Art

25. The Medium of Language
26. The Contact with the Object in Literature
27. Sound [Laut], Tone [Klang], and Rhythm
28. The Expressive Qualities of Words and Figures of Speech
29. The Theme That Is Proper to Literature
30. The Compositional Means Used by Literature
31. Composition and Storyline
32. The Artistic Transposition of Evil, Repulsive, Tragic, and Comic Figures

MUSIC

33. The Basic Elements of Music

34. Representation [Darstellung] and Expression [Ausdruck] in Music
35. The Variety of Artistic Value Qualities in Music
36. The Lied [Das Kunstlied]
37. The Folksong
38. Opera
39. The Principal Types of Opera
40. Music Drama
41. Stand-Alone Overtures and Program Music
42. Sacred Music
43. The Performance of Musical and Literary Works
44. The Viability of a Work of Art

Index
Index of Names, Places, and Works
 Dietrich von Hildebrand

Dietrich von Hildebrand was born in Florence in 1889, and studied philosophy
under Adolf Reinach, Max Scheler, and Edmund Husserl. He was received into
the Catholic Church in 1914. He distinguished himself with many publications
in moral philosophy, in social philosophy, in the philosophy of the interpersonal,
and in aesthetics. He taught in Munich, Vienna, and New York. In the 1930s,
he was one of the strongest voices in Europe against Nazism. He died in New
Rochelle, NY in 1977.
 Hildebrand Project

We advance the rich tradition of Christian personalism, especially as developed

by Dietrich von Hildebrand and Karol Wojtyla (Pope St. John Paul II), in the
service of intellectual and cultural renewal.
Our publications, academic programs, and public events introduce the great
personalist thinkers and witnesses of the twentieth century. Animated by a
heightened sense of the mystery and dignity of the human person, they
developed a personalism that sheds new light on freedom and conscience, the
religious transcendence of the person, the relationship between individual and
community, the love between man and woman, and the life-giving power of
beauty. We connect their vision of the human person with the great traditions of
Western and Christian thought, and draw from their personalism in addressing
the deepest needs and aspirations of our contemporaries. For more information,
please visit: www.hildebrandproject.org
 Editorial Board

General Editor: John F. Crosby*

Franciscan University of Steubenville

Rémi Brague
University of Paris, Sorbonne, Emeritus
Romano Guardini Chair of Philosophy, Ludwig Maximilian University of Munich,
Emeritus

Rocco Buttiglione
John Paul II Chair for Philosophy and History of European Institutions Pontifical
Lateran University

Antonio Calcagno
King’s University College at The University of Western Ontario

Hanna-Barbara Gerl-Falkovitz
Technische Universität Dresden, Emerita
Hochschule Heiligenkreuz

Dana Gioia
Judge Widney Professor of Poetry and Public Culture
University of Southern California

John Haldane
University of St. Andrews
Baylor University

Alice von Hildebrand*

Widow of Dietrich von Hildebrand
Joseph Koterski, SJ
Fordham University

Sir Roger Scruton

Writer and Philosopher

Josef Seifert*
Edith Stein Institute of Philosophy, Granada, Spain

D. C. Schindler
Pontifical John Paul II Institute for Studies on Marriage and Family Washington,
DC

Christoph Cardinal Schönborn

Archbishop of Vienna

Fritz Wenisch*
University of Rhode Island

*Student of Dietrich von Hildebrand

 Special Thanks

We gratefully acknowledge the vision and generosity of the many friends who
have supported the publication of this book.

EXTRAORDINARY SUPPORT

Howard and Roberta Ahmanson • Chiaroscuro Foundation • Cushman

Foundation • Dana Gioia • Alice von Hildebrand • Robert L. Luddy • Patricia
C. Lynch • James N. Perry, Jr.

PATRONS

Daniel and Teresa Cotter • Madeline L. Cottrell • Donald and Michele

D’Amour • Frank and Sally Hanna • National Endowment for the Arts •
Richard and Vera Hough • Robert Kreppel

BENEFACTORS

Hedy K. Boelte • John F. Cannon • The Rafael Madan and Lilian Casas
Foundation • Allison Coates and Joshua Kneubuhl • Edward and Alice Ann
Grayson • Shirley and Pistol Haley • Julia Harrison • Roy and Elizabeth Heyne •
Timothy J. Joyce • Colin Moran • William and Robin Mureiko • Elaine C.
Murphy • William H. Rooney • Dan and Annie Schreck • Stanley Stillman •
Richard and Rose Tondra

FRIENDS

James D. Arden • Edwin L. Bercier III • Joshua Cole • Cheryl Daye • Maria
Fedoryka • Paul Frank • Rabbi Mark Gottlieb • James A. Harold • Fr. Adam L.
Hertzfeld • John Iverson • Douglas Keck • John Kelly • Aloysius Ju Hyeok Kim •
Jake Lang • Ron Ledek • John Linn • Daniel Mark • Brent McAdam • Scott
McCawley • Laura McCormick • Nora L. Metzler • Judy A. Miles • Gerard and
Germana Mitchell • Barbara P. Murphy • George Nolan • Dan Rasmussen •
Britt and Noah Riner • Fr. Fabian Schneider • Fr. Thomas W. Shaw • Roy A.
Sheetz • Javier Sanz Latiesas • Stan Sienkiewicz • Joan Thomas • Fr. Jon Tveit •
JWM van Keeken • Fritz K. Wenisch
 Foreword
By Sir Roger Scruton

AESTHETICS AS A philosophical discipline came into being with the

Enlightenment, and acquired its dignity and standing with Kant’s Critique of
Judgment. In Kant’s taut and difficult work there is little mention of art, and no
attempt to give the broader cultural context within which aesthetic judgment
emerges. That context was the theme of Hegel’s posthumous Lectures on
Aesthetics, and those lectures were perhaps the first attempt by a great
philosopher to see the arts as indispensable expressions of the human spirit,
providing knowledge and insight that cannot be obtained from scientific
experiment or intellectual argument. Dietrich von Hildebrand was far from
being a Hegelian. But, like Hegel, he saw aesthetics as incomplete without a full
exploration of the arts, and an attempt to say what each of them severally
supplies to our understanding of the human condition. In this second volume of
his treatise on the subject Hildebrand assembles the results of a lifetime’s
thought about the arts, and expresses his devotion to beauty in terms that the
reader will find immediately engaging.
As the son of a famous sculptor Hildebrand naturally attached great prestige
to artistic creativity, and inherited the idea—made central to aesthetics by Kant
and Schopenhauer—that a work of art should be the product of ‘genius,’ the
unpredictable outcome of a faculty that has no rules for its employment. But he
was not taken in by the fashionable idea that aesthetic value must always be a
shock value, and that originality trumps discipline in every contest between
them. He was a romantic, but also one with a classical sense of the place of art in
the community. His wide taste did not extend to the extremes of expressionism
and Dadaism that were fashionable in pre-war Germany. He was a disciple of
Goethe and Schiller in literature and his taste in music was for the established
classical repertoire. Indeed he was a persuasive representative of the culture of
bourgeois Germany, in which the arts in general, and music in particular, formed
the central object of leisure and reflection in every household.
In the first volume of his Aesthetics Hildebrand argues for the distinct place of
beauty in the life of rational beings, and distinguishes two kinds of beauty:
beauty of the first power and beauty of the second power. The first power
belongs to those objects that, through their intrinsic form and harmony, attract
an unreflective sensory delight: flowers, landscapes, the symmetries and
harmonies of animals and plants. The second power is exhibited when a spiritual
idea is expressed in artistic form. In this case our delight is not merely sensory,
but involves an apprehension of deeper truths, and a sense of the
correspondences that unite the parts and moments of our world. Often, when we
encounter beauty of the second power, we are struck by the truth of the idea
expressed by it, and in such cases beauty and truth seem to blend
indistinguishably, as they do in the plays of Shakespeare or the Lieder of
Schubert.
In applying those ideas to the study of art Hildebrand pursues a course that is
uniquely his. Most philosophers of aesthetics content themselves with a few
examples from the realm of art, and make no attempt to explore the distinct
disciplines or to catalogue all the parts that contribute to the overall aesthetic
effect. One purpose of this second volume, however, is to show the completeness
of the artistic enterprise, and the way in which it penetrates human life in its
entirety, so that the idea of beauty enters our practical activity at every point. We
are seeking harmony and order in everything we do, and even if the sublime
effects of the most spiritual works of art are beyond our everyday competence, we
will always be motivated in our everyday activities by a fundamental need for
harmony and an aversion to ugliness.
This is brought out very clearly by the practice of architecture, and the long
section on architecture that opens this second volume contains some of
Hildebrand’s most important contributions to aesthetics. Few philosophers have
written about architecture as a distinct realm of philosophical enquiry, though
Hegel devoted a section of his lectures to it, as mankind’s first shot at giving
‘sensory embodiment to the Idea.’ Unlike Hegel, whose description of
architecture concerns the monumental idiom of temples, Hildebrand recognizes
the inescapable nature of the art of building, which is exhibited in all our
attempts to settle. Buildings are our fundamental way of becoming part of the
objective world, and they surround us in everything that we do.
Architecture, Hildebrand argues, does not have only one theme. It has the
theme of beauty, and the theme of use, and the synthesis of the artistic and the
practical dictates the quite special role that architecture plays in the practice of
aesthetic judgment. Although in one sense building is the art of creating and
molding space, this space is not the space explored by the natural scientist or the
philosopher, but space as we experience it, space that encompasses us and which
offers us vistas to every side. Space conceived in that way is both an object of
experience and a subject of shaping and molding. We understand architecture
not merely as a structure that encloses us, but also as a way of shaping,
decorating and opening all the spaces where we conduct our lives. Unusually for
a philosopher, therefore, Hildebrand breaks the art of building down into its
many components, devoting separate sections to temples, staircases, towers,
fountains and bridges. He writes in a penetrating way of streets and squares,
acknowledging that streets have ‘a “face” of their own that is distinct from the
houses that enclose them.’ He makes clear, what so few architectural critics
acknowledge, that buildings are indefinitely sensitive to their context, and that
even the most beautiful cathedral will not remain undamaged if the streets above
which it soars are mutilated or developed at random. He notes that street facades
in Tuscany have been controlled by legislation since the Middle Ages, and that
the modern habit of inserting new additions to a street without regard for the
style or materials that surround them is a violation of the most basic aesthetic
norms.
The whole section on architecture proceeds in that way, with common sense
observations that are also part of an original and comprehensive view of what
architecture means to us, and how its twofold nature provides an opening to
spiritual significance of an objective kind. As Hildebrand points out, we need to
acknowledge that the ordinary practical reasoning of the builder makes room for
the idea of beauty, without requiring that the builder have ‘genius’ or see himself
as engaging in the highest creative act. Getting things right is here far more
important than originality, which is often merely getting things wrong. At the
same time Hildebrand is hostile to the mere imitation of traditional styles and,
like so many of his contemporaries, in revolt against the meaningless
encrustations of the late Rococo style.
In writing about painting Hildebrand shows the same familiarity with the
topic as when writing of architecture. In both cases it is Italy that has seized his
imagination, and his description of the works of the Italian masters—Titian and
Giorgione in particular—shows how deeply he was affected by them. As he
recognizes, the heart of painting is representation, and the represented image can
be produced in many other ways than with a paintbrush. He anticipates later
philosophers in making radical distinctions between the painted image and the
photograph, and his description of photography, what it can do and what it
cannot do, is a paradigm of philosophical insight. So too is his description of
landscape painting and portraiture, in which the beauty of the thing depicted is
not carried over automatically into the beauty of the depiction, but transposed
into another idiom so as to acquire another meaning. His account of this
‘transposition’ is fascinating and casts considerable light on the thought once
expressed by Wittgenstein, that it is no longer possible, in the age of
photography, to obtain a real portrait of your friend. Hildebrand was writing
before the emergence of the ‘selfie’. But he anticipated everything that one might
now want to say about this mass assault on the art of portraiture.
The concept of transposition enables Hildebrand to address one of the most
important questions of modern aesthetics, which is the question of evil and its
aesthetic representation. Evil abounds in our world, in actions, characters,
sentiments and plans. Yet evil, transposed into art, can be an integral part of
beauty, as the evil of Mephistopheles is integral to the beauty of Faust Part I, or
the degenerate sentiments of the poet are integral to the beauty of Baudelaire’s
Les fleurs du mal. Do we say that beauty redeems evil, so that it ceases to be evil?
Or do we say that it reconciles us to evil, by showing it to be part of a greater
good? This question is ever more serious for people today, given the quantity of
art that depends for its effect on shock, terror or the fascination with nastiness. It
seems that ‘transposition,’ as Hildebrand understands it, can enable us both to
understand evil for what it is—a denial of our humanity—and also to recognize
in evil the proof of our freedom and the avenue to a purer way of being. In this
the love of beauty prefigures our salvation, and enables us to enter the darkest
corners of our world shielded from their corrupting vapors. All this aspect of
Hildebrand’s thinking deserves the greatest attention from philosophers today,
and even if he has no final answer to the question of evil and its representation in
art, his fine observations will surely stimulate a discussion of which we are all
greatly in need.
Like architecture, music invites special philosophical treatment and
Hildebrand does not disappoint us. He argues that musical notes are not mere
sounds, that they have dimensions—such as tone, height, penetration—which
no mere sound can exhibit, and are combined in a way that resembles the
grammar of a language. From the finite repertoire of 7 (or, with the accidentals,
12) notes composers in our tradition have produced works of surpassing
sublimity, and Hildebrand sets out to examine some of their achievements, and
the role of harmony, melody and rhythm in organizing the musical surface. In
this long and detailed section nothing is more in evidence than the acuteness of
Hildebrand’s musical perception, and the authority of his aesthetic judgment.
Even if he does not always unravel the philosophical difficulties presented by
music his descriptions of its effect—notably in the Wagner operas—are
wonderfully perceptive and inspiring.
Many philosophers will dislike Hildebrand’s easy-going style and relative
lack of reference to other philosophers. They will wonder how this intelligent
and cultivated survey of the arts can be squeezed into the categories of
philosophical or phenomenological analysis that are familiar to them. And as a
result they might choose to ignore a work that deserves to be widely known, not
only by philosophers, but by the reading public generally. John F. and John
Henry Crosby are to be congratulated in making this translation available, and so
helping to establish Hildebrand’s reputation as one of the last great
representatives of the high culture of Germany, and one for whom art was not
merely a topic of philosophical enquiry, but also a gift of the Holy Spirit.

Malmesbury, 2nd May 2018

 Note on the Text of the Current Edition

WE WANT TO ALERT the reader to the fact that Hildebrand’s Aesthetics, especially
volume two, is in an unfinished state. Both volumes were written in a nine-
month period from 1969–1970, when Hildebrand was eighty years old. He did
not live long enough to work through and order the text of volume two in the
way in which his other philosophical works are fully completed and structured.
But even in this unfinished state the work is full of deep and original insights
into art and beauty. And not just scattered insights, but foundational insights.
One of the richest ideas in volume two is that of “artistic transposition” (the idea
that the full range of values, including moral values and disvalues, can be fully
transposed into aesthetic values). We are fortunate that Hildebrand devoted an
entire chapter to this theme (chapter 32), though it remains only a partial
treatment. Readers will find significant uses of the idea of transposition
throughout the work, with many notable instances in the section on music.
Other insights and themes in volume two that rise to the level of original
contributions include the entire section on literature, which contains the
elements of a philosophy of language, and the discussion of architecture, which
explores the “lived space” that we experience when we dwell in houses, palaces,
churches, public squares.
The chapters of volume two are full of reflections on great works of art, such
as Beethoven’s Fidelio or Cervantes’ Don Quixote or the Parthenon in Athens.
These reflections may not be philosophical in the strict sense, since they concern
in each case some individual work of art, but they are eminently
phenomenological reflections which capture the spirit and genius of the
individual work.
The treatment of music is philosophically perhaps the richest and most fully
developed part of volume two. Hildebrand’s phenomenological spirit is fully on
display in his exploration of the basic building blocks of music. He is always in
search of irreducible structures, whether of the most elemental variety, like the
musical note and musical sound, or other irreducible but progressively more
complex structures like melody, harmony, and the musical whole (all in chapter
33). His discussion in chapter 34 of pure musical expression (the ability of music
without words to express emotions like love and sorrow) is not fully developed
but lays the foundations for an original theory of musical expression. Readers
will find him constantly in debate with various reductionistic efforts to explain
the higher through the lower, such as explaining expression through association.
These remarks do not purport to represent or evaluate this second volume of
Aesthetics exhaustively. They are meant only to underscore the fact that Aesthetics,
and especially volume two, presents original and complete ideas despite
remaining an incomplete text.
Volume two was published posthumously in 1981 (Hildebrand died in 1977)
thanks to the efforts of Karla Mertens, founder of the Hildebrand Gesellschaft.
She is almost certainly a source of the German editions subtitles and the editor’s
footnotes. In our translation of volume two, we have retained these subtitles and
many of the footnotes, and we have added some more for contemporary readers.
Our English edition of Hildebrand’s Aesthetics is the fruit of the
extraordinary generosity and commitment of countless friends and benefactors.
We are deeply grateful to Dana Gioia, then-chairman of the National
Endowment for the Arts, who provided the catalyst with a Chairman’s
Extraordinary Action Award. And we are forever indebted to Howard and
Roberta Ahmanson for their enduring support which allowed us to bring this
work to completion. We thank Sir Roger Scruton for contributing a foreword
that places Hildebrand’s Aesthetics within the broad tradition of philosophical
aesthetics. We gratefully acknowledge Brian McNeil, whose initial translation
provided the point of departure for our final English text. Copyediting was
meticulously executed by Elizabeth Shaw, proofreading by Sarah Blanchard,
while the entire production of the book, encompassing everything from contents
to covers, was masterfully led by the Hildebrand Project’s director of publications
and marketing, Christopher Haley. Marylouise McGraw has adorned the book
with a beautiful and thoughtful cover.
We hope that readers will not only have their aesthetic perspective enlarged
by the phenomenological richness of Hildebrand’s work, but will also be
challenged by all that is unfinished in it, and will carry it forward and build on it.

John F. Crosby and John Henry Crosby

Translators and Editors
 Preliminary Note to the German Edition (1984)

WITH THE PUBLICATION of Vol. VI: Aesthetics, Part 2 (On the Being of the Work of
Art and of the Arts), we have now completed the edition of the ten-volume
Collected Works of Dietrich von Hildebrand. The author worked on this
manuscript, which is published here for the first time, right up to his death, but
he was not able to complete every part of it. Some problems could only be
indicated; some artistic phenomena could only be sketched; and he was not able
to analyze some forms of art, such as the epic poem. Nevertheless, the
manuscript that he left contains a wealth of insights, original observations, and
precious analyses (for example, of Mozart’s operas) that are born of a lifelong
study of works of art. We are convinced that this late work, the harvest of a
whole lifetime, deserves its place in the Collected Works. It will also be very useful
to those who teach art.
Unfortunately, the publication of this volume depleted the financial reserves
of the Dietrich von Hildebrand Gesellschaft to such an extent that it was not
possible to provide a complete index. We hope that the detailed table of contents
will to some extent make up for this. Similarly, we were not able to print the
bibliography that an American student of philosophy had prepared. But since we
are convinced that the reception history of Dietrich von Hildebrand’s philosophy
has only just begun, we are confident that later publications will bring to
completion what still remains to be done.
Dietrich von Hildebrand Gesellschaft
 Introduction

THE FIRST VOLUME of this Aesthetics studies the being of beauty, especially in
nature and in the life of the human person. The object of this second volume is
the essence of the work of art, the character of each of the various genres of art—
architecture, sculpture, painting, literature, music—and specifically artistic
beauty.
We begin with a number of topics that apply to every artistic genre. First of
all, we study the ontological nature of the work of art. Next we refute the theory
that the work of art is the objectification of the personality of the artist. We then
point out incorrect attitudes to art, and finally proceed to discuss which genres of
art collaborate with which other ones—in other words, which genres can unite to
form a new artistic whole.
Finally, we will offer a detailed analysis of each individual artistic genre,
which will also bring to a conclusion some of our general investigations.
Characteristics Common to all the Arts

Various Attitudes Toward Art

 CHAPTER ONE

The Ontological Reality of Works of Art

ALTHOUGH THE structures that we call “works of art” are ontologically very
various, all of them also possess essential traits that distinguish them from all the
other kinds of things that exist.
A work of art, whether it be a church, a palace, a statue, a picture, a novel, or
a symphony, is always a spiritual “something” that is a curious quasi-substance of
a spiritual [geistig] kind. It is always an individual, unified “something.”
Although the relationship of a work of art to the material in the different
artistic genres (for example, in architecture and in literature) may vary greatly,
the work of art as such is a spiritual reality. When we speak of the beauty of the
Town Hall in Perugia, of its tremendous seriousness and its unity, we are
referring to the work of art, to a self-contained, unique, spiritual “something,”
not to the mass of stones of which this building is made up. In our discussion of
the individual artistic genres, we shall look at the varying relationship between
the spiritual work of art and the physical something with which it is linked. We
shall also answer the question of how the individual work of art becomes real:
what kind of reality does it possess?
The term “spiritual” [geistig] has many meanings. It is used above all in the
sense of a personal conscious being. Accordingly, an act of knowing, and every
act of the will, is something spiritual. The same is true of every affective value-
response (a fact that has often been overlooked). Here the word “spiritual”
implies the full individual, conscious being, the being of the spiritual soul, of the
person. Propositions and ideas are also called “spiritual,” though obviously this
does not mean something that is personal and that consciously exists. These have
the following elements in common with that which exists personally and
consciously: incorporeality, being articulated or structured, being full of meaning,
and much else. Nevertheless, one cannot emphasize strongly enough the radical
difference between these two meanings of “spiritual.”
The non-personal spiritual quality that does not exist consciously can belong
to entities with very various forms of existence, including a work of art. In this
case, we are thinking of a form of existence that is very different from that of a
mere ens rationis (“a being of reason”) or from the ideal existence of an essence.
These essences too are spiritual structures. First of all, they are incorporeal.
Secondly, they are eminently meaningful; in a certain sense, they are the primal
source of all meaning. However, they are essentially general, not individual,
whereas the work of art is definitely an individual structure. Its ontological
nature is thus completely different from the form of existence of the essences.
The same is true of the spiritual quality of concepts, which is likewise distinct
from that of essences. Concepts do not possess the same ontological dignity as
the genuine necessary, uninventable essences. Concepts have a much “thinner”
form of being. But they too are essentially general, and are clearly different from
the spiritual form of existence of the individual work of art.
One final difference between the spiritual form of existence of the individual
work of art and that of the genuine essences is that the latter are eternal, while all
works of art become real at one particular point in time. They are essentially
something created by the human person. They do not have the ontological
dignity possessed by the uninventable and eternal character of the essences. On
the other hand, as individual beings, they possess a concrete reality that the
essences lack.
The work of art is a quasi-substance. It is certainly no mere accident of
something. We have listed elsewhere1 the three perfections of a substance: first,
the inseitas, the standing-in-itself; secondly, being the deeper and more serious
level of a being; and thirdly, being one individual that, unlike all the artificial
parts of a continuum (for example, unlike one single instant), is in sharp contrast
to all surrounding being and exists as something of its own.
In the realm of being there are many degrees of being a substance: first, the
lifeless, material substances, such as a stone; secondly, the plant organisms, such
as a tree; thirdly, the more distinctive substance, namely, the animal; and finally,
the human person, in whom the perfection of substance attains its fullest form
known to us in experience.
There also exist entities that are substances only in an analogous sense, for
example, communities such as the state and the nation. These are not in the least
accidents. These quasi-substances lack the fullness of meaning of the full
substances: but like genuine substances they are not accidents, and they
constitute a unified, individual structure. In medieval terminology they are called
“moral substances” as opposed to the physical substances. “Physical” here
certainly does not mean “bodily,” for in this terminology, a stone, a tree, an
animal, and a human person—indeed, every individual being—is a physical
substance.
Similarly, works such as Plato’s Phaedo or the Confessions of Saint Augustine
are non-personal, spiritual, individual substances. They too bear the stamp of
something created by a human being at one specific point in time. They can be
destroyed or get lost, as happened to writings by Plato and Aristotle. Naturally,
getting lost and becoming inaccessible to all human beings is one particular form
of destruction, different from the burning of a picture or the smashing of a
sculpture (for example, the Colossus of Rhodes).
Although philosophical works share many characteristics with the work of
art, and each is a particular kind of “moral” substance, spiritual in kind, there is
an ontological difference between them. The element of a self-contained whole
is even more pronounced in the work of art. The individual philosophical work is
part of a larger investigation of philosophical truth; and this cannot be said of the
work of art. An individual work of art, such as Shakespeare’s King Lear,
Beethoven’s Quartet op. 130, or Michelangelo’s Dying Slave, is not in the least
part of a larger whole. This difference is due to the difference in theme. Every
important philosophical work in which metaphysical, ethical, or logical truths are
formulated investigates a part of the whole truth and conquers a part of it. But
the theme of the work of art is its beauty. It would be meaningless to regard the
individual work of art as a part of the creation of beautiful things. Accordingly,
each work of art is a much more pronounced individual.
There are objectifications of the human spirit that are completely different
from philosophical works, such as great inventions of machines (for example, an
automobile, an airplane, or a computer). These material structures also contain
an enormous investment on the part of the human spirit. They differ much more
strongly from works of art than do philosophical or scientific works.
First of all, while one individual automobile is indeed an individual, it is this
as one particular material body. Besides, the invention of the automobile aims at
the kind of objects that constitute a series, a type that can be repeated in
innumerable individuals. Artistic creation never aims at a type that can be
produced as a series. The decisive difference between a machine and a work of
art can be seen precisely in the fact that it is possible to make a copy of a
sculpture or a picture, and this copy is a copy. On the other hand, the
Volkswagen that one purchases is not a copy of another Volkswagen, but the
normal individualization of this type of automobile.
Secondly, the machine is a typical factum (that is, something made), whereas
the true work of art is a genitum (something begotten). I have already mentioned
elsewhere2 this difference between genitum and factum, which runs through every
sphere of being. The words of the creed, genitum non factum (“begotten, not
made”), point to the different genesis of things that exist on earth. The antithesis
between that which has grown and that which is made artificially, between that
which is organic and that which is mechanical, refers to this difference.
I have also drawn attention to the fact that the genitum, the organic, has
many degrees. For example, something that is a factum when compared with
something higher, to something that is more full of meaning, is a genitum when
compared with something lower, something that is more mechanical. A
physiological process is a factum when compared with a spiritual process such as
the insight into an evident truth or a value-response of love; but when compared
with a purely mechanical process, it is an organic process, a genitum. When
compared with the cutting of a stone into pieces, the invention of the machine is
a genitum; but when compared with a work of art, it is a factum. Both the
investment of the human spirit in the invention of a machine (for example, the
airplane) and the kind of expression of the human spirit in this machine are
something made, something inorganic, when compared with the process of
artistic inspiration and the shaping of the work of art, and to the expression of
the human spirit in it. The work of art is definitely organic.
The distinction between genitum and factum confronts us with a very
profound phenomenon, indeed, a primal phenomenon, that is to say, something
that one must apprehend and understand intuitively through itself and that one
cannot derive from other data.

1. Metaphysik der Gemeinschaft (Regensburg: Habbel, 1975), chap. 1.

2. Metaphysik der Gemeinschaft, chap. 11, pp. 129f.
 CHAPTER TWO

The Work of Art Is Not a Projection of the Artist

THE ATTEMPT HAS been made to interpret art as an objectification of the

personality of the artist and to offer this as an explanation of the mystery of the
spiritual beauty in the visible and audible work of art.
We find this viewpoint in Maritain’s aesthetic writings too. Naturally, one
can understand the expression “objectification of the artist’s own person” in very
various ways. If all that is meant is that every work of art bears the stamp of the
artist, this can certainly not be denied. The specific character of the artist can
find a stronger expression in many of his works, and a less strong expression in
others. It is often possible to recognize at once that a work must be by
Beethoven, Schubert, or Wagner, or that Goethe or Shakespeare is indubitably
the author of a quotation. But a work can be of such a kind that it is not possible
immediately to identify the author, either because it is not typical of him or
because the author has undergone so much development that some early works
are radically different from later works. It is often difficult to attribute a work
unambiguously to an author, because one great master was the disciple of
another great master, and the inner affinity between the two makes it extremely
difficult to discern which of them produced one particular work. The Concert in
the Pitti Gallery was long held to be by Giorgione, but art historians today
regard it as more or less certain that it was painted by Titian.
However, the thesis that Maritain and others maintain, namely, that a work
of art is an objectification of the personality, a projection of the specific character
of the inner life of the artist, refers to something completely different from the
stylistic unity, the stamp of the artist in his works. The first implication of this
thesis is that the artist projects himself into his work in his specific human
character. This fails to draw the important distinction between the artistic and
the human personality of the artist. The stamp of the artistic personality can be
very pronounced; but it is also possible for the work in its own specific character,
in its world, and in its value, to transcend entirely the artist as a human being, so
that it tells us nothing at all about the artist as a human being, about his
character. This is why it is incorrect to assert that the relationship of the artist to
his work is that of an objectification of his personality, of his feelings, his
experiences, etc.
The second implication of this thesis is that the objectification is intended,
indeed is thematic, both for the process of artistic creation and even for the work
of art itself. In the Ion, Plato calls the artist a seer.1 Does not this position do
better justice to the facts? Does not the artist apprehend something objective,
something that remains closed to the non-artist? In this act of apprehending, it
is not philosophical knowledge that is thematic, but artistic beauty, depth. He
receives an inspiration, and his intention is directed to the objective shaping of
this inspiration, to the creation of an object that is a bearer of beauty. If an artist
wants only to present himself in his work, to “pour out his heart” or to “express
his life” in art, this is a disadvantage, an inartistic tendency.
It is completely mistaken to try to explain the fact that the visible and the
audible in art can be the bearer of a specifically spiritual beauty by speaking of
the projection of the artist’s soul into the work of art.
As we have seen in the first volume, the beauty of the visible and the audible
in nature can attain to a specific spiritual quality. The highest degree of beauty of
the second power can be found in nature.
Although works of art such as a symphony or a quartet are composed of
audible elements, they are as such definitely spiritual structures. A picture too is
a spiritual structure, and although it is painted on canvas or wood, it is not a
purely material, physical “something.” It is a spiritual structure, although it is
made up of visible elements. The same is true of a sculpture, a relief, etc. Now
this spiritual quality of a work of art indubitably presupposes the spiritual person
of the artist, since it could not otherwise come into existence. It is the product of
a very specific, unique, creative gift which in turn presupposes an inspiration, a
special act of receiving, a receptive act of welcoming a gift. But the spiritual
quality of a work of art is not something consciously lived in a personal manner.
It is itself not a conscious being. Rather, it is an analogous spiritual quality, like
that possessed by a truth that is objectified in propositions. I say “analogous”
because the ontological spiritual quality of true propositions is different from
that of works of art; but both taken together belong to a radically different type
of ontological spiritual quality from the person and personal consciousness.2
However, the fact that these works of art are essentially created by human
beings is no proof that they are an objectification of the artist’s soul. Not only are
they objectively spiritual structures; if they are truly successful, they must “stand
on their own feet” and possess their own specific character. They must not be
merely an expression of the artist’s soul. Works of art are not mere descriptions
of the artist’s feelings.
The relationship between the artist as a human being, his character, his
moral status, his quality as a personality, and the depth of his human
experiences, on the one hand, and his artistic personality, his artistic depth,
greatness, power, and brilliance, on the other, poses a very interesting problem.
One is inclined to suppose that there must be a close connection between the
two; at the same time, however, it is undeniable that the quality, sublimity, and
greatness of a work of art are scarcely to be found in an analogous manner in the
human personality of the artist. Measured by the angelic tone in Mozart’s music,
by its sublime transfigured quality, Mozart would have had to have been a saint
in order to possess such sublimity as a human being. But no matter how likeable
he may appear to be in his letters and in what we know of his life, he was
certainly no saint. The sublime greatness, the breath of God in the works of
Beethoven or Michelangelo, far transcends what both were as men. The
mysterious ability to create something so great and glorious is different from the
being of the artist as a man. It is a gift of God, unique in kind, that neither
presupposes the analogous perfection in human beings nor bestows it on them.
This ability is analogous to the gift of profound philosophical knowledge. As I
have frequently emphasized, exact philosophical knowledge certainly
presupposes many decisive moral attitudes, but in order to have profound
knowledge of the being of purity or humility, one need not possess these virtues
in their ultimate perfection. In the same way, the artist is permitted to create
works of a sublimity that far transcends what he as a human being accomplishes
in a moral respect.
In this context, it is important to see that the theme of a work of art is not
the person of its creator, but its own value, the beauty of the work of art itself. A
work of art does not primarily make a proclamation about its author, but about
the glory of the cosmos and, ultimately, about God’s infinite beauty.
We cannot apply to a work of art Leonardo’s observation about love: “The
greater the man, the deeper his love.” We cannot say: “The greater the man, the
greater his ability as an artist.” Great personalities, rich and profound human
beings, indeed even saints, need not be artists. Even if they were artists, they
need not be great artists; nor need great artists possess qua human beings the
greatness and sublimity of their works.
A saint who works as an artist need not produce any great works of art. Even
a great spirit who was not only deeply religious but could also write in a unique
way about religious and theological questions, namely, Cardinal Newman, did
not create a true work of art with his novel Callista. He is certainly one of the
greatest writers of all time, thanks to his style, to the depth of his ideas, and to
his ability to let us breathe in the world of Christ and the supernatural fragrance
of revelation. Nevertheless, he did not create an important work of art with his
historical novel.
In addition, it is wrong to believe that the worldview of the artist is reflected
in every great work of art, to believe that while his person, his character, and his
human personality are not reflected in his work, his worldview is reflected in it.
This may be the case, but it certainly need not be so. A great artist is guided in
his work by the inner logic, the inner truth of the work, and this can coincide
with his own worldview, but need not do so. In Beethoven and Michelangelo,
we find a deep harmony of their worldview and with the inner logic that is
objectively demanded by the work and with the standing of this work in the
truth. Both are totally dominated by the artistic logic, and are at the same time
“confessors” in all their works. In Bach, above all in the St. Matthew Passion, the
peerless rendering of the world of the Gospel—indeed, one is tempted to say:
the embodiment of this world—is completely filled by the inner logic of the
work of art and by the world of the Gospel in artistic transposition, on the one
hand, and by his profound religiosity, on the other. The work is truly a
confession of faith, but what we encounter therein is primarily the world of the
Gospel, not the personal religiosity of Bach. The work speaks, not of his
religiosity, but of Christ, and in its quality it far transcends Bach the human
being.
In many cases there is no concurrence between the worldview of the artist
and the spirit of the work of art. One striking example is Part I of Faust.
Goethe’s personal worldview and his position with regard to God and to Christ
are expressed in the answer Faust gives to Gretchen when she asks whether he
believes in God and in Christ, but Goethe’s artistic genius compels him in the
matchless closing scene to locate the work entirely in the Christian world, in
spite of his own worldview (the one that he places on the lips of Faust). The
angel’s voice is the final, decisive word: “She is saved.”
In an analogous manner, the profoundly religious and Christian atmosphere
in Crime and Punishment, The Idiot, and The Brothers Karamazov is not an
expression of Dostoevsky’s personal worldview, quite apart from the question of
whether and to what extent he himself was a believing Christian.
 Since the artist mysteriously touches the truth of things through the inner
logos of his work of art, he can be elevated above his personal worldview. Many
artists whose personal worldviews stand completely in the truth, who are
convinced Christians and great human personalities, are indeed in complete
harmony with the demands made by the truth of the logos in the work of art; but
even here the work of art can far transcend the stature of the man. As Plato says,
the great artist is truly a seer, and God speaks through him.
This is why it is wrong to believe that biographies of an artist lead to a
deeper understanding of a work of art. The true work of art must stand on its
own feet. Knowing about the artist’s life cannot offer us a better access to the
genuine values of a work of art or make it easier to understand. If our interest in
the artist’s experiences at the time of the composition of a poem, a novel, or a
piece of music increases our interest in the work, or even functions as a key to
understanding the work, then we are being distracted from the word that the
work of art itself speaks.
The opposite is true. If we have apprehended the greatness of the works of
an artist without learning anything definite from them about the author as a
human being, about his character and the kind of man he was, about his moral
standing and his worldview, it is completely natural that we should take an
interest in these matters. But in the case of many artists, we shall see that the
world of their great works is far superior, in its value, its greatness, and its
profundity, to the personality of the artist as a human being. The spiritual world
of Dante’s Divine Comedy or of Cervantes’ Don Quixote far surpasses everything
that we learn about these two authors in their biographies.

1. Chap. 5, pp. 533f.

2. In the course of history of philosophy, philosophers have often failed to draw a sufficiently clear
distinction between these two completely different concepts of “spiritual” in the ontological sense. Both
refer to non-material beings, but whereas ideas, propositions, sciences, works of art, and communities such
as state and nation are non-personal structures, the soul of the human being is a concrete, individual,
personal structure, something that exists consciously and possesses a completely new dimension of being,
unlike everything impersonal.
 CHAPTER THREE

Wrong Attitudes to Art

REPEATED CONTACT with a work of art is often needed before we fully

appreciate it in its essence and hence appreciate its beauty. This varies in
accordance with the artistic understanding of a person, sometimes only in
accordance with the understanding of the “language” in which the essence is
given, and in accordance with the kind of work of art. Many works of art are
easier to understand, others are more difficult. Mozart’s Laudate Dominum is
objectively easier to understand than Beethoven’s Great Fugue, and the
perception of their beauty is connected to this fact. This is why a clear
distinction must be drawn between the first time we hear a piece of music and
the moment in which it opens up for us. The same applies to a poem, a painting,
a sculpture, or a landscape. The mere act of seeing these objects need not as yet
be a full apprehension of their essence and thus of their beauty.
In the encounter with a work of art or with nature, however, many people are
interested in something quite different from aesthetic value. The delight they
take in the work of art or in nature is motivated by elements of a non-aesthetic
kind. What they apprehend is not the beauty, not the thematic aesthetic value,
but chance elements, often as a result of associations. In what follows, I shall
attempt to discuss briefly these non-aesthetic (and in the case of works of art,
non-artistic) attitudes, since they are in fact highly important for many people. I
shall clearly distinguish those factors that are substitutes for the true aesthetic
value of a work and that distract people completely from this value, from those
other factors that are only the preconditions that some people need in order to
enter into the beauty of the object.

The two kinds of familiarity

First of all, there is the attraction of custom. For many people, the simple fact of
being accustomed to something bestows a positive character on that object. A
landscape that is itself not at all beautiful, but rather is boring and nondescript,
can become attractive for some people because they are accustomed to it and see
it again and again. They enjoy the familiarity as such. It is this that pleases them,
not the aesthetic quality of the landscape. They substitute for the aesthetic value
the satisfaction that the familiarity as such evokes.
We must distinguish here between two kinds of familiarity. The first is
linked to one’s native place [Heimat] and originates in the fact that we have
invested much of our life in this landscape. The second kind is sheer familiarity
as such. It is clear that neither of these is an aesthetic value. They have
intrinsically nothing to do with the beauty of the landscape. The attraction of
both kinds is completely different from the attraction that the beauty of the
landscape exercises upon us. Nevertheless, we must draw a distinction between
the two, since the familiarity of what belongs to one’s native place is intrinsically
much more legitimate than the attraction exercised by sheer familiarity. The first
is much nobler, and as long as it does not usurp the place that belongs to the
apprehending and enjoying of beauty, it certainly has a legitimate importance in
our life.1
The attraction of sheer familiarity is much more peripheral, and ought not to
play any genuine role. Whereas the attraction of that which belongs to our native
place is related principally to nature, and perhaps also to architecture in
combination with nature, sheer familiarity strongly influences our relationship to
art as well.
It is clear that the joy that is expressed in the exclamation “Why, I know
that!” has nothing to do with the beauty of the piece of music. It is a joy sui
generis, the joy of recognition, the joy felt on encountering something that is
known, as opposed to encountering something new, foreign, and inaccessible to
us because we do not “know” it. In the act of recognizing and “finding a place”
for this piece of music there is a kind of satisfaction, a kind of position of
dominance that the “knowing” implies. Obviously, it is completely illegitimate
for this satisfaction to interfere with the aesthetic experience, and even more
illegitimate for this satisfaction to usurp the place of the aesthetic value.
Familiarity can, however, also be nothing more than a precondition for the
apprehending of beauty. In that case, its function is not only legitimate, but to a
certain extent also natural and human. In order to apprehend the beauty of a
difficult piece of music, we must listen to it more often. The better we know it,
the more its beauty discloses itself to us. The same applies to many poems,
pictures, and sculptures. This may legitimately be more important to one person
than to another, depending on the relationship persons have to the specific
sphere of art. This familiarity has an ancillary function and is not in any way a
substitute for experiencing the aesthetic value.
If, however, familiarity as such becomes thematic, so that the object becomes
attractive independently of its aesthetic value or disvalue, this means that the joy
caused by beauty is replaced by a satisfaction caused by familiarity. From the
aesthetic standpoint this is a total perversion.

The unartistic interest in what is portrayed in art

In a second form of non-artistic attitude, one is interested only in what is
represented. What counts is the quality of an event as historically important.
Such an observer reads “The Death of Wallenstein” or “Victory over Attila”
under a painting, and he is impressed by the illustration of this event; but the
artistic value or disvalue of the picture is not allowed to make itself felt. The
observer enjoys two things. First, he enjoys the historical event and its dramatic
character, to which many associations are linked, and the importance of a great
historic moment. If he reads about this event in an historical work, he is rightly
fascinated by a genuine aesthetic quality. However, this quality can have only a
very secondary legitimate importance for the picture; it has this importance if the
artist employs new means to reproduce in the artistic atmosphere of the picture
something of this quality of the great moment. But the observer whom we have
mentioned is interested above all in the title that stands under the picture. He
substitutes for the beauty of the picture the aesthetic character of the historical
moment that the title communicates to him.
Secondly, he enjoys the formal element of illustration. An event that he
knows only from historical works, and about which he doubtless has some
subjective mental images, is now accessible, given to him in a picture. His
interest is satisfied not only by the title, but also by the fact that the event is
intuitively presented and given to him, thus intensifying his contact with it. That
is the point of illustrations.
In a book these are meant to intensify the contact with the literary content.
In literature, however, illustrations with aesthetic value have a very modest
decorative character.2 The objective character of the artistic beauty of the literary
work of art remains unaffected. The beauty of an illustration is not in the least
supported by the quality of the content that is represented; this beauty can be
attained only with the means of visual art. The agreement of the illustration with
the literary content is decisive, for it has only an ancillary function. But the
unartistic attitude wrongly treats the picture as a mere illustration of the event.
In an illustration the intensification of the contact in the visual encounter
with the object comes into its own; the intensification by means of the word is
much more indirect. Many things in a novel (for example, in Boccaccio’s
Decameron) are intolerable when they are depicted in a film. Compared with only
hearing, reading, or knowing about an object, the act of seeing is a new
dimension of encounter with the object. A non-artistic, simple-minded joy is
generated when one sees an illustration of an event about which one knows: “Ah,
look! That is the death of Wallenstein!” For simple-minded observers of this
kind, this formal element of the illustration also replaces the real artistic content,
namely, the beauty of the picture.
Something analogous, but very different, happens when religious reverence
for that which is depicted replaces a sense for the beauty of the picture. For
unartistic people it suffices that a picture portrays Christ, the Mother of God, or
some passage from the Gospel, in order for them to find it beautiful. They see it
above all else from the perspective of an illustration of something holy, and the
only theme is reverence for that which is depicted. They are filled by the
response due to Christ and to the Mother of God, and they rejoice at the
illustration of the object. All this takes the place of apprehending the beauty or
lack of beauty of the depiction. As I have said, this is not the same as enjoying an
illustration, but there is an analogy. For here the objects make unique demands
on the depiction, and the beauty of holiness can become very important for the
artistic beauty of the picture, if the depiction is appropriate.3 The specifically
non-aesthetic element is so much in the foreground for these people that they
are not disturbed even by the most tasteless depiction, since they are sensitive
only to the awe-inspiring holiness of that which is depicted. They are concerned
with a completely different theme, and hence are so blind to the artistic value
that the picture is nothing more to them than an occasion for thinking of the
content.
Others enjoy only the aesthetic value of that which is depicted, not the
aesthetic value of the picture. When one has a false attitude of this kind, one sees
that a picture portrays a beautiful landscape, such as the Gulf of Naples or the
Campagna, but one sees only this beauty, independently of the value of the
depiction. One is indeed oriented to the aesthetic value of the beautiful
landscape, but one bypasses the aesthetic value of the picture. The beauty of that
which is depicted is certainly an important factor for the beauty of the picture,
but it cannot salvage a bad picture. On the contrary, one who has an artistic
attitude will regard an artistically poor picture as a particular disfigurement of the
beauty of the landscape it depicts. The deficient depiction of a beautiful
landscape makes the picture even more disastrous than the good depiction of a
landscape that is inherently boring.
For those who look at the picture in the same way as they look at a
photograph, it is not even a mere illustration, but a reminder, a visualization of
the landscape and its beauty.

Fame and fashion

Another illegitimate element in the observation not only of works of art, but also
of nature, is the fame of an object. The fact that a region, a city, or a building is
universally admired surrounds it in some people’s eyes with a halo, and this halo,
together with satisfaction at having seen the famous object with one’s own eyes,
takes the place of joy at its genuine beauty. Very primitive elements commingle
in this complicated phenomenon: being impressed by public opinion; the
attractiveness that something acquires in virtue of its being “famous” and praised
by many persons; the fact that one has heard so much about it, so that one’s
imagination has already received rich nourishment; and finally, sharing in what
the others have seen and praised, and joining up with public opinion. For one
who enjoys nothing but the more intimate contact with the halo of celebrity, it is
a matter of indifference whether he is looking at the Palace of the Doges in
Venice or the Eiffel Tower in Paris, although from the perspective of beauty
there is a gulf between the two.
The fame of a work of art can have a legitimate function if it is not a
substitute for beauty but only awakens our interest in seeing it. In this case the
fame of the object must become unimportant once we see the beautiful work.
The only thing that is entitled to interest us is its beauty; or else we must turn
our back on the unbeautiful object, since we recognize clearly that its fame is
unfounded.
If we have seen works by great artists such as Michelangelo, Leonardo,
Rafael, Titian, Rembrandt, Rubens, Giorgione, or Piero della Francesca and
have ourselves apprehended their greatness, it is legitimate and indeed
imperative that we bring a “credit” to any other work of theirs when we see it for
the first time. If a hitherto unknown work by Bach or Beethoven does not
disclose itself to us in its beauty when we first hear it, we should assume that this
is our fault. After we have heard it several times, perhaps we shall determine that
this is a less important work by this great master. But when we encounter
something new by him, we are completely justified in initially taking into
account the greatness and importance of that master whom we know by personal
experience. This must be kept quite distinct from the above-mentioned
substitution of beauty by a fame derived only from public opinion.
It is a sign of especial superficiality and aesthetic perversion when what is
involved is not a fame that has been established over a lengthy period, but the
phenomenon of being fashionable. Just as certain ideas and ideologies take on a
sociological-historical reality at one particular period, so that we can say that
they fill the air, so too some artists are fashionable at one particular period.
Because one person praises them, they are praised by others; people jump on the
bandwagon. The attractiveness of the fashionable takes the place of the aesthetic
quality of the object, surrounding it with a halo, which is the only thing people
notice and enjoy. It prevents them from seeing the true character of the thing.
Although this fashionableness is inherently illegitimate, it is of course possible
for it to accompany a genuine greatness. In that case, the halo is justified and can
help to open our eyes to the true value.

The prejudice of nationalism

Prejudices are completely erroneous, whether it be nationalism or the fact that
something is modern or contemporary.
Nationalism leads many people to regard a work of art as much more
important than it really is, especially in comparison to works of art from other
countries. Although this utterly unobjective factor is brought to the object
completely from the outside, it unfortunately often obfuscates the judgment of
people who have a real affinity for beauty and are able to apprehend the artistic
value of a work. This factor is no substitute for the aesthetic value, but is a
typical prejudice. Its effect is not so much to obliterate the difference between a
good and a bad work, but rather to lead the observer to offend against the
hierarchy within the genuine works of art. The fact that a work of art is by a
Frenchman or a German is given extra weight. Thus there are Frenchmen who
rank Racine above Shakespeare, without noticing that this judgment is colored
by nationalism. But it is not only the judgment itself that can be influenced by
nationalism: the same applies to immediately apprehending and enjoying the
work.
A prejudice of this kind asserts itself very strongly with respect to the beauty
of nature in a country. How often are Germans or Frenchmen incapable of
recognizing how much more beautiful the landscape in Italy is than in their own
country! It is of course true that precisely in Germany great minds such as
Goethe, Winkelmann, and many others have apprehended in a special way this
superiority of Italy; but we have in mind here average persons, and within this
group, above all nationalists. Pride creates a prejudice against the beauty of the
landscapes and the works of art of other countries.
One must distinguish from this nationalism yet another factor that restricts
the apprehending of beauty, namely, the fact that the national characteristic of a
work of art, which is as such a secondary element, makes it easier for the
members of this nation to understand its true value. We encounter here a kind of
analogy to language. Even for one who knows a foreign language well, poems in
his or her mother tongue are more comprehensible than those in the foreign
tongue; and for many persons, the cultural framework in which a work of art has
“grown” is a precondition for understanding it deeply. This is related to the
familiarity mentioned above. That which is marked by the nation to which one
belongs speaks the language that one understands better. This language touches
one’s heart more strongly and facilitates access to a work and to its beauty.
Nevertheless, this is a definite restriction of one’s spiritual horizon, an
encumbrance on the true understanding of art.
In exactly the same way, we understand the beauty of one type of landscape
more easily if we are familiar with it and with all the elements that belong to it:
the inhabitants, the cultural tendency, and above all the fact that it was here for
the first time that the most universal bearers of beauty, such as the sky, the light,
morning, midday, and evening, and the various seasons of the year disclosed
themselves to us. On the other hand, the foreignness of other countries is an
obstacle to doing full justice to their landscapes. But this too is an illegitimate
factor, a lack of objectivity. From the perspective of an adequate apprehending of
value, it is a restriction and an encumbrance.

Chronolatry
There exists a temporalism, analogous to nationalism, that has been given the
appropriate name of chronolatry.
A special kind of arrogance leads one to regard the epoch in which one lives
as especially important and valuable. The fact that one belongs to this epoch
makes the idea that the achievements of this time are particularly great a source
of satisfaction. This chronolatry also puts a halo around the works of art of one’s
own epoch, but it is nothing other than a prejudice that blinds one to true artistic
value.
Naturally, the opposite prejudice exists too. Many people regard a work of art
as the more precious, the older it is. They approach with suspicion everything
that does not belong to the past, and this too is unobjective. We shall return to
this subject below when we take up the extremely important difference between
the beauty of the style of an entire period and the genuine artistic importance of
an individual work of art.
Apart from chronolatry, modernity plays a great role for many people. In
addition to the magical power of contemporary fashion, modernity contains a
flavor of the new, the progressive, of that which points into the future. Many
people think that the fact that something is modern at the present moment
bestows on it a value, completely independently of its qualitative content. It is
interesting that those who have this prejudice imagine that they are especially
free of prejudice. They want to be open, free of all ties to what is customary.
They want at all costs to avoid being old-fashioned and backward, and thus they
feel especially free and unprejudiced when they have sympathy with all that is
new and modern. Many are also afraid of being thought old-fashioned, and this
explains their enthusiasm for something that is new and modern. As in
Andersen’s fairytale of the emperor’s new clothes, their fear of being thought
stupid or backward leads to an increasingly obsessive enthusiasm for something.
There are thus various sources of the unobjective approach to a work of art
that favors its modernity.

Seeing a work of art too much in light of the period to which it belongs
At certain periods the style of an epoch possessed a high aesthetic value, but at
others an aesthetic disvalue. The sublimity of the period style in Athens in the
fifth century B.C. is well known; but the period style in the second century A.D.
is rather negative and dry, and finds expression above all in architecture,
sculpture, and painting, but is not so pronounced in literature. From the
perspective of artistic understanding, it is very important to apprehend the
aesthetic quality of the style of a period, and to distinguish clearly between its
value and its disvalue. The Baroque style in music possesses in itself a great
nobility. Curiously enough, the danger of an artistic gaffe is very slight in this
style. There are indeed weak and boring works, but never trivial, mean-spirited,
or disastrous works.
It is a great mistake to confuse the aesthetic value of an epoch with the
artistic value of an individual work of art or with the artistic greatness of a
master. This error contains a definite prejudice, which is sadly widespread today,
though it is of a much higher order than the prejudice mentioned above. It does
not indeed prevent one from understanding a work of art that comes from an
especially beloved period, but it makes one more or less blind to the great
masters of other epochs and is an obstacle to apprehending the true greatness of
the masters within the period whose style one so loves. This is why there is a
definite prejudice here, an illegitimate attitude to art, though on a different level
from the attitudes discussed above. The Baroque style in music is certainly the
bearer of a sublime nobility. But if one loves Handel, or even Johann Sebastian
Bach, only because of this “language,” one has failed to understand them. There
are many noble and important masters in this period, but also unimportant
composers. What Handel has to offer far transcends the nobility of the style of
this period. And one has understood nothing of Bach, this unique genius, if one
loves him only for the sake of something he shares with many of his
contemporaries, namely, the nobility of the “language” of the Baroque style. In
truth, he has much more in common with Mozart, Beethoven, and Wagner than
with any of his lesser contemporaries.
Finally, we must emphasize again that a distinction is to be drawn between a
kind of academic interest that studies the person of the artist and his life, the
influence that another artist had on him, or purely historical facts that concern
an artist (all of which are inherently important and worth knowing), on the one
hand, and the purely aesthetic interest, the apprehending of the beauty of a work
of art, on the other. Santayana is among those who noted this correctly.4 This
historical theme, which is inherently weighty and important, does not in the
least restrict or encumber the aesthetic impression, the understanding of a work
of art. But it is something different from the artistic value of the work. Some
people mistakenly believe that they come closer to the artistic value and
understand it better through the study of this academic theme. Doubtless, there
are ways of helping those who lack any vital access to an artistic genre, in order
that the beauty of a work of art, its true content, and its importance may be
revealed to them. But these paths do not lead via the study of purely historical
themes.
A completely different and much more refined perversion of the relationship
to beauty in nature and in art is found in the aesthete, as we have seen in volume
I of this work.5

1. On this, see The Nature of Love (South Bend, Ind.: St. Augustine’s Press, 2009), chap. 8.
2. See chap. 23 below.
3. See also chap. 21 below.
4. “If we approach a work of art or nature scientifically, for the sake of its historical connections or
proper classification, we do not approach it aesthetically. The discovery of its date or of its author may be
otherwise interesting; it only remotely affects our aesthetic appreciation” (The Sense of Beauty [1895], The
Modern Library [New York: Random House, 1955], part 1, 2, p. 25). Santayana correctly draws a
distinction between the academic and the aesthetic standpoint, but he employs this distinction in the service
of a false thesis. On this, see my Aesthetics, vol. 1, chap. 5.
5. See Aesthetics, vol. 1, introduction, chaps. 2 and 13.
 CHAPTER FOUR

The Combinations between the Different Arts

VARIOUS ARTISTIC GENRES can join to form a unified artistic impression. Indeed,
in some circumstances, they can form a “marriage” with each other. In one sense,
the deepest and most important combination is that between sound and word in
song, in opera, in musical drama, in an oratory, and in the liturgy, where they are
deeply interwoven. This union thus becomes the birthplace of completely new
artistic values, which neither music on its own nor literature on its own can
generate. The only marriage comparable to this is that between architecture and
nature,1 which, however, unlike the marriage between sound and word, is not a
union between two artistic genres.

The marriage between architecture and sculpture

In the union of architecture and sculpture, there is a collaboration between two
artistic genres that speak the same language, since both belong to the realm of
the visible. We shall speak in chapter 12 in detail about the possible kinds of this
union.
The collaboration between sound and word takes place through two different
“channels,” whereas the collaboration between architecture and sculpture
involves one and the same channel. As visual arts, they address the eye.
Like sound and word, architecture and sculpture work together in a variety of
forms. Some sculpture is completely subordinate to the architecture: in this case,
the statues and reliefs are decorative in nature. The sculpture abandons its full,
serious specific character and takes on the function of decorating the
architecture, enriching it with ornament. The sculpture can in itself possess
genuine artistic values, but what it primarily does is to contribute to the beauty of
the architecture.
“Decorative sculpture” covers a wide field with many subspecies. It includes
the cherubs in many churches, the statues on bridges (for example, Saint John
Nepomucene on many Baroque bridges), the sculptures on staircases and on the
roofs of palaces, statues of animals on gates (such as the two greyhounds on the
entrance gate to a palace in the Grünangergasse in Vienna), and many statues on
fountains (for example, the glorious Fountain of Trevi in Rome). However, these
often possess a complete value of their own as statues; indeed, they may be the
principal bearers of the artistic value of the fountain, of its beauty and poetry.
Examples are Giambologna’s Neptune in Bologna, or the statues of the Tortoise
Fountain in Rome.
We must draw a distinction between the collaboration between architecture
and decorative sculpture, on the one hand, and the marriage between
architecture and sculpture, on the other. In the latter case, the two arts are on the
same level in thematic terms. The sculpture speaks the full, serious word that is
its own, and works together with the architecture. This is exemplified in the
highest form in the Parthenon relief. Similarly, the groups of Medici tombs are
deeply united to the whole space in which they are situated, but the matchless
beauty of these statues is even more thematic than the architecture of the room.
The architecture helps to determine the unity of the statues.
This union is even more pronounced in the statues on the portals of medieval
cathedrals such as Chartres, Rheims, and Strasbourg. The beauty of the statues
as such unites with the beauty of the glorious architecture, and their
collaboration is a specific bearer of beauty. In this field, we can recognize various
kinds and levels of the combination of sculpture and architecture. The equestrian
statue in the cathedral of Bamberg works together with the architecture of the
cathedral and fits the architecture, although its placement in the church means
that it no longer demonstrates the same unity of sculpture and architecture that
we find in the figures on the portals in Chartres and Rheims.
The union between the two arts is even less intimate when the statue stands
in a niche. In the context of an appropriate architecture, a niche, which is often
by itself a bearer of aesthetic values, can possess sublime beauty, as in the niches
in the Hagia Sophia or (in a completely different manner) in Baalbek in
Lebanon. If a statue stands in a niche and is not of a decorative nature, however,
it becomes the main theme, and the niche forms its background.
A spatially looser union between architecture and sculpture comes about
when a figure or an equestrian statue stands in proximity to an important
architectonic structure, as when the statue presupposes the building as
background, or when the statue has some kind of necessary relationship to the
building. In that case, the statue possesses its own full value and has a great
artistic beauty even independently of the architecture; and at the same time, the
beauty of the palace or church is not dependent on the beautiful statue that
stands in its shadow, so to speak. However, this externally loose union can
become the bearer of a new artistic value. This working together intensifies both
the beauty of the statue, in one particular direction, and the beauty of the palace
or the church. Examples are Michelangelo’s David alongside the Palazzo
Vecchio in Florence, the equestrian figure of Saint Martin before the cathedral
of San Martino in Lucca, the equestrian statue of Colleoni in Venice in its
relationship to the church of San Zanipolo (Saints John and Paul); in a loose
sense the same can be said of the equestrian statue of Gattamelata in Padua on
the square before the basilica of San Antonio, the equestrian statue of the Great
Elector before the Residence in Berlin, and Adolf von Hildebrand’s equestrian
monument to Bismarck in Bremen.
A different union of architecture and sculpture is found in bronze doors on a
building that depict an entire story in relief, such as Ghiberti’s reliefs of Saint
John the Baptist on the doors of the baptistery of San Giovanni in Florence. The
first characteristic of these reliefs is the small size of what is depicted; they are in
a sense miniature sculptures. Secondly, they are a rarity in sculpture, since they
present a continuous history. The sacred matter is admirably suited to the doors
of a baptistery. In purely technical terms, these reliefs are almost like a
goldsmith’s work. Although in their own right a great work of art, they do not
work together with the architecture of the building. The scale is too different;
the relationship to the architecture is more ornamental, although the reliefs are a
work of art that stands completely on its own feet and bears high artistic values.
There is a touching superabundance in this very specific type of union
between architecture and sculpture. Although the function of the doors as a part
of the architecture is modest, they are a great work of art in their own right, born
of the religious spirit for which great artistic richness even for every single detail
is not too much. Indeed, for such a spirit nothing is good enough for the
decoration of a house of God.

Mosaics and frescos in union with architecture

Although architecture unites less closely, on the whole, with painting than with
sculpture, there is an important and deep working together between these two as
well. If we consider the mosaic as a form of painting, we find here the realization
of the most intimate union between painting and architecture. Naturally, we
have in mind the mosaic that has an imitative character, that is, the mosaic that
depicts human beings, animals, plants, and other elements of nature.
 In second place there is the fresco, which can unite with architecture in a
wonderful manner if the painting appears in the fullness of its own dignity and
the fresco is in itself the bearer of sublime artistic values. Examples are
Masaccio’s frescos in the Brancacci Chapel in the church of Santa Maria del
Carmine in Florence, Raphael’s Liberation of Saint Peter in the Vatican stanze,
the great Crucifixion by Fra Angelico in the chapter room of San Marco in
Florence, and the frescos in the Sistine Chapel, especially those by
Michelangelo.
Architecture as a whole can be by itself a bearer of great beauty. In that case
the working together with the fresco is an additional bearer of a new artistic
value. This union is slightly less intimate than that between mosaic and
architecture, and still less intimate than that of the closest collaboration, namely,
the one between architecture and sculpture. With the fresco there is a wide
spectrum of collaboration. Often the fresco is the principal theme, while the
architecture provides the ideal framework; in such an instance, the beauty of the
fresco surpasses that of the architecture, which tends instead to have an ancillary
function, although it remains an important background. If frescos are removed
from their architectonic framework, as happened, for example, with the
Botticelli frescos in the Louvre, they do indeed remain bearers of great beauty,
but one misses the architectonic framework.
Often the architecture is no mere framework, but also as such possesses great
beauty. In that case, there can be a similar thematicity of both arts, indeed an
equivalent beauty, to which the beauty of the union is added as something new;
we see this, for example, in the glorious fresco of Cimabue in the matchless
Lower Basilica of San Francesco in Assisi.
Architecture collaborates to a much lesser extent with pictures. It is possible
for them to belong together in an ideal fashion, but if the picture is a great work
of art, it is always the principal theme, and the room or hall in which it hangs is
naturally only the framework. It is, however, possible for the atmosphere of the
interior space to be formed very deeply by the pictures that are in it, so that this
atmosphere as such becomes much more beautiful. The greatest works of art in
the genre of painting are not suitable for this enhancement of atmosphere, such
as Titian’s Charles V on Horseback in the Prado or his Young Englishman with the
blue eyes in the Palazzo Pitti, Giorgione’s Tempest, Rembrandt’s Jewish Bride in
the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam, or the Fall of Icarus by Pieter Bruegel the Elder
in Brussels. The intimate union between picture and interior space can be found
in a great number of genuinely significant pictures.
 The union is completely different when it is unquestionably the architecture
that is the principal theme and the paintings have a more ancillary, decorative
character, like the ancestral portraits in castles.
The most intimate union, however, apart from that between sound and
word, is between architecture and nature. This is not indeed a working together
between two artistic genres, but an artistic working together comes about. Both
of these, nature and architecture, are situated in the realm of the visible and thus
speak the same language, as it were.
There is also a deep relatedness between nature and architecture because they
belong to the realm of the real world that surrounds us and are not imitative.
The uniting of nature and architecture can lead to the birth of a new and wholly
unique beauty that is added to the beauty that each possesses on its own.

Architecture as the framework for other arts

All the arts, including literature and music, presuppose the human space that is
created by architecture, but their relationship to architecture is not comparable to
the relationship that exists between architecture and sculpture or painting.
With literature and music the task of the framework is in general much more
formal. Music is not enhanced in its beauty when performed in a beautiful room,
nor does the room appear more beautiful in virtue of the fact that the most
glorious music resounds in it. The same applies to literature with respect to
human space. The space is necessary, but really only as a framework. It works
together with music or literature in such a way as to add no new beauty to the
beauty that each possesses on its own.
This loose connection is found most of all in the theater. First of all, we have
the stage. The scenery is a piece of architecture, though only in a remote sense.
The work of the set designer is wholly unique and cannot be compared to that of
an architect. Although the stage set is basically a reproduction of nature of a
special kind, it also contains architectonic elements in the design of the open
space or of the interior space in which the play takes place.
The stage set is not only the framework in which something happens; it is
also drawn into the illusionary “reality” of the play. This is why its beauty, and
above all its suitability, contributes to the full realization of the drama or opera,
to the realization that constitutes its performance. A tasteless production can
severely impair the enjoyment of the drama or opera. Above all, a prosaic
production, for example, a performance of Shakespeare’s dramas in modern
clothes and with modern scenery, changes the atmosphere in such a way that it is
impossible to enjoy the presentation. Although the drama does not lose its
beauty, its performance is utterly spoiled. Bad actors can “butcher” a
performance; and the same thing happens here.
The stage, the production, the scenery, etc., have a much greater importance
in a negative than in a positive sense. The prosaic, dull stage can gravely impair
the performance; but the suitable, tasteful stage has rather the function of letting
the drama or opera make its impact unhindered. Such a stage is itself an
important bearer of beauty, but the union with the play possesses no new value.
It possesses the value of the good, suitable performance, and this value is
important enough.
The interior of the theater as a whole is a fully valid, genuine architecture.
Some theaters are delightful architectural structures, such as Palladio’s theater in
Vicenza, the Cuvilliés Theater in Munich, and the Margravial Opera House in
Bayreuth. The interior of the theater is something purely architectonic and thus
cannot be compared to the changing production on the stage.
These architectures have a great artistic value. They are bearers of a festive
beauty, a poetry of their own, and an elevated charm. But unlike the design of
the stage, they do not unite with the work of art that is performed. They belong
to the authentic reality in which we move, not to the illusionary world of the
stage. The performance is not better and more suitable in a beautiful theater. We
enjoy such a theater independently of the play that is performed. The various
stages of reality do not flow into one another: on the one hand, the theater in
which we are sitting as real persons, perhaps in the company of people whom we
love, or in which we meet someone whom we know and have not seen for a long
time, and on the other hand, the illusionary reality of Romeo, Hamlet, Don
Giovanni, or Fidelio. Indeed, they collaborate less closely than does a beautiful
room with the string quartet that is performed in it. In the latter case, we remain
in one and the same reality, no matter how loose the union may be; here there
are not two realities.
Nevertheless, the architectonically beautiful theater also creates a framework
in an analogous sense. The atmosphere of a Rococo theater can naturally be well
suited to a play by Molière and to a Mozart opera. By chance, perhaps, a drama
or an opera is performed that harmonizes well with the atmosphere of the
architecture of the theater; even then, however, all one can say is that with regard
to the enjoyment of the work this is subjectively a gratifying factor.
Apart from this accidental match, the architectonic beauty of a theater can
scarcely contribute anything to the beauty of the drama or opera. They remain
two separate sources of beauty. An architectonically ugly, prosaic, or tasteless
theater can be disturbing in its own right, but when a performance is fully
successful, the theater scarcely restricts the enjoyment of the drama or opera.

Architecture and sculpture represented in painting

It is clear that there is a radical difference between the union of a picture with
the object it reproduces and the working together of various artistic genres, as
well as the working together of architecture and nature. The pictures that
represent architecture, such as those by Canaletto and Guardi, do not in the least
involve a working together of two artistic genres. Certainly the beauty of this
architecture is important here, but just like any other object that is depicted, it
must pass through the artistic transposition in order to become the bearer of the
artistic values of a picture. The architecture is a depicted object, not a factor that
works together with the picture, as when the architecture forms the framework
for a fresco. The influence of its beauty on the picture is analogous to the
influence of the beauty of a landscape on the beauty of a picture that represents
this definite, concrete, real landscape.
The same is true of pictures that have sculptures as their object. Some
pictures reproduce public squares with monuments, and here too there is no
working together of sculpture and painting. We remain exclusively in the world
of painting. What we see is a picture in which all the translations are present:
first, the non-artistic formal reproduction, the move from three dimensions to
two dimensions, and then the artistic transposition. The functions of nature,
architecture, and sculpture as depicted objects of a picture are exactly the same.
They are elements of the structure that is created in the composition of the
picture, and they must likewise pass through the artistic transposition. The
architecture or sculpture no longer speaks its own language as a work of art; it is
only the picture that speaks. The only language we hear is that of the painting.
Before concluding, let us just add that there is no kind of artistic working
together of sculpture or painting and music, but there are certain forms of
working together between literature and paintings or drawings. These, however,
are relatively peripheral and cannot be compared to the relationship between
architecture and sculpture or between architecture and painting and even less can
they be compared to the relationship between sound and word.
What we have in mind are drawings and pictures that function as the
illustrations of a novel. We shall speak in detail of illustrations later on; here we
mention them only as a completely different form of the union between various
artistic genres. Apart from specific exceptions, however, this form of union has
no essential importance in artistic terms.

1. See chap. 12.

 CHAPTER FIVE

The Claim Made by a Work of Art to Greatness and

Depth

IN ALL THE ARTS, and especially in the imitative arts, the frame of reference
[Rahmen] in which the work is located and toward which it aims is very
important for its value. If the work envisages a standard of greatness, depth, and
format that it is incapable of attaining, this is a mistake.
Eichendorff’s From the Life of a Good-for-Nothing is a masterpiece. But if
Eichendorff had envisaged the frame of reference of greatness and depth,
strength and power, in which Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment is situated,
and had chosen a story corresponding to this aim, the work would be a failure.
This is an important aesthetic problem for the artist: he must keep to the frame
of reference that he can fully realize. What we have in mind here is not so much
his subjective intention, as the intention that is contained in the work itself and
that demands a certain standard.
In literature, the intention is largely determined by the story. In sculpture
and painting, the frame of reference is the product of two very different factors.
First of all, the choice of the object to be depicted influences the scale. A still life
aims at a more modest frame of reference than a picture with a landscape and
figures. Secondly, a spiritual theme demands a certain depth, greatness, and
power. Above all, religious themes such as the baptism of Christ, the Last
Supper, the Crucifixion, the taking down from the Cross, and the Resurrection
make great inherent demands of the artistic depth and greatness. The power that
is sufficient for an object such as the landscape in a picture by Claude Lorrain
does not suffice for a religious object. The work then bears in itself an inner
antithesis between the spiritual theme and the artistic depth, power, and
greatness. It is oversized [überdimensioniert] in the true sense of the word and
appears hollow and weak.
Does this claim made by the spiritual theme exist only in religious objects, or
indeed perhaps only in depictions from the life of Christ, or maybe the Mother
of God and the apostles as well? At any rate, it is surely highly doubtful whether
such a claim is made by the mythological theme of Aphrodite, Pallas Athena,
Apollo, or Zeus. The title of a picture does not in any way involve a spiritual
theme. A painting may depict the battle of the Catalaun Fields, Constantine’s
victory at the Milvian Bridge, or Scipio’s victory at Zama; but the only demands
this makes of artistic depth and greatness are those made by a battle in general,
as compared with the demands made by a group of figures in a meadow or by a
still life. Here we have only the first type of demands.
A disproportion between the frame of reference to which the work of art lays
claim because of its object and in some cases also because of its spiritual theme,
on the one hand, and the de facto artistic realization, on the other, is a definite
artistic flaw.
We must distinguish this “oversizing” from the tension that arises when an
artist aims at great depth but does not attain it in the work as a whole. There are
some artists who tragically never attain their artistic goals. They are always
dissatisfied with what they have attained, and often destroy their own work
because it does not correspond to the goal they intended. Examples of such
artists, who were in themselves great artists, are the German playwright and
short story author Heinrich von Kleist, the German painter Hans von Marées,
and in some ways the French composer Hector Berlioz.
The intention that aims at genuine depth is as such something artistically
great. It does not betray any disproportionate claim, but rather a genuine artistic
striving for depth and greatness. When this is attained only in some places (as
with Berlioz), this is certainly a defect, a regrettable artistic failure. But although
one wishes that the oversizing and its lack of wisdom had been avoided, one
cannot wish that the artist had not had these high aspirations.
Naturally, the works of Berlioz, Marées, and Kleist are very different in this
sense. Although many of Berlioz’s works completely fulfill in one or many
passages the greatness and depth at which he aims, many other passages of the
very same works are relatively weak. In the opera The Trojans, we have the
outstanding aria of Hylas and the powerful duet between Aeneas and Dido; in
the symphonic work Romeo and Juliet, we have the deep, wonderful adagio; in
L’Enfance du Christ, there is the outstanding aria of Joseph, and in the opera
Benvenuto Cellini the brilliant carnival in Rome. The Damnation of Faust has
several glorious passages. But all these works contain a large number of relatively
nondescript passages. The tension between what the composer aims at and its
realization is manifested in the fact that the great and noble aspiration is realized
only in certain passages, while most of the work does not in the least do justice
to this aspiration. The high standard cannot be maintained in the work as a
whole. On the other hand, the opera Béatrice et Bénédict is more modest, but
every note is exactly right, and the work as a whole is a precious masterpiece.
In Marées the tension between aspiration and realization found expression in
the fact that he was usually dissatisfied with his work and painted over his most
beautiful pictures; these were discovered only many years after his death, when
the overpainting was removed. Another manifestation of this tension was the
fact that he seldom completely finished a work, often avoiding putting the last
touches to it.
Kleist too was never satisfied because of the tension between what he aimed
at and its realization, but this sometimes led him onto false paths, for example,
in his Hermannsschlacht.
A sketch does not involve this tension. It does not claim to be a finished
work of art. One does not regret the absence of the finished work, but enjoys its
beauty as a sketch. It can bear the same kinds of artistic values as the finished
work: it can be poetic or grandiose, full of power and very deep.
Naturally, a sketch does not possess the value of full perfection in every
detail. It does not have the specific value of a masterpiece. It does not provoke
any tension, because it does not lay claim to anything that it fails to fulfill, and it
does not aim at something it cannot reach. In a sketch the artist consciously
renounces the completion of the fully finished work. A sketch fulfills what it
intends to give. As a sketch it only points to the possibility of a finished work. It
has a special charm of its own. The intentional omission of the finished work
and its value is not an artistic mistake, but only the mere absence of the value of
the fully finished work.
Finally, it is possible that, although a work as a whole may not be perfected
and fully finished in every detail, it may nevertheless possess a great depth and
beauty and may in some of its elements become supremely beautiful. The result
is rather like an unfinished work. This is clearly not the case when a great depth
is intended but is realized only in some passages (as in many works by Berlioz).
A comparison between Shakespeare’s Hamlet and Cymbeline shows an
ultimate perfection in Hamlet. Every word in this drama is like a sharpened
sword, every sentence is profoundly important, full of meanings that point in
many directions; everything has an ultimate inner necessity. In Cymbeline,
however, not every word “sits” in this way; some things are unfinished and are
much less convincing. And yet the figure of Imogen is perhaps the greatest of all
the inimitable women in Shakespeare’s dramas, possessing an ultimate greatness
and poetry. Naturally, one cannot compare Cymbeline to King Lear, Macbeth,
Romeo and Juliet, or Othello. It lacks some high artistic values and the consistent
perfection that (with few exceptions) characterize all the dramas, comedies,
plays, and tragedies of Shakespeare. But I mention Cymbeline as a work that is
not a sketch. Nor is it a work in which greatness and depth of aspiration are
fulfilled only in some passages. There is no tension in Cymbeline between the
frame of reference and the greatness and depth of the artistic aspiration. It
contains many glorious scenes, and no passages that lack fulfillment. It may not
be a masterpiece, but it is a great, deep work that simply has not been worked
through down to the last detail.
Architecture
 CHAPTER SIX

Architecture in General

ARCHITECTURE OCCUPIES a unique position in art. Unlike the other arts, it does
not have only one theme, namely, beauty. Like nature, it has two themes. Its first
theme, the practical theme, is the creation of a dwelling place that protects the
human being against bad weather, etc., for the whole of his private life. This
practical theme extends further to the creation of places for public life and divine
worship.
The second theme of architecture is the beauty of the outside of buildings
and of the inner rooms. The fact that architecture has two themes, a practical
and an artistic theme, gives it a unique place among the arts.
Unlike all the other arts, the architectural works of art (residential homes,
palaces, churches, etc.) belong to the same reality as we ourselves and the nature
that surrounds us, for example, rocks, trees, and animals. Architecture is a part of
the real world in which we move. Unlike all the other arts, it is not a world of its
own. In the case of architecture, we do not enquire about the specific kind of
reality, as we do with a literary work, a piece of music, an opera, a painting, a
relief, or a statue. It belongs to the sphere of reality in which our life takes place,
that is, to the reality of the external world that surrounds us.
Another characteristic of architecture is its polarity of outer and inner: first,
the external architecture, the face of a building; and secondly, the internal
architecture, the face of the internal rooms in which we find ourselves, whether a
hall, a small room, a large room, or the interior of a church. The other arts lack
this polarity.
Finally, architecture has the basic function of creating human space, and
thereby creating a presupposition for all the other arts. Dr. Anton Bergmann
wrote very beautifully about the primal phenomenon of human space.1
Much could be said about the exceptional importance of space in nature.
What we have in mind, of course, is not the statements of natural scientists
about space in nature, or even a purely philosophical analysis of space. We are
thinking of space in its primal significance for our life, of the beauty of three-
dimensional space as such, of the phenomenon of being encompassed by it, of
the splendor that a wide vista can have, of the grandeur of the sky that arches
above our heads.

The practical and spiritual significance of human space

Human space, in the sense of the term “human” that we are applying here to
architectural space, is self-contained. It separates us from the vast, unlimited
space in nature. It encompasses us and protects us in a special way. This human
space is the interior space of architecture, which has qualities that differ from
those of free space in nature.
The feeling of space in this human space (which is different from the
absolute space of geometry) is an experience all its own. The delight that one
experiences in walking around in the noble space of a beautiful church is a
unique experience. It is incredible what great and ample beauty an enclosed
space can possess as such. Examples are the interiors of Hagia Sophia or of San
Marco in Venice, or the interiors of Santa Croce in Florence, of Sant’Ambrogio
in Milan, or of the cathedral in Chartres. We are surprised by the aesthetic
values that the human space is capable of displaying. It can, as such, possess not
only a distinguished breadth and greatness, and a stirring nobility, but also the
beauty of a delightful intimacy.
Through its human space architecture also creates the basis for the unfolding
of the other arts, as Bernhard Sattler has very aptly noted.2 Through the creation
of its human space interior architecture is not only a basis for sculpture, but
stands in a close mutual relationship with it. This also applies to exterior
architecture, as Bernhard Sattler observed: “The architecture is then
complemented by sculpture, for which the architecture creates the substructure,
the pedestal, the background, and the framing.”3
Painting too presupposes architecture for the walls that it requires, for the
correct light, and many other factors. This applies both to frescos and to
paintings on a canvas or a wooden tablet. Bergmann rightly says that one cannot
hang up pictures in a primeval forest. Pictures necessarily presuppose human
space. Even the performance of music, that is to say, its full realization, demands
a corresponding space if only for acoustical reasons, whether it be the intimate
space in a house for chamber music, a hall for concerts, or the theater for operas
and musical dramas.
The relationship is at its loosest between literature and architecture, with the
exception of dramas. It is of course possible to read a poem or a novel even in the
open air. Even the great tragedies were not performed in an enclosed space in
classical antiquity, but under the open sky. However, the construction of the
classical theater is a tremendous architectural achievement, an emphatically
architectural space that is called for by the performance of the drama. The stage
is a self-contained world, and the theaters of antiquity also display a great
architectural beauty.
The relationship that architecture has to music and literature is naturally very
different from the relationship to the visual arts of sculpture and painting. One
must not exaggerate the extent to which architecture is presupposed in each
individual instance. One can give concerts in a loggia and even in a garden; but
music and literature are at home in human space, and they come fully into their
own in a cultural world, indeed, in a world that is formed by architecture.4

The first theme of architecture: its twofold purpose

The “practical” theme in architecture refers first of all to the real purpose that is
in one sense the raison d’être of the construction of a building. The second theme
is beauty. Although beauty is fully thematic in architecture, it must never be the
exclusive theme. The architecture must also have a purpose, namely, a real
theme. Within the real theme or purpose, we must distinguish two types, a
purely practical and a spiritual purpose.
We have already pointed to the first purpose: the protection of the human
person, providing him with a shelter in which his daily life takes place. Here we
have in mind first of all the space required for external life. This applies to the
simplest houses that often consist of one single room, as well as to those houses
in which specific rooms are available for all the activities of life. Like all the
objects of civilization, the practical theme can be developed and perfected from
many different perspectives, such as hygiene, comfort, heating, or cooling. In the
same way a factory has a purely practical, civilizational purpose that can be
improved in various ways, such as rapid ventilation or a sufficient number of
exits, especially for emergency situations like explosions and fires. One of these
practical considerations is economy of space. Railway stations, airports, banks,
administrative buildings, schools, and shops of every kind likewise have a purely
practical purpose.
Nevertheless, the same buildings can simultaneously serve a spiritual purpose.
For example, a residential home is not a mere shelter over a human being’s head.
It contains not only rooms in which one sleeps, cooks, eats, and so on, but also
rooms in which one lives with one’s family, in which many cultural events take
place, in which the human being thinks, has conversations with other people,
reads beautiful books, has profound experiences; in short, rooms in which he
spends a great part of his truly human, affective, and intellectual life.
A residential home is also meant to serve this cultural or spiritual purpose,
which is not so indispensable but is nevertheless something much higher. The
home should be structured in such a way that it takes account of the demands
made by these higher purposes. The question whether a space is structured in
such a way that it provides an adequate setting for the life of a human being as a
spiritual person is very important within the real theme of architecture. The
practical and spiritual requirements vary in kind, and the realization of the one
does not guarantee the realization of the other.
Many buildings primarily serve a purely spiritual purpose. This is true above
all of churches. It is indeed true that some technical requirements exist here too:
lighting, a good acoustic, ensuring safety in emergencies, etc. But it is clear that
these are completely subordinate considerations. The unequivocal purpose is the
creation of a space for divine worship with a sacred atmosphere that helps us to
recollect ourselves and fills us with reverence.
Profane buildings with a cultural purpose are theaters, concert halls and
ceremonial halls, galleries, museums, etc. In all these buildings, the technical
requirements are merely something that is unavoidable on the practical level.
They do not belong to the purpose for which the building is erected.
On the other hand, their artistic beauty is always fully thematic, unlike a
philosophical work such as a dialogue by Plato, where the great beauty is not
thematic. One would misunderstand one of his dialogues and fail to do justice to
it if one regarded the beauty of its style as thematic; for its theme is truth, and its
beauty is primarily the metaphysical beauty of truth. The beauty of the style
consists first and foremost in being the adequate form for the great truth-content
of the work. This applies all the more to the Confessions of Saint Augustine, and
in a unique manner to sacred scripture. These writings have only one theme, and
their beauty is the emanation of the truth or of revelation, the emanation of the
holy. Architecture and nature possess two equal themes. Since one of these is
beauty, it is completely appropriate, and indeed necessary, to experience their
beauty as fully thematic and to be filled by its great seriousness and its profound
utterance when we look at architecture and nature.
In the case of the purely practical requirements and purposes, it is especially
important to bear in mind that until the beginning of the nineteenth century and
the triumph of the machine, culture had not yet been strangled by civilization.
The expression of the spirit, the gift of giving form in such a way that was not
practically indispensable, penetrated all the practical spheres of life up to that
time. A knife should not only cut well; it should also possess a noble form. A
chair should not only be comfortable and solid; it should also be beautiful, in fact
it should sooner be a little less comfortable than be sober and prosaic. Practical
life as a whole possessed an organic character and was therefore united to a
special poetry of life.5 Related to this was the penetration of life by culture.
But as the practical life of the human being was robbed of its organic
character and was mechanized and thereby depersonalized, so too the poetry of
practical life was lost. The practical requirements in residential homes became a
prosaic matter that was radically detached from the affective and intellectual life
that we lead as persons. Railway stations, factories, airports, filling stations, and
department stores were built to serve technical, neutral purposes. Cities like
Phoenix and Tucson in Arizona largely consist only of such buildings, which are
completely separated from the residential homes. In all these buildings, it is clear
that there is no link between practical requirements and the spiritual
requirements of the human being. The latter are neutralized in such a way that
they no longer offer any artistic stimulus for the architectural shaping of these
buildings and rooms. The building itself becomes an object of technology.
Many architectural tasks have disappeared as a result of the mechanization
and depoeticization of practical life that go hand in hand with the triumph of the
machine. The buildings for watering horses and the pools in small towns where
women did their washing are no longer needed today. It suffices to recall the
Porta delle Fonti in San Gimignano, with its architecture and its setting, to see
the architectural expression of the poetry of life that existed in this activity. It is
obvious that this development has far-reaching consequences for architecture.
Buildings where the poetry of life unfolds alongside their practical purpose
clearly make very different demands on architectural design than buildings with
a completely neutral, lifeless, practical purpose.
The relationship between the two purposes is important for all buildings that
have both a practical and a spiritual purpose. In residential homes that serve
more or less the whole of human life, practical requirements are also completely
thematic. Although the spiritual requirements are higher and ultimately more
important, the practical requirements belong likewise to the raison d’être of this
kind of building. In one sense, indeed, they are in fact more urgent and more
indispensable.
 The situation is completely different in those buildings that clearly have a
purely spiritual purpose but, like everything on earth, must also fulfill certain
practical requirements thanks to our nature as human beings who consist of body
and soul. This can be seen most clearly in the case of churches. Their purpose is
not only spiritual, but religious and supernatural. Divine worship is celebrated in
them, and the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass is offered. Nevertheless, one must do
justice to certain practical requirements. For example, the ventilation must be as
good as possible, and there must be a sufficient number of exits in case of fire.
These practical requirements do not belong to the purpose and are not the
reason why the church is built. They are only general presuppositions for every
building in which a large number of people come together. However, some
general presuppositions or perspectives lie closer to the special theme of a
building, for example, the requirement that as far as possible, everyone in the
audience in a theater should have a clear view of the stage.

The second theme of architecture: artistic beauty

The artistic beauty of buildings depends on very definite means: forms,
proportions, material, color, and many other factors. Our special task here is to
look at these in detail, but we wish to emphasize explicitly that it is not our
intention to indicate rules for the application of these means, rules that would
guarantee the artistic value of a building if they were observed. That is not the
task of aesthetics, where the situation is completely different from that in logic
and in ethics. In logic Aristotle established rules for the syllogism, and a flawless
conclusion is guaranteed if these are observed. In ethics one can lay down norms
that guarantee the moral value of an action. This is not possible in aesthetics.
The beauty of a building, of a picture, of a statue, of a poem, or of a melody
is grounded in the special inspiration of the artist. He is entrusted with a mystery
that cannot be formulated in a norm in such a way that the artist’s only task
would be to fulfill that norm. The attempt has often been made to establish rules
of this kind for beauty, such as the theory of the “goldenen Schnitt,” but these
have an alarming resemblance to the philosopher’s stone.
It may perhaps be possible to formulate some reasons for the aesthetic
disvalue of a building. The failure to fulfill certain conditions may impair a work
of art. But the avoidance of these mistakes does not guarantee artistic beauty.6
When we emphasize that fulfilling the requirements of the purely practical
theme certainly does not guarantee the artistic beauty of a building and that
completely different factors determine its artistic value, we are not thinking of
norms and rules, but of those factors that are available to the artist. But the
correct application of these factors remains a fruit of the artist’s inspiration.
It is sometimes asserted that a building is beautiful if it does full justice to the
concrete reality that it serves and if it fulfills all the requirements that are
demanded by this theme or are indispensable if this theme is to be realized.
Those who make such a claim usually have purely practical purposes in mind and
affirm that the value of a building depends on how perfect it is in achieving this
practical purpose. This theory reduces architecture to a mere object of
civilization. At the same time, however, it maintains that civilizational perfection
also grounds the artistic beauty. This functionalism, which found its chief
representative in Le Corbusier,7 is mistaken on many counts.
The artistic beauty of a building is not in the least a consequence of its
perfect functionality. Principles of a purely artistic kind are decisive for the
aesthetic value of a building. What beauty an arch can possess, or a tower in its
form and color, such as the Campanile of the cathedral in Florence or the tower
of San Marco in Venice! What could it mean to say that the unique beauty of
the cupola of Santa Maria del Fiore in Florence is based on the perfect
fulfillment of its practical purpose? All we wish to do here is to point out the
absurdity of this theory, which confuses artistic beauty with purely technical
perfection and reduces the various expressive possibilities of architecture—this
world of greatness and beauty—to mere functionality, asserting that the aesthetic
value of a building is determined by its functionality.

Practical reality and artistic beauty

Practicality makes certain demands of every building. A house must have walls,
roof, doors, windows, etc., and the same is true by analogy of those buildings
that have a primarily spiritual purpose.
The practical, real theme influences the architectural design, since it dictates
the use of certain forms that are already available to the architect; he does not
himself invent them. He must indeed give these forms a shape from a completely
new artistic perspective, but they cannot simply be replaced by other forms.
We cannot emphasize strongly enough that the fulfillment of these practical
requirements has no influence on the second main theme, namely, beauty, or the
artistic theme. Even if all the practical requirements are satisfied with the
greatest perfection, the building can be deadly, ugly, or boring.
As long as we are speaking of the perfection of purely practical purposes,
there is a very loose connection with artistic beauty. From the perspective of the
practical requirements of daily life, a farmhouse in Tuscany that is very beautiful
thanks to its noble proportions, the material employed, its color, the visible
nobility and the poetry of its inner spaces, is certainly not the perfect solution. It
is not built in such a way that it facilitates all the practical functions of everyday
life, nor is it ideal from a hygienic point of view.
On the other hand, a modern building that fulfills all the practical
requirements and is perfect with respect to civilization is usually a wretched
construction from the artistic point of view. It almost always radiates an
anonymous barrenness, a depressing prosaic character. It is true that it does not
possess the triviality and pseudo-beauty of many houses from the second half of
the nineteenth century, which are tasteless imitations of gothic architecture. But
its absolute barrenness, anonymity, and soullessness, and the lack of any charm
whatever, form an antithesis to artistic beauty that is just as great as the trivial.
If a building serves spiritual purposes, there exists a deep connection between
its real theme and its artistic beauty. This is presupposed for the sake of doing
justice to the spiritual purpose. The design of the building must also do justice to
the genius of the spiritual purpose. A church should have a specifically sacred
character. It is not enough for it to be a beautiful hall that presents the external
aspect of a splendid palace. An essential element of the artistic value of a church
is the atmosphere of the sacred, of consecration, of greatness, and of seriousness,
all achieved by means of artistic factors. In this case it is certainly correct to hold
that the artistic beauty cannot be detached from the real spiritual theme of the
church and that in addition to general artistic conditions, the special character of
the house of God must also be realized—but with artistic means.
In the case of a church, it is also meaningless to say: “Satisfy the
requirements of the real spiritual theme, and then it is also artistically valuable.”
This is because if one is to do justice to this theme, one must do so by means of
artistic beauty. The general architectural beauty is presupposed; but we also need
the artistic means by which the specifically sacred theme is realized. In the case
of a church the assertion “Satisfy the requirements of the real theme, and then
the building is beautiful” would entail a vicious circle, because the real spiritual
requirements are fulfilled only through the general artistic beauty and through
the special artistic creation of the sacred atmosphere. It is only by means of
artistic factors that a building can realize the true character of a church. The
extent to which the artist himself is aware of this has no importance. He may be
thinking only of the sacred theme and may wish to serve this theme alone, but if
he is a true master builder and truly intends the church to be a sacred space, he
will instinctively employ those artistic means that alone are able to realize this
goal.
Where the spiritual purpose is much more indirectly linked to buildings than
is the case with a church—for example, in a theater or a concert hall—its beauty
is more independent of its spiritual purpose and is conditioned more strongly by
the general bearers of beauty in architecture. Naturally, the beauty of a theater
such as the theater of classical antiquity or the Teatro Olimpico of Palladio in
Vicenza or the Cuvilliés Theater in the Residence in Munich implies a task
completely different from the beauty of a residential house or a palace. A theater
necessarily presents an appearance different from a ceremonial hall, thanks to the
presence of many seats in one room, the box seats, the graduated staircases, etc.
The practical purpose that as many visitors as possible should be able to see and
hear what is happening on the stage dictates many tasks from the very outset.
But the beauty depends not on the immanent technical perfection with which
these tasks are fulfilled, but on purely architectural factors. The expression of
festivity that is essential to a theater must be realized. This requirement of the
spiritual theme can be achieved only by means of artistic factors.
In the case of a residential house the perfect execution of the purely practical
living conditions certainly does not guarantee that it will possess artistic value,
since a residence should not only serve practical needs. Rather, its real theme
entails being a worthy place for our intellectual and affective life: in a word, for
our life as human beings. And this can be achieved only through the artistic
beauty that elevates and nourishes the spirit. Architectural beauty also elevates
the whole of our practical life and fills it with the poetry of life. But a residence
must not only be architecturally successful in general terms and beautiful. It must
also possess a tone that accords with the lifestyle of the person in question, from
a simple, beautiful building to a palace.
In those buildings that serve purely practical purposes, in which the practical
activities have been robbed of their poetry, buildings that are mechanized and
depersonalized, technical perfection and pure functionality have nothing to do
with artistic beauty. Railway stations and factories do not offer any artistic
stimulus in their real theme. At most they can be built in such a way that they do
not have an artistically negative effect. It is a very stupid argument to say that
railway stations were uglier in the past because they were built not like railway
stations, but like castles. Their ugliness and tastelessness were not based on the
discrepancy between the purely pragmatic purpose of a railway station and the
technical atmosphere of what went on there, on the one hand, and the castlelike
architecture, on the other. The castles that were built at that period display the
same tastelessness, which is a consequence of purely artistic, architectural
mistakes.
The discrepancy between a purely technical purpose and an architecture that
is suitable to a castle is certainly a mistake, but this mistake is not what makes
the building tasteless. Rather it is impossible to erect a beautiful building that
corresponds to the sober, neutralized atmosphere of a railway station. If one
wishes to achieve congruence between the practical purpose and the architectural
character, then the building can at best avoid being ugly. But it is not desirable
that it should emanate a completely neutral atmosphere. Independently of its
purpose it can have something monumental and noble, thanks to architectural
factors alone. In any case, such a modest architectural value raises it above
something that just emanates the world of a railway station.
This is even truer of factories and department stores. What happens in a
railway station still has a relatively large amount of the poetry of life. How many
great moments of human life take place there: the delight at reunion with
someone, the painful farewell, the joyful expectancy at the start of a beautiful
journey, the joy at arriving in a beautiful place that one does not know or that
one longs to see again! Tolstoy has a fascinating description in his novel Anna
Karenina of the atmosphere of a railway station and of a train traveling from
Moscow to Petersburg.
In the past locomotives had a certain charm. The very act of traveling
through many different regions, the whistling of the train and the echo from the
mountains had a certain poetry of life. This is lacking in a factory, a filling
station, or a department store, where the neutral, depersonalized rhythm of life is
much stronger. It is foolish to make an ideal of constructing buildings that
emanate this barrenness and that therefore are an expression that corresponds to
the purpose of the buildings. It is much more important that these buildings
should still emanate a certain architectural nobility and should not have a
negative impact on the city in its architectural beauty. It is absurd to believe that
it is untruthful when such a building, instead of emanating this barrenness,
possesses beauty (no doubt, a very modest beauty) simply on the basis of its form
and proportions, its materials and its color.
One regrets most profoundly that the beautiful palace of the Fabrica de
Tabacos in Seville now serves a commercial purpose; but it does not cease to be
beautiful, since as an expression it does not correspond to what is now its
practical purpose. It would certainly be inappropriate to erect such a building
explicitly for a factory. And yet this example shows how independent
architectural beauty is of congruence with the purely practical purpose. In the
case of buildings that are newly erected for such purposes, one should not aim at
an expression that corresponds to a completely different purpose; nor should one
aim at a barren atmosphere that is appropriate to the purely neutral, depoeticized
purpose. A modest, simple, but noble architecture is appropriate here, an
architecture that in its expression and its atmosphere does justice to the fact that
human beings work in these buildings: human beings who are destined
objectively for a rich interpersonal and non-mechanized world full of the poetry
of human life.

The dimension of reality in architecture

We began by pointing out that architecture is clearly distinct from all the other
arts in virtue of the fact that it belongs to the concrete world that surrounds us
and to the full reality in which we live and move, whereas all the other arts are a
world of their own and have their own kind of existence.
This very important element makes possible the close link between
architecture and nature, a “marriage” analogous to the one formed by sound and
word. At the same time, it has a dimension of delightfulness that the other arts
lack. We see this clearly when we walk through a city like Florence or Siena, or
stand in the Piazza San Marco in Venice. The splendor, the nobility, the
genuineness of the Palazzo Vecchio or of Orsanmichele in Florence shines forth
from structures that are real, just as real as the hills of Fiesole and Monte
Morello. They are parts of the world that really surrounds us and in which we
live. This fact has an extraordinary ability to delight us. It signifies a new
dimension of contact with this beauty. When we look at the church of San
Marco and the Palace of the Doges, we can scarcely grasp that what stands
before us is reality. This irruption of beauty into the world in which we live is a
tremendous gift, similar to the beauty of a great and significant landscape.
Nature too has this dimension of delightfulness. Its bearers of beauty are real
entities; trees, animals, brooks, and rocks belong to the full reality of the external
world around us. The landscape, the composition of these entities, is likewise a
part of this reality. We have already written8 about the role of the reality of the
beautiful in nature and about the difference between a glorious chain of
mountains and a conglomeration of clouds that looks like a mountain range.
This applies to architecture as well.
One could object that while the reality of architecture is an important factor
for the delight we receive from its beauty, this being delighted is something
subjective in its importance for us. It is not a factor for its objective value. To
this, we must reply that the new dimension of being delighted is not a purely
subjective experience. Being delighted certainly presupposes a person, it unfolds
in the spirit of a person. Nevertheless, it is not an arbitrary, subjective experience,
but something that is objectively grounded. Secondly, the experience of being
delighted also serves to shed light on a completely objective characteristic of
architecture. The value quality of beauty is certainly not dependent on it; a real
building is in one sense not more beautiful than a sketch that is not realized. We
see the sketch and apprehend the beauty of the building; we also regret that it
was not erected as a building. Becoming real is the bearer of a high value, not
only because of the artistic importance of this building for a square, a street, and
the entire surrounding area, but also because of the full realization of this bearer
of beauty. This full realization is an eminent value.
We mention the unique dimension of delightfulness in architecture, which it
shares with nature, because it sheds a light on the high value that architecture
possesses in the sphere of full reality. It is obvious that we do not refer here to
the value that the fully realized work of art possesses over against the potential
work of art, the opera that is staged over against the score, or the drama that is
staged over against the drama that exists only in print. Rather, we have in mind
the fact that architecture is a part of the reality in which our real life takes place
and to which we ourselves belong. This fact objectively distinguishes architecture
from the other arts and gives it a special character. It gives architecture unique
possibilities of having an impact, and it is the bearer of a value of its own. This
does not indeed intensify the beauty of the architecture, but it is a definite value.

1. Around 1930; this work was probably never published, since he was obliged to flee from Nazi
Germany.
2. “Architecture creates in this way a living space that belongs to a higher order, the living space of the
civilized human being, the cultural space,” from an unpublished lecture series entitled Lebenswerte der
bildenden Kunst, delivered in Munich in the academic years 1949 to 1953.
3. Ibid.
4. We should note that the garden too is a human space, unlike an anonymous piece of nature and
even less like a primeval forest.
5. See Aesthetics, vol. 1, chap. 15.
6. Adolf von Hildebrand articulated conditions of this kind for sculpture in his book Problem der Form
in der bildenden Kunst, 1st ed. (1893); 10th ed. with preliminary studies and additions in vol. 325 of the
Studien zur deutschen Kunstgeschichte: Adolf von Hildebrand, Kunsttheoretische Studien (Baden-Baden and
Strasbourg: Heitz, 1961).
7. See his Vers une architecture (1923), English translation: Towards an Architecture (Los Angeles: Getty
Research Institute, 2007).
8. Aesthetics, vol. 1, chap. 14.
 CHAPTER SEVEN

Architecture as an Expression of History

ARCHITECTURE NOT ONLY belongs to the reality of the external world that
surrounds us: it is also an expression and reflection of the zeitgeist, of an
historical reality of the spirit. This is especially true of castles, villas, palaces,
public buildings, and above all churches.

The expression of historically real cultural life, and purely artistic “life” in architecture
Let us suppose that it was possible today to build a glorious Romanesque church
that was flawless in its proportions and in every detail, a building that breathed
out a truly sacred world and did full justice to the religious theme of a church.
The strange fact is that it would not be the same as an eleventh-century
Romanesque church. Let us suppose that the building was so successful that it
was full of life, no mechanical imitation. If we saw it, we would assume that it
came from the eleventh century; but if we learned that it was built only a few
decades ago, an element of disappointment would be inevitable. The difference
does not concern beauty as such. What is missing is a dimension of reality,
namely, the real life that stands behind the building.
The fact that the cultural life [das geistige Leben] that stands behind this
building or finds expression in it belongs to the past does not rob it of any of its
contemporary vitality. Nothing would be more foolish than to believe that a
beautiful building has some kind of advantage with regard to reality because it is
the expression of the contemporary life of the spirit. This is why San Marco in
Venice was probably no less real for a Renaissance man with a truly great
appreciation of art than the buildings of his own period; and the Baptistery in
Florence was probably no less real than Brunelleschi’s cupola. We prescind here
from the influence that fashion has on many people who are caught fast in a
momentary historico-sociological reality and are blind to everything that belongs
to the past. The dimension of reality with which we are concerned here depends
on whether the building grew out of the spirit that was alive at the time when it
was built, not on whether it is the product of the cultural world that is alive
today.
The connection between architecture and the cultural life that stands behind
it is unique in kind. It is clearly distinct from the beauty of the building, which is
conditioned by form, proportions, material, color, and many details of a purely
artistic nature. But that cultural life has a legitimate importance. It belongs to
the dimension of reality in architecture, to its organic rootedness.
The “vitality” that a building thereby acquires must be clearly distinguished
from the “life” that separates a beautiful, artistically successful building from a
weak imitation. The life missing in the mechanical building that is classicist in
the negative sense of the term is completely different from the historical
dimension of reality. This life is something that belongs wholly to the artistic
value, to the beauty of the building. It can be missing in a work that is not in any
way an imitation, just as it can be missing in a weak imitation. This life is also
something mysterious, and it plays a very decisive role in artistic terms. It is
found in every art form and must be clearly distinguished from the historical
dimension of reality.
This dimension of reality is related primarily to the styles in architecture, and
hence more to a “language” than to the specifically artistic factors on which the
beauty of a building depends. Accordingly, one must never forget that the
general artistic conditions for the beauty of a work of art are independent of this
relationship to the historically real cultural life. Above all, it would be completely
erroneous to take the fact that a building grows out of one particular historical
intellectual attitude, and to turn this into the source of its artistic values. That
would be utterly absurd.

Architecture and today’s zeitgeist

The presence of this dimension of reality is no guarantee for its artistic value.
Indeed, it can exclude the artistic value, if the spirit of an epoch is depoeticized
and mechanized or even leads to an artistic disvalue. This is why we must
emphasize as forcefully as we can that it is a completely erroneous conclusion to
affirm that one must create anonymous, barren buildings today as an appropriate
expression of the depoeticization, mechanization, and depersonalization of our
age. This zeitgeist of the industrialized world is itself a lie. It contradicts the
true, genuine, valid rhythm of human life, a rhythm that is indissolubly linked to
the objective essence of the poetry of human life. We must fight against this
zeitgeist and redeem man from this curse.
This is why it is completely erroneous to hold that it is dishonest if this
zeitgeist finds no expression in architecture today. It is indeed meaningful to say
that the architect should not imitate any style of earlier periods. But at the same
time, we must explicitly emphasize that the true artist should pay no heed at all
to the zeitgeist. He should create a building in which the general artistic
requirements are fully satisfied. He can employ many motifs, including those
from earlier periods, but these will be inserted completely into the special
invention of the specific building. The Insurance Company building in Munich
by O. E. Bieber and W. Hollweck is very successful, although the theme of
insurance does not specifically offer a poetical stimulus, and although the period
in which it was built was mechanized and depoeticized.
Architecture is not only an expression of a living cultural world. It also has
the eminent educational task today of liberating the zeitgeist from its barren
depoeticization and mechanization. What spiritual nourishment a noble building
offers to every passerby! Even when the passerby does not explicitly look at it,
something of its poetry penetrates his life through the pores, so to speak. This is
why the task for contemporary architecture is very different from that in epochs
in which the poetry of life still developed without hindrance and a rich cultural
world filled their inner space. Today architecture must fight against the zeitgeist,
not through imitation of older styles, but through the unchecked use of great
architectural inventions of the past, in order to create something new that is
nourished by the artistic inspiration of the architect—but not by the zeitgeist.

Architecture originates in the specific historical dimension of reality

The situation is completely different in the case of buildings that originate in the
historical, living spirit of a period but as a whole bear the character of a
renaissance; in other words, they draw on an earlier important cultural epoch.
For example, there was a renaissance of the Byzantine spirit and style around
1200. One of the greatest masterpieces, one of the most beautiful churches of all
ages, was built in this epoch: San Marco in Venice. In this work, the dimension
of reality is completely present. The zeitgeist at that time was an inner revival of
a zeitgeist that had existed 600 years earlier, but San Marco is not a copy or
imitation of Hagia Sophia. Rather, it is a wholly new, original structure,
completely different from the earlier church.
The nature of a true renaissance is a theme all of its own. This great artistic
period from 1400 to 1600 is certainly not the typical case of a revival of a
previous cultural epoch.
One could ask whether it is legitimate to be disappointed when one learns
that a glorious Romanesque church was built only a few decades ago. Its outward
appearance betrays nothing of this; is it right that this mere knowledge should
influence us when we evaluate a work of architecture and are enchanted and
delighted by it? Is this not a lack of objectivity?
My father, Adolf von Hildebrand, maintained that “knowledge” and all
historical information about a work of art must be excluded from any role in the
immediate relationship to its artistic value. He regarded this as a kind of
association, as behavior lacking objectivity, as getting involved in matters that do
not belong to the work of art. We may leave aside here the question whether he
himself unconsciously presupposed the dimension of reality in architecture. He
was certainly correct to reject as subjective the lapse from the apprehending of
the artistic values, namely, the beauty and the artistic potency of a building, into
all kinds of associations. We have already pointed out (in chapter 3) how fatal
this attitude to works of art is, as when someone focuses on the title of a picture
and enjoys the literary associations rather than the picture. If “The Death of
Wallenstein” stands under the picture, it becomes for him a mere illustration of
this historical event, and in reality what he is enjoying (and usually as something
sensational) is the fact that he is offered an illustration of this important
historical event. We choose this extreme instance, which unfortunately is not
rare, in order to show in a crass form the danger that pure associations can
represent in relation to art.
But architecture has a different relationship to reality from that of all the
other arts; and besides, the relationship between architecture and history is not a
merely associative link. Architecture objectively possesses two themes, and it is
also an expression of the life out of which it grows. When, for example, an old
tower collapses and is then rebuilt exactly as it was before, the dimension of
reality of the tower is not affected, since the reconstructed tower is a kind of
resurrection of its predecessor. One example is the tower of San Marco, which
was rebuilt at the beginning of the twentieth century. The purely physical
identity no longer exists, but it still remains something born of the period when
San Marco was created.
My father was certainly correct to deny that the historical dimension of
reality influences the purely artistic beauty, but perhaps he did not do justice to a
certain value that is linked to the building not by association, but in a profoundly
meaningful and organic manner. Like reality in architecture, the relationship to
history, to the entire sense of life that was dominant in an epoch, and to the
cultural climate in which the buildings originated, is a legitimate factor. It is true
that it does not in any way guarantee the beauty of a building, even if the
zeitgeist was organic and not depoeticized, inauthentic, or mechanized; the
beauty is entirely dependent on the artistic gift of the architect. In a true artist,
this organic growing out of a spiritual world with a positive value, a world that at
this moment possesses a historico-sociological reality, is an important factor, a
value sui generis.
Architecture is different from stage sets, which are intended to engender an
illusion in us. They are an “as if.” Architecture does not appeal to any illusion. It
is no “as if”: it is full reality. The historical epoch in which one particular
zeitgeist with a positive value was dominant may belong to the past, but the
beautiful building that originated in this epoch is completely present, and the
statement it contains continues to exist with undiminished actuality. It remains
forever equally alive and is a decisive factor in the world around us. There is
indeed a mysterious link between the organic growing out of a cultural world
that possesses a special sociological, interpersonal reality in one particular
historical epoch, on the one hand, and its remaining fully present despite all the
changes over the course of time, on the other.

The justification of second-rate buildings

In this context, we must emphasize one characteristic of architecture that sets it
apart from all the other arts. In keeping with the nature of all the arts, there are
genuine works of art of very various greatness, depth, and perfection. Not even
all the works of a very great and sublime artist are on the same level. We must
distinguish two things here.
Almost every artist, no matter how great he may be, has also created pale,
unimportant occasional works. This is a toll taken on an artist by human
weakness. This fact tells us nothing about his greatness and importance, nor does
it discredit him. Such occasional works are not artistically negative (like, for
example, trivial works). They are only unimportant, and one may say that their
nonexistence would be no loss. They are invalid works, so to speak, and must be
excluded from the hierarchy of the fully valid works.
Among those works whose nonexistence would be a definite loss, there are
considerable differences in rank, both among the works of one and the same
artist and (above all) among the works of various great artists. Eichendorff’s
From the Life of a Good-for-Nothing is a masterpiece, but it is obviously far from
having the importance of Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment. Goldoni’s La
Locandiera is a little masterpiece, but it is incomparably less important than
Shakespeare’s comedy As You Like It. Rossini’s The Barber of Seville is a delightful
opera, but there can be no doubt that Mozart’s The Marriage of Figaro is far
superior to it.
“Second-hand” works that lack all originality are unwished-for in all the arts
except architecture. It is perfectly natural that not every house in a city is an
original work of art. This is connected to the two themes of architecture. Houses
must exist, independently of their artistic design. Their existence is justified by
the simple reason of their practical purpose. If many of them have no artistically
negative aspects and exude a general poetry without being an original
architectural invention, their aesthetic purpose is fulfilled. If some important and
eloquent buildings in a street unfold a glorious world, this is enough for the rest
of the buildings, even if they are second-rate. Naturally, they must not be
imitations, nor should they display any features that disturb the noble world of
the important buildings. It is enough that they have good proportions and that
they are able to receive the noble overall world that the important buildings
exude and to function like an echo that lets this world resonate.
Something analogous applies to architectural groups that build up a situation
in nature. Let us take the case of a little church that is neither original nor
important; it contains nothing unbeautiful, and there is no disharmony in its
proportions. Through its setting on a hill, surrounded by some cypresses and
pines, it can already be the joint bearer of an overall beautiful, poetic situation.
The same is true of many farmhouses that are adjacent to a beautiful villa.
Naturally, we are not thinking here of the farmhouses found in many places in
Tuscany, which in themselves possess a great artistic value.
It is of course a source of particular pleasure when a street such as the Via
Garibaldi in Genoa is framed by nothing but glorious palaces, or when a street
such as the Via Maggio in Florence presents a sequence of one beautiful palace
after another. However, the beauty of the city does not demand this of every
street. It is in keeping with the being of architecture and with its overall function
in human life that there also exist second-rate buildings that form a natural
framework for the architectural works of the highest beauty.
The affirmation that not every building need be an original invention
requires that we say something about the meaning of the term “original.” The
word “originality” is frequently employed in a very unfortunate sense, namely, to
demand the presence of something completely new and unknown. True
originality must never be a goal. It comes of its own accord in a true artist who
has a word to speak. It is one of the values that one must never consciously aim
at, for otherwise one inevitably goes astray. When we speak of originality, we
mean the unintended originality that is synonymous with the presence of a
special, artistically positive word that an artist speaks in one particular work.
This applies from the highest masterpieces right down to modest works, if these
are first-hand.
In contrast to such works are those that contain nothing negative—but also
contain no word of their own. They are modest but second-rate.
What we have in mind here are not works that are second-hand because they
are specific works by pupils who imitate their master. Rather, we have in mind
all those works that do not completely stand on their own feet as works of art,
for example, the pleasant ancestral portraits that look good as decoration but are
not true works of art. The essential point with regard to architecture is that
something that is a defect in other works of art—something that makes us say,
“It would not be a pity if this work had never been created,” in the case of a short
story, a poem, a piece of music, a song, a picture, or a sculpture—is much more
positive in architecture.
The mere fact that the objects of architecture really belong to our life creates
a new situation in comparison with all the other areas of art, where we look into
a distinct world that is different from our real life and of which the exclusive
theme is artistic beauty. These other areas of art bear in their being a claim, and
the failure to satisfy this claim contains a certain disvalue. But not every building
makes an immanent claim. If they are not unbeautiful, not dead and anonymous,
if they emanate a general poetry of life, and many of them emanate the nobility
possessed by a style that is noble in itself, then they can exercise a positive
function by receiving and passing on the beautiful world of some potent, great
architectural works. If they function as an echo of this kind for the great
masterworks that give their city its true countenance, they certainly have a right
to exist.
The two themes of architecture and its belonging to the full reality that
surrounds us also mean that a building that is definitely trivial, or that emanates
an anonymous, depersonalized, barren world, does much greater harm than bad,
negative works in other areas of art. For we can ignore the latter. We need not
accept their summons to get involved with them, to hear them, to read them, etc.
They do not poison our daily, real life in the same way. Naturally, this is not as
true of sculpture and painting, which are often united to architecture and
therefore penetrate the reality that surrounds us and affect our real life.
 The importance of the overall atmosphere of a country and of historical reality
Let us return to the link between architecture and history. Is it possible to deny
that the overall atmosphere of a country, which is largely conditioned by its
history, also forms an important background to its architecture? Is not the poetry
of the history of a city important in the structure of the delightful “beautiful
world” that it emanates? And is not this true also of the fact that this city lies in
one particular country, and that we know about the overall atmosphere of the
country?
We have already pointed to something similar in the case of the beauty of a
landscape, namely, the importance of something that we do not see but that we
know exists, for example, when we know what a glorious landscape looks like
behind the mountains that separate it from our sight.1 Here we must draw a
clear distinction between the legitimate and the illegitimate links between what
we know about and what we directly perceive.
There is a danger that we may turn nature into a panorama; in the same way,
we must refrain from treating buildings, considered as architectural works of art,
like objects in a museum. Although such buildings are independent in their
cultural value from their real theme, from the cultural atmosphere in which they
came into existence, and from the testimony that they constitute as an expression
of history, these other perspectives nevertheless belong essentially to them. It is
true that the factors that bear their artistic value are of a very special kind. The
fact that a building does justice to the real theme, and especially to the spiritual
real theme, is likewise a decisive factor for its artistic value. The expression of
one particular cultural atmosphere and the relationship to history do not indeed
influence the beauty of a building and above all do not guarantee this beauty.
Nevertheless, they make a legitimate contribution to our impression.
Some places receive a dignity of a special kind through their historical
importance. It is completely legitimate that a city or a particular place where a
great historical event took place should stand out against the surrounding region,
that a monument should be erected there in memory of this event, and that this
place remains linked to the “halo” of the event. This is no mere association, nor a
link determined only by psychology. Rather, it is an absolutely real, objective
relationship.
This link is of course much deeper and incomparably more important in a
sacred place. This may be a place where Christ or the Blessed Virgin Mary lived,
or a place where a miracle occurred or a saint is buried. Dignum et justum est, “it
is right and fitting” to visit such places with reverence and to apprehend clearly
the sacred radiance that they contain because God chose them for his working.
It would be illegitimate, however, to find a church or a monument artistically
beautiful because of this sacred radiance. The religious atmosphere of Lourdes,
which is extremely strong thanks to the processions of pilgrims, can overwhelm
us despite the artistically tasteless churches that, as buildings, emanate no
religious atmosphere. One must shut one’s eyes to their artistically dire
architecture. If one were to find them beautiful because of the dignity of the
place and its atmosphere that is generated by the miracles and the piety of the
pilgrims, one would be projecting in an unequivocally illegitimate manner a value
into the buildings that they do not possess.
Another illegitimate link exists if one travels into a country or a city that is
venerable because of its historical past but no longer emanates anything of this
earlier glory, and one now projects (or fantasizes) this glory into the country or
city. If someone finds every building glorious and ascribes to the country and the
city as a visible, present reality everything that we only know from history, this
link is certainly illegitimate. The link generated by the historical identity of the
country or city requires a reverent remembrance and justifies a response to the
dignity imparted to this piece of earth thanks to earlier historical events. But
such behavior becomes illegitimate as soon as the knowledge of this physical
identity leads us to imagine that everything we can see still proclaims the past
glory in a manner given to us in experience, and to enjoy this supposed
atmosphere as if it still filled everything in a completely living manner. It is
particularly illegitimate to regard the landscape or the buildings in this place as
beautiful—simply because our imagination projects so much into them—
although they are in fact unimportant or even ugly and prosaic. In that case, the
object of our enjoyment is a pure product of the imagination that has nothing to
do with the nature or architecture before which we stand. The correct objective
response would be: “How impressive it is to be allowed to stand in the place
where once such a great culture blossomed! How sad that nothing any longer
speaks of this cultural world! What a pity that neither the landscape nor the
architecture is beautiful, so that it is difficult for us to steep ourselves in the past
glory of this culture!”
Our attitude has ceased to be objective as soon as we begin to find a
landscape that is in itself unimportant more beautiful than a glorious, exceptional
landscape, only because great historical events took place in the former
landscape, but not in the latter.
 On the other hand, it would be a great mistake to deny that history is an
important factor for the atmosphere of nature, and all the more of architecture.
The lack of an important history also generates a certain anonymity in
nature, though not the anonymity that is a result of the lack of a landscape in the
narrower sense of the term.2 The fact that nature is inhabited, the traces of
human life, are an important factor for the beauty of a landscape. The decisive
point, however, is the extent to which nature and above all architecture still
emanate something of the world and the atmosphere of the great culture of the
past. In that case, this footprint of history contributes a new factor to the other
factors that condition pure beauty. If one overlooks this or denies it, an
important dimension of delightful beauty is lost.

The apprehending of “worlds”—demonstrated by means of the unique example of

Rome
The glory of Rome is not conditioned only by the artistic beauty of the
buildings, squares, and streets, and by the beauty of the landscape. Rather, the
fact that this city was once the center of the ancient world and is papal Rome,
the seat of the Vicar of Christ on earth, is of supreme importance for its beauty
and above all for the universality and centrality of the place where the heart of
the world beats. The unique majesty of many of its buildings bears testimony to
this. The fact that this historical reality de facto lies behind the visible
architectural reality is an exceedingly important dimension of reality, and is a
source of delight. When the Capitol, the Palatine, Castel Sant’Angelo, St.
Peter’s Square with Bernini’s colonnades and Michelangelo’s cupola speak to us
in their visible, immediately given beauty, the historical reality that all this
proclaims to our experience also resonates as an important factor for the unique
greatness of this city.
If someone who was profoundly open to art and had never heard anything
about the classical and Christian Rome came to the city, he would indeed be
overwhelmed by the beauty and greatness. He would also sense something of the
atmosphere of Rome as a unique expression of many rich cultural worlds. But
there can be no doubt that his impression would be more adequate—not with
regard to the purely artistic beauty of a palace, but with regard to the joy to be
had from immersing oneself in the world of Rome—if he knew about these
things.
The apprehending of the cultural “worlds,” of this unique reality that is filled
with genuinely artistic values, is an essential factor in the beauty in nature and in
architecture, and above all in the beauty of cities and in the special cooperation
between nature and architecture. It intensifies and elevates the acquaintance with
all the factors that are bearers of these cultural worlds.
Classical Rome possesses a clearly defined spiritual countenance through its
history and the life of the spirit that took place there, through its language, its
great statesmen, and its gradual conquest of the world. This countenance
emanates a very specific world that discloses itself to one who knows his history.
This world is clearly different from that of Athens and from the atmosphere in
Paris, Vienna, or London.3 It can be reproduced above all in literature. We have
in mind here not the literature of ancient Rome, which naturally, like all the
other elements, shares in constituting this world, but rather its artistic
reproduction, which we find with an immense intensity and vividness, for
example, in Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar and Antony and Cleopatra. The way in
which this world lives on in architecture is not a presentation or reproduction
such as we find in literature, but an expression of this cultural epoch that as such
exudes the “world of the Roman.” This world, which speaks to us in the
landscape and the architecture, becomes much more concrete and intense when
we know its other bearers, namely, the history of ancient Rome and its culture,
at least to the extent that Rome is a familiar name to us and we have
apprehended its “countenance,” its world, and its beauty to some degree.
This does not in the least lead to an inorganic link between what we knew
previously and our impression when we see the city and the world that is
expressed in the visible that surrounds us. For it is the one identical world that
discloses itself to our spirit from all the sources when we see the city and spend
time in it. There can be no doubt that we immerse ourselves in this world more
deeply and more delightfully in this way than does one who spends time there
without ever having heard of Rome before. He may fully apprehend the artistic
beauty of the individual buildings, but he will scarcely apprehend the world that
this city radiates.
This is true even more strongly of the “countenance” of Christian Rome.
Although the world of early Christian Rome is very different from that of
medieval Rome and the Rome of the Renaissance and the Baroque, they are all
joined together by the unique, sacred world that Rome emanates as the seat of
the Vicar of Christ. This world grows out of this religious position at the center
of the entire Christian world. Historical knowledge, knowledge of Popes Leo I
and Gregory I, communicates to us a specific atmosphere of great beauty.
The Rome of the martyrs, the age of the catacomb Church that was still
locked in the struggle against the profane mistress of the world, exudes an
especially strong and moving world of the highest beauty. There was a new
atmosphere in the Rome of Constantine, in which the splendor of political
dominion over the world was united to the transfigured splendor of holy Rome,
the center of the whole of Christianity.
This early Christian world lives on in the architecture. It is still fully present.
To know this and to apprehend its irradiation intensifies the delight in being
surrounded by it when we spend time in Rome.
After Saint Peter and Saint Paul died there as martyrs, the various cultural
worlds follow one another in a unique way, such that despite their specific
character and atmosphere, they all basically share the world of greatness, of
centrality, and of sacrality. The early Christian world is vigorously alive in the
mosaics of the churches of Santa Costanza and Santi Cosma e Damiano; the
medieval world in the inner courtyard of the Lateran and in the church of Santa
Maria in Trastevere; the Renaissance world in the Palazzo Farnese and the
Cancelleria; and the Baroque world in Bernini’s colonnades and in the façade of
St. Peter’s, in Sant’Agnese on the Piazza Navona, and in Borromini’s palaces.
This collaboration in the visible form of Rome, in which even the majesty of
ancient Rome unites with the wholly new and incomparable Christian Rome, is
apprehended still more deeply in its beauty when all these worlds are a living
reality for us even independently of the visible impression.
Doubtless, Rome is a unique case. But the principle involved here, namely,
the legitimate contribution made by knowledge of the history of a city and of a
country, and the acquaintance that we thereby acquire with its world, is
applicable whenever we experience this world and immerse ourselves in it,
whether we are looking at the city or spending time in it.

1. Aesthetics, vol. 1, chap. 14.

2. See Aesthetics, vol. 1, chap. 14.
3. See also Aesthetics, vol. 1, chap. 15.
 CHAPTER EIGHT

Types of Buildings

Residential houses and public buildings

ARCHITECTURE ENCOMPASSES a rich field of very different structures that can be
works of art. The first we mention here is the residential house with its
subspecies, which are new architectural types that present the artist with a variety
of tasks. A dwelling can be a simple house in the city, but it can also be a palace,
which is something different from an architectural point of view. We have in
mind palaces that are not public buildings, but rather dwellings in which an
aristocratic family lived, such as the Palazzo Strozzi and the Palazzo Rucellai in
Florence or the Palazzo Vendramin in Venice. We must draw a distinction
between the palace as a residential house and the castle, which usually is not in a
city, but in the countryside. In the past, castles were often fortified and protected
by a moat or walls.
Another type of residential house is the villa, the country house, which is
widespread in Italy and above all in Tuscany. The residential houses for the
servants, which are usually adjacent to the castles or villas, are a type of their
own.
Finally, the farmhouse is a type of building that is widespread in every
country. Farmhouses play an important role in Germany and Austria, especially
in the mountain areas, with styles that are typical of each region. Often they are
built of stone and wood, and sometimes entirely of wood. The Italian farmhouse,
especially in Tuscany, is a type of its own.
In countries ruled by a monarch, the king’s castle or residence has a special
place among residential houses. It is still a dwelling, but at the same time it is a
public building. This gives it a unique character. It presents architecture with
completely different tasks. Its outward appearance must distinguish it from all
non-royal palaces.
Among the various types of residential houses, only the royal residence leads
over to a new type, the public building. The first we shall mention is the city
hall, which demands a special kind of representation, an impressive
magnificence, and at the same time a public character. The wonderful Palazzo
Vecchio in Florence and the Palazzo Pubblico in Siena embody what a city hall
ought to be and what is required by the atmosphere that befits its purpose.
Other important public buildings are government buildings, schools,
universities, hospitals, barracks, covered markets, etc. “Public” does not mean
that these must be municipal or state buildings. In the past, universities, schools,
and hospitals were mostly buildings that had been founded by a religious order
and that belonged to it. Nevertheless, unlike residential houses, these are public
buildings.
Theaters, concert halls, and museums are a different kind of public building.
We mention only buildings that present something new as architectural types,
not all the buildings that serve various purposes. For example, all shops
constitute one type of building, independently of what is sold there, whereas
banks and administrative buildings are different types; the same applies to
drugstores. Frequently, it is only in the interior architecture that the difference in
purpose comes into play.

Sacred buildings
Another type of building that is radically different from the residential house in
all its forms and from the various kinds of public buildings is the building
consecrated for divine worship, whether it be the temple of classical antiquity or
the Temple in Jerusalem or a mosque or a church. In this field architecture has
reached its highest artistic development.
Monasteries are one type of sacred building in the broader sense of the term.
They occupy an important position in the context of the great architectural
works of art, and as Wolfgang Braunfels has shown in detail in an important
book,1 the rules and the spirit of the religious orders exercised a powerful
influence on the emergence of a new style.

The temple of classical antiquity

One matchless type of building, in which the exterior and the interior
architecture touch one another most closely, is the temple of classical antiquity.
From the outside, one sees something of the soul of its interior architecture,
namely, the columns. The classical temple—for example, the three temples in
Paestum, or the temple in Segesta, or the Parthenon—is not a room enclosed by
walls. Although there is a distinction between inner and outer in this building,
the relationship of the two dimensions is essentially different from that in all
other types of building. From the outside, one sees the columns, which unfold
their splendor even when seen from this perspective. But when one enters the
temple, the experience of being surrounded by the columns is a new and
overwhelming impression.
In order to do justice to this matchless architectural structure, we must
briefly pay tribute to the classical columns. What tremendous nobility there is in
the way the columns rise up, what a mysterious holiness [Weihe]! The overall
composition of the plinth, the columns, and the capital is a typical mirandum,
something that evokes astonishment because of the fullness of its spiritual
content, a fullness that can give to a form a beauty of the second power. Another
important factor is the material and its color. But the column unfolds its true,
full artistic greatness and importance only in a space filled with columns, in a
temple.
It is only when one stands before a temple (for example, in Segesta or
Paestum, or before the Parthenon) that one has an overview of the building that
is “ruled” by the columns. But the exterior “face” of the temple too is
characterized by its columns when it is seen from a distance; this is particularly
true of the Parthenon. One sees the form of the temple, the total area it covers,
and its roof, but instead of lateral walls one sees the columns, which of course
move closer together the further one goes from the temple. The exterior aspect
of the temples of Agrigento and Segesta and of the two well preserved temples in
Paestum possesses an overwhelming beauty.
What a difference there is between these temples and their classicist
imitations! The ancient temples possess the remarkable element of life that must
fill a building from within; this is what is missing in the classicist imitations. In
very general terms, the phenomenon of life is a very important factor in
architecture and in every restoration. Why do glorious old monastic cloisters
look dead and barren after they are restored, even when the attempt was made to
imitate every detail exactly? How does one explain the difference between a
capital that is an exact imitation of all the beautiful forms, and the original? No
doubt, the patina is usually missing; but even with an artificially produced patina,
what is imitated is a mechanical, soulless copy that is to a large extent dead. The
same problem occurs in an analogous manner when the statues in cathedrals are
restored.
 Elements of a building (balcony, terrace, courtyard, portal)
In many of the types of building mentioned above, there are of course details
that constitute a structure of their own, even from the architectural point of
view. For example, the balcony is an architectural invention of a special kind, in
which an elementary need finds expression. Contact with the outer world is
established already in the window, both through the streaming of light into the
building and through the possibility of looking at the street and the houses on
the other side or out into the landscape; and this contact is intensified through
the balcony that allows one to emerge completely into the open air. The balcony
unites the intimacy of one’s own home with the “public space” and with the
outer world under the open sky. This structure, which is desired for a number of
reasons and which is an enrichment of the living space, can as such be the bearer
of an artistic value, both in itself and for the house in question. Balconies can
possess a great beauty through their form and through the way in which they are
attached to the house.2
Terraces, a new architectural invention that is often a bearer of great beauty,
are sometimes found at palaces, villas, public buildings, and occasionally even
monasteries. The terrace shares with the balcony the element of extending the
interior of the house, making it possible to go out without leaving the security of
one’s own home. But the terrace, which often begins at the mezzanine and then
usually forms a transition to the garden, or which takes the place of the roof as in
the Palazzo Corsini in Florence, corresponds to a different Lebensgefühl (“feeling
for life”) from the balcony. It has a grandiose, sweeping character and is open for
many artistic forms that are attractive in their own right and also in their
relationship to the building.
The courtyard is another formal type. It is sometimes attached to residential
houses; in Spain and South America, it often takes the form of a patio. This
courtyard can evolve in very different ways. In palaces, public buildings,
hospitals, and universities, it is frequently linked to a loggia, that is, an arcade
with columns. In monasteries the courtyard is usually enclosed by a cloister that
gives it a special character, indeed, its highest elaboration. The monastic cloister
primarily serves a practical purpose, namely, the recreation of the monks. What
wonderful possibilities of expression are offered by the architectural notion of the
monastic cloister!3
Both the portals of churches and palaces and the gates at the entrance to the
mostly parklike gardens that frame a house or a villa can possess high artistic
beauty. Garden gates often have a stone framework that is joined to the garden
wall. Gates are already a subject for architectural design. Both the framework
and the door itself can exude great artistic beauty and a poetical world. Such
gates are often wrought iron lattice work, objects made by a craftsman. They
have a specific charm above all in Baroque architecture, in which the decorative
element is predominant. The golden color of some parts, alongside the black of
the rest of the gates, also engenders a high decorative effect.

Independent buildings: staircases, towers, city walls, monuments, fountains, bridges

A staircase can develop its full architectural importance and be the bearer of
great beauty not only as a part of the exterior architecture of a building, but also
in its own right. One example is the Spanish Steps in Rome that lead up from
the Piazza di Spagna to the monastery of Trinità dei Monti. Thanks to its form,
its material, and the function it fulfills in its environment, it is able to realize
high artistic values.
Naturally, the tower too is a primal type of architectural design. Its primarily
vertical extension gives it a very special character. We must however draw a
distinction between towers that are a part of another building, such as the bell
tower of many churches, the tower of city halls (for example, the Torre del
Mangia in Siena), or the tower of a castle, on the one hand, and the freestanding
towers that are buildings as such, even when the latter form an artistic unity with
the church (for example, the Campanile in Florence or the tower of San Marco
in Venice).
We shall return to the tower at the end of the present chapter, when we
speak of architecture as an outstanding mirror of the most varied aspects of
human life, in which so many primal gestures and primal sentiments find
expression. Despite their inherent connection with the beauty of architecture, we
must draw a distinction between the high poetry and beauty of these primal
elements such as the tower, which find their expression in the diversity of
architectural structures, on the one hand, and both the bearers of artistic beauty
and artistic beauty itself, on the other.
Architecture exceeds everything that we have mentioned up to now. City
walls, which were very important in the past, are a completely different type of
building, which is likewise often a bearer of great beauty. Another architectural
structure with a pronounced character is linked to the city wall, namely, the city
gate. It offers a grandiose introduction to the city and a festive reception. At the
same time, it is an element of protection: the gates must be constructed in such a
way that if necessary, they prevent anyone from passing through.
Another very expressive architectural structure is the triumphal arch. It is
very typical that the need was felt to give expression to the triumphant return
after a great and victorious campaign. The general or emperor entered the city
through a richly decorated arch, a freestanding gate that was erected specifically
for this purpose.
Here we touch on many factors of historical remembrance and on the vast
realm of monuments. Although they are often united to sculpture, to statues and
reliefs, monuments are architectural structures. In an equestrian monument,
however, the statue of the rider and the horse is so much in the foreground that
one can scarcely still call it an architectural structure. Nevertheless, the
equestrian statue always has a strong relationship to its architectural setting.
Fountains, on the other hand, are definitely architectural structures,4 despite
the fact that their statuary is often very important. The same applies to the water
basins and watering troughs for horses that we have mentioned above, and to
similar buildings.
Bridges have an unambiguously practical purpose. But what poetry lies in the
way they cross over a river! This situation offers great possibilities for artistic
composition. Bridges can be glorious in the form of their arches, their floating
lightness, or their monumental power.

Streets and squares

Let us turn now to other architectural structures that are not buildings (in the
widest sense of that term), namely, to streets and squares.
Streets are a creation of architecture, through the buildings that frame them
and through their broad or narrow, straight or winding form. They have a “face”
of their own that is distinct from the houses that enclose them. Although they
are strongly conditioned by the houses that frame them, they are in their
atmosphere an entity sui generis. They have a beauty of their own, and it is a
unique experience to walk through them, apprehending the special value that the
sequence of the houses and their relative position can have. Naturally, one gets a
better view of the roofs and their color from a tower or a hill. The paving too
makes a contribution to the beauty of the street, but the use of asphalt reduces
this. Of the many kinds of beautiful paving, the big smooth paving stones that
one finds above all in Florence are among the most beautiful.
Streets can be extraordinarily expressive. There are triumphal streets that
have a festive atmosphere. The palaces that surround them have a lordly
character, a genuine greatness, and a true nobility. Important church façades can
be situated between the streets, as in the Corso Umberto and Corso Vittorio
Emanuele in Rome. Other streets do not have this grandiose character, but they
possess a central importance in the city. They are, as it were, the elegant, lordly
streets of the city; an example is the Via de’ Tornabuoni in Florence. Other
streets again are very narrow, and as such, they exercise a charm of their own.
Examples are the Via della Vigna Vecchia and the Via Porta Rossa in Florence.
The streets of a city can be an invention of an architectural kind. In that case,
they are not a chance result of the houses that have been built on them. In his
outstanding book on Tuscan architecture,5 Wolfgang Braunfels shows how strict
were the regulations issued by the municipal council with regard to the streets, so
that buildings that disturbed the unity of the appearance of the street with a
balcony or an oriel window were forbidden. The form and the appearance of the
street were an important theme. In many cities, there are particularly beautiful
streets. For example, almost all the glorious palaces of Genoa are on the Via
Garibaldi, where they constitute a matchless unity. The city center of Vienna
contains an overwhelming number of important buildings. Such buildings are
not found in the Bäckerstrasse, but it is enchanting in the stylistic unity of its
delightful buildings. And how beautiful the Annagasse in Vienna is! The
Maximilianstrasse in Augsburg has a special beauty, with its fountain and its
winding curve.
The streets in a landscape, their movement, their twists and turns, their
meanderings or their straight lines—all these have likewise a beauty of their own.
Nor do we forget that a street has a deeper meaning in a very general sense.
A street as such is furnished with a certain poetry of life, both in a landscape and
in a city. It embodies the primal element of walking, of moving onward, in our
life. It constitutes an analogy to our life as a whole, which is a continual moving
onward from one moment to the next, from one hour to another, from today to
tomorrow. Above all, our life as a whole is a pilgrimage, a status viae. A street
embodies the delightful possibility of walking, of spatial extension, of being
clearly led on to a further place.
In a city a street has one other function with regard to our lives. Much of our
community life takes place on the street. Here are the shops where we make our
purchases, and many people meet one another by chance or by intention here. In
many regions, people like to sit on chairs or benches before their houses and talk
with their neighbors. The streets are full of life in the evening, especially in
Spain, France, and Italy! In Rome, people used to drive up and down in their
own carriages on the Corso. Festive processions make their way through the
streets of a city on a great variety of occasions. Descartes’s ideal was streets
arranged in a purely geometrical pattern, serving a sober, practical goal. But such
streets are barren and artistically disastrous. Streets that are themselves
something beautiful, both through the beauty of the buildings that surround
them and in their own form and characteristic style, belong to the important
factors in the beauty of a city.
Another architectural creation is the square, a structure of a special kind.
There is a unique emphasis in the way in which the surrounding buildings
enlarge the space and make room for it. This formed emptiness has a festive
quality that is often intensified by monuments.
Squares are the expression of many of the primal situations of life. Just as the
street embodies walking, going further and further in space and in time—the
spatial dimension in a literal manner, the temporal by analogy—so too the
square is an embodiment of “now,” of standing still, of putting up one’s tent.
Squares constitute a definite “now” that is analogous to important situations in
life where we want to linger, situations that stand out against the stream of
ongoing events as a deep breathing space, a true presence.
They too fulfill a special function in public life. Markets are held on squares,
festivals are celebrated, demonstrations and other public events are organized.
Their real theme is primarily cultural.
The square has the meaning of a human, individualized place, in contrast to
any spot in anonymous nature. There are indeed individualized places in nature,
either thanks to the artistically formed unity of a piece of nature or thanks to
important historical events that took place there; but a city square has not only
individuality, but also the character of a human space. It is a unique mixture of
an inside and an outside, quite different from the monastic cloister. It is an
inside, since it is surrounded by houses and palaces and is thus clearly different
from the wide open spaces of nature. It gives the experience of being protected as
one spends time in a city, the experience of being surrounded by houses and
palaces in which people live or go about their daily activity. On the other hand, it
is an outside that extends under the open sky. Unlike the monastic cloister, its
character is not intimate but unambiguously public.
At the same time, there is something significant about the square. It is
frequently the site of a monument that honors and recalls a great historical
personality, or at least a prince. In this regard, it offers a special occasion for the
collaboration between sculpture and architecture.6 It is also a place for the
development of a specifically artistic architectural structure of another kind,
namely, the fountain. Another artistic function of the square is to permit a
church or a palace of central importance, such as the city hall of Siena or the
Palazzo Vecchio in Florence, to have its full effect, because the beauty of the
façade comes into its own in quite a new way when seen from a certain distance.
Often, however, it is a definite mistake to isolate a cathedral or a palace. As we
have said with regard to nature, a panoramic point of view is a great mistake.7 It
easily destroys the organic, living connection among the buildings. The
wonderful cathedral in Florence is completely surrounded by beautiful, noble
buildings, and this is a special advantage.
Naturally, the beauty of a square depends first and foremost on the buildings
that surround it. But the form of the square and above all the artistic value of a
monument or a fountain also have a decisive influence on its beauty. The
charming fountain in Trent, for example, makes a great contribution to the
charm of the cathedral square, and Bernini’s fountains enhance the beauty of the
Piazza Navona!
Each type of square has a “face” that is entirely its own and a specific
atmosphere: the great, monumental, grandiose squares and the joyful squares
that are characterized by a special poetry, but also the small, modest, beautiful
squares that are definitely picturesque, with their intimate charm.
Examples of the grandiose squares are the Piazza del Popolo in Rome, the
Piazza della Signoria in Florence, the Place de la Concorde and the Place
Vendôme in Paris, the Plaza Mayor in Madrid, the Grand-Place in Brussels, and
the Josefsplatz in Vienna. The joyful and especially poetical squares include the
Piazza di Spagna, the little Piazza di Trevi, and the Piazza Navona in Rome, and
the delightful Place Stanislas in Nancy. The picturesque squares include the
Piazza delle Erbe in Verona and many squares in Venice, as well as the little
Piazza Sant’Ignazio di Loyola in Rome.
The Piazza San Marco in Venice shows the beauty that squares as such can
attain. It is formed above all by the beauty of the façade of San Marco and of the
tower of San Marco, but also by all the palaces that surround it. What a unity,
what an intimacy, what a powerful atmosphere emanates from this square! How
uniquely suited it is to open-air concerts!
St. Peter’s Square in Rome with Bernini’s glorious colonnades is a high point
of beauty. This is a square formed in a way that has no equal: the grandiose
façade of St. Peter’s, the two arms of the colonnades with the highly decorative
sculptures, and not least the obelisk in the center of the square. What an
immense architectural task it is to design squares, and what artistic possibilities it
offers!
The beauty of a city as a whole8 is largely determined by its location. Here
we have in mind above all the question whether the city is on flat or hilly
ground. The fact that Rome is built on seven hills strongly influences the form of
the streets and squares. In other cities, many streets ascend or descend, or else
the city has an upper and a lower part, as in Budapest. An ascending street has a
different character from a street that runs on one level alone.
Many squares mark themselves off from their surroundings, so to speak,
through their elevated site. One example is the Capitol, which rises up above the
Forum on the Tarpeian Rock on the one side; on the other side, one ascends to
the Capitol from the Piazza Venezia. Its site gives the Capitol a markedly closed
quality, an emphatic position that is an essential feature of this square. However,
the elevated site of a plateau does not suffice to create a square in the
architectural sense. Rather, it needs to be framed by buildings, as is the case with
Michelangelo’s glorious buildings on the Capitol. The square, in this sense of
the term, is always an architectural creation; nevertheless, its site influences its
character, as we can see in the square before the Quirinal. It is an essential aspect
of the Piazza di Spagna that it lies at the foot of the hill on which the grandiose
Spanish Steps lead up the monastery of Trinità dei Monti. This glorious ascent
is the soul of the Piazza di Spagna.

Quintessential architectural inventions

A category of formal structures that are not pre-determined by a practical theme,
that is, by their indispensability, consists in the various architectural inventions,
which as such can possess a great beauty. These include pilasters, columns,
arches, niches, vaults, cupolas, towers, etc.
The spatial structures that are dictated by practicality are materials for the
architect, who can turn them into bearers of beauty by giving them their special
form. But the architectural inventions are actual bearers of beauty, although this
always depends on the special form of the concrete objects, such as a pillar, a
vault, a cupola, or a tower. The invention of a formal structure of this kind is an
artistic creation. It is assuredly not by chance that these inventions have
developed in the course of history. Some of these highly expressive inventions are
found in both exterior and interior architecture.
Pilasters are often used in the façades of churches and palaces, for example,
on the front of the Palazzo Rucellai in Florence. Full columns are used for the
atrium of palaces, churches, and temples, and often inside these buildings too.
The column is one of the greatest architectural inventions. The noble
ascending movement in a king palm tree may have provided a model for the
column, but we shall not discuss here the extent to which nature functioned as
an inspiration for architecture; we simply note that there is an objective inner
similarity. It is probable that flowers, leaves, and fruits provided a similar
stimulus for many ornaments.
From the philosophical standpoint, what interests us is the radical difference
between nature as inspiration and nature as an object that is depicted and
reproduced in the imitative arts. In inspiration, nature prompts the creation of
something completely new that in no way “reproduces” or “depicts” the natural
phenomenon. As such, the architectural structure that is created in the mind of
the master builder in a process of inspiration does not speak of the natural form,
nor does it reproduce it. It is a completely independent form that is just as real as
the natural one. It is not a reproduction, and still less a copy or imitation. Here
the relationship is sui generis.
We have said that the column is one of the great architectural inventions. In
all its various forms, it can be a principal bearer of artistic beauty. When we
speak of “various forms,” we mean not only the Doric, Ionian, and Corinthian
pillars, but also those in the early Christian basilicas such as Sant’Apollinare in
Classe or Santa Maria in Cosmedin in Rome, and in the Romanesque, Gothic,
Renaissance, and Baroque churches. Nor do we forget the various types of
columns in the exterior architecture of profane buildings.
The arch is particularly effective above the entrance door of a church. This is
especially true of those arches that are like reliefs that fit into one another, from
a large outer arch down to a small arch that frames the doorway itself. This is a
frequent motif in Romanesque churches.
Niches are usually the setting for sculptures, for example, the niches on the
exterior of Adolf von Hildebrand’s Hubertus Fountain in Munich. They have a
much greater importance in interior architecture. Examples are the deep niches
of the temple of Venus in Baalbek in Lebanon, and the unique niches in Hagia
Sophia that have a recess analogous to that found in typical niches, but they have
an incomparably more powerful effect and a beauty that fascinates.
Another architectural invention is the tower, which can give a building a
grandiose expression. It suffices to think of churches with a tower or of
cathedrals such as Chartres with two towers, or Speyer and Tournai with four!
As we have said, the tower is an object of great architectural possibilities not only
when it is freestanding, but also when it is immediately joined to a building. The
towers of many castles, the tower of the Palazzo Vecchio in Florence, the Torre
del Mangia in Siena, or the Belfry of the Cloth Hall in Bruges make a great
contribution to achieving a special overall effect.
In addition to the tower, the cupola is a central factor in architecture. It too
is a primal invention. This formal structure constitutes a splendid architectural
invention, above all for churches and mosques. It contains a unique expression:
from the inside, there is the spatial experience of being majestically enfolded; this
is analogous to the vault of the firmament. From the outside, it emanates a kind
of catholicity in its comprehensiveness. Its roundness also exudes a joyful
solemnity, majesty, power, and triumphal greatness. It proclaims in a unique
manner a redemptive harmony. The way in which it arches is very significant;
this can contain a high nobility. The cupola is also found in secular buildings,
and the overall conception of the architecture may indeed require it, but it has its
primary function in sacred buildings.

Sources of beauty in exterior architecture The link to physical reality [das Realthema]
It is extremely interesting to see that architecture in its form and its free
invention is bound by the physical reality of a building in a completely different
way from that in which the imitative arts are bound by nature. Architecture is
not imitative. It contains no elements of the reproduction of nature, but is
conditioned to a large extent by the physical reality of the building. In purely
external terms, it is dependent on this reality in a certain sense, and it must do
justice to the inner, deeper requirements of it. A residential house must be a
residential house. Whether or not it is artistically beautiful depends on
completely different factors. But the physical reality is a presupposition for the
architecture and for the artistic task. A residential house should not be built like
a theater. This is not only necessary for purely practical reasons; it is also
required by the cultural purpose of each type of building that is erected. Both the
exterior and the interior architecture of a building must express the specific
atmosphere and the human quality that correspond to it.
In this regard, therefore, architecture is freer than the imitative arts, since
there is no reproduction in it. And this means that architecture lacks the element
of truth that derives from the congruence with what is depicted. On the other
hand, it is bound to the physical reality of a building. The tie to reproduction is
immanent in the imitative arts. Like transposition, it is a part of the process in
which a work of art is created.
 When we speak of the individual means by which architecture shapes its
high spiritual content, we must to a large extent treat exterior and interior
architecture separately. There are doubtless many important relationships
between the two, but they are completely different aspects. Often, the exterior
architecture of a building is extraordinarily beautiful, while the interior
architecture is unimportant or definitely unbeautiful from an artistic point of
view; the reverse also occurs.
This double aspect of interior and exterior exists only in architecture. There
is nothing analogous in any other art. Naturally, this double aspect is
conditioned not by the artistic theme, but by the nature of the building. The real
building is the reason for these two different aspects. This, of course, does not
apply to all architectural structures. Bridges, city walls, and fountains do not
possess these two aspects. But in all buildings in the narrower sense of the term,
these two different aspects are present. They have important consequences for
the artistic form that is given to the architecture.
It goes without saying that an architect will plan the exterior and the interior
architecture together from the very outset, and will integrate into the overall
conception everything that occupies a position between interior and exterior
architecture, namely, the courtyards, loggias, and so on. On the one hand, the
courtyard belongs to the interior architecture, since it is surrounded by buildings.
On the other hand, it also has one element in common with the exterior
architecture, since it stands under the open sky.

The means for the realization of the artistic content

It is clear that we make no claim to give a full list of the various factors that
contribute to the constitution of the overall beauty of a building. We can only
point to central factors that serve to realize the fullness of the architectural
beauty.
There are a number of principal means available for the outside of the various
kinds of buildings: form, proportions, material, color, the surface texture. These
serve to realize the artistic content, the beauty of the building, and all the cultural
contents that characterize it.
Among the means on which the artistic beauty of a building depends, the
first is its form. We have already spoken, in our discussion of beauty in nature, of
the eminent importance that the form of a spatial structure has for its beauty.9
Apart from the primitive beauty of certain formal structures such as the circle
and the triangle, the undisturbed realization of the inherent formal principle of
rocks, hills, mountains, trees and plants of every kind, animals, and the human
body can be a special bearer of beauty.
Each of the various types of building also possesses an organic formal
principle, and failure to realize this makes the building ugly. The purely practical
requirements of a residential house, a city hall, or a theater suggest certain forms.
There is a rich gradation of beautiful forms that come into question. The outside
of a residential house can possess a noble form through its unity, but parts that
are added on inorganically deprive the overall form of its beauty.
The architectural formal principle of a church usually means that it extends
more into height and length than into breadth, but there is considerable latitude
with regard to this relationship, since the physical dimension of a church does
not dictate any one particular form. The ground plan can also be octagonal,
cruciform, or elliptic.
The general character of a building and its specific inner principle of form
entail certain architectural norms and demands. Failure to observe these
encumbers a building with an aesthetic disvalue, but it is obvious that their
realization guarantees only a very primitive beauty. Much more is needed if a
building is to be truly beautiful, and indeed to possess a beauty of the second
power.
This also depends on the form of the roof, the windows, and the doors. The
form of a window can be either noble or boring. Indeed, it can also be trivial in
some way. The same applies to the doors. Even the form of the wall of a house
often possesses a beauty of its own thanks to the way in which the line runs from
top to bottom at its corners. The downward extension can give palaces, castles,
and fortresses a special beauty.
A second principal means for the realization of the beauty of a building, in
addition to the beauty of the form of all the individual elements and of the entire
house and above all of the façade, is the proportions of the individual elements in
themselves and in relation to one another.
If the pure basic form of a building is to be the bearer of a high artistic
beauty, all the individual parts must be beautiful, and the proportions must
correspond to the inner principle of form. But most of all, a special artistic
invention is required.
This applies first and foremost to the great architectural works of art such as
the Palazzo Vecchio in Florence, the city halls in Perugia and Siena, St. Peter’s
in Rome, and the cathedrals in Chartres and Rheims. But it does not apply to
just any building that is noble but not particularly demanding.
 Things that are relatively external have an astonishing influence on whether a
building is noble or petty, on whether the atmosphere that surrounds it is
beautiful and poetic, or barren, vacuous, or indeed trivial. This is similar to a
melody, which can take on a completely different quality and become sublime or
trivial by ascending or descending. In both architecture and music, we encounter
the discrepancy between the slight changes in the bearers on the one hand, and
the height, importance, and profundity of the content that are the result of these
changes, on the other—in a word, we encounter the mystery of the qualitative
beauty of the second power that we have called (by way of a bold analogy)
sacramental beauty.
A great deal depends on the proportions of a building. For example, a roof
that is located too directly above a window has a cramping effect. However, the
importance of the proportions must never be understood in the sense of a rule
that can be formulated in general terms, such that the beauty would be assured if
one applied the rule. This is not in the least true. The proportions are always a
part of the artistic inspiration. Something that is a mistake in one case can have a
special charm in another.
A third important means is the material that is used. Naturally, much
depends on whether a building is constructed of wood, bricks, cement, or stone,
and on the type of the stone that is employed. The material belongs to the
overall composition here. Much that is artistically possible in one particular
material is impossible, that is to say, infelicitous, in another. The beauty of a
material also makes an essential contribution to the overall beauty of the
building. Travertine is an especially beautiful material that has been used in
Rome for the construction of many buildings of a lofty artistic nobility; but it
cannot in the least save a building that is poor and disastrous in its conception,
like the Palace of Justice in Rome. Indeed, the nobility of the travertine
generates a special dissonance through its contrast to the tasteless palace. The
importance of the material in architecture can to some extent be compared with
that of the instrumentation in music.
The material is so important that a building in cement can never attain the
artistic beauty of the Palazzo Farnese in Rome, the Palazzo Tolomei in Siena, or
the Palace of the Doges in Venice. And although wood is itself a much nobler
material than cement, certain boundaries are laid down in principle for a wooden
structure too. The Palazzo Vecchio in Florence or the Palazzo Venezia in Rome
would be unthinkable in wood.
Metals are not used as building materials for an entire building, but only for
certain parts, such as roofs and cupolas. Copper, which takes on an enchanting
green hue over the course of time, is an important factor in beauty, especially in
many Baroque churches and some palaces in Austria.
This brings us to a fourth important means, namely, the color of a building.
This is often given through the material, which is chosen not only because of its
structure but also because of its natural color. Certain materials, such as marble
and related stones, are found in a variety of colors, such as white, red, green, and
black. Marble of varied colors is used for the façades and outside walls of the
Romanesque churches in Pisa, Lucca, and Siena, as well as for Giotto’s
campanile and baptistery in Florence.
A fifth expressive means is the character of the surface, for example, of the
outer walls of buildings, which can be smooth or rough. They can have a
rusticated surface like the Palazzo Strozzi or the Palazzo Medici in Florence, or
they can consist of flat slabs like the outer walls of the Palazzo Rondinelli in
Florence. In addition to the form of the roof, the material that is employed and
its color contribute to the beauty of a building. There are many variations in the
form of roofs. Instead of a roof, a terrace sometimes covers a house or a palace,
as in the Palazzo Corsini in Florence.
Windows too are an important bearer of beauty. Their specific character also
gives expression to the difference between a residential house, a palace, a villa, a
castle, and a public building, to say nothing of the completely different character
of church windows. In residential houses that are not palaces, the level of
refinement of the house can often be seen in the design of the windows.
From an artistic perspective, the form of the windows is important: their
rectangular, oval, or round form, and perhaps a change of form and size in the
various stories. It is very expressive and beautiful when the windows under the
roof have a small rectangular, almost square form or, as is sometimes the case in
Baroque houses, a round or oval form. Their number also influences the overall
“face” of the building.
In residential houses, the form and color of the window shutters are not
without importance for the overall atmosphere of the building. These are often
lacking today, and this is a great disadvantage, for houses without shutters look
mundane and prosaic.
Iron latticework on the windows of villas and palaces is often particularly
beautiful. Its noble curve can give the house a specifically lordly character. And
the various ornaments that frame the windows naturally make their own
contribution to the beauty of the windows and of the entire wall of the house.
 We encounter in architecture again and again the fact that all the individual
parts that have a classical function in a building for practical reasons become the
source of a rich artistic expression. These individual classical elements that are
dictated by the physical reality of a building—such as doors, the doorway,
windows, and the roof—supply a tremendous artistic stimulus. In Vienna, the
windows of the National Library in the Josefsplatz are very beautiful, and the
various palaces built by Fischer von Erlach are very glorious. In Rome, the
windows of the Palazzo Farnese have a tremendous majesty, and the same is true
in a completely different way of the windows of the Palazzo Venezia.
A window must be more than a mere opening in a flat wall. It must be
prepared externally by an indentation in the wall, just as the bones of the eye
socket frame the eye in the face of a human being. This is an important factor
from the perspective of the beauty of the façade and the function of its windows.
Naturally, this component can be designed in many ways, in accordance with the
overall conception of each building. In some regions, such as Engadin in
Switzerland, the indentation for the windows is very pronounced, because the
walls are extremely thick as a protection against the great cold. The external
opening in the wall is much larger than the window, since the opening narrows
down through slanting walls until it reaches the window at the bottom of the
recess.
The staircases on the outside of some buildings, such as villas, and the steps
that lead up to church façades make a tremendous architectural impact. They
intensify the solemnity and the dignity of the building.

The expressive possibilities of exterior architecture

We have referred several times to the expressive possibilities of architecture, and
this prompts the question: What kind of expression is this?
Expression (in the narrower sense of this term) plays an important role in the
imitative arts. We have already investigated the relationship between the
expressed metaphysical beauty and the purely artistic beauty of the second power
that adheres mysteriously to visible and audible things in all its spiritual
quality.10 There is a particular expression in the sphere of opera and music
drama, in which the expressed metaphysical beauty is united to the purely artistic
beauty. Even in absolute music, we find expression in a broader sense of the
term. The expression found in the radiant joy of a piece of music or in the
profound, noble sadness of the adagio in Beethoven’s Harp Quartet is
unmistakable.
 It is obvious that the forms of expression in the imitative arts are not a
possibility for architecture. Architecture has indeed been called “frozen music,”
and this doubtless captures something very profound. But an expressed
metaphysical beauty, such as exists in music, seems at least at first sight not to be
found in architecture. And yet, it expresses many contents: the sacred
atmosphere in churches, or the joyfulness in festive buildings such as the
ceremonial rooms in the abbey of Ottobeuren and in many Baroque buildings. A
profound seriousness can emanate from a church. It is clear that the term
“expression” in these examples means something different from what we mean
when we speak of the expression of a face in a portrait or the expression of pride
and inflexibility in a person’s bodily posture. An expression in this sense does not
exist in architecture.
There are, however, general fundamental elements of life, fundamental
attitudes of the human person, and primal phenomena of a very general kind
that find an expression and are objectified in architecture, such as the quality of
majesty that a building possesses or the seriousness, the festive or victorious
character, the noble restraint, the intoxicating joyfulness, or the sacred holiness.
Architecture does indeed lack the expressed metaphysical beauty that is highly
important in opera and music drama, and to a certain extent also in sculpture
and painting, but we find in architecture an expression of general fundamental
tendencies and attitudes of the human being, and we encounter the mirandum
that high spiritual qualities adhere in architecture to visible objects, and indeed
to material objects, in a manner that is analogous to the way in which such
qualities adhere to the audible in music.
To build towers is a primal need of the human person, and this form is based
on a primal experience. The tower not only fulfills the practical goal of allowing
a wide view, in order to protect oneself against enemies. It also provides the
satisfaction generated by this elevation and a kind of victory against our
earthbound condition. This is why a tower is frequently also an expression of
pride. Building a tower also has its source in the primal meaning of “above” in
our life, in the sense of life that strives upward, in the dignity and the sense of
victory that lie in rising up above every other building. In the vertical extension
there is an analogy to the noblest spiritual striving upward. A tower bears a
spiritual quality of a special kind.
It is important to keep two different elements clearly separate. First of all,
there are certain primal human tendencies that are “acted out” in the designing
of buildings, tendencies that architectural structures can “express,” but this is to
use the term “expression” in a completely different sense than we have done
hitherto. This self-manifestation is an unconscious motive that leads to the
construction of many buildings, or is an expression of these motives.
Secondly, and completely differently from this, we have the spiritual qualities
that an architectural structure can bear. These are the specific fruit of artistic
activity: beauty and many other values such as greatness, nobility, victorious
splendor, profound seriousness, and sacred holiness. This is completely
analogous to what we find in pure music. Like beauty, these qualities too adhere
in a mysterious manner directly to the visible bearers. It is striking that these
qualities also occur as metaphysical beauty, but do not function in architecture as
expressed metaphysical beauty. Rather, like sacramental beauty, they appear
indirectly in a mysterious manner on the visible bearer.
The general primal tendencies that find expression in architecture have a
completely different relationship to the architectural work. They point to a
connection between architecture and certain primal human tendencies and needs
that are already expressed in the physical reality of architecture. Architecture can
contain an important analogy to these much more general basic tendencies of the
human being, just as rhythm, as a primal element of coming into existence and
occurring, finds expression in musical rhythm, or as harmony, as a primal
principle, finds expression in musical harmony.

1. Monasteries of Western Europe: The Architecture of the Orders (London: Thames & Hudson, 1993).
German original: Abendländische Klosterbaukunst (Cologne: DuMont Schauberg, 1969).
2. The balconies of modern apartment blocks are often barren and look like cages!
3. See also chap. 10 below.
4. See also chaps. 9 and 13 below.
5. Mittelalterliche Stadtbaukunst in der Toskana (Berlin: Gebr. Mann, 1953), chap. 3: “Strassen und
Plätze”: “Bestimmungen über Erker, Arkaden, Außentreppen,” pp. 110ff.
6. My father, Adolf von Hildebrand, pointed out that the center of a square is certainly not the best
place for monuments, but rather somewhere close to architecture.
7. Aesthetics, vol. 1, chap. 14.
8. See chap. 12 below.
9. See Aesthetics, vol. 1, chaps. 5 and 8.
10. See Aesthetics, vol. 1, chap. 9.
 CHAPTER NINE

How Architecture Combines with Sculpture, Mosaics,

and Frescos

UP TO THIS POINT we have explained the means by which the architect realizes
artistic beauty and the special aesthetic value qualities that correspond to the
deep human purpose and meaning of the building considered as a real thing.
These means are of a monumental kind. But the decorative too is in the highest
sense of the term an essential factor in architecture.
The word “decorative” sounds unserious in many people’s ears. They think of
ornaments, of something that is almost playful. This, however, is wrong. The
monumental and the decorative are two essential factors in architecture. The
decorative is a central bearer of beauty. It is closely linked to the monumental
and belongs to it. The basic quality indicated by the term “decorative” has a kind
of analogy in music, for example, in the variations that (as is well known) are to
be found in the most sublime passages such as Beethoven’s Piano Sonatas, op.
109 and 111, or in the third movement of his ninth symphony.
This is why we wish to point to some very important decorative elements in
both interior and exterior architecture. These include the ornaments on portals
and windows. Another extremely important decorative element is the rosette as a
window over the portal of a church or in various positions in other buildings,
such as the marvelous rosettes on the Orsanmichele palace. It is true that the
lower part of this building, originally a place for storing corn, is now a church;
but these various rosettes do not have the same function as the rosettes we see
above the portals of innumerable churches. These round openings filled with
filigree on Orsanmichele are not rosettes in the full sense. In all its forms, a
rosette can contribute an important intensification of the beauty of a building.
The decorative element is even more pronounced in Gothic and Baroque
architecture. Towers are given a filigree structure, and roofs display many
decorative elements. It is interesting to note that in Gothic architecture, the
decorative element even penetrates the monumental, for example, by means of
the filigree in the monumental parts. This entails a risk, however, as the exterior
of the cathedral in Milan shows.
In Baroque architecture, the decorative element likewise penetrates the
monumental in the volutes, in the strongly decorative, curved style. The volutes
on the façades give the buildings a unique animation in comparison with the
static monumental character of Romanesque. The curved forms in Baroque tell
us a great deal about the importance of the decorative element.
Another important decorative element—always taking “decorative” in the
highest sense of the word—is the mosaics on many church façades. They belong
in themselves to the realm of painting, of the imitative arts, since they contain a
representation.
In one regard, it appears completely wrong to present mosaics in exterior
architecture as a decorative element. As a depiction of the highest religious
contents, they are almost always explicitly thematic. The massive mosaic on the
façade of San Frediano in Lucca can scarcely be called decorative, not even in the
highest sense of the term.
When architecture is combined with sculpture and painting, these can
possess a decorative, purely ancillary function. But this certainly need not be the
case. The combination can have the character of a “marriage” in which it is the
sculpture, the fresco, or the mosaic that is the principal theme. It is only a certain
type of sculpture that fulfills a decorative function in architecture, namely, the
sculpture that, detached from architecture, would not be sufficiently substantial
to be able to survive on its own; but in its decorative, ancillary function it can
make a considerable contribution to the beauty and the atmosphere of the
building.
In other combinations of architecture with frescos and sculptures, these latter
have their own fully thematic character independently of the architecture. This
means that they must possess a much higher artistic importance in order to be
able to survive artistically on their own.
Finally, the sculpture or the fresco1 can in fact be the real theme, despite the
fact that it is located in a building that was conceived for it and that was created
by the same artist.
Many statues on the roofs of Baroque palaces in Vienna have a typically
decorative character. This applies likewise to the two greyhounds on the portal
of a palace in the Grünangergasse in Vienna, but not to the tombs of the
Medicis in the Capella Medici in San Lorenzo in Florence. These tombs are the
absolutely primary theme, although they are attached organically to the chapel in
which Michelangelo’s Madonna stands on the glorious altar between two saints.
The same is true of Giotto’s frescos in the Scrovegni Chapel in Padua.
Brunelleschi’s wonderful crucifix and the frescos by Orcagna, both in Santa
Maria Novella in Florence, are not decorative. They have their own theme. On
the other hand, this theme does not dominate the architectural form of the
church. They are combined organically with the architecture and enrich its
beauty. But this does not give the sculpture and the painting a decorative
character, nor does the architecture primarily constitute a framework for them, as
is the case, for example, with the Medici Chapel of the Palazzo Medici-Riccardi
in Florence and the frescos of Benozzo Gozzoli.
The same distinction must be drawn with regard to mosaics. The mosaic on
the façade of San Frediano in Lucca does not have a decorative character. The
mosaics on the façade of San Marco in Venice do, however, have a decorative
character, unlike the mosaics in the narthex.
The combination with sculptures is of course much more important for
exterior architecture than the combination with frescos or mosaics. We have in
mind here the decorative function of the sculptures on the façade of churches
and Baroque palaces, whether these are statues or goblins and gargoyles serving
as waterspouts on the roofs of Gothic cathedrals.
The statues on the portals of Chartres, Rheims, and Bamberg, and the figure
on the Synagogue on the Minster in Strasbourg, on the other hand, constitute a
full theme in themselves and possess a high artistic beauty. They are united to
the glorious architecture. In this combination, both arts are completely thematic.
The one does not serve the other; rather, both work fully together.
Not only does architecture supply the normal framework for this sculpture; a
mutual enhancement and enrichment is generated by the combination of the
two. Sometimes the sculpture has a decorative function, and sometimes, as in
some fountains, the sculpture is itself the principal theme. But the primary
importance belongs to the working together of architecture and sculpture in one
and the same theme; here the comparison with a happy marriage is appropriate.
These masterworks of sculpture possess in themselves a high artistic beauty, but
they also gain something through the architectural surroundings that are
required for them. If they were detached from the building and displayed in a
museum, something of the beauty that they possess in their present location
would be lost, and the architecture too would be deprived of an essential factor
that determines the overall beauty of the cathedral when it is seen from the
outside.
 This applies above all to the reliefs of the ancient temples. One of the
greatest works of sculpture of all times, perhaps the high point of all reliefs, is
the relief on the Parthenon under the gable above the entrance. This relief is a
full artistic theme in itself. It certainly has no purely ancillary function for the
architecture; still less is it purely decorative. Its beauty is nonetheless intensified
by the fact that it is located above the entrance to the matchless architectural
masterwork that is the Parthenon. It forms a unity with the Parthenon. The
Parthenon as a whole belongs to this relief as its background. In a museum, the
relief would indeed retain its ultimate poetry, its incomparable, victorious
greatness and depth, but it would be robbed of a special splendor that is
bestowed on it by this truly unique position. And its removal would certainly be
a great loss for the Parthenon. Something analogous applies to many statues that
were located at and in the ancient temples.
The joining of architecture and sculpture in the ancient temple is perhaps
especially instructive, because both arts achieved an overall effect in unique
highpoints. They are utterly autonomous, and yet they form an organic whole as
they enhance each other. In one regard, the joining of architecture and sculpture
forms a greater unity in cathedrals, where it is even less possible to remove the
statues without impairment to both.
The situation is different with regard to masks. These are in themselves
sculptures, but they are always a decorative element in the service of architecture.
In the case of bridges, it is clearly certain purely monumental factors—the
way in which their individual arches curve and the form of their supporting
pillars—that are decisive for their beauty. Another important factor is the
material of which they are constructed. The decorative element, in the highest
sense of this word, is often richly developed. Ornaments of every kind and
decorative figures set their specific stamp upon bridges, such as the Baroque
bridge that leads over the Tiber to Castel Sant’Angelo in Rome, or the glorious
Charles Bridge in Prague with its statues of many saints and two kings.
The working together of architecture and sculpture is even more prominent
in fountains than in the case of bridges. It is rare to find a fountain devoid of all
sculpture, which indeed often occupies a very prominent place.
This does not mean that the sculpture makes its appearance as sculpture, as
happens in an equestrian monument in which the architecture is often merely a
pedestal for the statue. The equestrian statues of Colleoni in Venice, of
Gattamelata in Padua, and of Marcus Aurelius on the Capitol in Rome are
primarily pure works of sculpture. Their link to architecture arises principally
through the situation, through the square on which they stand, and through the
buildings that surround them.
It is usually impossible to separate the figures on a fountain from the overall
architectural structure of the fountain. This applies, for example, to the Neptune
on Giambologna’s fountain in Bologna and to the smaller female figures.
Although the figures play the main role, they are not autonomous sculptures like
an equestrian monument. There are of course innumerable variations here in the
different kinds of fountains. The glorious Trevi Fountain in Rome displays in a
unique manner the essence of water in its joyful, effervescent power. Its sculpture
occupies a prominent place. Mythical figures, horses, animals, and even trees in a
vivid reproduction stand alongside the massive rocks, and yet the sculpture as a
whole is decorative: it only serves the overall form of this fountain. On the other
hand, the group of the Tortoise Fountain in Rome is an autonomous sculptural
structure, although it was conceived as a sculpture for a fountain. The figures in
the niches in Adolf von Hildebrand’s Hubertus Fountain in Munich are certainly
not decorative. Although they have an important function for this explicitly
architectural fountain, they are completely figures in their own right.

1. See chaps. 4 and 23.

 CHAPTER TEN

Interior Architecture

WHEN WE STUDY interior architecture, we become once again aware of the

indescribable richness of the artistic beauty that architecture offers. It is
important to note that interior architecture too fully belongs to the reality we
inhabit, and that what we have said about the relationship of architecture to
history also applies to interior architecture. This is true above all of its
outstanding ability to irradiate a “world.”
The practical real theme of architecture shows itself above all in interior
architecture. We shall now analyze the way in which this takes artistic shape.

The spatial experience of being encompassed [Umfangensein]

We began our remarks in chapter 6 by stating that it is architecture that creates
the human space. This is above all true of interior architecture. The beautiful
interior of a church or of a noble room in a palace, or a room in a residential
house, encompasses us in a way that makes us happy.
When we speak of “spatial experience,” we mean the primordial datum of
being encompassed by a self-contained space that as such possesses a profound
content. An important, indeed decisive, factor for this experience is being
received into a space, as well as the festiveness and beauty or the intimacy of this
space qua space. It is obvious that the mere fact of a space that surrounds us does
not suffice to guarantee a genuine spatial experience. A specific artistic shaping
of this space is required in order to realize the spiritual beauty that is contained
in the space as such.
We must draw a distinction between the artistic beauty of the space and the
aesthetic value of being encompassed, the primordial experience of human space.
We do not encounter this new architectural dimension in the same way in the
exterior architecture. The spatial experience is given not only when we walk
around in a space, but also when we look at it, for example, when we stand at the
door of a beautiful living room or look into the interior of a church from the
main entrance. What unique beauty there is in the interior of San Marco in
Venice, of Hagia Sophia in Constantinople, of St. Stephen’s Cathedral in
Vienna, or of the hall of the National Library in Vienna!
Some primordial inventions of the architectural art can make their full
impact only in the interior. We have already mentioned some of these, such as
the column. As we have said, the columns in Greek temples attain an
incomparable glory.
The corridor is an architectural invention that belongs purely to interior
architecture. We often find extremely long corridors in palaces, villas, and public
buildings, but above all in monasteries. These corridors are bordered by walls,
windows, doors, and a flat or arched ceiling. A barrel vault or a cross vault can be
very beautiful. These corridors often have an atmosphere that is all their own.

The interior of a residential house

But let us begin with the residential house. Not only the shaping of an individual
room, but even the entire structure of the house, the division into rooms and
their relationship to one another, the entrance, the staircase, the form of the
windows, and many other elements can be misguided, unsatisfactory, and
prosaic. But they can also be beautiful, a source of happiness, and poetic. We
must therefore draw a distinction between two different bearers of the artistic
value or disvalue: the individual rooms as such and the interior of the house as a
whole.
The shaping of the entry to a house or an apartment, whether it be a
vestibule, a hallway, or a corridor, already influences the quality of the interior
architecture. Other factors in the beauty of a residential house are the division
into rooms and the form of the staircase, which can be very beautiful, but also
ugly. Staircases in palaces and public buildings often possess an extraordinarily
festive character and an enchanting nobility. It is true that staircases can be
bearers of great beauty on the façade of a house, and even more so when they are
on the façade of a palace; but a staircase in the interior of a house serves a
different architectural purpose.
In the individual rooms of a residential house, the relationship between
length, breadth, and height, the proportions of the windows and doors, and their
type and size are also important means for achieving their beauty. The ceilings
and floors in a room are also important elements. A ceiling and floor of stone, or
a noble parquet floor, can make a great contribution to the beauty of a room.
The kind of light that suffuses the rooms is also very important.
One specific feature of interior architecture is the furniture that corresponds
to the use for which a room is designed. These belong to the realm of the
applied arts, for which interior architecture offers many opportunities. From the
artistic perspective, the beauty of the furniture, carpets, curtains, wall hangings,
and so on has a very great influence on the overall beauty of a residential house.
The practical real theme of this building demands that it be furnished. An
unfurnished house is something incomplete and empty. It needs to be
complemented by objects of the applied arts.1 There is a collaboration (in the
broadest sense of this term) between interior architecture and the applied arts
that is analogous to the collaboration of various artistic genres.
The other types of interior architecture, such as the rooms in public
buildings, do not have the same urgent need to be complemented by furniture.
In churches, this need is more or less absent.
If a residential house is furnished in a tasteless manner, this can gravely
impair its beauty and destroy the noble atmosphere that fills a beautiful house.
On the other hand, furnishing that is congenial to the architectural character
elevates the beauty of the entire interior.
Another medium that influences the beauty of an interior space is the color
of the walls and the ceiling, in addition to the color of the floor, the furnishings,
the curtains, and so on. The overall beauty can be greatly intensified not only by
the colors of each of these elements on their own, but also by their harmony with
all the other colors in the room. How glorious is the dark, almost black hue of
some Italian furniture! How marvelous is the color of some curtains, of red
damask, for example, that ennobles an entire room!
Naturally, the material too makes a contribution to the beauty of a room,
especially the material that is used for the furnishings in the widest sense, for
example, the wood of the furniture and the kind of fabrics that are used, such as
damask, silk, velvet, or tulle.
The overall beauty of a room is significantly heightened by pictures and
sculptures. It is true that their principal theme is their beauty in itself, not their
function for the design of an interior space. But since they can be an important
factor for the beauty of a room as a whole, we must mention them here,
although they are not an architectural contribution to this beauty.
Let me point out, however, that the beautiful picture in a living room ought
not to be a work of art of ultimate greatness. None of the following paintings
would be appropriate to such a space: Titian’s Bacchus and Ariadne, Sacred and
Profane Love, or his portrait of the Young Englishman with the blue eyes;
Giorgione’s Pastoral Concert; or Rembrandt’s Jewish Bride. If the picture is of
such power and greatness that it must be the principal theme, so that the room
in which it hangs ought only to serve the picture, it no longer fulfills a
complementary function for the room. It is a very interesting problem to
determine from what degree of greatness a picture excludes this collaborative,
complementary function for the beauty of a room.
More modest works (for example, many of the ancestral portraits in castles)
and even important works can be a marvelous adornment for a living room or a
parlor. Very beautiful pictures of this kind usually determine the atmosphere of
the entire room and are a decisive heightening of its beauty.
If the picture is an exceptionally important work of art and lays claim to
constitute the principal theme, however, the room just offers the opportunity to
look at the picture in an appropriate manner. In that case, the picture can no
longer be regarded as an important contribution to the beauty of the interior
architecture. The same applies by analogy to sculptures in a living room.
The situation is completely different in the case of palaces, public buildings,
and above all churches.

Public buildings and their rooms

Let us now turn briefly to the interior architecture of public buildings. The
practical theme prescribes certain rules for the design of the various types of
public buildings such as a town hall, a parliament, schools, universities, libraries,
hospitals, museums, theaters, or the residences of local secular and ecclesiastical
rulers. A town hall needs rooms and large spaces, and one or more meeting
rooms. Similarly, a government ministry requires that its rooms be arranged in a
particular manner. Schools need many rooms for various purposes. The theater
needs one large room that is structured in a particular way, and many other
spaces.
These buildings also have a higher, non-artistic theme. “Public,” “private,”
and “intimate” are qualities that are important above all in interior architecture.
Palaces are neither specifically intimate nor public; they bear a festive character,
and magnificence and splendor belong to their cultural theme. The specific
nature of this theme makes corresponding demands of the artistic design. It
would be extremely interesting to investigate the question of the requirements
made on the artistic design by the spirit of the various types of building, but this
would take us too far afield here.
Some rooms are enchantingly beautiful in their very form, and they give us a
unique experience of space. Rooms in public buildings can be grandiose and
overwhelming, or academic and boring. Once again, the form of the windows
and doors, their relationship to the room as a whole, and the type of ceiling and
floor all play a decisive role. Imposing a special structure on a room, for example,
by means of columns, usually heightens the beauty of the whole.
The first question with regard to the ceiling, whether it is flat or arched, is
how its form fits the rest of the room. In general, the decorative element has a
more important position in public buildings than in a residential house, while
the furnishings are less important. But in public buildings the material of the
floor, of the walls, of the tapestries and carpets, and the combination of colors
unfolds their full effect. A large room in palaces, town houses, and similar public
buildings is meant to be a showpiece. Since such rooms are intended to be used
for feasts, public assemblies, and important social acts such as the signing of
treaties, splendor belongs to their spiritual theme.
There can be very great differences in the atmosphere of the interior rooms
of palaces and public buildings. Romanesque and Gothic interiors irradiate a
serious, recollected world, an invitation to a habitare secum (“to dwell with one’s
own self”), and an austere solemnity. The decorative element can scarcely be seen
in these interiors. But in the great Baroque rooms there is a joyful splendor, an
overflowing richness, such as the festal chamber of the abbey of Ottobeuren or of
the National Library in Vienna. These invite one, not to relax and “let oneself
go,” but rather to make an elegant appearance in distinguished dress. The
decorative element unfolds in all its fullness. The quality of festiveness, of
making a display, is fully developed.
Palaces and public buildings offer many opportunities for collaboration
between sculpture and painting (including frescos) not only in the interior
architecture of the Middle Ages, but just as much in that of the Renaissance and
the Baroque, Rococo, and Empire periods. Great works of art often suit these
spaces well, but they make certain demands, and this means that the theme
shifts. The fresco or picture becomes the main thing. The mirandum takes first
place, as in the Vatican stanze with Raphael’s frescos or the Palace of the Doges
with the huge oil painting by Tintoretto.

Churches
We now turn to sacred space and above all to churches, in which the interior
space attains its highest possibility of expression and its greatest importance as
space.
It suffices to think of a church like San Marco in Venice, Sant’Ambrogio in
Milan, or Santa Croce in Florence, or a cathedral like Chartres, Bourges, and
Rheims, St. Stephen’s in Vienna, St. Peter’s in Rome, or St Peter’s in Salzburg,
in order to apprehend the importance that these sacred spaces possess (in spite of
all the great differences among them). The space as such irradiates a unique
beauty and a sacred atmosphere thanks to its artistic style. We should not forget
in this context that being secluded from the rest of the world and being taken up
into a space that is clearly separate from all other rooms has a certain importance
for the sacred atmosphere, and this for two reasons. First, so to speak, we step
out of the world that surrounds us and enter a house of God. The world sinks
away, and we are taken up into a completely different dimension. Secondly, the
fact of being encompassed by this space offers a special occasion for the
unfolding of the sacred. Its separation from all that is profane is what is capable
of creating this atmosphere, together with many other factors that the sacred
requires.
The means employed by the architect in order to give the interior of a church
a beautiful and sacred design are, once again, the forms, the proportions, the
materials, and the colors. But as with exterior architecture, the reason why he
succeeds in achieving a true artistic beauty of the interior and in bringing about a
sacred atmosphere remains a great mystery, the mystery of the artist. All we can
do is to note the factors that are involved; we cannot state why they determine a
lofty beauty and sacrality, or the lack of beauty and sacrality. In general terms, we
can certainly define the sources of errors that must be avoided, but even if they
are avoided, there is no guarantee of full beauty and true sacrality. We must
repeat this observation again and again, in order to set out clearly both the task
of aesthetics and its limits.

Principal factors of the interior architecture of churches

In this section, we shall only indicate the various principal factors of interior
architecture that are involved in the design of a church. When we enter through
the main door of many churches, the view of the interior offers a marvelous
beauty. The overall view of the interior, of the whole length of the nave and the
flanking aisles, of the columns and the altars, can be overwhelmingly beautiful.
Examples are the cathedral of St. Stephen in Vienna, Santa Maria Novella and
San Miniato in Florence, or the cathedrals of Orvieto and Amiens. But the
transverse view too is often delightful. There is splendor in a great wall that is
supported by relatively small columns, as in Santa Maria in Cosmedin in Rome
or in Sant’Andrea in Carrara.
 We are continually astonished by the wealth of artistic expressive qualities
that determine the form given to a space. The interior of a church can be filled
by a lofty nobility, an explicit greatness and solemnity. Examples are Hagia
Sophia in Constantinople, San Zeno in Verona, and Santa Croce in Florence.
The space as such possesses great beauty in Santa Maria in Cosmedin or in the
cathedral in Parma.
We have already mentioned columns, a grandiose architectural invention,
and their lofty beauty. Columns have an outstanding importance in many
churches too, but with a function that is completely different from their function
in an ancient temple. First of all, the column is usually linked to another
primordial invention, namely, the arch. Secondly, the columns do not support
the roof. And thirdly, the central nave between the rows of columns is the most
important space. Even in the side aisles, the space framed by columns is always
of greater importance.
Naturally, there are churches with a boring and academic interior, such as we
find in many a Baroque church in certain smaller Italian cities. These form a
contrast to the interior of the glorious Baroque churches in Rome and Venice,
and, of course, above all in Austria and southern Germany.
There is an extraordinarily rich variety of columns, thanks to their height,
their relationship to the overall space, their form, their color, their material, the
way in which they are elaborated, and their capitals. Additional factors are round
and pointed arches; the difference between these two gives rise to an important
difference in aesthetic quality. In Romanesque and Gothic churches, the
columns that are linked by arches have a high expressive power. What solemnity
and greatness, what strength and nobility they can bestow on the interior of a
church! Examples are the churches of Santi Apostoli and San Miniato in
Florence, the cathedral of Chartres, the apse of St. Sernin in Toulouse, and the
cathedrals of Parma and Modena. The short columns with the round arches and
the long, flat wall that these support in Santa Maria in Cosmedin in Rome and
Sant’Andrea in Carrara are also beautiful. The columns in St. Paul Outside the
Walls must have been truly glorious before the church burned down. Their
present state after the restoration allows us only to guess at this.
There are various possibilities for the columns in a church, whether in a
basilica like Sant’Apollinare in Classe outside Ravenna, in a Romanesque church
like Sant’Ambrogio in Milan, or in a Gothic church like Santa Croce in Florence
and St. Stephen’s cathedral in Vienna.
In St. Stephen’s, the Baroque altars that are attached to the Gothic columns
have a particular charm. They are an interesting example of something that often
succeeds, namely, the happy union of different kinds of style.
Romanesque churches, especially in Italy, are often ruined by an uninspired
Baroque interior. One example is the cathedral in Assisi, which has a uniquely
beautiful façade and a marvelous tower. But inside the church is artistically
conventional and weak. One must ask, however, whether the style is responsible
for the lack of beauty in this particular interior, or whether the reason is its
architectural weakness as such. Would not this dissonance exist even if the
interior were furnished in glorious Baroque? Here we may recall Saint Peter’s in
Salzburg, a uniquely beautiful church in which the Romanesque architecture
unites in an outstanding manner with the Baroque-Rococo interior. Something
similar is found in the monastery church in Rottenbuch to the south of the
Ammersee, near the pilgrimage church in Wies.
Let us now mention various ways in which architectural styles are united to
one another. We frequently find the transition from the Romanesque to the
Gothic style, especially in many of the French cathedrals, in an organic
juxtaposition that in no way impairs the beauty of the whole. In the Baroque
furnishing of a Romanesque or Gothic church, the latter styles can form, as it
were, a foundation that bears the Baroque interior. The Romanesque or Gothic
foundation shares in this special beauty, as in St. Peter’s in Salzburg.
In a purely Gothic church, we sometimes also find Baroque elements with a
decorative function. These are an important enhancement of the beauty of the
whole church, as in St. Stephen’s in Vienna.
The collaboration of the styles in the Franciscan church in Salzburg is
completely different. Here one enters in a Romanesque church and then steps
into a Gothic space, so to speak. Finally, one reaches a grandiose Baroque space.
Whether the collocation of different styles brings forth a beautiful result or an
artistic dissonance always depends on the inspiration and the profound artistic
sensibility of the architect. This architectural problem consists in adding on and
employing other styles, not in the invention of a completely new kind of
building. Stylistic unity is not in itself a sufficient guarantee of artistic beauty,
and the combination of various styles certainly does not necessarily constitute an
architectural error.
The ceiling naturally occupies a decisive place in the design of the room. The
ceiling of a church can be formed beautifully, but also disastrously. Among the
many kinds of ceilings, we mention the flat ceiling with wooden beams in
basilicas such as San Lorenzo in Florence or St. Mary Major in Rome; the
vaulted ceiling in the barrel vault or cross vault of many Romanesque and Gothic
churches; and the ceilings that depict the interior of a cupola. This completely
new form of vaulting gives an indescribable spatial experience. When one stands
under the cupola in the cathedral in Florence, for example, one has a unique
spatial experience of being lifted upward. The many cupola vaults of San Marco
in Venice, which form the ceiling of the church, are unique. They give the
overall space an incomparable beauty.
The many cupola vaults in San Marco are linked to another sublime factor,
namely, the mosaic. This is indeed also found in exterior architecture, but the
true home of the mosaic is the church interior. The funeral monument of Galla
Placidia in Ravenna exemplifies clearly the beauty that a mosaic can have in
itself. In addition to its own beauty, it is a bearer of beauty in collaboration with
the architecture. It can bestow a lofty, sacral solemnity on the whole church
when it is located above the altar in the apse, as in the mosaic that depicts the
figure of Christ in the cathedral of Cefalù in Sicily. Mosaics can also portray a
series of figures and occupy entire walls in a church, as in the glorious San Vitale
in Ravenna. They cover the entire interior of the indescribable baptistery of San
Giovanni in Florence. What a unity is achieved here! What a solemnity they
bestow precisely on this church and on San Marco in Venice!
Another important bearer of beauty in many medieval churches, especially in
late Romanesque and Gothic churches, is the church window. This is
characterized by a specific kind of representation that differs from the fresco, the
picture, or the mosaic. The principal role is played by its colors, both by the
individual color in itself and by the combination of colors. Church windows
come into their own only in the interior architecture. From the outside, they
usually look dark and gloomy; it is from within that they unfold a great
splendor.2
They belong by their very being to the interior architecture of the church.
They are dedicated to the sacred world of the church. In the church window, as
in the mosaic, a certain stylization is the norm; but less stylized church windows,
like those by Rubens in the collegiate church of St. Michel and St. Gudule in
Brussels, also have a great beauty. Apart from the beauty that church windows
possess in themselves, as in Chartres, they make an essential contribution to the
sacred atmosphere, which in turn can be the bearer of a sublime beauty. The
expressed metaphysical beauty of the sacred is a decisive element here, but this
beauty too has gone through the artistic transposition.
The sacred atmosphere of a church is required by the first theme of
architecture; not indeed by the practical theme, but by the spiritual real theme.
An unsacred church can indeed be beautiful, but as a church it has missed the
point, and this means a decisive artistic imperfection.
A new artistic task of interior architecture is the designing of the principal
altar and the side altars. In Catholic churches, the altar is dominated by an
important real theme: the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass is offered on it. This is the
most sublime meaning of a church, the high point of divine worship, the raison
d’être of the church building. The altar is the center of Catholic churches. The
reasons for its artistic beauty are, as always, of a purely architectural nature. But
the demand made by the spiritual real theme must also be met, namely, the
specifically solemn, sacred atmosphere, indeed, the atmosphere of mystery. Two
very different aspects are involved in forming this atmosphere: the ascetical
concentration on the invisible mystery, and the glorification of God through
Christ’s sacrifice on the Cross. Many possibilities of an artistic kind are available
to both of these aspects, in order to do justice to this theme—to the extent that
it is at all possible to speak here of “doing justice.”
Rich possibilities are offered not only by the altar in the narrowest sense of
the term, but also by the sanctuary as a whole. How much precious material,
how much ornamentation of every kind has been employed for this purpose!
The tabernacle is a special object. Once again, there is an immeasurable
distance between the lofty, sacred beauty that it can possess and the Body of
Christ that is reserved in the tabernacle. In the present context, we wish only to
mention the variegated artistic beauty that has taken shape in the form and in
the decorative ornamentation of tabernacles.
The pulpit and the staircase that leads up to it are often a bearer of great
beauty, thanks both to the form of the pulpit and to its ornaments and reliefs.
Like the pulpit, the ambos in many basilicas and early Christian churches, one
for the proclamation of the Epistle and the other for the proclamation of the
Gospel, not only possess great beauty in themselves, but also are an enrichment
of the overall beauty. The ambos are often made of gloriously colored marble.
They usually form a unity with the sanctuary and intensify its beauty.
In some churches, the view from the apse backward and up to the organ loft
and to the organ itself is extraordinarily beautiful, especially in collaboration with
the overall architecture of the church’s space. This is often the case with the
glorious Baroque organs in Austria and southern Germany, for example, in
Ettal.
Choir stalls are a counterpart to the furniture in living rooms. They do not
belong to architecture in the strict sense. Something similar holds for
confessionals. Like choir stalls, they often have an exquisite beauty in their form,
their color, and their material, especially in Baroque churches, and they make a
contribution to the overall beauty of the interior. Both of these can be congenial
to the church interior or complement it, for example, when they themselves are
Baroque, but the church is Romanesque or Gothic.
The pews are another analogy to the furniture in living rooms. The
importance of their aesthetic values for the beauty of the church interior is
relatively slight. They can be absent without impairing the beauty, whereas an
unfurnished living room is “empty.”

Sacristy and cloistered courtyard

The sacristy, in which the priest puts on his vestments and in which everything
required for church service is prepared and kept, also belongs to the practical real
theme of a church. Although the form of this room, its ceiling, the cupboards
along the walls, and often an altar can be artistically insignificant, they frequently
possess great beauty. One of the most beautiful sacristies, an architectural jewel,
is that of the abbey church in Ettal. In this sacristy, one can study the factors
that contribute to this beauty. Another sacristy that is even more important from
the monumental architectural perspective is that of San Lorenzo in Florence.
Let me briefly mention an architectural structure that can be, and often is, a
bearer of great beauty: the cloistered courtyard. It has a place all its own in
interior architecture. On the one hand, it is definitely an interior space. In order
to be able to see it, one must “go in.” As long as one is on the street and looks at
the monastery from the outside, the cloistered courtyard remains invisible. It
possesses the intimate quality of interior architecture and its spatial experience,
namely, an experience of being encompassed, of finding oneself in a space.
On the other hand, the cloistered courtyard (unlike the rest of interior
architecture) lacks one dimension of the spatial experience: it is not closed off at
the top. Usually, a part of it is open, and this is of course a decisive difference. In
one sense, one is in the open air. The relationship to light and to the weather is
completely different.
The cloistered courtyard offers unusually rich possibilities for the unfolding
of the beauty of columns, arches, and vaults in its covered part. Examples are the
cloister of St. Trophime in Arles, the Gothic cloistered courtyard in the
collegiate church of Sant’Orso in Aosta, or in Santa Croce in Florence, the
various cloistered courtyards designed by Brunelleschi, the cloistered courtyard of
San Francesco in Assisi, that in Monreale in Sicily or of San Giovanni degli
Eremiti in Palermo. These open up to us a whole world of glorious architectural
inventions. A delightful fountain often heightens the poetical atmosphere of the
cloistered courtyard.
These courtyards have a practical real theme. They offer the monks the
possibility of recreation in a space where they can walk around. The spiritual real
theme is the union of contemplation with nature, and the preservation of the
monks’ separation from the world. A particular emphasis lies on the seclusion of
the monastery and on its having its own world. This is expressed precisely in the
union of the open sky and the seclusion from the outer world. From the aesthetic
perspective, the interesting point is the variety of factors that build up a structure
of such beauty.

1. The glorious Renaissance stoves, and especially the majolica stoves of the Baroque period, belong to
the furnishings, but a fireplace is a part of the interior architecture.
2. Goethe expresses something similar in one of his poems: “Poems are painted windowpanes!”
 CHAPTER ELEVEN

The Beauty of a City as a Whole

WE HAVE SPOKEN about the beauty of buildings of very various kinds, about
fountains, bridges, streets, and squares, and about the beauty of the second
power, the sublime spiritual beauty that all these can possess.

The individual face of a city

In addition to the architectural bearers of beauty that we have mentioned, a city
as a whole can constitute a glorious symphony. The interior aspect of some cities
offers a sequence of ever new surprises. This aspect unfolds before our spirit
when we walk around in these cities. Sometimes, indeed, cities possess a unified
overall atmosphere, that is to say, a genuine individuality.
What an individual face a city like Siena has! The specific atmosphere of this
city wafts around us. What nobility, what poetry this overall face has, when it is
seen from within! If we compare with Siena a city like Bruges, we see that its
interior aspect is likewise very beautiful. But it has a radically different
individuality! Cities can contain a whole world of beauty and have a spiritual
style of their own, to which their history too makes an important contribution.
How everything in Assisi speaks of Saint Francis! How his spirit is alive in the
architecture of this city that has such a wealth of beautiful palaces and churches!
The beauty of the interior aspect that unfolds before us as we walk through a
city from square to square, from street to street, is found not only in smaller
cities but also in larger cities and even in big cities. Venice possesses a unique
individuality in its intoxicating beauty. The fact that this city is built on 123
islands, and is mostly traversed by canals rather than by streets, suffices to give it
a unique character. What unity the atmosphere has! What an utterly
extraordinary beauty, what nobility, what depth do we encounter in this city!
Florence has a similarly unified atmosphere. A glorious world surrounds us
when we go down the Via Maggio to the Ponte Santa Trinità, then through the
Via del Tornabuoni or the Lungarno to the Ponte Vecchio, and from there to
the Piazza della Signoria and on to the Piazza del Duomo. We begin by being
overwhelmed already in the Via Maggio by the sheer number of beautiful
palaces, and then by buildings of the highest and indeed ultimate beauty like the
Palazzo Vecchio, Orsanmichele, the baptistery of San Giovanni, and finally the
Campanile and the cathedral, Santa Maria del Fiore, with Brunelleschi’s cupola.
Is such an accumulation of great architecture possible?
Each of these buildings, taken on its own, speaks an ultimately valid word.
The whole is permeated by an atmosphere that is constituted as a reality of its
own, despite the individual character of the most important buildings and the
difference of styles. This reality is the bearer of a lofty beauty, namely, the
specific world of Florence with its mysterious unity and harmony.
There is a strong contrast to this in Rome, where a “holy” disorder reigns, a
variety that never ceases to surprise us. Here we have in mind Rome before the
First World War, a city with a world all its own, a world that from another
perspective is just as unique as Venice. The core of the city as a whole bears the
stamp of a tremendous universality, the character that belongs to the center of
the world. This universality is the bearer of a special beauty.
Rome’s buildings also have the character of fulfillment. They present
themselves like a symphony by Beethoven; not as a symphony, however, but as
the symphony as such. It is clear that the influence of history on the atmosphere
of a city reaches its high point here. The greatness, the universality, the
consciousness of being in the center of the world: all this generates an
atmosphere that is the absolute antithesis to everything that is provincial or
local-bourgeois. This atmosphere is indeed grounded in the type of architecture
and in the overall structure of the city, but the highly important stamp of history
is an additional factor to this visibly given world. There is a deep qualitative
relatedness between the atmosphere that is grounded in the architecture and the
atmosphere that derives from history.
As the seat of the head of the Catholic Church, Rome is profoundly marked
by the religious world. This preeminence of Rome in relation to the entire world
has also formed its soul, and it finds an unambiguous expression in its visible
face.
These various elements make a wholly legitimate contribution to the special
beauty of Rome. The mere knowledge of the existence of its beautiful palaces,
churches, and buildings plays a role even when one does not see these from the
place where one is standing at the moment. This knowledge is highly important
for the full reality of the world of Rome. One aspect of Rome’s glory and the
reality of its splendid overall atmosphere is the fact that we stand on the Capitol
and know about the beauty of the Palazzo Farnese, Ponte Sant’Angelo, St.
Peter’s, and the Piazza del Popolo, even though we cannot see these from the
Capitol.
There is an analogy in music to this contribution made by mere knowledge.
There is an important link between the beauty of the first movement of a
symphony and the beauty of its second movement, although the first movement
is no longer perceived when the second movement is played. If we hold fast in
our spirit to the quality and specific character of this first movement, this suffices
to let us experience its influence on the beauty of the second movement. This is
of course only an analogy, since the totality of the symphony constitutes a unity
in a more explicit, intentional, and marked manner than a big city in its interior
aspect. But this analogy suffices to shed light on the legitimate artistic function
of that which is held fast only in the spirit and is no longer perceived directly.
In addition to the number of beautiful buildings and squares, the beauty of a
city as a whole depends on whether the individual beautiful buildings unite
organically to form an overall picture, on whether the city as a whole has a
distinct face in its interior aspect. This does not mean that a city must be based
on a definite overall composition of an artist, or that the overall aspect is the
result of a conscious architectural composition. A beautiful city can also have
grown organically. This dimension of beauty occurs much more frequently in
small cities than in big ones. It is scarcely possible in megacities with millions of
inhabitants.
Let me also mention how strongly the overall beauty of a city can be
impaired by tasteless or soulless buildings with a uniform anonymity. The
damage is already great when one single tasteless or soulless building, full of
deadly neutrality, has sneaked its way into a square that is framed by glorious
buildings. If whole quarters of a city are architectural kitsch or architectural
“cemeteries,” however, this gravely impairs the overall beauty of the city. As a
whole such a city can no longer be a bearer of beauty.1

The exterior aspect and overall face of a city

In their exterior aspect, small and medium-sized cities often have a unified
overall face. Very small cities sometimes crown a hill in Italy and almost present
the appearance of one single building. An outstanding example is Orte, eighty
kilometers north of Rome. When one passes this city in an automobile or a train,
the vista of the city makes an overwhelming impact. The houses huddle so
closely together that they look like one single glorious dark building.
 Each of the following Italian cities possesses a unified face, though
sometimes only when seen from one particular side: Pitigliano, San Gregorio,
Fiesole, Fosdinovo, and Pistoia. For example, Pitigliano must be seen from
below, from the road that runs from the Tyrrhenian seacoast to Orvieto. When
one then looks up at this little city, it presents itself as a magnificent architectural
whole. The same is true of Anghiari when one travels from Arezzo to San
Sepolcro. It is thus only from one particular aspect that some cities possess a
lofty beauty in their overall picture, or indeed that they possess the individual
face of an architectural unity.
Although the specific character of the Umbrian city of Trevi as a whole,
which covers a hill, is visible from several points, it can be seen as a whole only
from below, not from a higher mountain. San Gregorio, an unknown city that
suddenly appears on the road from Tivoli to Palestrina, is another town that
presents from various places a distinct face of enchanting beauty.
One is enchanted by the exterior aspect of all these cities, but their interior
aspect is relatively disappointing, since no buildings or streets and squares of
comparable beauty are to be found.
Nevertheless, there are many small cities that are architecturally beautiful in
both their interior and their exterior aspects. As a whole, they possess a face that
is definitely “for display” and can be seen from one or more places. For example,
if one travels from Pitigliano to Orvieto, the overall vista of the latter city is
incomparably more beautiful than that of Pitigliano. Besides this, Orvieto is an
architecturally important city that contains a number of beautiful palaces, as well
as a cathedral that is very beautiful both inside and outside. If one comes from
the hill that lies to the west of Orvieto down to the road that leads from
Montefiascone to Orvieto, the city as a whole forms a self-contained unity from
one place (and only from this one place). This overall face is breathtakingly
beautiful. Above all, one looks directly at the façade of the cathedral, which
appears even more beautiful at this distance than when one stands before it and
apprehends all its details.
Another example of a supremely beautiful city is Salzburg. The towers and
cupolas of the city unite with the Hohensalzburg fortress to form a distinct
individual face that possesses a character of convincing necessity in its
tremendous poetry.
Florence, however, is the high point of a self-contained individual picture.
Despite its relatively large dimensions, this city, which is so rich in great
architectural masterworks and has many glorious streets and squares, is genuinely
an architectural composition that varies in its great beauty, depending on the
place from which one looks down at the city, but always presents itself as a unity.
The dominating cupola by Brunelleschi forms a unique middle point with an
extraordinary long-distance impact. The other glorious buildings, especially the
Palazzo Vecchio, then the Campanile and the towers of Santa Maria Novella
and Santo Spirito, form groups of various kinds around the cathedral, depending
on the position from which one looks down at them: from San Miniato, from
the Fortezza, from Bellosguardo, or from Fiesole.
Albi in southern France has also a distinct face, irrespective of whether one
looks at it from below or from nearby hills. This overall picture is indubitably the
bearer of a special beauty. A similar case is the small town of Collioure on the
Mediterranean, near the Spanish border, which possesses a great picturesque
beauty. The position of the church at the end of a rocky area that juts out into
the sea gives this delightful city as a whole an enchanting unity.

1. Some cities are filled with an atmosphere of intense life. As a whole, they possess a charm despite
the predominance of architecturally disastrous buildings. This charm is based on the cultural and social life
in these cities, such as Berlin and New York.
 CHAPTER TWELVE

Architecture and Nature

THE COLLABORATION between architecture and nature is one of the greatest

sources of beauty, since all buildings are inserted into the external world that
surrounds us, and thereby into nature in the broadest sense. While it is true that
the buildings of a city are not necessarily surrounded immediately by trees or
other plants, they stand under the blue or cloudy sky, they stand in a light that
varies from region to region, and they share in the alternations between the
hours of the day and the seasons of the year. In short, even those cities that are a
“sea of houses” without gardens and trees, such as Florence in the Middle Ages,1
still retain a link with nature in the broadest sense. The weather and the light are
an important factor for their beauty too. To begin with, certain buildings need a
specific light. A building that is created for Greece or Morocco does not suit
Scotland, Norway, or Sweden. This is true both of its form and of its color. How
beautiful is the white color for houses in the South, for example, in southern
Spain, southern Italy, Morocco, or Algeria, and how little would it suit the
North! Secondly, beautiful weather in every part of the world allows the beauty
of a building to emerge more prominently. The blue vault of the sky above it or
the light on a special day elevates every architectural beauty, whether it be a
church façade like that of Rheims or Vierzehnheiligen or the Municipal
Chambers of Perugia.

The collaboration between nature and a city

Many cities are situated on a river, which is an important piece of nature in the
heart of the city. The houses on the riverbanks have an additional link to nature.
This situation makes certain demands of the building and of its collaboration
with the river. In Venice, this collaboration of the architecture of the palaces
with the canals is a wholly unique source of beauty.
In cities on lakes, such as Constance, Geneva, or Lucerne, there are some
buildings situated directly on the lakeshore that are inserted to a large extent into
nature. The lake is usually framed by hills and mountains; in this way, nature is
also represented by the landscape, which collaborates in a substantial manner
with the architecture of the buildings that are located by the water. This is all the
more true of all the buildings of a city on the seashore. Here we have in mind
first of all the cities that themselves lie on the seashore, and above all those that
are situated on a bay.
Sometimes high mountains form the background when we look at certain
buildings, as in Innsbruck. In that case, the profound collaboration between
architecture and nature that affects the entire city also has an effect on individual
buildings. Apart from this collaboration, however, there are innumerable other
forms of cooperation that are specific new bearers of beauty.
First of all, there is the highly important unity between a city as a whole and
the surrounding nature. This already comes into its own in the location of the
city. For example, the city may crown a hill or a little mountain, as is frequently
the case in Italy. A city at the foot of a mountain range or on a bay is sometimes
framed by hills or mountains in such a way that a unity is formed between nature
and architecture. If the nature and architecture are not only of great beauty but
also qualitatively congenial, this can produce an overall unity that is a bearer of
the highest beauty, for what we then see is one of the most important bearers of
the beauty of the second power, a unity that is capable of giving us special
delight through its reality.
Frequently, however, the beauty of the architecture stands on a higher level
than that of the nature that surrounds it. Even more frequently, the nature is
much more beautiful than the architecture of the city that it frames. In these
cases the beauty is not intensified by the collaboration between the two. Rather,
the more beautiful part of the overall unity predominates, and its beauty is not
elevated by the contribution of the less beautiful part.
The overall unity of nature and architecture cannot be the bearer of a greater
beauty when the qualitative congeniality is lacking—even when both are of great
beauty.
We can thus distinguish various types of collaboration between a city as a
whole and the nature that surrounds it. First, there is the collaboration between
the overall picture of the city and the surrounding nature; the most distinctive
expression of such a collaboration is the various vistas of Florence. Something
similar is true of the vista of Assisi from Santa Maria degli Angeli, in which the
overall face of the city and the surrounding landscape collaborate, or the vista of
Toledo when one looks from the other side of the Tajo across to the hill on
which the city spreads out in its upward ascent. One could mention many
examples of the collaboration between the overall face of a city and the
surrounding landscape, for example, the vista of Salzburg and its wonderful
environs from the Kapuzinerberg or from one particular spot on the Mönchberg.
In each instance, there exists both a pronounced beauty of nature and of
architecture and a qualitative congeniality of the two.
We experience a second type of collaboration between the architecture of a
city and nature when we look from a tower or a lofty palace in the city over a part
of the city and its background, for example, when we look from a window of the
Palazzo Vecchio in Florence over to the cupola of the cathedral and to the hills
with Fiesole in the background. The collaboration is no longer between the
overall face of the city, which presents itself when we look from outside at the
city, and nature. Now, the collaboration is only between the face of one part of
the city and one part of the surrounding nature. Besides this, the fact that we are
in the city gives a new note to our impression, since an interior view of the city is
an additional element. This collaboration too can be a bearer of sublime beauty.
The distant view and the interior view collaborate in such a way that we take
great delight in being enfolded by the reality of this high cultural world.

Cities and landscapes

A third form of collaboration arises when, for example, hills in a lengthy stretch
of landscape are crowned with little towns. In this case, the entire region is the
theme. A piece of nature is ennobled and enriched by many small towns. This is
a special characteristic of Italy. Whether we travel from Viareggio via Camaiore
to Carrara, or through the Arno Valley between Florence and Arezzo, or
through the region between Orvieto and Cività Castellana, the glorious
landscape is always animated and transfigured by the beautiful little towns on the
hills. In addition, a small town (for example, on the last mentioned road)
sometimes looks like one single building. In other words, it possesses such
uniformity, and is adapted so perfectly to the hill, that this “single building” in
turn is a specific bearer of a special beauty.
In all these cases, the piece of nature or the special landscape is the principal
theme. The architecture is only a second theme. But it is impossible to
overestimate the contribution made by the architecture to the beauty of the
whole.
Another unique collaboration between architecture and nature can be found
in the region of Narni, Terni, and Spoleto (Umbria). Especially in Terni, we
encounter an interesting phenomenon, to which we have already referred: the
beauty of the external aspect of a city, its face as a whole, can be much more
beautiful than its internal aspect. In such a city, one finds neither buildings nor
squares of great beauty. On the other hand, there are many cities that display
great beauty in their internal aspect and have no real face in their external aspect.
If nature takes the first place and architecture the second place, it is the
external aspect, the face of the entire city, that collaborates with nature. The Bay
of Naples is far superior to the architecture. The Gulf with Vesuvius is uniquely
beautiful. By comparison, the city as a whole is architecturally unimportant; but
it is of such a kind that it does not impair the beauty of the nature but rather
intensifies it. If the Bay were uninhabited, one factor of beauty would be lost.
Where it is the architecture that makes the principal contribution to the overall
beauty, however, the nature must indeed be beautiful and congenial, but it need
not in itself be the bearer of great beauty. In Piacenza and Parma, the beauty of
the architecture is superior to that of nature, which is modest. Nevertheless, it is
far from being a disturbance! The Po Valley has its own beauty and is a fitting
framework for these cities.

Nature and individual buildings

In a completely different type of collaboration between nature and architecture,
individual important buildings are surrounded by beautiful nature, or else stand
out against the beautiful nature that is their background. The Alhambra in
Granada is an example of both. A beautiful park surrounds the glorious building.
It is true that the park itself is architecturally formed nature, but architecture and
nature also collaborate, and the Sierra Nevada bestows a unique beauty on the
view of the Alhambra from Granada. The building is surrounded by glorious,
tall cypresses, and in the background is the wonderful mountain range with its
particularly beautiful form. Thanks to the perpetual snow, it presents an
incomparable color contrast to the foreground.
The union between architecture and architecturally formed nature is, of
course, a rich field. We find it in the Villa d’Este in Tivoli, in Versailles, in
Sanssouci, in Schleissheim, in Schönbrunn, and in countless other castles with
parks, especially in Bavaria and Austria.
Monasteries and churches often have a location in which nature and
architecture collaborate gloriously. Examples are Melk, the Charterhouse of
Galluzzo to the south of Florence, Monte Cassino (before the Second World
War), the glorious Baroque church in Dürnstein high above the Danube,
surrounded by the wonderful Wachau, the church of the Madonna di San Biagio
by Antonio da Sangallo the Elder a little way outside Montepulciano, the
pilgrimage church of Santa Maria della Consolazione by Bramante near Todi in
Umbria, or the wonderful church by the sea in Trani in Apulia.
Another type of cooperation between nature and architecture occurs when
their union has the character of something that has grown organically, not of
something that was deliberately intended: an intimate piece of nature, two
cypresses beside the church, and further down at the halfway point a farmhouse
with a few trees. The whole is not the result of a real union, and it is not in the
least consciously intended (not even from an artistic perspective). And yet,
everything comes together to form a convincing necessity. Often, this is nothing
exceptional; rather, there is a sequence of such situations along a lengthy stretch
of road. On the one side lies a villa with its campo, on the other a grove of
evergreen oaks; next comes a hill with a little church, a little town that is still
encircled by its city wall, then an avenue of pines, and again a church with a
cypress alley leading up to it. Such a unity of nature and architecture builds up a
glorious overall landscape, and this type is found in Italy more than anywhere
else in the world. Naturally, something similar is found in Spain, but much less
frequently and usually in a poorer fashion; it is also found in France, and often in
Austria. In the present context, the important point is the remarkable union of
that which is unintended, that which has grown, and that which is convincing
and indeed necessary. This impels us to exclaim: “Yes, that is how things must
be!”
We have said that the marriage between nature and architecture is
comparable to that between sound and word; but it is even closer, since nature
and architecture both appeal to the eye, whereas the musical note appeals to the
ear and the word to our understanding. In both unions, the beauty of the one
part can be gravely impaired by the triviality or soulless barrenness of the other.
Dreadful architecture can ruin beautiful nature, and kitschy music can spoil a
beautiful poem.
The great difference between the two marriages is that the one of word and
sound is soluble, whereas the one of nature and architecture is not. In a song, a
wretched melody may spoil a beautiful poem. In that case, all one needs to do is
to drop the music and read the beautiful poem without thinking of the music.
But if a soulless factory or a tasteless castle is inserted into a beautiful natural
site, the only way to free nature is to tear down the ugly building. Since doing so
is impossible for someone to whom the building does not belong, the beauty of
nature remains spoiled by the disastrous building.
Sadly, nature has been disfigured in innumerable places over the last 150
years by tasteless buildings, industrialization, or the imposition of a soulless
uniformity. The glorious enrichment of nature over millennia by congenial
architecture contrasts with its destruction over the last 150 years.

Promenades, green spaces, parks, gardens

The architecture of a city is often complemented by avenues, green spaces, the
gardens of private houses, and parks. This, in other words, is not a genuine
collaboration between architecture and nature, such as is brought about by the
background, the special setting or a city, its immediate surroundings, or its
overall face.
Promenades and green spaces usually have a very practical importance in
terms of public health. From the aesthetic perspective, they bring the universal
charm of nature and the wonderful rhythm of the seasons into the city. Above
all, they make a contribution to its human and cultural atmosphere. This is the
main point, rather than either the constitution of a new “picture” or a purely
artistic intensification of the beauty. Promenades and public green spaces have a
much greater importance for the internal than for the external aspect of a city.
Two things must be distinguished. On the one hand, a tree or a group of
trees alongside a palace or on a square can present an extraordinary collaboration
between architecture and nature, producing an artistic unity and a new bearer of
beauty. This is the effect of the cypress on the great square in Todi near the
place where one has a view of the plain. This is the effect of the cypresses in San
Miniato al Monte in Florence, and of the linden trees on the great square in
Dijon.
A tree can have a great influence on the beauty of the external aspect of a city
in another way, when it is, so to speak, an antiphon to the city and to the
surrounding nature, like the celebrated pine trees on the Gulf of Naples when
seen from one particular place. We have already referred to this function, when
we spoke of the importance of the foreground in nature, since this antiphonal
function of intensifying the beauty of the whole is found not only in the
collaboration between nature and architecture, but also within nature.2
On the other hand, promenades, green public spaces, and parks in a city give
it an element of freshness and completion. They do justice to the human person’s
elementary need for a direct contact with nature and to the yearning for
something that architecture as such cannot give him. This type of nature does
not unite with architecture to form a new artistic unity. It only complements the
architecture, in such a way that the city-dweller can find nourishment in more
than what beautiful architecture can give him.
Besides this, nature has a great influence on the atmosphere of a city. The
promenades, green public spaces, gardens, and parks have an important influence
on the charm of life, thanks to the simple fact that the city is drawn into the
rhythm of the seasons. What would Vienna be without its green public spaces,
without the Prater and the City Park, without the nature in Döbling, Sievering,
and so on! What a unique charm the spring in Vienna has! But it is clear that the
importance of the parks at the Belvedere and the Schwarzenberg Palace and in
Schönbrunn consists primarily in the genuinely artistic unity between the palaces
and the parks—which in turn enriches the overall atmosphere of the city. Think
of the importance of the trees in the Au in Munich, of the linden promenade on
the Prinzregentenstrasse, of the Hofgarten, and the English Garden! The
atmosphere of Dijon is strongly marked by the wonderful linden trees on the
main square, which fill the air with their glorious fragrance in the springtime!
The various promenades in Paris complement each other so wonderfully, above
all those of the Champs-Élysées that run from the Place de la Concorde to the
Arc de Triomphe! They do not collaborate with the architecture in the same way
as the Tuileries Garden collaborates with the Louvre, with which it forms a new
artistic unity.
Finally, let us also mention that a window or an arch can cut out a segment
from the surrounding area. This segment sometimes forms an artistic unity of
the exterior architecture or of nature. An artistic unity can likewise come into
being in the case of such a segment, through the collaboration of nature and
architecture. A glorious view from a window also influences the beauty of the
interior architecture.

1. See Wolfgang Braunfels, Mittelalterliche Stadtbaukunst in der Toskana (Berlin: Gebr. Mann, 1953),
chap. 3, pp. 115 and 130.
2. See Aesthetics, vol. 1, chap. 14.
 CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The Architectural Forming of Nature

WE HAVE SPOKEN of the bond, often deep, that exists between nature and
architecture, of their importance for each other, and of the marriage that they
can enter into. In its artistic importance and intimacy, this is comparable only to
the marriage between word and sound.
In this perspective, the architectural forming of nature occupies a very special
place: parks, the various kinds of gardens, and also the singular union of a park
with a field that has an agricultural function, the campo. This union is very
widespread in Tuscany and is usually connected to a villa.

The park
Let us begin by looking at the park, which is the most pronounced expression of
the architectural forming of nature. Most of the material is taken from nature:
trees, bushes, flowerbeds, brooks, and lakes. Often, pure architectures such as
fountains and decorative statues are introduced. All this is brought together to
form a whole. It constitutes an arrangement; it has a structure and is an
architectural work of art. A specific talent is required for this forming of nature,
since the appropriate ideas are of a very special kind. Not every great architect
has this gift; similarly, the creators of the most wonderful parks, such as Vignola,
are not necessarily equally great as pure architects like Brunelleschi, Bramante, or
Fischer von Erlach.
We find a great variety in the types of parks, such as those in Versailles, the
Belvedere in Vienna, and the Villa d’Este in Tivoli. The specifically architectural
element is developed with particular fullness in the Belvedere type. The whole
park can be taken in at one glance. It has a markedly architectural face. What an
invention: the type of flowerbeds, the lawn, the place where the stairs begin, the
stairs themselves, the water, the trees that border it on both sides! The beauty of
this park is of course heightened by the buildings of the Upper and Lower
Belvedere and, as a special element, by the glorious view of the city and the
Vienna Woods. The Belvedere is more architecture than nature. The dimension
of formed nature does not play the same important role here as in the castle park
of Schönbrunn, where the promenades, the interweaving of the trees, and their
architectural forming are more in the foreground; this is why the park character
is even more pronounced in Schönbrunn than in the Belvedere. Nevertheless, we
have chosen the latter as our example because of its specific unity. One can take
in everything, and the artistic idea of whole, with a single glance. This is one of
the two considerations to be borne in mind for the shaping of a park. The other
consideration is that when one walks in the park, its wholeness, its overall idea,
unfolds gradually before one’s mind.
The composition of a park as a whole offers an incalculable variety of artistic
possibilities. These include the artistic unity, the ordering, and the interweaving
of the individual elements: the avenues, the flowerbeds, lawns and fountains, the
water, the statues, and the other decorative sculptures. All these elements can be
treated in various ways, and can be more or less emphasized.
The pruning of the trees and bushes is also important. The invented form
makes them a specific element alongside those trees that are left in their natural
state.
We have already pointed out the important source of beauty that lies in the
congenial union between nature and architecture. Our present theme is the
architectural forming of nature. There is already a certain artistic forming in
agriculture: cornfields, fields of maize, and so on, arranged in a particular form,
with orderly boundaries; a path that leads to these fields; fruit orchards planted
in a way that allows them to develop undisturbed; wine-growing on the plain or
on terraces that climb up hills; and many other things. This is a completely
different intervention in nature, one that is carried out by human beings for
practical considerations, and it can be the bearer of aesthetic values and indeed of
the greatest beauty, for example, in the campi in Italy (especially in Tuscany) that
sometimes have the character of a park.
Now, however, we are interested in the work of art that is the product of
architecturally formed nature. We shall present the invention both of the whole
and of its details by means of the example of perhaps the two most beautiful
parks, the Villa Lante in Bagnaia near Viterbo, and the Villa d’Este in Tivoli.
Water plays a principal role in both. In the Villa Lante, by Vignola, there is an
extraordinary variety of aspects of water, and all of its potential poetry is given
form in a great number of situations. The water flows down from the square
with the two beautiful palaces and the delightful fountain, and undulates gently
as it is given expression in very varied forms in the park. One can see the great
artistic possibilities for architecturally formed nature, and one can experience the
poetry, the beauty, and the strong and noble world that can be achieved here. In
this park, it is the lyrical dimension of water that predominates.
In the Villa d’Este, the theme is water, with the fountain in its enchanting
brilliance and its festal splendor. This aspect of water presents itself in the most
grandiose manner. Additional factors are the architecturally formed grottoes and
walls from which the water wells up, and the glorious trees; and all this is held
together in a sublime unity. This park too, in its breathtaking glory, can be taken
in at a single glance. We apprehend the incomparable source of the artistic
beauty of this architectural forming of nature. It gives rise to a realm all its own.
The natural element of water also enables the artistic forming of more
modest parks with simple water basins, either with a small lake as in the Retiro
in Madrid, or with many little basins as in Versailles, Schleissheim, the Tuileries,
or in the park of the Villa Falconieri in Frascati that once belonged to Emperor
Wilhelm II.
Fountains are not an architectural shaping of nature or of water as an
element of nature. Rather, they are predominantly architectural and sculptural
structures in which the water is not the only artistic theme, although it belongs
essentially to the theme. As we have said, fountains are works of art in their own
right and are very important on squares in the heart of a city. The Fountain of
Trevi is a great work of art in the center of Rome, and is attached to a building.
The Tortoise Fountain, the beautiful fountains by Bernini, the glorious fountain
by Giambologna in Bologna, the Wittelsbach Fountain and the Hubertus
Fountain in Munich, both by Adolf von Hildebrand, have nothing to do with
the architectural shaping of nature, which is what interests us here, although the
water is indispensable to them, belongs to the practical function of the fountain,
and is employed artistically as material.
Things are completely different with the fountains in a park. Naturally, they
too have a purely architectural and a sculptural task, but their function is
primarily decorative. They are intended principally to collaborate in the
fashioning of the park, and they fulfill their artistic purpose even when they are
much less important in themselves than a fountain that, as such, is the artistic
theme.
The same is even more true of the decorative statues in a park. They are
much more unassuming than the statues of a fountain in the heart of a city, to
say nothing of the sculptures on a building such as the relief on the Parthenon or
the statues on the façades of the cathedrals in Chartres and Rheims, or
equestrian statues.
The decorative statues in a park are no longer a mere union between
architecture and nature. Rather, they cooperate directly with the nature that has
already been given an architectural form. There are obviously great differences
among these decorative statues, both with regard to their artistic value as
sculpture and with regard to the importance of their decorative function for the
park. What a wonderful idea the Pegasus in the Mirabell Garden in Salzburg is!
However, the statues and groups in a park are not only purely decorative. But
they have an even more unassuming character and a less demanding function
than the decorative statues on palaces and churches.
The union between sculpture and architecture is much closer than that
between sculpture and nature. The decorative statues on a building form a
complete unity with it; they belong to it, and one cannot separate the one from
the other. Although they are in themselves sculptures, they are architectural
structures, parts of the architecture.
The union between decorative sculpture and nature is by comparison much
looser, more secondary, and only a part of the overall architectural shaping of the
park. This sculpture has a position all its own, such that one can take liberties
with it that would be either impossible or artistically intolerable in the case of a
sculpture that is as such the theme.

The campo
The campo is something completely different from the park in the broader sense.
The general union between architecture and nature, which we discussed in the
previous chapter, plays a prominent role in the campo. Its first element is the
villa, a grand type of country house that is completely different from a bourgeois
country house. The building can be modest or grandiose, but it always has a
markedly artistic conception.
The second element is the farmhouses, which are very simple buildings, but
are usually artistically superior and noble. As is generally known, the farmhouses
in Tuscany are a great artistic treasure.
The third or fourth element is the union between the villas or farmhouses
and nature. Thanks to their location and the vista that is linked to it, many of
these villas are outstanding examples of the union between architecture and
nature. Examples are the Villa Bombicci near Florence and, farther off, the Villa
Artimino near Carmignano. In both instances, the beauty of the location and of
the surrounding nature, together with the close and distant prospects,
interweaves with the architectural beauty of the villas in a congenial, total
harmony. Even when a villa does not have a special location on a hill and does
not possess a vast view, the beauty of the surrounding nature forms an important
harmony with the architectural beauty of the villa. The type of enrichment
differs, but the result is a source of special beauty. Both the contribution of the
surrounding nature and the contribution of the architectural beauty of the villa
are indispensable to the overall beauty.
The architecture must be congenial to the landscape. Something that fits one
particular beautiful piece of nature, for example, the landscape in the Inn Valley
between Innsbruck and Kufstein, would not be appropriate to Tuscany (and vice
versa). In addition, a very special and intimate congeniality between a villa and
the specific landscape is required for this general cooperation between
architecture and nature. This individual place makes specific demands of
architecture. All this belongs to the general relationship between nature and
architecture.
A new factor that belongs to architecturally formed nature is the avenues that
lead from the road to the villa. There is an enormous gradation in such avenues
that are specifically planted for a villa, from glorious, lengthy avenues of
cypresses to intimate, short ones. They possess the universally important
character of an entrance, this primordial phenomenon of the transition from the
public road into the intimate world of the villa and of its garden or park. They
lead to the villa and into its world.
Another element is the immediate environs of the villa: trees and lawns,
sometimes small fountains, water basins that form the parklike part of the campo.
This part is sometimes large, and sometimes very small. Sometimes it is given a
glorious form through the trees that are planted there: cypresses, pines, holm
oaks, great chestnuts, and often trees of a simpler kind.
The rest of the campo is no longer typical architecturally formed nature. At
any rate, it is not a conception of a unified whole by a great artist; it is something
that has grown, something that has arisen organically out of a profoundly artistic
sensus. Great cypresses and pines interrupt the agricultural surfaces. Roses, irises,
and tulips form the borders of the paths, but they also grow inside the cornfields.
All this unites elements of agriculture with elements that are planted for the sake
of decoration and of beauty. This results in an organic whole with a lofty poetry.
Naturally, there are many gradations here. Sometimes there are no flowerbeds;
sometimes a little brook makes a contribution to the overall picture.
Among the trees that are planted for use in agriculture, olive and fig trees are
particularly beautiful in themselves, and they heighten the overall beauty. In this
way, they diffuse an atmosphere all of their own. The leaves of the fig tree, the
glorious grey color of its trunk, and the form of the tree are surpassed in their
beauty by the silver-grey leaves and the form of the olive tree. This pure, natural
beauty is, of course, not an element in an architectural forming of nature, but it
intensifies to a great extent the overall beauty of the campo.
The union between the farmhouses and the surrounding nature likewise
belongs to the general cooperation between nature and architecture in the campo.
Here and there, a picturesque draw-well stands alongside a farmhouse, and often
a little flower garden has been planted. In a curious manner, the farmhouse, the
parklike part of the campo, and the nature that is used for agricultural work can
all together possess a special beauty, a strong world, in a great spectrum of
individual variations.

The English garden

Another type of park, the English garden, lacks architecture and statuary art. It
is architecturally formed nature, but without the cooperation of buildings,
fountains, and sculptures. The entire park forms an organic whole. Trees,
bushes, lawns, water, etc. unite in its construction. The trees are not pruned into
a special shape. Rather, the pure natural elements are brought together in a
special composition to form a whole.
In this new type of architecturally formed nature, the word “architecturally”
is misleading. We ought, rather, to say that this is a piece of nature that has been
given artistic form by human beings. We reserve the term “architectural” for the
deliberate artistic forming of nature, which just represents as such an analogy to
architecture. In the English garden the intervention is limited to the
composition of the various elements of nature. The special choice of trees is
already an essential element of the composition, but the same is also true of the
meadows, paths, bushes, groves, brooks, and little lakes. Sometimes little bridges
and a small decorative building are included in this type, but only as a completely
subordinate element in the overall complex.
 CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Applied Art [Das Kunstgewerbe]

APPLIED ART COVERS a wide field in which aesthetic values find their realization.
We must begin by noting a decisive difference between the applied arts and
works of art in the true sense of the term. Not only is it possible to replicate
innumerable times an object of the applied arts: it is in fact meant precisely for
this purpose. A type of tableware, such as Meissen porcelain, is the invention of
a type, not of an individual thing. A picture can indeed be copied, but the copy is
only a copy; it is something secondhand, and even if it is a very successful copy, it
can never replace the original. The distinction between original and copy does
not exist in the applied arts. Meissen porcelain, as distinct from Nymphenburg
or Wedgwood porcelain, is the designation of a type, and the individual
exemplars of any one of these types are on the same level. The invention of such
a type is meant to recur in innumerable individual structures. It is not possible to
call one of these the original and to designate the others as copies.
Something analogous occurs in good reproductions of certain works of art,
for example, in copper engravings. There are many prints of equal value of the
Piranesi engravings, since the invention of copper engraving is oriented to the
printing of many exemplars of equal value. In copper engravings, first and later
prints take the place of the original and the copy. The later prints come from
secondhand copper plates.
The distinction between an individual object that bears artistic values, such
as a statue, a picture, or a drawing, and a type of object that is meant for
replication (so that there is no “original” and no “copy”) is very characteristic of
art in the proper sense and of the applied arts.

The two themes of the applied arts

Like architecture, the applied arts possess two principal themes, a practical and a
purely aesthetic theme.
A part of the applied arts has a close link to interior architecture. Although
such things have functions of their own, their relationship to interior architecture
and their importance for the beauty of interior space is so great that the applied
arts become a part of the interior architecture as furnishings. This includes above
all the furniture in a residential house, the curtains, carpets, and mirrors, as well
as the vases and flowerpots that decorate a room. In churches, the choir stalls,
the confessionals, the kneelers, and other fittings are a counterpart to these
furnishings.
The other part of the applied arts does not belong to interior architecture but
enters into specifically practical life. Examples are cutlery, crockery, glasses,
tablecloths, and above all clothing and jewelry.
Objects of the applied arts can be bearers of beauty to varying degrees.
With the exception of carpets and jewelry, their primary theme is obviously
not aesthetic but practical, in the narrower sense of this term, unlike architecture,
which has both a real theme that belongs to life and an artistic theme. A dining
table, a writing desk, a chair, a cup, a plate, or a fork has first and foremost a
markedly practical purpose. They are instruments for various activities in our
daily life, or else they serve, like a cupboard and a chest of drawers, for the
storage of various objects.
In architecture, the two themes are equal, and they are indeed so much
independent of each other that the beauty is conditioned by factors that do not
depend on the real purpose. On the other hand, the two themes are closely
linked, and the real theme, for example, of a residential house, a town hall, or a
church, makes specific demands of the artistic form. Failure to meet these
demands is a grave defect even from the artistic point of view. And the failure to
meet a demand that concerns only the real theme is an even graver defect: for
example, when a church looks like a beautiful reception hall.
In the field of the applied arts, the practical theme is much more radically
separate from the aesthetic theme. An object in the applied arts can be very
beautiful without fulfilling the practical purpose; similarly, a knife can cut
excellently and be ugly, or a chair can be very comfortable and yet unbeautiful.
This possibility does not in any way alter the fact that the fulfilling of both
themes is desirable. If the whole of practical life is permeated by beauty, this
results in a great value that continually nourishes our spirit through the contact
with a higher world—with culture in the specific sense as opposed to mere
civilization. As soon as the practical perspective gains the upper hand completely
and decides everything, life is stripped of its poetry, with much more serious
consequences for the happiness and the health of human beings than one
imagines. The victory of comfort over beauty, which we have mentioned in the
introduction to the first volume of the present work, manifests itself here in a
special way.
A completely new situation arises in the industrialized world, of course. We
shall discuss in the final section whether machines (as opposed to tools of every
kind) can be beautiful in the same sense.

The relationship of the applied arts to interior architecture

If a cupboard, a chest of drawers, a table, or a chair is in itself trivial and
tasteless, it spoils a room that is in itself noble and poisons its atmosphere. In
order to fulfill their function in interior architecture in a genuinely satisfactory
manner, not only must such objects be beautiful in themselves; also, their
dimensions must fit the room. They must be set up in the correct position in the
room. They must be placed in a light that is advantageous to them, and so on.
The relationship of these objects to interior architecture is a very important
factor. A cupboard has not only the practical purpose of storing clothes, and it is
not only essential that its doors should not rattle and creak when they are opened
and closed, but it also must necessarily stand in an interior space. Its practical
theme requires that it does not stand in a woods or in front of the door of the
house. The same applies to the other furnishings.
As practical structures, a cupboard and a chest of drawers have not only their
immediate purpose, but also the task of contributing to the form of a house that
is initially empty. The same is true of their aesthetic theme. They should be
beautiful in themselves. At the same time, they have a specific function for the
beauty of the interior space or the interior architecture.
A similar situation exists with regard to curtains and carpets. And large vases
of every kind can possess in themselves a noble beauty, and can be important for
interior architecture.
Clothes, on the other hand, do not belong to interior architecture. It is true
that splendid costumes made their contribution in olden days to the elegance of
a festal hall, but this possibility does not make them a part of the interior
architecture. They do not form the enduring aesthetical character of an interior
space. Their practical function is unambiguously that of clothing human beings
in a way that is appropriate to one specific situation. It is clear that jewelry
likewise possesses no function for interior architecture.

Factors giving rise to beauty in various kinds of objects

Since this is a work in aesthetics, the following questions interest us: What
factors influence the beauty of these objects? What kind and degree of beauty
can these individual types attain? How important are they in comparison to pure
works of art? As we have seen, the fulfillment of the practical purpose in objects
of the applied arts is largely independent of the aesthetic value. This, of course,
does not mean that a knife should not look like a knife (rather than a spoon)
even from the aesthetic point of view. In other words, whether a knife is sharp
and cuts well, or whether it can be taken hold of easily and comfortably, is
completely unimportant for its aesthetic value. But its function, which largely
determines its appearance and its form, is naturally important for its aesthetic
value. A chest of drawers that is much too low and too long is no longer a chest
of drawers. Even when one can comfortably store the same things in it, it is
nevertheless a different structure. And this clearly influences the aesthetic value.
But whether the chest of drawers is practical, whether it is easy to move its
drawers in and out, whether they groan and creak when one does so: this does
not change its aesthetic value, which depends on factors such as form,
proportions, material, color, and ornaments. With sofas, armchairs, and chairs,
of course, the quality of the material with which they are covered matters, as well
as its pattern; with damask, it is the design that matters. But here too the main
aesthetic point is the form of the individual objects, of their legs, armrests, and
ornaments. With curtains, not only the material and color but also the kind of
weaving and the design are important.
With carpets, the situation is completely different. They offer many
possibilities for creative imagination and genuine composition. Here too, of
course, the quality of the material plays a role. Above all, however, the color and
design are important and closely interconnected. The kind of creative
imagination we find in a carpet includes essentially not only the design
imprinted on it but also its color or the combination of colors. This is an
indispensable part of the composition of the carpet, and it is on this that its
beauty largely depends.
The beauty of vases is conditioned above all by their material and form.
Vases of porcelain often bear very beautiful designs. Old Chinese vases, in which
the design has a prominent place, are further examples of this type.
There are also vases that no longer count as applied arts but are pure works
of art, such as many ancient vases, which constitute only the basis for real
paintings. The factors for the beauty of such vases are the same as in the sphere
of painting.
With plates and dishes we find again that the beauty depends on form and
material as well as on pattern and decoration. How charming is English
earthenware along with the form of the plates and their pattern!
Naturally, we cannot answer here for every type of object the question of the
factors giving rise to aesthetic value or disvalue. All we are doing is to highlight
those types in which these factors are very varied.
Here we must above all mention clothes. There are various styles in the
individual historical periods and countries, and this is why, in addition to the
beauty of the material (such as wool, silk, satin, linen, or cotton) and the color,
one must adduce the specific style as a decisive factor for the beauty of the
clothing. Some styles are more beautiful than others. A man’s garment from the
Baroque period, for example, from the reign of Louis XIV, is much more
beautiful than a suit from the Empire period.
An additional factor is the way in which an individual suit is made and how
well it fits one particular person. This is the special achievement of a tailor, and
distinguishes a good tailor from a bungler.
Over the course of the past century, the style of clothing that had existed in
all previous periods and that showed aesthetic imagination ceased to exist. By
adopting long trousers, men’s clothing abandoned fullness of expression and
aesthetic imagination. This kind of clothing is a typical product of a world
deprived of poetry. A suit like this cannot be beautiful in the genuine sense of
the word. It can indeed bear the quality of elegance, which is indubitably an
aesthetic value, but elegance is clearly distinct from every type of beauty.
Elegance moves, so to speak, on the edge of the aesthetic realm of value, which
has beauty at its center.1
In women’s clothing, even after the death of the styles of clothing in the full
sense and their replacement by mere fashion, there remains much more room for
aesthetic values. Such garments can be not only elegant but also beautiful.
The situation with hats is analogous to that with clothing. The importance
of the material of a hat in comparison with its form is much smaller than in the
case of clothing, but otherwise all that we have said applies by analogy, including
the replacement of beauty in men’s hats by elegance.
With regard to the factors that determine aesthetic value, jewelry is in a class
by itself. The material occupies a completely new place. The importance of the
jewels is obvious here. Not only gems and semiprecious stones but also gold and
silver are particularly valuable materials. They stand out from the other metals,
even from the aesthetic point of view. The setting of the jewel is decisive for its
beauty. It is surprising to see how a setting can make the most beautiful gem and
every jewel, whether ring, brooch, or pendant, tasteless, giving it a markedly
negative value. On the other hand, a noble setting can make a jewel with modest
semiprecious stones something markedly beautiful.
Jewelry does not belong to the realm of the applied arts, because its theme is
purely and exclusively aesthetic, although it is not only an entity in itself, but is
meant to adorn the human being.

Hierarchies of beauty in the applied arts

It is not difficult to see that furniture can attain a higher type of beauty than
every other kind of applied art. A genuine Bologna table or an original, perfect
Louis XV chest of drawers can attain a high degree of beauty and nobility and
irradiate a noble atmosphere that in turn has a corresponding influence on the
beauty of the interior architecture. The weight of the “word” of a piece of
furniture is greater than that of all the other objects in the field of the applied
arts. The disvalue of a tasteless, excessively ornate, or boring piece of furniture is
likewise more important and weighty than that of other objects from the applied
arts.
This is why it is more important in the case of furniture than in other areas
to specify how they differ from a work of art. The possible artistic beauty in
furniture is so lofty that it is much more difficult to draw a boundary line
between it and a work of art than in the rest of the applied arts. Let us ask
ourselves why we do not speak of a splendid Baroque display cabinet as a work of
art in the full sense. What is the formal difference between the display cabinet
and a beautiful piece of architecture, a picture, or a statue? Is it only that the
cabinet also serves a practical goal, and is also an object meant to be used? No,
since that would apply to architecture too. Is it the fact that the cabinet can be
replicated in numerous exemplars—not indeed in a mechanical manner but on
the basis of the sketch of the artist who has designed it? This is certainly one
characteristic difference between works of art and the applied arts in general, and
it is important here too. Another factor in pictures and statues is that they do not
have two themes. Their raison d’être is artistic beauty. But architecture too has
two themes, and yet a house, a palace, a town hall, and a church can be a real
work of art in the highest sense of the term.
We must understand that a piece of furniture has in any case a more limited
possibility for artistic beauty than an architectural structure. It can never possess
the same fullness and depth that we find, for example, in the façade of Santa
Maria Novella in Florence. In principle, furniture (and even the most beautiful
pieces) are more modest entities. Indeed, they must possess this modest
character if they are to be truly beautiful. If one were to design a piece of
furniture, such as a cupboard or a chest, in the same way as a palace, it would
immediately lose any possibility of being beautiful.
Can furnishings ever attain a beauty of the second power? This is undeniable.
Nevertheless, this beauty never stands on the same level that a work of art can
attain, nor would it ever make such a claim. Its possibilities are more limited, and
it need not possess the beauty of a work of art in order to be perfect.
Although furnishings indubitably have the first place among the applied arts
with regard to the rank of the beauty that is attainable, many other objects in this
sphere do not have such a marked hierarchy of beauty. Damask curtains can
possess considerable beauty above all in themselves, but also in their function in
interior architecture; and carpets often possess in themselves a fascinating beauty.
But apart from the precedence of furniture, it is not possible to observe any
marked hierarchy. Nor is the beauty of vases unambiguously different from that
of the other objects we have mentioned, with the exception of the ancient vases
that undoubtedly belong in the realm of art. The same applies by analogy to
lamps and lights of every kind.
There is a marked difference in rank in the case of glasses and tableware.
Their possibility of attaining beauty is more limited than, for example, the
possibility of carpets. Even the most beautiful tableware, such as that of Meissen,
Nymphenburg, etc., can never attain the beauty of precious carpets. This
possibility is even more modest in the case of knives, forks, and spoons.
Jewelry occupies a position of its own. Since its beauty goes in a completely
different direction, it is difficult to integrate it into this ranking. It is fairly easy
to see that its beauty cannot attain that of furniture, but a comparison to all the
other products of the applied arts is almost impossible. It is clear that the size of
a jewel also plays a certain role. A crown or a tiara has more space for the
elaboration of aesthetic values than a ring or a necklace. But the beauty that a
jewel can attain in general terms is so various that it is hard to answer the
question of its ranking.
It is easier to define the ranking in the case of clothes and garments. We
must emphasize above all that in earlier periods, when garments had a definite
style, there was a much richer elaboration of beauty. In these styles there
sometimes existed a beauty similar to that of curtains.

Beauty and elegance as found in machines

We have already mentioned the difference between a tool and a machine,2 which
is the subject of a masterly discussion by Theodor Haecker.3 He emphasizes the
differing role of the person in the production of objects with tools and with
machines. This, of course, is also the source of the great difference in the objects.
The painter needs a brush for a picture, and the sculptor needs chisel and
hammer for a statue; but razor blades or banknotes are produced with machines.
Our question concerns a completely different problem: Can machines, as
distinct from tools, be beautiful: a locomotive, an automobile, an airplane or a
modern ship, a truck and machines of every kind? Do they too belong to the
sphere of the applied arts?
It cannot be denied that many kinds of machines look like monsters. From
the aesthetic viewpoint, they are dreadful. We shall not discuss here the question
whether it would be possible in the course of time to achieve the same goal by
means of a machine that was less monstrous, or at least aesthetically neutral.
We are interested in the kinds of machine that can possess an aesthetic value.
An airplane, especially during its flight, can have an aesthetic charm, and a
locomotive can communicate an impressive expression of strength and possess a
certain kind of beauty. Automobiles can certainly be divided into neutral, ugly,
and elegant, but what we see in a car is not the machine, not the motor, but the
external form of the vehicle, the proportions of the bodywork, and so on. It
would be wholly wrong to assert that unlike a horse-drawn carriage, an
automobile is aesthetically neutral. It no longer possesses the beauty of the
carriage, but it can be either elegant or inelegant.
In the same way, a modern ship with its chimneys never attains the beauty of
a sailing ship. Nevertheless, when it is compared with another ship, it can
possess elegance through the way in which it is constructed.
In the field of the applied arts, of tools, and of practical objects of every kind,
beauty in the full sense of the word is a theme. Throughout the field of
technology, the aesthetic theme has become peripheral. Where an aesthetic value
is present, however, beauty is replaced by elegance.
It is of course impossible to define elegance, any more than one can define
beauty. We can employ examples to indicate it or to give an indirect description
of this quality. The beautiful elevates us and inspires us, it speaks to us from
above; the elegant charms us and pleases us, but it does not speak to us from
above. It can never take hold of us.
In contrast to beauty, fashion and the zeitgeist play a role in the quality of
elegance. An automobile from 1910 looks comical, stiff, and clumsy today, but it
did not in the least make that impression on us in 1910. This is not at all to deny
that elegance is an objective, lasting quality of an object, and not merely a
subjective impression that changes in keeping with fashion. All we wish to
underline is that the influence of the zeitgeist and of fashion, an influence that is
completely missing in the case of beauty, plays a role in elegance.
There are, of course, time-conditioned prejudices and obstacles to the full
understanding of beauty. But the influence of fashion is not present when we
look at works of art. This influence is present when we look at clothing and
machines, where the fact that we are no longer accustomed to something leads
us astray into an act of seeing from the outside, at least in the first moment.
Two dimensions must be distinguished in elegance. First, there is the
elegance of the good fit of a garment in an individual case, or the fact that an
individual automobile such as a Cadillac or a new Mercedes is well made.
Secondly, there is the elegance of a type of automobile, such as a Lincoln or
Mercedes. Elegance naturally plays a greater role in garments than in
automobiles. Apart from the manual work involved in making a suit, as opposed
to the mechanical production of an automobile, the entire dimension of fitting
well, of adaptation to the shape of the individual human being, plays no role in
an automobile.
Elegance is only marginally present in nature.4 It does not in any way possess
the spiritual fullness of the beauty of the second power.5 It does not “sing” as all
beauty sings (even the beauty of the first power). It contains neither the
greatness and depth nor the poetry of beauty in the proper sense.

1. See Aesthetics, vol. 1, chap. 18.

2. See Aesthetics, vol. 1, chap. 10.
3. Was ist der Mensch? (Munich: Hegner-Bücherei im Kösel-Verlag, 1948), pp. 36ff.
4. See Aesthetics, vol. 1, chap. 18.
5. Ibid., chap. 10.
 CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Representation in the Imitative Arts

ARCHITECTURE IS, in a certain sense, the presupposition for all the arts, though
in a very special and intimate manner for sculpture. There exists a radical
difference between architecture and the art genres of sculpture, painting, and
literature: unlike these, architecture is not an imitative art.

The phenomenon of representation [Wiedergabe]

The being of imitation or representation is very different in these three arts. The
principal difference, obviously, lies between literature, on the one hand, and the
arts of painting and sculpture, on the other. In literature, the representation of
life, of events, of human persons, and of nature comes about by means of
language, of sentences and concepts. It thus employs a highly intellectual
channel; it speaks of what is depicted, and it transmits a knowledge to us rather
than a perception. Philosophical and scientific writings use the same channel,
which is of fundamental importance both in understanding what is
communicated as well as in life.
It is obvious that representation in painting and sculpture, which address our
mind through the eyes, is completely different. The representation that underlies
painting is essentially different from the representation in sculpture, since it
includes the transition from spatial three-dimensionality to two-dimensionality
and is a much more remarkable phenomenon than the representation in
sculpture, which generally does not include this step.
Here, however, we are interested not in the possibility of depiction in the
various arts, but in the very general relationship between that which is
represented and the work of art that represents it, and in the importance of an
exact representation for the value of an individual work of art.
We prescind in the present study from those types of art that explicitly do
not keep to that which is represented, or that eliminate representation. An
example of the former is the art of Picasso, who intentionally changes in a wholly
arbitrary manner the forms and things that he depicts, so that the nose of a
female form suddenly appears in profile, although the face is depicted frontally.
The latter, the elimination of representation, takes place in so-called abstract
painting, in which colors and forms, without depicting anything from nature, are
meant to communicate a specific content directly in their composition,
somewhat like the pattern in a carpet. We prescind here from structures where
one can discuss the extent to which they deserve to be called a “work of art,” and
from Dadaism in poetry, that is to say, from poems with words that mean
nothing.
In our discussion of the problem of representation, or of the relationship
between that which is represented and the work of art, we limit ourselves to the
art of earlier cultural epochs up to the period before the First World War. With
regard to literature, we continue the discussion down to the present day.

Representation in painting and sculpture

It goes without saying that a work of art is no mere representation of nature or of
life. A picture, a fresco, or a drawing was never merely a faithful representation
of nature, as in photography.
It is true that the correctness of the representation may be the real goal for a
child who draws something, or among certain peoples; and the more they
succeed in doing so, the greater their satisfaction. If they draw a face, the
resemblance is the decisive point for them. But even a painter in the golden age
of Greek art, Apelles, is said to have painted pictures with such a strong
resemblance to nature that the birds wanted to pick the grapes depicted in one of
his paintings. This story is absurd, because only human beings are able to
recognize something that is depicted in a picture; animals cannot do this.
Nevertheless, it shows that for the naïve onlooker, the resemblance to what is
represented counts as a sign of the perfection of the image or of the painter’s
skill.
Those who understand something of art know that in all the great cultures a
work of art is incomparably more than a mere faithful representation of nature.
It may be that the artist has not attained the consciousness that would allow him
to give a full account of the completely new element in the work of art and of its
value. Nevertheless, if he is a true artist, he aims at this new element, which is
the real artistic content, and in any case he gives it expression in his picture or his
sculpture.
Our interest lies, not in the consciousness of the artist in his creative process,
but in the objectively new element of the true work of art, the element that goes
beyond a pure representation of what is depicted.
In most of the significant frescos and pictures (apart from portraits), only
elements of nature are employed: trees, rivers, mountains, meadows, animals,
and human figures. That which is depicted, including the clothed or naked
figures, is made up. Usually these are fictitious landscapes and fictitious figures.
The element of resemblance, which is important in a portrait, is not present
here, and these images also differ from pure representations and photographs by
the fact that they are made up. This making up is a central element. But even if
they are not made up, the artistic transposition nevertheless remains.
Besides this, the task of adequate depiction remains, since trees must be
recognizable as such. The same applies to everything else in nature that is
depicted, and all the more strongly to the figures in pictures. In naked figures, it
is important to reproduce the nobility of the human body, its proportions, and so
on.
In its composition, the picture or fresco is a fruit of the inventive
imagination, of a completely new creative process. This is true of all the other
elements, such as the type of colors, of the light, of the contrasts, and of many
other things.
The artistic value of a picture and of a sculpture, their importance, beauty,
depth, and poetry, the inner truth and the spiritual riches that live in them, are
determined by factors completely different from the mere correct representation
of nature, of human figures, and so on.
This does not mean that representation makes no contribution to the beauty
of a work of art. Above all, it has the character of a presupposition. Many things
in a picture may be distorted. For example, human legs may be too long, or the
legs of horses may have strange proportions, as in important paintings by Hans
von Marées. But this cannot undermine the artistic beauty of the painting. The
very imprecise representation of the naked human body on medieval crucifixes
does not destroy the moving beauty of their expression. Indeed, some intended
abnormalities, which however remain completely within the framework of the
representation of nature, can express a specific artistic content and are required
for this purpose, although one is entitled to wonder whether the exact
representation of the human body in its mysterious beauty is not an advantage,
even from the purely artistic standpoint. The depiction is invariably and
necessarily an artistic transposition; this decisive factor must always be present, if
a picture is to be a work of art at all.
Resemblance, in the sense of a merely correct representation as in a
photograph or—I shudder to mention it—in a waxwork that we initially take to
be a real human being, is out of the question in a work of art. However, the deep
understanding and penetration of the structure and the anatomy of the human
body, such as we find in an artist like Michelangelo, is certainly a bearer of high
aesthetic values, or at least an important contribution to the beauty of the whole.
In view of the ultimate, moving beauty of Michelangelo’s Dying Slave in the
Louvre or of his Medici tombs in Florence, we cannot overlook the important
function that the profound penetration and indeed the exact knowledge of the
human body, as well as the perfection of its depiction, possesses for the beauty of
these works of art. Other examples are Giorgione’s Venus and his Tempesta.
We shall return to all these questions when we discuss painting and
sculpture. Here we wish only to draw attention to the great importance of the
exact representation of that which is depicted in these arts, of course always
presupposing the artistic transposition, which is always more than a flat
reproductive resemblance, but is a drawing forth of the mysteries that already lie
hidden in the nature of what is depicted.

The correspondence with reality in literature

The agreement with reality in literature is of a completely different kind. The
novel and the play deal with human characters, with events, situations, and
conflicts of human life. Mostly, of course, these are fictitious persons, events, and
situations, unless the works have a purely symbolic character. But that does not
prevent the description of human beings, their characters, their feelings, their
joys and sufferings, and of tragic events and dramatic situations from being filled
with psychological truth in the highest sense of the term. The element of fiction
does not entail a distortion of life in its depth. It is clear that the agreement with
reality is of supreme importance. When we speak of “reality,” we do not mean
that the characters must be persons who truly lived, or that the work of art must
be in accordance with the typical sequence of real events in the manner of an
inartistic and awkward realism.
What we have in mind here is the delight we experience when we read
Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment, when we encounter the profound
psychological truth even of minor characters like Luzhin or Marmeladov’s
widow. What a wealth of psychological differentiations comes to meet us in
Dostoevsky’s novels! No one has ever equaled the mastery with which he renders
the phenomenon of a young man in puberty letting himself be impressed by
another and at the same time desiring to impress others. We see this in the
figures of Kolya Krasotkin in Crime and Punishment, Ippolit in The Idiot, and in
the protagonist of the novel The Adolescent. This profound psychological truth is
a decisive factor in the artistic greatness of these works.
There are many characters in literature that fail to convince only because they
are either colorless or psychologically off the mark. But how impressive is the
profound psychological truth of the figure of Oblomov in the novel of the same
name by Goncharov. This figure is presented in a way that includes a specifically
Russian character trait.
This brief look at the realm of novels and plays can already show us the great
importance of the correspondence with reality.1 The artistic vitality of the
characters, which makes them convincing, is of course something completely
new in relation to the psychological truth.
One certain requirement for the artistic perfection of a novel or play is also
the “probability” of its “story.” This does not of course apply to literary works of
art that explicitly possess the character of legend or fable, or to a play like
Shakespeare’s The Tempest or A Midsummer Night’s Dream. In a novel, on the
other hand, the plot must not be improbable, either in the sense of a deus ex
machina or in the sense of being far-fetched. A story may be surprising and
unusual, but it must retain a certain relationship to reality, and one can call this
relationship (doubtless inadequately) probability. Certainly, much more is
required for a true work of art. Just as the artistic vitality and the successful
representation of the characters in novels and plays depend on elements
completely different from mere psychological truth, so too the inherent necessity
and convincingness of the fabula (the story) of a novel or play far exceeds its
probability. This is indeed one condition for a literary work of art, but is not a
sufficient ground for its value. But improbability is a flaw.
We are not yet concerned with the factors that are responsible for the artistic
value of a novel or a play, but only with faithfulness to life and reality, with the
phenomenon of exact representation and its importance for the play or novel.
This faithfulness does not shackle the imagination and the creative talent of the
artist.
The importance of the truth of the spiritual cosmos, of the fundamental
worldview, is of course much more important for a literary work of art than this
faithfulness in relation to reality.2 This worldview is concerned not with
representation but with the spiritual space into which the work of art is inserted,
and it intervenes profoundly in the course of the plot.
 Transposition and the metaphysical dimension in literature
One important factor in the relationship between an imitative work of art and
that which it represents is the artistic transposition that essentially distinguishes
a work of art from any mere representation. This is very mysterious, but it
manifests itself clearly in certain facts.
In a novel, a play, or an epic that is a literary work of art, metaphysical beauty
can be of great importance for the overall artistic beauty of the whole work.
Examples are the characters of Cardinal Federigo Borromeo and Fra Cristoforo
and the conversion of the Unnamed in Manzoni’s masterpiece, The Betrothed.
The metaphysical beauty of the moral values of the characters as a whole makes a
decisive contribution to the artistic greatness, depth, and beauty of the novel. But
this metaphysical beauty of the characters would be artistically useless if they
were not presented as convincing, living figures. Cardinal Newman’s novel
Callista also deals with noble figures, but this work is not an important and
beautiful novel, because it lacks the artistic transposition.
As we shall see in our discussion of literature, transposition is much more
than merely the living creation of personalities. In his biography of Saint Francis
of Assisi,3 Johannes Jörgensen fully succeeds in drawing a living, genuine picture
of this personality (this is unfortunately not the case in many biographies of
saints). Nor can one deny that Jörgensen succeeded in this because he possessed
certain artistic abilities. The living creation of a personality always implies an
artistic gift. Nevertheless, this biography is not in the least a novel, nor is it a
work of art. Its theme is not an artistic value, but the exact historical
representation of the figure of Saint Francis. The truth is its theme, namely, the
demonstration that such a man genuinely existed and that all the utterances of
this saint are in fact authentic.
In Manzoni’s The Betrothed, artistic greatness and beauty are the theme, and
the metaphysical beauty of the figure of the Cardinal is at the service of the
overall beauty of the work. It is true that the first step is the living depiction,
which is also achieved in Jörgensen’s work and, as we have said, includes an
artistic ability. But the transposition goes far beyond the living, satisfying
elaboration of the personality. It implies integration into the world of the novel
as a whole, which is a distinct structure.
The literary work of art is a completely new world in relation to life and
reality, and this can be seen most clearly when we reflect not only that the
metaphysical beauty of a great, noble character in a novel or a play does not in
the least heighten the artistic beauty of the novel or play if the artistic
transposition is lacking, but also reflect that the metaphysical ugliness of a
monster such as Don Rodrigo in The Betrothed, Iago in Othello, or Richard III in
Shakespeare’s play of the same name makes an outstanding contribution to the
artistic beauty and greatness of the work of art.
If we encounter a monster in real life, or Hitler and Stalin in history, they are
nothing but repellent. Their existence is a terrible evil, and their metaphysical
ugliness is a pure antithesis to all beauty. The trivial, tasteless human being and
the banal, mediocre person are likewise in reality a marked antithesis to all
beauty and poetry, due to the distinctly deadly atmosphere that they diffuse. But
the depiction of such a person (in contrast to others) in a novel or a play can
make an outstanding contribution to the beauty and importance of the work of
art.
This radical difference between reality and the world of the literary work of
art makes it possible for something that has a purely negative value in reality to
share in bearing the artistic value of the work, provided that it is not only
accurately reproduced but has also gone through the process of artistic
transposition. And this difference sheds an important light on this process. Let
us attempt to list the elements on which the transposition is based.
First, there is the difference between reality (for example, a person who exists
in real life) and the mere representation [Darstellung] of a fictitious personality.
Secondly, and closely linked to this, there is the difference between a person
who is concretely present, or an event that genuinely occurs, and its mere
representation.
Thirdly, there is the radical difference in the theme. For a real human being,
the moral values or disvalues through which God is honored or offended are
thematic. The real existence of a morally wicked deed is itself a disvalue, a great
evil. And every error that is committed by a real human being, his mediocrity,
his shallowness, and triviality, are definite evils. Besides this, the states-of-affairs
of the existence of these evils are definitely disvaluable. In the representation of
all this, however, the evil of real existence is lacking. The theme is no longer the
moral or intellectual disvalue but the artistic value of the representation.
This value must not be understood to mean that the theme is the mere
perfection of the representation, the success of the representation, the agreement
with reality. Rather, the theme is the beauty of the whole work, its artistic
greatness and depth.
The difference in theme is of great importance and explains why a figure like
Richard III inspires only horror in real life and meets us only as pure evil,
whereas in the play, he is no less terrible but is nevertheless an important bearer
of the greatness and beauty of the drama. In a work of art, we are looking in a
completely different direction, namely, to the thematic artistic value. It is
essential here that we apprehend the moral wickedness of Richard III. The
artistic theme and the fact that we are looking at the artistic beauty do not in any
way exempt us from the full apprehension of moral values. They do not compel
us to take an amoral position. On the contrary, an amoral position, an
indifference to the categories of good and evil, would be fatal for our
understanding of the work of art. The artistic importance of the representation
of evil presupposes a particularly clear apprehension of the moral abomination
and of its dreadfulness. In a true work of art, good and evil are called by their real
names, and the whole work is permeated by this primal tension. Besides this,
there is an unambiguous elaboration of the dreadfulness of evil, in order that we
may apprehend its metaphysical ugliness with particular clarity; indeed, we can
often apprehend it here more clearly than in real life. Nevertheless, the theme in
a play lies elsewhere.
Fourthly, a work of art displays a curious distance from what is represented.
The character that is created does not capture the spirit of the entire work. The
wretched hypocrite Tartuffe is only represented, as one figure among others; the
play as a whole is not permeated by the spirit of Tartuffe, and it is not the
expression of his spirit. Rather, Tartuffe is characterized as a despicable
hypocrite, and Molière nowhere identifies with him.
We shall return to all these points. Here let me only point out how much is
included in representation in the imitative arts, and especially in the decisive
artistic transposition. The spirit of a work of art is essential to it, as is the
spiritual world into which it leads us. This is not at all synonymous with the
spirit of the artist and with his personal worldview. Even less is it synonymous
with the spirit of a person who is portrayed.
At the same time, we have seen that the concept of imitation in painting,
sculpture, and literature varies considerably in many respects. All this will
become clear in the separate discussion of these arts.

1. Kierkegaard says: “Thanks be to you, great Shakespeare, you who can say everything, everything just
as it is . . .” (“Problemata,” “Problema 1,” in Fear and Trembling, trans. Howard V. Hong and Edna H.
Hong [Kierkegaard’s Writings, 6] [Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1981], 61).
2. See chaps. 30, 32, and 35 below.
3. Saint Francis of Assisi, trans. T. O’Conor Sloane (New York: Doubleday, 1959).
Sculpture
 CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The Artistic Importance of That Which Is

Represented in Sculpture

THE GREAT THREE-DIMENSIONAL works of art are typical bearers of a beauty of

the second power. Their lofty spiritual beauty is attached to visible structures.
It is clear that by far the most intimate relationship among the arts is the one
that exists between architecture, which creates the human space that is the
presupposition for all the other arts, and sculpture. Not only does architecture
form a base for sculpture, as it does also for music and drama and (in a new
sense) for painting; architecture and sculpture can contract a marriage that
presents a certain analogy to the marriage between sound and word.
Unlike literature, in which the work of art is given to us through words and
sentences, rather than on the immediate path that is also formally given in
experience, architecture, sculpture, and painting address our spirit through the
eyes. Their content is a visible structure. We emphasize this, because we wish
from the outset to restrict those elements that are not of a visible nature, such as
the title that is given to a statue.1 The question whether a classical statue depicts
Apollo or Mars has no influence on the artistic value of the statue. In general,
the importance that a three-dimensional work of art acquires when it is given a
name, such as the name of a great and famous man, is of a non-artistic nature.
The question whether it is a monument to Louis XIV of France, Napoleon, or
Prince Eugene does not influence the artistic beauty; in a bust, however, the
person of the one depicted is doubtless important. A bust is meant primarily to
reproduce the specific personality of the one depicted, and it is definitely a defect
when it does not fulfill this requirement.
Does this makes it legitimate, when we look at a bust, to rejoice in the
historical importance of the one depicted, and to think of all that we know about
him from other sources—in other words, to include the pleasure that comes
from literary sources?
On the one hand, there is the legitimate interest that is owed to an historical
personality. On the other hand, one must ask to what extent our concentration
on what we know about the personality of the one depicted is permitted to be a
source of artistic pleasure. But what is given in the bust or statue in such a way
that we apprehend the charm and the atmosphere of the personality, even
without knowledge derived from other sources, belongs of course to the work of
art and is not in the least the product of external association.
A monument to Louis XIV should convey and make visible something of the
splendor, power, and “breadth” of his personality. If it depicted him as a
harmless, modest person, that would be an artistic error. This, however, is an
error of a kind completely different from the boring representation of horse and
rider; it is what might be called an “inner-sculptural” error.
With regard to the depiction of Christ, the situation is completely different,
because both the artistic beauty and the religious dimension are thematic. Since a
crucifix is not present in a church only in order that it may be looked at as a work
of art, but in order that Christ may be adored, the focal point in the overall
theme of the crucifix is shifted. The artistic beauty is at the service of the
adequate contemplation of the form of the crucified God-Man and of the
sacrifice of the Cross. In a depiction of the Child Jesus, the artistic beauty is at
the service of the mystery of the Incarnation; in a depiction of the scourging, it is
at the service of the Passion of Christ; and in the figure of the Risen Jesus, it is at
the service of the mystery of the Resurrection. The question is not the extent to
which the religious element may be thematic but, rather, the extent to which it
must be thematic.
It goes without saying that the religious theme can never replace the artistic
theme in the sense that the religious object would suffice in order to bestow an
artistic importance on the work of sculpture. The opposite is true! A religious
object makes particularly high demands of the artistic composition. On its own,
it certainly does not make the rendering beautiful. There are many lapses
precisely in this field. In addition to the triviality and sentimentality that
undermine the artistic value, another factor can be the objectively almost
blasphemous failure to fulfill the demands that are generated by the religious
theme. We say “objectively blasphemous” because the subjective intention of the
pseudo-artist may be excellent and indeed thoroughly pious.
This applies by analogy to depictions of the Mother of God and the saints as
well.
Despite what we have said, however, it remains true that both in sculpture
and in painting the artistic value is conditioned by the visible element, including
the visible expression of the personality, and that the title as such is not a source
of the artistic value.

Imitation and copy

Unlike architecture, sculpture is an imitative art. It presupposes visual
reproduction, but not the step from three-dimensionality to two-dimensionality
that is undertaken in the depiction of an object in a picture and a photograph.
The formal relationship between an equestrian statue and the figure of the
real rider and the real horse is different in principle from the relationship in
painting. It is only in the relief that we find a certain resemblance to the formal
element of reproduction in painting, since a transition is made to two-
dimensionality (or better, to semi-two-dimensionality). But even in the relief,
the way it differs from the depiction in painting is even greater, from a formal
point of view, than the way they are like each other. To begin with, however, we
prescind from the relief and limit ourselves to the formal depiction in statuary,
including busts.
With formal imitation, we certainly do not yet touch the much deeper
problem of artistic transposition, which is decisive not only in sculpture and
painting, but also mutatis mutandis in literature. It is through this transposition
that the individual work of art becomes a specific structure with a meaning and a
value that go far beyond every imitation.
With regard to the purely formal non-artistic and preartistic relationship
between a statue and the object, the first difference from painting is that a
sculpture is three-dimensional and a picture two-dimensional. The second
difference is that the statue, as a physical structure, possesses a formal
resemblance to what it depicts; this is not the case with a picture. The statue has
this resemblance in common with the doll and the waxwork, for they too are
three-dimensional.
The figure in a waxwork museum possesses a type of resemblance that aims
at a confusion with reality. Such a figure intends to mislead us into believing that
we see a genuine human being. Its resemblance is meant to serve an illusion. The
same is true of artificial flowers and fruits that are arranged as a decoration.
In all these examples, the relationship between the artificial and the real is a
pure imitation that in fact does not intend to be a depiction or representation,
but wants to be confused with the real object and to play the role of the real
object. This imitation is no longer a representation. The relationship between
the imitation and the imitated object belongs to the family of illusions, of fake
jewels, imitation silk, imitation fireplaces, and so on. The decisive point is that
the representation is replaced by an alleged identity.
The relationship to the original that underlies the copy of a picture, of a
statue, or of a ring is of a kind completely different from an imitation that aims
to deceive. The distinction between the copy and the original remains; the copy
does not intend to be the original.
It is important for us to draw a distinction between a pseudo-reproduction,
such as we find in a doll, and a genuine reproduction. The quasi-illusion of a
child—dolls are meant for children—is not the confusion mentioned above,
since the child definitely distinguishes the doll from a real human being or
animal. It does not take a rubber dog for a real dog. What is involved is an “as if”
reality, when the child plays with a doll or a toy bear. But the “being a
depiction,” “being a representation” is not so strongly emphasized, since this
quasi-illusion exists.

The relation between that which is depicted and nature

The formal type of relationship between representation and nature that is
present in every statue, apart from the relief, is indeed different from the type
that serves a deceptive illusion and different from the type that serves a playful
illusion, but as in these types, the step from three-dimensionality to two-
dimensionality is not taken. This step is taken to a certain degree in the relief,
and is carried out in a very pronounced manner in all pictures and drawings, and
even in photographs. In contrast to this representation, there is a certain
resemblance in a statue between the image and that which is portrayed: we find
the same kind of object in both. But only human beings can make this form of
depiction, and only they can understand it.
We prescind from all those sculptures that do not in the least represent
nature but are formal structures that symbolize something or other. It is more
than doubtful whether these types of structure can still be regarded as genuine
statues.
Nor shall we discuss the statues of some expressionists who distance
themselves completely from nature by arbitrarily putting together a few elements
of nature, for example, only a head on two feet, or other inorganic combinations.
Every attempt in art to ignore the “language” laid down by God, in which visible
and audible things, or sentences in literature, can be bearers of artistic values,
seems to us to be doomed to failure. Poems with words that are devoid of
meaning are stillborn children. Dadaism is a disastrous dead end. In our analysis
of the being of the various arts, we therefore prescind from attempts of this kind.
It is clear that important differences exist within sculpture in the relationship
between a work of art and nature, quite apart from the wholly decisive artistic
transposition.
To begin with, the representation of nature means the dependency on nature
in general, in keeping with which a figure that depicts a naked body takes
account of the inner formal principles of the human body. Clearly, what is
involved here is neither the reproduction of one individual body nor the
relationship that a bust has to the head of an individual human being. This same
general dependency on nature is also found in a statue that depicts a horse or a
bull.
Within this relationship to nature, the artist has a great freedom. He can go
in various directions, if this is artistically motivated. Thus, Michelangelo’s figures
on the Medici tombs have superhuman dimensions, but they respond in a unique
way to nature, they penetrate deeply the inner formal principle of human bodies.
It is well known that Michelangelo attributed great importance to anatomical
knowledge.
Some medieval crucifixes display a freedom of reproduction that goes in a
completely different direction, but they never breach the formal principle of the
human body, unless this is due to an inability to represent it correctly.
This dependency on nature in general must be distinguished from the
representation of an individual personality in a bust or in a portrait, in which
both a dependency on an individual face and a dependency on an individual
personality are thematic. The bust must not only display a resemblance. It ought
also to represent the expression, so that it lets the entire personality of this
human being shine forth.
In many statues, it is a defect when the face has an excessively individual
character. This is required in a bust, but it would be a defect in a statue such as
Michelangelo’s David.
A further difference in the relation to that which is depicted is the fact that
sculpture—for example, a statue or an equestrian statue, but not a relief—enters
the reality that surrounds us in a manner completely different from that of a
picture, a drawing, a fresco, or a mosaic. In this regard, sculpture is closer to
architectural structures. Nevertheless, sculpture differs from architecture much
more strongly than it differs from painting, because like the latter (but unlike
architecture), sculpture belongs to the imitative arts.
The canvas and wooden tablet are structures that stand completely outside
the relationship of depiction. As objects, they are a world away from the objects
that are represented in the picture. In a statue, on the other hand, the real object
is completely integrated into the relationship of representation. The figure of
marble or bronze is a material object, a spatially extended body. It is in the same
real space that we occupy. It is of course true that as a lifeless material structure,
it is radically different in an ontological sense from a real human being or animal.
But the difference in the type of representation in sculpture and in painting is
obvious.
In a picture, and even more in a drawing or a photograph, the real object is
completely outside the depiction and representation. This is why, in a picture, it
is only the completely independent basis, such as a canvas, that enters into the
world that surrounds us, whereas both a sculpted figure as a whole, in its capacity
as bearer of the representation, and indeed the deeper content of the work of art
enter into the real surrounding world.
The canvas or wooden tablet on which the picture is painted has a relation to
the painting that is entirely different from the relation that the material mass of
bronze, stone, or wood has to the sculpted work of art.
In the latter, the relationship to the work of art is much more intimate, and
this is also why the spiritual structure, the sculpted work of art, is more strongly
integrated into the human space that surrounds us. A work of art like
Michelangelo’s David or Donatello’s Gattamelata is located in the reality that
surrounds us.
This entrance into the reality that surrounds us is similar to what happens in
architecture, and it is of course particularly pronounced when a statue belongs to
a square, as in the case of a monument, or is united to architecture, as in the case
of figures on a fountain or decorative figures on a building. The closer the
relationship to the architecture, the more strongly does it project into reality.
As we have indicated, the situation in a relief is different. Since it is a semi-
two-dimensional structure, the formal representation is closer to what we find in
painting. As an ontological structure, the relief is more closely related to what is
depicted than is a picture, a drawing, or indeed a photograph; but it is much
further removed from what is depicted than is a statue or a bust. A relief does
not possess the ontological similarity (which lies outside the representation) that
statuary has to what is depicted.

1. See chaps. 3 and 21.

 CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The Various Types of Sculpture

IN THE PRESENT CHAPTER, we shall first present briefly the various types of
sculpture, and then the types of objects that are depicted in sculpture. We
conclude with a discussion of the means employed in the production of
sculptures.
Types of sculptures include an individual statue, a group of figures, a
monument, a decorative statue that is closely linked to architecture, a relief, and
a bust. Coins with heads or figures form a family of their own.

The objects that are represented in sculpture

These types lead us deeper into the world of sculpture. In sculpture representing
the naked and the clothed human body, we encounter the question of the extent
to which the latter is artistically viable. The clothed human body is a very
rewarding object for sculpture when there is a decorative garment, as in Bernini’s
Ecstasy of Saint Teresa in the church of Santa Maria della Vittoria in Rome, or a
decorative uniform, as in Schlüter’s equestrian statue of the Great Elector. But
modern clothing, especially men’s long trousers, is not suitable for three-
dimensional reproduction. It suffices here to recall the dreadful ugliness of the
numerous monuments to Vittorio Emanuele in Italy.
Another important object for sculpture is a group of figures. Here we have in
mind above all Michelangelo’s Pietà in Saint Peter’s, his Medici tombs in
Florence, and his unfinished Deposition of Christ in the cathedral in Florence.
The organic combination of several figures is one of the most important types of
sculptural works. What is depicted is interconnected with the type of sculpture.
The group is not a juxtaposition of figures that face each other (a representation
that is possible in a picture). It must, rather, be a genuine sculptural composition,
a unified structure that is made up of various figures, for otherwise the result is a
dangerous realism that treats the figures like the images or scenery on a stage.
The Last Supper in Bologna is very interesting in this regard. This is a three-
dimensional representation in which the figures attain a reality that shatters the
distance involved in a representation, creating a stagelike illusion.
Typical monuments likewise often depict a group. The same is often true of
equestrian statues, which are particularly suited to a sculptural representation.
Besides this, many animals are objects of sculptural works of art, for example,
Bernini’s delightful elephant in front of the church of Santa Maria sopra
Minerva, and the stag in Adolf von Hildebrand’s Hubertus Fountain in Munich.
Not all animals are suited to being represented in sculpture, of course, but very
many are, such as the glorious horses that we find, for example, in the equestrian
statues of Marcus Aurelius, Gattamelata, and Colleoni. On the other hand, plants
and landscapes are unsuitable to sculptural representation.
Trees and other plants can be reproduced in a relief, however. This offers a
much larger scope than statuary for the objects that can be depicted.
Among reliefs, those in glazed clay by the artistic family of the della Robbia
already constitute a transition to decorative sculpture. Only specific objects (not,
for example, naked human figures and landscapes) are suited to this type of
semi-decorative relief. The material that is used, and the blue-white color that is
frequently employed, suggest a certain stylization. The reliefs where what is
depicted surpasses what a relief can give, such as the depiction of Jesus and Mary
Magdalene in the side corridor of the courtyard of Santa Maria Novella in
Florence, are interesting.
The objects that are depicted find their widest scope in the decorative
sculpture that forms a component of architecture. Examples are the three-
dimensional depiction of trees and landscape elements in the Trevi Fountain, the
masks found at many fountains, the gargoyles serving as waterspouts on the roofs
of many cathedrals, and the humorous three-dimensional figures that are linked
to architecture.
As we have already said, the decorative sculpture that is completely
integrated into the architecture is a specific type in relation to the other types of
sculpture, and it is governed in many respects by other laws. The same is true of
the decorative sculpture in parks: this too is something all its own in relation to
the authentic great world of sculpture. The sculptures in parks can have a
definite artistic value, although they never attain the depth of other sculpture.
This decorative sculpture often has an enchanting charm and bears witness to
great brilliance. One example is the delightful Pegasus in the Mirabell Garden in
Salzburg.
The discontinuity that separates decorative sculpture from other types of
sculpture is not at all due to the fact that this sculpture cooperates with
architecture in a special manner; for architecture is the normal home of all
sculpture. The supreme achievements of sculpture, in which it fully unfolds its
intrinsic value, such as the incomparable relief on the Parthenon, make their
appearance in union with the most glorious architecture.
We shall see how much more can be depicted in painting than in the realm
of sculpture. The reasons for this are connected with the completely different
form of representation and depiction, which we have mentioned above. In
sculpture there is no counterpart to a still life, nor is there any representation of
architectural works and cities, as in painting. There could not be a Canaletto in
sculpture. Landscapes are an important object of painting, but they too are not
an object for sculpture; the same applies to ships and city squares, and to much
of nature.
We end the list of the various possible objects of sculpture with a
consideration of the human face. This sculptural object offers many possibilities
for lofty artistic values. The representation of a concrete, individual personality
has a great influence on this type of three-dimensional works of art. The
relationship to that which is depicted is closest here. The resemblance is also an
artistic requirement, even in the peripheral sense, and above all in the deep sense
of representing the personality. If the resemblance is lacking, the bust may
otherwise be very beautiful, but it is unsuccessful in one respect. This factor has
an influence on the artistic value of the bust that is similar to the influence that
the sacred atmosphere of a church or the festive atmosphere of a reception room
has on the artistic value of these rooms.

The material of sculpture

This has already brought us to the factors that influence the artistic value of a
sculpture. Before we discuss these in the next chapter, let us speak briefly about
the means employed by sculpture.
First of all, we must mention the material of which a statue, a bust, or a relief
is made. This can be marble or some other kind of stone, bronze, terracotta, or
wood. All these materials are definitely destined for sculpture, but sculptures of
clay or plaster of Paris are made of a provisional material. Clay is an
indispensable medium for modeling and designing, while plaster of Paris is a
provisional medium in a completely different sense. It is not a material for
designing sculpture. It is not the medium in the narrower sense of the term, it is
not what that one needs in order to work. It is used only to give a work of art a
provisional form. With the exception of decorative sculptures, a statue is never
made of plaster of Paris, but cherubs in churches or decorative figures in halls
and on pillars can be produced in this material.
In the materials that are finally chosen, there is a definitive inherent
relationship between the sculptural work of art, the underlying artistic
inspiration, and the material. It would be great mistake to believe that one could
simply make a statue or a bust of any material at all: for example, that a marble
bust or statue could just as well be cast in bronze. The particular material and its
aesthetic character belong to the artistic creation. A specific statue is conceived
for marble or stone, and not for bronze (and vice versa).
The relationship here is similar to that found in a piece of music. If this is
created as a violin concerto, it cannot simply be turned into a piano concerto.
Sometimes this is possible, as in violin concertos by Bach, who himself also
composed these as piano concertos; but this is an exception. No one would think
of transforming Beethoven’s Piano Concerto No. 5 into a violin concerto, or of
performing one of Mozart’s great piano concertos as a violin concerto.
Sometimes a statue or a relief can attain its full artistic effect in stone,
marble, and terracotta. In general, however, each individual sculpture is
conceived in view of one special material. This means that a statue or bust
destined for marble should not be made in another material, especially not in
bronze (and vice versa).
Wood too is a possible material for statues. Wooden sculptures occupy an
important place in the work of some artists, such as Riemenschneider. In the late
Middle Ages, wood was used in Northern Europe above all for crucifixes and
statues of the Mother of God. Here there is a particularly close bond between
the invention and the material. A creation that is very beautiful in wood would
often be impossible in marble or bronze. This connection between the sculptural
creative idea and the material is very intimate and mysterious. It is one of those
connections that we can unambiguously discern, but no philosophical analysis
can explain. Michelangelo’s David in the Accademia in Florence or his Dying
Slave in the Louvre must be in marble—the artist feels this, indeed he knows it
with absolute certainty. The artist who created it knew that the equestrian statue
on the Capitol must be of bronze, not of marble. But it is not possible for an
aesthetics to explain what qualities and elements in the creative idea and the
composition are responsible for the fact that a statue or a bust demands one
particular material, or at least is suited to this material.
Secondly, color plays a certain role. It too is a medium that is employed to
achieve specific artistic qualities. A completely white marble is tinted in order to
avoid an excessively harsh white. A tinting of this kind is necessary for Carrara
marble, but not for Greek marble. Bronze too has various shadings. A special
color can make a statue more effective or can be more appropriate to it.
Color has a different task in statues of wood in a particular setting, above all
in clothed figures of a sacred kind. The gold in many garments of the Mother of
God shows clearly how the artistic idea for such a statue, including its function
on an altar, has a deep relationship to certain colors.
The size of a sculpture is another means that must be mentioned. Some
sculptures have a specific size. This not only applies to all monuments, which
must possess a certain size because of their function and because of the
surroundings in which they are placed. If one were to give a figure the natural
size of a human body, the monument might perhaps look ridiculous. This, of
course, also applies to the figures on a fountain, which can appear in very
different sizes. We have already mentioned Michelangelo’s statues on the Medici
tombs. Here there is a profound link between the special creative idea of the
figures, their artistic character, and a size that far exceeds the natural dimensions
of the human body.
 CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Factors Determining the Artistic Value of a Sculpture

AFTER THIS BRIEF ANALYSIS of the means used in making a sculpture, we now
turn to the most important factors for the construction of a sculpture, namely,
the factors with an influence on its artistic value. We must repeat once more that
the indication of such factors does not in the least constitute a recipe that would
allow the artist to accomplish his task successfully. Aesthetics is not a normative
discipline like logic and ethics. It cannot specify what guarantees the aesthetic
value, nor does it supply rules that the artist need only obey in order to create a
genuine work of art. All that aesthetics can do is to indicate the factors that
guarantee a genuine work of art, if they are applied properly; but it cannot
specify what the correct application of these factors consists in. This is the
mystery of the creative artist, and it cannot be formulated in rules.

Transposition: the working out of the natural formal principle

As in all the imitative arts, the first decisive factor is the transposition,
mentioned above, of the depicted object into the world of art.1 The act of artistic
creation forms the work of art into an object all of its own; and this is completely
different from the pure representation in a photograph.
Only when the representation carries out this transposition does the work of
art become a structure of its own, the bearer of completely new aesthetic values
that the represented object does not possess.
We come closest to this factor when we investigate the function that the
beauty of the represented object has for the beauty of the work of art.
It would be incorrect to assert that the beauty of a naked body in natura has
no influence at all on the beauty of a statue that depicts this body. There is no
doubt that it contributes to the beauty of the statue, but only provided that the
transposition has taken place. If the statue were a mere replica of the body like a
photograph, or if it were a mere cast of the body, it would not exist as a work of
art. It would be absorbed into the function of pointing to the beauty of the body.
Only through transposition can the statue as such become an independent bearer
of new artistic values, to which the beauty of the represented body in natura
contributes.
This beauty not only differs according to the art genre (sculpture, painting,
or literature). It also varies in keeping with the represented object within one art
genre. For example, the function of the beauty of a represented naked body for
the beauty of a statue is different from the function of the beauty of a face for the
artistic value of a bust.
A badly built body that is deformed in natura is a definite obstacle to the
beauty of a sculptural representation. On the other hand, the bust of an ugly
person can be very beautiful. There are certainly nondescript, pathetic faces that
are not only ugly but also completely lacking in significance, and these are not
suited to a bust. But all the same, the aesthetic quality of a naked body is much
more important for a sculpture than the aesthetic quality of a face is for a bust.
The representation is much more important in a bust, because its theme is
the depiction of one particular, individual personality, whereas the representation
of an individual personality is normally not thematic in a statue. Rather, the
artist forms the human body in general. Nevertheless, a human body lacking in
beauty is a much greater hindrance to the artistic value of a statue than is the
ugliness of a head for the artistic value of a bust or a portrait. The emptiness and
lack of significance of a face are of course a definite hindrance for a bust. But
even the greatest beauty of a body and a face in natura does not in the least
guarantee the artistic value of a sculpture, even if it were a perfect likeness. Here
we clearly see the full importance of the transposition.
Hand in hand with transposition goes the working out of the principle of
form in nature, and the deeper penetration into the mystery of nature. The true
artist understands nature more deeply than the non-artist, and this is another
reason why his work of art goes beyond any mere representing and copying. He
apprehends more deeply the underlying true principle of form in the divine
“invention” of a natural entity, and realizes this in the statue. In one sense, he
builds on the natura naturans (the “creating nature”) rather than on the natura
naturata (the “created nature”). Konrad Fiedler has emphasized this in several of
his writings, pointing out the deep formative power that is exercised by the artist
who opens people’s eyes for the fullness of that which is contained in nature.
Fiedler rightly says that we see much more deeply into the mystery of nature
after the sonnets of Shakespeare, the poems of Goethe and Hölderlin, and the
great paintings and statues have opened our eyes for nature.
 On this background we can unmask the betrayal of nature by some modern
artists who want to introduce a new “language” instead of the language
prescribed by God. Instead of penetrating more deeply into nature, they despise
it or else present a pseudo-nature.
The creative intuition of the figure [Figur], the word that is spoken in this
work of art, is perhaps even more important than the transposition. What a
great, decisive word is spoken in Michelangelo’s Dying Slave! What mysterious
greatness and moving intensity, indeed what ecstasy lives in this work! We can
compare this spiritual content only to the adagio of Beethoven’s ninth
symphony. The vision of this sublime spiritual content, the creative intuition
that discovers and invents it, and the ability to realize it, to “condense” it in a
figure, are of course the soul of the process of artistic creation. It is clear that this
goes far beyond transposition.
The first of the factors that bear this ultimate artistic content, or of the
means in a wider sense of this term, is the represented body and the
transposition of its natural beauty. The second factor is the represented
movement or position of the figure.

Body-feeling [das Körpergefühl]

A third factor is the body-feeling. By this we do not mean sensations such as the
pain or pleasure that one experiences in the body, but the way someone feels in
his body. For example, one may feel safe and “at home” in one’s body, or one
may feel helpless, so that one does not know where to put his arms and legs, so
to speak. One can enjoy oneself in one’s body. One can be natural or stilted in
one’s bodily reactions.
There exists a noble relationship to one’s own body, and there exists a vulgar,
base relationship; there is a modest and pure relationship, as well as an immodest
and impudent relationship. There exists a relationship to one’s own body that
sinks down into matter, and there exists a relationship that is so spiritualized that
it reaches ethereal dimensions. There is a poetic relationship, and there is a
specifically prosaic relationship. The kind of body-feeling that is represented in a
statue has a great influence on the artistic quality of the statue. An embarrassing
body-feeling can strip a statue of all poetry, and can indeed be a fatal error in
artistic terms.
This body-feeling finds expression in movements and gestures, in a person’s
walk, and in specific bodily postures that a person often takes, and it is of course
linked to traits of his character. A certain kind of self-importance is linked to a
specific body-feeling and is expressed in the gestures and movements of the
body. Vanity often goes hand in hand with a certain way of being satisfied with
one’s body. As a general character trait, letting oneself go is closely linked with a
body-feeling: with “flopping down,” with feeling comfortable like a pig in its sty.
A noble spirituality is paired with a noble body-feeling, with a habitare secum (a
“being at home with one’s own self”) of the spirit in the body. An unaffected,
natural state of being at home in the body is linked organically to a definite
restraint with regard to distinctly bodily dynamisms.

The bust and its expression

After discussing body-feeling, we must now mention a fourth factor, namely,
expression. We do not only mean the expression of the face in the narrower
sense; we shall speak of this when we discuss the bust. Rather, we mean the
expression in the broader sense that the whole form can have, including the
facial expression. For example, the Dying Slave expresses a terrible pain that is
reflected in the overall gesture. But it is also the metaphysical beauty of this
unparalleled ecstatic intensity of the pain, of the nobility and depth of this dying,
that has a very profound influence on the artistic value. The artistically
transposed metaphysical beauty works together with all the other factors.
In the individual areas of sculpture, we must focus on the importance that
expression in the narrowest sense has, namely, expression in the human face of
particular inner mental processes.
Let us begin with busts. The representation of an individual personality is
one of the elements that belong to the artistic theme, and thus the expression of
one individual personal act, such as joy, pain, love, fear, hatred, outrage, or
horror is undesirable. This would contradict the special character of an individual
personality that is to be represented in the bust. There would be a fatal
displacement of the theme, tying it down to one special, concrete situation.
Something accidental would force its way in, analogous to an embarrassing
photograph of a person who laughs or opens his mouth wide while he is giving a
speech. A realism of this kind contains a lie. To tie a person down to one
particular moment contradicts the innermost requirement and theme of a bust.
On the other hand, however, the expression of enduring characteristics of the
personality ought certainly to be reproduced. Purity, innocence, intelligence,
vitality, vigor, nobility, and refinement ought to be alive in the bust, when these
are qualities of the real person who is represented. This expression is an
artistically essential factor. Without an expression in this sense, a bust could not
exactly reproduce the face, since this necessarily has an expression of some kind
or other.
Several questions arise at this point: First, what is the importance of the
expressed metaphysical beauty of such traits for the artistic beauty of the bust?
To what extent does that beauty contribute to the artistic value of the bust, if the
exact representation fully succeeds?
Secondly, what about the case in which the person who is portrayed is
neither pure nor innocent, but is instead impure, vulgar, stupid, or superficial?
His face shows the expression of his personality, but this expression need not
agree with his real personality. Some people are less intelligent than they appear,
while others are more intelligent. There are angelic faces that belong to persons
who are not angelic, but are mundane, vain, and indeed impure.
Granted that the expression on the face corresponds to the negative character
of the personality, ought then the bust to represent this expressed metaphysical
ugliness? What influence does this ugliness have on the artistic value of the bust?
Is the exact reproduction of the personality more important artistically than the
expression in the bust of a metaphysical beauty that does not exist in natura?
The situation in literature is completely different from that in the visual arts.
In the former, the artistically perfect reproduction of a trivial, banal, stupid
person can be a bearer of high artistic values, whereas the expression of these
negative qualities runs contrary to the artistic beauty of the portrait and the bust.
This brings us to an interesting but difficult problem. We have already seen2
that the degree of metaphysical beauty and ugliness wholly corresponds to the
rank of the value and disvalue of which it is the irradiation. Wickedness is an
incomparably greater disvalue than stupidity and baseness.3 Its metaphysical
ugliness is therefore much greater than theirs.
The situation with a bust is different. The wickedness that is expressed in the
face restricts the artistic value of a bust to a lesser degree than do stupidity and
baseness. It thus seems that certain types of metaphysical ugliness, independently
of their greatness and depth, have a closer relationship than other types to the
artistic value of a bust. It is obvious that some other factor must be responsible
for the fact that the expressed stupidity restricts the beauty of a bust more than
the expressed wickedness or heartless harshness. The exact relationship between
moral and aesthetic values is a difficult problem. Why, for example, does
Macbeth’s wickedness not possess the repulsive aesthetic quality that we find in
Iago’s baseness?4
The following question is interesting in this context: Must the artist keep to
the characteristic traits that are expressed in the face when he creates busts, even
when he knows that these traits are deceptive and that the person in question
does not in reality possess these traits? It seems that he must represent them if
the apparent traits are bearers of metaphysical beauty. But if an intelligent person
looks unintelligent, ought he not then to attempt to express the intelligence in
the bust somehow?

The expression of naked and clothed figures

Expression has a different importance in the field of statues, groups, and reliefs
from that in busts.
Let us turn first to naked figures, whether an individual figure or a group.
We have already said that an excessively individualized face on a naked figure
would pose a risk. In all naked forms Greek sculpture leaves the face rather
general and typical, avoiding every portraitlike individualization.
In this respect, a great discretion is required with naked figures; but the
expression of individual personal acts and concrete experiences is certainly
possible here, unlike with the bust, and in many instances is a bearer of lofty
artistic beauty. It suffices to recall the expression of pain in Michelangelo’s Dying
Slave, which necessarily belongs to this unique work. It is interesting to note that
the connection to an individual personality, which is very important in a bust, is
lacking in statues and groups. On the other hand, the representing of a
momentary expression is not only possible here, but is often of great beauty,
whereas this is something that must be avoided in a bust.
Naked statues are created figures that lack the link to one individual human
being. But there can exist in them a deep linking to nature and to the human
body and its inherent principle of form. This is possible even with statues such as
Apollo, Mars, Venus, and Diana. The statue of an ancient god does not have a
link to any real human being that would give it the character of a portrait. The
mythical personality and his or her characteristics are to be displayed in the facial
expression of the figure. In Apollo, this expression is radiant and filled with
light; in Mars, it is martial and victorious; and so on. Obviously, this is a
completely different kind of expression.
The situation with the naked figure of Christ cannot be compared to this.
Here the expression is of the utmost importance. There exists a certain tradition
with regard to the type of face. Since the religious element is the principal
theme, the overall expression has a decisive importance. This face ought always
to irradiate a sacred atmosphere. The specific expression of the crucified, the
dead, and the risen Christ may vary greatly in accordance with each specific
situation, but even if the entire body is naked (something that seldom occurs),
the face ought always to have a corresponding form and a transfigured sacred
expression. The expression of one concrete personal experience, such as the
suffering of Christ on the Cross, is, of course, not only not undesirable: it is
explicitly demanded.
The state-of-affairs with regard to clothed statues is completely different. In
groups such as Michelangelo’s unfinished Pietà in the cathedral in Florence, the
profound pain on the face of Joseph of Arimathea has a moving greatness and
makes a supremely important contribution to the unique beauty of the group.
The expression of a concrete experience is also required in statues of the
Mother of God: for example, the expression of pain and of the devoted
acceptance of suffering in Michelangelo’s Pietà in Saint Peter’s. Even the
individualized form of the face is acceptable here, provided that a certain beauty
of the form and above all a sacred, spiritually sublime expression are always
retained.
Let us now leave the special situation of religious sculpture and return to the
expression of clothed statues and groups. If the representation of an individual
personality is involved, as in many monuments, similar rules apply as in the case
of busts. The equestrian figure ought to resemble the historical personality in his
face. It ought to reflect his character, but not individual experiences such as joy,
pain, rage, and so on. We find this realized in the glorious equestrian figures of
Marcus Aurelius on the Capitol, of Gattamelata in Padua, of Colleoni in Venice,
and of the Great Elector by Schlüter in Berlin.
What we have said about the expression in three-dimensional sculpture
(statues, groups, and monuments) applies by analogy to the relief. Here too both
the expression of abiding characteristics and the expression of concrete personal
acts play a legitimate role in the forming of the face. The same is true of the
overall expression of the figures and of the body-feeling. In this regard, there is
no difference between the rules for a relief and those for three-dimensional
sculpture, although the difference between these two realms of sculpture is very
great in other respects (for example, as we have seen, some natural objects can be
represented in relief but not in sculpture).

Inner unity
A fifth requirement for a three-dimensional work of art, which is very important
in statues and especially in groups, is the inner unity. This is a fundamental
requirement for every art genre. If the inner unity is lacking and the parts
disintegrate, this is a grave artistic defect. Within this unity, there are many
degrees, all the way up to inner necessity.
This inner unity goes hand in hand with a potency that distinguishes the
genuine artistic unity from an academic, empty unity. There is a cheap, quasi-
geometrical unity that, unlike the inner life of that which is vigorous and is
united from within, has an element of emptiness and boredom.
The inner unity of a statue or a group also demands an autonomous space
that belongs to sculpture. This has been expressed as follows: the statue or group
came into being through the removal of parts of the marble or the block of stone.
This process exposed the statue or group, as it were; it did not construct it. This
interpretation underlines the uniformity of the spatial structure.
This spatial unity is expressed even more precisely in Michelangelo’s demand
that three-dimensional sculpture must be such that one can roll it down a hill.
Nothing may protrude from the inner space that it possesses. It may not leave
the immanent space of the sculpture in any part that projects outward, for
example, in an outstretched arm or a bent knee. This unity is of a very particular
kind. It is based on the fact that the statue or group is a spatial structure that is
placed in the great, all-encompassing realm of space and yet possesses a space of
its own. The unity of sculpture is different from the unity of a picture, a novel, a
drama, or a poem.

Composition, inner logic, and depth

One decisive factor in sculpture, as in every art genre, is the composition. This is
very deeply connected to the creation of the work of art, which is always at the
same time a discovery.
The composition can be conventional, and the word that is spoken through
the composition can be superfluous. But the composition can also be filled with
warm life and possess a convincing necessity. There is a broad scale in this
necessity. The more necessary the composition and creation are, the higher is the
work of art.
The inherent necessity depends on the type of composition and creation, but
it is in itself already a specifically artistic value quality. This brings us to the
qualities that are of decisive importance in sculpture, as in all the arts, for the
artistic values and especially for the beauty of the second power.
We have already spoken about inherent necessity when we discussed the
beauty of nature and of the landscape in the narrower sense.5 This necessity,
which is distinct from the necessity of the laws of being, is a great artistic value.
The more necessary a three-dimensional sculpture is, the more important it is,
the more it stands on its own feet, the more autonomous the work of art is, then
the more potent the creation. The opposite of necessity is, on the one hand, an
unnecessary randomness. Such a work prompts the remark, “It could also have
been otherwise,” or even, “It has no raison d’être; not much would be lost if it did
not exist.” Another antithesis to necessity, and especially to the necessary unity,
is the conventional unity that is boring and is imposed from without, so to speak.
It goes hand in hand with a weakness of creation. This unity lives from mere
facticity.
We shall see below that there is an inherent logic in music. Both the melody
and its development and the overall construction of a piece of music must
demonstrate a kind of necessary connection that represents an analogy to the
logical procedure in a philosophical work. The question is: Is this artistic logic
restricted to those works of art that, like music and literature, have a temporal
extension, or does there also exist something at least analogous to this in those
arts that have a spatial extension? Does this inherent logic also exist in
architecture, in a palace, a church, or a bridge? Can we find this element of logic
also in a picture, in a statue, a group, or a relief, so that through one part certain
other parts either are impossible in themselves, or else constitute a logical
consequence?
It certainly seems to be the case that we can find an inner logic in these arts
too, and that illogicality constitutes a definite artistic defect. Logicality would
therefore be an artistic requirement. As with unity, however, we must make a
distinction here between a cheap and a deeper logic, for although some “works of
art” do not have an illogicality, their logic is a commonplace, a cheap logic that is
not only conventional and boring but, like truisms, also contains an element of
the shallow and superficial.
Another fundamental quality is the depth of a sculpture. Many of the factors
that we have already mentioned are responsible for this depth, of course: first,
the deeper penetration into nature and into its principle of form, reaching the
natura naturans; secondly, the potency of the creation; and thirdly, the
expression in the narrower sense and the overall expression of the statue.
The artist can consciously aim at a deep sculpture, or at a poetical, lovely
sculpture. There is a great and wise discretion that we find in some artists who
place their work in a relatively modest framework. They do not aim at ultimate
depth, greatness, or sublimity, but give what they are able to give. In his great
artistic wisdom, Haydn would never have attempted to fill out the framework of
Beethoven’s ninth symphony. He would never have attempted to speak such a
word. Rather, he created symphonies that completely filled out their framework,
such as the “Oxford Symphony,” the twelve “London Symphonies,” and many
others that are masterpieces. The choice of the framework is thus equally a factor
that helps to determine the depth and greatness of a work of art.
Besides this, the type of sculpture influences the depth and greatness of the
individual work. In this regard, certain types of sculpture narrow down the
framework. For example, a medallion can never give the same depth and
greatness as a relief or a three-dimensional sculpture. The external format of the
sculpture also exercises an influence in this regard. A Tanagra figurine can never
attain the depth and the inner, explosive greatness and power of a statue like
Michelangelo’s Saint Matthew in the Accademia in Florence or Verrocchio’s
Colleoni in Venice, the Dew-Sisters from the eastern gable of the Parthenon,6 or
the relief of Orpheus and Eurydice in the National Museum in Naples.
We have already mentioned the importance of the size of sculptures. Here
we wish to point out how important this too can be for the potential depth and
greatness of the spiritual structure.
Needless to say, decorative statues never possess the same depth and inner
greatness as a sculpture that stands on its own feet. We do not intend to assert
that architecture together with decorative sculpture can never attain an analogous
depth and greatness, but only to note that decorative statues as such cannot do
this.
This is no defect of decorative sculpture. It can be charming and delightful,
but only when it refrains in principle from aiming at something that non-
decorative sculpture is able to give. It forms a realm of its own, in which, as we
have seen, many things are possible and permitted that are impossible in the
realm of non-decorative sculpture. It has its own genius and is meant to realize
other artistic qualities. Its general purpose does not aim at an ultimate depth and
greatness; and this is already determined by its explicitly ancillary character. We
could indeed say that decorative sculpture has an artistic mission all its own. But
even its perfect masterpieces exclude the depth and greatness that are attained in
the summit of non-decorative sculpture.

1. It is scarcely possible to articulate directly the essence of transposition. The specific act of artistic
forming makes use of that which is represented in order to construct something new, but from sources other
than merely successful representation. The importance of this new thing goes far beyond the representation
of the represented object. On this subject, see chaps. 15, 20, and 32, footnote 12.
 2. Aesthetics, vol. 1, chap. 2.
3. On this, see my Graven Images, chap. 7.
4. The solution may lie in the fact that wickedness is often linked to willpower and intelligence, that is
to say, to values that possess a metaphysical beauty.
5. See Aesthetics, vol. 1, chaps. 8, 14, and 17.
6. Lord Elgin had them brought to the British Museum in London.
 CHAPTER NINETEEN

Comedy and Grotesqueness

WE HAVE ALREADY pointed out that transposed comedy can be a bearer of lofty
artistic values in a work of art.1
Comedy can occur only in certain arts. It is clear that it is most important in
literature.2 Here we find it everywhere: in the novel, the short story, the play,
and the poem. It has its place even in the framework of the most serious works.
It suffices here to recall the king of novels, Don Quixote. Literature is the domain
in which the comic is important.
Comedy is completely lacking in architecture. A comical building that would
make us laugh is a nonsensical idea.
It occupies a modest place in absolute music. One can speak only in a very
analogous sense of comical turns or phrases in symphonies, quartets, or sonatas.
There are indeed some jokes in pure music, but this does not amount to a
comedy that would make us laugh.
Comedy plays a great role in the union between word and sound in operas
and songs. This possibility does indeed derive from literature, in which comedy
is an important element, but the music of the opera and the music drama shares
fully in this and realizes a value that the word cannot give in the same way
independently of its union with sound. Think of Leporello in Mozart’s Don
Giovanni: the music has a decisive share in the forming of this figure, who is
characterized by a profound comedy. We need only recall the glorious passage in
the second act, “For it is unfortunately only his clothes,” when Leporello exposes
the deception, or the scene in the cemetery, or many passages in Così fan tutte
and in Figaro, as, for example, when the Count lifts the blanket in the first act
and discovers Cherubino underneath, while the music goes backward, so to
speak! Another example is the completely different kind of comedy of Mime and
the music in the first act of Wagner’s Siegfried, which aptly brings to expression
the trembling body-feeling of Mime: “I raised you up as a sucking child.”
There is also comedy in songs, for example, in Beethoven’s song Der Kuss: “I
was with Chloe all alone”; or in Hugo Wolf’s settings of Mörike’s poems:
Nimmersatte Liebe with its conclusion, “And Lord Solomon the wise was not in
love in any other way,” and Abschied, in which the reviewer is thrown down the
stairs.
Besides this, operetta largely lives from comedy. This is true both of the
works by Gilbert and Sullivan and of the operettas of Offenbach and the
Viennese operettas, above all those by Johann Strauss. This comedy is, of course,
much more superficial.
Comedy does indeed occur in sculpture, painting, and drawings, but as a
whole it never has the same rank and the high artistic importance that it has in
literature, opera, and music drama. In the realm of painting, its place is limited
mostly to one particular type of work: illustrations,3 such as Doré’s illustrations
to Don Quixote, or drawings that have an exclusively comical intention, as in the
works of Wilhelm Busch.4 It is also found, however, in a wider sense of the word
in pictures that are neither at the service of comedy nor mere caricatures. Their
full artistic meaning is as satire, such as Goya’s Family of Charles IV in the Prado
in Madrid. In general, however, comedy is lacking in all the great paintings from
Giotto to Tiepolo, from Van Eyck to Rembrandt. It appears at most in some
genre paintings. Comedy in painting is not only much rarer than in literature; it
is also of a completely different kind. It does not reach into the heart of this art
or into its great, profound works.
This applies all the more to sculpture. The important reliefs and statues,
whether equestrian statues like the Bamberg Horseman, Colleoni, or Gattamelata,
naked figures of classical antiquity, or Michelangelo’s Dying Slave and his huge
statues in the Medici funerary chapel, stand in a world in which there is no place
for comedy. Only in caricatures, in figures of monsters and demons, and in
animal sculptures does comedy enter in. On the other hand, comedy is dominant
in the realm of dolls, marionettes, and Punch and Judy puppets. It is obvious,
however, that this realm lies outside of sculpture proper.
There is a striking difference between the appearance of comedy in literature,
opera, and music drama, on the one hand, and in the visual arts, on the other. In
the former, the comedy and the other artistic values appear in one and the same
work. But sculptures that are bearers of the comical belong from the outset to
another type than sculptures that are bearers of beauty, greatness, and depth.
Comedy in sculpture is found in one very specific type: in goblins on church
roofs, in some statues along streets and in parks, and in the masks of fountains.
Such figures are much more unassuming than serious sculpture, and they have a
function and a theme other than this. They do not want to be taken so seriously,
and they eschew from the outset any idea of giving artistic values in the way that
serious sculpture does.
There are, however, some exceptions within serious sculpture. Figures on
fountains, for example, can have a humorous element, as Father Rhine on the
Reinhard Fountain by Adolf von Hildebrand, which was formerly in Strasbourg
and is now in Munich. It goes without saying that comedy can also unfold in
decidedly decorative sculpture.
There are many qualities that are related to the comical but are completely
different from it, such as the humorous, the amusing, the witty, the sarcastic, the
satirical, the caricature, and the grotesque. The humorous is not comedy in the
strict sense of the word. It is not like the Beckmesser scene in the third act of
Wagner’s Die Meistersinger that makes us laugh, and even less like some scenes
in Verdi’s Falstaff. Father Rhine does not in the least make us laugh. Rather, we
delight in the humorous form that is given to this mythical figure.
What we see in the figures of some goblins, or in some statues such as the
Kindlifresser Fountain in Bern, is not the humorous but another quality that
goes much further in the direction of what is genuinely comical, or of the
grotesque. But these are not figures that make us laugh.
We must also draw a distinction between the quality of the comical in the
true sense and the lighthearted in decorative sculpture. Once again, our example
is the delightful Pegasus in the Mirabell Garden in Salzburg. Its stylization
contains an element of the cheerful, the funny, indeed we might almost say the
witty. This quality is different from the humorous, but it too belongs to the
sphere of cheerfulness [Heiterkeit] in the broader sense, which has the comical at
its center. There are many qualities in decorative sculpture that are related to
comedy. But sculpture can never be comic in the way in which the works of
Molière or in which (to take the highest type of artistic comedy) Sancho in
Cervantes’ Don Quixote is comic.
Unlike literature, opera, and music drama, those statues that are bearers of a
quality that is close to the comical in the full sense of the word never possess an
ultimate artistic beauty. In the former case, the transposed comedy can be an
exceptional artistic value, but this is impossible in sculpture.
The artistic value of satire in sculpture is likewise limited. One could object
at this point: What about the satyr in classical sculpture? While he possesses an
element of the comical, can he not also be a bearer of lofty artistic values that are
not inferior to those of serious sculptures?
This may be granted; but the satyr is not comical like (mutatis mutandis)
Sancho, Leporello, or Le bourgeois gentilhomme of Moliere. He does not make us
laugh, and there is nothing comical in his humor, which distinguishes him from
other statues such as those of Apollo, Poseidon, or Athene. Rather, if we may
employ a very bold comparison, his humor is similar to the cheerfulness of a fool
in one of Shakespeare’s plays. The satyr has something grotesque about him. His
deviation from the formal principle of the human body in general does not go in
the direction of the ugly and deformed, but in that of a created type that has its
own formal principle. This is even truer of the centaur.
The grotesque element in the satyr also has a touch of the cheerful and
humorous that is lacking in the centaur. But this element of the humorous,
which the satyr possesses in a manner that is analogous to the humorous figure
of a river-god, is different from the comical and even from the comical aspect of
some gnomes, goblins, and of statues that are meant as a joke. This is why such
figures can also be bearers of lofty artistic values and can appear in the company
of serious sculpture, as, for example, in Adolf von Hildebrand’s relief The Drunk
Dionysus on the house where the artist once lived in Florence.5

1. Aesthetics, vol. 1, chaps. 15, 16, and 19.

2. See chap. 32.
3. See chap. 23.
4. Ibid.
5. This house was originally the monastery of San Francesco di Paola.
Painting
 CHAPTER TWENTY

Representation [Darstellung] in Painting

Representation [Wiedergabe] as distinct from similarity [Ähnlichkeit] and image

[Abbild]
THE PRESUPPOSITION for the arts of painting and drawing is the remarkable
phenomenon of the representation of visible reality. This also exists in
photography. Hans Jonas has analyzed representation in a fine essay.1 He shows
that wherever we find drawings, human beings have been there, since, unlike
many other traces that could also derive from animals, the ability to make a
representation presupposes the human being as a spiritual person. Moreover, the
ability to recognize and understand a representation also presupposes the human
being as spiritual person. A dog will not recognize its master in a photograph or
a portrait.
The union between the picture on the canvas and a landscape that is depicted
on it is a union of a very distinct kind. The same is true of drawings and
photographs. We shall now investigate the specific character of this union. It is
presupposed in the case of painting and drawing, although both of these, as
works of art, go far beyond representation. But for now we are interested only in
the phenomenon of representation that a painting and a drawing share with a
photograph. Afterward we will look at those elements that distinguish these two
from the photograph or, in other words, that mark them off as works of art.2
In order to understand the phenomenon of representation, which is the
unique bond between the depiction and that which is depicted, we must
distinguish it from other relationships that are in some way akin to it.
The first of these is the fundamental and important relationship of similarity,
which permeates every area of being. It is much more general than
representation. There are similar colors, sounds, faces, figures, characters,
atmospheres, talents, and so on. The similarity always exists between two
objects. It can be present in various respects, but we always compare two objects
that belong to one and the same sphere of being. This is why similarity in the
strict sense is completely different from analogy, which exists between objects
from different spheres of being.3
A photograph is a piece of paper on which we see something that unites us
to a completely different sphere of being. It depicts a landscape, a human being,
and so on. Is this relationship of depiction, this relationship of representation, a
similarity between the depiction on the paper and the landscape, the human
being, and so on?
We do indeed say sometimes that a photograph is good and that there is a
similarity. But the term “similar” is not used here in the strict sense. It does not
refer to the similarity between the photograph as a real object—a piece of paper
—and that which is reproduced in the photograph. The term “similar” already
presupposes the relationship of representation here. In this context, “similar”
means that the representation was successful and that the photograph correctly
represented what was intended to be represented. It is obvious that we mean
something different with this word from what we mean when we say that
someone is similar in appearance to his brother.
We must also distinguish the visible representation from another centrally
important relationship, namely, the relationship of the causa exemplaris
(“exemplary cause”) [to that which images it]. Above all, God is said to be the
causa exemplaris of all being. Saint Bonaventure, for example, draws the classical
distinction between imago (“image”) and vestigium (“trace”). This causa
exemplaris has two aspects. First, there is the relationship of showing forth, or
reflecting, which is akin to a special kind of analogy. In everything that exists,
there lies, within an immense gradation, an analogy to the absolute being of
God. Secondly, there is the dependence of the lower on the higher when
something is created by God in accordance with Him as archetype.
We do not have in mind this relationship between the creature and the
Creator when we use the term causa exemplaris in a broader sense and say that
one human being as a personality is a model for another—one artist a model for
other artists, one statesman a model for other statesmen, the conduct of war by
one general a model for other generals. In every instance, one being is higher and
is the pattern on which another being depends in a specific way.
This dependence must be sharply distinguished from the dependence
implied by the causa efficiens (“efficient cause”) as well as that implied by the
causa finalis (“final cause”).4
If one thing is seen as a model and another thing as its copy, or if this is in
fact the case, there exists a relationship in which the one is treated as superior
and the other as inferior, or a relationship in which the one is objectively
superior and the other inferior. This kind of dependence is not limited (like
dependence in the strict sense) to things that belong to the same sphere of being.
It refers, in the primal meaning of the causa exemplaris, to the relationship
between the finite and the infinite, the absolute; and it often refers also to
different spheres of being. It always includes the difference that is constituted by
the superiority of the one in relation to the other.
The causa exemplaris entails a dependence of the lower on the higher. This
dependence goes beyond pure similarity. In an objectively existing relationship of
imaging an archetype, this dependence is real. In a relationship of imaging that
is merely posited by a philosopher as an assumption, something that is lower is
reinterpreted to become the causa exemplaris of something that is higher. In
reality, of course, the higher does not depend on something lower, since this is
only an alleged dependence that is wrongly and arbitrarily posited.
One could object that, although it may be conceded that the relationship of
representation between a photograph and that which is represented by it is not a
strict, pure similarity, is not the photograph nonetheless an image [Abbild] of
that which it represents? Does not the term “image” [Bild] itself indicate that
this relationship of representation is a form of imaging?
To this, we must reply that we may concede that the word Bild (“picture”) is
used in the concepts of Urbild (“archetype”) and Abbild (“image”), and thus
points in some way to the relationship between the picture (Bild) and that which
is depicted (abgebildet). In a genuine visible representation, however, we have
something completely different from what we find in the much more general
relationship of imaging that is found in the very various spheres of being. The
linguistic allusion is based only on a distant analogy. In reality, what we have
here is a completely different and much more special relationship.

Photographic representation
In the case of a photograph, we are speaking of a kind of representation that is in
fact different from the general representation found in all the imitative arts.
Representation in literature is of a different kind from that in painting; and even
in sculpture, it is not the same as in painting and drawing. Besides this, we are
not yet speaking of the specifically artistic representation that exists in all the
imitative arts, with its own specific transposition. We are speaking of the mere
phenomenon of representation that painting and drawing share with
photography.
 This bond between the visible representation—photograph, drawing, or
painting—and the object represented is completely sui generis. It is not correct to
speak of dependence, as in the case of imaging. An image is a real object that, as
such, depends on a higher, superior object, namely, the archetype. A photograph
is not a lower real object, but is, as such, not a real object at all. It is a real object
as a piece of special paper with a smooth surface. But what one sees on it is not a
distinct object. It is subsumed wholly into its representation of a real object.
Moreover, this dependence is of a completely different kind. A photograph
exists only in its function of representation. If one wishes to speak of dependence
here, the dependence goes incomparably further. Nor can one speak of a superior
and an inferior object. It would be absurd to say that a photograph was the
inferior object and that what was depicted on it was the higher object. Who
would ever compare the photograph, as an object, with the real landscape and
the real human being?
In reality, that which is represented in a photograph—a landscape, a house, a
human being—is three-dimensional. The representation of the reality in a
photograph is two-dimensional. The first point to be made is that it is
astonishing that this two-dimensional picture allows us to recognize the three-
dimensional objects. Besides this, we can come into contact with the real objects
through the sense of touch, which communicates their reality to us, though only
with the collaboration of the sense of sight. Many things also speak to us
through a typical smell: not only flowers but also fruits and trees, etc. All this is
lacking in the photograph and the picture, which are accessible only to the sense
of sight.
Despite all these differences, however, photographic representation gives
something that is fully present. This is not a link to the object that passes via the
intellect, as with the word. The recognition of a landscape in a photograph does
not require the specific act of understanding that is essential as a central factor of
language in reading and hearing what another person says. This act of
recognition is based on an act of understanding in a much wider sense, which is
very important in the perception of the visible and audible, namely, the purely
receptive spiritual capacity that animals lack. This is why a dog is unable to
recognize its master in a photograph.
Our primary interest here is not in the acts that are presupposed in order to
recognize or to come to know that which is depicted in a photograph, a drawing,
or a picture. This ability is already well developed in small children, long before
they can read and write. Rather, we are interested in the objective relationship
between a photograph and that which is depicted in it, the bond that exists
between photograph and reality, this very specific relationship, the phenomenon
of representation.

Copy, replica, doublet

The specific character of this relationship emerges even more clearly when we
demarcate it over against other relationships, such as that between a copy and its
original. When we do so, the first thing that is missing is the difference between
the two-dimensionality of the picture and the three-dimensionality of that which
is depicted.
Secondly, we do not find here the relationship that a picture has to reality,
namely, the representation that constitutes a leap from one object to an entirely
different kind of object: from the photograph as paper or from the canvas with
its colors, on the one hand, to the real object that is depicted, on the other. The
copy of a picture is entirely the same type of object as the picture that is copied;
the leap that we have just mentioned does not take place. If the copy is very good
(as is seldom the case), one could confuse it with the original. But no one can
confuse a picture with the reality that is depicted in it. There is a pure
relationship of dependence between the copy and the original, although this is a
special type of dependence, because it is a similarity driven to the point of
sameness. The relationship between the two goes in a direction completely
different from the relationship of representation.
The copied image shares in the relationship of representation that the
original has. It too represents a landscape, an animal, or a human being; but the
relationship to the original is obviously completely different from the
relationship of the representation. The term “copy” is the correct name for this
relationship.
The situation is already different with the photograph of a picture. Once
again, the distinction between two-and three-dimensionality, which is
characteristic of the representation, is missing, as is the step from the
photograph to reality. Nevertheless, a photograph is not a copy. No matter how
perfect it may be, no one could ever confuse it with the picture. An element of
the relationship of representation is present, however, not only the distinction
between a copy and the original. To present the copy as an original would be a
forgery. The photograph of a picture could never be an “original” in the same
sense. It can only be a photograph, good and adequate or poor and inadequate. It
cannot claim to be the picture itself. It occupies the much more modest position
of a representation.
In one regard, the original is a definite causa exemplaris for the copy, since the
copy is wholly determined by the original. The original is the archetype, not for
the creation of something new but for an exact imitation.
Although the copy constitutes a maximum of representationality in its
dependence on the original, this relationship is radically different from the
dependence that exists in the genuine type of causa exemplaris relationship, since
the new is no longer a genuine structure of its own. In the case of a copy, the
original is not only a model, not only something that gives direction, not only
the pattern when something new comes into being, but a copy is a repetition of
the original that is intended to be so similar to the original that the one can be
confused with the other. When we say that a copy is not a new structure, we do
not mean that it is not a new thing on another canvas or that it is not another
concrete individual. We mean that it is nothing new in its essence [Sosein]. If it
does not attain full similarity in its essence, it is only its imperfection that
distinguishes it qualitatively from the original—not something new that is
inspired by the model. This is why it is a pure representation. Let us suppose
that the copy is totally similar to the original. The essential difference is that the
original came from the hand of the master who created it, and is for this reason
incomparably more valuable, even in financial terms.
A special artistic ability is presupposed even for the act of copying, although
the goal that is achieved is only modest, and the artistic value of the copy is far
less than that of the original. A copy is not a mechanical replica; it presupposes a
special talent. In this regard, copies of great masterworks created by a painter of
much more modest gifts are very instructive.
This is why we must also distinguish the relationship between a copy and the
original from the relationship between pure replicas and an original. One ring
that is exactly the same as another and is indeed made of the same material is not
in any sense in an inferior relationship, even as a pure replica, to another ring
that is exactly like it. It has the same value in every respect. It is another instance
of the ring.
If the material only appears to be the same (for example, if only pinchbeck is
used instead of gold, or a rhinestone instead of a diamond), the copy has the
character of a forgery. It is indeed true that one can speak of a real forgery only
when the seller passes off a fake as genuine. But the objective relationship
between the golden ring or the jewel and the imitation is definitely that of a
pretense. The appearance, which is exactly identical, aims at a deception. It looks
as if it were something that it is not in reality. There is thus a relationship of
deception in addition to the relationship of a replica.
Another instance of a thing is completely different from a copy of it. Many
articles that are produced en masse by machinery are completely identical. They
are indeed different individual things, but they are more or less identical in their
essence. This is not the relationship between original and copy, between
archetype and image. There is no precedence of the one over the other, unless
one article happens by chance to have turned out less well. In such a case, a
forgery is impossible.

Demarcation of the photograph from the drawing and painting

After demarcating the relationship of representation from all the similar
relationships, we can now turn to the distinctions within representation that
separate the picture and the drawing from the photograph. We move in this way
from the pure phenomenon of visible representation in the narrower sense to the
completely new artistic representation that is present in the painting and the
drawing.
The first difference, of course, is that the mere representation in a
photograph is entrusted to a technical process, whereas the representation in
drawing and painting derives from the activity of an artist. It is true that a
photograph is not produced mechanically: in a real photograph that a human
being takes of a landscape or of something else, the activity of taking the
photograph is an important factor. We exclude here the purely mechanical
representation of manuscripts and printed material. Theodor Haecker has
pointed out the important difference between a tool and a machine.5 A tool such
as a brush, a pen, a chisel, or a hammer, is only a causa instrumentalis
(“instrumental cause”), while the human being or his activity is the causa
principalis (“principal cause”). A human being makes use of the instruments in
order to create something. A machine, on the other hand, functions as the causa
principalis, and the activity of the human being who sets the machine in motion
is only a causa remota (“remote cause”). The human being makes use of a tool,
but he operates a machine. Haecker emphasizes that this is why a human being
can thoroughly animate the causal effect when he employs a tool, bestowing an
organic character on this effect, whereas a machine does not animate the causal
effect, and bestows on it a mechanical instead of an organic character. What the
human being can create with tools is a genitum (something “begotten”) as
opposed to the typical factum (something “made”) of things produced by
machines.
We have said that a camera is not a machine. But we can affirm even more
strongly that it is not a pure tool. Like the machine, it is the causa principalis of
the pure representation. Strictly speaking, however, the light and the special
sensitivity to light are the causa principalis. The light is the true causa principalis.
It has the function of the agens, the active power, and the material with a special
sensitivity to light has the function of the static precondition of the effect. It goes
without saying that the human being and his activity are not the causa principalis
in this process, but only the causa remota. Nevertheless, his activity is radically
different from what happens with a machine. It is true that one who presses the
button of the camera acts only as the causa remota. But he assumes a leading role
in the entire preparation, not only in the choice of the correct light but also with
regard to the photogenic possibilities and many other factors, and this role
determines the whole photograph in its quality, in its effectiveness, and so on. A
photograph always contains an element of interpretation of the real object. The
“art” of taking good photographs is a subject all its own, which goes beyond our
theme here.
In a drawing and a picture, it is the human being who produces the
representation. It is he who carries out the process of representative art. For this
he needs not only his hands but also certain tools. But the entire process, from
the will to depict something, through all the acts of the mind, down to the
skillfulness of the hands and the correct use of the tool, is an activity on the part
of the human being, and drawing or painting is a special human gift. The
function of the tool is completely subordinate, a pure causa instrumentalis.
It is impossible not to recognize the difference between a drawing or a
picture, on the one hand, and a photograph, on the other, with regard to the way
in which they come into being.
Before we discuss this difference as it concerns the phenomenon of
representation, let us briefly point to certain features of representation as such.
When we apprehend on a photograph the vista of Lake Geneva from Vevey,
this does not contain any element of the illusion that the stage demands of us. It
is of course true that this illusion ought not to go so far that what is depicted on
the stage is confused with the reality that surrounds us. We ought not to regard
what is depicted as something that takes place in our real life. Rather, we should
only be drawn out of reality for a short time and transposed into a world in
which we participate in everything that happens during the play. We do not
confuse this world with reality, but in one sense it temporarily replaces reality for
us. The illusion consists in the fact that we live completely in this world and do
not perceive it as the mere depiction of a fictitious event. A certain illusion of a
different kind is required when one reads a novel.
Illusion plays no role at all in the photographic depiction of a real place. We
see the representation and apprehend the beauty of this landscape. The
consciousness of being there is not in the least necessary. This kind of
representation is radically different both from that in literature and from the
visible representation on the stage. The specific kind of illusion demanded by the
stage is not present in the photographic representation. This applies to the
picture and the drawing too, even when a concrete reality is represented. If we
see the portrait of a person whom we love, we need no illusion in order to
apprehend the beauty of the portrait and to delight in the expression of his or her
beloved face.
Another characteristic of visible representation is even more important than
the absence of illusion. The act of seeing a photograph, for example, of Lake
Geneva, is a perception that also communicates to us a perceptual apprehension
of the object. There is clearly a great difference between perceiving Lake Geneva
while we are in Lausanne or Vevey and looking at a good color photograph that
reproduces this view of the lake. In the factual perception, the lake itself is
present, disclosing to us not only its essence but also its existence. We are in a
full, real union with it, in a contact of a specific kind for which there is no
substitute, and this is why the delightfulness is very different from what we
experience when we only look at the photograph. We can fully apprehend the
beauty of the lake on the photograph. It will naturally kindle in us the longing to
see this landscape in reality. But it is astonishing that a photographic
representation allows us to see and get to know Lake Geneva (at least from this
point in space) and to perceive its essence. This is more than a mere acquisition
of knowledge about the character of the lake from a description of it. Its essence,
that is to say, its appearance and the appearance of its surroundings—for
example, how Les Dents du Midi rise up behind it—is given to us in the
photograph too as fully present.
This is why getting to know Lake Geneva through the photograph is a
species of perception and not merely a representation or a knowledge that is
acquired through a description that is communicated to us.
A representation in the strict sense is a “consciousness of” in which we
represent the object in our mind in such a way that it is fully present. But we
must already know it in order to be able to represent it.6 This representation
differs from perception not only because—as Hume in an almost incredible
naïveté assumed—the perception is more intense than representation, or because
the object is more intensively given to us in perception. Rather, we have here two
radically different types of “consciousness of.”7 First of all, the object itself is
present in perception: it is present in persona. Secondly, it discloses and reveals
itself to us in its essence and its existence. It fecundates our spirit, informs us,
and communicates to us a knowledge about itself. Thirdly, the object is spread
out before us as fully present, unlike all the knowledge that we acquire through
an inference.
The representation lacks both the first characteristic, namely, the presence of
the object, and the second, namely, the fecundation of our mind, the receptive
apprehending, being informed, getting to know the essence and the existence of
something. Representation in this strict sense already presupposes knowledge.
The only thing it has in common with perception is the immediate givenness,
although in this regard there is certainly not only a difference of degree between
representation and perception.
We recall the distinction between representation and perception only in
order to indicate the unique relationship to the object that exists in the act of
looking at a photograph of a landscape or of a human face. As in perception, we
get to know the essence of an object in the “consciousness of” the object that we
look at in a photograph without ever having seen it before. However, the object
itself is not present but is there only by proxy, so to speak; the disclosure of its
existence does not take place.
In the case of a photograph, however, the “consciousness of” is radically
different from the “consciousness of” in the case of an imaginative
representation. The photograph communicates to us knowledge of the depicted
object. We do not hold up something to the mind’s eye, as with an imaginative
representation, nor do we merely actualize a knowledge that is already present.
Rather, the intuitive immediacy proper to perception is present. The photograph
shares this full presence with the imaginative representation, but the radical
antithesis to the imaginative representation is decisive. What we receive when
we see the photograph comes to us from the outside. In the imaginative
representation, what we receive does not come from the outside; rather, we
actualize one particular form of knowledge. We must employ a certain effort to
spread out before the mind’s eye the object that is known to us. Through a
photograph, we can come to know something unknown; this is impossible
through an imaginative representation in the strict sense of the term. Whenever
we see a photograph of something known to us, the object comes once again to
us from the outside. The contact with the object is always completely different
from what happens when we imaginatively represent something that is known to
us.
Naturally, we perceive the photograph itself in the full sense. This entity that
depicts is given to us in its essence and its existence, and is itself present. We
know that this photograph is a reality and that it exists, because we perceive it in
a normal manner. What interests us in the photograph is the contact with the
depicted object that is not itself present. We can speak of a perception by proxy,
as it were.
All of this also sheds a light on the wonderful reality of visual artistic
representation, this unique and important phenomenon that is not present in a
photograph but is presupposed in a painting and a drawing.
The difference between a photograph and a drawing with regard to the way
in which they come into being representation is also found in a drawing that has
been made for some practical reason and has no artistic pretension. Such a
drawing is also the pure product of a human activity and is the same type of
representation even when it neither claims to be a work or art nor possesses any
artistic value or disvalue at all.

Artistic representation yields a new reality

Something completely new is present as soon as a drawing aims at an artistic
value and thereby in principle goes beyond mere representation. This brings us
to the incomparably more important and decisive difference that separates
photographs, as well as all drawings made for the purpose of pure depiction,
from artistic drawings and pictures. Every visual work of art is a new reality sui
generis. The representation, the so-called imitative element, is merely a
substratum. The theme is not the imitation but the artistic beauty that is
conditioned by many other factors.
Only a small percentage of pictures and drawings reproduce definite real
landscapes and real figures. We prescind initially from these portraits in the
broader sense, not only from the portrait in the narrower sense, which is
essentially linked to the rendering of a real person.
Most of the landscapes and figures in painting are imaginary. The type of
landscape that is given in a picture may be more that of Bologna or of Tuscany,
may be more Flemish or German. But this does not alter the fact that the picture
as a whole does not reproduce any concrete, individual landscape, or that it is not
a portrait. In most cases, the factor of representation refers to those elements
that can be seen in an invented composition in the picture, namely, the human
figure, the human body, the figure of an animal, or the form of a tree. In
imaginary creations, the link to nature and to the entire visible reality extends
only to the general formal types of the things that are present in the picture. A
tree must be recognizable as such, and this is even more true of a human figure; a
horse must do justice to the figure of a horse and must not look like a calf.
This first striking difference between non-artistic and artistic representation
also exists within art, between portraits in the narrower or broader sense and all
other kinds of pictures and drawings. This is, accordingly, not a factor that
separates non-artistic representation from artistic representation. But it is, at any
rate, a characteristic of most pictures and drawings in their relationship to
nature, as opposed to the pure representation that we find in a photograph.
The second factor is much more important. The picture or drawing—
including all portraits—never lives from the pure representation of nature. It
constructs with its own means a completely new, distinct entity. Representation
is indeed employed, but it is never the real theme. Even in a portrait in the
narrower sense, where the representation is much more important than
elsewhere, the similarity to the face and the success in depicting this individual
personality are subordinate to the artistic greatness and importance of the
portrait in itself. But all other (non-portrait) pictures lack the pure representation
of something concrete, and the representation of the elements that are employed
is a means to the construction of a new entity of its own.
We are not speaking of the reality of a material thing, such as the canvas that
belongs to the new entity, to the picture, with its sui generis reality. The picture
as such is a self-contained structure that is inseparable from the function of
depiction. But there is more to the picture than this function, and more than the
representation of an invented landscape or reality. It is something completely
new in itself, and this newness is a bearer of artistic values. We have emphasized
in the first chapter the special form of reality that the picture as a work of art
possesses. There is a distinct form of existence of works of art, which varies
specifically in literature, music, painting, and sculpture, as opposed to the
architectural works of art that possess the full reality of other real objects such as
trees and rocks. All we need do here is to underline that the picture,
independently of its function of representation, is a distinct, self-contained
structure.
 A picture penetrates more deeply into nature
A successful photograph of the Gulf of Spezia makes it possible for us to enjoy
the beauty of the Gulf. This is the theme, and the raison d’être of the photograph
is to be an adequate representation of the Gulf and of its beauty.
But the beauty of a picture that makes use of this landscape must not be
exclusively the beauty of the Gulf. It must be the bearer of a new, distinct beauty.
Its raison d’être is not the faithful representation of the beautiful landscape. The
spiritual process of representation always contains an element of interpretation.
When we analyze more precisely the representation of nature in a picture, we
find something that is surprisingly new. The picture does not live exclusively
from the representation of reality. Its beauty is not only the representation of the
beauty that is possessed in natura by what is depicted. It is at the same time also
a deeper penetration of nature. The representation brings forth from nature
treasures that are hidden in it. Both Conrad Fiedler and my father, Adolf von
Hildebrand, have drawn attention to this aspect on various occasions.
A picture is thus not only a distinct structure. Its beauty does not live only
from the representation of the beautiful thing that it depicts: it is derived from
many other sources too, since a work of art is not a sheer representation. It also
contains a deeper view of nature and brings forth the poetry and greatness that
are hidden in nature. The object is more deeply apprehended and understood in
the artistic representation than in the way it discloses itself to the eye of the non-
artist.
This is why the relationship of representation is in principle of a different
kind than in a photograph. A genuine work of art shows the elements that are to
be represented, such as trees, houses, clothed and naked figures, animals, and so
on, in a truer and deeper representation of the world of natural forms. A work of
art that reproduces the female body, such as Giorgione’s Venus, is not the
depiction of a model, but penetrates the depth, the greatness, and the poetry that
the mystery of the form of the female body contains.
This deeper penetration of nature does not, however, consist in an arbitrary
alteration of that which is given in nature. On the contrary, it is filled with a
great reverence for nature and for the special invention of God that each natural
form constitutes.
The pure representation of some model is the specific antithesis of this
deeper penetration into the specific principle of shape and form. Equally
antithetical, though in a different direction, is every attempt to replace these
forms and formal principles of nature by arbitrary inventions, thereby disfiguring
the formal principles of nature. This deviation from nature is held to be a sign of
creative power, but that is a fundamental error and a great self-deception. One
who is incapable of respecting the formal principles in his relationship to nature,
and of going beyond reality by representing this world of forms in such a way
that its entire depth, greatness, and poetry shine forth in an even more
concentrated and unambiguous manner, lacks the true artistic gift. He seeks to
attain newness (as opposed to a mere representation) by ignoring nature, and he
employs pseudo-inventions to make up for his lack of the power to represent in
the work of art the true mystery of forms in nature.
It is deplorable that a painter like Picasso, who created genuine works of art
in his early years, later succumbed to the monstrous error of ignoring the given
language for the representation of nature, and of giving a new content in what
we might call meaningless sentences.
Representation is completely absent in innumerable other so-called
contemporary artists. The forms are arbitrarily distorted, and that which is
represented is no longer recognizable. This ignoring of nature is an unequivocal
sign of their inability to understand the true nature of artistic representation and
the irreplaceability of the means through which aesthetic values in nature and art
can be realized. This is a pure analogy to Dadaism.
Something completely different is involved in genuinely abstract painting,
which prescinds in principle from the representation and depiction of nature.
The artist’s aim is to achieve a particular artistic content without any
representation. But he forgets that by renouncing representation in principle, he
deprives painting of an essential field of activity and limits himself to the artistic
content that a carpet can give. An additional factor is that a carpet, which can be
a bearer of lofty aesthetic values, is meant to be integrated decoratively into the
interior of architectural spaces. As a product of the applied arts, it also possesses
the beauty of the material, and this does not come into consideration in the case
of a picture.

Transposition
Let us return to our analysis of the difference between the phenomenon of
representation in a photograph and in a painting or drawing. We have seen that
with regard to the pure representation of nature and of human figures, there is
something new in the painting and the drawing, something that is incomparably
deeper than in the photograph. The representation in the painting and drawing
is an act of forming that allows the genius of nature, its content of beauty and of
expression, to shine out in the individual work, but never by means of an
arbitrary alteration of the figures and formal principles of nature.
It is, of course, true that the factors that condition the beauty of a work of art
are not limited to representation, even in this lofty artistic sense. The beauty,
greatness, depth, and poetry of a picture or of a drawing depend on many other
factors besides representation. While the artistic representation—or, as we could
say, the deep inner union with nature, the congeniality with nature—is indeed
indispensable, many other things are involved, since the picture or drawing
becomes a new structure, a distinct world that is something completely different
from every mere representation of reality.
The soul of representation in painting, and by analogy in all the imitative
arts, is transposition, which is a mysterious element that finds expression above
all in the fact that the beauty of the depicted landscape or bodily form does not
in the least guarantee the beauty of the picture or drawing. Some pictures are
downright disastrous or completely insignificant in artistic terms, although they
reproduce a glorious landscape or a beautiful human body. Portraits of beautiful,
noble faces can indeed be similar to these faces in a peripheral sense, but as
works of art, they can be nonexistent or even definitely embarrassing and trivial.
The fact that this is possible, above all in the representation of a beautiful
landscape, shows clearly the central importance of transposition into a new
world. It also shows how much the picture constitutes a distinct structure over
against the photograph, which has as its soul and its raison d’être the adequate,
pure representation of its object. For the beauty of a photograph, the essential
thing is the beauty of the landscape. The landscape may be photographed in a
way that is better, more favorable, and more adequate, or in a way that is less
adequate, but the theme and the meaning of the photograph are primarily to do
full justice to the beauty of the landscape. It is the beauty of the landscape that
we want to enjoy.
On the other hand, it would be incorrect to assert that the beauty of the
landscape that is to be depicted is not also a factor that contributes to the beauty
of a picture.8
Once again, let me explicitly emphasize that it is certainly not my aim in an
aesthetics to develop a program that would guarantee the value of a work of art,
provided that one followed it. Such a project is fundamentally hopeless. One can
identify philosophically certain elements that are essential for a genuine work of
art, quite apart from many phenomena of an aesthetic kind that are important
both in art in general and in the individual arts. But it is not the task of
aesthetics to give directives for the creation of true works of art, in the way that
ethics can give directives for a morally good life.
The process by which a great artist creates a significant work of art remains a
great mystery. Even outside of aesthetics, there is no manual that if followed
guarantees the realization of a work of art. Doubtless, a master can contribute
much to the artistic development of his pupils, but this happens more through
concrete counsel and instruction than through rules. Besides this, he is able to
inspire the pupils and to introduce them into a lofty artistic world. But the
question of which of the pupils will then be capable of creating genuine,
significant works of art depends on the artistic gift that God has bestowed on
them. And this is precisely the element that cannot be explained or learned
through directives. An aesthetics is utterly unable to communicate it.

1. “Homo Pictor: Von der Freiheit des Bildens,” in Organismus und Freiheit (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck
& Ruprecht, 1973), chap. 9; also in earlier publications: “Homo pictor und die differentia des Menschen,”
Zeitschrift für philosophische Forschung 15, no. 2 (1961); “Homo pictor and the Differentia of Man,” Social
Research 29 (1962); Zwischen Nichts und Ewigkeit (1963).
2. See also chap. 25, footnote 1.
3. See Aesthetics, vol. 1, chaps. 7 and 9.
4. If, for example, a philosopher is accused of having made the relationship of finality the causa
exemplaris of all relationships of dependence, this means that he sees all relationships in the light of the
relationship of finality and that he risks interpreting them all as variations of this one relationship.
5. Was ist der Mensch?, 36ff.
6. The mental image in this strict sense must be completely separated from the fictitious mental image
in this process.
7. See my What is Philosophy? chap. 6.
8. We discuss this theme in chaps. 21 and 22 below.
 CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Subject Matter [Stoff] and Form

THE QUESTION OF the extent to which artistic value depends on the choice of
subject matter plays a great role in the history of aesthetics. Some scholars
emphasize that if a picture depicting a sublime object, such as the Annunciation
or the miraculous catch of fishes, is artistically successful, it is necessarily more
beautiful than Rembrandt’s Slaughtered Ox. Others take the standpoint that all
that matters is the artistic form: if this attains the summit of perfection, the
choice of subject matter cannot have any influence on the artistic value.
Some affirm that a tragedy is necessarily more important and possesses
greater artistic weight than a comedy, or that sacred music is deeper and more
sublime than all non-sacred music, provided that the former is fully successful in
artistic terms.
Others dispute this and assert that only the beauty of the music as such
decides its artistic value. They say that a comedy can be just as deep and
artistically beautiful as a tragedy.

The various meanings of “subject matter”

We must begin by clarifying the concept of object or subject matter, since
different things are usually confused here. Above all, the varying importance of
the subject matter in the different arts is not taken into consideration.
Accordingly, we shall treat this problem in each of the arts separately. We begin
with painting.
A closer look immediately discloses the ambiguity of the concept of subject
matter. This always refers to that which is depicted, not to the kind of depiction
or to the picture as a distinct artistic object. But “subject matter” can refer to very
various things in the context of that which is depicted.
First of all, it can refer to the content expressed in the title of a picture. For
example, a picture can depict a well-known historical event: the victory of
Constantine at the Milvian Bridge, the death of Alaric, the surrender of Breda,
and so on. The subject matter is important, completely independently of the
picture. As such, it irradiates a specific atmosphere, if we are informed in some
way about the event. Inartistic persons who are interested primarily in this are
satisfied when they see such a picture and observe: “That is the victory of
Constantine!” They are completely blind to the artistic content of the picture
and regard it as merely an illustration. The interest they have in the event
depicted is in fact literary or historical; the historical content and its atmosphere
make the event attractive. The picture gives them pleasure through the
intensification of this atmosphere when they see the event, instead of only living
off a mental image. We mention this inartistic attitude because it unambiguously
demonstrates what we envisage as the first possible meaning of “subject matter.”
It is clear that there are innumerable pictures with a subject matter that does not
have a literary theme.
A picture may depict an historical event or a mythological object, or have a
religious content. But neither the value that the historical event as such
possesses, nor the poetic content of the mythological object, nor the lofty sacred
value of the religious content, influences the artistic beauty of the picture in such
a way that it guarantees that this beauty will have any kind of artistic value. A
picture does not become beautiful and artistically valuable through the
importance and the value that the depicted object as such possesses. Not even
the fact that it depicts Christ, the Mother of God, a saint, or an event from
salvation history can, as such, make a picture beautiful and artistically valuable.
This does not in the least mean, however, that the subject matter in the sense
of that which is depicted does not place certain demands on the picture and on
the depiction, and that the fulfillment of these demands is not important for the
artistic value too. Nor does it mean—provided that these demands are in fact
met—that what is depicted has no influence at all on the value of the picture. As
long as this is an historical event, the demand that is made by the title of the
picture is relatively slight. It is indeed true that the picture of a battle ought to
reflect the world and the atmosphere of a battle. But if a picture depicts the
victory at the Milvian Bridge, it is not decisive whether the apparel is in
accordance with that period, with the Middle Ages, or with the Renaissance.
Diana ought not to look like Venus, nor Amor like Mars. But it goes without
saying that the artistic value of a picture does not depend on whether or not this
requirement is fulfilled. A picture can still be a great masterpiece even when it
contradicts what we are told is the theme depicted. Nevertheless, agreement with
this theme is an advantage.
 “Literary” and purely artistic requirements of the subject matter
We must distinguish two requirements that apply both to the depiction of an
historical event and to a mythological motif. The first concerns the historical
content or the mythological theme of such objects. We can call this the “literary”
requirement.
The second requirement concerns the form that is united to the theme. This
also exists in the depiction of a landscape with or without figures, in which the
“literary” demand is completely lacking. There are several dimensions with
regard to this second requirement of the subject matter. The depiction of one
particular type of landscape can belong to them. If a painter wants to reproduce
in a special way the Dutch landscape, its cachet, its specific character including
Dutch life, this demands that this atmosphere, this specific quality, should in
fact be present in the picture. Many Dutch painters were outstandingly
successful at this.
Our glorious landscape pictures, such as those by Rubens, entirely lack this
portrait-like theme. In such pictures too, however, the theme of the landscape in
general has certain artistic requirements. This brings us to the artistic importance
of nature in the graphic arts, and especially in painting. Unlike the demands
made by the “literary” theme, we have here artistic demands that are deliberately
ignored in some modern painting, for example, by Picasso. If the nose lies
athwart the face, or one side of the face is depicted frontally and the other in
profile, the expressive possibility of the face is destroyed and a path is taken
similar to that in a poem the words of which have no meaning.
Clearly, this is something completely different from a caricature, a hideous
grimace, or something similar. This ignoring of nature and of its requirements of
an artistic kind claims to produce a deep and serious picture, and there is no
trace here of the theme of caricature or of humor, of the decorative theme of a
mask, or of the monstrous that is meant to be monstrous (as in the pictures of
Hieronymus Bosch).
If one wishes to portray directly one particular expression, an atmosphere, or
an impression, without taking into consideration the requirements that have
their origin in nature—a very dubious undertaking, in artistic terms—the so-
called abstract painting is the given path. The requirements of nature no longer
come into question along this path, and all depiction is abandoned. This means
renouncing a world of artistic possibilities. It is true that carpets, on which
nature is seldom depicted and which are restricted to a decorative theme, can be
very beautiful. But as soon as one employs objects from nature—landscapes,
trees, animals, human figures and faces—this ignoring of the requirements of
nature means not merely a resigned withdrawal to a small body of artistic
contents but also a definite disvalue.
It is, at any rate, important to distinguish the subject matter in the sense of
the “literary” theme from the subject matter in the sense of that which is
depicted. The general requirements posed by nature in its forms include
requirements deriving from a portrait-like theme. Each of these various
requirements has a specific importance for the artistic value of the object.

Requirements deriving from a sacred subject matter

The situation is completely different in pictures whose subject matter has a
sacred character. Many of these pictures, especially frescos, are intended for a
church and are meant to fulfill a religious function. It is clear that this function
requires certain things of a work of art, and that the fulfillment of these
requirements is important for the picture. If the picture or fresco does not
adequately represent its subject, or if it does not irradiate a sacred atmosphere, it
sounds a false note in the church. It may possess other artistic qualities, but the
failure to fulfill the requirements of the sacred subject matter (and in the case of
a church, the failure to fulfill its goal) is a definite flaw even from an artistic
standpoint, a failure in an important respect.
Even where this service of a religious and cultic goal is not present, the
sublimity of the subject makes high demands of the purely artistic capacity in
general and of the special ability to represent the sacred world artistically. A
picture that depicts Christ or the crucifixion of Christ, the taking down from the
Cross, or any scene from the life of Christ, and has a profane character,
depicting Christ like a mediocre, average man or like a worldly figure, is an
artistic faux pas. It may be beautiful in its composition, its colors, and so on, but
the failure to fulfill the profound requirements of the subject matter clearly
denotes an artistic disvalue.

The portrait
The portrait, in which the depicted person is the subject matter in a completely
different sense of the term, is a separate type. Here it is clearly an important
artistic task to do justice to the face and to the personality. All the great portraits
in painting, whether by Raphael, Titian, Tintoretto, Holbein, Rembrandt,
Velazquez, or other great masters, represent in an incomparable manner the
personality of the person depicted. It suffices to recall the portraits of Thomas
More,1 Erasmus,2 or Pope Julius II.3
One must do justice to the requirements of the subject matter, if the portrait
is to be successful and to possess artistic value. This is possible only through
purely artistic means, however. The fame of the personality who is depicted, the
“literary” aspect of the object, may not play any role as such. On the other hand,
it is indubitable that one aspect of an artistically perfect portrait is the truthful
rendering of the personality whom it depicts, in full artistic transposition.

Unartistic similarity
Another inartistic attitude reduces the depiction of the subject to a copy that is
as exact as possible. However, a mere similarity to what is depicted is not, as
such, an artistic value. This attitude is typified in the story that the Greek
sculptor Apelles had the ability to depict grapes in such a way that the birds
picked at them.
In this instance, the being of artistic depiction is completely misunderstood
and is reduced to mere similarity in reproduction. Besides this, the purely
technical depiction is made the only theme. This is certainly just as mistaken as
the attitude of those who are interested only in the title, and to whom a picture
means nothing more than the illustration of an object whose “literary” value is
the only theme.

The beauty of that which is depicted and its influence on the work of art
The visual aesthetic character of an object is clearly something completely
different from all its “literary” values, its sacred meaning, and the demands that
the subject matter in this sense makes of a picture.
The question is: What influence has the beauty of that which is depicted, its
aesthetic value in natura, on the artistic value of a picture?
We must reply that the beauty of that which is depicted does not guarantee
any kind of artistic value in a picture, even in the most lifelike depiction. Even
when a picture depicts a beautiful landscape, beautiful human bodies, or
beautiful faces, it can be utterly devoid of value. As a picture, it can possess no
beauty at all.
This does not, however, answer the question whether the beauty of that
which is depicted can have an influence on the beauty of a picture.
The first point is that the landscape in many pictures is made up, and its
forming belongs entirely to the creation of the work of art. There is thus no
subject matter in the portrait-like sense of the term.
Secondly, it would be absurd to deny that the beauty of a landscape, although
it constitutes only one part of the composition of a picture, has a very great
importance for the beauty of the picture, for its artistic value, and for its deep
poetry. As a part of the composition, the beauty of this made-up landscape
shares in bearing the poetry and the beauty of the picture itself. An invented
landscape that was prosaic, boring, and featureless would be an artistic error, a
failure on the part of the artist. This would eliminate the problem of identifying
the influence exercised by the beauty of the depicted object.
The same applies to the architecture that is reproduced in a picture. A
picture of thoroughly tasteless architecture or of a barren, prosaic factory can
never possess the same poetry and beauty as a picture of architecture of great
nobility. Nevertheless, the Impressionists succeeded in achieving a definite
poetry sui generis in their paintings, even when they depict a relatively barren
nature and architecture of doubtful quality.
A new problem arises with the depiction of the naked human body. Except
in the case of caricatures or an intended humorous effect, or of pictures that
depict monsters or grotesque figures, the choice of a misshapen naked human
body constitutes a grave impairment of artistic value. Caricatures, humorous
pictures or drawings, and pictures meant to be grotesque are placed in quotation
marks, so to speak. In every other picture, the choice of a deformed body, of a
fortuitous corruption of the formal principle that goes hand in hand with a
naturalistic tendency, is a death blow to the work of art. A whole world of
difference lies between the creation of something grotesque and a naturalistic
inability to get beyond chance deformations. The grotesque has certain
boundaries. It can indeed possess a genuine artistic value, but it can never attain
the same artistic depth and beauty as Giorgione’s Pastoral Concert4 or his Venus.5
The naturalistic depiction of a naked body has nothing in common with the
grotesque. It is not stylized like the grotesque; on the contrary, it claims to be
truer and more lifelike than the “idealized” beautiful body. Deformation is
neither grotesque nor humorous. It is the depiction, untranslated in artistic
terms, of a depressing, prosaic reality that lacks poetry. The immanent claim to
be “more lifelike” because of its accidental character generates a specifically
prosaic atmosphere. Our attention is simply drawn to the misery of the model
who was used by the artist. The body seems undressed rather than naked.
It is a wholly false alternative to hold that a body must have an academically
idealized quality, schematized in every detail, thin, and lacking the fullness of
life, or else that it must be naturalistically accidental, unbeautiful, and
misshapen. Both of these are grave artistic errors. The beauty of the human body
that is required in artistic terms is certainly not one specific ideal type.
Innumerable variations are possible, and they must never be forced to fit a
schematic criterion. What must be avoided is the accidental, the definitely
misshapen that does not approximate to the comic and the grotesque. The
special demands that a picture of the naked body makes of the artist are
extremely interesting. They are much more pronounced in sculpture. In clothed
human figures, on the other hand, a figure that is unbeautiful in its proportions
is no impediment to the artistic beauty.
This applies even more strongly to portraits. An unbeautiful face cannot
affect the greatness and depth of a portrait. But whether a person has a good
head or an interesting, expressive face, and what kind of personality is expressed
in it, certainly has an influence on the artistic possibilities of a portrait.

The choice of the subject matter

From the artistic standpoint, the choice of subject matter is important. The
object that is depicted can be a face, a pure landscape or one with human figures,
something architectural (for example, a city), or a still life.
It is clear that even the most beautiful still life can never attain the same
artistic sublimity that we find in some of Rubens’s or Rembrandt’s landscapes.
This applies all the more strongly to nature with human figures, and especially
with naked figures, as in Giorgione’s Pastoral Concert and his Tempest.6 Pictures
that have the human body as their principal theme, such as Giorgione’s Venus,
can likewise attain a depth and greatness that no still life can match. Many
portraits too possess an ultimate depth and a moving greatness, such as
Leonardo’s Mona Lisa,7 Titian’s portrait of the Young Englishman in the Palazzo
Pitti, and several of Rembrandt’s self-portraits.

1. By Holbein: Frick Collection, New York.

2. By Holbein: Kunstmuseum, Basle.
3. By Raphael: Palazzo Pitti, Florence.
4. Louvre, Paris.
5. Gemäldegalerie, Dresden.
6. Accademia, Venice.
7. Louvre, Paris.
 CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The Artistic Means Employed in Painting

WE SUBSUME UNDER the artistic genre of painting the entire field of two-
dimensional representation, provided that this derives from an artistic activity
and does not take place mechanically, as in photography.

The various types of painting

This artistic genre encompasses, in the first place, colored and colorless
drawings. We apply the term “colored” to an unpainted drawing executed with a
colored pencil. There are many great works of art in this field.
The second type is the picture painted on canvas or wood, which is in a sense
the very heart of this artistic genre.
Thirdly, a related type is the fresco painted on stone or on a wall. This type is
different from the picture, both in the underlying technique and in its artistic
statement, in its special style.
A special type of picture can be seen on ancient vases, for example, in Greece
and Pompeii. High artistic values were attained in this genre. The vases as such
belong to the field of the applied arts, but this is not true of the pictures painted
on them.
The fourth important type of painting in our list is the mosaic.
A fifth type, the woodcut, is completely different from those we have
mentioned hitherto. It is much closer to the drawing, which is likewise non-
colored, than to the picture or fresco.
The copper engraving, the etching, the lithograph, and other types are
related to the woodcut.
The last type we must mention is the various kinds of illustration.

Colors
When we speak of “means,” we do not mean the paper and pen for the drawing,
the canvas or wooden tablet for the picture, or the wall for the fresco and the
materials for the mosaic, the woodcut, and so on. We understand this term to
refer to the factors that are indispensable for the creation of a work of art.
Through these factors the work is determined in its specific character and its
content.
In a drawing these means are the composition, the invention in the
assembling of the landscape, the figures, or whatever the depicted object may be.
In pictures, mosaics, and frescos, the colors too constitute an extremely
important factor. What a world of beauty can be attained in them through
colors.
We point first of all to the high aesthetic value of the colors in themselves.
What nobility an old red satin can possess! Doubtless, the beauty of the material
is an additional factor, as well as the great gradation within the various kinds of
satin. But we are thinking of the beauty that only colors can display. Colors are
already in themselves bearers of a great aesthetic value, though not of a beauty of
the second power. The “word” that is spoken in the various colors, the whole
qualitative dimension of being in them, is profoundly important. How beautiful
and noble a red, a green, a blue, or a yellow can be—but also how vulgar,
intrusive, and kitschy they can be.
Much more important than the beauty of the color in itself is its beauty in
nature. What an outstanding factor this is! Let us imagine just for one moment a
nature devoid of color, without the blue of the sky, without the white of the
clouds, without all the various kinds of green of the meadows, the trees, and the
bushes, without the world of the colors in the realm of the flowers, without the
colors of the rivers, the lakes, and the sea, without the blue of the distant
mountains! Then we fully realize what a great gift colors are, and we apprehend
how much more beautiful they make the world.
In relation to all this, the function of colors in painting means something
completely new. Here they are a central factor in bringing about the specifically
artistic content. We are speaking here not of the general type of color that is
prescribed by the depicted object but of the special variety of color within this
species.
We cannot mention the importance of colors without referring to the
relationship of the various colors to one another. One cannot judge the quality
and the beauty of one color in a picture independently of the other colors that
are present. In addition to the color that is prescribed by nature for the object in
question, its relationship to all the other colors of the whole picture is decisive
for its special nuance. This is why the colors in a picture belong to the special
artistic creation, to the extent that they are not prescribed by the depicted object.
Color contrast is frequently also an important factor in the realization of
specific artistic values, and is analogous to the contrast in the other artistic
genres.
The difference between a color contrast that is the bearer of an aesthetic
value and the clashing of colors is of particular artistic interest. Both of these, the
contrast and the clashing, contain an antithetical element, unlike colors that
complement one another in a special way. In a contrast there lies a great
difference of colors, but this is a kind of contrary antithesis in which their
appearance together emphasizes the specific quality of both.
This brings us to a point that is central for all the arts, as well as for the
beauty in nature, namely, the relationship of different elements to each other.
First of all, we have their belonging together that is “logically” required. In the
construction of a melody, one note calls to the other. In a poem, one comparison
gives birth to another. The size of a door or of a gate is a meaningful and
necessary consequence of the size of the building and of many other elements
that characterize the building. Similarly, in the realm of colors, one color can call
for working together with another color.
It is not necessary, however, for the colors to follow one another in a “logical”
sequence. It suffices when they fit one another in a good and normal way—for
example, when red and yellow harmonize, or black and white.
Colors can also contrast strongly, yet in such a way that this antithesis does
not disturb the unity but rather allows them, despite their radical difference, to
shine out in a special manner in their depth dimension. A contrast of this kind is
clearly different from the clashing of colors. In the latter case the difference of
colors is usually smaller; it does not form an antithesis, still less a fruitful
antithesis.
Clashing comes about through a fatal combination that is the bearer of a very
specific aesthetic disvalue, which seldom occurs in the realm of painting,
however, even in pictures that are artistic failures. On the other hand, it
frequently occurs in garments.
Contrast has a very important function in all the arts. How important the
contrast between good and evil, or between the tragic and the humorous (or
indeed the comical), is in literature! How effective is the contrast in music
between piano and forte, adagio and presto, between pain and joy, passionate
movement and rest! We find many kinds of contrasts in painting too, both the
contrast between bright and dark and the contrast in the realm of the colors.
What a wonderful contrast there is, for example, in Tintoretto’s Susanna and the
Elders (in the Kunsthistorisches Museum in Vienna) between the white female
body of Susanna and the colors of the garden that intensify to reach a high point
in the blazing heat of noon! This contrast is the bearer of a great artistic beauty.
The colors in painting can serve a completely different element, namely,
expression. Colors often unite in a mysterious way with the expression of a
person. The white of the garment of the Mother of God in Grünewald’s
Crucifixion on the Isenheim Altarpiece in the Unterlinden Museum in Colmar
serves the expression of her being struck with grief. It helps to express this pain
that reaches into inconceivable depths. This expressive function of colors is
found relatively seldom, and only in artists who possess an immense intensity in
their work, coupled with an expressionistic element. The word “expressionistic”
is not intended here to denote any kind of negative value. We would be carrying
coals to Newcastle if we were to spell out the meaning of “expressionism” when
the term is applied to Matthias Grünewald. It is important to point out,
however, that the expression that a color is capable of possessing can be the
bearer of a high artistic beauty. In that case, the color attains an extraordinary
depth and gives something that goes beyond its normal function.

Light and dark

When we speak of means, we must go on, after discussing colors, to speak of
light and darkness. This contrast too allows an important artistic word to be
uttered. Many things that were emphasized when we spoke of colors are not
present here. This contrast often makes it possible to attain a moving depth and
an immense dramatic power.
We can see the potential of this contrast in artistic terms when we look at
Rembrandt, who places the principal emphasis in many of his works on light and
dark rather than on colors. One could object that light and dark presuppose
colors, since these qualities are revealed by all colors. There is a light red and a
dark red, and a light green and a dark green, and so on. But it is clear that when
we compare light and darkness with colors, we regard them as something
different from colors. We do not believe that pictures in which the light plays a
principal role are devoid of color or are monochromatic. Rather, we have in mind
the light that falls on one particular place in a picture, so that the colors of these
objects are lit up and the light, qua light, has a greater importance than the
colors. We also have in mind pictures in which the colors are unimportant, with
the exception of white and black, which are of course also basically colors, even if
they differ in several respects from the other colors.
Light and dark can, as such, be specific artistic means. Let us compare many
of Rembrandt’s paintings, such as The Supper at Emmaus (in the Jacquemart-
André Museum in Paris), The Burial of Christ (in the Art Gallery in Glasgow), or
The Man in a Golden Helmet (in the Kaiser Friedrich Museum in Berlin), with
paintings by Titian, such as his Sacred and Profane Love (in the Borghese Gallery
in Rome) or Bacchus and Ariadne (in the National Gallery in London). We
cannot avoid seeing how much is entrusted to color in Titian’s paintings, what
an enchanting artistic world is given through the colors, and how important they
are for the beauty of the pictures; on the other hand, we cannot avoid seeing the
great importance that light and darkness have in the constitution of the artistic
beauty of Rembrandt’s pictures.

Artistic beauty and the beauty of what is depicted

In many cases, as we have seen, the beauty of a work of art in painting often does
not require that what is depicted should be beautiful in natura.
Here we must ask: How are we to interpret the fact that a picture that
reproduces an object that is not beautiful is capable of bearing high artistic
values? Does this mean (always presupposing the indispensable transposition)
that the beauty of the object that is depicted cannot influence the beauty of the
picture?
The least degree of influence appears to be exercised by a beautiful face that
is depicted in a portrait. Is one of Rembrandt’s great self-portraits less beautiful
than the portrait by Hans Holbein of Sir Thomas More (in the H. C. Frick
Collection in New York), who was beautiful in natura? This does not appear to
be the case. On the other hand, if Leonardo had painted a portrait of an ugly
woman, could this be just as beautiful as his Mona Lisa?
When it is a question not of portraits, however, but of the depiction of
nature, architecture, and figures the beauty of that which is depicted appears to
exercise a great influence. It is true that there are masterpieces by Cézanne and
by Impressionists such as Renoir and others that depict unbeautiful objects. But
no one can deny that the depiction of a glorious landscape with figures, for
example, in Giorgione’s Pastoral Concert or in the Allegory of Purgatory by
Giovanni Bellini (in the Uffizi), attains an artistic value that is not matched by
even the most beautiful Impressionist painting.

The various types of landscape paintings

We must, however, draw a fundamentally important distinction here. One
particular type of landscape painting reproduces the special atmosphere of a real
landscape. The relationship of the painting to this landscape is analogous to the
relationship that exists in a portrait, but it is not identical, since the relationship
between a portrait and the real face of the human person is much closer. The
analogy consists in the fact that the theme is the representation of a real, specific
object, turning with full attention to something that is given in nature, and
entering into the artistic transposition of an individual object. The intended link
to a piece of nature, which sometimes discloses itself from one specific
viewpoint, is thematic for these landscape paintings.
Landscape paintings of this kind can also include architecture, and the
artistic transposition is, of course, indispensable, if the picture is to be a bearer of
artistic values. At any rate there is, in a manner analogous to a portrait, a link to
the object; one of the aims of the picture is to represent the special poetry and
the specific qualitative character of this type of landscape. Thus there are many
paintings that have the character of the Dutch landscape, while others express
the character of the Tuscan or Greek landscape. Corot painted several pictures of
Italian cities, while Canaletto and Guardi portrayed many situations in Venice.
Let me repeat as emphatically as possible, however, that transposition, this
mysterious gift of the artist, plays just as great a role in these pictures of
landscapes and of architecture, as in pictures of purely invented landscapes or
buildings.
In addition to these landscape paintings that are similar to portraits, we find
much more frequently depictions of invented landscapes and buildings, with or
without human figures. These may be naked or clothed. In landscape pictures of
this kind, there is a completely different relationship to nature, and there is no
analogy to the portrait. The given link extends only to the forms that occur in
nature, such as that of a cypress, a bush, a river, or one particular animal in
general, and above all to the form that is intrinsic to the human body.
Everything else is invented.
If the landscape that the painter depicts is not real and individual but
invented, its beauty is a fruit of the composition and meets us only as transposed
artistic beauty. For example, the landscape in Giovanni Bellini’s Allegory of
Purgatory, in Giorgione’s Tempest and his Pastoral Concert, in Rubens’s Landscape
with Odysseus and Nausicaa (in the Palazzo Pitti in Florence), and in The Fall of
Icarus by Pieter Bruegel the Elder (in Brussels) is the fruit of a composition by
the artist, and its beauty is already an artistic beauty. We can wish that we might
find such a landscape in real nature; it would be the bearer of a great beauty,
since the beauty of a landscape in the narrower sense is also an artistic beauty in
natura.1
We must, however, mention one further important difference. In the context
of pictures with an invented landscape, there are pictures (like all those
mentioned above) that depict not only a landscape but also human figures,
animals, and buildings. In these pictures, the landscape is only one element,
which usually forms the framework, the background, for everything else. There
is a great gradation with regard to the importance of the landscape. The
landscape in Rembrandt’s Polish Knight (in the H. C. Frick Collection in New
York) or in Titian’s equestrian portrait of Charles V at the Battle of Mühlberg (in
the Prado) is much less thematic than in Bellini’s Allegory of Purgatory or in
Giorgione’s Pastoral Concert. The landscape likewise plays an important role in
Velazquez’s Surrender of Breda (in the Prado).
In other paintings, such as those by Claude Lorrain, the landscape is so
thematic, and the human figures are so much in the background, that they
almost border on pure landscape pictures.
Despite the extraordinarily varied function of the landscape, the human
figures, the animals, and the buildings, this type of picture must in general be
distinguished from the pure landscape pictures that also depict an invented
landscape. The meaning and the specific character of the latter pictures consists
solely in the representation of a piece of landscape. The fact that this is the
exclusive theme forms a very specific type of picture and affects even the special
character of what is portrayed in the picture. Thus a human figure would be a
disturbance in a picture such as Rembrandt’s Landscape with a Stone Bridge (in
the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam) or Ruisdael’s Ray of Sunlight (in the Louvre).
The exclusive landscape picture corresponds to a specific artistic intention and
inspiration. In the pure landscape, there lives a dignity all its own—we are
tempted to say, a silent praise of God. It is a special artistic task to render this in
a picture.
The decisive point here is the difference between pictures that reproduce a
real landscape, and so have a certain analogy to the portrait, and pictures that
depict an invented landscape, either a landscape by itself or a landscape in
combination with human figures, animals, buildings. This difference is highly
important for a philosophical analysis of the work of art, because the beauty of
the invented landscape is always a transposed artistic beauty, and the question of
how significant the beauty of the depicted is for the artistic value of the whole
does not arise. This question could be posed at most in the case of the elements
that constitute the landscape, such as trees, rivers, and mountains. But the choice
of trees and of the form and color of a mountain or a river is also completely
entrusted to the transposition, to the invention of the painter.
In paintings where human figures are decisive, we encounter a remarkable
influence of their beauty in natura on the artistic value.

The depiction of the naked human body

The naked human body makes certain demands on the artist, or, more precisely,
imposes certain requirements with regard to painting a picture. Failure to fulfill
these requirements restricts the artistic value of the picture.
First of all—and this applies perhaps even more strongly to sculpture than to
painting—the naked body must not be deformed, it must not be damaged in its
inherent formal principle. It is true that monstrous figures in which the true
formal principle is replaced by a different, invented formal principle are possible
in sculpture and painting. But the depiction of a misshapen naked body is
inartistic. A naked woman with pendulous breasts, disproportionately fat
buttocks, or jutting shoulders can never be represented in a sculpture or a
painting without reducing the artistic value. The figures of witches and bodies
that are distorted in the manner of a caricature can, if put in the proper
quotation marks, have a positive artistic effect. But obviously this invented
deformation, which always has an element of the grotesque and presents itself as
grotesque, is completely different from a female or male body made ugly by
disproportion. If a naked body of a man with far too short legs, drooping
shoulders, a fat stomach, or a head that is too big or too small, were to function
in a picture as a human figure claiming to depict the special contribution made
by the naked human body, to depict its poetry and its beauty, the result would be
incompatible with the artistic value of the picture.
There are many naturalistic painters who feel that they are being particularly
truthful by depicting unbeautiful human bodies and who believe that they, in
contrast to all classicistic idealization, remain true to living reality. They
misunderstand the inherent artistic demand that is made by the naked human
body. They confuse a naked human being with one who happens to be
unclothed. They replace the deep penetration into the natura naturans with the
representation of a model skewed by disproportion.
There is an additional requirement. The naked human body that is depicted
in a work of art cannot tolerate an overall situation that is prosaic. A naked
figure whose facial expression has a definitely prosaic character is intolerable. In
a clothed figure, the same expression would not be particularly felicitous, but it
would at any rate be endurable; it could be motivated by the overall event that is
depicted in the picture. In a naked body, on the other hand, a prosaic facial
expression is a defect in the artistic transposition, a naïveté with regard to the
mystery of the naked human body. In the facial expression of the naked figures
in Giorgione’s Pastoral Concert and his Venus, or in Titian’s Danaë (in the
Kunsthistorisches Museum in Vienna), or in the naked figure in his Sacred and
Profane Love, we always find poetry and nobility, never anything prosaic or
soulless.
To do justice to these two artistic requirements is an element of artistic
transposition and of invention. These requirements are not derived from the
relationship between the work of art and the given nature that it depicts, in the
sense of a limit on the possibility of transposition. They do not mean that the
beauty of the depicted object is decisive for the beauty of the work of art,
independently of the transposition. These requirements are derived precisely
from transposition and from artistic tact. To go against them is a definite artistic
error.

Body-feeling and the expression of human figures in artistic depiction

In our discussion of sculpture, we have already mentioned the quality of the
body-feeling in the depicted figures. This is important in artistic terms. It is
most pronounced in naked figures, but it has a decisive effect in clothed figures
too. This of course applies just as much to the realm of painting, to drawings,
pictures, or frescos.
The body-feeling, the way someone feels in his body, can be raucous,
shameless, or impudent. But it can also be bashful, pure, innocent, or graceful.
The character of sinking down into matter is possible, as is the character of
spiritualizing matter. The body-feeling covers the whole spectrum from letting
oneself go, all the way to a dignified habitare secum (“dwelling with oneself”). It
can be prosaic, bourgeois, homespun, and flat. But it can also be poetic and
lovely.
It is interesting to note that the quality of the body-feeling of a human
figure, and especially of an unclothed figure, strongly influences the artistic value
of a picture or fresco. If the figure that is depicted has an embarrassing, prosaic,
awkward body-feeling, this largely destroys the artistic value of the picture. The
body-feeling of the figures in each picture is a part of the invention; it has
already undergone artistic transposition. If its quality has disvalue, this is an
artistic disvalue. The depiction of human figures with a poetic, pure, and noble
body-feeling is the fruit of a specifically artistic act. What nobility of body-
feeling is possessed by Giorgione’s Venus!
We must draw a distinction between body-feeling and expression in the
narrower sense.2 It is a true mirandum, a source of wonder, that the human face
is able to express both concrete, affective experiences and abiding characteristics
of the person. A visible being, namely, the face of a human being, discloses to us
something that exists in a personal manner, such as pain, joy, fear, love, or
hatred. In this visible, material being, something is revealed that exists personally
in a wholly immaterial manner, something like the experience of a person, his or
her meaningful response, which is something that is consciously lived through
and thus radically different in its mode of being from the visible face of the
person. The face is likewise capable of expressing abiding characteristics of the
person, such as kindness, gentleness, or intelligence. The metaphysical beauty
and ugliness, both of the concrete experience and of the abiding characteristic,
are also given in this expression.
The question that we have already investigated in the case of sculpture, and
that now concerns us again, is the function that this expressed metaphysical
beauty has for the value of a work of art. The expression, for example, on the
face of Michelangelo’s Night (in the Medici Funeral Chapel in San Lorenzo in
Florence) or on the face of his Dying Slave, is an essential part of the artistic
creation of these sculptures and is accordingly, in union with the overall
expression of the figure and the body-feeling, a bearer of high artistic values. The
beauty and above all the expression of Jesus’s face in Leonardo’s Last Supper in
Milan is an exceptional artistic creation. Here we do not find the difference
between nature and its representation, which exists when a portrait is made of a
body that is exceptionally beautiful in its build. For such a picture, the object is
already given, and its aesthetic values are transposed in the picture. This does not
occur in Leonardo’s Last Supper and in the sculptures mentioned above, however,
or in pictures such as Raphael’s Miraculous Draught of Fishes and his tapestry
cartoon Feed my Lambs, Feed my Sheep (in the Victoria and Albert Museum in
London). In each of these cases, the face and its expression are invented by the
artist. They constitute an essential part of the artistic process itself and are not a
transposition.
Let us return to the difference between the body-feeling and the expression
in the narrower sense of the term. The expression of a momentary experience or
of an abiding characteristic of the person manifests itself above all in the face,
whereas the body-feeling manifests itself in the body, in the gestures, in the
posture that someone adopts, and so on. Another decisive difference is due to
the special qualities that manifest themselves in expression or that characterize
body-feeling. Spiritual significance, kindness, and so on express themselves in
the face; they do not manifest themselves in the body-feeling.
One final point: a general characteristic of the human person reveals itself in
the body-feeling seen in a momentary posture and movement. In body-feeling
we do not find the difference between concrete affective experiences such as
pain, joy, yearning, or anger that are expressed in the face, and abiding
characteristics of the person such as kindness, nobility, intelligence, or purity.
Despite the difference between the facial expression and the expression of
the body-feeling, the two work closely together in the overall characteristics of
the personality.
We can also speak of expression in a broader sense that is different from
expression on the face of a human being. When we speak of the victorious
quality of the Winged Victory of Samothrace in the Louvre, we refer likewise to a
quality that is intuitively expressed, a quality that manifests itself in the overall
figure. Clearly, it would be absurd to say that this is nothing more than an
association evoked by the name “Nike” (“victory”). There is likewise an
expression of what is grand and superhuman, as well as of power, in
Michelangelo’s four figures on the Medici tombs. The expression of the figure as
a whole is clearly distinct not only from the expression in the narrower sense
(that is, of the face) but also from the body-feeling. This expression is of a much
more general nature; it is not concerned with how someone feels in his body.
This expression in the broader sense can also be found in animals and, in a
completely analogous manner, in the joyfulness of the blue sky when it is lit up
by the rays of the sun.
In the present context, where we are discussing the factors that decide the
artistic value of a picture, or that possess a quality that is important for the
artistic value, it suffices to mention, alongside the body-feeling, expression in the
narrower and broader senses. How unique is the facial expression of Saint Anne
in Leonardo’s Virgin and Child with Saint Anne (in the Louvre) and of the Child
Jesus in his unfinished Adoration of the Magi (in the Uffizi)! What a world of
artistic beauty lies in the expression of Saint Peter in Masaccio’s fresco of Saint
Peter Healing the Sick with his Shadow (in the Brancacci Chapel in Santa Maria
del Carmine in Florence), or in the expression of the Mother of God in the
Crucifixion on Grünewald’s Isenheim Altarpiece! What unmatched depth is
attained by many of Rembrandt’s self-portraits, thanks to the expression!

Composition
The most decisive of all the factors in painting is composition. In sculpture this
is limited primarily to the form of the figure, to its position, its movement, its
body-feeling, and its expression; in the relief, it is limited to placing together
many figures, to an entire situation, and to scenes of very various kinds. It is in
painting (with the exception of the portrait) that the composition of figures and
landscape has the greatest importance. The difference between the object that is
depicted, and that can be depicted, in sculpture, on the one hand, and in
painting, on the other, naturally has an effect on the framework of the
composition, on the kind of creation, and on the combination of various
elements. The composition of the Concert in the Palazzo Pitti, formerly
attributed to Giorgione and now to Titian, has a profoundly moving beauty and
depth. What inspiration there is in the placing of the various figures! What an
unmatched composition there is in Leonardo’s Adoration of the Magi! Everything
that the picture shows concentrates on the Mother of God and on the Child
Jesus in her lap! What inspiration there is in this unity and intensity! How
glorious is the variety of everything that is going on in the background! There is
an unmatched wealth of inspirations, yet these are incorporated into the whole in
such a way that this picture is one of the most outstanding examples of a unity
that is absolute and indeed necessary.
We clearly see the importance that composition has for a picture, a fresco,
and a drawing. We also see the extent to which artistic value depends on the
kind of composition. This determines whether the picture constitutes no unity,
or a merely fortuitous unity—or else a unity that is inherently necessary and
convincing. It decides whether a picture is boring or is filled with inner riches. It
goes without saying that when we emphasize composition, we do not in any way
wish to diminish the importance of other elements, such as the body-feeling, the
expression, and (in another way) colors.
Whereas colors have no importance in many drawings, in woodcuts, and in
copper engravings, composition is everywhere decisive. Precisely the absence of
colors entrusts the realization of such works of art above all to the composition.

1. See Aesthetics, vol. 1, chap. 14.

2. Aesthetics, vol. 1, chaps. 5 and 7 discuss expression in the narrower and broader senses.
 CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Drawing, Fresco, Mosaic, Illustration

The drawing
A SIMPLE DRAWING can attain an artistic greatness and depth that are
astonishing. Here, of course, colors are not available as a means; but
composition, body-feeling, and expression can construct a great work of art.
At this point, an interesting question arises: Does a drawing ever make the
same claim to be a definitive and fully realized work of art that is made by a
painting or a fresco?
Many drawings by great masters are in fact preparatory work for paintings or
frescos, but some do not have this preparatory function. They are intended as a
definitive work of art that stands on its own feet, and they do full justice to this
claim.
With regard to their beauty, there is no doubt that many drawings, such as
those by Leonardo, Raphael, and Michelangelo, attain an absolute height. There
are an enormous number of artistically important drawings. One who looks at
them does not seek something that is more realized, something for which they
were only a preliminary study.
Drawings possess a special immediacy and an intimate unfolding of the
artistic genius. In themselves, they are more modest than a painting or a fresco.
This modest character means that less is required for their perfection. It makes
possible a lofty freedom and boldness, a great freshness and unconventionality.
Apart from the question whether a drawing can possess an ultimate artistic
perfection, we are primarily interested in whether it bears the character of a
preliminary stage of artistic realization. It seems that the drawing is just as much
an analogous subspecies of the overall artistic genre of painting as the woodcut
and the copper engraving, and neither of these is a preliminary study for a
picture or a fresco. It is certain that the striving for artistic depth and greatness
can go just as far in a drawing as in a picture and a fresco. The framework in
which the work is placed can be equally large. Many drawings are executed down
to the finest detail.
A great many drawings are, however, sketches. This is a special type of work
of art, which we must mention briefly here.1
Sketches can be bearers of a great artistic beauty. They often have more
momentum, a greater immediacy and boldness, than fully executed drawings and
paintings. It is as if they were especially close to the inspiration rather than the
product of arduous toil. Important sketches of genius often breathe an
enchanting breath of spiritual freedom.
Naturally, a sketch lacks a dimension of completeness, since it is by
definition not an artistic final stage. Not everything in a sketch is completely
realized and executed, and this is itself a defect. It would be utterly mistaken to
interpret the element of final execution down to the smallest detail as something
conventional, as an inevitable loss of boldness and grandiose inspiration.
Completion is an important factor in all the arts, and a masterpiece that is
executed down to the smallest details is an outstanding bearer of high artistic
values. Besides this, it is a characteristic precisely of the true masterpiece that it
loses nothing of the freedom, boldness, and freshness that often belong to the
sketch.

The fresco
The first difference between paintings and frescos is the much more intimate
link between the fresco and architecture. A fresco is meant for one particular
place in a building, and this means that it enters into a close union with
architecture.2 We may mention as examples Cimabue’s fresco in the Lower
Church in Assisi, Fra Angelico’s Crucifixion in the chapter room and his
numerous frescos in the cells of the monastery of San Marco in Florence,
Ghirlandaio’s Last Supper, likewise in the monastery of San Marco,
Michelangelo’s frescos in the Sistine Chapel, and Raphael’s Liberation of Saint
Peter in the Stanze.
The fact that the fresco is painted on a wall has a special charm. But not only
this: the union with architecture makes it an especially noble type of painting. In
a certain sense, it is a counterpart to chamber music, and above all to the quartet.
It is remarkable that some painters have reached a much greater depth, a much
higher poetry, and a greater nobility in their frescos than in their paintings. This
is true of Ghirlandaio, of Botticelli, and for Raphael in the Stanze (though with
the exception of his cartoons in the Victoria and Albert Museum in London).
And none of Michelangelo’s paintings matches the beauty, the greatness, and
the nobility of his frescos on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. A philosophical
analysis of the artistic genre of painting is unable to indicate why this is so and
what elements determine this special position of the fresco. Accordingly, we
content ourselves with drawing attention to this fact.

The mosaic
The mosaic is, as such, an idiosyncratic structure that is radically different from
the fresco, and still more from the painting. The form of the reproduction, the
relationship to that which is depicted, and the kind of artistic transposition are
completely different. The mosaic is a specifically stylized form of painting that
goes hand in hand with a remarkable festiveness. The mosaic is suitable above all
for the reproduction of religious objects and for the realization of a sacred
atmosphere. There is a specific relationship between the formal type of
reproduction and the correlation with one specific material atmosphere. This
correlation is not found in drawings or paintings.
One final point: although the mosaic does not have the same relationship to
architecture3 as the fresco (to say nothing of the painting), it is certainly no mere
decorative element. Its union with the interior architecture is of a completely
different kind from that of a tapestry or carpet. The simple fact that the mosaic
is also found in external architecture shows us this difference. Apart from this,
however, the mosaic becomes a part of the interior architecture in a much more
intimate manner than is possible for a fresco. If a fresco is of great beauty, such
as the frescos by Masaccio in the Brancacci Chapel in Santa Maria del Carmine
in Florence, its function as painting is much more thematic than its function for
the architecture. This is never the case with a mosaic.
Mosaics realize an exceptionally glorious world of beauty, whether in the
mausoleum of Galla Placidia and the church of San Vitale in Ravenna or in the
Baptistery of San Giovanni in Florence. This form of pictorial reproduction, this
great, deep, specific kind of painting in the broader sense of the word, is one of
the high points of beauty. Its volume is much smaller, however, than that of
paintings and frescoes.

The illustration
There is a kind of marriage between visual art and literature in the illustration of
novels, fairy tales, poems, and fables such as those of La Fontaine. This unique
union does not possess the intimate co-penetration of word and sound, nor is it
in any way the birthplace of high artistic values. It is, of course, completely
different from the union between a picture and its mere title. If a picture depicts
Constantine’s victory at the Milvian Bridge, it goes without saying that the title
under the painting, which indicates this historical event, does not have its origin
in a collaboration between literature and painting.
There are at most some analogies to the reproductive art in music and drama.
The great difference is, first of all, that the novels, fairy tales, and every other
type of literature that can be provided with illustrations do not in any way
require these illustrations for their full realization. Literary works of art do not
even become more real, as such, through illustrations.
Besides this, the kind of union between illustrative drawings and paintings
and the text is completely different from that of genuine reproductive art. The
illustration stands alongside the text as something new. It is not united to the
text in such a way that it reproduces the text with the means that belong
specifically to the artistic genre of the text itself (as is the case with an actor,
through words and gestures, and with a pianist). The illustration makes use of
the means for drawing or painting, not of words, which are the medium of
literature.
The analogy consists only in the fact that the illustration has an ancillary
character that presupposes the literary work of art and lives from the relationship
to it. Clearly, however, this analogy too is very remote. The kind of service that
is rendered is radically different.
Let us take as our example Doré’s celebrated illustration of Cervantes’ Don
Quixote. This great literary work of art needs no illustration. It is completely
realized in itself as a novel; the unique world of this work of art rises up before
the spirit of the reader. On the other hand, it is a literary work of art that does
not suffer through good, important illustrations. It possesses the potential for
meaningful illustrations, unlike many other novels and literary works of art. The
special poetry of Don Quixote, its specific poetic character must be able to
support illustrations as something organic. But it would be going too far to say
that it somehow demands illustrations. It is important to note here that the
illustration remains a separate structure, an ancillary work of art that addresses
our eye as an artistic structure.
Its artistic value depends primarily on whether it is successful and poetic as a
drawing or a painting, whether it employs the means of the visual arts to
irradiate purely a world that is beautiful and noble. A new factor here, not found
in all the paintings and drawings that depict something but do not possess any
illustrative character, is the question whether the illustrations adequately reflect
the world of the book and of its various situations. Do they present humorous
passages in a humorous manner? In other words, do they employ the means of
the visual arts to reproduce the spirit of the literary work?
The illustrations to Don Quixote are a particularly felicitous case. The literary
work of art inspires the visual artist, in this instance Doré, to create something of
his own. It is true that these paintings and drawings do not stand on their own
feet. Rather, in keeping with their own meaning, they are thought of as
illustrations; they have an ancillary function. Nevertheless, they are in themselves
an artistic structure and, apart from their own independent value, they irradiate
above all the atmosphere of the literary work of art: a noble, poetic world in
which a central role is played by comedy in its highest literary expression.
Comedy is an especially appropriate object for illustrations.
Alongside this poetic form, there are many book illustrations that are wholly
devoid of artistic value. The need they satisfy is in fact markedly inartistic, since
they offer an infelicitous complement to the idea that is generated by a literary
work. They destroy the idea that has been generated legitimately through the use
of literary means, tying it down in a way that is not only illegitimate but also
utterly inadequate. They satisfy only the inartistic person, who has the feeling
that he is becoming better acquainted with the story, the scenes, and the
characters. This kind of illustration makes people curious, so that they want to
read the book. It also satisfies the reader, since it confirms what he or she has
read. It does not make the literary work of art more real. All it does is to make
the pure material of the story more real.
This kind of illustration does not demand the conditions that we have
mentioned in the case of Doré’s illustrations. In order to fulfill this illustrative
function, such drawings and paintings need not possess any artistic value. This
does not mean that they are allowed to be artistically negative, that is, decidedly
trivial, prosaic, or tasteless. Nor do they need to reflect the spirit of the book.
Their task is simply to intensify the content of the events by adding the visible
depiction of these events to what is communicated through the word.
A newspaper photograph, which gives us information about an event that is
related in words, has a similar function. This, of course, is the crassest instance of
acquiring a more intimate knowledge of an event. Besides this, the information
here concerns a genuine event. This can hardly still be called an illustration, since
the ancillary character and the artistic activity are lacking. But it is precisely this
instance that sheds light on the character of non-artistic information, since it
displays a crass intensification of the knowledge of an event. Since these
inartistic illustrations do not belong to the visual arts, we shall not discuss them
here.
Illustrations in children’s books have a completely different function. Such
books require the collaboration of the visible in order to make the content of the
story come fully alive for the child. There is a wide spectrum of children’s books,
right up to the genuinely poetic and artistically valuable illustration of fairy tales.
A number of children’s books were produced in England and France in the
eighteenth and nineteenth centuries with illustrations that were so delightful and
in themselves poetic that they made an essential contribution to the artistic
charm of the books. Examples are the illustrations in the Caldecott children’s
books, where the drawings and paintings are just as essential as the stories in the
books. The poetic charm and the special atmosphere are realized both in the
illustrations and in the stories. They employ the means of the visual arts to
impart this artistic charm, but they have a specifically narrative character that the
pure visual arts do not possess. They are completely oriented to the narration of
the stories and to collaboration with them. In order to be perfect, they must
irradiate the same spirit. They restrict themselves entirely to illustrating, in the
broadest sense of this term. They have no ambition to be independent works of
art. But their function is not exclusively ancillary. They are equal in rank to the
stories, although that which is depicted is determined by these stories, or by the
text.
It is much more likely that a genuine marriage will take place in these
children’s books than in a typical illustration. They involve a narration through
drawings and pictures (though in close collaboration with the word) rather than
a mere illustration. This collaboration with a story that is told in words is an
essential element; a story that is offered only in pictures is something else again.
In addition to the children’s books that have pictures with a definitely poetic
charm, there are others that contain one short story, or several, that are comic
rather than poetic. Their pictures are an impressive illustration of the text in a
naïvely stylized manner. Examples are Struwwelpeter and Pinocchio.
We must mention one further union between image and word, which is
clearly distinct from the illustration. It is rather rare, but it is a typical union of a
specific kind, namely, the works of Wilhelm Busch.4 In his stories or “epics”
such as Max and Moritz, the Knopp Trilogy, and many other works, there is a
unique union between literature and drawing, which are equally important in the
construction of the whole. It is of course true that his iambic rhymed verses are
devoid of poetic value; but they do not claim to possess this. Their whole
foundation is the humorous and witty. They are light fare, but within this
framework they are masterly. The same is true of the drawings: their artistic
value is slight. The verses and the drawings belong so closely together that they
suffer immensely if they are separated from each other. The artistic goal is
modest. It does not aim at beauty or at deep and genuine poetry, or even at the
profound comedy that we find in Shakespeare, Molière, or Don Quixote, but
rather at a very specific kind of comedy and a much less artistic humor. But in
their own way they are brilliant. They are highly accomplished and possess an
aesthetic value all of their own. This type of genuine marriage between image
and word is interesting. It recalls the marriage between music and word in the
operettas of Gilbert and Sullivan.
The glorious illuminated manuscripts of the Middle Ages are a further type
of illustration. The images and the gems, which are works of art in their own
right, stand alongside the sacred text, but they serve it and are, so to speak, a
costly vessel in which it is presented. On the one hand, this type is less of an
illustration, since the other functions of illustrations are not found here. On the
other hand, the way in which it serves the text is different from the other types
of illustration, and goes much further. These illustrations are an expression of
profound reverence, and themselves bear a definitely sacred character. They have
a much greater independence with regard to their artistic importance, and a
much higher artistic goal.

1. See chap. 5 above.

2. See also chaps. 4 and 9 above.
3. See also chaps. 4, 9, and 10 above.
4. Unfortunately, Busch was not very tactful, and he sometimes bordered on the embarrassing and
crude. His lack of reverence is much worse. In addition to many witty and very successful stories, he wrote
appalling anti-religious stories such as Der heilige Antonius von Padua and Pater Filuzius. His hatred of Holy
Church led him to sink down to a wretched, tasteless level and to deny the talent he otherwise possessed.
Literature
 CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

The Form of Existence of the Literary Work of Art

IT IS MUCH MORE DIFFICULT to grasp the form of existence of a literary work of

art than to grasp the reality of its effects, whether the effect that it has in the
history of ideas or, even more strongly, in the political sphere, or the effect in
one individual soul, namely, joy, enthusiasm, or affection.
In the present context, we shall not examine this effect, since it is something
that exists in a personally conscious manner, and is unambiguously different
from the literary work of art itself. Novels (to take one example) are
unambiguously different from personally conscious experiences. We now wish to
look briefly at their unique form of existence.
It is clear that the form of existence of a book—a material object with a
binding and many pages that are covered with printer’s ink—is completely
different from that of a novel. There are many printed copies of one and the
same novel. Its being is completely independent of the reality of the material
thing, the book. This, of course, also applies to the content of a philosophical
book.
From the ontological point of view, however, the work of art, the novel,1 is
also a structure different from the philosophical book. It is a much more
coherent whole, and it is a much more pronounced individuality. Even the most
beautiful of purely philosophical works, such as Plato’s dialogues Phaedo,
Phaedrus, or the Symposium, do not have the same organically self-contained
unity, the unique individuality that we find in a drama, for example, Hamlet or
King Lear, or a novel, such as Don Quixote.
This brings us to an important point in the ontological structure of works of
art in general, and of literary works of art in particular: like many other structures
in the human and interpersonal sphere, they are, of course, also objectifications
of the human spirit. They presuppose a human personal spirit. But as we have
seen in chapter 2 above, they are not in the least a mere objectification of the
personality and the spiritual world of the artist. They represent something
completely new in relation to the artist as a human being in his life and in his
character.
Artistic inspiration has the character of a pure gift and a receptive discovery.
This is what Plato meant when he called the poet in Ion a “seer.” When we speak
of the objectification of the human spirit, we are not referring either to the value
or to the “world” of a work of art, but only to the formal fact that it is not
discovered as nature is discovered, but presupposes a human spirit that is
endowed with specific abilities, with a special talent that is given to only
relatively few persons.
A literary work of art possesses the ontological character of a mental
structure. Despite all its autonomy, its objectivity, and (once it is born) its
independence of the human spirit, it nevertheless bears the stamp of having been
created by the human spirit. This does not in any way affect the beauty of the
work of art, since beauty, like all other values, reaches beyond the human sphere
into the metaphysical sphere that is objective in a new sense.
There are many things that presuppose a human spirit or, more correctly, a
personal spirit. Much of what has been termed ens rationis (“a being of reason”)
belongs in this category. This expression can have several different meanings.
When we think of concepts such as “nothing,” this is obviously a very
meaningful concept. But there is no genuine “something” that corresponds to it:
there is no “nothing.” An imaginary number, and indeed already a negative
number, are entia rationis in a special sense.
A proposition, this structure of subject, predicate, and linking verb that
consists of words, likewise presupposes a thinking mind. Unlike an objectively
existing state-of-affairs, it can still be called an ens rationis, but in that case, this
term has a completely new meaning. We must above all emphasize that the truth
of a proposition is completely independent of every relationship to a human
spirit. This truth depends exclusively on the de facto existence of the state-of-
affairs that is meant in the proposition.
There is of course a widespread view today that the truth of a proposition is
somehow relativized by the fact that the existence of the proposition presupposes
a human spirit. This, of course, is sheer nonsense. This view introduces, in a
purely dogmatic manner, the presupposition that because a human person is a
limited being, every formulation of a proposition must be relative. In reality, the
formulation in a proposition of absolutely certain, supremely intelligible, and
essentially necessary states-of-affairs, which are either evidently given in
experience or else can be strictly deduced from evident propositions, is not in any
way a relativization by the human spirit, but is rather an actualization of the
glorious human capacity for transcendence. The human spirit is limited and
unable to know a relatively large number of things, and there are many questions
that are impossible for it to answer. Most importantly, the supernatural mysteries
are not accessible to the rational knowledge of the human spirit. But none of this
alters the absoluteness of the veritates aeternae that are evidently given to it in
experience. Nor does it alter the absolute truth of the formulation of such states-
of-affairs in a proposition. The formulation, or the propositional character, is not
in the least an inevitable relativization that contradicts its absolute truth. The
fact that the human person is a limited being is indeed the reason for the
falsehood of innumerable affirmations or for an inadequate and defective
formulation. But this limited character does not in the least mean that this must
always be the case. Moreover, we should note that the concept of “relatively true”
is highly dubious, and is at any rate used in an equivocal manner.2
Works of art possess a kind of existence that cannot be covered even by the
broadest version of the concept of ens rationis. But like an ens rationis, they
presuppose a human spirit, and one endowed with very special abilities, in order
that they may be called into being.
We do not in any way claim to have given a complete answer to the question
of the ontological structure and form of existence of the work of art. We have
only pointed out this extremely interesting problem, and we hope that we have
clarified this question by excluding false answers and by indicating the difficulty
and depth of the problem. If we have to some extent succeeded in doing so,
these observations have fulfilled their purpose and have opened up the path for a
deeper investigation.

1. [Editors’ note: In Dietrich von Hildebrand’s writings, “novel” often stands for prose literature as a
whole.]
2. Even in the case of facts of which we can acquire knowledge only through revelation, their
formulation in a dogma does not entail any kind of relativization of the truth of these propositions.
 CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The Medium of Language

THE MEDIUM THROUGH WHICH literature conveys its artistic content to us is

language, the read and the spoken word. Here we encounter one decisive
difference from all the forms of art with which sense perception brings us into
immediate contact. In the latter case, the artistic content is mediated to us
through the senses, which are marked by a specific immediacy. In language, on
the other hand, the contact is very complicated. Literature differs from all the
other arts through the fact that the senses have an unimportant and indirect
function. We see the sculpture, the picture, the palace, or the church; we hear a
symphony. We do indeed see the letters of a novel, and we do indeed hear the
words of a poem, but a novel or a poem is brought before the eye of our spirit
only through the meaning of the words and sentences. The contact with the
object that bears artistic values is not brought about immediately through the
senses. Rather, it presupposes a complicated, indirect process, namely, the
understanding of the words and propositions.1
In order to grasp this medium for conveying the object in literature, and in
order to explain the surprising fact that a fully present, immediate contact with
the object can be attained in literature despite the indirectness of the medium,
we must look briefly at the specific character of this form of experiencing in
general.

Understanding and informing

This experiencing through language is obviously different from all knowledge in
the strict sense, whether it be perception, rational intuition, or inference. What
kind of experiencing is this?
This form of experience too begins with certain sense perceptions, namely,
the hearing or seeing of the words and propositions. But unlike every other
perception, neither hearing nor reading is a contact with the object. The
function of the senses is limited to bringing us into contact with the medium
through which we come into contact with the object, an event or a fact. A deaf
person cannot hear the words and propositions, and thus cannot acquire any
knowledge of the event that one communicates to him. A blind person is
likewise unable to learn through reading what is written in a book, a newspaper,
or a letter.
As long as we do not know a language, it is useless for us to hear the sounds
of the words and to see the signs of the letters. We must know the meaning of
the words or of the language, if we are to apprehend the content of what is said
or written, rather than merely hearing particular sounds or reading certain letters.
Knowledge of the meaning of the words, and knowledge of the language, make
possible a very specific type of experience, namely, an act of understanding,
which is not in the least a mere associating.
Understanding is a meaningful intellectual process, not a mechanical-
psychological process. Association may have an important function in learning a
language, especially when one learns something by heart, but understanding as
such is a much more spiritual process, a counterpart to the highly intellectual act
of meaning [Meinen], in which we aim at states-of-affairs with the words and
the propositions we employ when we assert something or communicate
something to someone. The meaning of the word functions here as a medium.
The act of meaning is, of course, completely different from that of
understanding, since it is a spontaneous act, not a form of knowing in the widest
sense.
Understanding is, by contrast, an expressly receptive act, a receiving. Like
meaning, it implies the awareness of the rational link between the word in its
meaning and the object, or between the proposition and the state-of-affairs.
There are distinct matters here that one must separate. First of all, there is the
awareness of the meaning of a word, that is to say, of the object at which it aims.
If someone tells me that cheval in French means the same as horse in English, I
learn the state-of-affairs that the word cheval aims at this particular animal.
Learning this instructs me about the meaning of this word in French.
Secondly, if I wish to go beyond this and apprehend the meaning of cheval in
such a way that I am able, as it were, automatically to make use of it in the
process of meaning, and I repeat this word often, I appeal to association.
Thirdly, the association enables me to have the link between the spoken
word and its meaning available to me in such a way that when I make an
affirmation or a communication with the word cheval, I can target the object by
meaning it.2
 We must, therefore, distinguish three separate stages: learning about the
meaning of a word; stabilizing this knowledge until it is familiar to me; and
finally, using the word both when I mean the object and when I employ a
proposition to affirm a state-of-affairs.
The two first stages are presupposed in the same way both in understanding
and in meaning. But while meaning runs from the person to the object,
understanding is a receiving, a learning. By understanding, I learn what the other
person means, that is to say, I learn the content of his statement. But we go
beyond understanding when we learn of the existence of an event or of a state-
of-affairs, which is a specific form of apprehending. Someone calls out to me:
“The house is on fire!”, and I understand what he says; but in addition to this, I
am informed about a real state-of-affairs. I receive knowledge of the fact that the
house is on fire.
This is where the function of language or of communication in literature
differs from the function of language in history, in life, in science, and in
philosophy. This acquisition of knowledge through experience does not exist in
the case of fictions, for example, the content of a novel. The propositions have
no assertive character. They do not aim at the reality or truth of that which is
communicated. The state-of-affairs that is brought before our eyes in the act of
understanding does not make any claim to exist. It is not a case of a “This is how
things are.” And this is why no reality is experienced here. What remains is the
act of understanding, on which completely different things build. A completely
new theme begins.
Before we discuss the function of understanding in literature, let us refer
briefly to the many-sided kinds of “experiencing” that are built on the basis of
the statement of another person, since this experiencing is one of the principal
sources of our knowledge. We must begin by distinguishing two completely
different cases.
If the content of what is communicated or asserted is an essentially necessary
state-of-affairs, the act of understanding enables us to know this in its evidential
character. The act of understanding makes possible a rational intuition3 of the
objective existence of this state-of-affairs. A direct contact to this state-of-affairs
is established, and it discloses itself to us in an evident manner, in exactly the
same way as when we know it independently of the statement of another person.
The state-of-affairs directly shows itself as existing. This is why the
communication is only an occasion (not the source) of the act of knowing and of
our knowledge of its validity. The existence of the state-of-affairs is guaranteed
by its being, and our knowledge of it is nourished by this source, not by the
statement of the other person.
If the content of what is communicated to us or of what is asserted is not an
essentially necessary state-of-affairs but a contingent law or a concrete real fact,
however, our conviction of the existence of such a fact is based upon the fact that
we have been told about it or that it was written down by someone. An
additional factor, of course, apart from the credibility and competence of the
person or the authority that posits the statement or makes the communication, is
the probability of the content. The more obvious, the more probable, the less
remarkable and surprising the content is, then the less credibility and
competence on the part of the speaker are required for us to accept this fact as
genuinely existing. At any rate, this act of understanding is not only required as a
basis, in order that a rational intuition may be possible; it is on this act of
understanding that an experiencing is constituted by means of the relevant
statement, an accepting of the claim this statement makes about the reality of
what it conveys. This is the typical instance in which experiencing through other
persons becomes a specific source of knowledge.
We must draw another important distinction among the facts that are
experienced through other persons. There are states-of-affairs that we can know,
in principle, only through a statement; and there are states-of-affairs about
which we can, in principle, acquire information also through perceptions and
inferences. We can observe a thunderstorm, or we can learn from others that it
took place somewhere. We can see foreign troops crossing the border and hear
them shooting, and we can draw the inference that a war has broken out.
Usually, however, we learn of such events through the statements of other
persons in a newspaper, on the radio, and so on. There are also many things that
we know only through communication, things that we can never perceive,
inspect, or deduce. These include, for the non-historian, everything that we
know of history, and, for the historian, a large part of what he knows. For the
historian, they include everything that he cannot deduce from archeological or
other discoveries. Most importantly, these things include, for every person, the
knowledge of who his parents are and when he was born. Much of what is going
on in the mind of other persons, much that is not expressed in some way or that
can be deduced, is known to us only through communication.

The declaration [Verlautbarung] of affective responses

In the interpersonal sphere, language, or the word and its meaning, also serve to
make known affective responses. When a man expresses his love to his wife in
words, continually assuring her of how he loves her, this is not the
communication of a fact. He does not want to inform her about something that
is going on within him, as he does when he communicates to her that he is
worried about a friend or that he has a headache. This declaration of an affective
response4 is possible only vis-à-vis the one to whom the response relates.
All the various functions of language are found in literature, and in particular
the declaration. The passages in which language is the “expression” of affective
responses, or indeed is their declaration, are linked above all to the person who
speaks.
Like every act of speaking, communication naturally presupposes a human
person. Its theme is the state-of-affairs that is communicated, and this can deal
not only with this person but also with the weather and much else besides. In the
objectification of states-of-affairs that have become known in science and
philosophy, the theme is likewise exclusively the truth of the proposition, not the
person who utters this truth or writes it down.
Where language is an “expression” of feelings or a declaration, however, the
theme of these propositions includes the person who speaks. In this case, more is
involved than the connection with the person that is found in all spoken or
written words (namely, the fact that they presuppose a human being). Rather, in
those propositions that are exclusively an “expression” of feelings, the fact that an
individual human person utters them is the central theme.
In this case “expression” means neither expression in the strict sense of
affective experiences and personality traits that show themselves immediately in
the face of a person, nor expression in the broad sense, such as the joy
manifesting itself in music or even in the joyful blue sky.
The word or proposition establishes contact with the expressed content
through the unique, eminently intellectual, but not immediate character of the
meaning of the word and the proposition. We have drawn a clear distinction
between this relationship and expression.5 In propositions that are exclusively the
“expression” of feelings, this term does not refer to the type of link between an
audible or visible datum and an intellectual content, but to the formal theme of
the proposition and to the motivation of the act of speaking. Through a
communicative proposition, one person informs another about a matter of fact,
whereas in a proposition that is an “expression” of feelings, the speaking is
motivated by the overflowing intensity of an affective experience. Without
abandoning their function of meaning, the words are a mere effusion of the
feeling; in this respect, they are analogous to shouting for joy or lamenting. We
may recall here the words of the young miller: “I would love to carve it into the
bark of every tree!”6 This whole poem is a flowing over, an eruption, of his heart
that is full to the brim; but at the same time, it is a sequence of meaningful
propositions. In order to apprehend this expression of feeling, this flowing over
of the mouth with that which fills the heart, one must understand the meaning
of the words.
They are neither a shout of joy nor a shout full of fear. In such instances we
cannot speak of expression by way of meaningful words, since such shouts do not
use any words, and the joy or fear manifests itself as immediately given to us in
experience, as a specific, typical expression in the strict sense of the term.
The “expression” of feelings with which we are concerned here is carried out
through meaningful words that are neither a communication nor an objectified
formulation of states-of-affairs that have become known. Rather, they are an
eruption of the heart that is full to the brim. We call this type of propositions,
which have a meaning—as do all other propositions—an “expression” as opposed
to a communication or an assertion, or as opposed to the objective formulation
of states-of-affairs that have become known.
The same applies by analogy to the declaration of affective responses in the
uttering of whole propositions. Here too the meaning of the words and
propositions is irreplaceable. The declaration of love presupposes that the
beloved understands the meaning of the words. If this declaration is made in a
language that she does not understand, the tone of voice and above all the face of
the one who makes the declaration of love may perhaps express his love in the
literal sense of expression, but the declaration would not really come about, since
speaking is an essential element of declarations. That which is spoken penetrates
the consciousness of the beloved as if it were love made audible, and the ray of
love reaches her soul in a manner that is real and not just intentional. Although
the declaration is radically different from every mere communication—even from
the communication that one loves someone, a communication that one can make
to many other persons—the beloved’s understanding of the words and of their
meaning, and the lover’s meaning intention in declaring his love, are
presupposed or implied.
The experience of the one who is affected by a declaration has an immediate
character. He is not informed about a state-of-affairs, as when he receives a
communication from another person. Rather, he experiences for instance a ray of
the love of the other person. The theme is not an act of knowing but being
affected by the love of the other. Even when one receives knowledge of this love
for the first time through a declaration of love, what is involved is an immediate
experience, a being affected by this love. This is much closer to a perception than
to the acquisition of the knowledge of a fact that is communicated by another
person.
Even when the word or the proposition has the function of the “body” of an
act, as when a promise is made, the receiving of the promise is an immediate
experience, not the indirect acquisition of knowledge about a matter of fact. This
applies to all social acts. Adolf Reinach was the first to investigate the specific
character of these acts.7 But even when it is certainly not a question of merely
being informed about a matter of fact, a mere source of knowledge, the
understanding of the words and of the propositions is presupposed.

1. I wish to point out explicitly that there is a sharp distinction between the relationship of depiction or
reproduction in sculpture and painting, on the one hand, and the highly intellectual relationship that exists,
on the other hand, between a concept and the intended object, or between a proposition and the intended
state-of-affairs (and even more, to the asserted state-of-affairs).
Whereas the relationship of representation is given in experience, the relationship of meaning and
assertion is not given in experience but is explicitly intellectual. The word whose meaning is a concept does
not in any way depict the object. Rather, it aims at the object in a completely different way. The proposition
aims at a state-of-affairs, and the affirmative proposition presents this state-of-affairs as something that
exists. The proposition can be true or false. The representation can be similar or dissimilar, successful or
unsuccessful, but it is never true or false.
Alexander Pfänder correctly demonstrates in his Logik (3rd ed. [Tübingen: Max Niemeyer, 1963], sec.
1, chap. 5, p. 80) that a proposition is not a depiction, although people sometimes tend to call the
relationship of meaning and assertion a depiction.
2. See Aesthetics, vol. 1, chap. 1.
3. See What is Philosophy? chap. 7, sec. 4.
4. On this, see my Metaphysik der Gemeinschaft, chap. 2, pp. 24ff.
5. In my Aesthetics, vol. 1, chap. 7.
6. “Ich schnitt’ es gern in alle Rinden ein”: from Schubert’s song cycle Die schöne Müllerin.
7. In his book The Apriori Foundations of the Civil Law, trans. John Crosby (Ontos Verlag, 2012), chap.
1.
 CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

The Contact with the Object in Literature

THE FUNCTION OF LANGUAGE in literature is completely different in kind from

its function in a communication that serves as a source of knowledge. It is true
both in literature and in communication that a state-of-affairs is presented to our
mind and that an indirect contact arises, but in literature this occurs without the
relationship to reality, without the theme of truth, without the acquisition of
knowledge in the sense of “That is how it is.”
When we read a novel, we do not assume that we are being instructed about
reality through communication from other persons. The question of competence
and credibility does not arise, since what is involved is not the truth of that
which is communicated. Rather, a world of events, figures, ideas, and deeds is
presented to our mind. This world captivates us, thrills us, moves us deeply,
takes hold of us, and enriches us through its quality. It enchants us through its
depth, vitality, and truthfulness. It convinces us through its inherent logic and
elevates us by the beauty of its poetic content.
The principal problem that concerns us here is how the contact with the
object that comes about through the understanding of propositions—as opposed
to a perception, such as the hearing of music—leads to a contact with the artistic
qualities that is given in experience.
First of all, it seems that the imagination [Vorstellung] plays a very important
role in the person who apprehends the literary work. This is not in any way an
associative imagination, which can take various directions in the readers. The act
of imagining that is intended and directed by the author makes the content
present in a visual manner, and it constitutes a new degree of contact between
the reader and the literary object.
The important point now is the kind of contact with the object, the step
from the indirect contact through the act of understanding, to the living
givenness, to the qualitative self-unfolding before the mind of the reader. We
must draw a distinction between the givenness of the aesthetic qualities of the
poetic, the grandiose, the profound, etc., and the content of the novel, the
events, figures, descriptions, and so on. The immediacy of the value-givenness is
generally not tied to an immediate givenness of the content that displays the
value. The nobility of morally good conduct such as magnanimity, purity, or
kindness can be just as immediately given to us when we read a biography as
when we ourselves witness such an attitude. This, of course, is not to deny that
the two types differ in other respects.1
What form of spiritual apprehending is present, when a short story or a novel
fascinates us and we fall completely under the spell of the events that are
narrated, the figures that are described, and so on?
First of all, we must note that it is also necessary to ask this question when
we read about a real event in the newspaper or hear about it in some way. It is
not only in literature, but in life too, that the mere knowledge (or the mere
acquisition of knowledge) of something through communication differs from the
living realization of the facts in question. This distinction goes hand in hand
with the difference in the content that is communicated. The nature of that
which is communicated is decisive. The important point is the extent to which
an event touches and moves us; or more precisely, the effect that an event has on
us depends on its value in itself, or on its importance for us and for others. If a
person communicates to us something that is neutral, something that is
important neither as such nor for us, it will not move us or affect us. But if we
hear on the radio that a war has broken out, or if we receive a telegram with the
news that a beloved person has died, we are deeply affected. This being affected
naturally includes an immediate confrontation with the event in question, but its
exclusive source is the nature of the event and its value or disvalue in itself, or the
greatness of its importance for us. The event is given to us in a manner that is
analogous to the aesthetic qualities just mentioned.
When we think of the way in which the events, situations, personalities, and
landscapes present themselves before our eyes when we read a novel, such as
Cervantes’ Don Quixote, Manzoni’s The Betrothed, or Tolstoy’s War and Peace, we
cannot deny that all this unfolds before our mind in a manner that is much more
experiential than the mere acquisition of knowledge that comes about through
an act of understanding words and propositions. The mere fact of being
informed about something through a communication, the resulting knowledge
of a state-of-affairs, is a more indirect contact with the object than the contact in
literature.
We must draw a clear distinction between different things here. First of all,
the spiritual reception of the content of a novel differs from the acquisition of
knowledge that comes about through communication, because in the latter case,
the decisive theme is the truth of that which is communicated, whereas this
theme is not present in literature.
Although we have already mentioned this difference, it must be emphasized
that the theme of truth also has a decisive influence on the act of reception of
that which is communicated. Communication entails a form of receiving
information, of acquiring knowledge, through an act of understanding. The
state-of-affairs that is communicated claims to exist genuinely, and we receive it
saying, “That is how it is.” Both our expectation, when we put questions to
someone or read the newspaper, that we will be informed about something that
interests us, and as well as the process of acquiring knowledge, aim at knowledge
of reality. The experiencing of a state-of-affairs is formed in real life through the
theme of reality or of truth.
Secondly, in literature, the imagination [Vorstellung] of all that we read (for
example) in a novel has a much greater importance than in the acquisition of
knowledge through communication in life. We are not now investigating the
question of the extent to which the content in many communications is given as
more fully present before our mind than is the case in mere knowledge. As we
have said, this largely depends on the nature and the importance of the content.
In literature, however, it is thematic to spread out before our mind the content in
a living and intuitive manner.
If we are tempted to use the term “imagination” for this more intuitive
consciousness of the content in literature, it must be clearly emphasized that this
is a very special type of imagination, which is sharply distinct from mere
associative images.

Various meanings of “imagination” [Vorstellung]

The term “imagination” is employed with a great variety of meanings. In
Schopenhauer’s celebrated work Die Welt als Wille und Vorstellung (The World as
Will and Representation), it is synonymous with every type of a “consciousness of”
as opposed to the will, by which he refers to all forms of desiring, taking a
position, and volitional acts. In Franz Brentano, too,2 “imagination” means a
cognitive “consciousness of”—as opposed to every kind of response, as well as to
every act that we have called a lateral consciousness,3 that is, a “conscious being”
in which the specific content lies not on the side of the object, but in our act.
We, however, understand “imagination” in a much narrower sense. It is the
special form of “consciousness of” which is typically different from perception.4
In perception the object itself is present. It discloses itself, and it reveals to us its
essence (at least up to a certain degree) and its existence; it bestows on us
knowledge and is given to us as fully present. In imagination, on the other hand,
the object itself is not given. It does not reveal to us its essence and its existence,
nor does it inform us about these. It bestows no knowledge. But it stands before
our mind and is given to us as fully present; that is to say, it unfolds its essence
before us. We possess the object in a rational way. We have a consciousness of it
as being given to us in full presence, as opposed to the merely intellectual link to
an object that arises when we only aim at it intentionally, or acquire knowledge
of it through a logical inference.
Imagination in this sense is not possible in relation to all objects. The typical
instance of imagination in this sense is visible things.5 We can clearly envisage in
the imagination something that we have once perceived and that we know, such
as Brunelleschi’s cupola on the cathedral in Florence. The same applies to the
face of a person whom we know. But imagination must be clearly distinguished
from remembering. The imagining of something audible is already slightly
modified. In the case of states-of-affairs, there no longer exists this
“consciousness of” in which the object is given as fully present and unfolds before
us. Rather, there is a spiritual making present of a different kind, namely, the
actualization of our knowledge.
We must also draw a distinction between imagination, in the sense in which
we are using this term, and the “consciousness of” that is present in fantasizing
and in every kind of “inventing.”
Let me refer briefly to the concept of imagination that Adolf von Hildebrand
uses in his book Problem der Form6 and in many of his essays, in which his
concept of imagination—more exactly, artistic imagination—plays a
fundamental role. But imagination does not at all refer there to the special kind
of “consciousness of” that we have in mind when we draw a distinction between
imagination and perception. Imagination in our sense is a specifically
reproductive act in which we make present to ourselves once again something
that was perceived previously, in such a way that it is given as fully present.
Imagination does not acquaint us with something new. All that we do in
imagination is to actualize something that is known.
The artistic imagination, as Adolf von Hildebrand uses this term, is
completely different from this reproductive making present of something that is
already known. He uses the term to designate a special ability, which assuredly
not everyone possesses. This is not the ability of fantasy or of fictitious invention
but is a matter of mentally digesting what has been perceived—a digesting that
contains a special relationship to nature.7
Up to this point, we have spoken only of the expressly reproductive ability of
the imagination, which is imagination in the narrower sense of this word.
It is, of course, true that the word “imagining” is sometimes also used in the
sense of “supposing.” If we say, “I could imagine that in such a situation, I would
react in a manner similar to this person,” the verb “imagine” simply means “I
suppose that I would react in a similar way.” In the negative we say, “I cannot
imagine that I would ever do something like that.” It is obvious that this
meaning of “imagination” is completely different and has nothing to do with the
reproductive intuitive “consciousness of.”

The receptive imagination in the apprehending of a literary work of art

When someone tells us about a landscape, or describes the appearance of a
human being, and we say, “We can imagine how the landscape or the person
looks,” the communication of the other person includes elements that are known
to us from our own perception and that are combined with the other person’s
description in such a way that we can visualize the concrete whole and its
distinctive character. The actualization of something known, which characterizes
imagination in our strict sense of the term, is present; but there is something
here that goes beyond this. Through the description, we learn something new,
and we are able to visualize that which is described.
Is this picture that we make for ourselves a variant of the imagination in the
strict sense, something purely reproductive? Or is there also present a new ability
to combine, an ability that does not produce fiction?
What happens is not the same as in all fictions, still less in inventions.
Rather, the act of combining is guided by the narrator’s description and
reproduces what he has built up by means of his description, in which he
employs material that is known to us in order to present something new to our
eyes.
This ability of receptive imagining has a decisive function in the
apprehension of literary works of art. It goes far beyond the mere understanding
of sentences, becoming acquainted with the plot of a short story or a novel, or
receiving information about the events, the characters, and the situations. It
transcends all mere knowledge in that it is given as fully present.
It is clearly distinct from imagination in the strict sense, since we are not
acquainted with either the landscape in which the individual parts of the plot
take place or the faces of the characters who appear. We cannot have any idea of
Lucinda or Dorothea in Cervantes’ Don Quixote, nor ought we to have any such
idea. We cannot have any idea of the face of Sonya in Crime and Punishment or
of Manon in Prévost’s novel Manon Lescaut, nor ought we to have any such idea.
Illustrations in such books may attempt to do this, but they are never the
fulfillment of the picture of these characters that we acquire through the novel. It
is extraordinarily interesting to note that these characters stand before us, alive
and given as fully present, although we cannot visualize them precisely in the
way that we can visualize something that we have previously perceived.
Someone may link some specific face in a purely associative manner with
such a figure in a novel, but this has nothing to do with the process of genuinely
apprehending what the novel presents to us. It is purely arbitrary, coincidental,
and unobjective. From the perspective of the artistic experience, it is disruptive.
Through such associations, we detach ourselves from the true content of the
work of art, we wander away from what is truly disclosed to us in the work of art.
This associative picture is a substitute, a pseudo-presence. It blurs the true
artistic picture.
The principal point concerning this receptive imagining is that all the
essential qualities that characterize a figure or the atmosphere of the landscape
and of the situations are immediately given as fully present to us.
We have already shown that the moral values of an action are wholly given as
fully present to us even when we learn about this action from others or read
about it. They are, indeed, just as immediately accessible to us as if we were
eyewitnesses of the action.8
What is involved here is something analogous. The moral greatness of Sonya
and the villainy of Luzhin in Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment are given to us
just as immediately as if we had personally been witnesses of their behavior. The
miraculous conversion of the Unnamed in Manzoni’s I Promessi Sposi is
immediately given as fully present to us, just as if we ourselves had been there.
This applies not only to the moral values but to many other values as well, such
as to the poetry of the situation in Don Quixote where Dorothea washes her feet
in the Sierra Morena and is taken by surprise by Cardenio and the parish priest,
or to the unique charm of the scene in the tavern where the parish priest reads
aloud the short story about imprudent curiosity and Dorothea, Cardenio, and
the others listen to him. The fact that the events, situations, and persons are not
immediately given to us does not prevent the aesthetic qualities of these events
and situations from being directly given to us, nor does it prevent the charm of
the being of the characters or their repulsive villainy from being directly
apprehensible.
One special example of such an immediately given quality, independently of
the givenness of its bearer, is comedy. It is obvious that the comedy of a
character or of a situation in a novel is directly apprehensible and is given as fully
present. We need only recall the numerous scenes of classical comedy in Don
Quixote in order to recognize the full immediacy of this comedy.
This means that the indirect givenness of the bearer of the values does not
apply to the value qualities themselves. Despite the indirectness of the contact
with the bearer, innumerable value qualities, and even more, the overall beauty of
the work of art are given for us with the same immediacy in literature as in music
and in the visual arts, in which there is an immediate contact with the bearer.
In this respect, things are somewhat different in a play that is performed in a
theater. In addition to the content of what is said, which is communicated
through the meaning of the words and propositions, we also have the expression
that is given as fully present in the face and in the gestures of the actors. Besides
this, we are witnesses of what happens. We see the characters; the situation is
made present through the scenery on the stage.

1. To be a witness is, of course, even more delightful and includes a special intimacy, something that
penetrates into the course of one’s own life. This is not present when we read or listen. But this does not
mean that when we read or listen the value of the conduct necessarily shines out in a less fully present or less
immediate manner before our spirit.
2. In Brentano, Psychology from an Empirical Point of View, book 2, chap. 1, §3, and chap. 6, §3.
3. See my Aesthetics, vol. 1, chap. 1.
4. See my What is Philosophy? chaps. 6 and 7.
5. Hedwig Conrad Martius set out very important insights into imagination in this precise sense in her
first published work: “Zur Ontologie und Erscheinungslehre der realen Aussenwelt,” Jahrbuch für Philosophie
und phänomenologische Forschung, vol. 3 (Halle an der Saale: Max Niemeyer, 1916), 345–542.
6. On this, see chap. 6 of this book, footnote 6.
7. Since this concept of imagination is important primarily for the visual arts, we can only refer briefly
to it here.
8. See Aesthetics, vol. 1, chap. 3.
What is involved here is the general fact that the values are directly given as fully present, but that this
is not the case with their bearer. The heroic greatness and beauty of the deed of Saint Maximilian Kolbe are
alive and given as fully present for us even when we learn about it only indirectly, through a narrative. In
this case, the value is not given in imagination but rather in perception.
It is clear that the question whether the bearer of the value is given as fully present largely depends on
the type of representation. The receptivity of the reader or hearer also plays a role. But this kind of being
given as fully present—unlike the way in which the value qualities that are borne are given as fully present—
leaves large problems open, for example, the reproduction of faces, figures, and landscapes.
 CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Sound [Laut], Tone [Klang], and Rhythm

A LETTER IS A SIGN for a phonetic structure. The relationship between the word
and the letters of which it consists is that of a whole to its parts. It is obvious that
the specific combination of the numerically limited letters yields a practically
unlimited number of words. This relationship between the whole and its parts
refers to phonetic structures; but a word is not only a phonetic structure. It also
has a meaning and refers by means of a concept to an object.
The relationship between the sentence and its words, which is a relationship
between the whole and its parts, occurs not only on the phonetic level, but also
on the basis of the meaning. The words have a meaning, just as the sentence has
a meaning in an even more proper sense.
The word is a much more independent structure than the letter, precisely
because it has a meaning. It is, accordingly, a part of the sentence in a completely
different sense.1

Sound [Klang] and meaning [Bedeutung] in words and sentences

In contrast to the meaning of words, there is one element in literature that is
emphatically directly and intuitively given, namely, the phonetic character of the
words and sentences. Sound is a quality of the word as a specific phonetic
structure, while the meaning of the word constitutes a purely intellectual
structure and is certainly not given as intuitively present.
Words are clearly distinct in purely phonetic terms from noises of other
kinds, from musical notes, and from the tone of an instrument. When a language
that we do not know is being spoken, we can recognize that what we hear is
words rather than coughing or sneezing.
It is not difficult to distinguish the word, as a purely phonetic structure, from
its meaning. We can understand the meaning only when someone speaks a
language that we know. But it is possible to apprehend the phonetic quality that
distinguishes a word from a whistling, even when we do not understand the
meaning of the word.
Whether the sound of words is beautiful depends on the combination of the
vowels and consonants. Some languages sound more beautiful than others. A
language in which the pure vowels have a dominant place vis-à-vis the
diphthongs, and even more vis-à-vis the consonants, has a more beautiful sound.
Here too, however, there are many nuances. The sound of one language can be
more musical, more powerful, or more elegant than the sound of another
language.
Even within one and the same language, there are great differences with
regard to the sound of the words. Some words sound more beautiful than others.
Finally, the combination of certain words, the sound of a whole phrase, can be
the bearer of a markedly positive aesthetic quality, or also of an aesthetically
negative quality. It is clear that this has an important function in literature, above
all in poems and epics.
The term “sound” has, of course, different meanings with regard to words
and with regard to musical instruments. There exists a specific and unambiguous
difference of sound within the family of instruments, for example, between the
violin, the flute, the horn, and the trumpet. In the case of words, the expression
“sound” is used in a broader sense, as an audible, immediately given phonetic
quality that goes beyond that which distinguishes words as such—and we speak
here of words in any language—from noises of a quite different kind.
This quality is more similar to the phonetic phenomenon that we find in
rhyme as opposed to writing that is not rhymed, and that we find in the tonal
phenomenon that one particular poetic meter possesses, although it is rhythm
that predominates in meter.
We mention in passing that consonants possess a tone [Klang] with a more
explicit meaning than all vowels. The difference between the vowels is not a
difference of tone [Klang]. The vowels possess a phonetic quality sui generis that
is clearly distinct from that of the musical note and of the tone. The consonants
are phonetic qualities of a completely different kind. The rolling of the “r,” the
hissing of the “s,” and so on, is first and foremost a kind of noise, but it is much
more articulated, indeed, one is tempted to say, more unambiguous than other
noises such as the rushing of a river, the surging waves of the sea, the rumbling
of the thunder, or the thud of a heavy object when it falls.
In comparison with these noises, the consonants are closer to tone, but they
are clearly different from tone in the true sense. That which distinguishes the
tone of the flute from that of the horn or the cello is not the same as that which
constitutes the difference between the consonants “s,” “r,” “p,” and “t.” The
consonants too are a phonetic quality sui generis. Although they are closer to tone
than the various vowels, their quality is distinct from tone in the true sense.
In a wider sense, we can speak of the tone of the words and of their tonal
difference, either within one language or in relation to the difference between
languages.
The analogous use of the term “tone” is completely justified when it is
applied to words, sentences, and languages. This quality of language comes into
its own above all when a literary work of art is spoken, not only read. The
written word has, of course, no immediately given tone.2 On the other hand, the
tonal beauty of a poem, an epic, or a drama is somehow apprehensible even when
we read it. One hears it only in one’s mind, but one can at least apprehend the
value quality of the tone. This obviously presupposes a special understanding of
this aspect of literature.
One is tempted to draw a comparison to a musician who reads a score and
clearly recognizes the musical character and value of the work. There is,
nevertheless, a great difference between hearing and reading [a score], since the
word is only a medium, a means for the spiritual presentation of a situation, or a
story, a person, and so on. The score points directly to the musically audible
structure, so that the specific content is an audible content. Although the path
from the score to the piece of music is not immediate, it is nonetheless much
more direct than the path from what is read to the content of a literary work of
art. Reading a score is more difficult and presupposes more than is involved in
the reading of written characters, but for the one who can do this, the path to a
mental apprehension of the audible content runs more directly than in the
reading of a written text. When one reads it is not even necessary to hear in one’s
mind the words and their sound. In order to attain to the content of the work, it
suffices to understand the words and sentences.
There is no doubt that sound in a broader sense plays a role in literature. It
can be a bearer of beauty, and it can make an important contribution to artistic
beauty.
It is interesting to compare the function of sound in music and in literature,
that is to say, in the narrower and in the wider senses. In music, sound is united
to other audible qualities, such as the note, the melody, the harmony, the piece
of music as a whole. In literature, on the other hand, sound is only a quality of
the word and of the sentence as phonetic structures. But the true soul of the
word and of the sentence is nothing phonetic: it is their meaning, their ability to
make objects, actions, situations, and human beings present to our mind. This
highly intellectual function is nothing audible, and sound cannot be directly
united to it. The qualities that are united to the object that the word
communicates to us through its meaning adhere to the content of which the
sentence speaks (it is remarkable how immediately present this content is to us).
It is obvious that sound is not a quality of this object: it is a quality of the word
and of the sentence as phonetic structures. The same applies to rhyme. Words
rhyme; meanings do not. Nevertheless, the sound of the words and sentences
works together with the content at which they aim with their meaning, in order
to realize artistic value qualities. This is a very remarkable kind of collaboration.
In order to do justice to this collaboration in its specific character, we must
ask whether it is possible to say that the sound of one particular word is more
appropriate to its meaning than another tone, and whether any kind of direct
relationships can exist [between sound and meaning].
This is certainly the case with onomatopoeic words, in which there is not
only the meaning but also a certain imitation of the sound of the thing that the
word means. Plätschern (“splashing”) sounds somewhat like the sound that a dog
or a child creates in water when they romp around in it. The sound of the word
imitates an action, and this is clearly a connection completely different from that
of meaning, of the meaningful act of intending.
This kind of phonetic imitation is possible only in the case of objects that
themselves possess a phonetic quality. It is completely impossible for mental
contents, which cannot have any phonetic quality. There is no onomatopoeic
word for a virtue, whether it be justice, gentleness, humility, purity, and so on. In
the same way, there is no onomatopoeic reproduction for a stone, a tree, or any
object that is not a bearer of sounds. An event must itself possess a phonetic
quality, for example, the hissing of a snake, the croaking of a frog, or chomping
when one eats. But there are not onomatopoeic expressions for everything that
has a phonetic quality; their sphere is very small and narrowly circumscribed. We
cannot discuss the specific character of onomatopoeic words in greater detail
here.
The first thing that interests us is the complete difference between this
representation of a tonal object and the relationship of meaning. The meaning is
certainly not a representation of the object that is given as fully present. Rather,
it is a highly intellectual relationship of a completely different kind. The second
thing that interests us is the collaboration of both of these, in the sense that
while it is only through the meaning that we can know unambiguously what one
is talking about, the onomatopoeic imitation of the tonal event imparts to the
word an immediacy and liveliness.
But is there not a relationship of appropriateness between the tone of the
word and the object that is meant, a relationship that is not onomatopoeic in
nature, that can appear also in objects that do not have a specific phonetic
character? Do not certain words somehow reflect in their tone something with a
negative value, while other words reflect something with a positive value? Does
not the verb verpfuschen (“to make a mess” of something) have a derogatory
element in its tone that is not possessed by the expression missglücken (“to be
unsuccessful”)?
This is a difficult question and an area in which it is easy to delude oneself.
One may project the meaning into the tone. One is so accustomed to unite with
the phonetic structure of one particular word the object that this word intends,
that one may attribute to the tone an expressive quality that, as such, it does not
in any way possess.
A story offers a drastic illustration of this point. A German friend who lived
in Rome for a long time went to buy bread and was asked by the baker what the
German word for bread was. When the baker heard that it was called Brot, he
said, “But that is remarkable! When one says pane, the bread stands vividly
before one, one smells its scent, one sees its color—pane, pane, the tone expresses
all this. But Brot, Brot expresses nothing of all this.”
Let us therefore be content to note that certain words have a nobler tone
than others. This applies all the more strongly to sentences in which the rhythm
is united to the tone in an important manner.
We can also say that some words, without having an onomatopoeic
character, somehow fit well in their tone to the matter that they signify. They fit
a lofty matter through their beautiful, noble tone, and a base matter through
their unbeautiful tone. But we wish to leave open the question of what kind of
“fitting” this is, since, as we have said, the nobility of the matter can shed on the
word, thanks to its meaning, a splendor that is not objectively founded.
On the other hand, the contribution that the beauty of the tone of the words
and sentences makes to the artistic beauty of a poem, a short story, an epic, or a
drama is of a completely objective nature.

Rhyme [Der Reim]

One very interesting phonetic phenomenon is rhyme. It possesses a certain
distant analogy to harmony in music, but rhyme is far less important than
harmony. It possesses only the formally analogous character of a delightful
consonance, of the compatibility of two phonetic structures. From a purely
external point of view, harmony in music involves sounds occurring
simultaneously, whereas rhyme is sequential. It has a certain peripheral charm,
but it can make a decisive contribution to the artistic value in a particular context
when particular conditions are fulfilled.
Some rhymes are dull in themselves, and some rhymes are noble. The rhyme
fulfills its function not only in serious, great poetic works. It can also have a
delightful function in humoristic works, not exactly as a dull rhyme, but certainly
as a plain rhyme. Another important factor is whether the rhyme occurs as a
modest subsidiary phenomenon, or whether the choice of the words and what is
communicated through the meaning occur for the sake of the rhyme. It is always
a definite error to sacrifice a much more important factor for the sake of rhyme.
Christian Morgenstern’s delightful humoristic poem can be applied to these
cases:3

Ein Wiesel
sass auf einem Kiesel
inmitten Bachgeriesel.

Wisst ihr,
weshalb?

Das Mondkalb
verriet es mir
im stillen:

Das raffinier-
te Tier
tat’s um des Reimes willen.4

But the awkward, illegitimate character that results when the choice of the words
is determined by the rhyme to such an extent that the poetical content suffers
thereby, or the choice of the words becomes artificial in terms of their meaning,
is not found in somewhat humoristic doggerel. In that case, the rhyme is allowed
to play the kind of role it has in Wilhelm Busch’s Naturgeschichtliches Alphabet,
where the identical initial letter also plays a role:
 Der Esel ist ein dummes Tier,
Der Elefant kann nichts dafür.5

Rhyme can carry out an important function in great, noble works. This phonetic
phenomenon, which in itself is completely independent of the meaning of the
words, and which has a value of its own that is relatively slight, can elevate the
overall beauty of certain sublime poems. There are two interesting points here.
First, there is the collaboration of a phonetic datum with the qualities that
become spiritually present to us through the meaning of the words and
sentences; secondly, there is the fact that something that in itself is a modest
bearer of an aesthetic value quality that scarcely has the rank of a simple formal
beauty, is integrated harmoniously into a great work of art and makes a
contribution to its artistic beauty, as in Goethe’s poems:

Wie herrlich leuchtet

Mir die Natur!
Wie glänzt die Sonne!
Wie lacht die Flur!6
Or:
Meine Ruh ist hin,
Mein Herz ist schwer;
Ich finde sie nimmer
Und nimmermehr.7
Or:
Kennst du das Land, wo die Zitronen blühn,
Im dunklen Laub die Gold-Orangen glühn.8

The rhyme has a certain importance in all these structures of tremendous poetic
beauty. It intensifies the overall beauty.
We must conclude that although it is true that phonetic phenomena play a
role in literature, from the tone of the words, from the “music” of a phrase, to
rhyme, it is dangerous to accord them too much weight. The emphasis on the
phonetic is indeed sometimes fully warranted, for example, in Edgar Allan Poe,
in Baudelaire, and in the highest form of poetry, in Saint John of the Cross. But
in Shakespeare, Goethe, Dante, Hölderlin, Leopardi, and Keats, the phonetic is
clearly less important in comparison with specifically poetic factors. When the
phonetic becomes the main thing, we have to do with a definite perversion.

Meter [Die Metrik]

Meter, in which a phonetic element is united to rhythm, occupies a place of its
own among the phonetic data in literature. Rhythm is a great, a central
phenomenon. It expresses many things directly and can be the bearer of very
various aesthetic qualities. It unfolds its full importance in music.9 There is a
noble and a brutal rhythm; a rhythm full of vigor and a zest for life, and a
contemplative, recollected rhythm. Rhythm can possess many other qualities too,
sometimes as their expression and sometimes as their bearer.
It is an important factor in literature too. An epic takes on a special character
through the rhythm that is expressed in the meter, for example, in a hexameter
or pentameter. What a difference there is between Homer’s Odyssey and Iliad in
Greek, with their poetic meter, and a French translation without poetic meter—
quite independently of how good the translation is in other respects! Something
decisive is lost. Although the German translation by Johann Heinrich Voss is
unsatisfactory in other respects, it preserves the poetic meter, and this is a great
advantage. The same applies to Vergil’s Aeneid and to Dante’s Divine Comedy.
The poetic meter is an important factor that makes an important contribution to
the beauty of poems, epics, and sometimes also of plays.
Meter too is a phonetic phenomenon, but to a lesser extent than the tone of
the words and rhyme, precisely because rhythm has a decisive function in meter.
Meter is an advantage for poems and epics, and it intensifies the artistic value.
But poetic meter would be out of place in the artistic genre of the short story and
the novel, which are meant to be written in prose. In many plays meter brings a
great intensification; they cry out for meter. But in others, meter is
inappropriate.
One cannot imagine the works of Racine without poetic meter. In
Shakespeare, we find in one and the same play some parts in poetic meter and
other parts without it. It is interesting that the advantage of the meter or of prose
depends entirely on the kind of contents, but not in the same way as the sound
of a word fits its meaning. In the play, where both prose and poetic meter are
possible, a poet is led by expressly artistic motives to choose one of these in the
work as a whole or for certain parts of it. The reason why they suit a play or one
particular place in the play lies in the overall atmosphere of the artistic
conception or in the quality of the special situations and in the character of the
figures who are on the stage. The use of poetic meter can be required for one
particular work of art simply because of its general type, for example, for the epic
and for most poems, but this may also be necessary in view of the style and the
ethos of certain plays. Sometimes the character of one particular situation in a
play is elevated and ennobled by poetic meter, whereas other passages would lose
their vitality if this were employed.

Various kinds of “tone of voice” [Tonfall]

A new phonetic phenomenon is the tone of voice. To begin with, it differs from
the pure expression that a cry can possess, such as a cry of fear, of pain, or rage,
or of joy.10 These phonetic phenomena do indeed presuppose a human voice,
but they do not presuppose language.
“Tone of voice” does not refer to the emphasis that belongs to the purely
phonetic nature of a word. Rather, it is a factor that refers to sentences that
mean something and aim meaningfully at a state-of-affairs.
It is remarkable that the tone of voice, unlike the word, is not united to the
intended object through the meaning—this highly intellectual contact that is not
given as fully present. Rather, it expresses something in an intuitive manner.
It is not difficult to grasp that the content of the sentence or the nature of
the state-of-affairs to which the sentence refers requires a certain tone of voice.
It would be ridiculous to reply in a solemn tone of voice to the question “What
time is it?” unless something very important and weighty was connected to this
point in time. It would be equally ridiculous to communicate a joyful event in a
tragic tone of voice, and it would be utterly inappropriate to announce a tragic
event in a joyful—or worse, in a lighthearted—tone of voice.
In itself the tone of voice is an expression of our attitude. Its relationship to
the objective state-of-affairs is not one of mentally aiming at something and
meaning it. But unlike the other typical expressions, such as crying out, this
expressive phenomenon cooperates in a special way with the meaning of the
sentence. Since the tone of voice is an expression, it discloses to us the specific
character of the underlying act. The meaning of the words and the intentional
reference of the sentence to the state-of-affairs is not an expression. But the tone
of voice is the objective expression of the act of questioning in a sentence that is
a question, of the act of affirming in an affirmative sentence, of commanding in
a sentence that is a command, and of requesting in a sentence that is a request.
The expression in the tone of voice is united in an important manner to the
meaning of the sentence.
 It is usually possible to recognize from the word order, independently of the
tone of voice, that we are confronted with a question rather than with an
affirmation. In a written text, this is explicitly indicated by means of the question
mark; the spoken question demands a specific tone of voice. This does not
express the particular content of the sentence in a material respect, that is to say,
whether it concerns something joyful or sad, something serious or jocular; it does
not tell us whether the content of the question is indiscreet, tactless, and
impudent, or reverent, discreet, and tactful. It expresses only the formal
difference between a question and an assertion, a communication, an
exhortation, a request, or a command. Sometimes it is exclusively the tone of
voice that characterizes the act of questioning, for example, when someone says:
“You were in Vienna?” The form of this sentence is that of an assertion. Only
the tone of voice in the act of speaking shows (like the question mark in a
written sentence) that this is a question.
There is always a difference in the underlying acts that corresponds to the
formal differences among sentences. Putting a question is a different act from
affirming, communicating, exhorting, requesting, and commanding. What the
tone of voice (unlike a question mark) not only indicates but also expresses is the
specific character of the underlying act; this character not only finds expression
in the structure of the sentence but also gives the sentence a formally new
meaning.
One and the same state-of-affairs, for example, the red color of a table, can
be thematic both in a questioning sentence and in an assertive sentence, but
there is obviously a considerable difference between the question “Is this table
red?” and the assertion “The table is red.” But this difference of a formal kind
clearly goes in a different direction from the difference that separates being red
from being black or that separates a joyful and a sad event.
This leads us to analyze five different phenomena that can perhaps be termed
a “tone of voice.” We wish at this point to leave open the question whether we
can and should apply this term to all five.

Expressive possibilities of the tone of voice

First, we can speak of the tone of voice that, as we have said, expresses in a
spoken sentence the formal nature of the act. The relationship between the tone
of voice in this sense and the formal character of the act is neither a relationship
of meaning nor a relationship of indication. But if someone says, “I would like to
ask you,” the relationship between the word “ask” and the underlying act is the
relationship of meaning [Bedeutung]. The word “ask” or the sentence “I would
like to ask you” is united to the state-of-affairs that someone is asking a question,
in the same way that all sentences are united to states-of-affairs, that is, through
rationally aiming at the state-of-affairs.
But the tone of voice that expresses the act of questioning is completely
different. This tone of voice is an immediate expression of the act of questioning.
We must now compare this kind of expression of an act—an expression of its
formal character, or of the questioning attitude—with the expression of the voice
in crying out, when fear or pain manifests itself in a cry. Is this the same type of
expression in the strictest sense of the term, or is the expression of the tone of
voice, in which something much more formal and not affective manifests itself, a
new type of expression? Is the tone of voice something new in relation to the
sound [Klang] of the voice?
We postpone this central question until we have presented the other kinds of
tone of voice.
Secondly, we may think of the tone of voice in a sentence in which certain
attitudes find expression. These attitudes are based on underlying responses such
as mockery, making fun of someone, pulling someone’s leg ironically, or
harmless joking. The new element in relation to the first type of tone of voice is
that it is no longer the formal character of the act that somehow belongs to the
intellectual sphere, but rather a material qualitative specific character of the
underlying act such as mockery, making fun of someone ironically, or harmless
joking.
This also manifests itself as intuitively given in the tone of voice. An ironic
question or communication has a different tone of voice from a neutral question
that is meant seriously. Is this qualitative manifestation of mockery, of the
ironical attitude, the same type of expression as in the first case? And above all, is
it still the tone of voice in the same sense?
At any rate, both of these are phenomena that show themselves in the act of
speaking and that express how what is uttered is “meant.” This first
phenomenon expresses the formal character of the act, while the second
phenomenon expresses the attitude that lies behind it.
A third kind of tone of voice in a sentence, which is in many ways related to
the second kind, is the announcement of an affective response. The tone of voice
when one person insults another is obviously completely different from the tone
of voice of praise or thanks. If someone speaks with a voice full of hatred, the
tone of voice is not the same as when he makes a declaration of love. Do these
examples still involve the tone of voice? Can one still call the sound of a voice
that is full of hatred or rage, or a tender and loving voice, a tone of voice? Is this
not a new form of expression? Is this not a much more immediate expression of
the voice, an expression that (unlike the tone of voice) does not contain a
modification of the sentence but that stands, as it were, alongside the speaking of
the sentence and reflects in an independent manner the attitude that is declared?
The function of the words and sentences in an affective response enters into a
new union with the words and sentences. It is clear that the declaration differs
even more strongly from the assertion, the communication, the asking of a
question, requesting, and commanding, than these differ among themselves.
In any case, the immediate expression of hatred, love, anger, or tenderness in
the voice of the one who speaks is extremely important. Here the tone of voice
presents the formal specific character of the expression, as opposed to the
meaning of the words.
A fourth tone of voice, different from those we have discussed up to now, is
the expression found in solemn recitation. This expression is demanded by the
content of that which is said. Once again, this is a tone of voice in a much more
appropriate sense. It is not the expression of feelings or of the speaker’s
disposition, nor any longer the act that lies behind the speaking, that demands
one particular tone of voice, but the qualitative content of what is said.
The communication that someone has died demands a different tone of
voice from the communication that a friend has been promoted or that his wife
has given birth to a child. The tone of voice that corresponds to the
communication that a war has broken out is different from the tone of voice that
corresponds to the communication that it is two o’clock. A special tone of voice
is appropriate to sadness or to a source of joy, to the momentousness and to the
importance of what is communicated. This tone of voice, which is appropriate to
the quality of the content that is communicated, is likewise an immediate
expression.
A fifth kind is completely different from this appropriate tone of voice. We
sometimes say that a declamation is not only incongruous but full of false pathos,
embarrassing, or tasteless. Although the content is determinative, a falsification
arises through this tone of voice. This falsification is not based on the affective
experience that is really present in the speaker and that causes him to make one
particular communication or announcement; and it is based even less on the
formal attitude of questioning or asserting. The excessively solemn tone of voice
is not demanded by the quality of the content but derives from the negative
quality of the recitation. False pathos is a disvalue of a qualitative kind that is
found in the human attitude, and indeed has its primary home there. Gestures
predominate in this attitude. This hollow affectivity falsifies and distorts the
content, which is full of genuine affectivity.
The inadequate tone of voice that communicates a sad event in a joyful tone
of voice and a joyful event in a sad tone of voice is an obvious dissonance that is
the fault of the speaker and that cannot be overlooked, because it strikes the
wrong note. Under certain circumstances, this tone of voice makes us laugh.
On the other hand, an excessively solemn recitation falsifies the content and
greatly impairs a drama that someone hears for the first time. The blame for this
flaw is then not only ascribed to the actor, but is incorrectly ascribed to the play
as well. This false pathos is a pure disvalue that is projected into what is spoken.
Its effect is specifically awkward.
A recitation marked by false pathos resembles a sentimental lecture in which
someone presents in a sentimental tone of voice something that is, in itself,
completely unsentimental and is full of genuine affectivity. One difference
between the good and the bad actor is the appropriateness or inappropriateness
of the tone of voice to the content that is spoken.
In the present context [of the fifth case], we are interested above all in the
type of tone of voice that is indeed an expression of the specific personal
character of the person who speaks, but that contaminates and falsifies the
content in a special manner.
In all the cases we have mentioned, the following question arises: What type
of expression is found here, and how does it differ from the expression of fear
and of pain that we find when someone cries out in fear or pain, that is to say,
how does it differ from the sound [Klang] of the voice outside the sphere of
speaking?
It is clear that the immediate expression in the sound of the voice without
words, for example, in crying out, is very limited, whereas there are innumerable
possibilities of expression in the tone of voice [Tonfall] of spoken words—taking
“tone of voice” here in the broadest sense, which includes all the cases we have
mentioned. If the same kind of expression were present both times, it would be
impossible to explain why the voice without words can express so little in
comparison to the great wealth of expression of the tone of voice in its various
functions. It is particularly interesting that completely new kinds of expression
arise through union with the word. They are genuinely and unambiguously an
expression; they do not live from a meaning, as do words and sentences. It is
obvious that the voice acquires completely new expressive dimensions in the
speaking of words.
Many animals can cry out. The cry of a dog can express pain, and its whining
can express its dissatisfaction, or indeed its longing. But only the human being
speaks. Speaking is an essential characteristic of the human person that
presupposes the entire structure of the animal rationale, or the spiritual person.11
There is, of course, a whole world of difference between the cry and the
groaning of a human being and the cry or the whining of a dog. But as soon as
the human voice resounds in words and sentences, as soon as someone speaks,
the tone and the color of the voice also acquire a new dimension in relation to a
mere cry. The voice is enabled to make a completely different kind of expression,
which, despite its necessary union with words and sentences, is a genuine
expression in the sense of a datum that is given in immediate intuition.
Besides this, there is in speaking a direct expression in the voice that can no
longer be called a tone of voice, for example, when someone speaks with a
trembling voice that expresses his fear, his timidity, or his uncertainty.
The range of expressive possibility in speaking is very great. One and the
same sentence can be uttered in a presumptuous and impertinent manner or in a
reverent and humble manner. This, of course, is possible only with sentences
that are not already impertinent or reverent in their content. One can utter the
sentence, “I know that already” in a presumptuous, arrogant tone, but one can
also utter it in a humble manner, as when another person tells me something in
the belief that he is giving me new information.
Let us conclude by observing that in a play and a novel, if it is the characters
who speak rather than the author who is narrating, the tone of voice, in the
narrower and the wider senses, is very important for the characterization of the
person who speaks. The tone of voice is, as such, an essential artistic means.
Besides this, the content of the spoken word, both in a play on the stage and in a
poem that is read aloud, makes specific demands of the tone of voice, and it is
artistically important that these demands be met. Finally, as we have said, the
appropriate tone of voice is a decisive factor for the actor’s art. It must correctly
characterize the figure who is being played. In a good production of Molière’s
Les précieuses ridicules (“The Affected Ladies”), the tone of voice must fully
express their affectation. Above all, it must never distort through a false pathos
that which is great and profound, or use plain prose to take the life out of
something that is solemn and elevated.
 1. The relationship between the written characters and the sounds is not that of meaning; similarly, the
relationship between the written and the spoken word is not that of meaning. The written character is not
the same as a sound, nor is the written word identical with the spoken word. We must draw a clear
distinction between these relationships and the specific relationship of meaning, which is extremely
intellectual and rational.
2. There is a very distinct process that leads from certain visible signs to the word. Usually, it is
through the word that is read, through its meaning, or through the sentence that is read, that we attain to
the state-of-affairs. The word does not appear before our mind as a tonal structure. Reading is not a process
that leads through signs to a hearing of words. Normally, the act of hearing does not take place. This, of
course, does not apply to reading aloud.
3. See “Das ästhetische Wiesel” in his Galgenlieder. [Editors’ note: The footnotes give a strictly literal
translation without rhymes.]
4. “A weasel sat on a pebble in the midst of the trickling of a brook. Do you know why? A mooncalf
disclosed it to me in silence: The refin- ed animal did it for the sake of the rhyme.”
5. “The donkey is a stupid animal. / The elephant can’t help it.”
6. “Mailied”: “How gloriously nature / shines to me! How the sun gleams! How the meadow laughs!”
7. “Gretchen am Spinnrade”: “Gone is my rest, my heart is heavy; I find it [my rest] never / and
nevermore.”
8. “Mignon”: “Do you know the land where the lemons blossom, / the golden oranges glow in the dark
foliage.”
9. See chaps. 33 and 34 below.
10. See Aesthetics, vol. 1, chaps. 4 and 7.
11. On this, see René Descartes, Discours de la Méthode, part 5: “Again, by means of these two tests we
may likewise know the difference between men and brutes. For it is highly deserving of remark, that there
are no men so dull and stupid, not even idiots, as to be incapable of joining together different words, and
thereby constructing a declaration by which to make their thoughts understood; and that, on the other
hand, there is no animal, however perfectly or happily circumstanced, which can do the like. Nor does this
inability arise from want of organs: for we observe that magpies and parrots can utter words like ourselves,
and yet are unable to speak as we do, that is, so as to show that they understand what they say; whereas men
born deaf and dumb, and thus not less, but rather more than the brutes destitute of the organs which others
use in speaking, are in the habit of spontaneously inventing certain signs by which they intimate their
thoughts to those who, being usually in their company, have leisure to learn their language. And this proves
not only that the brutes have less reason than man, but that they have none at all.” [Translation: Project
Gutenberg; slightly amended.]
 CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

The Expressive Qualities of Words and Figures of

Speech

A WORD HAS A MEANING, but that is not all: in addition, many words also
possess a character that expresses both the kind of attitude we have to the object
and the light in which we see it.
This, of course, does not apply to all words, but only to those that mean
specific kinds of objects. There are typically many things that are aimed at by
certain words that in one respect have the same meaning but are completely
different in their quality. There are noble and base words, drastic and reserved
words, conventional words, neutral, technical expressions, and expressions that
clearly reflect the attitude of the speaker to the object about which he is
speaking, but not through the sound of the words.
If someone hears about the death of a person and remarks, “He has bitten
the dust,” or “He has croaked,”1 he thereby betrays his attitude to death. His
spirit, his lack of reverence, and his coarseness are reflected therein, but also his
lack of love, his reductionistic way of looking at things, and his lack of restraint.
If, on the other hand, one says, “He has died,” or “He has given up the ghost,” or
“He was summoned into eternity,” the choice of such a manner of speaking
expresses a completely different ethos. Although the fact that is communicated,
that is, the purely formal meaning, is the same, individual words or the
combination of several words communicate far more than merely the naked fact.
It is of course true that someone who uses coarse, base expressions need not
necessarily have an irreverent attitude to the fact in question. He may have
adopted a base jargon through the influence of his milieu, without being
genuinely conscious of the ethos that is expressed in this language. This does not
alter the fact that such expressions objectively possess this quality.
It is remarkable that such words or sentences not only have the function of
communicating a fact but also express an attitude to what is communicated.
Even when we know that one who employs these expressions is not conscious of
their quality, we are shocked by their objective baseness, and we will attempt to
explain this to him and to get him to stop using them. These expressions not
only allow us to draw conclusions about an inner attitude and are not only
symptoms of the attitude of the person who uses them. They are, as such, an
objective expression of these attitudes. They contain a special quality.
Such expressions or qualities are found in innumerable differentiations. If
one says about a man who loves a woman, “He’s nuts about her,” this manner of
expression does indeed inform us about his love, but it has a definitely irreverent
and coarse, base character. Why is the expression “to puke” so much coarser than
“to vomit”? The second word has a neutral, almost medical character, but the
first has the character of losing all restraint, or indeed, of a delight in the
unaesthetic quality of this physical process. Certain words aim in their meaning
at an object that imposes a reserve on us through its specific character. We ought
not to get too close to them and to rub our noses, so to speak, in their
unaesthetic aspect.
There are intimate spheres that ought to be covered with a veil in public, and
certain expressions do justice to this character, while others have a shameless
character. Here there is a large spectrum.
Some words have an affected, “precious” character, an embarrassingly
aestheticist coloring. The disvalue in these words lies not in the direction of the
irreverent or the base, but in the direction of an over-refinement that makes for
inauthenticity.
But it is not only the inner attitude toward the object that makes an
expression appropriate or inappropriate. The situation too can make certain
expressions appropriate or inappropriate.
In the case of medicine, a technical, neutral language is appropriate. No
attitude to its objects resonates in the terms it employs for them, other than a
general and purely scientific attitude. There is no expression of a personal
attitude to the particular object and to its human character. This entire
dimension of expression is avoided in the language of medicine. Everything is
treated in the same way, as a purely scientific phenomenon. Medicine makes use
of a language of scientific terms, not of normal language with all its various
expressive dimensions. It is not by chance that there is in medicine a preference
for the coining of Latin terms that aim in a plain and unambiguous manner at
the phenomenon and that live simply from the meaning they express.
In all the other sciences too, of course, there are many objects with names
that possess no expressive quality of any kind, since these objects by their very
nature exclude this.
There are no polite or noble words for numbers, nor any base, frivolous, or
slovenly words. In the case of phenomena that are not full of content and
qualitatively rich, and of objects without a positive or negative aesthetic aspect,
words do not possess expressive characters in addition to their meaning.
Expressive qualities are not present when one speaks of a number of kilometers
or of a period of time (a minute, an hour, a day). What we have in mind here, of
course, is not the day as a human phenomenon but the purely quantitative
indication of time.
It is obvious that the expressive qualities play a great role in a living language.
They are also bearers of important aesthetic qualities. Strangely enough, they
have a character that is given as fully present, whereas the pure function of
meaning does not possess this character. They presuppose this function of
meaning not only in the specification of the object, of course, but also in all the
words that describe the object. And yet, it is not the specific act of understanding
with which we apprehend the quality of certain expressions, whether this is an
individual word or a figure of speech, when it affects us positively or negatively.
If we compare information about an event or about some fact in frivolous,
banal, or base expressions, or in noble or polite expressions, on the one hand,
with a purely medical diagnosis, on the other hand, it is clear that the terms
employed in the latter appear only in their pure meaning. The unfavorable
diagnosis may have grave consequences for us and may strike us like a
thunderbolt; if the diagnosis is favorable, it may take a load off our mind. But
this does not alter the fact that the term amounts to no more than its meaning.
It possesses no expressive qualities of any kind. The term adds nothing to the
meaning of the fact; only the fact itself is capable of affecting us in a profoundly
positive or negative way. It suffices to understand the meaning of the term and
to apprehend the information that is given to us in it.
If someone communicates an event or a fact to us in customary language,
however, and his mode of expression possesses a quality with a positive or
negative value that goes beyond the pure information, a quality that adheres to
the mode of expression and not to the object that is communicated, the act of
apprehending this quality is different from the pure act of understanding. It has
a more immediate character, although it presupposes just as much knowledge, or
indeed even more knowledge, than the act of understanding the pure meaning.
This act of apprehending is not an immediate experience in the same way as
the sound of a voice, the form of a face, or the color of a person’s hair. It
presupposes that one has been informed about the meaning of certain figures of
speech. One who lacks an exact knowledge of the English language must not
only learn through instruction the normal meaning of the words. A person who
does not know English must learn that “kick the bucket” is a very frivolous,
vulgar expression for “dying” in the same way that he learns the meaning of
words.
Words and figures of speech that not only have a pure meaning, but are also
capable of reflecting an attitude to the object that is intended and
communicated, are also employed in literature as an important instrument.
We must, however, distinguish these cases where a word possesses a quality
that goes beyond its meaning from those cases where a figure of speech is
employed to designate an occurrence, an event, or a fact.
Comparisons are used in the figure of speech for dying: “He has bitten the
dust.” It is meaningless to compare the dying of a human being to biting the
dust, since there is no kind of analogy between the two. The disparaging view of
the event is contained, not in one individual word, but in a circumlocution in
which at least two different new things are employed as a pure meaning, namely,
biting and dust.
If, however, someone says, “He croaked,” it is one individual word that
possesses the expressive dimension of the vulgar, the base, and the irreverent.
We must ask whether in both instances one thing is not reduced to another
as a way of showing us the light in which the occurrence or the fact is seen. Does
not the phrase “to bite the dust” contain a comparison with an animal? This
seems not to be the case. This expression remains vulgar, although it is much less
bad to use it of an animal such as a dog or a horse.
The verb fressen (“to eat”) is completely appropriate to animals, but it is
indubitably common, coarse, and vulgar when someone says, “Give me
something to eat [fressen]!”, or worse, when he says to someone else, “Here is
something for you to eat [fressen].” The irreverent and vulgar character of this
word is due to the fact that the act of eating by a human being is placed on the
same level as the act of eating by an animal.2
As we have said, however, there are many common, frivolous, indecent,
crude, affected, and embarrassingly aestheticist expressions with a quality that is
not due to any reduction and that does not contain any comparison.
The expressive quality of the words and figures of speech in which, in a
mysterious manner, the attitude to an object and the light in which one sees it
are revealed is a specific instrument employed in literature for the
characterization of the persons in a novel or a short story, and also in a play. This
aspect of the words and sentences is very characteristic of the style of a human
being. It is obvious that we are not employing the word “style” here in the sense
that is envisaged when one speaks of the good or bad style of a writer. We use
this term to designate the mode of expression in which certain traits of a human
being are reflected.
Up to this point, we have discussed how certain words and figures of speech
present in themselves an expression of certain attitudes to an object, an
occurrence, and so on. However, their use also characterizes the whole person
who speaks. A slovenly mode of expression is a symptom of many of the
speaker’s traits. The tone of voice, the expression of the voice, and even the
movements of his body and his whole behavior usually correspond to this mode
of expression, and this is why words and figures of speech are an important
means used in literature. An indecent manner of speech and taking pleasure in
indulging one’s impulses are essential aspects of Lucio in Shakespeare’s Measure
for Measure. In the same play one element in the characterization of Isabella is
the nobility of her diction. The innocence and the poetic charm of Miranda in
Shakespeare’s The Tempest are brought to life both through the content of what
she says and through her mode of expression.
Some expressive qualities show forth vividly even the body-feeling of a
human being.3
The qualities that are manifested in a person’s diction are uncommonly
diverse: vulgarity, self-indulgence, irreverence, a crude lack of manners,
aestheticist preciousness, over-effusiveness, inauthenticity, sentimentality,
naïveté, good manners, conventionality, poetry, nobility, a noble reserve, and
many other qualities. Certain standard phrases that particular persons use, or the
words that they employ when they are furious, are also typical indications.
Sancho is brilliantly characterized in his artlessness and in his lack of fine
manners when he cries out in anger, “By the whore that bore me!” Dorothea or
Cardenio in Don Quixote would never express themselves in this way, nor would
Rosalind in Shakespeare’s As You Like It nor Viola in Twelfth Night.
It is especially characteristic of simple persons that they continually repeat
standard phrases, and the kind of phrases that they use tell us a great deal about
these persons.
We can sum up as follows the principal characteristic of expressive qualities
in words and in figures of speech. First, a word or sentence is capable of
reflecting a conventional attitude to the object that is named. Secondly, a word
can attempt to inhibit the complete presentation of an occurrence or of a thing
by remaining at a distance from the object, as it were, and seeking to cover it
over. Thirdly, a word can have a neutral character, like a technical term.
Fourthly, a word can make an object fully present, allowing it to unfold vividly in
the imagination. Fifthly, a word can look at the object from below or from
above. Sixthly, a word can be reverent or contemptuous, dismissive, or
impertinent. Seventhly, it can be drastic, critical, or aloof.
The choice of words is often demanded by the specific character of the
object. Things that are objectively profound, or indeed sublime, require a
response that corresponds to them. Accordingly, when one speaks of them, they
require a reverent mode of expression.
In his excellent book The Abolition of Man, C. S. Lewis relates the well-
known story about Coleridge.4 Two tourists are standing at a waterfall. One cries
out, “This waterfall is sublime!” and the other cries out, “This waterfall is pretty!”
Coleridge underlines how appropriate the word “sublime” is and how inadequate
the word “pretty” is. This difference far transcends the expressive quality of the
words, of course. “Pretty” misses the mark, even in its pure meaning, since
prettiness is a quality that a majestic waterfall objectively does not possess.
Some people use nett (“nice”) as a typical word for all the aesthetic values,
and even for many other values. This occurs less frequently in Germany, but the
English word “nice” is widespread, above all in America, irrespective of whether
one is talking about the Medici tombs, Beethoven’s ninth symphony, a dialogue
of Plato, or about the congenial temperament of a person, or about harmless
pleasures. It is obvious that this mistake is already present in the pure sphere of
meaning. At the same time, the word “nice” is annoying in its expressive quality.
Above all, it is a typical symptom of a general attitude to the world of values. If it
is not being used merely because of a bad habit, it reveals that the person is stuck
in an attitude of merely liking things, without suspecting that there is more to
life and without any genuine value-response. This is symptomatic of a
trivialization of the world.
The meaningful relationship that exists between the nature of objects and the
expressive quality of the words is, of course, a reflection of the inherent
relationship between the objects and our response to them, our attitude to them.
It is a truism that a predicate depends on the type of object to which it is
referred. To call something that is sublime “nice” is simply to make a false
statement.
The point that concerns us here is that when the mode of expression
contains more than the pure meaning and reflects our attitude to the object, this
mode of expression is demanded by the specific character of the object. This
demand makes possible appropriate expression. Intimate matters require a
distanced, reverent attitude that comes into its own in the expressive quality,
which ought to cover the object with a veil. Other objects, on the other hand,
require that one uncovers everything and thus stimulates the imagination. We
could point to many differences in the specific character of objects that make a
mode of expression appropriate or inappropriate, stimulating and apt or slovenly
and awkward.
An expressive quality reflecting a person’s inner attitude characterizes the
person who employs it to an extent that goes far beyond the expressive quality’s
appropriateness in relation to the object. It can reveal the utterly conventional
mediocrity of a person. It can reveal his banality, vulgarity, or arrogance, the
pleasure he takes in rolling around in the mud, his pleasure in being self-
indulgent, and so on. It can equally reveal the opposite, that is, positive attitudes.
It is clear that literature possesses a powerful means in the expressive quality of
words and figures of speech.

The voice of the author and the voice of the persons who are depicted
We must now draw attention to a general characteristic of literature. There are
two ways in which a novel can depict something. Either the author himself
speaks and describes the characters, and indeed tells us about their inner life and
about everything that is going on in them; or else he lets the characters
themselves speak, thereby presenting them to us in a living way and
characterizing them in their personality. In that case, two voices are interwoven
in the presentation of persons, events, and situations, namely, the voice of the
author and that of the persons who appear. There are no analogous possibilities
in the two other imitative arts of painting and sculpture.
In a poem, it is generally only the poet who speaks, but sometimes he also
places words on the lips of a fictitious person whom he depicts. Both voices are
often heard in the novel and the short story, as well as in the epic, where they
complement each other. In a play, only the persons who are depicted speak.
Sometimes the author lets one person be described by another person, but the
author himself never speaks directly.
The author thus has this double possibility of presentation. There are many
things that he can give only if he makes use of both of them in one and the same
literary type, such as the novel, the epic, or the short story.
 We could call the author’s voice the direct depiction and the other voice the
indirect depiction, although the play, in which only the indirect presentation
occurs, offers in another respect a completely new dimension of direct and
immediate contact with its content.
These two channels of depiction allow various expressive dimensions. In
many respects, there is an important difference between the situation where the
author himself states something as his own opinion, and the situation where
something is only the opinion of a depicted person. It is, of course, possible for
the two to coincide. A character in the drama can say something that the author
intends as his own valid statement. On the other hand, this may merely be
something that characterizes the personal opinion of this character. In that case
we must clearly recognize that the author does not share this opinion.
The link between these two channels has far-reaching consequences. It is
decisive for the question of metaphysical beauty in a work of art and for the
entire problem of the relationship between morality and art in literature. These
two channels make it possible for metaphysical ugliness (whether that of moral
disvalues, or that of a dull, superficial, base mentality, or the ugliness of
inauthenticity) to make a contribution to the artistic beauty of a work.5

1. [Editors’ note: The attempt has been made to translate the figures of speech in a way that
corresponds to the quality of the German terms.]
2. [Editors’ note: The German language makes a distinction between essen, used of eating by human
beings, and fressen, used of eating by animals.]
3. See chaps. 18 and 22 above.
4. (New York: The Macmillan Company, 1947), chap. 1, pp. 1–2.
5. See chap. 32 below.
 CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

The Theme That Is Proper to Literature

LANGUAGE HAS A decisive function in several areas. It is a principal organ in our

relationship to other persons. Only through language are our internal life and
public life in common possible. Its place in our life is so central that we can say
that without the word, without language, without the ability to speak
meaningfully, the human being would not be a spiritual person. This ability is
decisive for his character as a spiritual person. It is absolutely impossible that a
mere living creature, such as a dog, a cat, or a horse, should ever use language.
Scheler rightly said that if a dog spoke to him, he would be more inclined to take
the dog for a bewitched human being than to believe that an animal could
speak.1
But it is not only in life that language is a fundamental factor. Philosophy
and all the sciences need it too. Even apart from the function of words and
sentences in the act of reflection, it is obvious that the objectification of all types
of knowledge is tied to language.

Fiction and reality

We must now ask ourselves: What is the new function of language in literature?
One first element, for example, in a novel, is the character of the fictitious as
opposed to all other uses of language. When we read a novel, we are aware that
its subject matter is fictitious. We do not receive information about something
real, whether in the present or in the past. The narrative speaks only of fictitious
events and persons.
Although this is true in general, there are nevertheless many novels and plays
that have an historical event as their story. In Tolstoy’s War and Peace, Russia’s
wars with Napoleon are not fictitious events. Both the Battles of Austerlitz and
Friedland and Napoleon’s invasion of Russia are historical and real. Although
many of the characters in the book may be fictitious, Emperor Alexander I,
Kutuzov, and Napoleon are not fictions. The same is true of Shakespeare’s plays
Julius Caesar and Antony and Cleopatra, and of Schiller’s Wallenstein. Even in
these works, quite apart from the fact that they mostly contain fictitious persons,
the theme is artistic. The theme is not precise historical information.
An academic historical work ought to communicate adequately what really
happened. Its theme is the truth, not only in relation to purely factual events and
dates, but also in relation to the deeper understanding of the historical figures
and to the apprehending of the great historical connections. In order to
communicate this truth, the author requires from the outset both an exact and
thorough knowledge and a deeper understanding that is a gift of a unique kind.
This gift includes a phenomenological alertness. Why are there such large
differences between the wonderful depiction of the figure of Alexander the Great
in Plutarch and the depiction by many other historians? How much deeper is the
understanding of great historical personalities in Mommsen than in Ferrero!
In order to reproduce the historical event in a living manner, more is needed
than this deeper insight and vision, and more is needed than an understanding
that goes beyond a mere knowledge of facts and that contains a
phenomenological view. Something that we might call an artistic power to paint
a picture is required. Nevertheless, the truth remains the theme. Reality is the
decisive criterion, and every vision of a great historical personality, no matter
how fascinating it may be, loses its interest and its raison d’être when it
contradicts the facts and is a fiction rather than an adequate rendering of the
past.2
Sometimes it is not easy to determine which presentation is more in
accordance with reality, for example, the depictions of the figure of Caesar in
Mommsen or Ferrero. Mommsen’s Caesar is much more attractive and
interesting than that of Guglielmo Ferrero. Mommsen’s presentation is much
richer and more stimulating to read. But all of this is inessential and takes second
place in comparison with the only question that is really thematic: Which
presentation corresponds better to the truth? The adherents of Mommsen and of
Ferrero will argue about which picture is true. Those who are delighted by
Mommsen’s view take up the cudgels on its behalf, because they regard it as true.
If one could convince them that Mommsen’s picture of Caesar was only a noble
fiction, their enthusiasm for his presentation would be immediately undermined
and reduced to a mere admiration of Mommsen’s power to paint a picture. The
historical importance of his work would collapse into nothing.
We thus see clearly the decisive difference between a novel and a work of
history, namely, the differentness of the theme. The questions that are decisive
for a novel are: Is it beautiful and alive? Does it stand on its own feet as a work of
art? In every work of history, on the other hand, the decisive question remains:
Does it correspond to reality?
We cannot discuss here how the ascertainment of historical truth is
influenced by so many false psychological and philosophical views, by blindness
with regard to deeper phenomena, by looking at things from the outside, by false
ideals of objectivity, and by a prosaic, professorial attitude. Nor can we discuss
how far the objective research into history is clouded and colored by false
worldviews, such as the denial of the possibility of miracles. This is a particularly
powerful factor in the exegesis of sacred scripture.
We do wish to note, however, that history makes certain demands of a
literary work of art, although historical reality is not the theme even when the
story is built on an historical event. For it is a definite error when the depiction
in a work of art completely falsifies a great historical personality, or when the
depiction goes astray. This error is, of course, all the more serious, the more
important the position that an historical personality has in a novel or play.
It remains true, nevertheless, that the difference of theme separates the
literary work of art from all the other spheres in which language is the decisive
means.
Although the content of the literary work of art, and above all of the poem,
novel, short story, epic, and drama, is fictitious, it nevertheless depicts reality.
The individual story may be purely fictitious, and none of the characters may
ever have lived; but they must be beings who feel, think, and speak like human
persons. If the story is not explicitly transposed into a dream world, it must bear
the character of the possible and the real. Let me sum up: literature is perhaps
the most explicitly imitative art, and all the functions of language that occur in
life also occur in the literature that depicts life.

The poem
Unlike all the other literary genres, the poem is not specifically imitative. There
are indeed imitative forms of poetry, above all the ballad, which narrates
something and speaks of individual occurrences, sequences of events, and
persons. The ballad presents a piece of life and nature. The narrative is cast in
the form of a ballad because of the content and the atmosphere of what is
narrated.
A play addresses the public, and the same is true to a lesser extent of a novel,
a short story, and an epic; but a poem has a definitely intimate character.
 The poem aims above all at the quality of the poetic. This value quality is, of
course, very important in the whole of literature, but the poem is associated with
it in a very specific manner. There is a particularly profound connection between
the form of the poem and the realization of the poetic. The poetic is primarily
the type of value that this literary genre is meant to bear.3
Poetry in the strictest sense of the word is both the freest type of literature
and the type that is most strongly bound in terms of form. It is free because
(with the exception of the ballad) it is not bound by any story, and many
dimensions of the imitative are not present. Unlike the play, the poem does not
present any characters or tell a story.
On the other hand, form has a much greater importance in the poem than in
all the other literary genres, with the exception of the epic. The elements of the
sound of the words, the rhyme, and the meter come fully into their own in the
poem. It is the most musical form of literature.
The poem draws us into its world in a completely unique manner. It speaks a
different language from the rest of literature and addresses other strata of our
soul.
On the one hand, poems stand on the highest artistic level. Examples are
Shakespeare’s sonnets and some of the poems of Keats and Hölderlin. They are
often harder to understand than short stories, novels, and plays. They are more
compressed than these genres; one might say that they are pregnant with
thought. On the other hand, they are specifically direct. They give their content
and their atmosphere in a particularly immediate manner. They appeal more to
our direct intuition than the other literary genres.

1. On this, see Scheler’s “Zur Idee des Menschen” in his collection, Vom Umsturz der Werte (Bern:
Francke, 1955), 176: “If my dog were to do no more than hide behind a wall and look out from time to
time, so that I saw that he did not want to be seen, and if he observed me at breakfast—I, at least, would bet
any sum that he was a human being under a magic spell.” On pp. 182f., he concludes by quoting Wilhelm
von Humboldt: “Only words can be spoken. At the beginning of language was the word! The animal does
not ‘speak,’ because it does not possess the word. . . . The word is a primal phenomenon. . . . ‘The human
being is a human being only through language; but in order to invent language, he had already to be a
human being.’”
2. See Aesthetics, vol. 1, chap. 13.
3. See my Aesthetics, vol. 1, chap. 11, “The Poetic.”
 CHAPTER THIRTY

The Compositional Means Used by Literature

WHEN WE NOW concentrate on the means used by literature, we are not

primarily interested in whether these means appear only in literature, or in life
too. Nor are we interested in whether they occur in history, in biographies, and
in newspaper reports. Now that we have identified the basic difference of the
theme that separates literature as art from all the other domains of human life,
we need not be surprised to find in other domains where language is used
elements of language that literature employs as means for the composition of its
work. Since literature deals with human life, and the depiction of reality is one of
its aspects, it is inevitable that the same characteristics of the mode of expression
that we find in life would also recur in literature.

The choice of words and decorative adjectives

The quality of words and modes of expression is an extremely effective means to
give a living characterization of a depicted person by placing them on his or her
lips. At the same time, these qualities are also important means when the author
himself speaks; they give the ethos and the atmosphere of the work as a whole.
Both of these can be bearers of high artistic values.
These qualities acquire an importance of their own in a poem. The choice of
words and their qualitative atmosphere can certainly play a positively decisive
role for a poem, with the exception of humorous or caricaturing poems. These,
however, are not genuine poems. They belong to another literary genre, which
only has certain formal elements (such as meter and rhyme) in common with
genuine poems. An example is the poetic form used by Wilhelm Busch in his
Fromme Helene or in the Knopp trilogy.
The quality of the words and of the figures of speech that an author uses
influences his style, whether that style is modest greatness or glorious splendor,
or affected aestheticism, or its sober, boring, or crude and vulgar character. The
last of these occurs seldom, since the author of a poem aims in some way or
other at the beauty of his work. Some authors, however, are afraid of appearing
affected and artificial, and believe that they must protect themselves against this
danger by resorting to crudeness, irreverence, and coarseness.
Another important means used in literature are the epitheta ornantia, the
decorative adjectives. The nature, the positive or negative value of a thing, can be
expressed through the adjectives that are attached to the word that aims in its
meaning at the thing. There is a wide field here for the unfolding of a depiction
that is both poetic and vitally creative. There is an immense spectrum of
decorative adjectives. On the lowest level, there are the adjectives that aim only
to make the object that is mentioned, for example, a landscape, the rising of the
sun, or the external appearance of a human being, more living and more
intuitively present to us. Next come the epitheta ornantia that help in very
varying degrees to shed light on the object in its deeper nature and to open our
eyes to its true being. These too possess a corresponding quality, quite apart from
their meaning. Simply as such they can be tasteful or tasteless, contrived, of a
noble simplicity or affected, poetic or trivial. In their function as decorative
adjectives, they can have an elevating, illuminating character or an awkward
character. They can be noble or insipid. They can be profoundly apt or
unsuitable. They can be successful or unsuccessful in their pure descriptive
function.
With this we have already touched on the outstanding position of analogies
in literature. The epitheta ornantia often contain an allusion to an important
analogy that not only permits the nature of a thing to shine forth in its depth,
but also bears in itself a special poetic value and discloses to us a connection that
is the bearer of lofty beauty. But there are a number of things that must be
clearly distinguished here.
There are two dimensions of introducing us deeply to the nature of
something and letting its beauty shine. The first dimension is the adequate
illumination of a spiritual something, which is achieved by highlighting its
specific character of a being, its typical traits, its effect, and so on. This is a
means in the poetic art that often makes use of profound philosophical insights
and truths. Portia’s words about mercy in Shakespeare’s Merchant of Venice are a
glorious example of this:

The quality of mercy is not strain’d,

It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath: it is twice blest;
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.1
The observations that mercy that transcends justice and is allied to pardon
blesses both the one who shows mercy and the one who receives it are profound
philosophical truths and possess, as such, a lofty metaphysical beauty that is
placed at the service of the overall beauty of the play. The theme here is not
truth but the metaphysical beauty of truth. Kindling a light that penetrates the
mystery of a thing and allows its metaphysical beauty to shine forth fully is a
fundamental means used by the poetic art. It is supremely important in the most
sublime works of the poetic art, above all in Shakespeare, but also in Dante and
in the drama of classical antiquity.

Physical, cosmic, and historical analogies

Secondly, the illustration of the meaning and of the beauty of a phenomenon,
allowing these to emerge completely, can be achieved by pointing to analogies.2
We must distinguish various types of illustration or of opening up by means of
analogies.
In very general terms, we need to have recourse to analogies in the physical
world when we characterize all personal and spiritual entities, whether these are
personal or apersonal. When we characterize the spiritual act of apprehending, of
knowing, we make use of the analogy of seeing, of perception by the senses.
When we speak of the glowing heat of love, we point by means of the expression
“glowing heat” to the analogy to a physical phenomenon. These analogies to the
physical world are often employed in literature, in order to make a spiritual
phenomenon more alive and given as more fully present. This can be done both
through epitheta ornantia and through an explicit comparison. Making
something visible [Veranschaulichung] has a different function in literary language
than in the language that is used in the various spheres of life, such as the
practical and scientific spheres, or in mere communication and information.
There is a higher analogy in literature that is much more important than this
analogy. This higher analogy can draw on physical or spiritual entities, but its
task is to shed a light that penetrates into the deeper essence of a spiritual
phenomenon, allowing the whole meaning and greatness of a virtue, of an
attitude, of love, friendship, truth, and much else, to shine forth, and
highlighting their metaphysical beauty.
The words of the Gentleman in King Lear about Cordelia are very apt:
 You have seen
Sunshine and rain at once: her smiles and tears
Were like a better day: those happy smilets,
That play’d on her ripe lip, seemed not to know
What guests were in her eyes; which parted thence,
As pearls from diamonds dropp’d.3

What a characterization of Cordelia! It contains all the charm and nobility of her
personality. How apt and beautiful is the analogy to simultaneous rain and
sunshine! A deep and special phenomenon, the combination of rain and
sunshine, is employed to capture exactly the interplay of laughter and tears! The
comparison to pearls and diamonds is a unique analogy.
Here we see the two functions of analogies. First, they allow the beauty and
the importance of the event (namely, Cordelia’s tears) to shine forth. Secondly,
there is the poetic splendor of the analogy as such. The link that is brought
about by the analogy opens up a broad background. It discloses to us the
mysterious greatness of the analogies that permeate the cosmos, these qualitative
links that are completely different from the links expressed in terms of causes
and goals. The shining forth of an analogy as such brings with it a unique
breadth and greatness, and a specific poetry.
There are, of course, many kinds of qualitative analogies, such as those
between light and truth, or between seeing with the eyes and the spiritual act of
seeing in the apprehending of an evident relation. But there are also many
analogies that are more hidden but no less true. One who is not a poet will not
discover these so easily. When Keats compares the surging of the sea to the
priestly “ablution” of sins in his glorious sonnet “Bright Star,” he is alluding to
the profound analogy that underlies the use of water in baptism. Water is
elevated to the matter of the sacrament because, in the natural order, it is the
purifying element par excellence. In Keats’s poem, this analogy is reversed. He
speaks of the surging of the sea and compares this inundation of the coast with
the ablution in baptism or with the supernatural purification from sins. The
wonderful light in which the surging of the sea is now seen not only throws a
light of solemnity on this surging, and not only discloses its magnificence in a
special manner; in addition, the analogy as such presents a vision that penetrates
all the spheres of the cosmos and reaches into the supernatural sphere. This
vision possesses a superb beauty.
Other comparisons are built on a much more tenuous analogy. In his poem
“Mailied” [“May Song”], Goethe writes:

Oh, love, oh, lovely,

So golden fair
 Like morning cloudlets
On that hill there.4

The analogy he draws between love and the “morning cloudlets” on the
mountains is undeniably hard to grasp, and it could not be used in any purely
philosophical context. Water and physical ablution have an analogy to every
spiritual purification, and this analogy can also be grasped philosophically. But
one cannot say the same of the analogy in Goethe’s poem. Nevertheless, the
comparison of the beauty of love to the beauty of the “morning cloudlets on that
hill there” (naturally, these are morning clouds bordered by the sun) captures
something that is very deep and true. The hovering, expectant quality of the
morning clouds on the mountains and their special poetic beauty has a profound
analogy to the beauty of love, to its impetus, to the soul’s being lifted up in love,
to the wings that the soul grows, and to the hope that is inseparable from love.
All these analogies must be true, and—this is an absolutely central point—
something must be captured by means of them. The comparison must allow
something that is objectively present and true to shine forth. The analogies must
contain an element of discovery. They must not be artificially far-fetched—a
modern temptation. Nor must they hint at purely associative, subjective links—
an error of cheap poetry that is “romantic” in the negative sense of the word. Nor
must they present the truisms that trivial people often take to be poetic. “Ah,
spring, roses, a bower, a pair of lovers!” is a cheap, short-circuited link that does
not penetrate into that world in which the true, deep analogies can be found. It
unites things only in a superficial, associative manner and constitutes a primal
source of kitsch and triviality. It either caricatures or simply leaps over the true,
deep analogies, which are replaced by purely subjective associations.
We touch at this point the general link between all genuine poetic art and
truth. This is why Plato rightly calls the poet a seer. Precisely when we look at
this important artistic means, namely, analogy, we must recall that an important
part of the artistic gift of the poet consists in his deeper vision of the cosmos and
of the plenitude of all phenomena.
In addition to cosmic or purely objective analogies, historical analogies often
have a great poetic significance. In his depiction of one situation, the poet can
allude to analogous situations in the course of history. In this way, an enormous
expansion and a sublime view are attained by means of history. The importance
and the content of the earlier situations shine forth, and the present situation
receives a magnificent background. Once again, the enrichment of the present
situation or of the present event comes about through an analogy, together with
the poetry of the vast view of history and the link to all the analogous situations.
This link is the bearer of a lofty poetic quality.
We turn once more to The Merchant of Venice to illustrate this situation:

Lorenzo:
The moon shines bright: in such a night as this,
When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees
And they did make no noise, in such a night
Troilus methinks mounted the Trojan walls
And sigh’d his soul toward the Grecian tents,
Where Cressid lay that night.

Jessica:
In such a night
Did Thisbe fearfully overtrip the dew
And saw the lion’s shadow ere himself
And ran dismay’d away.

Lorenzo:
In such a night
Stood Dido with a willow in her hand
Upon the wild sea banks and waft her love
To come again to Carthage.

Jessica:
In such a night
Medea gather’d the enchanted herbs
That did renew old Aeson.

Lorenzo:
 In such a night
Did Jessica steal from the wealthy Jew
And with an unthrift love did run from Venice
As far as Belmont.5

We find in these historical analogies the utter opposite of every dull, prosaic,
Philistine pettiness. The vast view already has in itself a noble greatness, but
there also shines forth something of the poetry of history as such, something of
the analogy between great moments in history—not only between important
historic moments that are a unique phenomenon, but also between classical
intimate situations that need not have any remarkable historic consequences.
The inherent significance of classically human experiences and situations stands
before us in the historical perspective. The substantial depth and meaning of
these experiences and situations unfolds, together with the fact of their
recurrence in the course of history and their relationship to constantly recurring
phenomena such as the glorious night that carries the event like an organ tone
and that is indeed the starting point of the analogy. However, for understanding
these historical analogies, which make an impression that is so vivid and
immediate and which have a poetry affecting us so directly, a certain knowledge
of history is presupposed.
This brings us to a question that we have often considered and that is
particularly relevant in literature: To what extent does the immediate
understanding of a work of art presuppose knowledge that derives from other
sources? We prescind here from the knowledge that is already necessary in order
to understand the words, that is to say, from the knowledge of the objects at
which the words aim. This knowledge presupposes that one has learned from a
variety of sources. We also prescind from the knowledge of the meaning of the
words, from the knowledge of the language, and so on.
We have already spoken of historical knowledge in the case of architecture.
In literature it is frequently an indispensable presupposition for the artistic
impression. If someone has never heard of Troilus and Cressida, or never heard
of Dido and Aeneas, the analogy is ineffective. These words mean nothing to
such a reader. More is involved here than in the case of an incomprehensible
allusion in Dante’s Divine Comedy to some contemporary figure, since there the
lack of knowledge only robs the allusion of its interest. And even when it is
understood, it is not an essential bearer of a lofty poetry and beauty.
Where historical analogies are involved, however, as in The Merchant of
Venice, a lack of historical knowledge prevents us from understanding the lofty
artistic content of the analogy. The quality of the analogy is apprehended only to
a lesser extent. In the case of architecture, one dimension of the “world” and of
its poetry disappears, but it is still possible to recognize fully the pure beauty of a
building; but in the case we are considering here, it is completely impossible to
apprehend the poetic beauty of the analogy. But this knowledge does not in the
least impair the reader from being entirely turned toward artistic beauty. It is not
another source from which we draw joy; rather, it is a presupposition. This
knowledge, with its poetic content, is employed as a means for the artistic beauty
of the present situation. This wide perspective, due to history, is the bearer of a
special poetic beauty. The poetry of the rhythm of history as such shines forth.
The recollection of earlier analogous situations is an important factor in life
too. But it is not only things of the past that open up a special aspect that adds
something new to what is experienced in the present. There is in fact an aspect
of future events to which we look forward in joyful expectation. This is a very
special aspect that is clearly distinct from the aspect of the same event that we
experience in reality in the present. In the same way, the aspect of the same event
is different when we hasten back to it in our memory. These three aspects allow
one and the same event to appear in a varied light. They do not contradict but
rather complement one another. Naturally, we are thinking here of joyful events;
we need not repent of having striven to experience these. We are not thinking of
events about which we allowed ourselves to be deceived and that contain some
element of disappointment. We are thinking of the splendor that is possessed by
a beautiful event that makes us happy, an event to which we look forward in
pleasant anticipation. Everyone is familiar with the expectation that is full of
joyful impatience. Nothing can take the place of this experience. It is superfluous
to refer to the delight and glory of the present. But the recollection of such
moments that made us happy gives us something very special, something
irreplaceable, namely, the grateful reminiscence that is accompanied by nostalgic
feeling toward the past, and by the transfigured aspect that an experience retains
in memory. This transfiguration resembles the transfiguration that the evening
light spreads over a landscape. Each of the three aspects has a special poetic
character.
We mention this comparison only in order to point to the special splendor of
the historical past, in which everything is projected onto a grand plane. In this
case, of course, the specific character of the intimate recollection of one’s own
past is not found, but the poetic transfiguration of the retrospective view
remains, which acquires a new splendor through its grandeur. The light that falls
on the analogous present situation through this retrospective view generates a
unique solemnity and breadth and bestows a magnificent background on the
present.
The necessary knowledge of history is a presupposition, just like the
knowledge of the language in which a literary work of art is written. But the
knowledge of the historical event does not suffice. A deep apprehending of its
atmosphere is also necessary. The delightful experience of the grandeur of the
historical perspective, and the apprehending of the poetic world, are pure
responses to the artistic value that discloses itself to us immediately and
intuitively, once all the presuppositions are fulfilled.
Genuine analogies must always capture something that objectively exists. But
they ought not only to be true and to be genuine qualitative analogies (instead of
a merely associative link). In order to contribute to the artistic beauty, they ought
also to allow something deep and important to shine forth. They ought to shed a
light that penetrates into the mystery of the object, and to bring to the light of
day something that does not disclose itself to the ordinary eye.
In the case of something terrible, such as a sin or a great disaster, its negative
irradiation must emerge in full through the analogy, in a manner that is living
and intuitively present. All the more must the whole range of positive
irradiations unfold in the case of something noble and good. There is one further
point: as we have already mentioned, the analogy itself is often the bearer of a
definitely poetic quality. Through the analogy the poetic quality of the object to
which the analogy refers becomes visible and alive in a special way.

1. Act 4, scene 1.
2. [Editors’ note: The author understands the term “analogy” here in the broadest sense, which
includes a fluid transition to “comparison.”]
3. Act 4, scene 3.
4. [English translation by John Sigerson, The Schiller Institute. Original: “O Lieb, o Liebe, So golden
schön, Wie Morgenwolken / Auf jenen Höhn!”]
5. Act 5, scene 1.
We find something analogous in the glorious Tridentine liturgy of the blessing of the baptismal water
on Holy Saturday. The vast view, the illustration of what is taking place, is brought about through the
“history” of the water: “Therefore I bless you, creature of water, through the living God, through the true
God, through the holy God: through God, who in the beginning separated you from the dry land; whose
Spirit hovered over you; who made you flow from the spring of paradise, and commanded you to water the
whole earth in four rivers; who introduced sweetness and made you drinkable when you were bitter in the
desert, and who brought you forth from the rock for the thirsting people. I bless you also through Jesus
Christ, his only Son, our Lord: who by his power, in a wonderful sign, changed you into wine in Cana of
Galilee; who walked on you with his feet; and who was baptized in you by John in the Jordan; who brought
you forth from his side together with blood; and who commanded his disciples to baptize in you the
believers, saying: ‘Go, teach all the peoples, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of
the Holy Spirit.’”
 CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Composition and Storyline 1

IN LITERATURE, as in all the arts, composition is, of course, a decisive element. It

is no mere means. On the contrary, it a fundamental factor, on which the value
of a work of art depends. From the outset, we must draw a distinction between
two dimensions of composition; and we prefer here to speak of compositio.
The first dimension is the completely general principle2 that is present
wherever a new structure of a distinct kind arises out of different entities through
their organic combination. This may be the combination of human beings to
form a common body, such as a family, or the combination of words that form a
sentence in a meaningful order. The same applies to a melody that comes into
existence out of individual notes in a specific sequence and that constitutes a
structure of a completely new kind.
The opposite of compositio in this sense is inorganic stringing together: the
sum total of human beings, as opposed to a community; a number of words that
do not make up a sentence; or a sequence of notes that do not form a melody.
The ontological rank of the entities that form the new unit, in comparison to the
new whole that is formed by them, varies greatly from one realm to another. As
a substance, the person is superior to all natural communities, and therefore
surpasses them in his or her value too. On the other hand, the melody is a more
serious structure, in ontological terms, than the individual note. The same
applies by analogy to the sentence in relation to the words.
This ontological dimension of compositio has, of course, a fundamental
significance in art too. In this sense, however, it is present in every melody,
whether it be sublime, beautiful, boring, or trivial. It can be found in one way or
another in every musical whole, and it is equally present in every sentence,
whether it be stupid or clever, false or true, profound or superficial.
The second dimension of compositio is related not to the formal structure of a
new unity but to its qualitative character. In communities this dimension of
compositio depends on the “name” in which all are gathered together, that is, on
the realm of goods that unites them, and on the “theme” of the community.3
In a composition it is the “how,” the kind of melody that determines the
value of the new whole; in a sentence this is determined by the specific character
of the state-of-affairs that the sentence intends; and in a short story, this is
determined by the qualitative composition of the story, the type of construction,
and so on. Both dimensions, the formal dimension of the composition and the
material, qualitative dimension, have important functions in all the arts. It is
above all the latter dimension that is the decisive factor in artistic invention.
In literature what interests us is not the general function of compositio, which
is already presupposed in language as such. Accordingly, we are not interested in
the formal compositio of the consonants and vowels in the individual word, or in
the formal compositio of the words that leads to a sentence. This is presupposed
just as much outside literature as within literature; it is presupposed in every
essay and letter, in every academic work, and in every conversation.
The formal compositio in literature is related to the unity of a short story, a
novel, a play, or a poem. This factor determines whether the literary work of art
exists at all as a real structure, as a pure artistic entity. The qualitative or material
compositio is even more important. It is the soul of authentic artistic invention.
The artistic value of a literary work of art depends on this dimension of
compositio, which recurs in many strata of the work of art.
In many literary works, in almost all novels and short stories, the storyline
too is invented, unless historical events are used. In plays an already existing
storyline or an historical event is often employed.
Where the storyline itself is not an invention, the choice of a contemporary
or historical event is a first important step of the qualitative compositio. A kind of
artistic activity already begins with this choice, which has important
consequences for the artistic quality of the whole. How significant is the choice
of the storyline in The Merchant of Venice, in The Tempest, in Othello, and in the
historical dramas Julius Caesar, Antony and Cleopatra, and Coriolanus! It is true
that, in comparison with what Shakespeare made of it, the choice of the storyline
appears insignificant. But it represents a first important step.
It is not difficult to see that the function of the storyline in literature is
completely different from the function of the subject matter in the visual arts.
We have already seen that the historic event depicted in a picture, for example,
the death of Wallenstein or Constantine’s victory at the Milvian Bridge,
contributes nothing qua historic to the artistic value of the picture. With the
exception of sacred pictures, the literary significance of the title under the picture
is not an artistically important factor. The only such factors are the visible
contents that are determined by the choice of the title: the landscape, persons,
human bodies, animal bodies, and so on.
But it is obvious that literature is not about a title. Rather, the storyline
belongs inherently to the work. It has its important effect in the work, and it
offers the opportunity for the unfolding of many artistic elements.
This applies all the more strongly to invented storylines, to which the term
“themes” can be applied much more appropriately. The course of the story is
linked to the further strata of the artistic invention in such a way that one can no
longer detach its skeleton, as a storyline, from the work as a whole. What is the
storyline of Don Quixote? The idea of the hidalgo who has become mad through
reading books about chivalry and now himself wants to become an itinerant
knight does not yet contain anything of the real story, anything of Sancho Panza
and the other characters and all the adventures. This is not a storyline, but an
invented theme that belongs to the overall invention, and in which the mastery
of the author already reveals itself. But the story in its entire course is not a
storyline. Rather, it is in every step a bearer of artistic values.
It is impossible to make any incision between the storyline, the “material,”
that an author like Shakespeare chooses, and the entirely new thing that he
makes out of it, as in The Merchant of Venice or in Othello. There are, of course,
examples of a storyline, such as the saga of Doctor Faustus, that comes closer to
a theme. But what could we identify as the storyline in Dostoevsky’s novels, such
as Crime and Punishment, The Idiot, or The Brothers Karamazov? It is, in fact,
scarcely possible even to speak of a theme here.
Let us sum up: In literature, it is possible to make an incision between a mere
storyline and the work as a whole, between the subject matter and its
elaboration, only in certain cases, for example, when a saga, an earlier story that
was invented in some form or other, or an historical event is employed in a
literary work of art. It is in other cases impossible to speak of a storyline, because
it is impossible to make the incision between the storyline and the work of art as
a whole.
This applies to Molière’s comedies too. The titles—L’Avare (“The Miser”),
Les précieuses ridicules (“The Affected Young Ladies”), Le malade imaginaire
(“The Hypochondriac”)—express the theme. But nothing of all that happens in
these comedies is laid down in advance, even in the most rudimentary traits. It
is, however, also impossible to detach the story from the overall artistic form. In
Molière, unlike Shakespeare, Sophocles, and Goethe, the progress of the story is
relatively unimportant in comparison with the characters, the situations, the
incomparable ésprit and the classical truth, the many allusions, the wonderful
comedy, and so on.
The following steps of the compositio vary in accordance with the kind of
work of art. In a play the typical compositio is expressed in the shaping and the
sequencing of the scenes, in the construction of an act, and finally in the
sequence of the acts that together form the drama as a whole. This compositio is
similar to the compositio in music that determines the construction of the
individual movement, the sequence of the movements, and the construction of
the work as a whole. We have in mind here not primarily the formal compositio
but the qualitative compositio that largely determines how dramatic a scene is and
how an important situation arises through the combination of the characters.
This may be a profoundly serious or an extremely comic scene, or a highly poetic
scene such as that in Romeo and Juliet where Romeo is in the garden and Juliet
stands on the balcony.
In a novel, this further step of the formal compositio takes effect in the
construction of the chapters or parts, in the sequence of the events, in the shorter
or longer treatment of individual parts of the story, and in the question whether
there is any break in the thread that runs through these parts.
We can see the material compositio in a novel in how interesting the
presentation of the story is, how the parts inherently fit together, which
characters are introduced, whether their encounter is important, profound,
beautiful, or comic, and how the situations in nature are put together—whether
they are poetic, tedious, or nondescript. There are many other forms of the
qualitative compositio in the play and the novel.
With the exception of the ballad, a poem is normally not based on a
storyline, but situations and events do occur. The qualitative compositio is
expressed in an important manner in the combination of the words and in the
construction of the verses. Many elements, such as sound and rhythm, epitheta
ornantia, and analogies, move completely into the foreground in the poem. They
can scarcely be regarded any longer as subspecies of the compositio.
Contrast, on the other hand, is a typical element of the compositio. It too can
be used to bring out and illuminate the deeper content of an object. Contrasts
are often in themselves special bearers of artistic beauty.
In analogies, we delight above all in the content of the poetic. In contrasts,
we are impressed and shaken by the greatness, the depth, and the beauty of the
confrontation between two opposite things. One classic example is the contrast
in Macbeth between the scene in which the murder of King Duncan is carried
out and the following scene with the porter: first the whole horror, the dark deep
passions of the soul, the struggle between good and evil in Macbeth’s
personality, the great primal categories of good and evil; and then the
fundamentally human external side of life, the humorous realism in the figure
and in the speeches of the porter. And both scenes are played out against the
background of the cold and stormy night. This contrast has an uncanny
greatness and power.
Further important elements of the compositio, in addition to what is said
directly in the novel and especially in the play, are those things that are only
hinted at. In this indirect way an especially adequate representation is sometimes
achieved. The greatness of certain characters, and especially of certain mysteries,
is more adequately represented when this is done indirectly, since it is only in
this way that they unfold their true atmosphere. An author possesses artistic
sensitivity when he knows or senses when it is better for him to present a
character indirectly, and when directly. How wonderful is the figure of Julius
Caesar in Shakespeare! He appears only in the first three acts, and even there, his
appearances are relatively few. After his death the full greatness of this figure is
expressed much more strongly in the spirit of Brutus, against the background of
the entire historical momentousness of the murder of Caesar. At the close of the
first part of Goethe’s Faust, the angel says, “She is saved.” These words convey
the mystery of heaven, the power and the mercy of God much more adequately
than the “Prologue in heaven” in the second part of Faust, and indeed more
adequately than the poetically beautiful closing scene in heaven.
The narrative rendering of things that have happened earlier on is often
much more impressive than their presentation on the stage. We see the artistic
sensitivity of an author when he refrains from bringing onto the stage many
elements in the storyline of the play that would be boring. In this way, he avoids
weakening the succinctness and the dramatic intensity.
Similar to this is the way in which in some novels the author suddenly moves
forward to a much later point in time in the story. This too can be a sign of
artistic sensitivity. It is typical of other novels that they do not leap over
anything. The continuous progress of what is narrated directly can be a
requirement and a bearer of specific artistic values, as, for example, in Don
Quixote and in Crime and Punishment.
Sometimes, when the characters relate events from their past, these are
inserted into the compositio. This may even happen with narratives that have no
connection at all with the storyline, such as the short story about incautious
curiosity in Don Quixote. All these factors have important consequences for the
artistic beauty, for the richness, the intensity, and the poetry of the atmosphere.

1. [Editors’ note: In the present chapter, “storyline” translates “fabula.” “Geschichte,” which the author
puts in inverted commas, is translated by “story.” “Composition” translates “Komposition.”]
2. On what follows, see Aesthetics, vol. 1, chap. 8.
3. See Metaphysik der Gemeinschaft, part 4.
 CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

The Artistic Transposition of Evil, Repulsive, Tragic,

and Comic Figures

AS WE HAVE ALREADY emphasized,1 metaphysical beauty can contribute to the

overall beauty of a work of art only when it comes fully into its own through
artistic transposition.

Metaphysical ugliness as a bearer of aesthetic values

We now wish to discuss an extremely remarkable fact that actually transcends
the nature of pure transposition. In a literary work of art, it is not only morally
superior characters and figures full of charm and poetry, with a metaphysical
beauty that comes into its own through the corresponding transposition, who
possess lofty artistic values. The same is true also of evil, base, ridiculous, and
stupid characters. This means that metaphysical ugliness can bear great artistic
qualities in a novel or a play.
This is easiest to understand in the case of the metaphysical ugliness of evil,
since the contrast between good and evil—between these two primordial
categories [Urkategorien] that are, so to speak, the axis of the spiritual universe,
and that even reach into the world of the supernatural—is the foundation of all
suspense, of all that is dramatic, and also of the tragic. The shocking wickedness
of Macbeth is also the bearer [Mitträger] of grand artistic values. The
metaphysical ugliness of evil does not, of course, cease to be ugly. But whereas it
is repulsive and outrageous in the encounter with a real human being, through
the transposition and incorporation into this completely new structure of the
play, it becomes the bearer of magnificent artistic beauty.
The first reason for this remarkable phenomenon is, of course, that what is
involved is the depiction of something, not that which is depicted. We have
already seen what a new theme depiction as such represents and also all the
values of an accurate depiction that is psychologically true to reality.
Besides this, it is especially important that in depiction evil is given in the
light of the great antithesis between good and evil. The evil person does not, as
such, bear any value. Rather, he or she is placed within the glorious light of truth
and within the antithesis of good and evil, which transcends all earthly limits.
Depiction involves a singular distance to that which is depicted. There is an
abyss between the evil person whom we meet in reality and a figure like Macbeth
or Richard III.
One could justifiably object that in reality the evil person stands just as much
in the great antithesis of good and evil. This is doubtless true. But in the
depiction in a play we have a new object and a new theme. The play is a
structure that does not belong to reality but to a realm of a distinct kind. The
theme of this new object is completely different from the theme of what is
depicted as this occurs in reality. Mephistopheles, or rather Satan, is the
embodiment of all that is terrible, ugly, monstrous, and our only response to this
can be decisive rejection: we must hate it, abhor it, and turn away from it
completely. No less repulsive is Mephistopheles in Goethe’s Faust, whether in
the scene with the merry companions in Auerbach’s cellar, or in his wanderings
with Martha and his diabolical intrigues against Gretchen, or during Walpurgis
Night on the Blocksberg. And yet he is also an important bearer of the overall
beauty of Faust, Part I.
It is clear that moral wickedness and its metaphysical ugliness have a
relationship to the overall value of a work of art radically different from the
morally good and its metaphysical beauty. In both cases, the transposition is
indispensable. When the artistic transposition is present, the metaphysical
beauty of the great moral figures of Starets Zosima in The Brothers Karamazov
and of Cardinal Federigo Borromeo in Manzoni’s The Betrothed directly elevates,
as such, the overall beauty of the work of art. This metaphysical beauty shines
out in the overall beauty as one part of it, whereas the fully depicted
metaphysical ugliness of evil contributes only indirectly to the overall beauty. A
direct relationship would be impossible, a contradiction in terms. This ugliness
could only cloud the beauty of the whole. But an indirect relationship allows the
metaphysical ugliness to become a bearer of the artistic value of the overall
beauty. It does not, as such, become a part of the overall beauty. Rather, it enters
into the work of art in a completely different way.
When a great moral figure truly shines out in his or her metaphysical beauty
thanks to the transposition, we are touched and gripped in a way that is
analogous to the encounter with a real figure, whether in an historical depiction
or in personal contact. But when the metaphysical ugliness of an evil person
comes fully into its own through the artistic transposition, our response is
completely different from the response we would make if we met him in reality.
We are indeed indignant and disgusted at Iago’s baseness, but we are deeply
moved and enthralled by the play Othello. This is possible only because the light
of justice shines over the figure of Iago and his baseness, and condemns this
wickedness. The theme is the contrast between Iago, on the one hand, and on
the other hand the figure of Othello, who is in himself noble and tragic, and of
Desdemona, who is faithfully devoted to him.
In other plays, such as Richard III, in which no such contrast occurs and no
moral antagonist appears, the tragedy of evil and its self-destructive power move
into the foreground and are the bearer of a lofty aesthetic value. Richard III
perishes, and on his last night on earth the spirits of all those whom he has
murdered appear to him. What a tremendous drama! It is, as it were, the echo of
the moral order of the world, the glory of the good in the evil, that shines out in
the work of art. And this overwhelming reality of the antithesis between good
and evil is truly the bearer of a beauty that shakes us to the core. This is why we
say that in literature the relationship between the metaphysical beauty of noble
figures and the overall beauty of a work of art is completely different from the
relationship between the metaphysical ugliness of evil figures and this overall
beauty.
As we have already mentioned, in addition to this depiction of evil in the
sublime light of the antithesis between good and evil, the spirit of the author
stands between the spectator and what takes place on the stage. This brings
about a situation that is completely different from the encounter with an evil or
base person in reality.
Besides this, in a figure like Macbeth, and even in a more evil character like
Richard III, certain formal values such as courage and strength considerably
intensify the wickedness of the person. They allow the antithesis between good
and evil to shine out even more strongly, while at the same time, the aesthetic
qualities of these formal, technical personal values2 also contribute to the overall
beauty of the work of art, though of course without ever lessening or neutralizing
the horror of the metaphysical ugliness of evil. These qualities also constitute a
background against which the tragedy of the evil person emerges with particular
forcefulness.
This tragedy is, of course, present in reality too, but the primary theme in
reality is the dreadfulness of evil, the offense given to God. The horror evoked by
evil is the response to the disvalue in itself; in addition, the Christian sees the
terrible damage that the evil person inflicts on himself.
This tragedy is particularly thematic in a play or a novel. Since the overall
beauty of the work of art is the real theme, the unique aesthetic quality of the
tragic makes an important contribution to the overall beauty. This tragedy, of
course, refers only to the specifically evil person, not to the malicious evil person
such as Iago. The tragic aspect of wickedness plays no role for Iago himself.
Othello’s tragedy is that he listens to Iago, as Lodovico says:

O thou Othello, thou wert once so good,

Fall’n in the practice of a damned slave!3

The antithesis between good and evil emerges in its full extent in the figure of
Iago. It also shows the tragedy of this world, in which such poisonous, base
persons exist, as well as the danger that they pose to others. We have now said
enough about the paradox that metaphysical hideousness, which is the
metaphysical antithesis to all beauty, is one factor in the overall beauty of a work
of art. Other factors are the great artistic values of the precise rendering of a
character, the creation of a living figure, and the masterly sketch of a base
person, in addition to the psychological truth in Iago and in many others, such as
Rakitin and Smerdyakov.4

Repulsive characters as bearers of artistic values

How is it possible that characters in a literary work of art, despite the
metaphysical ugliness of their stupidity, banality, triviality, and repulsiveness of
all kinds, contribute to the artistic value of the literary work of art?
When we meet them in reality, these people appear repulsive and shocking,
or oppressive and boring; the atmosphere they diffuse is anything but attractive
and delightful. But as characters in a novel or a play, they are a source of great
delight, since their depiction contributes to the artistic value of the work. Once
again, the spirit of the author stands between us and them. Through his
representation, he brings them into the light of the truth that reveals their true
names. He places these characters in a whole that is itself a bearer of artistic
values. The work of art demands a completely new attitude and appeals to a new
cognitive organ.
We shall attempt to approach this phenomenon by means of concrete
examples. We begin by looking at passages in which the depiction of something
that is metaphysically ugly not only fails to detract from the “beautiful world” of
the work, but actually contributes to its artistic greatness. We prescind here from
the metaphysical ugliness of evil, which we have already discussed.
Let us take a figure like Polonius in Hamlet. He is the embodiment of the
courtier, of the subservience of a morally hollow loyalty, of conventional
propriety, and of the smooth personality devoid of substance. He is not stupid.
On the contrary, he tells Laertes true and profound things when he gives him
rules for his conduct before he departs to study at the University of Paris. But
when we meet figures like Polonius in real life, we avoid their presence, because
they do not diffuse a delightful and attractive atmosphere, and we cannot trust
them. Their character is certainly no bearer of metaphysical beauty—and yet
what unique genius there is in the invention of the figure of Polonius! If we were
to imagine the play without him, an outstanding artistic factor would be missing
in this unique, razor-sharp, sublime work.
The same applies to the less essential figures of Rosencrantz and
Guildenstern. They are wretched scoundrels, and in real life we make a detour
around smooth courtiers of this kind. But what fantastic artistic genius there is
in the depiction of these figures in Hamlet! In reality, these types of person are
definitely boring and tedious; but in the play, they are delightful. Their
wretchedness has a potent artistic value. They belong to the network that
surrounds the false king and to the world of untruth behind which lurks the
horror of the evil deed against which Hamlet is fighting and against which he
revolts. He sees through this evil deed completely, and it causes him great
suffering. The whole tragedy of the noble figure of Hamlet shines forth against
the background of this world of falsehood.
The theme of the play is his greatness, his beauty, and his deeply moving
nobility, from which the tremendous, living, unerring truth of the characters
cannot be detached. The depiction of persons who lack metaphysical beauty and
who are definitely of negative value makes a substantial contribution to the
artistic greatness of the whole, to its “beautiful world,” and to its specifically
artistic beauty.
In Shakespeare’s plays, figures such as Malvolio, Sir Andrew Aguecheek, Sir
Toby Belch,5 and Falstaff,6 who are themselves not strong personalities and who
irradiate no metaphysical beauty, do not inflict even the slightest damage on the
“beautiful world,” on the splendor and nobility of the atmosphere. On the
contrary, the elaboration of these figures substantially elevates the artistic values
and the poetry of the entire work. Another important factor in such figures in a
work of art is the comical.
 On the tragic in life and in art
We must now ask: Is the tragic an aesthetic value quality that occurs only in the
realm of art, or is there a difference between the tragic in art and in life that is at
least analogous to the difference between the comic in art and in life? The
answer must be that the tragic occurs not only in art. There is a definite quality
of the tragic in events and occurrences in life, a quality that is clearly distinct
from the merely sad. But like the comic, the tragic too is a high artistic value in a
work of art, for example, in the figures of King Oedipus and King Lear,7
whereas the tragedy of an event in real life would scarcely be a positive value.
The qualities of the tragic in life and in art are much more similar than the
qualities of the comic in these two realms. In tragedy, the discrepancy goes in a
different direction from that in comedy.
Like the sad, the tragic is primarily a disvalue. Suffering as such is an evil.
The state-of-affairs that someone is suffering is in itself the bearer of a disvalue.
Suffering is often a bearer of great moral values through the way in which
someone accepts it. It can also be linked to values if it leads a human being into
his depth, and even to God. In that case, the suffering is indirectly, through its
consequences, a bearer of lofty values. In itself, however, it remains an evil.
In suffering, a human being is in a weak, humbled situation. This is why the
nobility of the human being as a spiritual person often emerges, independently of
the way in which he endures the pains. His ontological value becomes
particularly visible against the background of the suffering, and shines forth in a
mysterious manner.
Although this is true, it does not in any way alter the fact that suffering, in
itself, is an evil for the person concerned and is, as such, the bearer of a disvalue.
Sad events, such as human distress, sickness of all kinds, persecution, and death,
are in themselves bearers of disvalues.
In reality, the sad is qualitatively different from the tragic. It is certainly sad
when a listener who has a great interest in music cannot hear anything of the
performance of a symphony because he is deaf. But this is not tragic. On the
other hand, it was not only sad, but also tragic, that Beethoven was the only one
who could not hear a single note when his ninth symphony was performed.
It was certainly a tragic event when a young French soldier, who had come
through the Second World War safe and sound, telephoned his parents when
the troops marched into Paris to tell them that he would be with them in an
hour’s time—and then was shot by an insurgent. The fate of every soldier who
falls in war is sad, but not necessarily tragic.
Unlike the sad, the tragic contains a contrast. For example, everything seems
to be going well and to indicate a good outcome, but then, at the last moment, a
completely unexpected factor brings disaster. As in the case of Beethoven, the
contrast can also be the fact that while everyone heard his great masterpiece, he,
its creator, was the only one who did not hear it. Other contrasts are possible,
such as the moral failure of a basically noble person, or the fact that precisely the
positive qualities of a person contribute to his fall.

Various qualities of the comic

Comedy constitutes a definitely aesthetic value in literature, opera, and music
drama. Here the problem that we find in real life, namely, whether the comic is a
genuine value,8 no longer exists.
It suffices to recall the figure of Sancho Panza in Cervantes’ Don Quixote.
Thanks to his comic ways, this figure bears a lofty artistic value both as a whole
and in innumerable speeches that he delivers, as well as in scenes such as that in
the tavern with Maritornes. Don Quixote’s behavior too is often full of this great
artistic comedy, which constitutes a genuine aesthetic value, a specifically artistic
value. In this comedy, we encounter something that is important in itself,
something brilliant, but also a beautiful poetic world.
We meet an extraordinarily rich spectrum of the comic in literature, not only
in the sense that some things are more comic and others less comic, but above all
in the sense of great qualitative differences with regard to its depth. The
spectrum of the comic in characters goes from an inessential to a highly
important comedy, and from a comedy that is not very lovable to one that is
extremely lovable.
There are brilliantly constructed farces that amuse us immensely, so that we
never stop laughing. But it is obvious that the comedy in a play by Molière is
incomparably more profound and artistically more valuable. The comedy of
Sancho in Cervantes’ Don Quixote is profound, deeply human, and lovable. A
great deal shines forth in this comedy, and deep insights into human nature are
given.
The kind of comedy in each instance is closely linked to the overall artistic
level of the literary work of art. Only some kinds of comedy fail to disturb the
lofty atmosphere of the overall work of art. And only some qualities of the comic
actually contribute to the poetry and beauty of the whole. A great artist is needed
in order to produce the higher kind of comedy. The quality of the comic is, of
course, also determined in its rank and in its value by the kind of transposition
and depiction. The significance of the comic in the depiction of figures who are
in themselves bearers of metaphysical disvalues, and who become bearers of
artistic values in the work of art, is closely connected to the quality of the
comedy.
Let me first point out once again that the aesthetic qualities of the comic in a
literary work of art are fundamentally different from the qualities of the comic in
real life. If the stupid, shallow, trivial person whom we meet in real life is for
some reason also comic, the oppressive, repulsive aesthetic quality, that is to say,
the metaphysical quality of the stupidity, shallowness, and triviality, is essentially
changed. It is as if the comic element of his pretentiousness and stupidity, and
the manner of expression and of behavior that makes us laugh, put brackets
around the negative aesthetic qualities and prevent the sense of oppression from
arising. Comedy has a kind of redeeming function in earthly terms. Its liberating
effect covers over the obtrusiveness of many disvalues. As soon as we see the
comic element of a situation, we become, as it were, onlookers. We suddenly
stand above the situation in a subjective sense.
It is only by chance, however, that the comic in life adheres to such
unfortunate figures. Their comic quality has nothing to do with their
tastelessness and shallowness. Only a certain kind of naïve stupidity is in itself
primarily comic. Examples are the stupidity of Catherine in the fairytale
“Frederick and Catherine” by the Brothers Grimm, or the stupidity of Inspector
Bräsig, who called out in his speech to the assembly, “The great Armut [poverty]
in the city is due to the great Poverteh [poverty] here!” and had great success
thereby.9 This non-aggressive, naïve stupidity is not in any way oppressive, and
has nothing aesthetically negative in the sense of an awkward atmosphere. It is
primarily and essentially comic.
In a literary work of art the depiction of arrogant stupidity, of shallowness
and triviality without any accompanying fortuitous comic qualities, is often
comic. Through representation and the new theme that comes from the work of
art, the comic can draw the poison from these negative qualities.

The representation of metaphysically ugly figures and the overall atmosphere of a

work
We shall see these essential factors more clearly once we have further developed
the analysis, begun above, of the relationships between the depiction of such
figures, which in themselves are not bearers of metaphysical beauty, and the
overall atmosphere of a work. We have spoken of the highest literary works of
art, the tragedies and comedies of Shakespeare. In each of their scenes there
reigns such a consummate transposition and depiction that everything
contributes to the supreme poetry, greatness, and beauty of the work as a whole.
While other works of art do not display this ultimate poetry, depth, and
overwhelming beauty, they do display the excellent depiction of wretched figures
who are in themselves oppressive. In Kleist’s The Broken Jug, the character of the
judge is both the type of a morally lazy person and the type of a stupid,
repugnant, and ridiculous person. In real life, we would find his presence
oppressive and repulsive, but here he is a brilliantly depicted figure, and there can
be no doubt that the work as a whole possesses a high artistic value. The
wonderful compositio, the continually growing dramatic intensification that leads
to the complete exposure and the collapse of the judge, is masterful.
This comedy does not irradiate the glorious world and the high poetry of one
of Shakespeare’s comedies. It remains in a different stratum, and it does not
claim to possess that poetry. It would be unjust to compare the two.
Nevertheless, the new theme that comes with a work of art is present in Kleist’s
work too. The depiction of metaphysical ugliness, its integration into the whole,
makes the aesthetically negative figure of the judge a bearer of artistic values.
Although the whole work is not truly poetic, it would be completely false to
assume that this wretched personality does not make a definite contribution to
the artistic value of the play as a whole through the way in which he is depicted
and integrated into the play.
We find a completely different kind of comedy in Molière. Trissotin in Les
femmes savantes (“The Learned Ladies”) is a disagreeable and oppressive person.
If we met him in real life, we would avoid him, because he diffuses a barren,
disagreeable atmosphere. Trissotin and Vadius are boring aesthetes, mere
windbags. But in Les femmes savantes, they are a source of artistic delight. The
depiction of their hollow, pretentious conceit makes a decisive contribution to
the overall value of the play. They occupy center stage. Rational, normal persons
like Chrysale are secondary figures. Trissotin is the chief attraction in the play as
a whole.
This comedy involves not only a magnificent depiction that hits the mark but
also a brilliant invention, a satire of the zeitgeist. Besides this, the comedy has a
delightful atmosphere. Nevertheless, it lacks the high, unique poetry of
Shakespearean comedy, in which figures of unparalleled charm and nobility
always occupy center stage, such as Rosalind, Viola, and Portia. It is also
something completely different from The Broken Jug. The latter play too has
nothing of the poetry and the “beautiful world” of Shakespearean comedy, but it
has an artistic transposition that is so perfect that it is a genuine work of art with
a poetry of a special kind.
In Shakespeare’s comedies and The Broken Jug, the storyline of the work
plays a great role, but in Molière, it is the invention of the figures, the diction,
and indeed the individual words, combined with the poetic “cultural world of the
time [Zeitwelt],” that occupy the foreground. The overall artistic framework that
encloses everything is a mysterious element. It is filled by a “noble world” that
also manifests itself in the depth of the individual ways of speaking and of the
comedy.
In distinction to these works, Brecht’s Threepenny Opera is indeed brilliantly
constructed, and it is a trenchant depiction of a sad, sordid piece of reality; but it
lacks all poetry, artistic nobility, and also all comedy. This type of literature has
nothing more to offer than brilliant depiction. There is still, of course, a different
situation here than in the encounter with such a milieu in real life, but when we
read the play or see it on the stage, it breathes out upon us all the depressing
triviality of this milieu. This milieu is depicted in such a way that the triviality of
what is presented may perhaps affect us more strongly than it would affect us in
real life, although we take delight in the way Brecht hits the mark with his
brilliant depiction.
Although this work is an opera, the text stands in the foreground, while Kurt
Weill’s music is brilliantly accommodated to the text.

Forms of depiction of the bourgeois, the trivial, and the mediocre

Ibsen’s social dramas represent a new type. The figure of Hjalmar in The Wild
Duck is depicted in his insubstantiality and hollowness in a masterly fashion, but,
as in every one of Ibsen’s social dramas, the artistic transposition is explicitly
avoided in order to make the play more effective as propaganda for particular
ideas. The play is meant to affect us as though we were experiencing everything
in reality. Ibsen was certainly capable of artistic transposition, as he showed in
his historical drama The Pretenders. But although the social dramas are
characterized by a masterly depiction of reality, the triviality of the figures and
the disagreeableness of the milieu do not at all contribute to any overall beauty of
the works. They are at the exclusive service of the naturalistic effect of a
tendency of a thesis. Ibsen wants to reform society through these plays. From the
artistic point of view, all that remains are the aesthetic values of apt depiction,
especially as regards psychology, and the brilliant and taut shaping of the plays.
But there is nothing in them that is not indispensable for the unfolding of the
play and the depiction of the characters; there is no poetry, no superabundant
plenitude, no penetration into the great drama of human life, no “beautiful
world”—only the intensive effect of barrenness being diffused, an effect that is
produced by presenting a peripheral stratum of the universe, of society, of human
mediocrity, and of the local milieu.
As we have said, we are interested here in the various relationships between
the metaphysical ugliness of that which is depicted and the overall beauty of a
work of art. Our question is: Is the same metaphysical ugliness depicted in the
individual types of plays, or is there some variety in the aesthetic quality of that
which is depicted? Do the artistic quality and the function of metaphysical
ugliness for the overall artistic quality of the work help to determine the
tremendous differences in the aesthetic value in the plays we have mentioned, or
are these differences already due to the choice made by the one who depicts the
metaphysical ugliness?
It is clear that the spirit of the author, which stands between that which is
depicted and the work as a whole, has a decisive influence. An unbridgeable gulf
yawns between Shakespeare and Brecht. In the case of Brecht, one cannot avoid
recalling what Barbey d’Aurevilly said about Zola:10 “Emile Zola . . . this
besmirched Hercules who wallowed in the Augean stables, and even added a bit
of muck to them.”
Besides this, a comparison between Shakespeare and Ibsen clearly
demonstrates the weighty difference between the presence of an artistic
transposition and its absence, since Ibsen deliberately ignores the artistic
transposition in his society dramas.
In order to clarify the theme that specifically concerns us here, namely, the
paradox that the metaphysical ugliness of the shallow, the dull, the base, the
trivial, the perverted, the stupid, and the boring can make an important
contribution in a literary work of art to the artistic beauty of the work as a whole,
we must distinguish various categories of literary works.
First of all, there are very accomplished depictions of stupid bourgeois
persons, of small and petty figures, where the author certainly is not attempting
to give something that is artistically beautiful and poetic. These depictions aim
from the outset in a completely different direction, namely, our amusement.
Examples are the comedies of Labiche and many farces. The most original works
in this category are many of those by Wilhelm Busch. We exclude here his
unfortunate, blasphemous, and repulsively tendentious works, namely, Der heilige
Antonius von Padua and Pater Filucius; we are thinking of the Knopp trilogy.11
Knopp is certainly the embodiment of the stupid, shallow petit bourgeois, but
this trilogy is a little masterpiece, thanks to the apt depiction of this figure, his
adventures, and the characters he meets, the diction that brims over with
classical wit, and all the aphorisms that have a meaning that goes far beyond the
momentary theme. And all this is accompanied by illustrations full of delightful
humor. It can certainly not be called “beautiful,” since it does not possess poetry
of any kind, or anything that is irradiated by a genuine literary work of art. Its
verses and rhymes have nothing in common with those of a poem or epic.
Nevertheless, this trilogy is not only highly accomplished in the depiction of a
type, and not only an excellent satire, but is also a work in which one particular
kind of comedy is thematic, instead of beauty. The world of these verses is not
negative, antipoetic, or trivial. What we have here is not a naturalistic depiction
of trivial persons and milieus but a transposition of an artistic kind in which the
comedy and the humor are thematic. Nevertheless, there is no poetry or beauty
here. One is not in any way lifted up above the wretchedness of the petit
bourgeois narrowness. Through the humor, however, this narrowness loses its
aggressive character.
A second, completely different type of literary work is the admirably
successful naturalistic depiction of depressing persons, base milieus, and so on.
Despite all the potency in the depiction and despite the formal perfection, they
lack the true artistic transposition. A whole world separates them from great,
genuine works of art because they lack all poetry, the “beautiful world,”
greatness, depth, power, and comedy. Indeed, as far as real artistic beauty is
concerned, they are far inferior to much less brilliant depictions of specific
figures or to works in which this dimension is not even aimed at.
The entire metaphysical ugliness of that which is depicted is wafted toward
us and oppresses us. All that remains is admiration for the achievement, which
consists (apart from possible formal values of the style and of the enthralling
quality of the story) in the success of the depiction. The works of Wilhelm
Busch represent an essentially modest type of genuine originality and of a partly
waspish and partly gentle humor, but these naturalistic works make a much
higher claim. They are an artistic aberration. The metaphysical ugliness of the
matter takes effect in them without any check.
A third type is the intentionally depoeticized and non-transposed but
masterly depiction of reality, as in Ibsen’s social dramas. These works have the
same atmosphere as the sector of reality that they depict.
Finally, the fourth type is the depiction in which an artistic transposition
occurs in novels that are true and potent works of art. Examples are the works of
Balzac, such as Le père Goriot. The figure of Père Goriot is a brilliant invention.
In this novel, the problem of the metaphysical ugliness of evil does not occur at
all. The boarding house, all the types of people at the lunch table, the narrow,
petit bourgeois world of the landlady and the conversations that take place,
diffuse a certain quality of everyday life and of mediocrity that is “on the ground
floor” in metaphysical terms, a quality that is depicted in such a masterly fashion
that a definite artistic value comes into being. Doubtless, this is not a “beautiful
world” as in Mazoni’s The Betrothed, or even in Don Quixote, nor is it a poetry as
in Prévost’s Manon Lescaut or (in a completely different kind) in Eichendorff’s
From the Life of a Good-for-Nothing. But there is a tremendous potency here, a
force that brims over with ideas, and a definitely artistic charm.
In this novel by Balzac, for the first time, something that is certainly not
beautiful becomes the bearer of a specifically artistic value through the artistic
transposition. This milieu is not only presented aptly and brilliantly, through the
noble transposition it has become the bearer of a genuinely artistic value, always
in the framework of the work as a whole. Doubtless, such a work is not the
bearer of a genuine poetry. It is not elevated, nor is it filled by the great, ultimate
world of artistic beauty; but it possesses genuine artistic values.
A fifth type is constituted by the novels of Dostoevsky,12 such as The Idiot.
Its characters, Totsky, General Yepanchin, Ganya, Lebedev, Hippolite, and his
friends, are all to some extent mediocre, hysterical, wretched, and spurious.
Nevertheless, not only is the depiction of all this masterly and unparalleled in its
psychological truth, but it also gives us an artistic analogy to the breakthrough of
the love of neighbor. The author succeeds in displaying everything, even the
hysteria, the spuriousness, the bourgeois mediocrity, and the lazy liberal
propriety, in the light of the great drama that is the “human being.” Just as the
love of neighbor penetrates through every kind of wretchedness that a human
being has made of himself, to the imago Dei, the image of God that every human
being is, to the beauty and greatness of a being who is called by God and
destined for eternal fellowship with Him and who must give an account of
himself to God, so in this novel the author brings everything into a sublime
light. When one looks on one’s neighbor with love, one can see the greatness,
the beauty, and the loveable quality of even the most disgusting human being.
This love penetrates into a sphere in which there is no boredom, triviality,
spuriousness, pettiness, or shallowness, into that sphere in which the drama of
the human being is played out before God, into the absolute reality and
greatness of the world of God in which God calls out: “Adam, where are you?”
In a distant analogy to this, an artist like Dostoevsky succeeds in placing all
pettiness and metaphysical ugliness in the sublime light of this drama of the
human being. This, of course, also requires great figures of a deep metaphysical
beauty, figures such as the personality of the Idiot in this novel and of Zosima
and Alyosha in The Brothers Karamazov. Dostoevsky’s characters have a kind of
transposition in which, despite the utterly lively depiction, all that is
metaphysically ugly is incapable of diminishing the poetry and the profound and
moving beauty of the work. Indeed, this transposition intensifies the richness,
the breadth, and the greatness of the work of art.
We have already referred to a sixth type of literary works of art. The most
important author of such works is Molière, who succeeds in integrating foolish,
narrow, and affected characters into the primal situation of the human person,
into the comédie humaine. He does this both through the magic of the whole
stage into which these characters are inserted and also through his unique
comedy. Unlike the comedy of farce and of Wilhelm Busch, this is a poetic
comedy that contains a liberating, kindly touch. In a quite different sense from
that intended by Balzac (for example, in his cycle of novels entitled Comédie
humaine), Molière succeeds in making the metaphysical ugliness of narrowness,
stupidity, vanity, hypochondria, and avarice contribute to a genuine beauty, to an
enchanting atmosphere of the work as a whole. But les précieuses ridicules, les
femmes savantes, le bourgeois gentilhomme, Monsieur de Pourceaugnac, and le malade
imaginaire are not trivial figures.13 They are also far removed from a Lebedev
and a Hippolite. Above all, their matchless depiction, although it is so lively, is
in one sense stylized. Molière never draws us into an oppressive milieu, and we
never find any kind of naturalism in his plays. Humor, wisdom, and the classical
good health of the author unfold before our eyes. All the characters stand in this
world before our eyes, lit up by this spirit.
Finally, we come to the literature in which that which is depicted does not,
in itself, possess any oppressive, restrictive character. In this literature, the
fullness of life, the tremendous struggle between good and evil, the whole poetry
of life and of nature, and the classic comedy are depicted, together with the
invention of enchanting characters with whom one could fall in love. It is the
king of the stage, Shakespeare, who depicts this world.
Alongside him stands the king of the novel, Cervantes. Every page of his
Don Quixote pours forth sublime poetry, in addition to all the fullness of life and
the brilliant invention, and in addition to the profound, classic comedy that is
without parallel elsewhere in literature. In the two figures of Don Quixote and
Sancho, who are so different and each in his own way so lovable, the whole of
humanity is given, so to speak, not in the conflict between good and evil, but in
its spirit and the structure of its temperament.
We could mention other works that cannot be compared to these in the
power of their invention, their potency, and their artistic greatness. Nevertheless,
they belong to this category, since the choice of their matter means from the
outset that the problem does not arise of how the living depiction of the boring,
mediocre, and shallow characters and milieus, despite their metaphysical
ugliness, not only fails to limit the artistic value in the work of art as a whole, but
actually contributes to its value.
We can conclude by saying that in literature, the beauty of that which is
depicted never has a direct influence on the beauty of the work of art. It can
make an outstanding contribution to the beauty of the work of art only if the full
artistic transposition is present. The metaphysical ugliness of that which is
depicted destroys the true artistic beauty as soon as a naturalistic depiction takes
the place of the artistic transposition, no matter how brilliant the depiction, as
such, may be.
The apt depiction in literature has an aesthetic value that presupposes a great
talent. This value is, in fact, the manifestation of one particular talent, and it
constitutes an achievement that we cannot fail to admire. But this value is
completely different from the true, full, artistic value, from the greatness, the
depth, the inner truth, the beauty and poetry—from the real meaning, the real
theme of literature as art. We encounter this true artistic value in Homer, in the
Greek tragedies, in Virgil, Dante, Shakespeare, Cervantes, Corneille, Molière,
Racine, Goethe, Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, Stifter, Claudel, Bernanos, and many
others.
This problem does not occur in the literary genre that no longer possesses
the explicit character of imitative art, namely, in poetry.

1. See chap. 15 above.

2. See my Graven Images, chap. 5.
3. Act 5, scene 2.
4. Characters in Dostoevsky’s novel Crime and Punishment.
5. These three characters appear in the comedy Twelfth Night.
6. A character in Henry IV and in The Merry Wives of Windsor.
7. [Editors’ note: See Hildebrand’s remarks about Othello, Richard III, and Hamlet in the present
chapter, above. The tragic takes a genuine shape in music too: see, for example, chaps. 36, 39, 40, and 41
below.]
8. See Aesthetics, vol. 1, chap. 19.
9. See Fritz Reuter, Ut mine stromtid (written in a German dialect, 1862–1864), chap. 38.
10. In Le Roman contemporain, cited by P. Dupré, Encyclopédie des Citations (Paris: Édition de Trévise,
1959), 111.
11. See also chap. 23 above.
12. Dostoevsky’s version of transposition is set out in The Idiot, chap. 39: “What are the novelists to do
with commonplace people, and how are they to be presented to the reader in such a form as to be in the
least degree interesting? They cannot be left out altogether, for commonplace people meet one at every turn
of life, and to leave them out would be to destroy the whole reality and probability of the story. To fill a
novel with typical characters only, or with merely strange and uncommon people, would render the book
unreal and improbable, and would very likely destroy the interest. In my opinion, the duty of the novelist is
to seek out points of interest and instruction even in the characters of commonplace people.”
13. [The figures in italics allude to titles of Molière’s plays: The Affected Young Ladies, The Learned
Ladies, The Bourgeois Gentleman, Monsieur de Pourceaugnac, and The Hypochondriac.]
Music
 CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

The Basic Elements of Music

MUSIC IS NOT AN imitative art. The element of the representation [Darstellung]

of nature and of life is not found per se in music. We say “per se,” for three
reasons: first, because there is a type of representation in music too, although it is
totally different from representation in the visual arts; secondly, because music
sometimes even represents natural phenomena; and thirdly, because in union
with the word in a song, and all the more so in an opera, music, like literature,
has an important share in the representation of life.
To speak of a completely different kind of representation in music is to refer
to the expressive dimension of joy, sadness, abundant life, the sacred world of
recollection, and of much else that is found in all music. It also includes the
representation of natural phenomena such as a storm, the rushing sound of a
brook, and the chirping of birds. The third dimension of the representation,
namely, the union of sound and word, needs no explanation. The relationship
between music and the imitative, then, is far more extensive than, say, in
architecture, which is itself reality and not imitation.
Music is characterized by the fact that it has a particularly direct relationship
to the world of the senses, while at the same time being the most spiritual of all
the arts.
In painting, there are various steps between the visual impression on the
senses and the apprehension of the artistic content. Already the perception of
landscapes, figures, and so on in nature goes far beyond mere sense impressions.
Then there is still the actual intellectual [geistige] process of understanding the
artistic representation.
In music, on the other hand, the path from what is heard, in the strict sense
of the word, to the artistic content is much more direct. Once again, many steps
of intellectual apprehending are presupposed, from hearing the notes to
apprehending the melody, and from apprehending the melody and harmony to
understanding a complete musical entity, such as a movement, a quartet, or a
symphony. But this progression moves in a different direction from that in
painting and remains much closer to the sense impression.
Of course, regardless of the artform, the apprehending of artistic content and
the beauty of a given work is a purely spiritual act of a special kind. It
presupposes a specific capacity [Organ], and it is certainly not the case that
everyone who apprehends the work of art, and even knows it well, will possess
this capacity. Here it suffices to point to the paradox that music is in a certain
sense the most sense-bound and at the same time the most spiritual art. The
mystery of beauty of the second power is manifested in music in a particularly
striking manner.1
We begin by analyzing the means through which the artistic content in
music is given, and the material out of which the work of art is constructed.

The musical note [Ton] and sound [Klang]

There are an extraordinary variety of data in the world of the audible. We have
already seen that vowels and consonants, and the words formed from them, are
unique structures [eigenartige Gebilde]. We prescinded initially from the soul of
the word, that is to say, its meaning, and distinguished between noises
[Geräusche], such as the pattering of rain against the window or the crack of a
gun, and the articulated and more formed structures of vowels and consonants,
and even more from their composition in words. We are able to recognize that
words are being spoken even when they belong to a language that we do not
know. They are clearly different from a cry or a whistle.
Let us now turn to the audible structures in music, namely, the note [Ton]
and the sound [Klang]. In a note, there is an articulate and formed quality that is
different from what we find in vowels, consonants, and words. The note is a
world of its own, clear, precise, and unambiguously different from a mere sound.
There are a specific number of notes: seven, or rather, twelve. The same notes
recur in the octaves, whether higher or lower. It is not by chance that music is
often brought into connection with mathematics. The logic in the world of notes
bears a relation to the logic of mathematics.
The most astonishing thing is the new dimension of the musical notes in
relation to mere noises. When we speak of a new dimension, we refer to the
spiritual quality and the nobility of the pure note. This nobility is expressed
especially in the fact that a melody can be constructed only out of notes.
Another primordial quality [Urqualität] of music, namely, the sound [Klang],
is always linked to the note. Sound also occurs independently of the note, as in
the sound of a hissing snake or babbling brook, although it is obvious that no
note is present.
Sound has a new quality in relation to the note. Even when both appear in
combination, they remain clearly distinct from each other. There are obviously
many more different sounds than notes. Musical sound has something much
purer and more formed than the unmusical sound. The sound of the violin, flute,
oboe, horn, trombone, or the human voice is purer than the sound of the drum
and the cymbal.
We are, of course, interested only in musical sound in its combination with
the note.2
One important difference between sound and the note is that while sounds
can be bearers of beauty, the note, as such, is neither beautiful nor ugly.3 The
sounds of all the instruments are beautiful. They are not all equally beautiful, but
each has its own charm. There are also downright ugly sounds. None of this can
be predicated of notes. The note C is not beautiful; still less is it ugly. It is
meaningless to say that the note G is more beautiful than C. It is indeed true
that unlike noises of every kind, the note has a nobility and a spiritual quality of
great beauty in its clarity and musicality. But this is an ontological value. Unlike
a mere din or noise, all of the notes possess this value quality, but no one note
possesses it more than another. All the notes in the scale have this dignity.

Melody, harmony, rhythm

Notes possess an eminent potential aesthetic quality, being capable in a
particular sequence of building up a completely new structure: the melody. This
is an outstanding bearer of qualitative aesthetic values. It can be beautiful or ugly,
noble and sublime, or trivial and base. It can be convincing, marked by an inner
necessity, or boring, impotent, and artificial. None of this can be predicated of a
single note, or of a sequence of notes that is not a melody. It is not possible to
build up a new structure out of noises, not even out of musical sounds. It is
indeed true that, quite apart from the melody, the collaboration and sounding
together of the instruments in an orchestra is a full bearer of possible beauty; but
this “symphony” is a unity of a completely different kind from the melody. It is
not a new unity. It is not what Spranger would call a “form quality”
[Gestaltqualität]. It is a not an individual unity, like one melody that is clearly
distinct from other melodies. Compared with the beauty of the sound of a single
instrument, there is doubtless a great heightening of the pure beauty of the
harmony when various instruments sound together, but this harmony does not
create any new kind of bearers of beauty.
The various musical structures, such as the quartet, the symphony, the violin
or cello sonata, the piano or violin concerto, differ as types through the
combination of instruments, both in terms of their number and their kinds. The
principal beauty in the glorious orchestration of a symphony is closely linked to
its melodies and themes, for example, the choice of instrument to which a
leading theme is entrusted, and how this theme appears in various instruments.
This must be emphasized in order to highlight the completely unique
character of melody. It is a primordial example of the power of composition,
which constitutes a primary factor in all the arts.
Another central element of music is the chord. A melody presupposes a
sequence of notes, but the new unity of the chord is a simultaneous combination
of particular notes. A single chord can, in itself, be a bearer of beauty, even if this
is not comparable to the beauty of a melody.
Harmony too is a primordial type. Just as melody is the primordial example
of composition, of the surprising birth of a completely new kind of structure
through a particular arrangement of the sequence of notes, so harmony is a
primordial example of fitting together, of the happy complement.
It is not by chance that the word “harmony” is employed in an analogous
sense for all spheres of being. It is the friendly agreement, concordia as opposed to
discordia, but it is also the qualitative mutual complementing and fitting
together, as opposed to a failure to fit together. The term “disharmony” is
applied both to discordia and to that which conflicts, that is to say, a qualitative
failure to fit together, which is expressed in French by cela jure and in English by
“it clashes.”
The aspect of musical collaboration, mutual complementing, and mutual
enrichment is manifested in harmony and is a wonderful phenomenon. But
harmony unfolds its full significance only in collaboration with melody.
The antithesis of harmony lies not only in dissonance, which in fact can
sometimes be particularly beautiful, but in a cheap harmony that is wrong for a
melody, its atmosphere, and its nobility. The inner relation between a melody
and harmony is interesting. A noble melody is robbed of its nobility through a
mismatched harmony, but the beauty of a melody can be further heightened
through the right harmony. Sometimes a purely harmonic modulation is the
bearer of exalted beauty and a significant musical idea. A harmony can engender
a very particular atmosphere.
A completely different and highly important element in music is rhythm. We
encounter it in an analogous manner in various fields. We speak of “rhythm” not
only in a poem, which has a rhythm with a character relatively similar to that in
music, but also, in an analogous sense, in life, for example, in the development of
a human relationship or in the sphere of movement, such as in certain dances.
Music, on the other hand, is the native land of rhythm, which in a certain sense
is the life that animates a piece of music. It is a specifically vital element, though
sometimes it possesses a lofty spiritual quality.
Can rhythm, as such, be a bearer of beauty? It is possible to indicate a
rhythm simply by knocking on a table. Is there a noble and a base rhythm?
Surely rhythm as such is already a bearer of aesthetic qualities. We have only to
consider how it expresses a particular sense of life. In the popular music of a
country, we often find a typical rhythm that is characteristic of the national
individuality, such as the rhythm that is so characteristic of Spanish folk music
and so completely different from the rhythm of Viennese folk music. This
rhythm is usually linked to dance. But it is only in collaboration with melody
and, above all, in piece of music as a whole that it unfolds its full, deep
significance.
Naturally, the role of composition emerges in an entirely new way in a
movement of a sonata, a quartet, or a symphony—in comparison with a melody
or a theme with its harmonies and its rhythm. The construction of the
movement or the piece of music is one element of the beauty in music. The step
from the invention of a melody or a theme to the piece of music, even if it is only
one movement of a larger work, contains an invention all its own and represents
a composition of a new kind. This differs from the composition of the melody
not only because the step from note to melody creates a new type of unity, and it
is only with this unity that the possibility of being the bearer of aesthetic values
begins, but also because the step from melody or theme to the movement goes in
a completely different direction from that of note to melody.

The musical whole [Ganzheit]

A melody itself can already be the bearer of beauty of the second power. But a
musical work of art demands a new structure of an articulated kind, a
construction, a new whole that includes not only the melody, harmony, and
rhythm, but much else besides.
This whole can be of very various kinds, such as a march or a dance like a
sarabande, gigue, gavotte, musette, or a larger whole that is made up of various
small wholes, such as a piece of organ music that consists of a prelude and fugue,
or a sonata, quartet, or symphony that encompasses several movements.
The relationship between a melody or theme to the piece of music to which
it belongs is different from the relationship between the notes and the melody or
theme, and also from the relationship between the individual movements and the
larger unity of a sonata, suite, symphony, and so forth.
We have already pointed out the radically different relationship between the
part to the whole in a melody, on the one hand, and that between the melody or
melodies, harmonies, and rhythm to the entire piece of music, on the other. The
important thing now is, first of all, to see which other elements also belong to
the construction of a piece of music, in addition to melody, harmony, and
rhythm; and secondly, to work out the different relationship between the parts
and the whole in a piece of music that has only one movement, and between the
movements and the whole of a larger piece of music.
In every piece of music, and thus in the movement of a symphony too, we
find not only melodies or themes, harmonies and rhythm, but also their
treatment and modulation, the intertwining of various parts, the further
development, the construction that possesses a very specific logic, and the
counterpoint. The construction of this new totality, this musical structure, is
complete in itself; it cannot be arbitrarily lengthened or shortened.

Tempo, staccato and legato, volume, crescendo and diminuendo, height and depth of
the notes, major and minor
Other diverse means too are employed in a musical work of art. We are thinking
here first of means of expression, not yet of the elements that go into
constructing a piece of music.
A first essential means in a piece of music is the tempo. It is obviously very
important whether a piece is played allegro, adagio, cantabile, or presto. There is
a profound inner connection between the tempo and the melody or theme. A
melody or a theme requires a specific tempo, which belongs essentially to its
specific character. If one plays the theme that opens the fifth symphony of
Beethoven largo rather than an allegro con brio, it becomes something
completely different and its specific character is destroyed. If someone were to
sing Handel’s “Largo” as a presto, it would disfigure this unique melody. The
whole wealth of musical means shines forth when we think of the various tempi:
largo, adagio, cantabile, andante, allegro, presto, and prestissimo. How great the
expressive possibilities in each; and how deeply the tempo belongs to the melody.
A change of tempo in one and the same theme or melody can also be a bearer of
special beauty.
Two other very important means are staccato and legato. Once again, there is
a profound relationship to the melody or theme. When a legato melody is played
staccato, its special content is destroyed. If one were to play Bach’s “Air”
staccato, it would be intolerable, indeed a desecration. The same is true, for
example, if the fifth movement of Beethoven’s Quartet Opus 131 is played legato
rather than staccato.
Legato expresses in a special way a contemplative attitude, a musical line that
unfolds in broad and solemn strides. Melodies and themes that have and ought
to have this character require legato. Staccato, on the other hand, has something
clear-cut. In one passage, it has something of the character of a solemn event, in
another passage, something vivacious, and in yet another passage, something
playful or even humorous. Staccato and legato have a tremendous wealth of
expression—naturally, in connection with the melody. So much can be made
present through them.
A further musical means is volume: forte and piano, fortissimo and
pianissimo. They too are important bearers of artistic beauty. But unlike tempo,
legato, and staccato, volume is not linked to the particular kind of melody or
theme. Provided we are only considering a melody or theme, there is no definite
inner link to a certain volume. It is, indeed, normal that one and the same theme
in a piece of music occurs forte in one passage and piano in another. Piano and
forte are determined by the inner structure of the entire piece of music. Volume
reveals its significance in the framework of a piece of music, not in an isolated
melody; it belongs to the construction of a musical totality.
Bound up with volume are crescendo and diminuendo, which number
among the primordial phenomena. There are also many analogies to the
crescendo. We can speak of a crescendo in literary works, both in a play and a
novel. We have only to think of a scene like in The Idiot: the soirée for Nastasya
Filipovna, who had promised to tell Ganya that evening whether she would
marry him. Such an immense crescendo, such a growing intensification, such
hastening to a dramatic high point!
In nature, we find this dramatic element of the crescendo in a tempest and a
storm. In life too crescendo in an analogous sense is an important element, for
example, in the inception and growth of a love relation. Above all, we find the
crescendo in an analogous sense in history, for example, in the development of a
cultural epoch. There is a crescendo, though in a much narrower sense, in the
dramatic and incredible rise of Napoleon to his zenith, and even more so in the
Revolution of 1789 through the 9th of the month Thermidor, when Robespierre
was overthrown. The spread of a plague has a crescendo, until a diminuendo sets
in, as Manzoni describes in his masterpiece, The Betrothed. Many events take the
course of a crescendo and a diminuendo in the broadest sense of the term.
There is a crescendo in pain. There is a crescendo in the biological growth of
the human being until an apex is reached, and then a diminuendo in the
biological decline. This crescendo, however, does not have the dramatic
character of crescendo in the narrower sense, which manifests itself in music.
Other important musical means are height and depth. Qualitative height and
depth are extremely important phenomena. The high note has a special quality,
as does the low note. These qualities are different from the highly important
metaphysical phenomenon of “above” and “below,” where “above” represents the
world that towers above us in its value, and “below” signifies a world the value of
which lies below us, one that is often even marked by disvalues. Nor are the
height or depth of musical notes analogous to the level of a value, which bears
primarily on the levels in our soul where the antithesis of depth is not height but
superficiality.
The depth of a note often has a sonorous, recollected character, while the
height of a note can be brilliant, sublime. We are not speaking here of the pitch
that every note possesses. The position of the notes alone will not permit the
qualitative phenomenon of depth or of height to come to expression. This
objective relativity of height must be clearly distinguished from the qualitative
phenomenon of height and depth. If a theme or a melody with its harmony and
accompaniment are entirely played in a lower range, the piece of music is
particularly expressive. The specific quality here can vary greatly, for depth
makes possible both a sonorous, serious character and a humorous character,
whereas height usually possesses something ethereal, sublime, and often also
tender.
We could almost say that depth, in general, has a masculine and height a
feminine character. This is not just due to the fact that men’s voices are deeper
and women’s higher, however. Rather, it is profoundly meaningful that men
have a deeper voice and women a higher voice. The specific expression of depth
—in this audible sense—is fitting for a man, and the expression of height fitting
for a woman. This expression of depth and height corresponds with the general
character of men and women. The simple fact that men in general have a deeper
voice than women does not by merely associative means confer on depth and
height their particular character. To believe this is to fall for one of the typical,
widespread tendencies that in mediocre fashion reduce everything to
associations.
The phenomenon of qualitative depth and height is linked in an important
manner to a special sound [Klang]. There are specifically deep instruments, such
as the double bass, and specifically high instruments, such as the violin or
trumpet. An essential aspect of the cello is that it is deeper than the violin. The
combination of a certain height or depth with a special sound enables the
realization of a particular artistic content, for example, in a violin or cello sonata.
The link between timbre and height is, of course, especially pronounced in
the types of human singing voices: bass, baritone, tenor, alto, and soprano. Each
of these types of voice is already characterized in general terms by its tonal color,
which varies greatly from one individual voice to another. We do not yet have in
mind the difference between a beautiful and an ugly voice, such as a nasal or a
forced voice, a shrill or a scratchy voice. We are thinking of the difference in
timbre within the range of good and beautiful voices, such as those of Caruso,
Gigli, Melchior, Pinza, or Chaliapin. This differentiation is usually not found in
instruments, except as the difference between good and bad instruments, from
which we prescind here. It is doubtless true that the bass has, in general, a
markedly different timbre from the tenor, and the alto a different tone from the
soprano. Much greater still is the difference in the tonal color between male and
female voices.
What interests us here is the link between height or depth and tonal color.
Certain notes with objectively the same height can be sung both by a bass and a
tenor. But when Sarastro in The Magic Flute sings, “Zur Liebe will ich dich nicht
zwingen” (“I will not force you to love”), and then goes down to a very low pitch,
the depth and the expression linked to this depth are crucial. When in certain
tenor passages the voice ascends into the higher range, perhaps even to a high C,
then the element of height is given in an evident manner. This qualitative
element of height and depth also characterizes the difference between bass and
tenor and is incorporated into their special tonal colors.
The soprano has a qualitative character of height while the alto has one of
depth, even though its range is objectively higher than that of the tenor.
Naturally, the importance of the means of qualitative height and depth
emerges only in the context of an entire piece of music. The phenomenon of
qualitative height belongs necessarily to many melodies as they occur in
particular parts of a work, for example, at the end of the final movement of
Beethoven’s ninth symphony.
 Another factor is the modulation of a melody or of a theme that is taken up
anew at a greater height in a later passage. The change in register occurs all the
time, of course, for the simple reason, say, that a theme initially played by the
violin is repeated by the cello. We are not so much thinking of this fundamental
means in all pieces of music as the special passages in which the qualitative
height has a decisive effect, such as the scherzo of Schubert’s Quartet Opus 161,
where the glorious theme of the minuet is suddenly taken up in the higher
register.
A specific means in music is the difference between major and minor,4 a
phenomenon all its own: the bright and joyful character of major and the tragic,
poetically recollected character of minor. There is a distant analogy in the
comparison between the beauty of a radiant day, when the sun clothes the trees
in gold and the blue sky shines above our heads, and the beauty of a transfigured
moonlit night. The difference between major and minor is closely connected to
the domain of harmony and key.
The key is a new factor in relation to the individual note, and it is
qualitatively much richer. Every piece of music is composed in a particular key
that both suits and influences it. One can, indeed, transpose it into another key,
but this is a compromise potentially motivated by practical reasons. In principle,
each piece of music has one specific key, which adds a special quality to the piece
and is doubtless, unlike the individual note, a bearer of aesthetic values. This
does not at all mean that one key would be more beautiful in itself than another,
however, so that one could say, for example, that C major is more beautiful than
G major. The key has a precise aesthetic function, together with the melodies,
harmonies, and the precise construction of a piece of music. Wherever it fits all
the other elements and is indeed, as it were, required by them, the key represents
a new factor for the beauty of the whole.
The major and the minor of the key in which a whole piece of music is
composed must be distinguished from the major and the minor of an individual
passage. The transition from major to minor in one and the same melody can be
very arresting and beautiful. Schubert employs this device frequently.

Foreground and background, pause

Just as in painting and in nature, so too the difference between foreground and
background is another important means in music. The foreground is the leading
voice that performs the theme or melody proper, while the background consists
of the accompaniment, for example, the orchestra in a violin or piano concerto,
and not only when it accompanies the violin or piano but even when it precedes
these instruments and prepares the way for them. The typical background is the
accompaniment on the organ. At the close of the second to last movement in
Mozart’s Quartet no. 18 (K. 421), the cello suddenly carries out a very formal
and strongly rhythmical accompaniment. The significance of the background is
illuminated in a unique manner by the greatness of the effect of this background
voice and by the special beauty of the combination of this voice of the cello,
unperturbed in its advance and, as it were, “objective,” with the sweetness and
bliss of the melody unfolding in the foreground in the other instruments.
Pauses, or rests, are another exceptionally effective musical means. Much
that is important can be expressed when the music falls silent in a pause. Rests
are not a simple absence of music, as when we are waiting for a piece of music to
begin. Rather, they are an important part of the piece of music itself. This
musical means is clearly distinct from lingering on a note that belongs to a
melody, as this lingering pertains to the varied length of the notes. In a rest, the
music in the construction of a piece suddenly stops. A great deal can be said
through this pause. It is an element that possesses important analogies in other
fields. In the pauses of a play, for example, we find everything that takes place
between the acts, everything that does not occur on the stage and yet is “said.”
Consider how much lies between the second and the third acts of Julius Caesar.
What brilliance on Shakespeare’s part to refrain from bringing onto the stage the
intervening events.
There are many other analogies to the musical rest. Many situations in
human life require a pause. An important statement, having been uttered, can in
certain circumstances demand a few moments of silence before an answer may be
made, before the stream of life carries on. Certain passages in a speech require a
brief pause to form them expressively.
The rest in music contributes to the articulation of the entire work. It can be
an element in the overall rhythm of the work, or it can also be an important
means of expression.
If we recall the great significance of the pause in Beethoven’s “Leonore
Overture No. 3” after the trumpet signal. The solemnity of this signal demands a
brief pause. Certainly, the musical pause has an outstanding dramatic
significance in Fidelio too,5 but we choose the “Leonore Overture” because the
pause in this work is of breathtaking beauty in purely musical terms.
The many brief rests in the second movement of Beethoven’s ninth
symphony have likewise an important function. The pause in the overture to The
Magic Flute has a character all its own.

Variations in the broadest and the narrower senses. Coloratura, trills, mordents
Variations are a musical means of a completely different kind. We say of a
“completely different kind,” because we are no longer dealing with “means” in
the strict sense, nor with musical elements that are not derived from something
else [Urdaten], but rather with a form used in the construction of pieces of
music, with the manner in which a theme or a melody is employed.
The variation is again an important primordial phenomenon that occurs by
analogy in poetry and especially in life. It is a primordial mode of development.
When we pursue the theme of love in poetry and in music, we discover how
many variations on this theme exist. Again and again, new aspects of love are
presented, illuminated, and emphasized, especially in the love between man and
woman, or, as we usually say, in spousal love. We have only to consider the
aspect of love in Mozart’s operas, in Belmonte’s arias in Die Entführung aus dem
Serail, in the aria “Un’ aura amorosa” (“A breath of love”) in Così fan tutte, or in
Tamino’s aria “Dies Bildnis ist bezaubernd schön” (“This image is enchantingly
beautiful”) in The Magic Flute. In these arias we find manifested all the sweetness
of love, its transfigured beauty, and its power to bestow happiness. In Fidelio, we
find shining forth in the arias of Leonore, in Florestan’s vision, and above all in
the duet, “O namenlose Freude!” (“Oh inexpressible joy!”), the heroic character
of love as self-gift, the full moral seriousness and nobility of love, and the
faithfulness and profound bliss found in the mutual gaze of love [Ineinanderblick
der Liebe]. In Wagner’s Tristan und Isolde, we are gripped by the mystery of love,
its ultimate yearning for union, its metaphysical depth, and its ecstatic character.
In Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, we encounter the unique ardor, the reverence,
and the purity of love, its spontaneous blossoming and its innermost poetry. In
Goethe’s Faust, we are moved by the tragedy of Gretchen’s love. All these
examples unfold true and wonderful aspects, variations on the inexhaustible
theme of love. In the broadest sense of the term, a variation develops all
possibilities potentially contained in a great theme.
Variations in the narrower, literal sense are an important means in music,
and they are often bearers of a sublime beauty. Consider the wonderful variations
in Haydn’s “Emperor Quartet” or in Schubert’s “Death and the Maiden
Quartet.” There is such delight in this form of development, this illumination of
a beautiful and important theme, this unity and diversity!
The variation also contains a decorative element in the highest sense of the
word, an enrichment and embellishment of the theme. But above all, in its
highest forms, the variation possesses the character of a contemplative unfolding.
This sublime, contemplative element of the variation emerges clearly in the
variations in Beethoven’s Piano Sonata Opus 109, in his symphonies, especially
in the third movement of the ninth symphony, in his late quartets, and in the
second movement of his violin concerto. In such instances, the variation contains
a blissful “taking one’s time,” a hovering, a special sort of immersion in the
theme.
There is a type of formal variation that is a kind of achievement in which one
shows what one can make out of an insignificant theme. This type has nothing
of the nobility and depth of the variations we have just mentioned.
The beauty and depth of the theme on which the variations are based are, of
course, a decisive influence not only on the beauty of the variations but also on
the character of the variations as such. But a variation on a less significant theme
can in fact be beautiful and delightful, even if it has the character of a brilliant
game. Beethoven’s “Kakadu Variations,” Opus 121a in G major, based on a song
in Wenzel Müller’s opera Die Schwestern von Prag, are a typical example of this
kind of variations.
Finally, there are academic variations that offer neither a sublime,
contemplative unfolding nor a delightful development of the theme, which they
in no way enrich. In this case, one is tempted to say, “Si tacuisses, philosophus
mansisses” (“If only you had kept silence, you would have remained a
philosopher”).6
Coloratura is a means related in certain respects to the variation. Of itself,
coloratura is a decorative element and in the literal sense restricted to song. It
often provides an opportunity to deploy the splendor, range, and suppleness of
the voice. This is not sufficient, however, to make it the bearer of a specifically
artistic beauty. Rather, it belongs to the sphere of the singer’s technical
accomplishment, not to that of the composer.
It would, however, be completely wrong to regard this as the only meaning
of coloratura. It can also have the character of a sublime unfolding of a theme,
going far beyond the purely decorative taken in the highest sense of the word.
This kind of coloratura, which is a bearer of great, sublime beauty in Gregorian
chant, has a contemplative character. The character here is one of lingering and
deep breathing, drawing out and developing of all the possible modulations. The
same applies to coloratura in many great works of art, for example, in the
“Christe eleison” and even more so in the incomparable, glorious coloratura in
the “Et incarnatus est” in Mozart’s Mass in C Minor.
Apart from the purely technical accomplishment of the coloratura that is
exclusively at the service of the full unfolding of a singer’s voice, there is also a
purely decorative and delightful coloratura in many operas. This is not a great
invention of a musical kind; above all, it is not the bearer of high artistic beauty.
It can possess a modest decorative beauty.
By contrast, the coloraturas of Mozart, such as in the two arias of the Queen
of the Night in The Magic Flute, represent a grand musical invention—not a
decoration but something intrinsically new of high artistic beauty. Similarly, the
coloratura in the aria from Mozart’s opera Il re pastore is a new invention and
bearer of a great beauty.
An important factor we should not overlook is whether a melody or a theme
calls for a coloratura, or if this is only a decoration added onto it. The words that
are sung also play a role here.
Analogies to coloratura occur, of course, in purely instrumental music, such
as the cadenzas in violin and piano concertos, and in all works for soloists with
orchestra. These various types of coloratura play a lesser role in instrumental
music and do not rise to the sublime height of the sung coloratura.
Let us conclude by pointing to one final musical means, the trill and the
mordent. These too are decorative elements, but they are sometimes of great
significance. Both are closely linked to certain melodies, to which they belong as
a part of the melody. But in formal terms they represent something new in
relation to the melody, which grows out of a composition of notes, out of a
specific sequence of notes. The trill is a structure sui generis and the bearer of a
specific expression. The trill can offer something that belongs to it alone. The
mordent has an analogous importance.
We are aware that among the elements of music we have presented in this
chapter are both those that represent the material, the building blocks, for a
musical work, and also those that provide the means to achieving specific effects,
without having distinguished between building blocks and means for a given
effect. Notes, harmonies, melodies, and themes are building blocks, the
materials, although of very various kinds. Volume, tempo, staccato, legato,
coloratura, trill, and mordent are means that serve a specific effect. This formal
distinction, however, is not so important for our present purposes.

Composition
In composition there are three different steps of decisive importance. The first is
the invention of a melody or a theme, the step from the individual notes to the
higher structure of the melody or theme. Unlike the individual notes, these
structures can be bearers of beauty or triviality, that is to say, bearers of aesthetic
values or disvalues.
A second step leads to the piece of music. This involves not only harmony
and the various other means, but above all a completely new dimension, namely,
that of composition. This is the dimension where we see what can be made of
certain melodies and themes, how they are developed, and how an edifice of a
musical kind is constructed. Both the structure, or the construction, as well as
the edifice as a whole, can be an eminent bearer of aesthetic values. With the
work of music as a whole, we arrive at a specific bearer of the beauty of second
power. Sometimes melodies and themes already possess an ultimate beauty, such
as Handel’s “Largo,” the national anthem of the Austrian empire, “Gott erhalte
Franz, den Kaiser” (“God save our Emperor Franz”) with its melody by Haydn,
or the theme at “Freude, schöner Götterfunken” (“Joy, beautiful sparks of the
gods”) in the last movement of Beethoven’s ninth symphony.
However, a work of art is created only when a musical edifice is erected.7 In
Beethoven’s “Leonore Overture No. 3,” we encounter a unique musical edifice, a
completely new whole in relation to the melody and the theme. The structure of
the whole as a new type of bearer of artistic beauty makes an important addition,
revealing unforeseen possibilities and means for the beauty of the edifice. This
includes the development of a melody or theme and the combination with other
melodies or themes. Every step, every stage in the construction, is in turn the
bearer of a particular beauty.
The real work of the great master takes place in this process of the
composition of an entire piece of music, whether this comes by pure inspiration
or the result of laborious artistic work. The decisive step in composition is taken
here, and we can see whether this musical whole is just the elaboration of a
theme or melody, whether a common general form is used, or whether the form
itself is a significant artistic invention. We also find another difference of highest
artistic importance for the construction as a whole shows, namely, whether the
construction has an inner necessity or is just de facto and could also have been
otherwise.
In the present context, we wish to restrict the term “composition” to the
construction of a musical whole.
The element of invention extends both to the form of the whole and to the
form that permeates the whole, to the treatment of the melodies and themes, to
the harmonies, and to all the means that we have mentioned.
Another new dimension in composition is the construction of a whole that
comprises several movements, such as a sonata, quartet, quintet, octet, or
symphony. The connection of the various movements with the whole is different
from the connection of the individual parts with a given piece of music.
Sometimes a single movement of a symphony or a piano concerto is of great
beauty, while the other movements are unsuccessful. Although this is highly
regrettable, it does not destroy the beauty of the one movement. The
imperfection under which the beautiful movement suffers when the following
movements are nondescript, boring, or even trivial consists in the fact that it is
intended as part of a whole and does not possess in itself the self-contained
character of an individual piece of music, such as an overture that is not followed
by an opera. Nevertheless, the beauty of the individual movement is not
destroyed by the disvalue of the other parts.
Although every movement, for example, in a symphony, is a self-contained
whole with a definite endpoint, the individual movements are capable of being
complemented. They have the ability to become parts of a greater artistic whole.
They have the character of a member, in contrast to a freestanding piece of
music. The invention of a greater whole, where the individual movements fit
together and, in the highest instances, fit together necessarily, marks a new step
forward, a new form of composition possible only through a definite
inspiration.8
The combination of individual movements can be the bearer of a completely
new beauty. This opens a rich field of mutual fecundation by the individual
movements, a further source of beauty. In contrast to architecture, where we
encounter a total construction in its spatial extension, in music the extension is
temporal, and this total construction is its own bearer of beauty.

1. [Editors’ note: See Hildebrand’s Aesthetics, vol. 1, chaps. 6, 9, and 10.]

2. Max Frischeisen-Köhler mentions three different qualities of the note: its height, its sound [Klang],
and its vowel quality [Vokalqualität]. This is itself a valuable insight. It is doubtless correct to say that these
three different qualities exist. None of them can be shown to be reduced to the others; they are primordial
phenomena in the broader sense of the term. But the question arises whether every note, which is
necessarily linked to a sound, always possesses a vowel quality as well. This may be true of human song, but
the sound of a piano does not present a vowel quality. It has neither the quality of the vowel “a” nor that of
any other vowel. And this means that the vowel qualities in no way have the same fundamental importance
for music as the note and sound, even though it is indeed correct to say that the vowel qualities are a
structure sui generis in the realm of the audible, with their own irreducible qualities of the audible. They do
not belong to the material or the means of music, nor to the primordial elements in the realm of the means
of music. It is above all in speech that they play a role, while in music they play a role only when they are
linked to the word.
The quality of the vowels is not, in itself, a bearer of aesthetic values, nor does the composition of pure
vowels produce a new structure that can be a bearer of aesthetic values. The vowel, as such, does not belong
to the means or the material of music. This distinguishes it sharply from the note.
One could object: let us grant that this vowel quality plays no role in music, but are not the individual
vowels, in their differences [Verschiedenheit], something expressive? Is not their variety an enrichment? And
does not this mean that they can bear a value, even if it is not the value of a musical beauty? Does not the
spoken “a” in a poem have a special function that is different from the function of the “i” or the “o”? Does it
not express something, and does it not also have an aesthetic importance, thanks to this expression?
However one answers this question, it does not change what we have just said. Vowels are not bearers
of a value in music, nor does their combination constitute any kind of new musical structure. There are no
vowels in a quartet, and a composition of vowels is not capable of building up a meaningful musical
structure like a melody, still less, a structure that would be a bearer of beauty.
3. See Aesthetics, vol. 1, chap. 8, 196.
4. “But how marvelous is the effect of minor and major! How astonishing that the change of half a
tone, the entrance of a minor third instead of a major, at once and inevitably forces on us an anxious and
painful feeling, from which we are again delivered just as instantaneously by the major!” In Arthur
Schopenhauer, The World as Will and Representation, vol. 1, trans. E. F. J. Payne (New York: Dover
Publications, 1969), 261.
5. [Editors’ note: The “Leonore Overture No. 3,” the last of three versions Beethoven composed as
overtures to his opera Fidelio, is sometimes performed in the opera’s second act.]
6. This aphorism goes back to Boethius, On the Consolation of Philosophy, II 7.
7. In considering this musical construction, it is, of course, impossible for us to examine individual
details that presuppose the knowledge of a musician, such as a conductor or a composer, and about which
we do not feel competent to speak. We limit ourselves to the analysis of a few important elements and to
the significance, in a piece of music as a whole, of the elements that we have already examined.
8. In his book Ton und Wort (2nd ed., Wiesbaden: Brockhaus, 1954; see “Beethoven und wir,” 221–
52), Wilhelm Furtwängler speaks with important insights about composition in the second and third
senses, above all when he speaks of “form” in Beethoven (238ff.).
 CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Representation [Darstellung] and Expression [Ausdruck]

in Music

ONE SOMETIMES SPEAKS OF “expression” [Ausdruck] in music in the sense of

“representation” [Darstellung]. In conjunction with words, especially in opera
and music drama, there are tremendously various possibilities of representation
that have a completely different character in music from that in the visual arts.
Music is able not only to express the attitudes and experiences of the characters
in a drama, such as Pizarro’s hatred, Leonore’s love and fidelity, Cherubino’s
infatuation, the sorrow of Orpheus, the fear of Leporello or Papageno, or
Tristan and Isolde’s ecstatic love in the second act and Tristan’s joy in the third
act, when he learns of Isolde’s arrival. Music can also fashion [formen] characters,
such as Figaro, Susanna, the Countess, Don Giovanni, Leporello, Zerlina, Don
Ottavio, the Commendatore, Leonore, or Siegfried.
The music acts together with the poetic language, and usually has a much
more important role than the poetry in the fashioning of a character and in the
way he or she is represented. We find something similar in literature in the way
Cervantes fashions Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, Goethe Mignon and the
Harpist in Wilhelm Meister, Dostoevsky Sonya in Crime and Punishment and
Prince Mishkin in The Idiot, and Shakespeare the characters of Imogen in
Cymbeline, Cordelia, Ophelia, Polonius, Rosalind, Viola, Perdita, Desdemona,
Iago, Macbeth, and many others. Not only is music fully able to take part in this
fashioning and representation of characters—itself already a brilliant invention
and an important means for the creation of high artistic beauty—but in many
operas and music dramas it has the principal share in this activity. This
dimension in music is representation in a broader and deeper sense of the term,
and it is entirely different from representation in painting and sculpture. While
the designation “imitative” [imitativ] does not obtain in all the arts, it is
completely inapplicable to this kind of representation.
Representation in this sense must be distinguished from expression in
absolute music.1 If we say that a piece of music is full of profound sadness or joy,
this does not involve the representation of a character and of his or her feelings.
Rather, the quality of sadness, seriousness, joy, or exultation emanates from the
entire piece of music. This expression of the quality of human experiences
represents a further dimension. We must not interpret this expression as a mere
projection of the composer’s feelings, because every true work of art involves the
creation of an objective and inherently valid work, in which everything is at the
service of artistic beauty.
To distinguish between the expression of feelings in absolute music and the
representation of feelings in a cast of characters in no way denies that it is the
expressive factor in music itself that enables the representation of characters. The
expression of feelings in absolute music and their representation in opera and
music drama are in themselves two different dimensions. Much of what
transpires within a human being is meant to be expressed in this representation,
thus serving the artistic value of the work as a whole. Were this representation to
find expression in pure music, it would be something negative. In other words,
for expression in absolute music, the metaphysical beauty of what is expressed
has an important function for the overall beauty. For representation, on the other
hand, even expressed metaphysical ugliness can be the bearer of lofty artistic
beauty.2
As long as we are discussing absolute music, we will limit ourselves to the
function of the metaphysical beauty of that which is expressed. Metaphysical
beauty is often linked to beauty of the second power, which we discovered to be
the real mystery of beauty in the sphere of the visible and the audible.3 It is in
music that beauty of the second power and the discrepancy between this lofty
spiritual beauty and its bearer emerges most clearly. It is a great mystery that a
melody of sublime beauty can be robbed of its beauty and even become trivial
through the alteration of a few notes, a different conclusion, or the ascending or
descending of the melody. A small, inconspicuous change can have an enormous
impact, such as causing the deterioration of a sublime beauty into a trivial
banality.
Although music is not an imitative art, and—unlike painting, sculpture, and
literature—does not represent something that exists in reality, expressed
metaphysical beauty can be of great importance in music and make a decisive
contribution to the overall beauty of a piece of music. There are indeed pieces of
music in which no expressed metaphysical beauty is present. Usually, however,
expressed metaphysical beauty and purely artistic beauty collaborate. To
understand this, we must analyze exactly the kind of expression that is possible in
music.
First of all, we must draw a clear distinction between certain imitative
possibilities in music of an outward kind, on the one hand, and the expression
that we have in mind, on the other. This imitative element can take various
forms. In the age of Monteverdi, when the text spoke of mountains or of deep
valleys, some composers represented this in music through the difference in the
musical phenomenon of height and depth. With this naïve imitation, the music
follows the word without expressing what is meant by the word. It is more an
illustration, and it works by means of an almost exclusively verbal analogy. Even
so, there is no reason to agree with Schopenhauer in regarding this charming
naïveté, which need not impair the beauty, as a grievous artistic error.
A second kind of imitation is completely different from this. It is not
dictated by a text, nor does it work by means of the meaning of the word.
Rather, it reproduces natural sounds such as the rushing of a river, the rumbling
of thunder, or the humming of a spinning wheel. But although this form of
imitation is much more serious and on a higher level, it is not yet expression in
the sense we have in mind.
This second kind of imitation is connected to the world of the audible, and
the representation of all these phenomena works by means of the audible. This
kind of imitation is not only legitimate; it can also be a bearer of great artistic
beauty, such as the thunderstorm in Beethoven’s “Pastoral Symphony” or the
storm at the end of Das Rheingold and at the beginning of Die Walküre. This
form of imitation mostly occurs in operas, and sometimes in Lieder, but it is also
possible in pure music, as in Beethoven’s “Pastoral Symphony.” Schopenhauer
maintains the view that this mode of imitation must be rejected.4
The imitation of natural phenomena could never be the bearer of artistic
beauty if it were nothing more than mere imitation of the audible phenomena
and possessed only a factual similarity. More is required than this. First is the
transposition that is indispensable for every artistic representation. Secondly,
beyond all audible similarity, the atmosphere of what is represented must be
represented with musical means. This is a deep and mysterious task. Thirdly, the
theme that is employed for this purpose must itself be beautiful. We see,
therefore, how many elements must work together to make this form of the
imitative a bearer of artistic values. At the beginning of Das Rheingold, the
flowing of the great river is given in a unique manner, although the imitative
element is completely secondary compared with the representation of the poetry
of the river—we could say, compared with the beauty of the flowing in itself and
with the beauty of the musical theme.
This deeper representation already far surpasses imitation in the second
sense, since the reproduction of natural elements [Naturwelten] is not tied to this
imitation, and it can exist to a degree of perfection without making use of this
imitation. We have only to recall the “Forest Murmurs” (“Waldweben”) in
Siegfried with the poetry of the forest and the life teeming within it. The poetry
of the pastoral, an extremely important primordial phenomenon in nature, we
find in many passages in Beethoven’s sonatas and in the second movement of his
String Quartet, Opus 132. Here we come to a dimension of expression in the
broader sense of the term, but not yet to the expression we have in mind. The
poetry, the special spiritual beauty of natural phenomena, is not represented
here; rather, through purely musical means we are immersed in it. A particular
quality is made present and its beauty speaks to us without requiring that we
think of the actual natural phenomenon. There can, of course, be a reference to a
natural phenomenon, like a thunderstorm, though in the much more general
phenomenon of the pastoral, there need not be any relation whatsoever to a
concrete pastoral situation in nature.
The expression of metaphysical beauty concerns above all the possibility of
expressing through music human experiences like sorrow, joy, melancholy,
cheerfulness, and so forth.
In another work, we indicated two fundamental types of affectivity, “tender”
and “dynamic.”5 We are well aware that the terms we use for these two kinds of
affectivity are not felicitous, since the adjectives “tender” and “dynamic” do not
express everything that is meant. Nor could we find any better adjectives in
English, the language in which that book was originally written. The English
words “tender” and “dynamic” do not indicate unambiguously what in fact is a
very clear, great difference between kinds of affectivity. Only examples and a full
presentation of this difference can make it comprehensible.

Expressed tender and dynamic affectivity in absolute music

In our discussion of expression in music, we must take up anew our explanations
of this important difference, since both types occur in music. The expression
“tender” is certainly not meant to indicate a lack of ardor, highest intensity, or
power. “Tender affectivity” is the much more spiritual type of affectivity; it is the
voice of the heart. The Confessions of Saint Augustine are full of it, as are the
prayer of Saint Bonaventure, Transfige, dulcissime Domine Jesu (“Transfix, O
sweetest Lord Jesus . . .”), the Song of Songs, and the prayers of numerous
mystics. The ecstatic love for Christ that we encounter in the mystical writings
of Saint Teresa of Avila, Saint Catherine of Siena, Saint John of the Cross, and
other saints, is characteristic of this affectivity of the heart that we have called
“tender affectivity,” even though the expression “tender” is inadequate here.
On a completely different level, namely, the artistic, we find the ecstasy of
human love given artistic form in the duet, “O namenlose Freude!” (“Oh
inexpressible joy!”) in Fidelio and also in Tristan und Isolde.
As we have seen,6 there is a kind of expression in the narrowest sense of the
term in the human face, in gestures, and in bodily postures. A cry too can express
fear, pain, or despair. This expression in the narrowest sense plays a great role in
music. We presented various examples from operas above, even though we will
begin by restricting ourselves initially to absolute music. This was necessary, in
order to indicate more clearly the phenomena that are relevant here. Now,
however, in our discussion of expression in the proper sense of the term, we
restrict ourselves once again to pure music, even if expression in this sense can of
course be found in Lieder, operas, and in every other combination of music and
word.
Without question the adagio in Beethoven’s Quartet, Opus 59 no. 1 and the
adagio of his “Harp Quartet” express a deep and moving sadness. If one
compares these quartets with the closing movement of his Quartet, Opus 59 no.
2, for example, one cannot fail to see the difference in the feeling that is
expressed. The latter movement expresses an unsurpassed joyfulness. We also
find a profound sorrow in Schubert’s “Death and the Maiden Quartet,”
especially in the second movement with the variations. This expressed sorrow is
obviously not the same type of expression that we find in the human face or in a
cry full of fear, both of which express a real experience in the sphere of the visible
or audible. It is not the sorrow or joy of one particular human being that speaks
to us from this music, let alone, as is often assumed, the sorrow or joy of the
composer himself.
In music linked to words, we find a kind of expression that is far more
similar to expression in a face or a cry. In absolute music, by contrast, there is a
type of expression entirely its own. It is not a pure quality, like the joyfulness of
the radiant sky, nor is it the real experience of a particular human being. It is
indeed primarily a quality of the sad and the joyful, but it is much closer to
actually felt sadness and joy than to the joyfulness of the radiant blue sky.
Somehow it is still the voice of the heart that speaks to us, though in a wholly
general way.
Needless to say, it is not simply the quality of the sad or the joyful that
speaks to us, but a deep, noble sorrow or joy that, thanks to its great nobility,
already possesses a metaphysical beauty in itself. It is likewise needless to say that
the artistic value does not consist in a correct representation of these feelings,
which are bearers of metaphysical beauty. Rather, the real theme is the pure
musical beauty of the second power, which possesses a quasi-sacramental
character that we have already mentioned, in conjunction with the expressed
metaphysical beauty.
A piece of music is also capable of expressing great passion, excitement,
impatience, insistence, and many other kinds of “dynamic affectivity,” which
sometimes possess an expressed metaphysical beauty. The sheer power of passion
has a metaphysical beauty, as does impatient expectation. But this expressed
metaphysical beauty makes a relatively slight contribution to the overall beauty of
a piece of music. That which is expressed is above all determined by purely
musical requirements.
If we cease to consider absolute music but the combination of word and
music, the possibility of expressing passions of all kinds, such as hatred, jealousy,
ambition, and covetousness, becomes very important. Dynamic affectivity plays a
great role once the element of representation supersedes the expression
dimension. Hatred and vengefulness, for example, can be conveyed through
music in the fashioning of the characters and in the entire dramatic construction
of the work. It is, of course, impossible to speak of the metaphysical beauty of
these stances and attitudes, which have a morally negative value. Here it is not
expressed metaphysical beauty that serves the artistic beauty; rather, because it is
a question of a dramatic representation, not of a pure expression, that which is
metaphysically ugly, in its artistic transposition, can be an important factor for
the artistic greatness and beauty of the work.
Affective experiences are not alone in finding expression in music, but so
does much else from the vital sphere as well. A piece of music can express a
fullness of life. Thus, we find above all in Carl Maria von Weber a unique
freshness and fullness of life, an element of youth and the freshness of morning,
a special brightness. His music is specifically vivacious.
Music is also capable of expressing a specific exuberance. This is sometimes
the case with Beethoven, and in another way with Mozart. Examples are
Beethoven’s “Rondo a capriccio,” Opus 129 (“The Rage over a Lost Penny”), or
the scherzo in his Quartet, Opus 18 no. 5, or in Lieder by Mozart such as An
Chloe, Der Zauberer, Die kleine Spinnerin, and Warnung.
Body-feeling7 [Körpergefühl] finds expression above all in rhythm. Trivial
music expresses an embarrassing body-feeling, and this is, of course, a great
artistic disvalue.
An opera can, among other things, represent the body-feeling of a character.
In Siegfried, for example, Wagner has given a masterly representation of the
curmudgeonly, timorous, and flaccid body-feeling of Mime.
The expressive possibilities in music are virtually unlimited, and it would be
folly on our part were we to attempt to list all the contents and qualities that can
be expressed in music, even if we restricted ourselves to the type of expression
that we have in mind here and to the qualities that occur in the life and conduct
of the human person.
In its musical transposition, the expressed metaphysical beauty of a profound
and noble sorrow, the splendor of a radiant or blissful joy, the charm of
exuberance, a fresh and luminous life, constitutes an eminent factor for the
overall beauty of a piece of music. It is linked to that beauty that adheres in a
mysterious way directly to the music and that is not an expressed metaphysical
beauty.
The capacity of music to express (in the broad sense of express) human
experiences in their special quality and to make their metaphysical beauty present
is also the basis for music to become expressive in the narrower sense through
the union of music and word.
Within the representation of metaphysical beauty in music, there are still
many types and degrees of expression, in the various senses of this term. For
example, music can express love in a unique manner. This is seen most clearly, of
course, in the union of music and word, through expression in the narrower
sense. Absolute music too is capable of giving expression to the quality of love in
its metaphysical beauty. This expression, however, has a character different from
the expression of sorrow and joy. In many pieces of music, love is not expressed
in the same way as sorrow and joy. There is no purely musical indication,
analogous to “maestoso” and “allegro” for pieces of music that express love.
(“Allegro” in its primary sense in Italian means “lively” [heiter] and is not just an
indication of tempo.) When a piece of absolute music expresses love, this is a
more general—we are inclined to say, a more indirect—form of expression. The
expression of love occurs more in particular melodies and themes than in a whole
movement. What finds expression in music is more one of the many qualities of
love, one of its many aspects. The same is also true for yearning. We could more
aptly describe this form of expression as “yearning music” [sehnsüchtige Musik], a
yearning melody, music that is full of love.
It is not possible to discuss all the gradations of expression, nor all the
affective qualities that can come to expression in music. We shall return to this
in greater detail when we discuss the broad realm of the conjunction between
word and music.
In summary we must emphasize that both expression in its various forms and
the metaphysical beauty of that which is expressed can be given only with purely
artistic musical means. The mysterious process of artistic transposition must also
occur in the case of expressed metaphysical beauty. The fact that a piece of music
expresses great sorrow does not bestow any kind of artistic value on it. The
general ability to express fear or pain—a cry is also capable this—does not in
itself contain any artistic transposition. In order not simply to be sad, but to
express the nobility of a deep sorrow and to make its metaphysical beauty
present, a specifically artistic ability is required.

The expressed metaphysical beauty of moral values

Absolute music, as voice of the heart, is capable of expressing not just the
affective quality of human feelings, but also a specific moral seriousness, moral
nobility, great purity or piety. The metaphysical beauty of these moral values
unites with the purely spiritual beauty of the melodies, themes, and harmonies,
and also contributes in a supremely important manner to the overall beauty of
the musical work of art.
While it is certainly true that an expressed metaphysical ugliness of moral
disvalues must never occur in a piece of music, it need not always contain the
expressed metaphysical beauty of moral values. Above all, there are many
gradations in the significance of this beauty of moral values. This beauty appears
in a unique manner in Beethoven.
Expressed metaphysical beauty has an ancillary function in relation to the
overall beauty of the work. This does not mean that metaphysical beauty
expressed with musical means ought not to affect us deeply and move us in its
nobility. To speak of an “ancillary function” is not to assert that it is nothing
more than a means. It is only to point out that the music does not direct us
toward the metaphysical beauty that goes with moral values, and that we do not
“think” of these virtues and occupy ourselves with them.
Our attitude ought to be one of drinking in the overall, specifically artistic
beauty of a piece of music. We ought to apprehend fully the pure beauty of the
melodies, themes, harmonies, and so forth, in their independence of the
expressed metaphysical beauty. In a word: we ought to remain in the world of
art.
A whole world of spiritual contents [geistige Gehalte] can present itself to us
in a piece of music, contents of great beauty, sometimes lacking even a name,
which can no longer be called expression in the proper sense of this term and
which are fully integrated into the purely musical beauty.

1. [Editors’ note: In contrast to “program music,” which seeks to present or explore a theme, “absolute
music” is instrumental music without any extrinsic theme.]
2. [Editors’ note: See chap. 32 “The Artistic Transposition of Evil, Repulsive, Tragic, and Comic
Figures,” above, pp. 343–347.]
3. [Editors’ note: See Aesthetics, vol. 1, chaps. 6 and 9.]
4. “But the analogy discovered by the composer between these two must have come from the
immediate knowledge of the inner nature of the world unknown to his faculty of reason; it cannot be an
imitation brought about with conscious intention by means of concepts, otherwise the music does not
express the inner nature of the will itself, but merely imitates its phenomenon inadequately. All really
imitative music does this; for example, The Seasons by Haydn, also many passages of his Creation, where
phenomena of the world of perception are directly imitated; also in all battle pieces. All of this is to be
entirely rejected.” In The World As Will and Representation, 263–64. See chap. 33, footnote 4, above.
5. The Heart (South Bend, Ind.: St. Augustine’s Press, 2007), part 1, chap. 3.
6. Aesthetics, vol. 1, chap. 5.
7. See chap. 18, pp. 188–189, and chap. 22, pp. 247–250, above.
 CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

The Variety of Artistic Value Qualities in Music

Beauty in the narrower sense

MUSIC CONTAINS AN abundance of qualities that contribute to artistic beauty,
that is, qualities that are bearers of artistic beauty.
We must begin by drawing a distinction between beauty in a narrower sense
and the overall beauty [Gesamtschönheit] of a musical work of art. What we have
in mind here is a beauty of the second power1 whose quality is beautiful in a
special sense. When we hear Handel’s “Largo,” to which we have often referred,
or Mozart’s Laudate Dominum, we are struck by its sublime yet specifically
tender and heart-melting beauty. In Bach’s mighty Toccata and Fugue in D
Minor for the organ, on the other hand, we are moved and enthralled by an
artistic beauty of a general kind: that of power, precision, might, and brilliance.
The quality of beauty in the narrower sense, which usually adheres more to
melodies than to themes, shows itself in Gluck’s Orpheus and Eurydice and in
innumerable passages in Mozart. Indeed, it permeates the whole of Mozart’s
music in an unparalleled manner, such as the adagio of the Fourth Violin
Concerto in D Major, the adagios of the piano concertos, the first movement of
the Twenty-Third Piano Concerto in A Major (K. 488), countless arias, the Ave
verum, and the whole of his chamber music.
Handel’s Messiah displays this beauty more in the aria “I know that my
Redeemer liveth” than in the famous “Hallelujah” chorus in which the beauty of
the whole is determined by other qualities. Beauty in the narrower sense can
have many degrees, stages, and qualitative differences, but it always has the
character of a definite idea and an inspiration. It need not always possess the
special quality of lovely sweetness; it can also be serious and deeply moving. We
encounter this beauty in all its immediacy, mystery, and purity, in the adagio of
Beethoven’s Piano Sonata Opus 109, in the arietta of the C Minor Piano Sonata
Opus 111, and in the adagio of the ninth symphony. All words fall silent before
this beauty. Can there be a more beautiful inspired idea than the cavatina in
Beethoven’s String Quartet Opus 130 in B flat Major?
We drink of this inspired beauty with its gift-like character in Bach’s “Air,”
in the second movement of his D Minor Concerto for two Violins, and in the
aria “Erbarme dich” in the St. Matthew Passion. It speaks to us in the themes of
Bruckner’s symphonies, for example in the adagio of his seventh and ninth
symphonies. The themes of the prelude to Tristan und Isolde are incomparably
beautiful, as are those of the “Liebestod” and innumerable other passages. Many
themes in Der Ring des Nibelungen and in Die Meistersinger likewise bear this
beauty in the narrower sense. This beauty is a central element of music; the
beauty of these ideas a unique gift.
This quality is not the only artistic value quality in music, nor does it suffice
on its own for the overall beauty of a musical work of art. Thus, in this chapter
we will attempt to indicate other value qualities that are important for the overall
beauty. What we have in mind is not the kind of expression of metaphysical
beauty that we have already discussed,2 but the aesthetic values of other qualities.
We have already discussed3 the spiritual qualities contained in beauty of the
second power, and we have shown the disvalues to which this beauty forms an
antithesis. We also drew a distinction between beauty in the narrower and
broader senses, and beyond them lofty aesthetic values such as strength, power,
necessity, and depth.
Some aesthetic values are found only in the realm of the individual arts, and
not in the same way in nature and in life. It is doubtless meaningful to speak of
the “depth” of a landscape. For example, the beauty of the view from
Portovenere to the Apuan Alps or of the Gulf of Spezia in the morning has a
greater depth than the beauty of the delightful vista from Lausanne to Lake
Geneva. The beauty of the vista from the Parthenon is deeper than the view
from the Fraueninsel on Lake Chiemsee to the mountains. In the same way, one
landscape can be more sublime, or more necessary and convincing, than another.
On the other hand, it is meaningless to say that a landscape is “brilliant”
[genial] in the narrower sense of the word. When we speak of genius, we refer to
something that possesses a quality of “hitting the mark” [Getroffenheit], and this
is an expression of the human spirit.

Genius [Genialität]
The phenomenon of genius occurs not only in all kinds of art, but also in
philosophy, scientific discovery, even in the field of military strategy,
statesmanship, and in many other domains. We usually think here of a great
general, statesman, or discoverer. Napoleon was a typical genius, as was
Alexander the Great. But there is also the genius of a piece of music and of a
formulated philosophical truth. This is a value of a specific kind, which in a work
of art is an aesthetic value.
In describing a person as a “genius,” one refers to the greatness of his or her
gifts. The special value quality we have in mind, however, contains something
more specific. Certain thinkers, like Pascal4 and Kierkegaard,5 have this specific
quality of the brilliant. Great philosophers, especially Plato, Aristotle, and
Augustine, do not have it; in their case, it is superseded, so to speak, by other
qualities. As thinkers, they are even greater than those we mentioned first, but
the specific gift of genius in the narrower and proper sense plays a lesser role in
comparison with other gifts that are even more important.
The fact that genius can be predicated not only of great personalities but also
of achievements outside the sphere of art undoubtedly sheds light on the union
of this quality and the human spirit. To call the Gospel “brilliant” [genial] would
obviously be blasphemous and would betray a total misunderstanding, since the
Gospel is an expression of divine revelation. This supposed praise would also be
completely inapplicable to the letters of the Apostles. Far from being praise at
all, it would be a radical failure to grasp the nature of these letters.6
When we call an artist a “genius,” we intend to characterize his importance
and greatness, in distinction to a less important artist whose gifts are indeed
beautiful and gratifying, but who does not attain a certain greatness and depth.
The predicate “brilliant” [genial] can also be applied meaningfully and
fittingly to a work of art, either as a whole or to a particular passage, say, in a
play, an opera, or in absolute music, or even just to a particular phrase. In all
these instances, “brilliant” designates a quality of artistic invention that comes to
full expression in the work. It is an invention marked by the potency of
inspiration, by boldness and unconventionality, by that quality of “hitting the
nail on the head”—elements by which a work of art reveals its character as an
expression of the human spirit.
In chapter 2 we wrote that it is wrong to see the content of a work of art as
the expression of the artist’s person. What we meant was that the meaning and
value of a work of art do not consist in being the expression of an interesting and
exceptional personality. We pointed out that the artist is a vates, a seer, as Plato
shows in the Ion, a discoverer, a human being who receives a special inspiration
that he attempts to capture in an object, namely, a work of art. The work of art is
an expression of the artistic process, of the artistic discovery, invention, and
rendering in objective form [objektivierenden Gestaltung]; but it is not primarily
an expression of the artist as a human being, his character, ethos, virtues, and
defects. As we have said, this affirmation is not at all meant to deny that the
human ethos of the artist is also reflected in the work of art, more so in some
artists than in others. This is not the central meaning of the work of art,
however, and its values do not depend on the extent to which an artist has
succeeded in giving objective expression of his personality within the work.
The genius of a work or a phrase, as in Schubert’s String Quintet, Opus 163,
is a specific expression of the artistic process. The boldness of the idea, the inner
necessity, the ability to “hit the mark,” all presuppose that such a work was
created by a human spirit with special artistic gifts. Genius aims at a quality that
has been fully objectified in the work of art, a quality that also reflects the value
of the idea, the manner of its shaping, and thus reflects an artistic activity. This
genius is a lofty value. It is a wonderful thing when the genius of a work or a
passage shines forth, when this mysterious richness of a work of art gives us
wings and fills us with enthusiasm.
The genius of Aristotle’s Organon certainly possesses much that is analogous
to artistic genius, yet it is not the same. Genius in the realm of art must be
regarded as a lofty aesthetic value, in distinction, for example, to genius in the
sphere of philosophical knowledge. The fact that beauty is thematic in all the
arts, unlike philosophical knowledge where truth is the theme, means that genius
as it occurs in both spheres differs also in a qualitative sense.
It is important to distinguish the value of genius in a work of art from beauty
in the narrower sense. The special character of this value lies in the way it
illuminates the connection between the creative activity and the work of art. This
is not the case for the beauty of a work of art. The unparalleled beauty of
Mozart’s Ave verum or the “Et incarnatus est” in his Mass in C Minor, the
adagio in Beethoven’s ninth symphony, or Michelangelo’s Dying Slave does not
at all present itself as the expression of an artistic activity; it simply appears on
the pedestal of the visible and audible. In the case of genius, however, we enjoy
the completely successful character and greatness of the artistic invention and
achievement.
The aesthetic value of genius as such is usually united to beauty in the
narrower sense, but it can also occur where this beauty scarcely appears. The
genius of an idea, a modulation, or a kind of continuation or a conclusion is the
expression of a special capacity of the spirit, a totally irreducible creative power
[uroriginären Geisteskraft]. It is an element that enchants and delights us in a very
particular way. Genius is like a flashing up of the spirit, an achievement of a
special kind, which makes itself felt in a turn of phrase or a musical idea, and can
possess a specific charm. It is related to ésprit, in the highest meaning of that
word. Many passages in the music of Berlioz are full of ésprit. His jugglers
chorus, “Venez, venez, peuple de Rome” (“Come, come, people of Rome”) in
Benvenuto Cellini—an opera with many weak and boring passages, by the way—
is definitely a work of genius. His adaptation of the Radoczy March in La
damnation de Faust and many passages in his other works likewise have this
character of genius. Another typical expression of genius occurs when the music
moves in reverse, so to speak, when the Count discovers Cherubino in the first
act of Mozart’s Figaro.

Power [Kraft], significance [Bedeutendheit], and depth [Tiefe]

In music we also find the beauty of power [Kraft], not in the sense of the
depiction of power, like in a thunderstorm as we have already discussed, but of a
musical sonority and especially the manner of its treatment, for example, in
Bach’s mighty Toccata and Fugue for the organ. Many of Bach’s endings have
this power. Two other examples, both in his St. Matthew Passion, are the double
chorus, “Sind Blitze, sind Donner in Wolken verschwunden?” (“Have
lightening, have thunder vanished into the clouds?”) and the cry, “Barabbam!”
The beauty of all this is breathtaking, but its quality is different from beauty in
the narrower sense. Consider the power of the development in Bach’s fugues and
the triumphant strength in Beethoven! This triumphant beauty is also a different
quality from beauty in the narrower sense. There is something glorious in its
quality, as in the last movement of Beethoven’s fifth symphony, his Egmont
Overture, and his “Leonore Overture No. 3.” In the “Ride of the Valkyries” in
Wagner’s Die Walküre, we are enthralled by the beauty of its magnificent power,
the captivating power of its conception, its rhythm, the beauty of boldness, the
intense, burning ardor coupled with the unique quality of coolness. This beauty
of the triumphant, glorious, and bold adheres immediately to the music. We
have here not an expressed metaphysical beauty but a beauty that adheres directly
to the musical idea and its development in the musical work.
We come now to further lofty value qualities of an aesthetic kind: the
significance and depth—we are tempted to say the envergure, or breadth—of a
musical idea, and also the depth of beauty in the narrower sense mentioned at
the outset of this chapter.
 There are melodies that possess this beauty in the narrower sense, such as
Tommaso Giordani’s “Caro mio ben” and Martini’s song, “Plaisir d’amour.” Their
beauty cannot be compared to the above-mentioned examples from the works of
Handel, Bach, Mozart, Beethoven, Wagner, and Bruckner. Not only are the
latter incomparably more beautiful, and not only is the kind of their beauty
realized to a much higher degree, it is also much deeper and more significant.
The “word” spoken in this beauty is incomparably more content-rich and
necessary. The range within beauty in the narrower sense is so great that only
from a certain level onward can one even speak in the full sense of beauty of the
second power. On the one hand, the artistically important dimension of depth
and significance shows itself in the degree of beauty in the narrower sense; on
the other hand, it is also an element of beauty in the broader sense and an
important bearer of the overall value of a work of art.
Significance, weightiness, and depth are themselves also high aesthetic or,
rather, artistic values. They delight, impress, and enthrall us. They are an
essential dimension of the work of art. But it would be a great error to suppose
that these qualities are either identical with or necessarily linked to the beauty of
power or of the triumphant. They also unite with beauty in the narrower sense,
and we can encounter them both in the tenderest, sublime melodies and in
powerful melodies. They are present in their highest form in the theme of the
first movement of Beethoven’s ninth symphony and also in the adagio, the
scherzo, and the last movement.

Perfection
Another dimension, namely, perfection, finds its specific expression in the
masterwork. Perfection too is a decidedly artistic value, which occurs less in
melodies and themes than in the new totality [Ganzheit] of the piece of music
and in the larger totalities of the quartet, the sonata, and the symphony.
On the qualitative hierarchy of perfection we find both a relatively peripheral
degree, a completeness, a precision, a complete execution and realization of what
the composer wants to say, and also a perfection of uttermost depth. We do not
mean a union of perfection and depth, which, of course, plays a great role, even
though perfection and depth are in fact two different value dimensions, which
certainly need not appear together. There are works of depth that do not possess
a specific perfection. They are not masterpieces in the full sense of the term but
are rather sketched out in broad lines.
In speaking of a deeper perfection, we mean neither the depth that can be
coupled with perfection nor the new element in perfection that results from its
union with depth. We mean a higher kind of perfection that has not only the
character of being felicitous, well-made, and successful [Geglückt, Gutgemachten,
Gelungenen]. This perfection is found wherever the unity of a piece of music
remains fully preserved, no boring passages occur, the stream of ideas is
uninterrupted, and everything fits together and is completely worked through.
This perfection can occur even when the individual ideas are not beautiful. If
we consider the perfection of an operetta like Johann Strauss’s Die Fledermaus,
which is a masterpiece of its kind, many of its melodies lack any artistic beauty in
the narrower sense and often border on the trivial. The same applies to a
“masterpiece” like Bizet’s Carmen, which displays great perfection even though
its overall world is by no means filled with a true poetry. Most of its themes are
not beautiful in the narrower sense, and some come close to being trivial.
What a great difference there is between the perfection of Mozart’s Figaro,
its character as a masterpiece, and the perfection of Die Fledermaus or Carmen!
Figaro is not just full of a lofty artistic world, its perfection not just linked with
the sublime beauty of its musical melodies and themes, its perfection also
possesses a further character, becoming a phenomenon that is simultaneously
deeper and higher. A far more significant and developed artistic talent is needed
to create a perfected masterpiece in this sense than to create a “masterpiece” in
quotation marks.
Even among genuine artistic masterpieces, there is a considerable gradation.
Rossini’s The Barber of Seville is a genuinely artistic but still relatively peripheral
masterwork. Carl Maria von Weber’s Freischütz is a higher masterpiece, and
Mozart’s Figaro still much higher. Although we make recourse to operas in the
illustration of the phenomenon of perfection, this phenomenon can be found
equally in absolute music—both perfection per se and its qualitatively various
degrees.
Perfection is a more formal element than beauty, which is a typical instance
of a material, that is, qualitative, element. Nevertheless, in its higher form,
perfection is a great value. As already mentioned, perfection refers only to the
musical totality, not to individual melodies and themes as such. Perfection
encompasses the element of unity, the logic of the whole work, the unbroken
inspiration, the absence of boring passages, and the satisfying conclusion. It also
includes the full unfolding and realization of the themes, convincing transitions,
and the recapitulation of the themes. Beyond all of this, the higher form of
perfection requires the unity of the atmosphere, the artistic “world,” of the
musical work.

Degrees of necessity and inner logic

We must draw a distinction between perfection and inner necessity [innere
Notwendigkeit] which, unlike perfection, can already characterize a melody or
theme, though naturally it is also a factor in the construction of an entire piece of
music. We said that perfection encompasses the logic of the musical execution,
and one could be tempted to equate this logic with inner necessity. But this
would be inaccurate. Inner necessity is also found in the other arts and even in a
landscape. If a piece of music, a melody, or a theme possesses this inner
necessity, we feel compelled to say, “Yes, this is how it must be! This is how it
ought to be!” But when we hear a melody that is pleasant but not necessary, we
say, “This is how it can be, but it could just as well be different.”
There are two dimensions of artistic necessity. The first refers to the “word”
that is spoken in a melody, a theme, or an entire piece of music, the second to its
inner logic. We have just spoken about the first necessity. It contains a certain
analogy to the necessity that is possessed by an essential law in distinction to a
merely factual state-of-affairs. This, of course, is only a remote analogy, since
what is involved in artistic necessity is not truth but beauty, and above all not
something real but something invented, not the discovery of something that
exists but an idea. Nevertheless, there is a profound analogy. Inventing also
includes an element of seeing and apprehension of something that exists. Plato is
not wrong to call the poet a “seer,” and this applies equally to the composer.
Artistic invention does not have the character of an arbitrary fiction. Rather, it
includes an element of “hitting” on something. In artistic invention, something
objective is seen, especially in the moment of insight, in the inspiration, which
has the character of coming to the artist as a gift, a decidedly receptive element.
In addition, there is the development [Ausarbeitung] of the work, its
realization, the uttering of its word. Doubtless, all of this in a much more general
sense is also a gift from God, for development also requires a continuous
inspiration. But with this development, an active element does come into play, a
fashioning that is clearly different from inspiration, from the discovery of
something for which we have no name. It is here, in the discovering of
something that finds its realization in a melody or in an entire piece of music,
that we find the distant analogy to the discovery of an essential law. The analogy
is only distant since both discoveries are completely different. The nature of
discovery is different, the necessity is different, and the act of discovering is
different in the two cases. Nevertheless, the fact of having hit upon something
objective, the necessity of the word that is spoken in the work of art, bears an
analogy to the necessity of an essential law.
This brings us to the mysterious fact that there is also, in an analogous sense,
a truth in music, and indeed in art as a whole. Clearly this is not the truth that
can adhere only to assertion and that involves a correspondence with an existing
state-of-affairs. Rather, it is truth in a wider sense, truth that shares in the
splendor and dignity of truth in the literal sense of the term.
This truth must not be confused with the exactness of depiction in the
imitative arts.
As we have said, necessity can refer to the word spoken in the work of art,
and naturally also includes the inner truth of this word. This necessity is the
radical antithesis of all that is unnecessary, arbitrary, and superfluous. But it is
also absent in a piece of music that is not lacking beauty and charm, but in which
no necessary word is spoken. There are many degrees of necessity in music that
belong to the domain of works wherein necessary words are uttered. Beethoven’s
ninth symphony represents an unparalleled zenith of this necessity, from the first
note to the last.
One further important distinction must be drawn in the context of the
necessity of the “word” spoken in a musical work. In some cases, the necessity of
a word derives from its particular character [Eigenart]. Such a word differs from
all the other “words” spoken in music. Unlike these, it derives its necessity not
from depth, validity, and inner truth, but from its own particular character.
This necessity based on particular character is often linked to another
necessity that derives from the fact that a piece of music embodies the spirit of
an epoch in a special way and that its word can—and in a certain sense must—be
spoken only in this historical moment. The necessity of the particular character
of the word (which sharply differs from all other words spoken in music) is not
identical to this historical necessity, though they often go hand in hand. Both
must be distinguished from the necessity of depth, significance, and inner truth.
Carl Maria von Weber’s Der Freischütz possesses not only the necessity of
depth and inner truth but also the necessity of the unique word the qualitative
character of which has no counterpart. Indeed, Weber’s spirit, and thus his
special character, is found in his other works. But as Furtwängler has so
beautifully and correctly explained in his essay “Der Freischütz,”7 this opera is an
incomparable entity, a masterpiece, and moreover a very special word that had to
be said at one time. It is a characteristic word of Romanticism,8 not as this term
is often used, but in the sense of the “blue flower” of the Romantic era, the world
of Eichendorff’s From the Life of a Good-for-Nothing and the poems of Novalis.
In Der Freischütz, the necessity of both the qualitative character of the word
uttered and of the historical moment outweighs the necessity of depth and inner
truth, although these are certainly not lacking in this delightful work. In Figaro,
on the other hand, the inner necessity of the word that is spoken is much greater
and deeper, although it does not possess either the particular character of a
special word or a historical necessity. The word that is uttered in Figaro derives
its inner necessity completely from the truth, depth, and significance of this
work.
The works of Chopin are likewise examples of a “word” whose necessity
derives from its particular quality, from its own special character. But there is
also a limitation in this necessity, individuality, and focus on a particular
qualitative character. While Chopin’s works do not belong to those that reveal
what is deepest and most authentic, having, so to speak, voluntarily accepted this
limitation, their existence is a great enrichment. Of their kind of necessity, one
can above all say: their word ought to be spoken; its absence would be a loss.
It is crucial that we apprehend clearly the necessity of depth and inner truth.
The mention of the secondary necessity (that of particular character) is meant to
let the first necessity (that of depth and inner truth) emerge all the more clearly.
This is why we do not discuss the secondary necessity in detail, although much
could be said about it. It suffices to point out this inherently interesting
phenomenon. To avoid misunderstanding, let us add that historical necessity
does not, as such, guarantee any kind of artistic value. Certainly, a work that
possesses this historical necessity will not be weak, badly constructed, or
unsuccessful. It will not be a boring, nondescript work. But it may perhaps be a
trivial work with a negative value in artistic terms, a work that would better have
not seen the light of day.
We come now to the second dimension of necessity, namely, that of the
inner logic of a piece of music. This is related to the totality of a piece of music,
its construction, to all the steps taken in realizing it, and to its artistic unity.
Every melody must possess a certain necessity of this kind so that this new
structure can be constituted at all and not remain a mere stringing together of
notes. The necessity required for this is not yet an aesthetic value, but it is
indispensable if a melody, which is a bearer of aesthetic qualities, is even to be
constituted. It is no less indispensable for a popular tune than for a noble and
glorious melody.
 The necessity of inner logic, by contrast, is a pronounced aesthetic value. It is
a feature of the melody, not the indispensable precondition for the coming into
existence of the melody. It can inhere in one melody more than in another. The
more inspired the idea, the more powerful also is this necessity of the logic of a
melody.
In what follows, we are interested in the essential conditions [Sosein-Müssen]
for the necessity of inner logic, not in relation to melodies and themes but
primarily in relation to an entire piece of music, whether this consists of one or
several movements.
The logic in the construction of a piece of music is analogous to logic in
thinking, that is, to logic in the sense of reasoning. It is not by chance that
analogies between music and mathematics have often been pointed out, as was
done already by Pythagoras and by St. Augustine in his work De Musica. This
analogy concerns first of all the material of music, such as the musical scale, and
so forth. But the analogy to logic that we mean here is of a different kind. It is
displayed in the construction of a musical piece, in the treatment of its melodies
and themes, in its progression and realization. Just as the conclusion of a logical
inference necessarily and meaningfully follows from the premises, so,
analogously, the music progresses meaningfully in a work of art, in contrast to a
chaotic or a disintegrating piece of music that does not attain any unity.
Inner logic can be developed to a greater or lesser degree. It can fall short or
it can exceed all expectations, like in Beethoven where the inner form, as
Furtwängler discusses,9 represents a new invention in every moment.
We must also draw a distinction between inner logic and inner necessity.
The antithesis to the inner necessity of a piece of music is the boringness of a
structure that has taken its form by chance, where one feels that it might just as
well not have been composed. Not every piece of music that possesses inner logic
need be full of inner necessity. This necessity has a convincing character: “Yes,
that is how it is, how it must be!” It is found in all the arts, and in nature too. It
is something deeper and more central than the inner logic, but in music it
presupposes the inner logic.
It is extraordinary when the unfolding of a piece of music, the progression of
its themes, the alternation in its rhythm, the harmonic modulations, and the
cooperation of its voices have this convincing logic and make the impression of
something absolutely necessary. This applies eminently to Beethoven, but we
find the necessity of unity and the logic of construction in all the masterpieces of
the great composers, whether in Bach’s suites, Brandenburg Concertos, and
organ works, or in Mozart’s 38th, 39th, 40th, and 41st symphonies, and in his
important piano concertos. There are varying degrees of this necessity, though
certainly it is realized to a very outstanding degree in Beethoven’s oeuvre.
The necessity of the unity of a work or of the logic of its construction is a
great artistic value since it contributes very significantly to the artistic beauty of
the entire work.
It must be explicitly emphasized that this necessity has nothing to do with an
academic clarity. Indeed, it is the opposite of this. A merely mechanical
execution, a construction that has nothing illogical and is not chaotic but follows
a clear and academic rule, certainly lacks the necessity of inner logic. This
necessity is not an empty norm imposed from the outside but an organic
coherence, a construction demanded, so to speak, by the themes and melodies
and a living progression. It appears in a great variety of forms and types and is as
such an important bearer of artistic beauty. What delight this logic imparts in
Bach’s fugues!
An organic construction leaves room for many surprises, such as the glorious,
serene theme in the final movement of Schubert’s incomparable String Quartet
in C Major, Opus 163, or the new theme in Brahms’s first symphony, which
begins very broadly with the strings in the final movement.
This necessity of the inner logic and the organic unity is always sustained by
an inspiration. It is a genitum (begotten), not a factum (made). It attains its high
point when, as in Beethoven, it is like a continuously new invention. Furtwängler
has written very beautifully on this subject in his book Ton und Wort.10

The “life” in music [Das Leben in der Musik]

Linked to this necessity is another element of a musical work of art, one opposed
to all that is academic and mechanical, namely, the fullness of life—a
phenomenon sui generis in a piece of music.
We are not thinking here of the vital, which can possess a special kind of
animation, occurs only in certain pieces of music, and is a characteristic trait of a
particular kind of music. We have referred already to this kind of liveliness and
brightness in the compositions of Carl Maria von Weber.11
We are thinking of something much more general that can occur in a great
variety of forms, namely, the inner life a piece of music must possess if it is to be
a true work of art. What a fullness of life we find in Bach’s works for the organ!
What an inexhaustible wealth in Beethoven’s sonatas or in Mozart’s chamber
music! The life of music need not consist in a vital animation but is contained in
every potent musical work. It is the opposite of the boring, impotent piece of
music that lives only in virtue of the fact that it was composed, printed, and
performed. Such pieces of music are dead. They do not exist as autonomous
structures. They resemble nondescript, barren utterances and theses that have no
other existence than the fact that someone has asserted them and they lack the
weight they would have if they were true.
Certainly, the fact that a piece of music is not dead in this sense is no
guarantee of its artistic beauty. But every true musical work of art possesses this
life. If all the other presuppositions for a true work of art are fulfilled, this life of
its own [Eigenleben] of a piece of music is a lofty aesthetic value.

Unified character [Einheitlichkeit] and contrast

Related to the necessity of the unity of a piece of music is its unified character
[Einheitlichkeit] as such. This applies both to an individual piece of music and to
a work that consists of several movements. A unified character is again a
fundamental artistic value. A work can contain many beautiful ideas and yet not
be unified. Although this does not destroy the beauty of those ideas, it is
unquestionably an artistic flaw.
A unified character can be of a more formal nature, but it can also concern
the unity of the “world,” the ethos of the work as a whole. To be unified in this
latter sense is much more essential. It is a great and unfortunate artistic flaw
when a theme or transition completely alien to the “world” of the piece suddenly
occurs, let alone causes this world to sink from a noble height into triviality.
Having a unified “world” is one of those elements that is a value only in the
framework of genuine beauty. If a piece of music is unified in its triviality, this is
certainly not an artistic value. There are qualities in the moral sphere, such as
energy and consistency, that are capable of heightening both good and evil,
making the morally bad person even worse and more dangerous, but the good
person morally even better. Similarly, being qualitatively unified in the realm of
art (and hence also in music) is a heightening asset. Doubtless this unified
character is itself an aesthetic value, but if the crucial artistic value, namely,
beauty in the narrower sense, true power and depth, is lacking, then it is no
longer an asset. Not only does it fail to save a musical work that is nondescript
and boring, it also fails to confer any value on the work, which remains
something neutral. In a piece that is trivial and artistically disvaluable, it even
heightens the disvalue.
 If a unified qualitative character ensures that everything in a genuine work of
art stands at the same level, it constitutes a great artistic value. If the power of
the ideas remains, so to speak, constant at every moment, then the work
possesses a lofty artistic perfection. This is not even the case with all the works of
the great masters, who sometimes composed weaker pieces. Nothing else could
be expected, and this is no argument against their greatness and significance as
artists. Not only are there many occasional works that an artist decides to execute
only under compulsion and without full commitment, one cannot expect that an
artist will be equally inspired every time.
There is something particularly glorious when every movement and every
passage in a great and significant work possess the same power, beauty, and
necessity, and when there is this unified character with respect to the rank of the
value [Werthöhe]. This applies to innumerable great musical works, although not
always to the same extent, since there are various degrees here too. Once again,
Beethoven’s entire oeuvre is the example in which this is realized to the highest
extent. And of all his works, the ninth symphony reaches a special pinnacle.
Completely different from the unified character of the rank of the value is
the unity of style and atmosphere, which certainly need not always be present. In
some pieces of music, which are fully unified in the first sense of the term,
completely different atmospheres contrast with one another. If the unified
character of the style and the atmosphere belongs to the very meaning of the
“word” that is spoken in a work of art, however, then its realization is both a
great achievement and a high artistic value.
Contrast is another element capable of bearing lofty values in every domain
of art. At first glance, it might appear that this is incompatible with a unified
character, but that would be a great mistake. The compatibility that encompasses
a unified character must not be confused with similarity. If, however, similarity is
understood in terms of artistic rank, namely, beauty and power of an equal level,
then it is indeed a precondition for being unified, for remaining on the same
level. But this kind of similarity must be completely distinguished from
qualitative similarity.
Contrast involves a qualitative difference. Contrasts between forte and piano,
adagio and presto, legato and staccato are important in every piece of music.
They belong to the life of the piece, and it is obvious that they do not disturb but
build up the unified character.
The qualitative variety of an artist’s ideas has a high value and is a bearer of
the wealth of a musical work. But this presupposes that this variety is compatible
in a special manner. Contrast, in which not just different but antithetical
elements meet one another, is an extremely important factor in art in general. It
allows each of the contrasting elements to shine forth more strongly in its
specific character, and a new aesthetic phenomenon is born. Consider here the
color contrast in many pictures, or the contrast in Macbeth (already mentioned)
between the murder of Duncan and the scene with the porter. The horror of the
night and this terrible deed are uniquely heightened by the porter’s speech,
which is full of classical comedy; indeed, their contrast is itself the bearer of
special beauty.
It is clear, however, that this true artistic contrast encompasses not only the
antithetical difference but also a profound and meaningful connection or, better,
an artistic compatibility. The contrast of colors in pictures, which is a bearer of
beauty, consists not only in an antithetical difference but also in a meaningful
compatibility, in distinction to a clash of colors. Certain antitheses in colors cry
out that they are irreconcilable. This is not a contrast but rather a pronounced
dissonance. True contrast, which is an important means in art and the bearer of a
high aesthetic value, by no means stands in contradiction to being unified.
We find this contrast in Beethoven’s “Pastoral Symphony” between the
thunderstorm and the incomparable theme that follows it—first the agitation
and the violence of the storm, and then the phenomenon of brightening up, the
establishment of peace and serenity. But not just contrast is a bearer of lofty
aesthetic values. Variety in general—the wealth of the artist’s ideas, the themes,
phrases, harmonies, and transpositions—is not in any way an antithesis to being
unified. It constitutes an antithesis to monotony but also comes together with
being unified. Only in association with a unified character can variety unfold the
wealth of music in all its splendor and abundance. Variety will never be able to
flower as an artistic value in its own right if the wealth of artistic ideas and their
variation are only juxtaposed or even chaotic. In a work of art, variety also
requires a profound organic unity, a composition, and the inner meaningful
connection and harmony of that which is different.
If this requirement is met, then difference represents abundance and is
profoundly united to the inner life of the work of art.

Importance [Bedeutsamkeit], confession [Bekenntnis], and ethos in a work of art

Another element, also a bearer of the artistic beauty of the whole work, is
importance [Bedeutsamkeit]. This quality need not play a special role in every
great and beautiful piece of music. “Importance” here does not mean the
significance of which we have spoken, which is linked to the depth, beauty, and
potency of a work of art. Nor do we have in mind the importance that belongs to
all values, in distinction to the neutral and the indifferent.12
We refer here to a quality, or rather to a value of a special kind, that includes
a certain explicitness, a consciousness with which the artist speaks his word,
whether in literature or in music. There are sentences in literature that possess a
special weight and possess this importance both because of their content and the
place in which they are spoken. This importance is a quality of the work of art,
but it is also an expression of the conscious intention of the artist. This
importance also occurs in music. It is the characteristic of certain works and
constitutes an antithesis to music that naïvely flows along.
This importance is related to the necessity we mentioned above. It is as if the
composer were reaching back to the beginning of things [als hole der Komponist
weit aus], as if he were uttering a conscious, explicit word. Some conductors have
a special talent for bringing out this importance to the full. Furtwängler had this
talent, and it made him the conductor of Beethoven par excellence, since this
importance is especially characteristic of Beethoven’s music.
It is, of course, found in many works by Bach and Mozart too. We have only
to think of Mozart’s unsurpassed String Quartet in G Minor (K. 516) and the
adagio of his Piano Concerto in C Major, no. 21 (K. 467). We also find it in
many passages in Wagner and Bruckner.
This importance, through which the composer, as it were, calls to us, “Wake
up!”, perhaps reaches its highpoint in Beethoven’s ninth symphony.
Naturally, this summons by the composer, this objectified announcement,
must be justified by the greatness, depth, and beauty of the word that is spoken.
The importance can be the bearer of a lofty value if the “word” spoken, the
summons that lies in the appeal, is completely fulfilled. If it remains only an
unfulfilled intention, the result in fact is a definite aesthetic disvalue or artistic
flaw. Then we have a false importance, a presumptuous claim, an empty gesture
that at best is ridiculous.
This brings us to another essential element that is not a specific value like
importance, but rather a particular characteristic of certain pieces of music and
not a requirement for the full artistic value of a piece of music. This is the fact
that there are many musical works of great beauty that do not possess this
importance and for which it belongs to their specific character to lack it.
In general, a requirement for all authentic works of art is that the intention
given objective expression in the work is fulfilled, that the artist succeeds in
giving what he wants to give in a work, and that there is no disproportion
between the intention and what is realized. The artist need not inform us in any
way about his intention, of course. Rather, this is perceptible and objectified in
the work itself. There can be many reasons for a discrepancy between intention
and fulfillment.
Let us mention one other specific characteristic that occurs in music and has
much in common with importance. A musical work can have a confessional
character [Bekenntnischarakter]. If the content of the confession is a bearer of a
metaphysical beauty, and the form of the confession is specifically artistic, this
element can be profoundly moving and a lofty and artistic value. But its lack is by
no means a disvalue.
We must draw a clear distinction between confession and the ethos that
permeates a piece of music. Every piece of music necessarily contains a particular
ethos, the depth, height, and nobility of which are essential factors for the value
of the work of art. The music of many operettas, operas, and other works is
marked by an impure ethos. There is also music the ethos of which is weak,
lacking objectivity, self-absorbed, or awkward. All of this is incompatible with a
true work of art. The sublime, angelic ethos in Mozart’s music, the profound,
moral, pure, heroic ethos in Beethoven, the ethos of gentleness, kindness, and
delightful ease in Haydn belong essentially to the artistic greatness of their
music. The intertwining of the moral and the artistic world of values is of great
importance.
It should be noted that we are not speaking of the ethos of the artist in his
life—not of the ethos of the person whom we come to know through
biographies. Our only concern here is the ethos of the work of art, which is a
completely objective quality of the work and in which no element directly recalls
the character of the artist. Nevertheless, the metaphysical beauty of the moral
sphere and artistic beauty are profoundly interwoven.
By contrast, the personality of the artist manifests itself in the confessional
aspect. It does not necessarily reveal what he has completely realized in his
character, but it does disclose his ultimate intention, his interior orientation.
This confessional character operates through purely artistic means. It has
nothing in common with the tendency to make a work of art an instrument of
propaganda; indeed, it is completely opposed to this. It is not in any way
required for a great work of art, but where it does exist, it is the bearer of a
specific and even artistic value that affects us in a very special way and moves us
personally.
 It is a great error to interpret this confessional character as a subjective
element, as a disturbance of the full objectivity or objective realization of a work
of art. That would be correct only if the confession were purely subjective, a note
of self-importance, ingratiation, and nothing but the artist’s need to pour out his
heart to us. But this would be an embarrassing, subjectivist form of confession
due to both its content and manner. We find such pseudo-confessions in
sentimental works that are “romantic” in a negative sense of this term and
contain a sort of self-indulgence.
The confessional character as such is the antithesis of this subjectivism. It is
completely objective. It contains a profound analogy to the confession of
Socrates, as we find it in the Apology, Gorgias, and Phaedo of Plato. This
confessional character pervades the work of Søren Kierkegaard. We find it in the
most moving manner in Michelangelo’s Deposition from the Cross in Santa Maria
del Fiore, the cathedral of Florence. This confession is a specifically objective
message, but it presupposes a special consciousness in the artist. Donatello’s
glorious works do not have the confessional character of Michelangelo.
Beethoven’s music bears it in all his important works;13 it is not found in
Mozart.

The artistic quality of “being stimulating” [Anregendheit]

A completely different artistic value quality in musical works is a specific way of
“being stimulating” [Anregendheit], a brilliant way of being interesting. Beyond
all the value qualities mentioned above, it can lie in the way a theme is developed
and a new theme suddenly begins. This stimulating quality is in fact a decidedly
artistic quality. It possesses a certain analogy in literature, for example, in the
works of Dostoevsky, but also in certain philosophical works, such as those of
Kierkegaard.
This quality manifests a specific creative achievement [Geistesleistung] of the
author. It is a delight afforded to us by the genius of the author, though we are
not thinking of the personality of the author, but of the stimulating quality in
objective form [objektivierte Anregendheit]. This quality reveals itself in its special
effect on us. While beauty in the narrower sense moves us and makes us deeply
happy, and while greatness and power fill us with enthusiasm, the quality of
“being stimulating” has a completely different effect. It enchants us and gives us
wings, it transports us into a world of that which is intellectually interesting in
the best sense of the word, into the world of brilliant ideas and the charm of
artistic talent.
 This quality of “being stimulating,” which is a unique value all its own, is not
a requirement for the artistic value of a piece of music. But when it is present, it
definitely has the character of a real artistic value. In many works it is surpassed
by beauty, depth, and seriousness, but it can also be united to these, as in
Bruckner and Schubert, and, of course, in Beethoven.

1. See Aesthetics, vol. 1, chaps. 9 and 10.

2. [Editors’ note: See chap. 34.]
3. In Aesthetics, vol. 1, chaps. 10 and 17.
4. For example, when he says, “How comes it that a cripple does not offend us, but that a fool does?
Because a cripple recognizes that we walk straight, whereas a fool declares that it is we who are silly; if it
were not so we should feel pity and not anger.” (Pensées II, frag. 80, trans. W. F. Trotter [New York: E. P.
Dutton & Co., 1958], 23).
5. He aptly remarks, “[O]ur generation does not stop with faith, does not stop with the miracle of
faith, turning water into wine—it goes further and turns wine into water.” (“Problemata. Preliminary
Expectoration,” Fear and Trembling, trans. Howard V. Hong and Edna H. Hong [Princeton, N.J.:
Princeton University Press, 1983], 37).
6. On this see Kierkegaard, Training in Christianity, P. 1, “Halt!”, i, c, trans. Walter Lowrie
(Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1964),. 28–34.
7. In Ton und Wort, 212ff. (see chap. 33, p. 384, n. 8, above).
8. [Editors’ note: On the term “Romantik,” see also the discussion in the essay, “Beethoven,” in
Dietrich von Hildebrand, Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert (Regensburg: Habbel, 1964), 46ff.]
9. “Beethoven und wir,” 226ff.
10. See “Die Weltgültigkeit Beethovens,” 184ff., and “Beethoven und wir,” 237ff.
11. See chap. 34, p. 392.
12. In our Ethics (Chicago: Franciscan Herald Press, 1972), chap. 3, we have characterized values, in
distinction to other categories of importance, as that which is important-in-itself.
13. See also “Beethoven,” in Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert, 67ff.
 CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

The Lied [Das Kunstlied]1

The heightening of expression through the union of word and music

MUSIC AND WORD can contract a unique “marriage.” In its various types—
Lieder, opera, music drama, oratorio, Gregorian chant, and Masses—this union
often leads to works of art of the highest perfection.
Many people believe this union could never produce anything as great as
what is produced in the sphere of pure music and pure literature. They assert
that this union is always a concession, either on the part of the music or on the
part of the poem. Schopenhauer regards it as an indispensable condition that the
word must serve the music and take a subordinate position.2
There is no basis whatsoever for the idea that a union of music and word
sullies the music and thus represents a compromise, as if this union would
prevent the music from freely unfolding its own logos.
This idea is just as erroneous as the position that every marriage, even one
that grows out of mutual and profoundest love, is a limitation on the freedom of
the individual and on the full development of his or her true self, and thus that
marriage is a compromise.
It is, on the contrary, a special gift of God that these two spheres of art,
which convey their artistic content with such different means, can unite so
wonderfully, and that something so great results, something neither sphere on its
own could afford. While the union of these two arts does not grant us something
greater than either art on its own, it does give us something completely new and
equally great.
It is not as if, after the full development of music without words, people
suddenly had the idea of attempting this union as something special. On the
contrary, the most original form of music is surely song, in which words and
music are combined.
Our starting point must be the heightening [Steigerung] that singing can
represent relative to speaking. In song, the hovering, rhythmical, poetic element
that sometimes lies in the spoken word is heightened. The transition from the
spoken to the sung word is an ascent of a specific kind, a formal rising up, a
striving to get beyond the mere practical function of communication, an
unpragmatic way of expressing oneself. Sometimes it is a heightening of
solemnity, at others a heightening of the expressive element in a word; and at
still others, an elevated form of speaking and of the dignity contained in
speaking.
Above all, however, singing is a heightening of the expression of the inner
processes of joy, sorrow, yearning, and love that are described in words. Cantare
amantis est, says Saint Augustine, “Singing belongs to the one who loves.”3 It is
not by chance that this highest stance of the human being, the praise of God, the
expression of his love for God, was already heightened among the Jews through
the singing of the Psalms, and that Gregorian chant is a unique expression of the
ascent from speaking to singing, a supremely organic union of word and sound.
We recognize clearly in this heightening the “pre-established harmony” between
word and sound. Just as meter in poetry, epic, and drama in a sense represents a
heightening relative to prose, all the more so is there a heightening from the
spoken to the sung word.
This must not be taken to mean that the domain of literature, in the absence
of music, lacks works of ultimate greatness and beauty. The addition of music to
drama in an opera does not necessarily heighten the value of the drama, that is,
its artistic beauty, even if the music in itself is beautiful. Nor is the beauty of a
poem always heightened when it is set to music, even when the music of the
song is very beautiful. Certain poems are suited to this complement, others not,
because their form and content are of such a kind that they exclude this musical
complement, that is, they lose rather than gain through it.

Basic elements of the union of word and music

Let us begin with general factors that apply to every form of this union, that is,
with the general enrichment it brings about. The very first element is the human
voice, a unique factor over against all instruments, firstly, as a sound [Klang], and
secondly, because only a human being can bring it forth. It is true that every
instrument is played by a human being, but song is united to the singer in a new
way because it is the singer’s own voice and thus has a human note lacked by an
instrument. This contributes a new background to the expression of affective
attitudes in music, a background that comes closer to expression in the literal
sense of the word. Although the song does not express the real feelings of the
singer, he or she nevertheless identifies with the feelings of the character whom
they are portraying, especially in opera. This is nothing other than the unique
identification that is also to be found in the good actor. The simple fact that the
singer portrays a person, with all his or her feelings, passions, and characteristics,
gives a new quality to the affective expression of the music.
Thirdly—and this is of decisive importance—song is necessarily united to
words. It is only the spoken word that can make the sound of the voice into a
true song. If all we have is the repetition of “la, la, la,” the song is in many
respects incomplete and, if drawn out, unserious and almost ridiculous.
Already in purely phonetic [lautlich] terms, the sung word is a new
phenomenon compared with just singing scales. The tonal beauty of the human
voice is united to the phonetic beauty of the word. Not all words have the same
phonetic beauty, and some languages are superior to others in this regard.
Nevertheless, the word itself is a phonetic structure sui generis, as we recognize
already in the fact that it is composed of vowels and consonants. As such, it
already has a “face” that often possesses a certain beauty. It is something
articulated, in distinction to mere noises.
In the sung word, the phonetic beauty of the sung notes is united to the
beauty of the word. They penetrate each other in a way that has a purely
phonetic charm lacking in the spoken word, the pure sound of the voice, or the
individual notes in the scale. Above all, the notes acquire a new kind of
articulation in the sung word. The notes gain the phonetic quality of the vowels
and consonants, and the articulation in the word adds a remarkable new
articulation of a musical kind to the melody.
The fact that each word in a sentence represents a unity of its own grants a
new structure to a melody. This structure is of a completely different kind from
the mysterious unity that makes a particular sequence of notes a melody. This
articulation is not at all imposed on the music from without, any more than the
inner structure of the melody is imposed upon the unity of the sentence. On the
contrary, without disturbing each other, they form an organic union, which,
however, is bound to certain conditions. The words and the music must be
compatible. A drastic example where the phonetic logic of the sentence and the
music contradict each other is Beckmesser’s song in the second act of Die
Meistersinger, “Den Tag seh’ ich erscheinen” (“The day I see appearing”), which
prompts the response of Hans Sachs, “Besser gesungen” (“Better to sing”).
The phonetic quality of the vowels combines with the tone and the sound of
the song. The specific aesthetic quality adhering to each vowel is also present
and combines with the sound of a melody.
In addition, consonants have a function of their own, although they are, as
such, just a certain audible property and do not belong to the same domain of
sound as vowels. Nevertheless, each consonant has a clearly defined character;
they are very precise and unambiguous compared with mere noises.
The soul of a word is its meaning. But already the phonetic sound of the
word has a certain expression, which is heightened in the sung word, although,
of course, primarily in connection with the meaning of the word.
The central dimension of expression in music, through which the
metaphysical beauty of victorious joy, noble sadness, and so forth, is added to the
immediately given beauty of music, gains new significance in its union with the
word. The expression of human feelings thereby becomes much more precise
and unambiguous than in absolute music. It comes much closer to expression in
the narrowest sense of the word, namely, the expression in a person’s face of
their affective experiences and personal character traits.
In a song, and all the more so in an opera, music can express distinctly and
precisely and with unparalleled immediacy and vividness the joy and sorrow,
yearning and love of a human being.
A widespread error holds that music itself is incapable of expressing anything
and that its union with the word generates nothing more than associations in the
hearer. It is claimed that because the text—for example, in Tamino’s aria, “Dies
Bildnis ist bezaubernd schön” (“This image is enchantingly beautiful”) in the
first act of The Magic Flute—speaks of love, one associates the music with love.
The music on its own has no connection to the expression of love, but because of
the text one thinks of love, and one connects music and love through sheer
association.
This thesis is full of shallow errors. Were it correct, it would not matter
which beautiful music was composed for the words. According to this thesis,
Gluck’s music for Orpheus’s lament over Eurydice, “Ach, ich habe sie verloren”
(“Alas, I have lost her”), would just as well fit the words in Tamino’s aria. But
the appeal to mere associations is always highly questionable; it evades the
problem at hand and ignores the facts to take refuge in this “jack of all trades.”
We have already demonstrated on several occasions4 the true function of
association and the unmistakable difference between a real association and a
completely different, far deeper, spiritual relation that is erroneously interpreted
as an association.
One might suppose that everyone who truly understands something of music
would grasp expression and the metaphysical beauty of that which is expressed in
absolute music. Unfortunately, pseudo-philosophical prejudices, shallow
philosophical chatter, and commonplaces picked up from newspapers, have a
blinding effect on many and block what is clearly apprehended in immediate
experience. This is why we sometimes hear such theories even from the lips of
very musical people. The moment one abandons all prejudice and remains
faithful to the state-of-affairs clearly given in immediate experience, one
understands what music is capable of expressing. One grasps the noble sorrow in
the adagio in Beethoven’s “Harp Quartet,” the profound recollection in the third
movement of his String Quartet Opus 132, and the joy in the first movement of
his seventh symphony.
The quality of an affective attitude conveyed exactly through words in poetry
can thus form a deep organic unity with expression in music, thereby actualizing
in a unique way the potentiality contained in the music. Poetry, through the
object that it has intentionally selected, calls for a kind of music whose expressive
power corresponds to the quality of the object. The theme of a poem excludes
music whose expression in a general way qualitatively contradicts this theme. But
beyond all this, word and music unite in such a way that what is expressed in the
music expresses the world of inner experiences far more distinctly than pure
music, and the theme of the poetry becomes present far more vividly, intimately,
and strongly than in pure literature.

The arie antiche and the leading role of the words

Let us begin with the Lied as a primordial type [Urtypus] of the union between
sound and word,5 and in fact with a form that is not yet properly speaking the
Lied, namely, the “arias” of the sixteenth to eighteenth centuries. Like the
typical Lied, these arias stand on their own feet and possess their artistic value
independently of other pieces of music that may surround it.
In the arie antiche from Monteverdi, Carissimi, Lotti, Scarlatti, Handel, and
Gluck down to Pergolesi, the music plays a supporting role to the word. The
music may be far more beautiful than the text and artistically much more
significant, but the music has an ancillary role because it is the text that leads,
while the music represents or, better, expresses with musical means all the
feelings of sadness, love, joy, tenderness, despair, or yearning that occur in the
text. The music of Caccini’s beautiful song Amarilli, mia bella expresses the
reverent, tender, chaste love of the text. Or consider Lotti’s beautiful aria Pur
dicesti bocca, bocca bella. In all these examples, we see a profound organic unity
between the text and the music, with the music following the text in the unity of
the style and what is expressed. In the glorious aria, “O del mio dolce ardor,”
(“You are the object of my desire”) in Gluck’s Paride ed Elena, the music is
incomparably more beautiful and significant than the words, but it follows the
text and takes it seriously. The text indicates the theme.
Sometimes a dramatic scene is portrayed, as in the aria Pastorello, non
t’inganni! The music in a special way characterizes the person who speaks these
words, which express her flirtatious mockery and enjoyment of her influence over
the shepherd who is in love with her.
This kind of union of music and word have the following important
characteristics.
First of all, the music formally adopts an attitude of serving the text,
although in artistic terms the music can be much more significant and beautiful.
Secondly, that which is expressed in the text is heightened and elevated with
musical means.
Thirdly, the principal beauty of the music consists not only in representation,
in the sense of the adequate expression of the affective attitude found in the text,
but in the pure beauty of the musical idea. Nevertheless, representation remains
a central theme.
Fourthly, the text contains nothing artistically negative. It need not be
significant, but it must be free of all artistic disvalues, such as sentimentality and
triviality.
There are other arias where this supporting role on the part of the music is
completely abandoned, and the words possess a character that is utterly
inadequate to the sublimity of the music. The words of the famous “Largo,” the
aria “Ombra mai fu” (“Never was a shade”) in Handel’s opera Xerxes, form
nothing more than a basis for the song, and their phonetic quality is more
important than their meaning. Their object is the praise of a tree and the shade
it gives, while the music is one of the most beautiful, profound, and most
sublime pieces ever written.
Sometimes the word has the leading role, insofar as it determines the
expression of the music, and the theme of the text is taken with complete
seriousness by the music. At other times, the word is used only to give the music
the possibility of unfolding in song.
There is a special quality in the sung word as the song of a human being and
in the union of word and music, quite apart from the meaning of the words and
the affective content of the text. A purely musical intention may call for words to
convey through song something that cannot be done in the same way with
instruments. This union is justified even when the words have only an ancillary
function and the musical expression is not contained analogously in the word.
Naturally we do not mean that the words can be cheerful and the music
deadly serious. The music may not contradict the meaning and content even of a
completely ancillary text. It may not express as jubilation the words of a lament
for the dead, though the music itself could remain beautiful, because its beauty is
independent of the word.
Often the words and the object of which they speak are completely
secondary, and the music, far transcending the content of the words, is not only
of great beauty but also employs the words for purely musical reasons. This is
primarily because of their phonetic function, but also because the music is
intended as song and the words belong to it. A song that merely repeats “la, la,
la” is in many respects quite deficient and, if sung at length, even frivolous.

The classical Lied: Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven

In the Lied in the proper sense, a deep cooperation is intended between word
and sound, not only in a phonetic sense but also in the affective expression, the
atmosphere, and the mood and poetry of the whole.
There are numerous types of Lied and various degrees of excellence with
respect to the intimacy and perfection of the cooperation between word and
music. These degrees, however, need not correspond to the hierarchy of musical
beauty.
Let us note, in very general terms, that the Lied in the full sense of the word,
in distinction to the arie antiche we mentioned above, is explicitly intended as a
special type of the union between word and music. It constitutes a work of art sui
generis and possesses a style of its own. This applies to simple Lieder, like those
of Haydn, to playful Lieder, as we find in some of Mozart’s compositions, and
also to the most highly developed and fully distinctive Lieder, such as those of
Schubert and Hugo Wolf.
We find a first type of Lieder in Haydn. Their texts are appealing and
delightful; they have a certain poetic charm. Considered purely as poems, they
are insignificant and their anonymous character makes them vulnerable to being
forgotten. They lend themselves, however, to being elevated and heightened
through the music, which expresses above all their mood and poetic world. The
music does not enter deeply into the text, which offers no possibility for such an
involvement. The Lieder Eilt, Ihr Schäfer aus den Gründen and Jeder meint, der
Gegenstand are works in which an enchanting music not only fully expresses the
poetic mood of the poems but elevates and surpasses them.
In these and other Lieder by Haydn, we find the charm of the Lied that
elevates the poem in a simple and almost humble manner, fully actualizing its
poetic potentiality. Although the beauty of the music is the main thing, the style
of the Lied, that of the simple sung word, belongs to this beauty. These melodies
would not come into their own in the same way in a string quartet or a
symphony. They belong to the Lied. This is a noteworthy fact. Even with the
relatively loose union of word and sound in these Lieder, whose texts do not
offer opportunities for great expressive unfolding, a unity comes into being that
is the bearer of a special value. The words, as we have said, are charming and
equipped with an anonymous poetry; but as poems, they are clearly insignificant.
The expressly lovely and beautiful music calls for this marriage in a Lied, in
which this music comes into its own more fully than in a piece of music without
words. It is permeated by the Lieder style; it is something sung, and only as such
can unfold its full charm. This is noteworthy, because it sheds a special light on
the artistic possibilities of the union of word and music in the Lied and confirms
the raison d’être of the Lied itself in this simplest form.
We find a new type of Lied, a heightening of the mutual involvement of the
music and the words or a more intimate union of the two, in some of Mozart’s
Lieder, such as Das Veilchen (“The Violet”) or An Chloe (“To Chloe”).
Goethe’s poem “Das Veilchen” has a complete poetic value in its own right.
It is not one of his great, significant poems, but it is certainly beautiful and
constitutes, in itself, an enrichment.
Has the value of Goethe’s poem increased through Mozart’s beautiful, lovely
music? Is it elevated and enriched by this music? The musical idea lends itself to
being fully used in pure music too; indeed, it is found in part in the adagio of a
string quartet. Although the poem and the music—at least, the melody—both
stand on their own, the music enters deeply into the poem. It works together
with what happens in the poem and expresses both its specific poetry and the
feelings in the individual passages. It serves the poem, which takes the leading
role. The whole is the bearer of a value of its own, which neither the poem nor
the music alone possesses. Indeed, the union of the two represents an increase
relative to the value of the poem and the music taken individually.
On the whole, Mozart did not take the Lied form very seriously. None of his
Lieder attains the stature of his arias, such as the one from Il re pastore. While
this opera on the whole does not yet reflect Mozart the great dramatist as he will
show himself to be in his operas from Die Entführung aus dem Serail to The
Magic Flute, this aria possesses a greater beauty than any of his Lieder. There
are, indeed, Lieder by Mozart that are very beautiful, such as An Chloe, which
opens “Wenn die Lieb’ aus deinen blauen, hellen, offnen Augen sieht” (“When
love shines from your blue, bright, and open eyes”), and the roguish Die
Verschweigung, “Sobald Damötas Chloen sieht” (“As soon as Damoetas sees
Chloe”). Unlike Das Veilchen, these are not a new type of Lied, but rather a
typical union of music and word that we have already encountered in Lieder by
Haydn. In the Lied An Chloe, however, Mozart plumbs far greater depths than
Haydn ever did in his Lieder. In itself this text is not a viable structure as a work
of art. But as a passionate love poem, it provides the opportunity for a musical
expression of a new kind in which the music enters much more deeply into the
words.
Beethoven’s Lieder An die ferne Geliebte (“To the distant beloved”) are of
special interest for the lofty artistic values that a Lied can realize. There can be
no doubt that, in pure beauty, their music surpasses every other Lied that has
ever been composed. It must be affirmed as decisively as possible that this music
can only have the form of the Lied. It calls for the word; indeed, it can unfold
only with the word and as a Lied. It would be unthinkable as absolute music.
The music enters deeply into the text, thereby giving expression in a unique
manner to the nature of love and yearning. In one respect, the poems are ideal
texts for Lieder. True, they are not among the significant poems and would on
their own soon have been forgotten. But they contain nothing disturbing and
possess special potentialities for the Lied. They are full of a noble ethos of love
and yearning, and they display various important aspects of love. They enable
Beethoven to create one of the greatest artistic expressions of love in its depth,
ardor, and yearning, the pain of separation from the beloved, and love’s
victorious hope. The expressed metaphysical beauty of love and the pure beauty
of music are united in these Lieder in an incomparable manner. The expression
of the metaphysical beauty of love reaches a new dimension through its union
with the word. It becomes much more concrete and distinct than would be
possible in absolute music.
This should not be taken to mean that a love poem could not possess a
beauty as great or even greater than any Lied. But a certain dimension of this
expressed metaphysical beauty of love in an artistic transposition can be attained
only in the union of word and music. Add to this, as we have said, that the
uniquely beautiful music of the Lieder in An die ferne Geliebte specifically calls for
human song. Nevertheless, the artistic possibilities of the Lied are so varied that
although these Lieder are certainly the most beautiful in musical terms, they are
far from exhausting all the artistic possibilities of the Lied.
It is not by chance that, apart from An die ferne Geliebte, Lieder have a
secondary place in Beethoven’s oeuvre as a whole. He did indeed create a
number of beautiful and moving Lieder, but it is not in them that Beethoven’s
greatness, which makes him the king of music—though not the king of Lieder—
finds expression, as we see when we compare them with the symphonies, string
quartets, sonatas, Fidelio, let alone the Missa solemnis.

The Schubertian Lied

While the union of word and sound had already reached the highest level in
oratorios and operas, the Lied as an artistic form of its own was brought to
unparalleled perfection by Schubert. He created a new type of complement and
mutual penetration of music and word, but also a new kind of piano
accompaniment, to which a specific role is entrusted in the rendition of the
mood and atmosphere of the poem. The expression in the accompaniment
sometimes also constitutes an important contrast to that of the singing voice.
This new type of Lied has a further characteristic: in working with the more
significant poems, Schubert knows how to transport himself into the spirit and
world of the poet. He has the unique gift of composing Lieder wherein he enters
just as fully into the world and style of Goethe as of Shakespeare. This, however,
is also a manifestation of the new marriage between word and sound. And while
our theme is not an appraisal of the Lieder of Schubert, Beethoven, and Mozart,
but the analysis of the characteristics of this specific form of art and of its special
possibilities, we cannot fail to mention this element of completely entering into
the spirit of the poet.
The artistic form of the Lied in its consummate form employs various new
means for the realization of their artistic content. Schubert’s Lieder represent a
significant part of his entire oeuvre, though certainly not, as is often supposed,
the high point of his creative activity. This lies rather in his chamber music,
above all in the Octet, in the Trio Opus 99, in the Quartet Opus 161, and in the
Quintet Opus 163. In his Lieder, we find not only the perfection of the Lied qua
Lied, but also a unique variety of different kinds of Lieder. We are able to see
just how vast is the range of which the Lied is capable, not only on the spectrum
of perfection but also in the variety of expressive possibilities, atmosphere, and
mood.
 The Lied Gretchen am Spinnrade (“Gretchen at the spinning wheel”) offers an
example of this new way of entering into the poem. Gretchen’s ardent love,
heart’s anguish, and tragedy in this poem by Goethe are uniquely conveyed in
the music. The poem is not only a great work of art in itself but is also an
organic part of the drama Faust, Part I. Its beauty is further heightened by the
way it is framed by the work as a whole. It belongs to this drama, and its
wonderful lyric and dramatic beauty is inseparable from the figure of Gretchen.
One might think this poem unsuitable for a Lied, but the opposite is true!
Schubert’s Lied is of deeply moving beauty. While it does not heighten the
beauty of the poem as a part of Faust, Part I, the Lied is a new entity that stands
in itself, a self-contained bearer of lofty artistic values. The composer succeeds in
allowing the profound tragedy of the figure of Gretchen to shine forth in the
music, employing musical means to portray the unique poetry, this eruption of a
heart that loves but is tormented and profoundly perturbed.
The new function of the piano accompaniment emerges in this Lied. The
accompaniment is no longer just musically required but now an essential factor
in the overall content of the Lied. The whirring of the spinning wheel is
entrusted to the piano, but not only that: its calm, untroubled progression forms
a moving contrast to the excitement and anguish of heart expressed in the
singing. Of course, the accompaniment also fits the song and the words, but
what the piano plays by itself at the beginning, middle, and end is an important
part of the artistic invention. Thus we have in this glorious Lied a new,
independent structure, even though one would think such a uniquely beautiful
poem, given its essential place in a larger drama, could not be augmented by any
composition.

Song cycles
Some composers have constructed a more comprehensive whole, a song cycle,
out of several Lieder, each of which is a unity in itself. Examples are Schubert’s
Winterreise (“Winter journey”) and Die schöne Müllerin (“The beautiful miller’s
daughter”). This is a very interesting new form of totality, a loose unity from a
purely musical point of view, that cannot be compared to the unity of the various
movements of a sonata, string quartet, or symphony.
The connection is given first and foremost in the poems, which, so to speak,
in their sequence narrate a story. In the music, the connection is expressed
primarily through the stylistic unity of the series of Lieder. The song cycle Die
schöne Müllerin reflects a definite story with its various stages and situations. By
fully entering into each individual poem and its place in the story, the music fully
participates in the unity. In musical terms, the structure is sui generis, albeit very
loose. Contrasts, changes in tempo and in forte and piano, play their part as well.
Formed out of individual Lieder, the whole contributes something new to
the artistic value and content of the individual Lieder, despite the musically loose
connection. The whole is the bearer of a particular value. Already the fact that,
when the song cycle is performed, we are continually drawn into a particular
world, mood, and atmosphere, and that we allow ourselves to be borne by the
rhythm of the overall construction, signifies an enrichment all its own.
Though the Lieder in Beethoven’s An die ferne Geliebte do not comprise a
song cycle but clearly parts of a whole that in purely musical terms forms a strict
unity, the opening theme is taken up anew in the last section.
Hugo Wolf’s Mörike-Lieder represent a very special case of a complete union
of poetry and music. Mörike’s poems stand fully on their own and have their
own poetic value. But the unique marriage of the music with the overall poetic
world of Mörike, with his special spirit, is a high point of the interpenetration of
poetry and music, which realizes an artistic value possible only in the Lied. It is
quite remarkable that despite this complete interpenetration of music and poetry,
despite the music fully serving the poem, the child of this marriage is a
completely new entity and in fact possesses a new and characteristic atmosphere.

The perfect interpenetration of poem and music in the Lied

The potential marriage of poem and music, as we find it in the example of
Gretchen am Spinnrade, presupposes the following characteristics in the music.
First of all, the music is immersed into the poem in a unique way. With the
words playing the leading role, the music enters in an incomparable manner into
the affective attitudes contained in the poem. It expresses these in a specific,
detailed, and clear way that is possible only in union with the word.
Secondly, the music enters deeply into the spirit of Goethe and the kind of
poetry that is peculiarly his. The marriage of word and sound goes so far here
that this Lied becomes more than a universal expression of love, heart’s anguish,
unrest, and passion, and not just in the way the figure of Gretchen is fashioned,
but even in the way the genius of Goethe is given form. In the music, we come
in contact with the genius of both Schubert and Goethe.
Thirdly, the beauty of the musical idea, that is, the beauty that lies purely in
the music, is an absolute precondition.
Fourthly, the important and significant function entrusted to the piano
accompaniment, which it takes on in the construction of this new entity, makes
itself felt, particularly in the contrast it plays with the voice and in the realization
of the very specific atmosphere of this Lied.
It is interesting that poems of a beauty that cannot be surpassed through the
union with music in a Lied are nevertheless capable of this marriage. Such
Lieder are bearers of a beauty that is not greater than that of the poems but
nevertheless constitutes a great enrichment. It would be a pity, say, if Goethe’s
“Ganymed” did not also exist as a Lied.
Other very beautiful poems possess no potentiality for marriage with music.
We might say that they resist being used in a Lied. Shakespeare’s 29th Sonnet,
“When in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes,” ought not to be set to music.
The same applies to the poems of Hölderlin.
From the perspective of the Lied as its own art form, the best case occurs
when a poem of greatest beauty and music equal or superior to it interpenetrate
in the most intimate fashion, as in what may be Schubert’s most beautiful Lied,
Suleika. The text by Marianne von Willemer is so astonishingly in keeping with
Goethe’s spirit that he included it in his West-Eastern Divan, and everyone
thought it was a poem by Goethe. Schubert’s music has a wonderful poetry and
depth. The unity of word and sound, the full elaboration of the artistic
possibilities inherent in the Lied attain a high point in this Lied.
Even though the music is even more beautiful than the poem, each needs the
other. This music is possible only as a Lied. The marriage is one between equals,
but the result far surpasses what each individual could be on its own. It surpasses
the poem qualitatively, and it surpasses the music because it is conceivable only
as a Lied.
The artistic possibilities of the Lied come to expression in innumerable
Lieder by Schubert, even when the poems lack artistic value of their own, but
their content provides the music with an opportunity to develop the expression,
mood, and ethos. This applies, for example, to the Lieder of Winterreise.
The text is certainly not merely a basis for the music, which enters into the
text with all conceivable depth and empathy. The music thereby gives form to
something completely new that is possible only as a Lied. Compared with what
the Lied realizes as expression, mood, and depth, the poem is only a tool.
We want to emphasize one other important characteristic of the Lied: both a
significant and an insignificant poem can stimulate a composer to the productive
creation of something new.
Many composers never composed Lieder, even after the emergence of the
Lied in its typical intimacy. One example is Bruckner, for whom the Lied would
not suit his entire makeup and character.
On the other hand, some poems invite certain composers to turn to this
special art form. A talent and an organ are actualized, and a new dimension of
their creative activity is opened up. For many composers, the Lied is only a small
and relatively secondary part of their creative activity, while for others, like
Schubert and Schumann, it is a very important part. For still others, like Hugo
Wolf, the Lied is by far the most important part. The possibility of a sui generis
inspiration by poems of a special kind of musical creation is not only interesting
in itself, but also sheds light on the important problem of the conditions that
make a poem a potential Lied, and why one significant poem allows the union
with music, while other, equally significant poems do not.

The intimate character of the Lied

The final characteristic of the Lied to be mentioned is a certain intimacy. In the
sphere of the union of word and sound, the Lied is the most intimate form. It is,
as a general matter, interesting to ask what public a work of art normally
addresses. We have in mind here the spheres of music and literature, although
analogies to this also exist in other arts.
Poems are by their very nature more intimate than plays, and even than
novels. One can indeed read plays, but it is only on the stage that they find their
full realization. They require not only to be read but also to be seen and heard.
Through the stage, they address a wide public. Novels can only be read, or
perhaps read aloud. When one reads them, they address one individual; when
they are read aloud, they address a small group. A poem can be read or recited.
In a certain sense, it demands to be read aloud, simply because of the special
function of the tone. The one who reads aloud usually addresses a small group.
In an analogous manner, an opera and a symphony address a wide public.
Chamber music has a much more intimate character. But in the sphere of sound
and word, the Lied is the most intimate of all.

1. [Editors’ note: The title of this chapter is “Das Kunstlied,” literally the “art song.” Because “Lied” is
widely used in English, we have decided to preserve “Lied” and its plural, “Lieder,” untranslated.]
2. “This is the origin of the song with words, and finally of the opera. For this reason, they should
never forsake that subordinate position in order to make themselves the chief thing, and the music a mere
means of expressing the song, since this is a great misconception and an utter absurdity.” Schopenhauer,
The World as Will and Representation, 325.
3. Sermo 336, In dedicationem Ecclesiae, I.1.
4. For example, in Aesthetics, vol. 1, chap. 1, 43.
 5. Since we are not writing a history of music (for which we lack the knowledge and the academic
training) but an aesthetics, we need not spend time here on the historical development of the union between
word and music.
 CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

The Folksong

Its anonymity and popularity

THE FIRST CHARACTERISTIC of the folksong is its anonymity, which is not,
however, due to the fact that the author is unknown. It has an anonymous
character in distinction to the Lied, which was created by a musician as a work
of art, bears the stamp of his unique personality, and presents entirely different
demands. In contrast, the folksong strongly reflects the specific character of the
country and epoch in which it originates.
A second characteristic of the folksong is its simplicity. Folksongs always
have markedly simple melodies that are easy to learn and sing. This simplicity
contributes to their modest character.
A third important characteristic is the primarily social character of the
folksong. It is an invitation to sing together. It contains a unitive element,
creates a communal atmosphere, and brings people together. This social function
must be sharply distinguished from the ability of great works of art to penetrate
into the depths.
All high values have a virtus unitiva, a “unitive power.”1 This may take the
form of an inner community, even with people we do not know, when we hear a
glorious symphony, a significant opera, or a great and profound music drama. Or
it may consist in the shared experiencing of a moving drama or a morally stirring
event. Or it may be in the religious sphere, above all in the shared celebration of
the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass.
What we find in the folksong is not the virtus unitiva of lofty goods that
permeates all spheres, but something much less deep, something not even
determined by the beauty of the folksong. It possesses a special quality that
invites one to join in singing. It does not lead us into the depth and in this way
to community. Rather, it appeals to a benign, friendly sense of togetherness.
This type of community plays a great role in the life of a people and is closer to
the prevailing communal element in popular dances and festivals.
 The typical folksong is something that has grown organically; it lacks the
character of having been consciously created that dwells in all true art. This
comes to expression in the way a folksong is spread and maintained through
tradition. In this respect, it resembles something like the Fairy Tales collected by
the Brothers Grimm rather than something made up and published by an
author, such as those by Hans Christian Andersen, Wilhelm Hauff, and others.
Unlike the Lied by a great master, the folksong does not address a public. And
unlike the Lied, it does not spread through its significance and beauty. Rather, it
becomes established in an anonymous, unreflective form through a typical
tradition. This is possible because of its simplicity and its highly popular
character [Volkstümlichkeit]. It belongs in a special way to the people, and the
author is unimportant.
This does not prevent a Lied by a famous artist from possibly becoming a
folksong with the passage of time. Still less does it prevent the melodies and
themes of folksongs from often being used in great musical works of art. But in
these cases, they cease to be folksongs. Not only are they musically modified and
enriched, becoming something new through the context into which they are
inserted; they also become, in wholly formal terms, a part of a work of art with
all its specific characteristics: its conscious character, the claim it makes, its
individuality. Such a song loses its anonymous, “innocent,” social character. It no
longer lives on the basis of a certain tradition. If it is a true work of art, the song,
of course, gains enormously from an aesthetic point of view. Its melody acquires
a much deeper and more serious character, and it becomes the bearer of a true
artistic beauty. But this is not what interests us here. The point is that it loses its
typical character and existence as a folksong and is incorporated with its melody
into a work of art or, rather, serves this work of art in the construction of its
artistic beauty.

The contrast between the folksong and Schlager2

It is particularly interesting to compare the popularity, the authentic life of the
folksong that people usually learn and know already in their childhood, with the
popularity of Schlager. Like the folksong, the successful Schlager has a great and
specific popularity. It creates a certain community of a very peripheral kind and
has a different though also specific form of anonymity.
First of all, a Schlager lacks the element of tradition. Its popularity is
generated artificially. This does not mean that it need not possess special musical
qualities in order to become a genuine and widely diffused Schlager. But it
appeals to other strata in the human person. As such, it frequently has a frivolous
tone. It aims explicitly at the periphery, and the connection that it creates
between people has nothing in common with the “innocent,” harmless
togetherness that is brought about by singing a genuine folksong.
Secondly, a Schlager is a typical child of fashion. Like fashion, it expresses
above all the zeitgeist, but, of course, in a peripheral stratum. Its lifespan is short;
it will very soon be replaced by another Schlager. It lives in a specifically
interpersonal space. As with fashion, the attraction of the hit song is linked to its
novelty.
The folksong lives from its permanence, from its tradition which stands apart
from every fashion; it has the character of something long-known and long-
established, and it does not in any way share the ephemeral character of the
Schlager. Schlager has something sensational in its popularity, while the folksong
certainly does not appeal to sensationalism. The Schlager has a great success, and
its short-lived diffusion is a kind of triumph. It conquers a peripheral
interpersonal space for a brief period. The folksong has no success and celebrates
no triumphs. It attains its popularity and diffusion, not through this peripheral
conquest but in an organic process and on the basis of its own qualities. Its
unassuming character allows it to exist alongside other folksongs. Unlike a
Schlager, it does not contain any competitive element. It is not by chance that to
create successful Schlager is very lucrative, whereas the popularity of a folksong
has no inherent relationship to the acquisition of money.
Schlager changes, as fashion changes, but the folksong resembles the old
national costumes in their stability. The Schlager is a child of fashion, the
folksong that of custom. Not only does the folksong exist as a communal
experience, but it also grows out of specific situations in life and community and
varies in accordance with these.

The various types of folksong

Let us begin by mentioning folksongs the theme of which is of a religious
nature, such as the veneration of the Blessed Virgin. Singing together is an
expression of the religious community, and this communal situation naturally
imparts a qualitative characteristic of the folksong. Its melody must possess
qualities that allow it to be an expression of this situation. Religious folksongs
often lack any true sacrality, neither that of Gregorian chant nor the sacrality in
certain sublime pieces of music—not just works with a religious content, such as
in Bach’s St. Matthew Passion or Beethoven’s Missa solemnis, but also in
Bruckner’s symphonies. The qualities required for religious folksongs are much
more modest.
The point that chiefly interests us is that there are folksongs in a variety of
styles, in keeping with the theme of the text and with the situation for which the
folksong is intended or out of which it grows.
The soldier’s song is a type all its own. Here the rhythm is important, since
its task is to make it easier to march and to keep the soldiers in a good mood.
The overall situation, especially in war, also comes to expression in this type. It
possesses all the qualities that we have mentioned as essential traits of the
folksong in general, and it has a special character that marks it precisely as a
soldier’s song. The text plays a decisive role in this difference, of course. Indeed,
it influences the character of the soldier’s song even more strongly than the
music. One soldier’s song in which the text is particularly prominent is the
famous Ich hatt’ einen Kameraden (“I once had a comrade”).
In keeping with its simplicity, the union of music and word in the folksong is
much less differentiated than in the artistic Lied. The words play an important
role. All folksongs possess a strong mood [Stimmung], and it is the quality of this
mood that distinguishes the various genres of folksong. What is thematic for a
folksong is not beauty but the mood that is determined by a particular situation
and by the text. The folksong aims above all at a certain expression. Its
popularity is determined by its ability to suit the situation and by its strong
expression. If it is beautiful and truly poetic, this is a precious bonus, but it is not
explicitly the theme of the folksong, as it is in the artistic Lied. Its modest,
ancillary character is its raison d’être.
Student songs resemble folksongs. The community is formed by the context
of university studies, by the joyful anticipation of the life that lies ahead of the
students, and by the independence of the young person who has grown out of his
or her earlier upbringing with its restrictions. This usually gives student songs a
cheerful, joyful quality. Unlike the soldier’s songs, they have no auxiliary function
but are more a free expression of the student’s overall situation, of this period in
life and the community it creates.
Yet another type is to be found among the charming lullabies that seek to
calm a child and get him to sleep. Their character is colored by the situation.
They do not create a community, and by their nature they are meant not for
singing in common but for solitary situations. Nevertheless, they possess the
popularity and the anonymous and modest character of the genuine folksong.
Their words are filled with the expression of emotional security.
 Children’s songs are meant for singing in common and have a full communal
character. They introduce the child into the world of music or, rather, of singing,
which for most people is a primordial need [Urbedürfnis]. Besides this, they serve
to build up community. These songs are not limited to the time of childhood.
They are mostly folksongs that can be sung at every age and are also suitable for
children, at least from their sixth year onward. Their texts are about a great
variety of things, especially nature and the great themes of life. Examples include
Der Mai ist gekommen (“May has come”), the French folksongs Au clair de la lune
(“In the light of the moon”) and Les lauriers sont fanés (“The laurels are faded”),
and the Italian Tutti la notte dormano (“All night they sleep”). In most instances,
these folksongs, since they are not formed by a particular situation, have a
markedly poetic quality.
Finally, we must mention all the folksongs that are about the great, central
theme of life, namely, love. Cantare amantis est (“singing belongs to the one who
loves”) applies in the modest context of the folksong too, where it is not a
question of the love of God or of the artistic depiction of all aspects of the great
and profound love between a man and a woman. The sweet, delightful light of
love, which suffuses life, sometimes as expectation and yearning, sometimes as
fulfillment, finds its expression in the folksong, just as, of course, unhappy love,
the tears of love, do as well.
The folksong is an expression of the primordial need to sing, a need that is
alive in everyone who is not completely unmusical—even in those who sing out
of tune. The longing to raise one’s voice in song, this most basic expression of
true feelings, makes itself felt in a special way in the folksong. This longing is
much more thematic in the folksong than is beauty, which is the primordial
theme of all artistic music.

The value of the folksong is not primarily an aesthetic value

It would be completely wrong to see in the anonymous, modest character of the
folksong a special aesthetic value. We have indeed emphasized that the value of a
work of art certainly does not consist (as many people hold) in an objective
expression of the personality of the artist. On the other hand, one should not
regard as a disvalue the fact that the specific character of an artistic and also
human personality finds expression in a work of art. On the contrary, this
belongs entirely to a genuine work of art.
Many—not only the adherents of the Blut und Boden (“Blood and Soil”)
theory—confuse the objective artistic value that a genuine work of art possesses
independently of its reflection of a personality, with anonymity. They believe
that the advantage of the genitum, “that which is born,” over the factum, “that
which is made,” is connected with anonymity. Hidden behind this view lies a
collectivism. The community, as that which is nobler, “more innocent,” and less
subjective, is contrasted with the individual person. This is obviously a terrible
error. As a conscious person, the individual personality stands on a higher level
than all merely natural communities. To regard it as something subjectivistic, on
the grounds that only the individual personality can degenerate into the
disvaluable attitude of subjectivism, is just as foolish as if one were to place the
human person below the animals, on the grounds that only a person is able to
commit sin and to be stupid, mediocre, trivial, and tasteless in the full sense of
these terms. This is to forget that the qualitative values and disvalues of a being
are greater the higher its ontological status. This means that the human person
—who as a free and spiritual being is from an ontological point of view
incomparably superior to all apersonal beings—may also corrupt and renounce
the truth and turn to sin. But this possibility does not affect the ontological
superiority of the human being, nor his or her ability to be the bearer of
incomparably higher qualitative values.
All these aberrations lurk, often unconsciously, in the cult of the anonymous,
modest, organic character of the folksong. In reality, the folksong has certain
limits from an aesthetic point of view. It can never rise to the value of a real work
of art. Its modesty is also a modesty from the perspective of its artistic value. It
does not claim to be a work of art, and it can never possess the beauty, depth,
greatness, and perfection of a work of art. It would be unjust to the folksong to
expect of it something artistic in the full sense of the term. Just because a melody
and its text are beautiful and poetic does not make it a work of art like the Lied
by a great composer. Indeed, part of the charm of the folksong is that it does
not, in principle, claim to be a work of art. If a folksong degenerates into pure
sentimentality and facile triviality, it is far less grave than in the case of a Lied
that was created as a work of art. A folksong does not thereby completely lose its
significance, its social function, and so on, since its theme is precisely not artistic
beauty.
This is not in any way meant to deny the charm and value of the folksong. It
is only to say, first, that its value is not an artistic one and, second, that it belongs
to a family of values that, as a whole, is much humbler than that of real artistic
values. It is also interesting that there is no counterpart to the folksong in the
visual arts. In conclusion, we must say that the value of the folksong is not even a
typical, exclusively aesthetic value.

Popular local songs

We have already mentioned Schlager and its radical difference from the folksong.
We now wish to discuss a third type of popular music, which differs both from
the folksong and from the typical Schlager, namely, popular songs that above all
depict the atmosphere and charm of a city, that is, of the life that takes place
there and its distinctive quality. Of course, not all cities have a countenance that
is distinctive in this regard. Innumerable Viennese songs and some Parisian
songs convey the charm, the completely distinctive, differentiated, strong cachet
of these cities. It would, indeed, be an interesting task to identify the cachet of
the capital cities of various countries, the specific quality and atmosphere that are
expressed in their cultural life, architecture, history, and whose significance for a
country extend to the customs, clothing, and cuisine of their inhabitants. We
must limit ourselves to the songs that convey the atmosphere of such a city. They
are analogous to the dialect spoken in the given city, and their texts are usually
written in this dialect.
Local songs do not have an anonymous origin but are the invention of well-
known persons. They hone in on the character of a city, its distinctive mark, its
sense of life. The charm of its world (for example, the world of Vienna) may be
depicted more or less well, but to depict it is the real raison d’être of such songs.
It is true that in word and music something is always created that possesses an
independent new theme, but these songs must embody the spirit of the people of
a given city; they must emerge from this spirit and represent it in a typical
manner.
The value of such local songs depends, firstly, on whether the atmosphere of
a city in its popular stratum has a genuine charm, whether it is aesthetically
appealing and enchanting, so that it fascinates us.
When we speak of this cachet and this atmosphere, we do not refer to the
higher spiritual content that some cities exude. There is a lofty and intoxicating
spirit in a city like Vienna, with its glorious architecture and great cultural
history. It is the city of Haydn and Schubert, the city in which Mozart,
Beethoven, and Bruckner worked, the city of Prince Eugene, the city of Nestroy
and Hofmannsthal. This city and its history are themselves a wonderful
monument in their cultural unity, a glorious encompassing cultural milieu
[Gesamtgebilde].
The Fiakerlied, Mei Muatterl war a Weanerin, Ich hab mir für Grinzing an
Dienstmann engagiert, and many other songs about Grinzing and Vienna do not,
of course, embody this grand, exalted world of Vienna, but rather a stratum of
the life that takes place in this city and possesses a less sublime cachet. But this is
a popular, endearing, and indeed enchanting world that finds expression in the
way people speak, in the dialect and inflection, in the kind of entertainment, in
jokes, in the specific sense of life, and in the kind of humor.
What charm Paris possesses in this regard! How one is captivated by its
individuality, its unparalleled spiritual vitality, when one walks through its
streets! This brings us to an important element in the countenance of a city:
under certain circumstances, it becomes something personal, so to speak, that we
address as a “you,” that we love, and, indeed, that we can fall in love with. We
have in mind not the love that grows from the fact that this is our own
hometown,3 but the strong, individual atmosphere of such a city and the
personification that derives from this objective atmosphere.
In many countries, it is not the capital that has this pronounced, personified
countenance. For example, in Spain, we find it not in Madrid, but in Valladolid
and Seville. In many cases, such cities, with specific countenances of their own,
were once capitals: in Italy, in addition to Rome, we have Venice, Milan, Siena,
Florence, and Naples. In Austria, this full individuality exists not only in Vienna
but also in Salzburg, Innsbruck, and Graz. In Germany, in addition to earlier
seats of royal power such as Munich and Berlin, cities such as Cologne also have
this strong individuality.
In all these cities, we breathe their own particular air. For the first and
decisive factor in the value of local songs, not only is a strong, personified
atmosphere important, but also the kind of charm and poetry they possess.
We must distinguish between the cachet of these cities and the beauty and
lofty spiritual world that they possess through their surrounding landscape, their
architecture, and their history. With regard to the beauty and nobility of the
whole city, those we have mentioned in Italy surpass most other cities in the
world, but this has no decisive influence on the popular songs. Only in certain
cities—in Italy, above all in Naples—does the atmosphere and rhythm of life
find expression in local songs.
The second determining factor for the value of these popular songs is, of
course, the extent to which their creator was able to embody this charm in them.
The third factor is the extent to which a song is successful in both its words
and music, in distinction to boring, unsuccessful popular songs.
Local songs are unpretentious. They do not aspire to be artistically valuable
as a piece of music or as a text. They do not aim at beauty, and still less at beauty
of the second power. Rather, their intention is to transpose us into the world, the
feeling of life, and the humor of the city. In the case of Vienna, they also intend
to amuse us. These songs are a form of light music that appeals to a legitimate
center in us—neither to sensationalism and sentimentality, nor to impurity and
an embarrassing “letting oneself go.”
Popular songs have a raison d’être and a specific value. They belong not to the
realm of art but to that of real life. They enrich the peripheral life of given city;
as a definite aesthetic value they strive to reflect the charm of this city and in a
particular way to make us happy.
They differ from typical Schlager in many respects. First of all, Schlager
address a center that is more or less illegitimate. Schlager are characterized by a
certain specific worldliness, a certain triviality in the text and music.
Secondly, Schlager characterize an epoch rather than the atmosphere of a city.
Certainly they can betray their origins from a particular city, but in themselves
they stand on an international level. The way they reflect an epoch is not an
embodiment of the atmosphere and the sense of life of a city. They do not
genuinely reflect the atmosphere of a specific period, and their relationship to
the epoch in question is much looser. Although there is an unmistakable
difference between Schlager from the end of the nineteenth century and those
from the 1920s, one cannot say that a Schlager typically depicts the respective
epoch.
Much more striking is that Schlager by nature is ephemeral. Its characteristic
specific effect, its public quality, the fact that it is fashionable and sung
everywhere for a certain period, that it is known to everybody, and celebrates a
cheap triumphal procession—all these factors permit it to exist only for a short
time, like fashions in clothing. A Schlager is a flash in the pan. People dance and
listen to it as light music in cafés and restaurants. It is sung and whistled on the
streets. As Furtwängler emphasizes,4 Schlager brings about a cheap community
where people meet at a peripheral though nevertheless shared level and in a
superficial mutual understanding.
This essential ephemerality not only constitutes the utter antithesis to great,
timeless music; it is also foreign to popular local songs. These too may indeed be
better known for a certain time, as long as they are new, and less well known at a
later date. But according to their meaning and nature, they are not bound to this
ephemerality. They belong to the tradition of a particular city, and they retain
their meaning and value even when they have become part of a tradition. They
do not aim to triumph on the international stage. They have an intimate
character.
Above all, the aesthetic character that is their distinguishing mark is
completely different from that of the typical Schlager. The popular local song
often possesses a gracefulness and a delightful charm that is precisely the charm
of a city’s atmosphere of life, but this is impossible for the Schlager, which does
not even aim at this. Schlager not only stands even further removed from all art, it
is in fact antithetical to artistic beauty. Although the popular local song also
stands outside the world of art, it is not antithetical to this world.
Popular local songs have existed for a long time, although their musical
character has changed greatly over the course of time. Schlager, by contrast, have
probably existed only for about a hundred years. Local popular songs have their
full raison d’être. When they are truly successful, they are a special enrichment of
life in certain cities. Their aesthetic value is modest, but it does exist. It is as far
removed from beauty as mere elegance.
That the existence of Schlager is an enrichment is not an assertion we wish to
make. Their antithetical character to the world of art suffices to make such an
assertion seem questionable. To determine whether they inflict more damage
than positive entertainment, one would have to analyze precisely the need for
Schlager and the effect that they have. One can say with certainty that Schlager
songs in most cases are definitely trivial and thus constitute something negative
from the perspective of artistic beauty. But must they be trivial in order to be
good and effective Schlager? Do they not contain an element of impertinence, or
does this hold good only of certain Schlager? Do they not draw us into the
periphery in the negative sense of the word? What function do they fulfill? To
discuss all these questions is unfortunately not possible in the present context.

1. See Metaphysik der Gemeinschaft, chap. 8.

2. [Editors’ note: “Schlager” is the original German word used by Hildebrand. It appears untranslated
in the text as there is no good English equivalent. “Pop music” comes close, but it is both too broad and too
recent (Hildebrand says Schlager has been around about a hundred years). For all the similarities Schlager
may have with better known American genres, such as country or easy listening, it is, in the end, a genre all
its own. It is not difficult to see that much of what Hildebrand says about Schlager applies as well to much
contemporary popular music.]
3. See The Nature of Love (South Bend, Ind.: St. Augustine’s Press, 2009), chap. 8, 185ff.
4. On this, see his 1939 lecture “Anton Bruckner,” in Ton und Wort, 114.
 CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Opera

IN A LITERARY WORK, where not just the author but the characters speak, a new
connection comes into being between the words and the persons. The figures
characterize themselves. This applies especially when the character in a novel and
above all in a play utters sentences that are an expression of his feelings or a
declaration of his affective responses. Through this connection with the fictitious
person, what is said becomes something uttered by a particular human being.

The representative power of music in opera

In opera, the music participates in the concrete, immediate connection with the
fictitious-real human being. Unlike words, music does not have to pass through
the intellectual process of rationally meaning something in order to establish a
link to the affective sphere of the human being. Music can express this sphere
immediately, and this gives a special character to the close union with an
individual character in the opera. Not only are the words sung by this character
linked much more precisely to the affective sphere than in absolute music, they
are utterances of a particular personality. When Figaro in Mozart’s opera sings,
“Se vuol ballare, Signor Contino” (“If you wish to dance, my Lord the Count”),
this aria appears as something uttered by a particular human being, something
united to his feelings, responses, and moods. This can be seen even more clearly
in Cherubino’s aria, “Non so più cosa son, cosa faccio” (“I no longer know what I
am or what I am doing”). The expression acquires a new reality through the
music, which, moreover, characterizes this figure in an extremely vivid way.
This brings us to a highly central dimension of music in opera, namely, its
dramatic potentiality in the narrower sense of the term, the potentiality that
discloses to us the “pre-established harmony,” not only of word and sound, but
of music and drama. We have in mind music’s ability to use its own means for
the artistic representation of a personality, characterizing him completely and
making him come alive.
When we compare the figures of Figaro and Cherubino in Beaumarchais’s
comedy with those in Mozart’s The Marriage of Figaro, we apprehend clearly the
decisive role played by the music in these figures in their full charm and sharply
defined character. It is the music that gives them their full life. This is even truer
for Leporello in Mozart’s Don Giovanni and for Don Giovanni himself. In
comparison with these two artistically enchanting characters in Mozart’s opera,
the Don Giovanni and Leporello in da Ponte’s text are only weak figures; Don
Juan in Molière’s Le festin de pierre is only a foreshadowing compared to the
“true” Don Giovanni in Mozart’s opera.
This, of course, does not mean that a drama can be perfectly fashioned
[dramatische Gestaltung] only with music, or even just that the artistic fashioning
of a personality is always heightened through music. On the contrary, it is
obvious that the dramatic fashioning of a personality can reach the greatest
heights in spoken drama. We have only to recall Shakespeare’s characters,
Hamlet, King Lear, Macbeth, Julius Caesar, Cordelia in King Lear, Viola in
Twelfth Night, Rosalind in As You Like It, Portia in The Merchant of Venice, or
Falstaff in Henry IV, and Gretchen in Goethe’s Faust, to see that the pinnacle in
the dramatic fashioning of personalities has been attained by the word alone.
Music is often incapable of heightening the fashioning of the drama; on the
contrary, these figures would in fact lose something if music were added. As
felicitous as the marriage of word and sound can be in opera and music drama, it
is not possible with every play. Only very particular plays are suited to this
marriage. For many plays of highest perfection, it would be a disaster.
This applies not only to the fashioning of characters in a play but also to its
artistic content, to the dramatic structure of the whole, the atmosphere, the
tragedy, the comedy, and much else. Consider the poetry of the situation in the
forest of Arden in Shakespeare’s As You Like It or the dramatic tension in
Macbeth when Banquo’s ghost appears to Macbeth as he sits at table.
But when a play has a character that meets certain preconditions, the music
has an unparalleled dramatic ability, not only for giving unique expression of the
affective sphere but also for fashioning the individual characters.
We have recognized the highly important function of expressed metaphysical
beauty [ausgedrückten metaphysischen Schönheit] in several artforms. We do not
find it in literature, where instead we find metaphysical beauty as such in the
characters, in their personalities, their attitudes and deeds, when the
representation is entirely successful and the necessary artistic transposition has
occurred. Expression in the narrower sense does not even come into question
since a novel or play presents personalities and their inner life only insofar as they
are described [rein geistig]. Expression in the narrower sense exists only in a play
performed on stage, that is, in the expression of an actor’s face, sound of voice,
inflection, and gestures.
In music, on the other hand, expressed metaphysical beauty is united with
the immediately given beauty of the music itself. The term “expression” should
no longer be understood here in the narrower sense.
We have also seen that the outstanding value of living characters in a play
does not always presuppose their metaphysical beauty. The representation of evil
characters, terrible passions, and appalling deeds can also make an essential
contribution to the artistic greatness and beauty of a play. In the same way,
comical figures with weaknesses of all kinds and characters in their profoundly
human imperfection are a source of great artistic values when they are
appropriately represented.
Music is capable of wonderfully representing such characters. We are not
attracted to Don Giovanni in Mozart’s opera by any metaphysical beauty, or by
the fascinating power of attraction he possesses for Donna Elvira and Zerlina,
but by the artistic treatment of this figure. We are fascinated not by his boldness,
immense vitality, and zest for life, which as extra-moral values attract and
deceive many people in the real world, but by the figure with all these qualities,
with his great moral disvalues, as presented in the opera Il dissoluto punito ossia il
Don Giovanni.1 The figure of Don Giovanni is primarily constructed through
the music. This is especially true for Leporello, in whom we find masterfully
presented a unique combination of traits that recall Sancho Panza but with a
timorousness and skullduggery completely foreign to Sancho, all given through
the music. This music, however, is always music with words. Absolute music
could never present such a figure of Shakespearean vitality, classicism, a
character so perfectly captured.
What a gift—apart from the beauty of the music as such, as in the arias of
Don Ottavio and in the final aria of Donna Anna in Don Giovanni, a beauty that
can be expressed to the highest degree in music alone—that there are operas in
which this entirely new artistic value of the dramatic fashioning of characters
through music comes into its own. Undoubtedly this applies not only to the
fashioning of characters but also to the representing of the “world,” the
atmosphere of the drama. How wonderfully in Figaro the unique world of the
castle, with the servants, the garden, and the many elements of nature is given
through the music. How incomparable the stylistic unity of the music that makes
this work a perfected whole of highly distinctive character, a fully individual
work through which the world is enormously enriched.
The music also makes a decisive contribution to the fashioning of situations
and their dramatic development. The atmosphere of a situation in a drama or
play, both the poetry and the dramatic tension, can be given by the music in a
unique way. Let us take the second act of Figaro as our example: the disguising
of the page, Susanna’s aria, the arrival of the Count, the page hidden in the
adjoining room, and all that ensues until the gardener comes and complains.
First, we have the poetry in Susanna’s aria, and finally the incredible intensity of
the dramatic heightening in the music with the incomparable theme, “Consorte
mio, giudizio!” (“My wife/husband, be careful!”), also in the orchestra, and
somewhat later in the theme, “Mente il ceffo, io già non mento.” (“My face may
be lying, but not I”). The dramatic content of these themes is of exceptional
power. Apart from the beauty of the music as such, the fashioning of the
situation by the music possesses its own value, a value that absolute music cannot
have. When Susanna emerges from the locked adjoining room and sings, “Quel
pagio malnato, vedetelo qua” (“That low-born page you see before you”), there is
a special charm in the incomparable theme that expresses surprise in this
dramatic situation. This charm would be completely absent if the theme
occurred in a symphony or a string quartet.
All of these examples show us clearly the special value that adheres to the
fashioning of drama through music. This does not mean that a drama, play, or
comedy are incapable of expressing an ultimate beauty that no music could
heighten. The same is true of absolute music. There is no more intense poetry
than the first theme in the first movement of Beethoven’s seventh symphony, in
the second movement of his String Quartet Opus 132, or in the “Danza tedesca”
in Opus 130.
Music also shares in the overall construction of the drama, according to the
degree of the interpenetration of music and drama. We shall see this shortly
when we discuss the fundamentally different types of opera, that is, the different
types of connections between music and drama. At present, we simply want to
point out the fundamental ability of music to take part in the inner construction
and in the course of what happens in the drama and to represent these in a vital
manner, as in operas like Figaro, Don Giovanni, and Fidelio, and in Wagner’s
music dramas, especially in Tristan und Isolde.
In a perfect opera, the music of the first act belongs only in this act. The
same pieces of music could not occur in the second act. Just as the windows on
the first or second floor of a palace belong there, and not on the third floor, so
too this music belongs in the first phase of the opera, not later. The music that
introduces the third act of Tristan und Isolde necessarily occupies this place,
which is a special phase of the drama. What a difference between the
representation of the sea and its surging waves in the third act and the
representation at the beginning of the first act.
The special quality of music is uniquely capable of structuring the inner
development of the drama. Nothing would be more absurd than to believe that
the text merely provides an occasion for beautiful music. The music in an opera
or music drama is capable of expressing the same things that the words utter; in
fact, it can do all this in a way that far surpasses the words—but not outside the
drama or, rather, not as absolute music. Even in passages without words, music
is capable of expressing exceptionally the special atmosphere of the drama as a
whole and all its individual phases.
The ability of music to represent the elements of nature [Naturwelten] also
occurs in opera. As we have seen, absolute music sometimes reproduces natural
phenomena brilliantly. One example is the thunderstorm and the carefree
delightful tranquility after the storm in Beethoven’s “Pastoral Symphony.” It
would be wrong to regard this as a mere imitation. On the contrary. Not only is
the external natural phenomenon illustrated, but also the deep mystery and the
worlds therein are wonderfully represented with purely musical means. Even
though the immediately given beauty of the music remains the main theme, the
treatment of this natural phenomenon, its representation, is nevertheless the
bearer of a special artistic value.
The capacity of music to represent natural phenomena and their profound
contents naturally gains new possibilities for development in the context of
opera; the same is true for all the dimensions of expression we have already
mentioned. We have only to recall how the primordial phenomenon of flowing
water, of waves, of the sun as reflected in the Rhine, are given at the beginning
of Das Rheingold, or how the thunderstorm at the end of the same opera.
The union of sound and word is indeed the wellspring of a whole wealth of
artistic values. It makes possible the realization of an immeasurable wealth of
new artistic values that can unfold only in this way. In addition to these new
expressive dimensions in music, we have already pointed out music’s unparalleled
power to construct a drama, to fashion personalities vividly, and to express the
innermost genius of a drama.
All this will emerge still more clearly when we discuss the various types of
operas in which the union of text and music take entirely different forms.
 Of course, we can consider only some principal types that merit special
interest from the essential standpoint of the union between word and sound, and
that shed special light on the specifically new element in opera as distinct from
pure music and from drama without music. Important also, beyond the
relationship of music and text, will be the various degrees of perfection of an
opera qua opera.

Recitative, aria, and melodrama

Compared with a text that is only read, one that is spoken aloud is heightened in
a unique way; it gains in importance. This is true above all in the liturgy.
A further degree of heightening lies in recitation tono fermo on a particular
note. The articulation of the sentence is here less differentiated, however, on
account of the unchanged note, much like the sound of an organ. While the
individual word loses gravity, the overall solemnity is enhanced. The
accentuation and varying intonation of speech is replaced by a special stability
and an increase in the tonal element. The sound of the word is joined by a new
kind of audible element: the musical note, which represents a particular
enrichment. In a purely literary work of art, recitation would be completely
inappropriate. It would have a disturbing effect on the reading aloud of a poem
or novel, or on the performance of a play. At most, it might come into
consideration in the case of an epic. This form of union between word and sound
is appropriate in the liturgy during the recitation of the Psalms, and also in
oratorios.
A heightening over and against the tonus fermus occurs in the sphere of
sacred music with a certain stylized [stereotype] modulation, which periodically
raises and lowers the note. We find this in many readings and in the words of
the Gospels, the Lord’s Prayer in solemn divine office, and in the Holy Mass.
From here, one path leads to the full development of melos, the sung musical
line, in Gregorian chant and another to Passion music and oratorios.
In the present context, we are interested in the line that leads from the tonus
rectus to the recitative2 in opera. In the simplest form of recitative, the recitation
of the text stands entirely in the foreground. This is not a heightening of the
solemnity, as in the tonus rectus. Rather, the modulation of the notes follows the
meaning of the words and lends them a special quality through the notes that are
sung. This simplest, stylized recitative has neither a melody nor a theme; it is a
mere modulation and thus has no real expression. The notes vary only in a
formal and stylized way through height and depth and through forte and piano.
While this recitative has a certain inflection, it lacks the fullness and
differentiation of inflection in the spoken word. In many respects, it actually
constitutes a loss in comparison with the spoken word.
This recitative, which is found in operas by Handel and prior to him, is
justified by the fact that the opera as a whole emerges from the world of the
spoken word, and that one remains in the world of the sung word for the sake of
certain stylistic requirements and to avoid the harsh transition from the merely
spoken word to the aria, duet, or chorus.
We must distinguish between simple recitative and the secco recitative, which
is similar to it in many ways but displays a new and stronger stylization, a more
decorative character, and thereby perhaps also a stronger atmosphere of its own.
Already in purely musical terms it has a certain atmosphere, although one that
remains quite formal and stylized. We find secco recitative in eighteenth-century
Italian opera and, above all, in many of Mozart’s operas.
Completely different from these two forms of recitative, which replace the
spoken word for the sake of stylistic unity, is the accompagnato recitative. This
represents a marked musical creation and has a new character, depending on
where it appears, whether in Bach’s oratorios and cantatas or in Mozart’s operas.
This type of recitative bears an analogy to the prelude. It has a full melody,
though in a form other than the aria, and it can be a bearer of the highest
musical beauty. The term “recitative” is in fact misleading here, since it is a
radically different musical structure from the two other types of recitative we
have just mentioned. “Recitative” expresses only its particular union of word and
sound, in distinction to the aria, duet, trio, or chorus. Let us consider the
glorious recitative in Johann Sebastian Bach’s Christmas Oratorio, “Nun wird
mein liebster Bräutigam” (“Now my dearest bridegroom”), which precedes the
aria “Bereite dich, Zion” (“Prepare yourself, Zion”), or the moving recitative in
the St. Matthew Passion, “Ach Golgatha, unsel’ges Golgatha!” (“Oh Golgatha,
calamitous Golgatha!”), or “Am Abend, da es kühle war, ward Adams Fallen
offenbar” (“In the evening, when it was cool, Adam’s fall became manifest”).
Clearly these are musical structures of the greatest beauty and significant musical
ideas. The relationship of word and sound is different from that in the aria that
follows. The same is true of the two glorious recitatives Donna Anna sings
before the aria, “Or sai chi l’onore” (“Now you know who tried to steal my honor
from me”) and before the final aria, “Crudele? Ah no, mio bene” (“Cruel? Ah no,
my love”) in Don Giovanni.
What formally distinguishes a recitative of this kind and the aria that
follows? Is the recitative another type of union between word and sound?
Certainly, the text is of greater importance in the recitative. In the aria, the
music in formal terms stands more in the foreground. In the accompagnato
recitative there still remains an element of recitation [Deklamierten], while the
ensuing aria is completely sung. The element of the spoken word disappears in
the aria, and the logic proper [Eigenlogik] to the melody unfolds without any
hindrance. This is even the case when an aria gives highest expression to the
theme and to the meaning of the words. Even when an aria in an opera gives
powerful expression to the experiences of a character in the drama, indeed
characterizing this figure in his or her specific quality, and so in a certain respect
engendering a much deeper unity of word and sound, a greater interpenetration
of music and drama, the purely formal difference between this fully musical
accompagnato recitative and the following aria remains.
At the same time, this accompagnato recitative has the task of introducing the
aria, just as analogously a prelude introduces a fugue. In its preparatory role, it
has both a purely musical relationship to the aria and also, within the opera, the
function of heightening the dramatic situation.
A melodrama3 is a collaboration of spoken word and musical
accompaniment. While it is far from having the same importance as the various
forms of the recitative, it is an interesting possible collaboration of word and
sound in which (unlike all their other unions) they remain completely separate.
This unity consists exclusively in the special character that word and sound
acquire in being side by side. This juxtaposition is such that it engenders a
uniform effect, an enhancement of the mood. To be sure, melodrama has often
been misused and in such cases can have an embarrassing, inartistic character.
But it can also be a bearer of the highest beauty and have a powerful dramatic
function in opera, as in the second act of Fidelio when Rocco and Leonore climb
down into the underground chamber. The situation calls for this melodrama,
which is the bearer of a great dramatic beauty.
We find a completely different union of word and sound, drama and music,
in the Wagnerian music drama, which lacks both recitatives and arias. We shall
discuss this kind of union in detail after we have investigated the principal types
of opera, in each of which the union of word and music has a new character.

1. [Editors’ note: “The dissolute man who is punished, or Don Giovanni,” a reference to the full name
of the opera.]
2. [Editors’ note: Recitative follows the natural accentuation of speech. It differs from pure music in
that it lacks the fixed division by bars, that is, the exact rhythmic organization by means of temporal units.
The changing pitch is, however, prescribed. In secco recitative, the singing voice is supported by short (dry)
chords. It takes the place, so to speak, only of the spoken word, as in Mozart’s Figaro and Don Giovanni. In
accompagnato recitative, the accompaniment takes on a greater importance, and the singing voice can at
times be given a melodic shape.]
3. [Editors’ note: Hildebrand is using the term “melodrama” in an older, nonpejorative sense.]
 CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

The Principal Types of Opera

FOR AN HISTORIAN of music, there are very different types of opera, and he will
correctly identify many phases in its development. For a philosophical aesthetics,
however, it suffices to identify those types of opera that present a fundamentally
new union of word and sound.

The operas of Handel and Gluck

We have already mentioned the matchless aria at the beginning of Handel’s
Xerxes, the “Largo,” one of the most sublime pieces of music ever to have been
written. As is well known, the “Largo” is composed to a text, “Ombra mai fu”
(“Never was a shade”), that does not in any way correspond to the content of the
music. Even among the operas of Handel, this discrepancy is an exception.
Admittedly, the union of music and drama is very loose in Handel’s Julius
Caesar. The arias, choruses, and other pieces do not have a full dramatic
function. The music of the arias fits the text according to whether it is joyful or
sad, but with regard to the opera, it is rather the case that the text offers the
opportunity to write a beautiful aria than that the music shares in fashioning the
characters, situations, and the dramatic construction. The union of word and
sound reaches only to the point that the arias and choruses express musically the
meaning of the words and feelings. The music itself does not share in the drama.
This is all the more astonishing considering the strong interpenetration of music
and word in Handel’s oratorios. How uniquely the celebrated music from Judas
Maccabaeus expresses the solemn, victorious character of the text! Above all,
there is an incomparable marriage of word and sound in his Messiah.
We do not claim that the loose union between word and sound is found in
all Handel’s operas. In this regard, Acis and Galatea perhaps differs from Julius
Caesar. Our aim is simply to indicate a particular type of union between music
and text in which the music does not yet amount to a drama. That said, the
music of the arias and certain expressive possibilities in the music are often
inspired by the words and situations in the libretto of Julius Caesar.
 We find something completely new as regards the union of music and drama
in Gluck’s operas Orfeo ed Euridice, Iphigénie en Tauride, and Alceste. To begin
with, the music conveys the world of the drama in a potent manner. Gluck
succeeds in transporting us into a Greek world, but not the world of Homer or
the Greek tragedians, nor that of Aristophanes, but a strong atmosphere full of
poetry, nourished by the spirit of classical antiquity as seen with the eyes of the
Baroque period. It is not by chance that Gluck chose only classical material and
that his music certainly would not suit the world of Shakespearean dramas such
as Othello, Romeo and Juliet, or Twelfth Night. Each of these operas by Gluck, as
well as Iphigénie en Aulide, has a uniform style that cannot be detached from the
world of Greek antiquity.
Furthermore, the music fashions the situations in Orfeo ed Euridice in a
significant way. How splendidly the music expresses the contrast between the
chorus of the Furies and the moving song of Orpheus, full of gentle grief! It is a
grand, dramatic contrast that the fashioning power of the music
[Gestaltungskraft] brings out fully. Consider also the expressive intensity in the
first chorus at the beginning of the opera! How remarkably the music expresses
the atmosphere of grief, including the classical aspect of death! How the music
conveys the unique poetry of the situation!
One of the most striking traits of this opera is the unique spiritual beauty of
the music itself, the beauty of the second power (which absolute music can also
possess to the highest degree).
For our present context, the factors of critical importance relate to the union
of music and word, that is, of music and drama.
In Orfeo ed Euridice we experience how powerfully the music, itself so
sublime, can fashion the drama [formgebende Kraft], how it far surpasses the text
in conveying the particular mood of mourning in the drama, how intensely it
expresses Orpheus’s pain in the wonderful aria in the first act. The expression in
the scene with Amor, who announces the consoling message, is completely
different. It is true that the music of Orfeo does not yet possess the ability to
form and depict living, fully delineated, individual figures like Mozart’s
Leporello or Cherubino. But the figure of Orpheus, as fashioned in the Greek
world and depicted on reliefs in his poetry and as the classical representative of
the grieving, loving husband, is perfectly captured in the music. The music does
not form Orpheus, but, being already fashioned in myth, depicts him in a
wonderful manner. It fulfills the demands presented by this figure.
How matchlessly the world of Elysium is given in the second act, with the
idyllic beatitude and its poetry unfolding in the music in such a contemplative
way. The expressive function of the music here is extremely significant for the
representation of the situation presented in the text. This representation is fully
present even in the musical interludes where there is no singing. Quite apart
from their purely musical beauty, these interludes also bear the value that is the
worthy and powerful representation of Elysium. All this culminates in the
glorious chorus, “Torna, o bella, al tuo consorte” (“Return, fair one, to your
husband”).
The third act is not so rich in situations as the first two. The recitative,
which is of the first, more stylized form, is almost always something of a filler.
The full dramatic power of the music comes to expression in the celebrated aria,
“Che farò senza Euridice?” (“What shall I do without Eurydice?”). This is not
simply an aria of great musical beauty but Orpheus’s aria par excellence, his true
voice, a full expression of his character, completely integrated into the overall
style of the drama.
One could show something similar in the case of Iphigénie en Tauride,
especially in Pylade’s two arias, and of Alceste, especially in the great aria of
Alceste.
For our present purposes, it suffices to point out the new type of union
between music and drama in Orfeo ed Euridice, in which the music in many
respects constructs the drama and exercises its depictive power. Certainly, this
encompasses neither all the expressive dimensions of music nor its overall
capacity for fashioning dramatic figures. But Orfeo already represents a marriage
of word and music in which the music uniquely conveys the atmosphere of the
entire piece and thus constitutes an important factor from a dramatic
perspective. The artistic value of dramatic representation is already fully present
here and complements the pure beauty of the music. What we receive in Orfeo ed
Euridice could never be communicated by absolute music, which may be able to
offer us something still more beautiful, but not this particular artistic value as
realized in Gluck’s Orfeo, since this can only be conveyed through the union of
word and sound.

Mozart’s operas
With Mozart, we have the start of a new type of opera. In reality, we find in
Mozart four different kinds of union of music and libretto: the first in Die
Entführung aus dem Serail, the second in The Marriage of Figaro and Don
Giovanni, the third in Così fan tutte, and the fourth in The Magic Flute.1 We will
limit our discussion to the interpenetration of music and drama that in a great
variety of modifications is characteristic of these works, especially in Figaro and
Don Giovanni where it takes a completely new form.
In Die Entführung, the characters speak between the sung parts. Does the
fact that the plot advances by means of the spoken word diminish the unity of
music and drama? Is this a weaker interpenetration? Is the music entrusted with
a lesser share in fashioning the drama? Not necessarily, for it depends on the
kind of drama. What is more, the music does not play a greater role through the
use of secco recitative. All that one could claim is that the through-composed
[Durchkomponiert]2 music drama, as introduced by Wagner, presents a greater
interpenetration of music and drama. But there are other reasons for through-
composition, which we shall discuss when we look at Wagner’s music dramas.
In the case of operas where the breaks between the arias, duets, trios, and so
on, are filled by a stylized recitative [stereotypes Rezitativ] or a secco recitative
instead of the spoken word, one cannot claim this guarantees a more intense
interpenetration of music and drama. The fact that everything is sung does not
as such equal a heightened interpenetration of music and drama. This depends
much more on the style and spirit of the opera. A comparison shows that secco
recitative, which is appropriate in Figaro, does not suit Die Entführung. The
appropriateness of one or another recitative depends on the style, the ethos of
the libretto, and on various other elements, that is, how the music in formal
terms [formaler Hinsicht] fashions the drama. The spoken word has a dignity that
neither the stylized recitative [stereotype Rezitativ] nor the secco recitative
possesses. The stylization [Stilisierung], especially in the latter type, deprives the
words of a certain seriousness. The intonation disappears, and the word becomes
less expressive one in respect.
The libretto of Die Entführung, its special ethos, and the specifically personal
quality of the music (this opera in a certain sense is a personal confession of
Mozart’s love for Constanze) exclude secco recitative. This conclusion is
interesting, because it is characteristic for the general relationship between music
and drama. It shows us the variety of factors that play a role from an artistic
point of view, and the differentiation of the elements that are necessary for a
happy marriage of music and drama.
For works such as Die Entführung and Fidelio, there are only two alternatives,
either through-composition3 or words spoken between singing. This should not
be taken as expressing regret that Die Entführung or Fidelio are not through-
composed like Tristan or Die Meistersinger. This would be a meaningless fiction,
and they are as they should be. We mean only that a certain way of taking things
seriously, an ethos of personal confession in the drama and in the music, is
incompatible with secco recitative.
With respect to the interpenetration of music and word, we find in Die
Entführung a completely new dramatic dimension of the music compared with
Gluck’s operas. The figure of Osmin marks the introduction of the dramatic
representation of characters. It attains an even higher level in Figaro and Don
Giovanni. This dramatic representation is closely tied to the presence of humor
in the music, an element that plays no role in the type of opera that Gluck
composed, even less so in Handel.4 What a humorous note in the song of
Konstanze and Blonde at the end of the second act, “Wenn unsrer Ehre wegen
die Männer . . . das ist nicht auszustehn!” (“When men become suspicious . . . it
is unbearable!”).
Pedrillo and Blonde are living characters fashioned by the music. By contrast,
the protagonists Belmonte and Konstanze are not fashioned into individual
personalities, though love is wonderfully expressed in their arias. This expression
is much more differentiated than in Orpheus’s laments in the first and third acts.
Without words, the music could never express concretely this ardor of a deep
and noble love, filled with lofty moral nobility, above all in Belmonte’s second
aria. In Konstanze’s aria, “Ach, ich liebte” (“Oh, I loved”), the music movingly
expresses the moral nobility of her character.
Pedrillo’s serenade, “In Mohrenland gefangen” (“In a Moorish land
imprisoned lay”), is full of the dramatic power for shaping situations. How
splendid the poignant musical theme in the scene where Belmonte and
Konstanze are captured and awaiting death. The music attains a tragic greatness,
especially in the theme, which possesses a specifically dramatic power. Only in
opera and music drama is music capable of this particular artistic value, which
shows us the enrichment that the existence of opera represents from the musical
point of view.
We have already pointed out the full development of the dramatic fashioning
by the music in Figaro and Don Giovanni. These works attain a highpoint in the
interpenetration of music and drama; not the absolute pinnacle, but an ultimate
perfection of a dramatic kind. The music in these operas unfolds all its expressive
possibilities and realizes in consummate fashion the characters, situations,
worlds, and dramatic construction. Both works possess a Shakespearean
potency.5
To offer one example, consider the graveyard scene in Don Giovanni and the
confrontation between the Commendatore and Don Giovanni at the end of the
opera. The dramatic power and depth of this music are indescribable. The music
does not present the clash of these two worlds—of the Commendatore and Don
Giovanni—independently of the text but instead, thanks to its greatness, raises
up the text to its height. Thus, a perfect dramatic unity comes into being. One
no longer thinks of the text and the music as separable. The drama in its totality
stands before us in unparalleled, deeply moving power.

The importance of the libretto and its marriage to the music

This brings us to a central point, the importance of the libretto in the work as a
whole [Gesamtwerk], to use an unattractive expression. To what extent does the
libretto contribute to the artistic value of the whole? What value does it have in
itself? To what extent does it give the music the opportunity to unfold all its
dramatic expressive possibilities? What demands does it require the music to
fulfill?
In all operas before Gluck, the text is of limited value.6 It has more the
function of giving the music an opportunity to unfold in the sung parts and to
complement the beauty of the music itself with certain expressive possibilities
through union with the word. Music and drama remain relatively unconnected;
the text makes only modest demands of the music. The entire artistic value lies
in the music. The text constitutes nothing more than a basis. It is not a work of
art in its own right, and it contributes relatively little to the beauty of the opera.
At most, it creates a general atmosphere, which is also given through the
historical framework of the opera. Despite the beautiful music, there is no
genuine union between music and text. The result is not a real opera.
In Gluck’s opera Orfeo ed Euridice, however, the libretto already attains a
higher level. Its poetic treatment does not yet stand on its own artistically, but
the underlying tale is itself of great poetry. The tale had already been set to
music before Gluck, notably in the beautiful work by Monteverdi.7 The myth
itself has a certain classicism and is a bearer of artistic values. This is why this
tale makes great demands of the music, which forms the opera as a whole and
fashions it into a magnificent artistic structure. Although the music does not yet
develop all dramatic possibilities, it fully realizes the possibilities offered by this
tale, such that a significant dramatic work comes into being.
In itself the poetic setting is insignificant and would never be viable as an
artistic structure of its own. It does not, however, contain anything that prevents
the development of the story’s central theme through the music. On the
contrary, it gives the music an excellent opportunity to unfold this genius in all
its classicism, poetry, and depth. This already constitutes a much closer union of
music and libretto.
With Mozart, the libretto in Die Entführung, and even more so in Figaro and
Don Giovanni, is of a different nature. It is not itself a work of art, and even as a
pure story it does not possess an artistically autonomous character [selbstständigen
Charakter] like the myths of Orfeo ed Euridice and the two Iphigénies. But the
libretto of Die Entführung is written to be complemented by the music and as
such is completely successful. It contains a deep moral content, an enthralling
dramatic plot, and characters that are particularly suited to being developed
through music. In this respect, it is superior to the poetry of Orfeo ed Euridice,
although it lacks the classicism and power of the tale of the latter. Nevertheless,
it fulfills all the requirements for the new dramatic function of the music. The
kind of poetry in the libretto of Die Entführung permits a profound
interpenetration of music and text. Although the artistic value of the whole
derives in an incomparably higher measure from the music, and this music is the
soul of the full reality, viability, and beauty of the opera, the text marvelously
fulfills its task. It is indispensable and satisfying, making an important
contribution to the spirit and beauty of Die Entführung.
The text in The Marriage of Figaro is more autonomous. Mozart had da
Ponte revise Beaumarchais’s comedy Le mariage de Figaro, which even without
music is fully alive in its own right. But Mozart made something incomparably
greater out of it: he took a delightful, amusing comedy, full of charm, to create a
great masterpiece of ultimate beauty and poetry, spirit and depth. This comedy is
uniquely suited for such a perfect musical creation. The music not only
transcends all the demands of the text but also fashions a perfect dramatic
structure out of the libretto. The music, of course, rises to heights that are
incomparably superior to what the charming comedy offers. But quite apart from
the beauty of the music itself, from a purely dramatic point of view everything in
Figaro develops in a new way. The music does not use the text as a mere
opportunity to unfold. This is of great significance. Rather, text and music
interpenetrate completely. The music takes the text with full seriousness and
makes it into something incomparably more perfect. We have here the rare
instance of an ideal marriage between music and poetry, although the music is
immeasurably superior. The music not only uses the text; it fully integrates the
poetry into the great work of art that is the opera The Marriage of Figaro.
 In general, an autonomous literary work will to a greater or lesser extent be
edited for use in an opera; some changes, both smaller and larger, are made. This
fact sheds light on what makes for a felicitous collaboration between music and
drama. The modifications necessary for the collaboration between word and
sound reveal how many conditions must be met for a happy marriage between
music and drama.
Don Giovanni differs from Figaro in that this libretto by da Ponte is not
based on a drama that can stand on its own, although there are several plays with
the same story, such as Molière’s Le festin de pierre and Don Juan Tenorio by the
Spaniard Zorilla. Da Ponte’s libretto is not merely a modification of this story,
but something new. The story of the rake who gets punished has an important
content that makes demands of both the poetic creation and the music. It
contains an immense potential for artistic development. Da Ponte’s libretto is
explicitly written to be fashioned by the music. It is thus neither a play nor a
work the only purpose of which is to enable beautiful arias, as in operas prior to
Gluck. The libretto is brilliant insofar as it enables the music to unfold the full
range of its dramatic powers and its expressive dimensions. This particular
setting of the story holds a great dramatic potency, which the music can actualize
in an ideal manner. This is why the libretto is treated with complete seriousness
by the music, and functions as the backbone, so to speak, of this great and
moving drama. Sound and word interpenetrate totally. In Mozart’s most
important operas, the choice of the libretto is itself a revelation of his genius.

Beethoven’s Fidelio
The libretto of Beethoven’s Fidelio is not a play that would be viable as a purely
literary work. But it has a high moral content and a human depth that offer the
music a unique possibility for development. It is exceedingly characteristic of
Beethoven that he chose this hymn in praise of wedded love as the theme for his
opera.8 This libretto, which is less refined and dramatically formed than those of
Figaro and Don Giovanni, has an enormous dramatic potency and provides the
music a basis for a completely new expressive dimension. Particularly interesting
is that the music “speaks” a completely different language and unfolds a different
kind of dramatic art from that in Mozart. The characters are not fully fashioned
dramatic figures, as in Figaro and Don Giovanni, though the character of
Leonore is infused by the music with a greatness and depth that we do not find
anywhere in Mozart. The injustice of the evil Pizarro, the sufferings of innocent
captives, the benevolence and nobility of the Minister—all proclaim the ultimate
significance of the moral sphere.
In Fidelio the metaphysical beauty of the moral sphere is expressed through
the exclusively artistic means of music with a depth that is truly extraordinary.
This also applies to Florestan and even to Fernando. What is more, there is also
an intimate union between the pure beauty of the music and the metaphysical
beauty of the moral world as we find it in Leonore’s profound love and fidelity
and in Florestan’s sufferings for the truth. Here we encounter a new style of
dramatic art, a new language that touches our hearts to the core and moves us in
a deeply personal way. What a voice of ultimate moral nobility we hear in the
prisoners’ chorus and in Florestan’s recitative and aria in the second act.
In Fidelio, there is an incomparable interpenetration of text and music and
the subject matter they share. The music treats the theme of the text with
complete seriousness. The drama fashioned in this opera is of immense
proportions. In it we find for the first time an articulated form of an inner or
contemplative drama [innerer oder Kontemplativer Dramatik], which sharply
distinguishes itself from outward drama [äußeren Dramatik]. In speaking of the
“dramatic,” one usually envisages, correctly, a suspenseful plot dynamically
pressing forward, since this is an essential trait of the dramatic. But alongside
this grand, dynamic form of drama, there is also a contemplative drama in which
the suspense moves entirely to a deeper plane and the drama unfolds through
intensity and depth. Consider for instance the scene in King Lear with the
blinded Gloucester and Poor Tom (his son Edgar, whom he does not recognize),
and also the nocturnal scene in Juliet’s room in Romeo and Juliet.
In opera, we find an example of this contemplative drama in Fidelio in the
duet, “O namen-namenlose Freude!” (“Oh inexpressible joy!”). This follows the
scene, which is immensely dramatic in the dynamic sense, “Töt’ erst sein Weib!”
(“Kill first his wife!”), and the trumpet call—a moment of highest suspense
conveyed indescribably by the music with this signal. The world “vanishes” in the
loving gaze [Ineinanderblick] of Florestan and Leonore, in the contrast of their
bliss and the terrible sufferings they have endured. This joy expresses itself in
boundless jubilation, both in its inner dynamism and in the full contemplative
expansion of bliss, in the passage, “O Gott, wie groß ist dein Erbarmen!” (“Oh
God, how great is your mercy!”). We find the inner drama again in the
wonderful passage, “O Gott! O welch ein Augenblick!” (“Oh God, what a
moment!”) at the end of the opera.
Even though in the type of opera represented by Fidelio not all the characters
are dramatically fashioned in the full Shakespearean sense as they are in Figaro
and in Don Giovanni, nevertheless, Fidelio attains a highpoint all its own in the
interpenetration of drama and music. The figures of Leonore and Florestan are
not indeed figures in the Shakespearean sense, like the Countess, Susanna, and
others in Figaro, but in another respect they are much more significant and
profound than any character in Mozart. In their moral nobility, they are the soul
of the entire dramatic progression. In the depth they manifest, they are
representatives of a lofty moral world. This air of moral greatness is conveyed
through purely musical means in a consummate artistic transposition.
A secco recitative would be utterly unsuited to the style of Fidelio. Only the
spoken word could do justice to the style of the whole, to the extent that breaks
between the music are even necessary. The transition from spoken to sung word
makes for a tremendous impression in the first act, when Rocco says to Fidelio,
“Meinst du, ich könnte dir nicht ins Herz sehen?” (“Do you think that I could
not see into your heart?”) which is followed by the wonderful quartet, “Mir ist so
wunderbar” (“I feel so wonderful”). This organic transition and ascent from word
to music has a particularly strong effect, in the best sense of the term. In union
with the word, the music is able to express things for which the word alone
would be inadequate.
We have already referred to the importance of the melodrama in the second
act of Fidelio. The many fully formed accompagnato recitatives are sublime
examples of this noble union of word and sound, this preparation for the
unconstrained flow of the melody in the arias. We have in mind Leonore’s
recitative, “Abscheulicher, wo eilst du hin?” (“Oh monster, where do you hasten
to?”) and, above all, Florestan’s recitative in the second act, “Gott! Welch’
Dunkel hier! O grauenvolle Stille!” (“God! How dark it is here! What terrible
silence!”).
Compared with Mozart’s operas, the orchestra has a greater importance in
Fidelio. It forms this drama extensively and therefore has a different relationship
to what is sung from that in Mozart. The overture to Fidelio fulfills its dramatic
function in a manner completely different from Mozart’s overtures, which are
themselves wonderful. Certainly, Mozart’s overtures introduce us to the spirit of
the opera, though not all to the same extent, the overture to Figaro least of all.
The overture to The Magic Flute is less an introduction to the spirit of the opera
than a significant piece of music in its own right.
The overture to Fidelio has a much more direct relationship to the drama.
The full seriousness and the breath of moral greatness already sound in the
overture and reveal the spirit of the opera as whole. The same is true of the
orchestral interlude9 at the beginning of the second act. The dramatic situation,
the somber and eerie character of the dungeon, and the tragedy of Florestan,
how remarkably all this is given! In these passages, the orchestra attains an
unparalleled power of fashioning the drama.
We have already mentioned the power of music to fashion without words in
the second act of Orfeo ed Euridice. The lyricism of this musical intermezzo is
very meaningful for the world of Elysium. In Fidelio, on the other hand, the
orchestra is fully integrated into the new way of shaping the drama. In every
situation, in all the arias, including the duet between Rocco and Fidelio, “Nur
hurtig fort” (“Make haste”), and especially in Florestan’s reply, “O Dank dir!”
(“Oh, thank you!”), the orchestra has been entrusted with an extremely
important task in the construction and advancing of the drama. This has often
been interpreted erroneously. The assertion that “Beethoven was not a dramatist
like Mozart” is completely incorrect. It is true that Beethoven did not possess the
specific dramatic gift that enabled Mozart to use musical means to thoroughly
fashion his characters in Shakespearian manner. But Beethoven created a
completely new dramatic dimension, which includes giving the orchestra a much
larger task in the construction of the drama. This dramatic dimension is the
bearer of a high artistic value and connected to a new form of the
interpenetration of sound and word. Let us not forget that Beethoven felt
himself compelled in what may be his greatest work, the ninth symphony, to
introduce in the last movement a union of music and word that is a unique
example of their interpenetration and the new concrete expressive possibilities
that arise through this union. This by no means entails only the inclusion of
human voices and the expression they possess in contrast to all instruments, but
also the union of sound and word.
The conclusions to various operas is a further help in delineating the type of
opera that Fidelio represents and the function of the music in the construction of
the drama. The ending in Figaro, Don Giovanni, Così fan tutte, and also in The
Magic Flute, is a return to a state of tranquility, a stylized fading away of the
whole. In Figaro, the sublime and profound “Contessa, perdono!” (“Countess,
your pardon!”) is followed by a charming and cheerful roundelay. In The Magic
Flute, after the glorious “Die Strahlen der Sonne vertreiben die Nacht” (“The
rays of the sun drive away the night”) there is likewise a kind of stylized fading
away. These endings perfectly fit the framework of the stage to which Mozart
adhered in a special way. In Don Giovanni, the grand scene with the
Commendatore and the terrible downfall of Don Giovanni is followed by the
wonderful, serene conclusion, which incorporates the world of human life in its
full reality, with its radiant poetry. This ending strikes us as even more beautiful
than those of Figaro and The Magic Flute. It restores the bright light of day in a
brilliant manner, brings all the characters back on stage one last time, and
wonderfully depicts how life goes on. Given the context of the stage, which
entails a certain distance from the onlooker, this is a profoundly fitting
conclusion. It is only in Die Entführung, which is closely related to the Fidelio
type in many ways, that the conclusion, “Wer so viel Huld vergessen kann”
(“Whoever can forget such grace”), in keeping with the ethos of the whole, is less
of a fading away and a return to the framework of the stage. The conclusion to
Fidelio, on the other hand, is something completely new. It is a highpoint. The
apotheosis of marital fidelity shatters the framework of the stage. It is not a
fading away but a victorious and glorious final resounding of the profoundly
moral ethos that fills this entire work.
From a dramatic perspective, the role entrusted to the orchestra in Fidelio
certainly justifies the insertion of the great “Leonore Overture No. 3” following
the duet, “O namenlose Freude!” (“Oh inexpressible joy!), a practice begun by
Gustav Mahler.10 “Justifies” strikes us as too weak, since this insertion in fact is a
particularly beautiful complement. Following the high dramatic suspense of the
events on stage and the profound ensuing inner drama, the contemplative
rhythm already present here comes to full expression with this insertion, which
presents the figure of Leonore with purely musical means. Since the music of
this overture is completely filled with the spirit of Leonore, it makes for a
wonderful insertion that leads us to immerse ourselves contemplatively in this
character and immerse ourselves in her spirit.

The function of the stage

In our discussion of the interpenetration of music and drama, the next step
would be to speak about Wagner’s music drama, which achieves a perfect
unification of sound and word. Before doing so, however, we must make some
fundamental observations about the stage and its role, which we have just
mentioned indirectly in our comparison of opera endings. Besides this, we wish
to point to one type of light opera and the so-called grand opera, which is in
many ways an infelicitous term.
Our first remarks concern a qualitative element of the stage in opera. Our
concern is not with the role of the scenery (for example, the extent to which it
ought to be realistic or only symbolic), but with a certain framework [Rahmen]
into which an opera can be especially integrated. Beyond the overall effect of the
stage, this framework includes the consciousness of being in a theater and being
entertained.
This aspect of the stage is found in its highest form in Mozart. It belongs to
the stage that it addresses the public, attracting, amusing, and enthralling it.
Mozart knows how to fill this framework with the deepest and most sublime
content. By adhering firmly to the framework, Mozart is able to say that a
particular passage will certainly evoke a great “Bravo!” and that the singer or
singers will receive several curtain calls in the hope they will give an encore.11 To
work within the framework of the stage while presenting music of ultimate
dramatic greatness and angelic beauty is something unique and extraordinarily
delightful. And indeed, as Walter Braunfels said, it takes a certain humility to
offer something of uttermost depth in light vessels.12
On the other hand, there is something great and glorious when this
framework of the stage is burst open from within, as in Fidelio, or, in a
completely fundamental manner, when it is replaced by a new conception, as in
the Wagnerian music drama.
The light framework of the stage, which allows the singers to showcase their
achievements and also contains an element of amusing and entertaining the
audience, has never been filled with content of such ultimate depth as by
Mozart. We sometimes find charming works full of grace and artistic perfection
the content of which does not, as with Mozart, greatly surpass this frame but
instead fills it in a highly satisfying way. An excellent example is Rossini’s The
Barber of Seville, a masterpiece of the light format in which it was created, and
one that does not make any claim to great depth. The Barber entertains us
continuously and enchants us through its perfection, through the complete
interpenetration of music and poetry that balance each other in their artistic
importance. It enchants us through the dramatic forming of the characters and
the many beautiful musical ideas. It is a highpoint of light opera and fulfills all
the requirements of the stage in this sense. But it is not difficult to see what a
world separates The Barber from Mozart’s Figaro.
The overall situation of an epoch or a country has a great influence on the
function of the theater and the stage. It is interesting to note how this function
changes based on whether it is a drama without music or an opera. Our concern
here is limited to opera: not its historical development but its fundamentally
different types. The Italian stage with its secco recitative is a clearly defined type.
Mozart accepts this qua stage, though in no way being bound to its spirit, in
Figaro, Don Giovanni, and above all in Così fan tutte, but not in Die Entführung
and The Magic Flute. This Italian stage—though not the stage in the time of
Gluck and before—is characterized by a particular relationship between the
public and what is performed on stage. The aim is to please the public, and it is
the public, not individual persons or humanity, who are addressed. There is no
effort, no reverent sursum corda demanded of the public. The theater belongs
rather to that part of life in which one relaxes and enjoys oneself. The public
represents a social unity of its own. The elegant seating, the boxes and so on,
also offer the opportunity for a social encounter. The satisfaction of the public,
in its function as a judge, also plays a role. Whether a work is successful or not is
an essential question, although it is not uncommon for works that initially failed
to please to be subsequently the most frequently performed. The question of
success is of highest importance for the theater and its meaning; it “hangs in the
air” and gives a particular immediacy to a performance, especially a premiere.
In this context, we must not forget the singers. Their achievement is highly
important, not only for the sake of a perfect rendition and worthy presentation
of the work (although this is quite legitimate) but also because of their purely
vocal “achievements”—such as the extent of their vocal range, how long they are
able to hold a note, the technical perfection with which they perform a
coloratura passage.
All of this characterizes the age of “grand” opera, in which the works
themselves were infected by this spirit and saw a decline in artistic terms. In the
original Italian stage, all these elements were much less in the foreground, even
though much was already noticeable in a milder form.
The stage of the Romantic period is a completely different type. The impulse
to the marvelous and fabulous that fills this period also conquers the stage,
changing its outward appearance. This can already be heard in The Magic Flute.
The operas of Carl Maria von Weber present this completely new type of stage,
which is closely tied to Romantic opera and its new union of music and poetry.
Weber’s masterpiece, Der Freischütz, is particularly instructive. It contains a
profound interpenetration of music and poetry. The music unfolds its expressive
possibilities in the representation of the terror of the Wolf’s Glen, the sacred
atmosphere of the hermit, Agathe’s purity and piety, the fresh world of nature in
the choruses of the hunters and foresters, and in the maliciousness and eeriness
of Kaspar. Weber fashions a very particular poetry of nature, a quality of
freshness, also in the figure of Ännchen, but a radically different type of drama
from what we find in Figaro, Don Giovanni, and Fidelio. The point of
fundamental importance is to see how various are the dramatic expressive and
formative possibilities of the music in Don Giovanni, Fidelio, and Der Freischütz.

The congruency of framework and content

A special characteristic of Romantic opera is a certain modesty in the framework
[Rahmen] of the whole. The relationship between the framework that a work of
art intends to fill and the actual filling of this framework is a general factor in art.
It is a definite artistic flaw when a work of art aims to offer something that far
surpasses the content it actually presents. We do not need to know the intentions
of the author; rather, this aim makes itself felt within the framework of the work
itself.
With respect to opera we want again to mention the general artistic value of
congruency between the framework and content or intention. This congruency
does not, of course, guarantee that the whole will possess any artistic value, since
the intention may aim at a cheap effect and even at kitsch. If this intention fully
succeeds, not only does the product in question not acquire any positive artistic
value, but its disvalue is in fact heightened. Despite its superiority in other
respects, an effective, successful Schlager, in which the triviality of its atmosphere
and its music is particularly pronounced, has a greater disvalue in artistic terms
than a weak and impotent Schlager.
Our interest here lies only in works with true artistic intentions. The artist
can aim at something great and profoundly moving or restrict himself to a more
modest theme. If Goldoni had set out to fill the framework of Molière, his work
would have been a failure. He had the wisdom to choose a much more modest
framework, and his comedies are full of charm, wit, gracefulness, and poetry. If
Carl Maria von Weber had chosen the framework of Don Giovanni, Fidelio, or
Tristan, he would have failed. His Freischütz has a framework that is much more
modest yet completely filled, and it is a masterpiece of its kind.
Something analogous applies to The Barber of Seville. Although this opera is
very different from Der Freischütz and belongs to the previously mentioned type
of light stage rather than to the Romantic stage, and although it has a certain
lightness that forms an explicit contrast to the intimate character of Der
Freischütz, both works have in common the choice of a more modest framework
that they are capable of filling. Both are masterpieces, since they completely
fulfill the genuinely artistic aim that they intend. Der Freischütz is musically
much more significant and deeper than The Barber, but this does not alter the
fact that both works have a framework that they fulfill.
 It is interesting to compare Rossini’s Barber with his William Tell. The
framework chosen for the latter work is far too large. Rossini’s music is not all
capable of filling it and so, with regard to framework, William Tell is definitely
unsuccessful.
Smetana’s The Bartered Bride in many respects resembles Der Freischütz.
Although we must emphasize the musical superiority of Der Freischütz, which
among other things is exemplified by its much greater depth, the stage in
Smetana bears a greater similarity to the specifically Romantic stage than to the
Italian stage. More importantly, there is an analogy with respect to the more
modest framework chosen from the outset and completely filled by both operas.
Although the expressive dimensions actualized in the two works are very
different, and the role of music in the dramatic construction of the whole differs
greatly, the “word” spoken in both fulfills a similar function.
In The Barber of Seville, the more modest framework is linked to a certain
character of the Italian stage. The content attests to a lightness that corresponds
to this framework and is less deep, artistically speaking, than the depth and
artistic greatness of Figaro. In Figaro, a tremendous depth and fullness of
content are presented in a light vessel, whereas the artistic content in The Barber
is in keeping with this vessel, and certainly in an entirely positive way. The
framework of Der Freischütz and The Bartered Bride is different from that of The
Barber, and their content lacks the lightness of The Barber. Although The Barber
is more potent than The Bartered Bride, Der Freischütz surpasses them both.
We mention all this only to present a type of opera in which from the outset
the demands are more modest, and in which the framework objectively aspired
to by the work is filled (or filled in) perfectly.
This more modest framework does not, of course, guarantee that it is actually
filled out. Many operas are set within a small framework and have a markedly
light character; but they are weak because they do not really fill out this
framework in artistic terms. This type is widespread among operas of the first
half of the nineteenth century; it lacks both music of significance and beauty and
the dramatic fashioning of the text through the music. A completely successful
musical piece, such as the celebrated quintet in Donizetti’s Lucia di Lammermoor,
cannot rescue this opera as a whole.
Even more modest is the dramatic achievement of the music in the typical
“grand” opera, for example in Meyerbeer, Halévy, Bellini, and others. The point
that interests us is not just the deficiency of beauty in the music but the unhappy
marriage of music and drama. In Bellini, the problem is a weakness in the
fashioning of the drama; in others, the vocal achievements or the exciting plot
are far too dominant. In Gounod’s Faust, the framework is incredibly overtaxed.
Gounod attempts to transform into an opera one of the greatest and most
profound works of literature, Goethe’s Faust, Part I, a poetic text that is probably
not at all suited to a marriage with music. The music entirely lacks the power to
shape this drama. What it expresses is radically different in qualitative terms
from the content expressed in Goethe’s Faust. Its ethos is completely different
from that of the poetry.
Berlioz captures the spirit of Goethe much better in his La Damnation de
Faust, in which, with great artistic wisdom, he refrains from using Goethe’s
poetry as an operatic text.
This criticism of Gounod’s Faust should not be taken to mean that a
composer must be fully equal in artistic potency to the author of the drama for
the opera to be a masterpiece. Verdi was a great genius, but he was no equal to
Shakespeare, who among composers can be compared to only Bach, Mozart,
Beethoven, or Wagner. Nevertheless, Verdi’s Otello is a great masterpiece, a
wonderful marriage of music and drama.13
There are some operas that, while unsuccessful as a whole, contain certain
passages in which the spirit of the work comes to expression in an intense and
potent way. Beyond their great musical beauty, such passages often unfold a lofty
dramatic power. While they cannot salvage the opera, what they offer is a much
higher artistic value than merely a completely successful interpenetration of text
and music on a superficial level.
The best examples of this type of opera are the works of Berlioz, in which
individual passages of great beauty or brilliant power are like oases in a desert.
The aria of Hylas in The Trojans is so intensely poetic, it captures the world of
classical antiquity so masterfully and deeply, that it alone represents a much
higher artistic value than the entire Barber of Seville. But it does not save the
opera as a whole. From an artistic perspective, the creation of such a passage is a
more momentous occurrence than the creation of a small masterpiece of a lighter
kind. The same applies to the tremendous duet between Aeneas and Dido in The
Trojans.
Berlioz’s opera Benvenuto Cellini is likewise unsuccessful, taken as a whole,
but the Jugglers’ Chorus is of brilliant power and expresses the atmosphere of
this work in a potent manner, “Venez, venez, peuple de Rome . . . venez, venez,
voir l’habile homme, Qui va monter sur le tréteau!” (“Come, come, people of
Rome . . . come see the great man, who will appear on stage!”).
 Dance in opera
The role granted to ballet and dance in opera is characteristic of how the stage,
theater, and opera were generally conceived in the period of the so-called grand
opera. The work had to entertain, whether through the music or the plot, the
accomplishment of the singers, or through a good ballet. Neither the composer
nor the public was disturbed by the fact that this was often completely
incompatible with the seriousness of the plot and the seriousness at which the
music at least aimed. The composer may have inserted the dance reluctantly, but
he believed that this was an indispensable concession to the wishes of the public
if he was to be successful. These dances, for example, in Gounod’s Faust and
even in a work like Verdi’s Aida that is otherwise so beautiful, strike a discordant
note in artistic terms. They neither fit into the work as a whole nor appear at
points that are suggested by the plot.
The ballet in Faust is not music for the people’s dance in the scene of the
walk on Easter morning, but an “obligatory” insertion at a much later point,
where it is quite out of place. How radically different is the dance in Figaro,
which grows in a completely organic manner out of the dramatic situation and is
in fact a special enrichment of this situation, thanks to the beauty of the music.
Not only is it meaningful in the context of the wedding celebration, since it
heightens the festivity of the situation, but it also has a convincing character.
This dance is completely different from the “obligatory” dance that is “owed” to
the public to amuse them. It is a meaningful, organic part of the plot and the
music. Figaro is the only opera in which Mozart includes dance.
The great dramatist Verdi, in whom music and drama interpenetrate and
whose music thoroughly shapes the drama, included few ballets in his operas. La
Traviata, Rigoletto, and Un ballo in maschera do not have “obligatory” ballets.
Strangely enough, ballet occurs precisely in Aida, the last opera he wrote before
his great artistic turn. The solemn occasion for which this opera was created, the
opening of the Suez Canal, is probably a factor here. Aida was conceived to be
performed in a particular situation and for a wide public who could not be
assumed to have any great understanding of art. Nevertheless, it remains
surprising that this work, which is so rich in music and drama and contains many
very beautiful passages, contains this compromise.

1. On this, see Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert, 9ff.

2. [Editors’ note: Wagner replaced the traditional division of opera into arias and recitative with a
continuous flow of singing and orchestral music.]
3. [Editors’ note: Meaning an unbroken flow of singing.]
 4. Humor already exists in operatic music, although not in such a pronounced form, in Pergolesi’s La
serva padrona.
5. See Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert, 17ff.
6. We have in mind a type of opera like Julius Caesar. We do not assert that this applies to all of
Handel’s operas, for example, to Acis and Galatea.
7. [Editors’ note: A reference to Monteverdi’s opera, L’Orfeo.]
8. Gluck’s Alceste is likewise a song of praise of heroic married love, but it lacks the sharp antithesis
between good and evil. The breath of morality does not breathe through the whole work, as it does through
Fidelio.
9. [Editors’ note: Hildebrand has in mind Beethoven’s “Leonore Overture No. 3,” which is sometimes
performed within the second act of Fidelio.]
10. [Editors’ note: This practice may have predated Mahler.]
11. On this, see the letter Mozart wrote to his father on July 3, 1778: “[J]ust in the middle of the first
Allegro there was a passage which I felt sure must please. The audience were quite carried away—and there
was a tremendous burst of applause. But as I knew, when I wrote it, what effect it would surely produce, I
had introduced the passage again at the close—when there were shouts of ‘Da capo’. The Andante also
found favor, but particularly the last Allegro, because, having observed that all last as well as first Allegros
begin here with all the instruments playing together and generally unisono, I began mine with two violins
only, piano for the first eight bars—followed instantly by a forte; the audience, as I expected, said ‘hush’ at
the soft beginning, and when they heard the forte, began at once to clap their hands.” In The Letters of
Mozart and his Family, vol. 2, ed. Emily Anderson, 2nd ed. (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1966), letter
#311, p. 558.
12. [Editors’ note: After his studies in Munich, Walter Braunfels (1882–1954) was appointed director
of the Academy of Music in Cologne, together with Hermann Abendroth, in 1925. He was dismissed from
this post by the Nazis in 1933 but reappointed by Adenauer in 1945. The most important of his nine operas
are Prinzessin Brambilla, Die Vögel (based on Aristophanes’ Birds), Don Gil von den grünen Hosen, Die
Verkündigung (based on Paul Claudel), and Die heilige Johanna. He also composed orchestral works,
especially the Phantastische Erscheinungen eines Themas von Hector Berlioz, which is frequently performed, an
important Te Deum, choral works, Lieder, string quartets and quintets, and other chamber music. Braunfels
was married to Hildebrand’s sister, Bertele.]
13. See chap. 40 below, pp. 493–495.
 CHAPTER FOURTY

Music Drama

Wagner’s music dramas

IN WAGNER’S MUSIC dramas we find a new kind of interpenetration of word and
music, one that enables completely new expressive dimensions in music and is
involved to such an extent in the construction of the drama that it is no longer
possible to detach the music from the words. The plot does not present a
skeleton that the music brings to life. Rather, the drama is constructed by word
and music acting in complete unity, despite the fact that the music is artistically
on a much higher level than the poetry.
This unification of music and word is aided to an extraordinary degree by the
fact that the author is creator of both the music and the poetry. Each music
drama in its totality is the invention of the artist. The words are never conceived
independently of the music, nor the music independently of the words.
The unity of music and word already exists in the first sketch, in the
fledgling desire to create something, in the initial vague conception, in the idea
of a tale that Wagner is drawn to shape dramatically. Wagner is never inspired
by an existing drama to compose the music and create an opera. The saga of the
Flying Dutchman, for example, inspires him for the creation of this music
drama. Although Wagner conceives the poem before he composes the music,
every word is conceived in view of the music drama as a totality. Of course, this
totality becomes ever more fully realized the more fully the distinctive character
of the music drama is developed in Wagner’s creative work: more so in
Tannhäuser than in The Flying Dutchman, still more in Lohengrin, until it is fully
developed beginning in Das Rheingold and on through Parsifal.
This interpenetration of word and music is characterized by the following
outward features.
First, there are no longer any arias, duets, and so on. There are no individual,
clearly defined pieces of music that stand out from the plot and the music is
never interrupted. Recitative in all its forms is entirely absent. Music and poetry
form a unity that is never interrupted throughout the entire drama; the word
never appears on its own. On the other hand, pieces of music without words play
a very important role, not only as overtures but also as intermezzos between acts
and as instrumental passages when the drama calls for the voices to fall silent.
This through-composing has important consequences for the unity of music and
word and for the power of the music to form the drama fully. It grants the music
new possibilities for pure musical development, which resembles the exposition
of themes in a symphony, and at the same time serves the unfolding of the
drama. This is also connected to the principle of the leitmotif, which we shall
discuss below.
Secondly, a much larger task is entrusted to the orchestra, which never
functions as mere accompaniment of the voices. Very instructive here is a
comparison with Verdi’s operas from his younger period, such as La Traviata
and Rigoletto, in which the essential is entrusted to the singers who are
accompanied by the orchestra. In Wagner’s music drama, by contrast, the
collaboration between the orchestra and the singers is profound. The orchestra
has a central share in forming the drama, not just in particular moments (as is
generally the case in Mozart), but in expressing the spirit and atmosphere of the
whole drama. This is already true of The Flying Dutchman, though in another
respect this opera is not a fully developed instance of the music drama, since it
still contains arias and spoken texts. But its first theme is primarily entrusted to
the orchestra. Already the overture potently conveys the world of the sea, the
uncanny atmosphere of the terror of all the seas, and the tragedy of the
Dutchman. It forms a splendid contrast to the second theme (that of Daland’s
sailors), which represents the carefree, joyfully enterprising aspect of the world of
ships and seafaring, and plays a great role above all in the sailors’ chorus.
Thirdly, the themes in Wagner are more important than the melodies.
Obviously, there is a profound link between the weightier role of the themes and
the through-composition. Similarly, it is impossible to separate the heightened
task entrusted to the orchestra from the preponderance of the themes. Above all,
the predominance of the themes over the melodies is decisive for the unification
of music and drama. The musical treatment of the various elements in nature
[Naturwelten], the individual characters, and the variety of great human themes
leads naturally to an emphasis on the themes and to musical structures that
express a particular content in compact form.
This function of the themes finds expression above all in the musical and
dramatic invention of the leitmotif, which is often entirely misunderstood.
 This brings us to a fourth feature of the Wagnerian music drama. The
leitmotif is a theme that potently represents a particular meaningful content
[geistigen Gehalt] and is taken up in the music whenever this content recurs in
the plot. The music of the leitmotif is simultaneously a dramatic invention, for it
originates in the spirit of the meaningful content that has a specific function in
the drama. This explains why the leitmotif possesses fully the specific expressive
power that music acquires only in union with the word, that is, with the drama.
Consider the theme of disaster in the Ring, how intensely the mysterious
character of disaster is expressed! How remarkably the bright and sublime world
of the gods is conveyed in the Valhalla theme; the special quality of awakening
love and its bliss in the love theme of Siegmund and Sieglinde; and the tragedy
surrounding this family in the Volsung theme! These themes possess an
extraordinary expressive power and belong profoundly to the essential content of
the drama from which they cannot be detached. Even when these themes sound
only in the orchestra, they display that very particular, concrete expressive
dimension that music alone lacks and that presupposes the union of music and
drama. Wagner achieves the ultimate interpenetration of music and drama in his
greatest work, Tristan und Isolde, a work standing apart from all others by
unfathomable depths, in which the unique inner drama fully unfolds in a
contemplative manner.1
The leitmotif has often been entirely misunderstood. It has been regarded as
an abstract link between a musical theme and a meaningful content, as
something externally imposed on the poetic text, making the music, at best, a
mosaic of leitmotifs. This is totally inaccurate. In reality, there is nothing
abstract about the link between a musical theme and a meaningful content, be it
a person’s fate, a given character’s love, redemption and passion, or a
phenomenon in nature. The element being represented is given in an immediate,
intuitive expression that fulfills its dramatic function. Anyone with a true
sensitivity for music and the union of word and music, for the interpenetration
of music and drama and the new expressive possibilities of music revealed here,
will be immersed in the contents of these elements when hearing and being
affected by the music drama, even without knowing the names of these elements.
The leitmotif is in no way imposed on the poetic text from the outside. It has
no illustrative function. It grows organically out of the dramatic inspiration. This
does not make the music drama a mosaic of leitmotifs. Rather, these themes are
entirely integrated into the music’s inner logic as its flows on organically, and,
thanks to the marriage of music and drama, they attach themselves to the subject
matter of the poetic text, without disturbing the music’s inner logic. In The
Flying Dutchman, for example, the entire drama is structured through the
leitmotifs of the Dutchman, the world of the sailors, and redemption.
Although themes outweigh typical melodies in Wagner’s music drama, this
does not at all mean that Wagner does not also use melodies for the construction
of the drama as a whole. Walther’s various songs and the glorious chorus in Die
Meistersinger, “Wach auf, es nahet gen den Tag” (“Wake up, the day is near”) as
well as Lohengrin’s song in the last act of that opera, when he reveals his
identity, are definitely melodies, as are many other passages.
We must especially emphasize that countless themes that function as
leitmotifs can be combined to form a great melody simply by dint of their
musical quality, as happens in Tristan in a wonderful way in the “Liebestod.”

The problem of the total work of art [Gesamtkunstwerk] and the stage
Wagner’s theater, of course, is radically different from the theater described in
the previous chapter. The element of entertainment is completely absent, as are
the social dimension and the corresponding manner of addressing the public.
The role of the stage has completely changed.
We are not speaking here of the stage as a part of a Gesamtkunstwerk, that is,
as a product of the visual arts. It is highly questionable whether a drama or music
drama is enhanced when the visual display [Bild], the scenery and the characters
as they move about, address us as a work of visual art, directing our interest to
the beauty of this display. The happy marriage of music and drama is possible
only between the two genres of literature and music. No matter how different
they may be as such, there is a “pre-existing harmony” between them. Whether a
union of this kind can exist between a music drama and the visual arts is a
separate question.
We already saw the importance of being drawn into the world of a novel or
play in such a way that we “dwell” in it and cease to be absorbed by the
circumstances, worries, preoccupations, anticipated joys surrounding us in our
real lives. The events and people we read about in a novel must be so vivid to us
that we live in them, so to speak. But this entering into the world of what is
depicted is not the same as in the case of real events. We are presented, rather,
with an illusion, in which we do not confuse what is depicted with reality and
with our real concrete life. A work of history, in which we apprehend something
of past reality, requires that we regard it as real. By contrast, it actually belongs to
reading a novel that we not regard it as real while being so captivated and
engaged by it that we “live” in its world and forget the reality that surrounds us.
The progression from reading to performing a play marks a further stage of
the illusion, and we are drawn into the drama in a new way. In this case, we
come into contact with the drama not just through the medium of literature—
through the word in its indirectness—but we see and hear the characters directly,
we see the surroundings in which the drama takes place, such as in a room or
countryside. The scenery shows us this, and we recognize the gestures and facial
expressions of the actors and hear their tone of voice. All this establishes a new
contact with the work of art and heightens the illusion, without ever leading to a
confusion of the stage with reality.
If such a significant illusion and new level of living contact with the play or
music drama is to be possible, it is clear that the actors must wear costumes
befitting the period into which we are transported by the plot. It is also clear that
the scenery should correspond to the style of the period in which the piece is set.
And it goes without saying that the stage must not present any aesthetic
disvalues, nor can it be tasteless or detrimental to the poetry of the drama.
In all this, the ancillary function of the stage and the scenery must not be
forgotten. They do not address us in the same way as a work of visual art, which
has a completely different theme and draws us by its own power into a world of
rich content. The stage neither can nor should bear the lofty artistic values that
can adhere to an image, sculpture, or work of architecture. The stage should not
step outside its ancillary function and attempt to convey artistic content through
means belonging to the visual arts. Its only function is to encourage our
absorption in the drama or music drama and to heighten the illusion. The
transmission and realization of the artistic content must be left to the work of
art, that is, the play or music drama.
But is not the theater of classical antiquity, the arena, also of great beauty as a
work of architecture? And the glorious landscape of the surrounding region and
the noble theater building, were they not elements that also contributed
significantly to the beauty of a play?
This is not actually an objection to our assertion that the stage has an
ancillary function. With the theater of antiquity it is not a question of the beauty
of the stage but of the real surroundings in which the play was performed, that
is, something that does not belong directly to the play itself and that remains the
same when different plays are performed. It is not a matter of the visible artistic
value of the stage, but the real surroundings in which a play is performed, in
other words, something that does not serve to heighten the illusion. This
background exists for us in reality, but not for the particular world and
atmosphere of the play.
Undoubtedly, it is a special delight to hear wonderful music in a noble space
fashioned by glorious architecture, such as in the courtyard of the Pitti in
Florence or of the former episcopal palace in Salzburg, or in an enchanting
Rococo room. The same is true for the beautiful interior of a theater. But these
elements form only a framework. They bear no relation to the heightening of the
illusion or to the particular world of the drama being performed. Even so, an
open-air production, such as in the Arena in Verona or in the Baths of Caracalla
in Rome, naturally has a great charm.
How beautiful the first covered theater buildings were, like Palladio’s
enchanting Teatro Olimpico in Vicenza! Still, it is clear that these buildings have
an entirely different role from what the stage is meant to have in a
Gesamtkunstwerk.
In Laurence Olivier’s film of Henry V, for example, there is a risk that the
landscape and lighting in the early morning scene, where the king encourages
the troops to fight, become dominant in presenting the poetic situation. We see
the beauty of the visible and delight in it. At this moment the film appeals to
other sensibilities than the play does. The artistic content that the play
communicates in its own way is not heightened by the cinematic images but
instead replaced by the poetry of the visible landscape.
Finally, we want to emphasize that the ancillary function of the scenery in no
way requires, as often happens today, that it should be interpreted only in a
symbolic manner, still less, that the scenery should be disregarded completely.
Nor should one perform the plays of Molière or Shakespeare in modern dress.
Fortunately, the latter practice is an exception. But one need not go that far.
Instead of using the stage to heighten the illusion, the stage can be presented in
quotation marks, in such a way that the audience at every moment is reminded
that all they see is a stage. It is as if the attempt were being made to trivialize the
illusion and continually to remind the public, “You are only in the theater!” This
is surely a great error and a totally unhealthy attitude.
Let us return to Wagner’s conception of the theater and the stage. Due to
their unification of music and drama, Wagner’s music dramas require an
appropriate stage as had existed before the artistic reforms of Wieland Wagner
in Bayreuth and in every theater where Wagner was performed. These were
never “total works of art” [Gesamtkunstwerke]. The stage retained its ancillary
function, and it was not fundamentally different from the stage of Fidelio or of
Mozart’s operas. True, the stage presents greater challenges to overcome in the
Ring, for example, than in Fidelio or Mozart. But the challenges in fashioning
the stage satisfactorily have nothing to do with the fact that the notion of the
Gesamtkunstwerk remained only an idea and that the stage fully retained its
classical, ancillary role, allowing the music drama to unfold its effect in a full and
undeterred manner.
The conception of the theater in Wagner differs completely from that of the
Italian stage and of the “grand” opera. It is a heightening of what we find in
Fidelio. The element of entertainment is completely lacking, and a reverent
attitude is required on the part of the public, whose listeners must open
themselves, be prepared to participate without reserve [ganz mitzugehen], and
take the music drama seriously as a work of art.
This, of course, is the only right attitude toward any great and profound
work of art. Curiously enough, we often find an inappropriate attitude in the
case of the theater. Many people go to the theater to be entertained. Other
interpersonal and social elements also play a role. At a vaudeville, this attitude is
fitting. In any case, for many reasons beyond our present scope, including
historical ones, the theater has generally taken on this character, above all in the
case of opera.
The question that interests us here is the extent to which a work presupposes
this participation [Mitgehen] and cooperation on the part of the public if its
content is to be apprehended and understood at all, or whether the work through
its exceptional content engenders the attitude of reverence and a readiness to
open oneself. The conventional theater seeks to entertain. The great works that
“accept” this sort of stage, however, are able through their content to draw a
person of true artistic understanding into a reverent and profoundly receptive
attitude.
In Wagner’s new theater, on the other hand, this attitude of reverent and
deep accompaniment of the work is presupposed for the audience from the
outset. This is why Wagner wanted to create a theater of his own for his works.
It was the purpose of the Festspielhaus in Bayreuth, which was to be
distinguished from the conventional rhythm of a theater in which Flotow’s
Martha or Offenbach’s Tales of Hoffmann is presented one evening, and Fidelio,
Don Giovanni, or Figaro on the same stage the next evening. Wagner’s theater
was to function as a place for great works and so to share in the seriousness that
all great art possesses.
 Verdi’s music dramas Otello and Falstaff
We conclude our analysis of the music drama with a reference to Verdi’s two
masterpieces, Otello and Falstaff. It is a unique occurrence in the history of opera
that a master, after a life of great productivity, suddenly ascends at the age of
seventy to an act of artistic creation far surpassing all his earlier works, both in
the union of music and drama and in its purely musical quality. Already in his
Requiem we find a spirit that surpasses everything he had previously created.
Verdi’s earlier works contain many passages of musical beauty and are full of
ideas of a dramatic kind, but the Requiem in its depth and sublime artistic beauty
cannot be compared to what preceded it.
In Otello and Falstaff, Verdi created two music dramas of a high dramatic
creative power, a completely original type of the interpenetration of music and
drama, different from that in Wagner. Of course, one cannot overlook the
formal influence of Wagner in many regards. Both these music dramas are
through-composed, without the arias so typical of the earlier Verdi. The
orchestra has a much greater importance and the leitmotif too is present to a
certain extent.
These music dramas, as is generally known, derive from Shakespeare. The
mighty tragedy Othello is such a consummate masterpiece in its own right that its
performance never leads one to think of a possible union with music.
Shakespeare’s play is of such perfection and greatness that one cannot say the
music of Verdi’s Otello heightens its artistic value.
Nevertheless, this music drama is a masterpiece. The existence of Verdi’s
music drama in addition to Shakespeare’s play means a great enrichment for art.
This brings us the general question, namely, which dramas, plays, and
comedies are even suitable to be united with music. We are thinking only of
works that stand on their own [eigenständige Werke] that are not just viable but
also possess a high artistic value. This question does not arise with Wagner, not
just because poetry and music derive from the same author, but because they are
conceived from the very outset in view of their union and mutually complement
each other. This question also does not obtain for mere librettos that are
unviable in themselves.
It is very striking that the texts of Shakespeare’s Othello and Verdi’s music
drama are not identical. Boito altered Shakespeare’s work in certain places and
made it suitable for a music drama. The first act in Venice, which is very
important for the play, is omitted. Secondly, the figure of Iago is somewhat
modified through the insertion of the diabolical “credo.” In Shakespeare, Iago is
an incarnation of villainy and moral baseness. In the music drama, he becomes a
fundamental representative of evil and acquires a kind of diabolical greatness.
Finally, the insertion of Desdemona’s “Ave Maria,” a musical highpoint, is
indeed profoundly in keeping with the Shakespearean character, but it is
nevertheless an alteration.
This means that certain alterations are essential in order for achieving the
interpenetration of music and drama and for the perfection and effect of the
music drama. Boito displayed great artistic wisdom here. As the creator of
Mefistofele, he was himself not an unimportant operatic composer.
In Verdi’s Otello, we find an intense interpenetration of music and poetry, for
example, in the second act, when Iago describes the dream of Cassio that he
claims to have overheard. This is a passage of supreme musical-dramatic power.
How unsurpassably the music captures the character of the dream. How
expressively it fashions Iago, how incomparably it expresses the alleged love of
Cassio for Desdemona. How it expresses the insubstantial and ultimately
evanescent character of the dream. This is preceded by Othello’s deeply moving
song, “Della gloria d’Otello è questo il fin!” (“This is the end of Othello’s
glory!”). How powerful when he swears his revenge at the end of the second act!
There is a completely different relationship between poetry and music in
Verdi’s Falstaff. Shakespeare’s comedy The Merry Wives of Windsor stands fully
on its own, and Boito’s plot sticks closely to it. But the music drama Falstaff is a
far greater work of art than Shakespeare’s comedy. The figure of Falstaff, a
magnificent artistic creation in Henry IV, is presented even more fully and
potently by the music than in The Merry Wives. The second act, with Mistress
Ford, Falstaff, the return of Master Ford, and Fenton’s visit, has music of
extraordinary power in purely musical and also dramatic terms. The music is also
highly poetic in the theme of the love between Fenton and Nannetta.
In the chapters about opera and music drama, we emphasized the great
artistic possibilities for development attained by music through its union with
drama. This form of the work of art cannot create any higher artistic values than
absolute music and pure drama, but it can realize other values that neither music
nor drama is capable of giving on its own. And these values are just as high as
those of absolute music and of drama.

1. [Editors’ note: Among Hildebrand’s posthumous papers is a longer study of Richard Wagner. The
Hildebrand Project is preparing it for publication.]
 CHAPTER FOURTY-ONE

Stand-Alone Overtures and Program Music

THERE ARE SOME DRAMAS that do not lend themselves to being set as operas or
music dramas but can be enhanced by an overture or a musical intermezzo. This
applies, for example, to Goethe’s play Egmont. It is dubious that Egmont would
be suitable as an opera or even as a music drama. But both Beethoven’s glorious
Egmont Overture and the music he wrote as an introduction to the
transfiguration of Egmont at the end of the play not only are extremely beautiful
as pieces of music but also have a significant dramatic function. Through purely
musical means they present aptly the spirit of the drama and the figure of
Egmont, and immerse us in drama’s central idea and atmosphere. The potency
and beauty of this music perhaps even surpasses that of Goethe’s play. This
music has an elevating and enriching function. Even when performed in concert
independently of the play, it is a work of art all its own and magnificent and
delightful even for someone who does not know Goethe’s Egmont.
These pieces by Beethoven are interesting because they represent a new kind
of union of music with the spirit of a drama, that is, not as a union of sound and
word, not as the sung word.1 A wholly viable drama the full effect of which is
achieved without music, Goethe’s Egmont is united to music that, as a pure
musical piece, likewise stands completely on its own and, independently of its
inner relationship to the world and spirit of the drama, is a work of great and
striking beauty. Nevertheless, it possesses a profound inner relationship to the
drama and expresses its spirit in an outstanding manner. Indeed, it may even
surpass the drama in its fashioning of the basic idea and the noble personality of
Egmont.
This example is instructive in many respects. First, it shows us a type of the
happy marriage of music and drama that does not involve the union of sound
and word. Second, it shows us a different kind of enrichment of a drama through
music. A drama suitable for this enrichment need not be suitable as an opera or
music drama. Third, the drama is not dependent on the music for attaining its
full effect, though the music can even surpass the drama in purely artistic terms
(to the extent that the value of a purely musical piece is strictly comparable to
that of a poetic text). Finally, a piece of music can convey the special value and
ethos of a drama, even when it is performed in concert independently of the
drama.
We find a similar union of music and drama, one lacking any union of sound
and word, in Mendelssohn’s Overture to Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s
Dream. In this case, however, the poetic text in its artistic quality is far superior
to the music. Two questions arise. First, does the spirit of the music really
correspond to the spirit of the poetic text? And second, does it not draw us into a
completely different atmosphere and distract us from the Shakespearean poetry?
The second question does not depend on whether the music is superior to the
value of the drama or its equal. It asks only whether the value of the atmosphere
that prevails in the music and the world into which the music transports us
corresponds to that of the drama. Is there a homogeneity of atmosphere and
spirit? It is conceivable that music between acts of a play might be on par with
the value of the play and yet not be fitting because it immersed us in another
world. Such a discrepancy would, of course, be increased if the artistic level of
the music were far below that of the drama.
Strangely enough, this discrepancy does not have the same effect when the
music is artistically far superior to the drama, even when it transports us into
another world. Beethoven’s wonderful Coriolan Overture is not conceived for
Shakespeare’s late great play Coriolanus. The drama by Heinrich Joseph von
Collin for which this overture was written is insignificant and now forgotten.
Nevertheless, there is a link between Beethoven’s Coriolan Overture and the
historical tragic figure of Coriolanus, and this link is not merely a title, still less a
mere association. The music, however, would be disfigured if it were to be
performed together with Collin’s unsuccessful drama. Where there is no
congruency of atmosphere, it is better to perform the worthwhile drama without
the music, or the worthwhile music without the drama.
This brings us naturally to the problem and justification of program music.2
Is there an organic link between title and music, as in Richard Strauss’s Also
sprach Zarathustra (“Thus spoke Zarathustra”) and Tod und Verklärung (“Death
and Transfiguration”)? Do these titles really indicate something that finds
expression in the music, or do they lack any inner connection to the music?
Let us take examples that are closer to the above-mentioned overtures, such
as Berlioz’s glorious Romeo and Juliet symphony. Prescinding from the
significance and beauty of a purely musical kind, is there any inner relationship
to Shakespeare’s eponymous play? Clearly the title of another Shakespearean
work would not have been equally suitable. This symphony has a certain affinity
to Shakespeare’s tragedy; it is a representation of love and the tragic. Its “world”
fits the atmosphere of Shakespeare’s play. We have only to compare this work to
Tchaikovsky’s Romeo and Juliet overture to see the inner (if loose and imprecise)
connection in Berlioz. Tchaikovsky’s music, which is weak in purely musical
terms, has nothing in common with the world of Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet,
which, indeed, it contradicts. Not only does it fail to fit this “world,” from which
it distracts us, it is in fact antithetical to the entire world of Shakespeare.
But neither Berlioz nor Tchaikovsky aims in these works at the kind of
union we find in the music for Egmont or A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Neither
of these pieces was intended as an overture or an intermezzo to Shakespeare’s
play; there was no expectation that they would be presented in connection with a
performance of the play. These works of Berlioz and Tchaikovsky involve the
completely different and much more abstract relationship between music and
drama in program music, in which the literary theme to a certain extent can find
expression in the music, even if much more indirectly.
The difference between Berlioz’s music (of which one is tempted to say it is
“about” Romeo and Juliet) and Tchaikovsky’s overture is that the former is
beautiful and successful, while the latter is deficient in beauty and, above all,
unsuccessful. The expressions “successful” and “unsuccessful” refer here to the
music’s connection with the drama. The fact that one can even call a piece of
music “successful,” independently of its purely musical value, shows us that a
union with the drama (albeit a loose union) can exist in certain types of program
music. This union entails more than the fact that a dramatic work stimulated the
composer to produce this composition, for then it would be a union of a purely
psychological, genetic kind and would not constitute an objective connection.
Nor does it involve the kind of relationship we find in an occasional composition
such as Aida, which was composed to mark the opening of the Suez Canal. No,
as we have already said, we have here a loose, imprecise union of an inner kind.
This also differs from the relationship to a historical event that takes on what
we might call an illustrative character, as in Tchaikovsky’s very successful 1812
Overture. The music quotes themes such as the Marseillaise and the Russian
national anthem, and it describes what happens on the battlefield. Actually, the
1812 Overture is not really program music at all but its own illustrative type that,
when successful, conveys something of the atmosphere of a given historical
moment.
 Which contents can legitimately become themes in program music? In the
case of plays like Romeo and Juliet, an organic union is in principle possible, but
in the case of philosophical works like Nietzsche’s Also sprach Zarathustra, the
connection with the music will be of a purely associative kind, a mere title. In
Richard Strauss’s Till Eulenspiegels lustige Streichen (“Till Eulenspiegel’s Merry
Pranks”), a certain meaningful connection is still possible, given the involvement
of a literary character. As a whole, however, program music must be regarded as
an unhappy union of drama and music. This does not prevent a composition
from having value as a work of pure music. But it neither gains nor loses through
the title.
It is interesting to compare the titles of program music and of symphonies.
The titles of many Haydn symphonies are either pure descriptions of their
contents, or else they refer to the place where they were composed or to the
person in whose honor they were written. The titles never represent a theme or a
program that claims to be reflected in the music or of which the music represents
a paraphrase. Haydn’s title “Oxford Symphony” is an unpretentious, simple
dedication, while the title of the “Military Symphony” alludes to the character of
one of its movements. This is exactly opposite of the relationship between title
and content in program music. The same applies to the titles of the “Linz,”
“Prague,” and “Haffner” symphonies of Mozart. The name “Eroica” refers to the
spirit of this symphony by Beethoven. It is a purely musical work that, as is well
known, was originally dedicated to Napoleon and received this name only at a
later time. In a similar way, the title “Pastoral” for Beethoven’s sixth symphony
indicates the unique representation and depiction of natural phenomena, their
atmosphere and poetry, but not an abstract program.
Schumann’s Rhenish Symphony and Mendelssohn’s Italian Symphony are also
in no way program music. In Mendelssohn, the titles Italian and Scottish
symphonies contain at most an allusion to the atmosphere of these two
countries. The same is true of his Hebrides Overture.
Let us conclude by pointing out the principal danger of abstract program
music. It stimulates the mind and imagination in a way that is linked to the
music in a purely associative manner. This easily leads to confusion in the
listener since it entices him while listening to the music to focus on what the title
refers to. It seeks in a dishonest way to bestow on the work a significance it does
not possess in purely musical terms. When people are filled with enthusiasm and
admiration by Nietzsche’s book Also sprach Zarathustra, the pseudo-depth of
which is surrounded by the halo of great fame, they will credit Strauss’s
eponymous music with the brilliance of Nietzsche’s book, even though the music
is quite incapable of expressing its philosophy. Through its title, the musical
piece, so to speak, adorns itself with borrowed plumes. It hardly needs to be said
what a profoundly inartistic and illegitimate undertaking this is. Even so, the
music itself can be beautiful and would only stand to gain if the distracting,
pretentious, and abstract title were dropped.

1. Except for the lyrical verses.

2. [Editors’ note: “Program music” seeks to be about something, in contrast to “absolute music,” which
seeks to be simply music.]
 CHAPTER FOURTY-TWO

Sacred Music

SACRED MUSIC REPRESENTS its own kind of union between word and sound. We
use this term as a designation not only of music that has a sacred ethos, like
many of Bruckner’s symphonies, but also of the music that is composed to sacred
texts, for example, those of the Mass or other parts of the liturgy, such as the
Magnificat.
From the outset we must draw a clear distinction between oratorios that have
no sacred character and the music set to sacred texts in its various forms. We
limit ourselves to the latter. We shall discuss Gregorian chant, religious cantatas,
Bach’s Christmas Oratorio and St. Matthew Passion, Mozart’s unfinished Mass in
C Minor, and Beethoven’s Missa solemnis.
These works contain a different relationship between music and word, since
the theme is no longer only artistic. It is above all a religious theme, something
that belongs to the liturgy.

Gregorian chant and polyphonic church music. Thematic and unthematic beauty
Among all the Masses that have been composed, those sung in Gregorian and
Ambrosian chant occupy a unique position because they do not have an artistic
theme of their own. The Holy Sacrifice of the Mass is the theme, and the
attitude of prayer permeates everything. The singing is primarily a solemn,
elevated manner of speaking. The words have an absolute primacy as pure
prayer, as the praise of God, and the singing participates fully in this prayer.
This kind of music is not in any way a representation or depiction but an
expression, by the group of cantors and the choir, of the attitude of prayer. It
varies in its connection with the words of the liturgy, according to the feast or
liturgical season. Even someone who does not sing along is drawn into the spirit
of the prayers. For both singers and non-singers, the music of Gregorian chant is
something enacted [ein Vollzogenes], that is, it does not address us as listeners, as
even the most sublime and qualitatively loftiest sacred artistic music does.
Rather, the singing of the Gregorian Masses is completely united to the
performance of the sacred rite. The only function of the sublime beauty of the
chant is to give wings to our sharing in the enactment of the mystery of the Holy
Sacrifice and of Holy Communion.
It is characteristic of this beauty to be unthematic.1 Plato’s dialogues are of
great beauty, but the theme is not this beauty but truth, just as truth is thematic
in St. Augustine’s Confessions. Anyone who treated such works primarily as
works of art would fail to do justice to them. He would misunderstand them
profoundly. By contrast, even as great truths are uttered in Hamlet, its theme is
the artistic beauty of the drama.
We have seen in an earlier chapter that the depth and degree of the beauty of
a work do not depend on whether its beauty is thematic. The great beauty of
Gregorian chant does not alter the fact that it is not thematic but purely
ancillary.

Polyphonic Masses
Something completely new is involved in polyphonic Masses, in which only the
fixed parts (the “Ordinary”), not the changing parts (the “Proper”), are set to
music. Originally, they too were wholly at the service of the enactment of the
sacred rite, but the music increasingly acquired a function of its own. Consider
the Masses that, from an artistic point of view, are greatest, Mozart’s Mass in C
Minor (K. 427)2 and Beethoven’s Missa solemnis. These polyphonic Masses are
much more extended than the Masses composed in Gregorian chant. Each part
represents in an unsurpassed manner the spirit of mystery, the greatness and
holiness of what happens in the Holy Mass. But the music is no longer
exclusively the praying of the liturgical words raised up in song. It is also itself an
unsurpassed representation of the content of the individual words and indeed the
mystery of the Holy Mass.
What fullness and heart-melting sweetness we find in the “Christe eleison”
of Mozart’s Mass in C Minor! What a representation of the beauty of the sacred
humanity of Christ! How this music envelops us with the breath of mercy! How
the glorious “Et incarnatus est” expresses the contemplative immersion in the
tremendous mystery of the Incarnation! How we are touched by the breath of
the ineffable sweetness of the Blessed Virgin! Obviously, something more is here
than just an inspired, highly solemn enactment of the creed. Rather, the content
of the words is represented through artistic means, in which certain parts of the
text, when their meaning calls for it, take up a much larger space in the music
than others.
This representation of the prayer’s content in the music is a new element that
clearly distinguishes these polyphonic Masses from Gregorian chant. It is true
that a polyphonic Mass too is conceived for the act of worship; its music has only
an ancillary function, and the theme remains the purely religious theme, the
mystery of the Holy Mass. But the union of word and sound is new when
compared with Gregorian chant.
The music unfolds its various expressive possibilities so as fully to express the
religious text by way of artistic transposition. The believer is, so to speak, drawn
through the music into the world of Christ. This sacred artistic beauty provides a
new way to draw the souls of believers in conspectum Dei (“before the face of
God”) and to immerse them in the holy mystery of redemption. This is not
antithetical to participating in the celebration of the sacred rite. Anyone who has
experienced this Mozart Mass in the liturgy will surely agree on the fully organic
harmonization of one’s inner participation in the celebration of the Mass and
one’s being drawn into the sacred atmosphere through the artistic beauty of the
music and through the musical representation of the religious content.
This does not alter the fact that Gregorian chant is the most appropriate
music for the celebration of the Holy Mass. Already the fact that the sections of
a polyphonic Mass are much more time-consuming skews the proportions of the
Mass that enable inner participation.
Mozart’s Mass in C Minor, which unfortunately remained unfinished, is in
itself a great work of art that can be performed in the concert hall. This
specifically sacred work of art appeals from the outset to an attitude completely
different from The Marriage of Figaro or The Magic Flute.
This prompts the question: Is the beauty of this work thematic, or is it
unthematic, even when performed in a concert?
This composition is an exceptional case, because Mozart did not intend it as
a work of art, where artistic beauty is thematic and constitutes the raison d’être,
but for the liturgy, the theme of which is the sacred celebration. It is,
nevertheless, also a great, sacred work of art.
There can be no doubt that the artistic beauty is thematic in a concert,
although in its quality this beauty is profoundly sacred and wholly united to the
words of the Holy Mass. Even in the concert hall, one must never forget that
this composition is meant for the Mass. Above all, one should understand that
the music employs artistic means to represent in an extremely intense manner
the meaning of the liturgical texts and the world of the sacred. It gives glory to
God through its spiritual quality, and it represents a form of prayer.
In the still more perfect polyphonic Mass, namely, Beethoven’s Missa
solemnis, the representation of the mystery of the Holy Mass with artistic means
is accomplished in a unique manner. The sacred seriousness that pervades
everything, and the deep involvement with the text, above all with the
meaningful content of the text, make it the polyphonic Mass par excellence. This
is why it is also an entry to the world of Christ, which could lead someone with a
real artistic openness to conversion. The “Sanctus” draws us perfectly into the
attitude of trembling reverence immediately prior to the consecration. The
restraint and profoundly liturgical character of the music for the words “Sanctus,
sanctus, sanctus Dominus Deus Sabaoth” is also the perfect expression of these
words. What exultation in the “Pleni sunt coeli!” This music, so closely united to
the word, unfolds its highest expressive possibilities. This is followed by the
sublime Interlude. In the “Benedictus” after the consecration, the music reaches
its highpoint, when through artistic means it represents the mystery of
redemption, grace, and mercy. This “Benedictus” breathes in an incomparable
manner the spirit of Christ the Redeemer. In it we find not just a perfect
realization of the union of word and sound, but also of the penetration of the
music by the nature and meaning of the Holy Mass.
The Missa solemnis likewise has an ancillary character. It fits wonderfully into
the framework of the celebration of the Mass. At the same time, it cannot be
denied that it is above all in the concert hall that it unfolds its full artistic
greatness and its deep sacrality. It is a work of art, but a sacred work of art. It is
primarily an artistic representation—even the representation—of the spirit of the
Holy Mass. Its sublime artistic beauty is fully thematic; but, on the other hand, it
is so unambiguously sacred and so much a religious confession that one cannot
do justice either to Beethoven’s intention or to the spirit of work if one listens to
it as a pure work of art, that is to say, with the same attitude with which one
listens to a symphony. Despite the thematic character of the artistic beauty, the
theme of the whole remains purely religious.

Bach’s St. Matthew Passion

A further kind of sacred music is Passion music. Bach’s St. Matthew Passion is a
work conceived for the liturgy. Its theme is clearly religious, namely, the Passion
of the Lord. With regard to the union of word and sound, we must distinguish
between music composed for the text of the Gospel; for the recitatives, arias, and
choruses to a text by Picander (also known as Christian Friedrich Henrici)
written for this Passion; and for the chorales, some of which have texts by Paul
Gerhardt.
This music is completely formed by the spirit of the Gospel. The St.
Matthew Passion is a highpoint of representation; indeed, it attains a unity with
the spirit of the Passion of Christ that we can hardly still call “representation.”
When the Gospel is involved, the text is granted absolute primacy, whether in
the music of the Evangelist or in the passages in which Jesus himself or another
person speaks. But the passages of the Evangelist are not everywhere mere
recitative, but sometimes attain a great expressive power through the pure beauty
of the music, such as when the Evangelist repeats in German the words of Christ
on the Cross, “Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani!” When Christ himself speaks, the
music has sublime beauty and great expressive power simply qua music. When
the crowd cries out, “Barabbam!”, the full power of pure artistic expression is
revealed to us. But in all this the word remains in the foreground. Sound and
word interpenetrate, but the word has the leading role.
The situation in the St. Matthew Passion regarding the poems written by
Bach’s contemporaries is different. Here, the music has an absolute primacy. Its
beauty and greatness rise far above the words. The music represents the world of
the Gospel much more deeply and adequately than the text; it is united with the
text in such a way that it draws it up far above its own value. The music has
absolutely the leading role. The text serves the music to permit it to unfold the
immeasurable wealth of its expression and to draw us fully into the world of the
Gospel.
In the chorales, with their liturgical character, music and word are equal in
rank.
Here again the question arises: What is the theme of the St. Matthew
Passion, its beauty or the liturgical participation in the Passion of the Lord?
Doubtless the latter is the theme and also Bach’s intention.
At the same time, the St. Matthew Passion is also a consummate work of art.
It appears—as in the case of the Missa solemnis—that the question of the theme
is much more complicated. Even though the Gospel far surpasses in beauty
everything else that has ever been written, its only theme is divine truth and
revelation, not beauty. In the Missa solemnis and in the St. Matthew Passion, the
answer is obviously not so clear. In their theme, they are fully at the service of
the liturgy and the adoration of God. In their content, they fully represent the
sacred. At the same time, both are great works of art, and as such beauty is
thematic in both as well.
 We need not investigate again the difference between the union of word and
sound in these works and as it occurs in opera and music drama. Absent is the
fashioning of a cast of characters, gone is the stage. But the comparison is
instructive, since it shows us that artistic beauty is clearly the theme and raison
d’être in opera and music drama. In a certain sense, the Missa solemnis and the St.
Matthew Passion have two themes. The first is the theme intended by the artist,
the purely religious theme. Both these works present a purely religious musical
treatment of this sacred world. But since this representation presupposes a great
artistic transposition, we have also the birth of a work of art in which by its
nature beauty is thematic. Thus, there are two themes, each thematic in a
different sense.

Bach’s Christmas Oratorio and cantatas

Bach’s Christmas Oratorio is clearly dedicated to the liturgy. Unlike the St.
Matthew Passion, there are more arias and choruses than recitatives of the
Evangelist. But this oratorio too is an example of the unique interpenetration of
music and the representation of a mystery, in this case, the birth of Christ. The
sinfonietta radiates with great intensity the world of the shepherds of Bethlehem
on Christmas night. Words fail to express how powerfully this work represents
the atmosphere of that grace-filled night of Bethlehem and of the entire
Christmas season.
At the same time, the Christmas Oratorio is a great work of art, employing
purely artistic means to immerse us into the mystery of the birth of Christ, even
when performed in a concert hall. It is a representation of the sacred world and
atmosphere of this supreme event, and an expression of the faith and the
adoration of believers.
The twofold theme of the purely religious and liturgical, on the one hand,
and of artistic beauty, on the other, can also be found in Bach’s cantatas. In the
context of the liturgy, they are fully at the service of the celebration of the
religious ceremony. At the same time, they express the atmosphere of the feast
and the theme of the texts. The artistic treatment of the religious content by the
sacred beauty of the music makes them structures in which the beauty not only is
a metaphysical beauty grounded entirely in other values but also bears the
character of artistic beauty. We have here not just the metaphysical beauty of the
religious content, nor just the metaphysical beauty of the religious content
wonderfully expressed through artistic means, but also a purely artistic beauty of
the music. Since beauty is thematic in the cantatas, they can be performed as
works of art in the concert hall.
In addition to the Masses of Mozart and Beethoven we have already
mentioned, Bach’s Mass in B Minor, Schubert’s Mass in E flat Major, the
Requiem of Mozart and of Verdi, Bruckner’s Te Deum, and his “Great” Mass in F
Minor are significant works of art. If we think also of Bach’s many cantatas or
the sublime music of Mozart’s Ave verum and Laudate Dominum, we see again
how music in union with a sacred theme rises to the ultimate artistic heights.
Many dramatic expressive possibilities, such as fashioning characters in opera
and music drama, do not exist in sacred music. In polyphonic Masses, the texts
have the absolute leading role, and the same is true of oratorios when the music
is united to words of the Gospel. This does not apply to the texts in Bach’s
oratorios written by his contemporaries, and even less in his cantatas. Here the
music has the leading role. The words are more of a basis on which the music
can unfold its expressive possibilities. That which is represented is the object of
which the words speak. But the form and the treatment of the object in the
words is secondary in comparison with its representation in the music. In the
glorious aria in Bach’s cantata Vergnügte Ruh’, beliebte Seelenlust (BWV 170), the
music is entirely in the lead. It is incomparably more beautiful and profound
than the text, which merely offers an occasion for what is sung. The music freely
represents the religious content, without binding itself to the text.

1. On this, see Aesthetics, vol. 1, chap. 13.

2. This judgment is not altered by the fact that parts of the Credo and the Agnus Dei are completed
using other Masses of Mozart.
 CHAPTER FOURTY-THREE

The Performance of Musical and Literary Works

IN CERTAIN ARTISTIC GENRES, the realization of a work of art has various stages.
The first is the creation of the work of art; in music, this means writing down
the score, in literature, it means putting the drama on paper. A new stage is
reached when the music sounds or the drama is read. But the full realization
intended in these works of art is the performance, which marks the onset of an
important factor for which the author is no longer directly responsible, namely,
the rendering, the reproduction, the artistic sphere of accomplishment, whether
of the pianist, members of a string quartet, conductor, singers, the actors,
director, and so forth. This broad field of genuinely artistic activity, for which
there is nothing analogous in the other artforms, demands a very specific talent,
which is entirely different from that of the composer and writer.
We will attempt to investigate the nature of performance [Reproduktion],
which is obviously decisive for the full realization of these spheres of art. The
term “reproduction” is very inadequate; “rendition” is a step in the right
direction. “Reproduction” gives the impression of something secondary, a
repetition of a particular kind. Actually, we are touching on something that
belongs essentially to the full, intended realization of such a work. Indeed, it is
something highly essential.

“Technical” elements in the worthy performance of musical works of art

To render a composer’s work appropriately1 presupposes a specific talent. At the
same time, this rendering is a clearly ancillary task, an entering into the spirit of
the musical piece.
We begin with an analysis of the elements that are necessary for a fully
satisfactory, meaningful, and worthy rendering. Certain elements characterize
the person engaged in rendering the work of art, even independently of any
relation to the work in question. For pianists, violinists, and so on, this includes
mastery of their instrument, their technique and musicality; for singers, the
beauty of their voice, the purity of their tone, their diction and musical memory;
for opera singers, their acting talent, outward appearance, and so on; for
conductors, their ability to lead and inspire the orchestra, their technical
evaluation of all the details, and their temperament.
These important factors are what we might call technical preconditions for a
worthy rendering, especially of a great and profound work of art. They pertain to
the true understanding of the work, the depth of apprehension for its genius, and
the ability to render it in all its details. In music, rendering reaches from the
right tempi, legato and staccato, crescendo all the way to the significance and
depth of the rendition; it encompasses the entire sphere of artistic conception.
Rendition in this fullest sense admits of predicates like “significant,”
“unimportant,” “profound,” “superficial,” and “moving.” In fact, in the act of
rendering lies the artist’s true service to the work of art.
Regarding the first kind of preconditions for an ideal rendering, we must
distinguish between certain talents that are pure gifts and others that result from
study. Voices like those of Caruso, Gigli, Melchior, Pinza, and Wunderlich,
Berger, Flagstad, and Mado Robin are pure gifts. Of course, appropriate study is
essential so that the beauty of these voices can be fully manifested. Similarly, a
musical ear is a pure gift: not just to sing with musicality but the ability to hit the
note cleanly. We are not thinking here of the elementary ability to hold a pitch,
nor the ability to sing in tune rather than obviously out of tune, but of the purity
of the note, the lack of all extraneous sounds and fluctuations.
A musical memory is again a pure gift. This does not mean that practice is
not required for all this, nor that memory cannot be improved by practice and
study. But the decisive precondition remains a gift. Where this is lacking, it
cannot be acquired by study.
Another factor is good diction, which plays a special role in the correct union
of word and sound. It is much more acquirable through study than the
preconditions mentioned above.
It is obvious that all these elements are of decisive importance for the worthy
rendering of a piece of music, even if they are mere preconditions.
The visible appearance of the singer is itself more a bonus than an important
precondition for the worthy realization of a work of art—though on stage it
takes on a greater importance.
For instrumentalists, of course, physical dexterity depends primarily on
practice and study. The sound of most instruments, especially the strings, is
generated and dependent for its purity on the player. Thus, not only the fine
sense of hearing but also the strength of the fingers (in the case of some
instruments) and of breath (in the case of wind instruments) are natural
preconditions. Mastery of technique through study is an acquired factor, but this
too can be largely a gift, as in the case of any child prodigy. We have only to
recall the incident with Mozart as a child when he wanted to play violin in a
string quartet, although he had never learned. When he was finally allowed to
play, he moved his father to tears because he could do it so excellently without
any preliminary practice.
In the case of the piano, some of the conditions and gifts just mentioned are
not factors since the sound is not in the same sense generated. But musicality is
certainly indispensable. A certain shape of the hand and mobility of the fingers,
as with Liszt, may also act as an exceptional precondition that is not acquired.
For our analysis of the elements that are presupposed in a great pianist,
violinist, and so on, it suffices to indicate the difference between innate talents,
which are gifts, and those that are acquired through study.

Virtuosity
With respect to the difference between the mere prerequisites of the good
pianist, violinist, or clarinetist, and those abilities that are properly artistic,
between technique and artistic conception (that is, the ability to render a work of
art), it is instructive to look at accomplishment at the level of the virtuoso, which
itself is completely different from the accomplishment of a genuinely artistic
performance. A person can be a great virtuoso as a pianist, violinist, or
clarinetist, without being able to render worthily the sonatas of Beethoven, the
“Chaconne” from Bach’s Partita in D Minor, or Mozart’s Clarinet Concerto.
What we admire in the virtuoso has nothing do with the worthy realization of a
work of art. We praise not the profound, significant, memorable realization of a
musical work of art, but technical ability, astonishing skill, mastery of the
instrument as such. This is doubtless a value, but it is wholly different from the
value of worthily rendering a work of art. Paganini was one of the greatest
virtuosos of the violin, but it is highly questionable whether he could have
rendered the Beethoven violin concerto or the violin solo in the “Benedictus” of
Beethoven’s Missa solemnis as worthily as Hubermann or Menuhin. The fact that
certain great works of art in passages presuppose virtuosity in the artist who
performs them does not at all alter the fundamental difference between the value
of the virtuoso’s accomplishment and the value of a worthy conception of the
musical work.
 Virtuosity is a specific sort of accomplishment that is analogous to a
phenomenal memory or a technical acuteness of intelligence. Indeed, it possesses
a distant analogy to the tightrope walker or other extraordinary accomplishments
of a physical kind, as in the artist or athlete. Much less is required to apprehend
the value of virtuosity than that of the rendering of a work of art. It is much
easier for the virtuoso to have the success he seeks, since he does not have to give
himself in service of the full realization of a work of art. The mastery of the
instrument is his primary theme.
There are also pieces of music that are written only in order to offer the
virtuoso an opportunity to display his skill. These are usually devoid of value
from an artistic point of view. What stands in the foreground when these pieces
are appropriately rendered is not the realization of artistic values but a virtuoso
technique.
Passages that presuppose virtuosity on the part of the performer sometimes
occur for artistic reasons in genuine and great works of art. In this case, virtuosity
is not thematic as a value of its own, but as a purely ancillary technical
precondition in order to render the work appropriately.
We find something analogous in the case of the virtuoso coloratura singer. If
she also possesses a beautiful voice, our enthusiasm and admiration may be
kindled by her purely technical accomplishment, even when the piece she sings is
artistically insignificant or even lacking in value. A beautiful voice has a much
more pronounced aesthetic value than the virtuoso coloratura. It bears a genuine
beauty of the first power. The virtuoso coloratura sometimes has no real beauty
of its own, but can be a typical instance of something pleasing.
The virtuoso singing of a coloratura passage has a theme completely different
from that of a musically worthy rendering. But this accomplishment can also be
an important ancillary factor, a prerequisite for the rendering of a great work of
art. If a coloratura passage possesses a lofty artistic beauty, as, for example, in the
“Et incarnatus est” of Mozart’s Mass in C Minor, then also its technical
perfection provides an important foundation for the worthy rendering and full
realization of the work. But in that case, its virtuoso perfection is no longer an
independent theme. Indeed, it is no longer thematic in any way, but is only an
ancillary prerequisite for the full sounding and appropriate rendering of the work
of art.

The beauty of the human voice

As we have said, a voice can itself be the bearer of a genuine beauty, quite apart
from its great importance for the performance of a beautiful Lied, glorious aria,
or music drama. When an insignificant piece of music sounds from a glorious
voice, the beauty of the voice, as such, remains fully intact. The pure beauty of
the sound and expressive character of the voice is a specific, clearly aesthetic
value. Unlike expression in the proper sense, which is manifested in the artistic
conception of the work, this beauty adheres to the voice itself. Unlike
instruments, the human voice always possesses not only a sound but also an
expression. This expression can be embarrassing, affected, or vulgar. It can be
noble, pure, or elegant. It can even be angelic. Instruments, for their part, have
more than a merely beautiful sound. Rather, this sound is united to a certain
expression. The power and solemn monumentality expressed by the trombone is
characteristically different from the sweetness expressed by a flute or oboe, and
from the specifically spiritual and sublime quality of a violin. But this expression
does not have the human character that belongs to the voice. It is obviously
meaningless to say that an instrument has an awkward, affected, or vulgar sound.
Some factors, from purely technical perfection in the mastery of an
instrument to virtuosity and a good memory, are not as such bearers of beauty.
The value of accomplishment, taken by itself, is a pure precondition for the
artistic rendering and is certainly not thematic.
Other factors, however, can as such bear beauty, such as the sound and
expression of a voice. They function as ancillary elements for the performance of
a work of art. Although their beauty is not itself thematic, it is united in a
completely proper and organic way to the artistic beauty of the work, which is a
beauty of the second power.
We are not yet speaking of that expression in the voice that is encompassed
in and demanded by the work itself. This already belongs to the conception of
the artistic rendering. We are thinking only of the beauty of the voice as such
and of the particular expression that the voice possesses independently of the
piece of music that is sung. Although its beauty is very different from the beauty
of the music, the two are united organically. The beauty of the voice, with all its
special qualities, is not only, like the technique of singing, an indispensable
prerequisite for a worthy rendering. It also collaborates in the full unfolding of
the musically artistic beauty and satisfies a requirement contained in the work of
art. All this also applies by analogy to the beauty of the sound of an instrument.

Orchestral and chamber music

We now turn to the pure prerequisites of the orchestra, namely, those elements
that allow us to call an orchestra good, excellent, or less good and even poor. The
accomplishment of each orchestral musician is clearly a first prerequisite. The
greater each individual’s mastery of his instrument, the better the orchestra will
be.
The ability to cooperate with the rest of the orchestra is something new and
indispensable. And this second factor makes itself felt not just in the orchestra,
but perhaps even more strongly in the collaboration of the instruments in
chamber music, and between singer and piano accompanist in Lieder. This
element of reciprocal responsiveness, of affinity—not yet with regard to the
conception but as a pure technical accord—is especially important in the
accompanist, who has a definitely secondary function. This element is more
important in chamber music than in an orchestra, where the technical ability and
perfection of the conductor is decisive for the organic collaboration of all the
members of the orchestra.
This brings us to a third characteristic of the good orchestra, in contrast to
one that is less good, namely, its ability to react to the intentions and directives
of the conductor. The attentiveness in playing one’s instrument, and the humble
willingness to let oneself be led and to understand the conductor’s intention,
constitute the third factor in the technical perfection of an orchestra.

The artistic personality of the performing musician

Of special interest are those technical prerequisites for the conductor that reveal
the pronounced difference between a great and significant conductor and one
who has mere technical brilliance. We will briefly touch on the gifts and abilities
that distinguish the brilliant but insignificant conductor from the true
performing artist without making any kind of claim to completeness.
The first prerequisite is the appropriate musicality. There is a technical
musicality that extends from absolute pitch to musical memory, from the deep
understanding of the structure of an orchestra to the complete knowledge of a
score, and much else besides. We must distinguish this technical musicality from
the depth with which a musical work of art and its value are understood, from
the clear, unambiguous sense for the difference between a lofty, noble work and
a brilliant, trivial work, from the appreciation for the hierarchy among genuine
musical works of art—in other words, from artistic musicality. This musicality
manifests itself in the sphere of artistic conception and worthy artistic rendering.
The second technical prerequisite is a special talent for conducting. Even
highly musical people need not possess this talent, though they may be great
pianists, violinists, or cellists. This is a gift all its own, the ability to take note of
all the details, to have an overview of the orchestra, to be its master, to inspire it,
and to have it firmly under one’s control. Human qualities are also required: on
the one hand, a winning affability in dealing with the musicians, which makes it
easier to gain their full cooperation; on the other hand, the energy and rigor that
does not permit any sloppiness, the power to assert one’s own vision, and so on.
It is not our intention to discuss the specifically technical talent of the
conductor, that which distinguishes the brilliant conductor from the weak and
incompetent conductor. We wish to emphasize primarily the factors that
distinguish the great and significant conductor from one who is merely brilliant.
The performing artist has an important place in the realm of music, because
a musical work of art cannot attain its full realization without him. It is only
through him that the music resounds and becomes accessible to the hearers. Not
only does the enrichment and delight that the beauty of the work is meant to
pour into the spirit of the listener come to be through the artist, the music
attains its full reality only when it sounds. The performing artist is a collaborator
of a unique kind, lacking an analogue in any of the other arts, except in drama.
The great pianist, violinist, singer, and above all the great conductor, are all
artists in their own rights. Their activity carries an artistic value of its own, even
if it has a clear ancillary character in that it is entirely filled by the theme of the
worthy realization, the full coming into being of a musical work of art.
As is well known, it is possible to be a great man [großer Mann], a person of
great stature, in the exercise of certain professions. Naturally, we are not thinking
of the greatness that a person can possess because of his moral and religious
qualities, quite independently of his profession. Balzac wanted to be a great man
while he was still very young. When his father destined him to become a notary,
Balzac told him that this was a profession in which it was impossible to become
a great man. There are many capable notaries, but there is no notary of greatness
and stature. It is undoubtedly true that the perfect exercise of a profession bears
the character of greatness and importance only in certain professions, such as in
science, statesmanship, the conduct of war, philosophy, and art.
The performing artist has the potential not just to be a great man [großer
Mann], an eminent figure, but also one of a specifically artistic greatness. This is
particularly interesting because it allows us to see clearly the depth and nobility
of the performing artist’s task. He has an indispensable role in the realm of
music. But he is also more: when he makes music in a consummate fashion, this
too is the bearer of an artistic value all its own. He is an artistic personality.
 The great pianist who fulfills the technical prerequisites is characterized both
by the depth of his penetration into the spirit of the sonata or piano concerto and
by his true appreciation of this piece of music. There are, of course, many
differences of degree here. It has often been discussed whether there can be
several equally justified, or at any rate justified, conceptions of a musical work, or
whether there is only one entirely appropriate conception that fully corresponds
to the composer’s intention, or is at least the conception called for by the work,
the conception that is objectively the most beautiful. Surely there are certain
renderings that contradict the spirit of the composer and of the work, ranging
from an insignificant, boring rendering to a mutilation, a caricature, or a
distortion of the work.
A great pianist not only performs. He also produces [er ist auch produktiv],2
although in a different sense from that of the composer. He is a creator. The
stage of realization that is possible only through him contains a creative element.
He has his own share in the artistic event that is the sounding of the sonata or
piano concerto. No matter how much he subordinates himself to the composer
and intends only to serve him and only to render the spirit of the piece of music,
the significance of the pianist and his musical personality nevertheless find
expression in the rendering. Precisely in the depth and worthiness of the
rendition is his musical personality actualized. There is a unique unity, indeed a
unification, between the activity of a worthy rendition and the work of the
composer. The more the spirit of the composer speaks to us, the more we hear
his authentic voice, the more too does the artistic personality of the pianist
unfold before us. He incarnates the composer, in a certain sense, and this ability
is a high talent, a significant act all its own.
Despite this close union and fusion in the full realization of a piece of music,
the two gifts, that of the composer and that of the pianist—that is to say, of the
musician who renders the music—are completely different. Often they have been
united in one and the same person. Bach was a great organist, and Beethoven a
great pianist. But when they played their instruments, they primarily rendered
their own works or else they improvised. In others, such as Chopin,
Mendelssohn, Schumann, and Liszt, the two gifts, that of the performing artist
and of the creative artist, occur in a single person, although the distinction
between the two gifts is not at all blurred. They remain two completely different
gifts, and the presence of the one, in all its various degrees, certainly does not
guarantee the presence of the other. This applies above all to the great pianist
and conductor, or whoever the performing artist. No matter how significant he
may be as a performer, he need not be more capable of composing music than
any non-performing artist.
The question arises: To what extent does what we have said about the
significance and greatness of the performing artist, whether he is a pianist or a
conductor, apply to every kind of performing musician? Obviously, it also applies
to the great singer and violinist, though here we find the onset of a gradation in
the stature of the performing artist, which depends on which instruments lend
themselves to solo parts in concerts. Only relatively seldom has an important
piece of music been written for one single instrument, such as Bach’s
“Chaconne” for the violin. But there is a rich literature of important pieces of
music in which one instrument has a leading role. A few outstanding examples
include Haydn’s beautiful trumpet concerto or his cello concerto in D major,
Mozart’s clarinet concerto or his concertos for flute and violin, or the violin
concertos by Beethoven or Brahms: in each case, the solo instrument has the
same importance in shaping the piece as the piano in a piano concerto. But there
are no concertos for timpani.
The significance of a given instrument in performance varies according to its
place in the musical literature. The degree to which an instrument is capable of
independently shaping and fully interpreting the music varies according to the
role it can play as a solo in the context of a musical work—not as an isolated solo
but as a leading instrument together with others. Apart from the piano and the
organ, all the other instruments have a relatively limited significance without the
accompaniment of other instruments. The pianist is able entirely on his own to
perform a rich literature containing supreme masterpieces. The same is true of
the organist, who in Bach especially will find a great quantity of glorious works,
including the organ preludes and fugues. Even the organ literature, however, is
by far not as rich as that for piano. Pieces for solo violin or cello are a rarity,
while for many other instruments there is no literature at all. At the same time,
many instruments have solo passages in orchestral works.
The violin has a field rich in various forms, not only in the violin concerto
but also, of course, in the sonatas for violin and piano. Something similar is true
of the cello.
Chamber music, in the narrower sense of the term, is a realm of its own. No
one instrument takes the leading role in the string trio or string quartet, the
piano trio or piano quartet, the quintet, sextet, or octet. No single instrument
determines the conception of the piece of music, the spirit of the rendering, or
how the totality is fashioned. Nevertheless, two performances may be technically
perfect yet clearly different in the way they render and conceive the piece of
music. Here again we find the creative-productive element. It is, of course,
usually the case that one player in the quartet inspires the entire interpretation,
usually the first violinist or the cellist, if he is a great musician like Pablo Casals.
If one of the players is an exceptional musical personality, he will lead the way.
But an artistically worthy rendition of a quartet or trio means that each of the
players has his own specific form of giving shape to the work, even if only
through full collaboration and attentiveness to the other players.
When several exceptional musicians collaborate, for example, in a piano trio,
the worthy shaping of the work requires a special consensus, a “pre-established
harmony” in the personal conceptions of the various artists. Regardless of
whether the artistic fashioning derives from one leading personality or from the
special collaboration of several outstanding musicians, everything we have said
about the unique union of performing artist and composer applies here.
In this context, the artistic accomplishment of the conductor is of particular
interest. We have already indicated the elements that empower the great
conductor to make an artistic, worthy rendering: a profound understanding of
the work, a penetration into its spirit, and the creative power by which he brings
this work to full realization.
What interests us now is the mysterious union between the conductor and
the composer and his work. The fact that the great performing artist is a
significant musical personality, and that his pure service to the work is at the
same time an actualization of his own significance, finds expression above all in
the conductor. On the one hand, unlike the pianist, he is not able to make the
music sound directly and to realize the piece of music fully. He depends on the
orchestra, since he can do this only through the orchestra. In this regard, he has
a position and task completely different from the pianist, because he does not
immediately bring forth the music. On the other hand, the creative fashioning of
the work takes complete precedence with the conductor. His union with the
composer and his work is all the more mysterious. Not only will he inspire the
orchestra in a purely technical manner, but he can infuse into the musicians the
spirit of the music and his own conception and fashioning of the work. In this
way, he can bring about, through the musicians, the full realization of the work
of art in an appropriate manner. His relation to the composer and his work is
particularly direct. In one sense, the conductor does not realize the work directly,
unlike the pianist, who himself brings forth the sounds. And this is precisely why
the conductor has a very direct relationship to the spirit of the work, a
relationship that is concentrated on the purely artistic rendering. That he
succeeds in getting such a complicated and diverse apparatus as the orchestra to
accept his conception of the work is itself quite astonishing. This is why the
great conductor is perhaps the most distinctive artistic personality, the most
creative among all the performing artists.
The brilliant conductor already differentiates himself from the mediocre one
in that he has an overview of everything that happens in the orchestra. He
tolerates no sloppiness and takes every small detail seriously. But there is an
additional element that is characteristic of the great conductor, namely, that he
brings to light, so to speak, the beauty and significance of every individual part in
the musical piece. His deep penetration into the piece also includes allowing
many things to come alive that the audience could easily fail to hear and
apprehend. In this way the great conductor realizes the piece of music in a truly
complete way, opening everything up, without violating the hierarchy of the
individual themes and passages of the work. He brings everything to expression,
and in this way achieves a very deep and differentiated rendering.
Thus, the conductor has a unique position in the realm of music. The
dimension of creativity in performance, the collaboration of a significant musical
personality and the personality of the composer, reach their highpoint in the
conductor.
Such a conductor certainly need not do equal justice to all the great
composers. Rather, he will usually render the works of some composers more
worthily, profoundly, and beautifully than those of others. The understanding of
a work, the depth of the penetration, and the congenial realization calls for a
certain spiritual affinity between the conductor and the composer and his work.
Mottl was unsurpassed as a conductor of Mozart and Wagner, Berlioz and
Bruckner; Furtwängler the ideal for Beethoven, Wagner, Brahms, Bach, and
Bruckner; and Toscanini the ideal for Verdi.
Even if one and the same conductor can offer a wide range of great masters
in ideal renditions, it remains true that a certain affinity between conductor and
composer is decisive for and mysteriously involved in the full, worthy realization
of a piece of music. Indeed, this affinity makes possible the collaboration of the
musical personalities of conductor and composer.

The singer
Singers fashion a piece of music in completely different ways in Lieder, in opera,
and in oratorio.
 Let us begin with the singer of Lieder. We have already pointed out that a
musical personality, and indeed an entire human personality, is manifested in a
singer in a different way from an instrumentalist. The fact that it is his voice,
which, apart from the expression required for an appropriate rendering of the
Lied, contains an expression of his personality, brings about an especially close
connection between the one who performs and what is performed. The
collaboration of performer and composer is heightened by the diction and
emphasis on the words, since the Lied is not absolute music but a union of word
and sound.
Also determining of the appropriate expression are the words. The singing of
a Lied includes a recitation [Deklamation], which requires not just the correct
pronunciation of the words but also the appropriate emphases and delivery as
required by the meaning of the sentences and their atmosphere.
The accompanist too has an important task for the worthy, full realization of
the Lied, but this is normally a secondary task. He is, after all, accompanying.
But this does not prevent the accompanist, if he is a significant musician, from
taking on the role of leading the singer and so providing the appropriate
conception of the Lied.
For the singer of Lieder, additional factors necessarily include his personality,
his external bearing, and certain qualities such as the refinement of his
demeanor, his gracefulness, nobility, and so on. The individuality of the singer
who is personally present in a concert hall or in a private circle inevitably makes
itself felt in his external being too. An individual human being sings and
addresses the audience. The man or woman singing need not be beautiful, but
they must not come across as repulsive, trivial, or tasteless in their outward
appearance. Even when a singer performs Lieder gloriously, an awkward facial
expression, a trivial ethos, or common, unrefined movements are truly capable of
impairing the rendition and of generating an atmosphere that clearly contradicts
the Lied and its noble atmosphere. This shows us the special kind of close
interpenetration, the “incarnation,” of the Lied that takes place through the
singer.
As we will shortly see, this kind of harmony in the relationship between the
individual person and what he sings is not required in the same way of the singer
in an oratorio. The same is true in opera, where the individual personality does
not emerge directly, since he or she appears on stage as a character in the opera.
The situation of the Lieder singer is special in this respect. In an oratorio, the
singers appear less as individual personalities since they are integrated completely
into the work as a whole. There have been singers with angelic voices and an
angelic delivery who sang in an incomparable manner arias like “I know that my
Redeemer liveth” in Handel’s Messiah and the “Et incarnatus est” in Mozart’s
Mass in C Minor. But if one met them in society, they appeared common and
vulgar; they had appalling manners and awkward facial expressions. Since all this
escaped notice in the oratorio, it did not in any way impair its atmosphere. In
Lieder singing, however, this embarrassing atmosphere of a personality would
absolutely have made itself felt.
The worthy rendering of an oratorio and of other sacred works places specific
demands on the singer. While he is much more in the background than the
Lieder singer, fully entering into the sacred style of the oratorio, especially in
musical settings of the Passion, in Masses, and in religious cantatas, entails a
much greater responsibility.
The task of offering a worthy rendering entrusted to the singer in the overall
framework of the work and its stylistic unity has special consequences for the full
realization of the work. To enter into a work as a whole presents the singer with
different demands from those involved in fashioning a single Lied. Here too, of
course, the meaning of the words and the expression that they require, their
emphasis and pronunciation, are important.
The requirements for a worthy rendering reach their highpoint in the
musical settings of the Passion with the figure of the Evangelist and above all
with Christ himself. The role of the Evangelist demands of the singer a specific
attitude, a certain restrained objectivity in the expression. Only certain very
particular singers are suited to this task. This is especially true for the role of
Christ, which imposes on the singer a special way of stepping aside as individual
personality that is utterly different from that required of the Lieder singer. The
worthy rendering demands a special style. On the one hand, the role entrusted to
the singer is ineffably sublime. On the other hand, he must not in any way
attempt to present Christ like a character on the stage. He has a completely
different task from that in the performance of a popular [volkstümlichen] Passion
play, like that in Oberammergau.
The situation of the opera singer is totally different from those we have
mentioned so far. A special form of union with the work comes into being here,
a close collaboration of performer and composer. This is due, firstly, to the new
dimension of the rendering, that is to say, to the playing of a role, the
presentation of a personality in a drama. This dimension is found above all in the
performance of a drama without music.
 A second factor is the new degree of realization, the special illusion of reality
engendered by all that happens on the stage. While opera represents a higher
degree of realization than the performance of a symphony or a string quartet,
something completely new is present, something that addresses not only our
ears, the understanding of the words and sentences, but our eyes too. We have
already pointed out that the full realization of opera and music drama constitutes
something without parallel. Thanks to the illusion of seeming real, thanks to our
being drawn into what takes place on the stage, Figaro, Leporello, Cherubino in
The Marriage of Figaro, Leonore and Florestan in Fidelio, and Beckmesser and
Sachs in Die Meistersinger, stand before us—and not the singers who play them.
We do not confuse this illusion with reality. The world of a given opera or music
drama is clearly distinct from the reality of the theater and the audience. It is not
easy to characterize this illusion. On the one hand, we ought, as it were, to forget
that we are sitting in the theater and live completely in the world of the opera.
On the other hand, we ought not to confuse the world of the opera with reality,
like the simpleton who calls out to Othello during the performance and warns
him not to believe Iago.
We are interested above all in the new kind of rendering that the singer must
accomplish. A specific theatrical gift is required if one is to play the role of
Figaro, Susanna, or Leonore. The great opera singer must become completely
the character whom he portrays. Surely, this gift does not have the same
importance for an opera singer as it has for an actor. In the important, artistically
great operas, the characters are formed primarily by the music, and this is why
song is the principal means for the vivid rendering of a character. But without a
talent for acting, the opera singer cannot do justice to his task. The aspect of the
rendition deriving from the theatrical element encompasses a new meaning for
the full realization of the opera or music drama. The rendering of a character is a
specifically productive element, and the union between singer and composer is
particularly close.3
Even though the conductor holds the most important position for the full,
worthy realization of an opera or music drama, a unique task is entrusted to the
singer, especially to the principal performer. He achieves a kind of self-
identification with the work of art, a specifically creative realization all its own.
The conductor leads and fashions the entire work; the opera singer only portrays
one character in the drama, but he identifies himself with this character. His
cooperation in the realization of the whole varies, of course, in accordance with
the importance of the character he renders in the opera or music drama as a
whole. In Fidelio, the character of Leonore is so central that the worthy
realization of the entire work stands or falls by how she is rendered. This even is
more so the case with the characters of Tristan and Isolde, who dominate the
music drama. Since we cannot go into questions of detail, let us only point out
that the dramatic fashioning with regard to the distinctiveness of the characters
is very varied in the individual masterpieces. It is obvious that Leporello is a
Shakespearean figure—thanks to the music—in a sense quite different from
Leonore or Isolde. To discuss this, however, would take us beyond the scope of
the nature of performance.

The performance of literary works of art

We also find performing artists in the field of literature, although not for the
novel, since it is just as fully realized when it is read silently as when read aloud.
It is, indeed, true that the recitation of an epic poem adds something over and
above a silent reading. The “music” proper to the epic, the meter, rhythm, and in
some cases rhyme, are realized more fully when it is read aloud. However, the
difference between the resounding of a piece of music and its mere state of being
realized in a score is incomparably greater than the difference between an epic
that is read aloud and an epic that is conveyed exclusively through reading—not
only because relatively few people can read a musical score, while very many
people can read a book, but also because, apart from everything else we have
mentioned, in reading the crucial thing is the meaning of the words. This allows
us to recognize clearly the radical difference between the realization of a work of
art in the performance of a piece of music and in the recitation of an epic.
Nevertheless, one can say, albeit in an analogous sense, that the epic recited
represents a fuller realization. This is shown in the fact that, with the exception
of classical antiquity and the Orient, this recitation does not constitute a
profession analogous to that of the performing musician. It is, quite simply, not
essential to read an epic aloud. Usually, the professional reciters do not read
aloud well, and they thereby disfigure the epic.
Something similar applies to the poem, which as such also calls for being
suitably read aloud. Sound and rhythm are more important in a poem than in an
epic. The worthy recitation of a poem is analogous to the performance of a work
of art, one step in its full realization. Nevertheless, it is impossible to overlook
the distance between the activity of the Lieder singer and the one who recites a
poem.
By contrast, the function of a different performing artist, namely, the actor in
a drama, is highly significant, constituting not just a distant but a full analogy to
the performing musician.
The performance of a drama is not as essential as that of an opera. The step
from a play that is read to one that is performed is smaller than the step from the
score that is read to the piece of music that is performed. Nevertheless, as regards
the illusion and the new degree of realization, the step from being read to being
performed is just as decisive as in the case of opera.
This is why the actor in an eminent sense is both a creative and a performing
artist, in whom the element of identification with the character of the drama
attains a special highpoint. Since the significant factor of music is not present,
and the absence of song weakens the difference between what appears on the
stage and the rest of life, the facial expressions and the entire demeanor take on
an even greater weight. The purely theatrical rendition permits a more
thoroughgoing degree of differentiation. On the one hand, the lack of the
expressive dimension of music and the fashioning of the character through the
music means an impoverishment of the role of the performing artist. On the
other hand, the theatrical function becomes much more differentiated and
important. Thus, the close collaboration between rendition and the work of art
emerges clearly, and the actor becomes Romeo, Hamlet, Othello, or Lear. What
a broad range of characters the actor has in which to fulfill his creative artistic
task! What rich potential for nuance through the profundity of the actor’s
conception, nobility of rendering, and persuasive power!
Quite apart from the beauty and artistic importance of a work, the talent and
the accomplishment of the actor are an object of our admiration and our
enjoyment. This enjoyment is on a higher artistic level than the enjoyment of the
virtuosity of a singer or of a violinist, pianist, or flutist. The activity of a great
actor manifests itself even when the play is insignificant. The theatrical
accomplishment acquires a completely different value, of course, as soon as it is a
significant work of art that is performed and the perfect portrayal by the actor
completely at the service of the work. The greater the work of art, the higher the
demands that are made of the actor, the more outstanding he must be as an
actor, the deeper as an artistic personality.
It is interesting that the actor’s theatrical mastery itself stands on a higher
artistic level than the virtuoso mastery of the musician. The beauty and
sweetness of a voice, the nobility of delivery of a male or female singer, is
certainly itself a value, quite independently of the artistic value of what is sung,
and this value is likewise of a higher kind than the mere virtuoso
accomplishment on an instrument or the coloratura virtuosity of a singer. But
the accomplishment of the great actor, even in the performance of an
unimportant work, is still more separable as a value in its own right.
Absent in drama is the decisive role of the conductor, that is, it lacks a
corresponding performing artist. The stage director bears a certain analogy to the
conductor. He can, as in the case of Max Reinhardt and Jacques Copeau,
exercise a decisive influence on the rendering of a drama, especially on its revival.
Interestingly, his work is a preparatory activity that unfolds, apart from the actual
staging, in the process of learning the play and in the rehearsals. During the
actual performance, the director recedes into the background. He is neither the
inspiring figure who leads the whole, nor does he directly influence the
performance while it is ongoing. His activity is quite often limited to the stage
design such that he does not even direct the theatrical rendition by the actors.

The absence of performance in the visual arts

There are no performing artists in the visual arts, and hence no analogy to this
activity that is decisive for the realization of many works in the spheres of music
and literature.
A work of visual art is fully realized the moment a building stands, a
sculpture is finished, or a picture is painted. The difference between a completed
and an uncompleted work, for example, between Michelangelo’s Dying Slave in
the Louvre and the not fully completed Slave in the Accademia in Florence, has
nothing in common with the degrees of realization that lie between the finished
score of Beethoven’s ninth symphony and its performance. The difference
between the finished and the unfinished work of art, which, of course, exists in
all the arts, including in literature and music, moves along a completely different
axis. The performing artist has no real artistic task within the visual arts.
Even less can one draw an analogy between copying a great work of painting
and performing by a musician or actor. The copyist in no way brings the work of
art to full realization; rather, he produces something new, namely, a copy, that is
to say, a picture that has no new content of its own but is only a repetition of the
original.
It also is clear that any work of restoration in architecture, sculpture, and
painting presupposes gifts other than those of the performing artist in music or
literature. The work of the restorer is extremely important for the conservation
of the work of art and for its continued existence, but this stands in a completely
different relation to the work of art than the work of the performing artistic in
music and literature, since the activity of restoration aims at the reconstitution of
the original.
One might be tempted to think that positioning a picture or a sculpture in
the place with the right lighting, and many other things that are a part of the
work of a gallery director, are analogous to the conductor’s work as a performer.
This too would be wrong. The accomplishment of someone who hangs the
pictures in an appropriate manner, who finds the best light for them, does
indeed contain a certain analogy to the performing of the conductor, singer, or
pianist because he enables the work to achieve its full effect. But there is nothing
beyond this very formal analogy. Hanging pictures correctly is not a new stage of
realization. As an activity, it contains absolutely nothing of the above-mentioned
essential characteristics of the genuine performing artist and his profound
penetration of the work of art. It is a onetime service on behalf of the work of
art, in which the person who carries it out remains completely outside the work
of art. This activity also does not constitute its own profession.
Finally, one could regard the appropriate introduction to a work of visual art
as something analogous to the work of a conductor. But this service on behalf of
the work of art again moves in a direction completely different from the full
realization called for by the work of art. To provide an introduction to works of
art in every artistic sphere is a particular talent all its own rather than a
professional occupation. Its aim is to help others to become more perceptive of
values, to open their eyes through explanation, and often indeed through a
mysterious, direct personal influence, disclosing to them the specific character,
beauty, and depth of the work of art. This talent usually comes into play in
personal contact, when people look at a picture together. Beyond this, being
together with a person who has a profound receptivity to art and is truly
competent in his or her judgment can open our spirit to works of art. In certain
circumstances, this is also possible through lectures and books. The gift of
opening works of art to other people presupposes a profound relationship to
particular spheres of art, an intimate knowledge and a true familiarity with the
work in question and the ability to make it come alive through words. A certain
pedagogical gift is also required. One could add many other conditions for this
activity of disclosing values, such as the true ability to kindle genuine
enthusiasm, which clearly differs from pure infection or from being swept along
by means of suggestion, which never leads to a genuine relationship to the
matter in question, namely, the work of art.
So-called guides in galleries, palaces, and cities are often caricatures of real
guides. They usually find greatest favor with the general public, but at best they
provide information that describes characteristics of the work of art. Seldom do
they reveal its true value.
Similarly, professional musical critics often lack the gift for providing a true
introduction to art. Their journalistic task distracts them, and a propagandist
agenda often colors their objectivity. Above all, many critics are influenced by
contemporary fashions, which they reflect more than the spirit of the work.
Their journalistic work and the study that has prepared them for this branch of
journalism gives them neither a genuine understanding of art nor the
competence to pass appropriate judgment, and even less a true relationship to
works of art, which they must possess if they are to open other people’s eyes and
ears.
How much more worthy and profound are the words of one great musician
about the work of another, especially one from an earlier time. Consider
Wagner’s glorious words about Mozart, whom he called a “genius of light and
love,” or what a great conductor like Furtwängler in his book Ton und Wort has
to say about Beethoven, Wagner, and about Weber’s Freischütz.
A true and worthwhile introduction to each of the fields in art is, as we have
seen, entirely different from the role of performance in the spheres of music and
literature, particularly drama. There is no analogy between the two. Thus we
must conclude that the important and interesting figure of the performing artist
exists in an analogous manner only in the spheres of music, opera and music
drama, literary drama, and in poetry suited to being read aloud.

1. [Editors’ note: Hildebrand uses the word “adäquat” not in the sense of “good enough,” as the
English “adequate” suggests, but of realizing what is called for by a work.]
2. [Editors’ note: The contrast Hildebrand draws between “produktiv” (literally: productive) and
“reproduktiv” (to perform) comes very close to the contrast made when saying that a musician “performs”
the piece “created” by the composer.]
3. There are, of course, many operas in which there is no genuine dramatic fashioning of the
characters. The singer is meant to unfold his virtuosic skills, to let the beauty of his voice be heard, and so
on. There were innumerable works of this kind in the age of the so-called grand opera, but they are devoid
of any artistic value of their own.
 CHAPTER FOURTY-FOUR

The Viability of a Work of Art

A CHARACTERISTIC ELEMENT of literary and musical works is their viability.

They must be works of art that stand on their own [selbständige Kunstwerke].
Viability is by no means identical to artistic value; it is important above all in
dramas and operas, but in a broader sense also in all music, literature, and the
visual arts.

The life of its own [Eigenleben] proper to a work of art

We begin with a very general requirement for every genuine work of art. It must
be an entity that stands on its own and possesses an artistic reality. If it is merely
a well-intentioned work that expresses the idealism and the earnest endeavor of
the artist, if it cannot speak for itself without a commentary, or if it is only the
imitation of another work and is thus, so to speak, second-hand, it is not a viable
work.
It is a remarkable fact that this “life of its own” [Eigenleben] is not restricted
to works with artistic values such as genuine beauty, profound poetry, or
tremendous power and potency. It is found even in works of questionable beauty
and artistic nobility. It is present not only in works that differ greatly in the rank
of their beauty, such as Don Giovanni and The Barber of Seville, or Cervantes’
Don Quixote and Eichendorff’s From the Life of a Good-for-Nothing, but also in a
work such as Bizet’s Carmen, despite its many trivial passages.
This life of its own is a mysterious element presupposed in all genuine works
of art of lofty artistic beauty. Its presence, however, does not guarantee the
beauty of a work. It is bound up with a very particular kind of power: a certain
successfulness [Gelungensein], formal perfection, and also a certain skill [gewissen
Können]. Only a procreative capacity, as it were, can bring forth living offspring
in the artistic sphere. It is irrelevant whether these children are beautiful or ugly,
whether they have great and important aptitudes: they must be viable, possessing
an existence that is independent of their parents. This last point is especially
important. If a work is only the expression of an artist and only interests us as his
utterance, rather than speaking for itself, it lacks independent existence.
The viability of a work must be clearly distinguished from its success. As
numerous examples in history show, important works of art often went
unrecognized for long periods, and brilliant works of lesser value that were
certainly viable likewise had no initial success. Few of Bach’s contemporaries
recognized the singular greatness and sublimity of his music. Even Carmen was a
flop on its first performance.
We must distinguish three factors here. First, there is the objective standing
in itself, the inner viability of the work; secondly, there is the success, and the life
that the work takes on in people’s minds and unfolds in people’s spirit, the
interest, enthusiasm, the desire for its enjoyment, and the role that it plays in the
cultural life of a country or a cultural sphere, like that of the West.
We must, of course, distinguish between the range of a work’s role and its
depth. Depth presupposes works of artistic significance and beauty, while range,
or rather popularity, does not necessarily require a work that is deep but all the
more so one that is successful and effective.
A third factor is the longevity of a work. Many works are so timeless and
supranational that they can be forgotten for a period, but are then time and again
rediscovered, and remain alive for all time.
What are the reasons that make a work objectively viable? It is scarcely
possible to answer this question. All we can do is to indicate the characteristic
traits of viability as an objective feature and to distinguish these from the real
artistic value, namely, the beauty of a work. The source of this viability is a
mystery, just like artistic talent.
We begin by looking at the second factor, namely, the life of a work in the
sense of its success, and consider this in the context of drama in the modern era,
especially opera, for which this factor for various reasons is much more
important than for other art forms.
Success is of course important for any works intended for the theater, that is,
their ability to remain on stage. Their message, the word they address to people,
reaches them only when the works can persist on the stage, instead of
disappearing from the program after two or three performances.
We have already spoken of the specific world of the theater, of this step in
the formal imitation of reality, of the new kind of illusion [Illusion] it represents.
In one respect, there is an enormous step from the illusion involved in reading a
novel or a play to the illusion involved in the performance of a play on the stage.
Although there is a great difference between the form of a play and that of a
novel, the greatest step with regard to the illusion occurs between a drama that is
merely read and a drama that is performed. It is no longer only the words that
communicate the illusory reality, but real human beings who play the characters,
people whose facial expressions and gestures we see, whose voices and intonation
we hear.
We are dealing here with a fundamentally new degree of representation, a
general and primordially important phenomenon that occurs in painting and in
sculpture, and, in another form, in literature too. A performance on stage,
however, is a representation sui generis, the highpoint of representation with
respect to illusion or the imitative function. On stage, real human beings carry
out all the movements that occur in real life. They act, speak, and express
themselves, and yet we know this is the performance of a play, not an event
embedded within the real course of our lives. It is indeed true that we are not
meant to see in the actor Josef Kainz, David Garrick, or Alexander Moissi when
they play Hamlet, Romeo, or Lear. Rather, we are meant to be fully occupied
with the characters that are represented. It is they who should fill our
imagination and move us. But we experience all this against the background
awareness that this is the representation of a drama, not something taking place
in our own life.
In a play that is performed, we reach the highest degree of illusion in a
manner not found elsewhere. This must not be misunderstood, however, to
mean that this kind of reality has anything to do with a naturalistic tendency in
the work of art. On the contrary. We are focused here not on the specific
character of a given play, but only on that of the stage, on the form of the
rendering and presentation of the work. This does not affect the artistic
transposition in the drama itself, nor its relationship to real events.

The importance of a work of art in the interpersonal sphere. The appropriate and
public performance
Performance on stage, this formal new degree of illusion, is of particular
importance for the question of a work’s life of its own in the interpersonal sphere
and in the minds of individual persons.
A drama that is never performed but is only read by individuals remains an
unborn child—independently of its artistic viability and its full realization as a
work of art—because it is not, as it were, brought forth into the world. This
brings us to the very general and important problem of the significance that the
work of art possesses for human beings apart from its purely artistic life of its
own. This is the whole dimension of being received, enjoyed, admired, and
loved, by which we mean the dimension of reality that lies in its being seen,
heard, and understood, a dimension that extends into the interpersonal sphere.
This is a highly significant and important phenomenon.
Let us suppose that due to special circumstances a glorious ancient sculpture
had always remained hidden and had never been seen. Naturally, it exists as a
work of art, but it lacks a form of realization that it acquires only when it is
discovered. Schubert’s great ninth symphony in C Major was discovered ten
years after his death by Schumann. Even in its hidden state, of course, it existed
as a real work of art. But it came to be fully alive in a completely new sense when
it was performed by Mendelssohn.
We cannot discuss in greater detail the two realities of a work of art, the
reality that begins with the creation of the work, with the existence of an entity
that stands on its own feet, and the reality in the mind of the public. Instead, we
turn to the various modes of reality the work of art takes on in literature and
music.
In the case of the epic, the second kind of reality, namely, its existence in the
mind of human beings and in the interpersonal sphere, presupposes the
following: it must be sung or recited, and it must live on in the consciousness of
human beings either through the manuscript or through the tradition of the
sung or spoken word. The latter applies to Homer, Virgil, and also to the Divine
Comedy. Until a hundred years ago, it was customary in Tuscany for the father to
recite from memory a canto of the Divine Comedy to his family and the
farmhands in the evening. He himself was probably scarcely able to read or write.
Thanks to tradition, the epic remained alive in people’s consciousness. Following
Gutenberg’s invention, the normal form in which the epic, the poem, the short
story, and the novel live on is, of course, the printed book, which is accessible to
everyone who can read.
For dramas, however, this is an incomplete kind of continued existence.
They are meant to be performed on stage, and it belongs to their full life to be
put on in the theater. When a play disappears from the stage, from the
perspective of its outward existence it means a kind of falling asleep. It can no
longer function in the form of realization for which it is created.
A string quartet that exists only in the score but is never performed in a
concert or in a private house is even more bereft of its external life than a play
that is accessible only as a book. Only musicians in the full sense of the term can
get to know the work, delight in it, and appreciate it by reading the score. The
intended degree of realization is attained only when the piece resounds. While in
literature, alongside many other factors, contact with the content is established
through the word and its meaning, in music, the resounding belongs essentially
to its realization, since the world of the audible speaks to us in a way that is
directly given in experience. This is why the distance between a score and the
music that resounds is incomparably greater than the distance between a play
that is read and its performance on the stage.
A whole world lies between reading the notes of a piano sonata and the
sonata that is actually played on the piano. Certainly, there is also an important
difference in the realization between the piano reduction of a string quartet or
even of a symphony played on the piano and the actual performance of these
works. But this cannot be compared to the aforementioned difference. Music
becomes fully real only when it resounds in some form or other. A score is a full
reality, yet the work of art is not yet alive in it, having not yet taken on the form
of being proper to it.
In music the decisive step into “life”—beyond the objective existence of the
individual work of art—is when the music sounds. A further step would be to
sound in a derivative way, for example, to play the piano reduction of a
symphony, string quartet, or an opera. Only in a performance, for which the
piece of music is written, can it unfold completely.
In the context of these secondary steps, the greatest distance lies between the
piano reduction of an opera, even when the vocal parts are indicated, and its
performance on stage.
The lowest starting point for the outward life of a piece of music is reading
the score. The work begins to live insofar as it is apprehended in the minds of
other persons. This initial stage of life, however, is incomparably weaker for
music than for drama. Beyond the reading of the score, the resounding of the
music is the decisive step to a new form of existence.
From here on out, there are many further degrees that differ less and vary in
accordance with the kind of piece of music. For example, a piano sonata receives
the highest degree of realization when it is played on the piano.
Performance and its appropriateness, its greater or lesser perfection, touches
on a new dimension of artistic realization, which we discussed in the preceding
chapter.
A further difference in the form of existence occurs when the sonata is played
only in a small circle of friends or in a concert before a broad public, or in many
private circles, thus becoming well known and popular.
 More important for our present considerations is the fact that a string quartet
that resounds only in a piano reduction does not yet attain its full realization.1 As
a string quartet, it must resound on the appropriate instruments. This is even
more the case for a symphony.
If we limit ourselves to the sounding of a work, we find in opera various
degrees of realization that are appropriate and required by the work. Although a
concert performance of an opera is much more real than playing a piano
reduction, nevertheless it remains far removed from a performance on the stage.
In the concert performance, the orchestra plays and all the vocal parts are sung,
but the new degree of reality is lacking, the new illusion provided by the
performance on stage which the opera demands.
For opera we must also draw a clear distinction between two dimensions of
its outward life: first, the degree of realization required by the work, and
secondly, the dimension of the life of a work in the experience [Geist] of human
beings and in the interpersonal sphere. The first dimension is already attained
when an opera is performed in the theater before only a few people or, indeed,
even before a single person. The second, by contrast, refers precisely to how
many people are in the theater and the extent to which they are swept up in the
work, understand it, are impressed by it, and absorb it with real understanding.
But the second dimension, our actual theme here, to a certain extent presupposes
the first dimension.
One could object that all this has changed, thanks to the invention of new
methods of reproduction. Even when a symphony is no longer performed,
innumerable individual people can hear it as played together by all the
instruments, and thus in its full realization. But in this case, its continued
existence depends on the production of the relevant recordings. If a work loses
its popularity, the recordings will scarcely be produced any longer.
We prescind as yet from the social dimension that distinguishes the
rendering of a symphony in concert from this kind of sounding on a recording,
which lacks the solemnity of a performance of the symphony, the immediacy of
the here and now, the act of addressing the public, and also the communal
element. Even the best recordings cannot allow us to look at the conductor and
the orchestra, or at the music-making that is being carried out by human beings
at this moment.
In the case of opera, this of course applies to a completely different degree.
Hearing a recording of an opera and experiencing its performance in the theater
are evidently worlds apart. The former lacks the new degree of reality of the
illusion. One sees neither the singers nor the stage scenery, and one does not
experience the real persons and their actions.
It is true that the depth of experience can be greater for an individual person
when he hears the recording of an opera or music drama, especially after he has
already experienced a performance on the stage. But the depth of the experience
depends on factors that have nothing to do with the full realizing of the work of
art and the attainment of the degree of reality intended by a given work of art,
such as the depth of the person, his artistic understanding, and his disposition in
a given moment, which is conditioned by many bodily and mental factors. But it
cannot be doubted that a performance as such represents a higher degree in the
outward life of an opera or music drama than what can be communicated even
by the best reproduction.
In film and on television, the presentation of a drama comes much closer to
the presentation on stage. The illusion is largely the same, but the actors are not
really present and the three-dimensionality of the stage is lacking, as is the real
contact between the actors and the audience. In a theater performance, the actor
plays before an audience and for this audience, and there is a real contact
between the two. The audience sees and hears the actor in the very moment in
which he speaks, but in film and television the recording is usually made at an
earlier time and without an audience. All that one sees and hears is a repetition
of the real performance. The simultaneity between the real performance and the
seeing and hearing by the audience no longer exists.
The same applies to the rendering of an opera in film or on television, which
is obviously a degree less real than an actual performance.
Let us return to the second dimension of the life of a work of art. It is
characteristic for a form of life closely bound up with success and the whole
dimension of outward existence that plays, operas, and music dramas take place
in the theater. Whether a work continues to be programmed is determined
primarily by its success, by the popularity it has acquired. Indeed, its continued
existence on stage, the fact that a work is periodically fully realized, is, in itself,
different from its continued existence in the experience of human beings and in
the interpersonal sphere. But the two are closely connected.

The continued existence of a work of art in the minds and hearts of those who
understand art
With regard to the success of a work in the cultural sphere, we must distinguish
between the degree of its popularity as such and its standing among those who
truly understand something of art.2 We do not mean experts or professors of the
history of literature and music. Least of all do we mean music critics. Rather, we
have in mind that public3 whose members have a genuine artistic appreciation,
and whose immediate contact with the true beauty of a work moves them
profoundly. It is this public whom Beethoven addresses in the dedication of his
Missa solemnis: “Von Herzen—möge es zu Herzen gehen” (“From the heart—
may it touch the heart”).
The life of a genuine work of art in the minds and hearts of this public—
which exists in every generation, even if it is less extensive in certain epochs—is,
of course, much more important than the popularity of works that are successful,
potent, but trivial. For purely practical reasons, this popularity has a stronger
influence on the continued presence of a work on the stage, but in itself is
incomparably more peripheral und unimportant.
The profound importance of a great work of art in the minds and hearts of
those who have a true understanding of its beauty does not prevent the work
from enjoying great popularity. The favor enjoyed by a great work of art
presupposes its objective value, genuine beauty, and true nobility, while
popularity presupposes only the success and the outward life of a work. Since
most true works of art are also well-crafted and possess a life of their own, they
can, thanks to their powerful effect, have success with the general public, even
when many people fail to understand their deeper value.

Fashion, success, and zeitgeist

There are other factors that also determine whether a work remains sufficiently
beloved and popular to continue to be performed in concerts or on the stage.
First of all, it cannot be denied that superficial popularity is very strongly
influenced by fashion. We cannot here investigate the fascinating question of
fashion—a very interesting phenomenon from a philosophical point of view. We
must, however, mention it as a factor that is important for the outward life of a
work of art, at least, for its temporary popularity and subsequent unpopularity. It
is obvious that this is largely independent of the objective character of a work.
Fashion is a sociological phenomenon. The reasons why something becomes
fashionable can be of very various sorts, but an emotional “infection” always plays
a role. One picks up the vibrations of something in the air at a particular time
and tags along with it. One does not want to be excluded; the herd instinct
comes alive in the person. This applies especially to ideas, movements, and
trends that possess an historical-sociological reality in an epoch, but also to
fashions in clothes, hats, and so on, the origins of which can clearly be traced to
those trying to drum up business.
One may ask whether it is possible by means of propaganda to make an
unsuccessful, weak, and ineffective work fashionable on the stage or among
readers. If works of literature and music are to become fashionable, does this not
presuppose at least a certain measure of “turning out well” [Gelungensein]? Can
one say that a very effective and well-constructed [gelungenes] work could stop
being in fashion after some time? Does its objective turning out well guarantee
that it will remain in fashion? Does it need this turning out well to become
popular and thus also to become fashionable? If it were an utter failure, does this
mean that it could never become popular, regardless of what was fashionable?
Our reply must be that an excellent title suffices to make many books
bestsellers, even when the book as such is neither potent nor effective. In the
case of pieces of music, plays, and operas, newspaper criticism can greatly help an
impotent work to achieve success and attain a pseudo-popularity along the lines
of Andersen’s fairytale “The Emperor’s New Clothes.” It appears, therefore, that
it is possible by artificial means to bring about temporary success even for a work
that misfires and lacks potency. No doubt a certain success can be achieved
artificially.
Far more important is the influence of the intellectual climate on those
persons who are open and receptive to genuine artistic values. As one is
unfortunately compelled to observe, receptivity to great works of art is often
impaired by the zeitgeist, such that many people do not understand and respond
to works that are new to them or are blind to works from past epochs. For
example, the second half of the nineteenth century saw a deep understanding for
the great works of the Renaissance, while understanding for Gothic was
astonishingly defective. But there are always people who remain untouched by
the influence of the zeitgeist and are deeply impressed only by the greatness and
beauty of a work of art, regardless of the epoch from which it comes.
Some people have a deep relationship to many great works of art but are
blind to other important works. What we have in mind is not a special personal
affinity to the ethos of a work of art. The specific orientation of a personality to
particular great works of art, such as a deeper relationship to Bach than to
Beethoven, is an interesting phenomenon. This need not influence the judgment
of this person in such a way that he refuses in principle to acknowledge the
greatness of another artist. A certain artist speaks more to him; thus he loves this
artist more and enters more deeply into this artist’s work. This factor is grounded
in the individual personality of the listener.
What we have in mind is the constricting, blinding effect of the zeitgeist in
people who otherwise have an understanding for art. How is it comprehensible
that such a musical person as Elisabeth von Herzogenberg, who was a friend of
Brahms and had a great understanding of Mozart and Beethoven, should have
pronounced a decidedly negative verdict on Bruckner’s wonderful seventh
symphony after its premiere in Leipzig?4 Hermann Levi, the great conductor
who discovered Bruckner and gave this symphony its first performance in
Munich, apprehended its beauty so deeply that he raised his glass to Bruckner
after the performance, when he was with him and many musicians in the
Allotria Artist Society, and said, “I drink to the greatest symphonic composer
after Beethoven.” Levi was free of the constrictions of the zeitgeist, and he
apprehended this symphony in its true value.
Conrad Fiedler was certainly a man with an exceptional understanding of the
visual arts, but he scarcely responded to the glorious Gothic cathedrals in France.
Or take a great spirit like Jacob Burckhardt, who had a much deeper
understanding of Raphael and Titian than of Piero della Francesca.
A given zeitgeist can impair the relationship to certain great works of art,
thereby temporarily reducing their popularity and their life in the experience of
many artistically open people. But true works of art are dethroned only for a
time. Their importance for humankind will revive again and again. Even great
dramas and operas can disappear from the stage for a time, but they will return.

Factors that determine the viability of a work of art Successfulness [Gelungensein]

and high artistic rank
What are the traits that characterize the objective viability of a work of art,
especially a piece of music and an opera? Let us now seek to answer this
question.
As we have said, it is impossible to answer the question where the life of its
own of a work of art originates. But we can apprehend the particular character of
its viability and describe its essential traits.
We have already established that, while the objective quality of viability is
necessary for a genuine work of art, it by no means guarantees that a work will
possess a true artistic value. A drama or opera as a whole can be a completely
successful and genuine work of art with the life of its own required for this, or it
can be a successful and genuine work of art only in its individual parts, while the
work as a whole is unsuccessful and unviable. Thus, for example, there is one aria
of great beauty in Mozart’s Il re pastore that possesses a full life of its own as a
musical structure, but otherwise this opera is relatively unimportant. Something
similar is true of Mozart’s opera La clemenza di Tito. Although it has some very
beautiful passages, it is not successful as a whole. Sometimes, however, the
power of one or several passages salvages the whole work.
Another factor in the life of its own of plays and operas is that they must be
suitable for realization on the stage. An unsuccessful libretto can, as far as the
viability of the work is concerned, do great damage to beautiful and significant
music.
On the other hand, the beauty of certain dramas, such as Faust, Part II,
comes much more into its own when read than when being seen on the stage. In
such cases, one must distinguish the full life of its own possessed by a work of
art, along with the lofty artistic values realized in it, from the viability of the
drama performed on the stage.
The kind of viability that derives from “hitting the mark” is something other
than the primary artistic value, as can be seen clearly in the fact that works of
marginal artistic value that are filled with neither a great and noble world nor a
delightful modest poetry, but rather border on the trivial in many passages,
nevertheless often possess the character of having turned out well and a full life
of their own. Bizet’s opera Carmen is separated by a whole world from Mozart’s
Don Giovanni and Wagner’s Tristan und Isolde with respect to their artistic
beauty, spiritual depth, and greatness. We can speak of Don Giovanni, Fidelio,
and Tristan in the same breath because these works, for all their differences,
possess an ultimate artistic greatness and depth; but with Carmen we enter a
completely different world. And yet, when a survey in the United States asked
people to name the most perfect opera, Carmen came in first place, Don
Giovanni second, and Tristan third.
It is not surprising that Carmen should be mentioned first, as far less is
required to respond to this kind of music. It does not presuppose a genuinely
artistic sensibility but grabs the audience by its amazing mastery and its unique
effect. It is nevertheless interesting that masterpieces of the highest artistic
beauty should occupy the second and third places.
To speak of turning out well [Gelungensein], of artistic viability, and potency
of effect in the full sense is to speak of perfection in the sense that the poet or
musician perfectly realizes his intention. The artist gives wholly what he wants to
give, and the work is the expression of a clear talent. The opposite of the viable
piece is the weak, boring, unsuccessful piece that does not stand on its own, like
a vaudeville or operetta or trivial opera, and even less as a genuine work of art.
This moment is thus an interesting phenomenon, because it has nothing to do
with fortuitous success, fashion, propaganda, and so on. On the one hand, it is a
real characteristic of the work, and on the other hand, it can be found not only in
real works of art but also in decidedly trivial pieces.
We have here a certain analogy to energy in the moral sphere. Vitality is a
value, but not a moral value. Even the greatest scoundrel can possess it, and it
makes his wickedness still more dangerous and virulent. But vitality is itself an
extra-moral value. In the morally good person, it brings about an increase of the
moral value of his personality. The same can be said of courage. An evil person
can be very courageous, as we see with Macbeth and Richard III. Courage is a
value, but not yet a moral value. Nevertheless, the lack of courage, especially of
intellectual courage, can be a great detriment to the moral value of a given
person. Moral perfection also presupposes courage.
As we have said, the opposite of viability is the boring, the weak, in a great
variety of forms. A work can be simply boring and nondescript. This is a fatal
flaw both for works that are meant seriously and are motivated by noble
intentions, and for trivial works that aim at mere cheap effects. Even great,
sublime artists have composed some unsuccessful works, in which they
momentarily lacked inspiration. This failure is especially catastrophic in the case
of operetta given the dubious character of its guiding artistic intention.
Secondly, the non-viability of a work, despite noble and lofty intentions, can
be due to the lack of a genuine artistic transposition, as in Newman’s Callista.
Newman was a towering mind. As a theologian, he had the stature of a doctor of
the Church, and he was also a highly cultivated man, a significant stylist, a man
who could write sublime words about music, a creative spirit. But he lacked the
gift of artistic transposition, and his novel Callista, despite its glorious subject
matter, is weak, not a work of art in its own right.
Thirdly, non-viability can be caused by the fact that the author runs out of
steam after producing a successful part, so that the piece displays many “gaps.”
Constancy of inspiration is an important factor, apart from the loftiness of the
intention and the striving for truly artistic values.
Fourthly, another factor that plays a role in the viability of an opera is the
extent to which the work suits the stage. Does it come into its own on the
various kinds of “stages,” or does it, rather, despite the beauty of its music, have
the character of an oratorio? In the case of genuine, great works of art, this factor
in no way undermines their artistic, objective existence; they are still able to have
a full reality as works of art. But their viability on the stage on which they were
intended to be realized is impaired.
In the case of any lighter works with genuine artistic values, it is decisively
important, if they are being presented in the world of the theater that seeks to
entertain, that they are suitable for the stage. To be viable, they need to be fully
effective on the stage.
This is much truer for those works the purity and beauty of which are
dubious, works the strength of which consists only in being well made,
successful, and skillful. They depend heavily on their effect on stage, which
naturally includes the music that has been created. For every kind of music
drama, viability must include a congruence of poetry, libretto, and music.
Die Fledermaus by Johann Strauss is a complete success. Despite a number of
more or less trivial passages, it is in its own way a masterpiece that is fully viable.
Carmen, on the other hand, aims at much more: it seeks to be a tragic opera, but
in many passages it borders on the trivial. Its overall atmosphere lacks a
genuinely artistic character. It possesses no true poetry. Nevertheless, it remains
in its own way a brilliantly successful masterpiece. There is a succession of ideas,
and everything “hits home” fantastically. The work stands fully on its own, and it
has an extraordinary effectiveness. It is anything but boring or weak. There can
be no doubt that it is viable, a real, objective entity that fully belongs on the stage
and fulfills all that is required to be effective on the stage.
Is this viability, this perfection, truly the same phenomenon as that which
compels us to call Figaro a masterpiece? From the perspective of true artistic
value, of beauty, depth, and noble poetry, Carmen and Figaro represent extreme
antitheses. Are not the success, the “hitting the nail on the head,” and the
viability of the two operas so different that one can speak of them only in an
analogous sense? To the extent that we are speaking of an expression of talent,
this question must certainly be answered in the affirmative. Surely the necessary,
supreme brilliance required for Figaro is completely different from the talent that
enabled Bizet to write Carmen.
While there is obviously an enormous quantitative difference in talent, the
difference is above all qualitative. Just as there are various talents for spheres such
as mathematics, technology, and philosophy, so there are also varied gifts for the
particular artistic spheres. Yet these talents are not determined by the object, but
are of a qualitative kind, ranging from a minor talent to one of the highest
degree. The talents required for the composition of an opera will completely
differ in qualitative terms depending on the artistic depth intended and fulfilled
in the opera. The success of what is intended in formal terms, the formal ability
to create a structure that is perfectly made and stands on its own, depends largely
on whether true artistic values are intended and realized. This is why, despite
formal analogies, we must treat separately the viability of genuine works of art
and the viability of works defined only by being clearly well crafted.
It is clear that, in addition to the artistic beauty of the work, the fundamental
values of depth and perfection5 are also a presupposition for objective viability in
the sphere of great and noble art.
We also find pure viability and the character of being well crafted in works
without high artistic values and, indeed, even in works that are definitely trivial
and anti-artistic—and yet meet with tremendous success [Treffer]. What sort of
value is this “hitting the mark” [Getroffensein]?
We can certainly enjoy it, even though it is not linked to fully artistic values.
To enjoy a work under the aspect of its successful character is tied to an
appreciation of a value that is different from artistic, genuine beauty in all its
various levels. This value has a certain aesthetic character and many gradations.
When a work, say Bizet’s Carmen or Puccini’s La Bohème, is completely
successful, attains this unique realization of intention, possesses a strong
atmosphere of its own, and is perfect in its own way, then it bears a value that
belongs to the aesthetic value family.
The opera La Bohème conveys a very particular world of Parisian bohemian
society that has a strong poetic quality. It has an excellent libretto. But the waltz-
like theme in the second act, Musetta’s theme, is definitely trivial. And yet, one
could not wish that this work had never been written. In its own way, it
represents a decisive enrichment. Compared with Carmen, its overall world is
more poetic and aims less at effect. Nevertheless, Carmen is incomparably more
powerful and supremely successful. While it does indeed contain many trivial
passages, it also has delightful melodies, such as when the gypsy women play
cards in the third act. Carmen aspires to be a tragic opera. It is much more
ambitious than La Bohème and thus the best example of the divergence between
genuine artistic beauty and being masterfully put together.
Here, we must point out the great danger for an artist, namely, that he may
succumb, for the sake of outward success, to compromises that appeal to
illegitimate centers in the person. The difference between the viability of a
genuine work of art, on the one hand, and a work that is merely well crafted,
good, even brilliantly constructed, on the other, is tied to such compromises.
 For the genuine artist, the interest in success is a temptation. It is easier to
ensure success for a work through certain concessions, such as to the zeitgeist or
to fashion. As we have mentioned, it appeared at one time essential to offer the
audience one or more ballets in an opera. Regardless of whether they fit the plot
or the overall atmosphere, they were inserted so as not to disappoint the
audience and thus risk a failure.6
In general, great artists will now allow themselves to make such compromises
thanks to their artistic conscience. Sometimes, however, the conflict that can
arise between success and artistic value emerges clearly. Stefan George fought for
a complete disinterest in success, for a consistent refusal to compromise. Hans
von Marées, who as a young man was a very popular painter of battle scenes,
withdrew completely from this kind of painting, abandoning his popularity
altogether, so as to be uncompromising and free in his striving to create genuine,
profound works of art. He consciously avoided the cheap superficiality and the
great “skill” which had made him successful.
So, we arrive at those compromises that no longer reflect the zeitgeist but
rather consist in ensuring success through cheap and artistically illegitimate
means. This worst of artistic “sins” may consist in appealing to the audience’s
craving for sensation or in inserting sentimental phrases to which inartistic
people react strongly. This is a betrayal of artistic genius, a conscious appeal to a
susceptibility in the audience that is not only non-artistic but in fact anti-artistic.
The true artist will scarcely allow himself to be guilty of such an error,
though it is certainly possible that gifted writers and composers will feel this
temptation. Cheap effects are found above all in operettas, especially since
Lehár, and even more strongly in Schlager, which to a certain extent depend on
them for their existence.

1. The difference between the piano reduction of a string quartet and a quartet that is played on the
appropriate instruments is, of course, quite essential, since the instruments, their sound, and so on, are of
the greatest importance. In the second instance, the entire importance of the sound, which is central for the
music, is present; in the first instance, there is a formal realization, but not in the original instrumentation.
This difference is of a kind other than that between a play that is read and a play that is performed, and it
moves in a different direction. Both of these differences exist between an opera that is performed on the
stage and its piano reduction.
2. Further interesting questions arise here, such as: What influence a work of art has on other artists?
Although this question belongs to the general history of art, it is interesting, from a philosophical
perspective, to investigate the form of reality that this represents.
3. We use this term [Publikum in German] in Wilhelm Furtwängler’s sense. See his lecture Der
Musiker und sein Publikum (Zurich: Atlantis Verlag, 1955), or “Chaos und Gestalt,” in Vermächtnis
(Wiesbaden: Brockhaus, 1956), 136ff.; see “Beethoven und wir,” in his Ton und Wort, 248 ff.
 4. See Conrad Fiedler’s letter to Adolf von Hildebrand on January 6, 1885, “Herzogenberg’s criticism
was theoretical and pedantic. It was convincing in what he said, but left open the possibility that in spite of
everything, the symphony might be a good thing. The criticism by his wife Liesl was delightful and moving,
like everything that comes from her. She regretted in her innermost being that she could not avoid finding
the music bad. She was distressed that such incomprehensible differences of opinion were possible in the
world.” Quoted from Adolf von Hildebrand und seine Welt. Briefe und Erinnerungen, ed. Bernhard Sattler
(Munich: Callway, 1962), 279.
Elisabeth von Herzogenberg wrote about this in a letter to Johannes Brahms on January 14, 1885:
“[B]ut no one takes away one’s sadness that in this world, which has apparently been ‘made so cultivated,’
there are still so many, many people who are impressed by what is utterly hollow and exaggerated, provided
only that it is ‘staged’ in the right way.” Quoted from Johannes Brahms, Briefwechsel, vol. 2, ed. Max Kalbeck
(Tutzing: Hans Schneider 1974), 54.
5. See chap. 35 above, pp. 402–405.
6. The ballets in Verdi’s operas were due less to a compromise for the sake of success than to his
susceptibility to influence by the zeitgeist.
 Index

abstract music, 501–502

abstract painting, 160, 223, 230
actors, 257, 304, 529–530, 537–538
adjectives, decorative, in literature, 323–325
aesthete (aestheticism), 27, 324, 353
affective responses, declaration of, 274–277
affectivity: in music, 389–394; and tone of voice, 304
altar, 120
alto, 375–376
Ambrosian chant, 503–504
analogy: in literature, 324, 326–333; association vs., 328–329,
animals: communication by, 305; in sculpture, 30, 180, 201
antiquity, temples of, 81–82
applied art: architecture and, 148–149, 149–150; beauty in, 150–153, 153–157; machines and, 155–157;
themes in, 148–149; works of art vs., 147
apprehension: of artistic value, 23–24; of beauty, 19, 21, 27; of literature, 280, 284–287, 332; of music, 366;
of photography, 217; see also understanding
arches, 92, 97
architecture: applied arts and, 148–149, 149–150; and apprehension of “worlds,” 74–77; artistic “life” in,
63–65; atmosphere of country and, 71–74; beauty and, 50, 54–55, 55–60, 93–94; churches, 51, 53, 57,
63, 115–122; cities and, 123–128; civilization and, 52–53; color in, 97; context in, xxi–xxii; cultural life
and, 63–65; decorative elements in, 103–104; dignity and, 72–73; elements in, 82–84, 103–104; being
encompassed and, 109–110; exterior, 93–94, 99–101; as framework for other arts, 34–36; fresco and,
32–34, 103–108; functionalism and, 55; furniture and, 111–112, 149–150; historical reality and, 66–68,
71–74; industrialization and, 52–53, 65; interior, 109–122, 149–150; literature and, 49–50; materials in,
96–97; mosaics and, 32–34, 256; music and, 34, 49–50; nature and, 129–137; in painting, 36–37, 233;
painting and, 49, 114–115; parks and, 139–143; pictures and, 33–34; practical purpose of, 50, 56;
proportions in, 95–96; public buildings, 79–80, 113–115; quintessential inventions of, 90–93; residential,
50–51, 57–58, 79–80, 98, 110–113; in Rome, 74–77; sacred, 80–81; sculpture and, 29–32, 104–106,
114–115, 177, 181; space and, 48–50; spatial structures in, 91; spiritual purpose of, 50–51, 53, 56–57;
staircases in, 84, 111, 120–121; theater and, 34–36; towers in, 84, 92, 100, 104; twofold purpose of,
50–53; zeitgeist and, 65–66
aria, 457–460
arie antiche, 426–428
art: applied, vs. works of, 147; ontological reality of, 5–9; as objectification of personality of artist, 11–12,
445; as quasi-substance, 7; see also applied art; painting(s)
artist: academic interest in, 27; personality of, 12; truth and, 16; worldview of, 15–16
artistic personality, 12–13, 518–524
artistic value: academic interest vs., 27; chronolatry and, 25–26; historical importance and, 19; metaphysical
ugliness and, 343–347; nationalism and, 23–24; and period of work, 26; of repulsive characters, in
literature, 347–349; in sculpture, 185–197; subject matter and, 227; viability vs., 535
aspiration, tension of realization and, 41–42
association, 285–286, 425–426; expression vs., 425–426; program music and, 501; understanding vs.,
270–271
authorship, 11–12

balcony, 82–83
ballad (poetry), 320
baritone, 375
bass, 375–376
beauty: analogy and, 327; in applied art, 150–153, 153–157; architecture and, 50, 54–55, 55–60, 93–94; of
body, 186; of cities, 123–124; of colors, 238–239; and “decorative” as term, 103; depiction and, 242–243;
elegance vs., 157; familiarity and, 18–19; of first power, xx, 157, 515; in furniture, 153–154; in literature,
360–361; in machines, 155–157; of moral values, 394–395; in music, 397–399; in painting, 221–222,
242–243; reality and, 93–94; representation and, 162–163; in sculpture, 171, 186; of subject matter,
232–234; of voice, 516–517; see also “beauty of second power”; metaphysical beauty
“beauty of second power,” xx, 13, 81, 95, 96, 99, 123, 131, 154, 157, 171, 194, 238, 366, 371, 383, 387,
391, 398, 403, 449, 463, 516; see also metaphysical beauty
body-feeling, 188–189, 247–250, 312, 392
bourgeois: depiction of, in literature, 355–361
bridges, 85
bust, 186–187, 189–191; see also sculpture

campo, 143–145
caricature, 200–201, 230, 233, 246, 329, 520, 533
carpets, 150, 151, 154, 155
castles, 58, 79, 80, 135
cathedrals, 30–31
causa efficiens (efficient cause), 209
causa exemplaris (exemplary cause), 209–210, 209n4, 213
causa finalis (final cause), 209
causa instrumentalis (instrumental cause), 215, 216
causa principalis (principle cause), 215–216
causa remota (remote cause), 215, 216
ceiling: in churches, 118–119; in public buildings, 114
cement, 97
chamber music, 49, 255, 433, 437, 517, 522
chant; see also gregorian chant, Ambrosian chant
character, unified: in music, 412–415
cheerfulness, 202, 389
children’s books, 259–260
children’s songs, 444
choir stalls, 121
Christ: in sculpture, 172–173; as subject matter, 231; see also religious themes; sacred architecture; sacred
music
chronolatry, 25–26
churches, 51, 53, 57, 63, 115–122, 133–134
city(ies): architecture and, 123–128; exterior aspect of, 126–128; green spaces in, 135–136; individual face
 of, 123–126; landscapes and, 132–133; locations of, 130–131; nature and, 130–132; songs about,
446–450; walls, 84–85
civilization: culture vs., 52, 149
clay, 182
clothing: as applied art, 150, 152; in sculpture, 179–180, 191–193
color(s): in architecture, 97; contrast, 239; expression with, 240–241; in nature, 238–239; in painting,
238–241; relationships among, 239; in sculpture, 183–184
coloratura, 381–382, 515, 530
colored, 237
columns, 91–92, 116
comédie humaine, 359–360
comedy: humorousness vs., 201–202; illustration and, 260; in literature, 199, 350–352; in music, 199–200;
in paintings, 200–201; qualities of, 350–352; satire, 202–203; in sculpture, 201–202; tragedy vs., 227
communication: language and, 272–273; literature and, 280–281; truth and, 281–282; see also language
composition: in literature, 323–333, 335–341; in music, 339, 371, 382–384; in painting, 250–251; in poetry,
339; in sculpture, 194–197
concepts, 6, 159
conductor, 518, 519, 521, 522–524, 528, 530, 532, 533, 542
confessionals, 121
“consciousness of,” 218–219; imagination vs., 283–284
consonants, 290–291, 366–367, 424–425
contact with object, in literature, 279–287
contrast: of colors, 239; in literature, 339–340, 350; in music, 412–415; in tragedy, 350
copies, 147, 173–175, 212–214
copper, 97
courtyard, 83, 121–122
creation, artistic, 8, 186, 188
crescendo, 373–374, 512
crucifix, 172–173, 176
cultural life, 63–65, 536
cupboard, 150
cupola, 92–93
curtains, 150, 154

Dadaism, xx, 176, 223

dance: in opera, 482–483
dark: in paintings, 241–242
declaration of affective responses, 274–277
decorative, 380; adjectives (in literature), 324; elements in architecture, 103–108, 114, 223; elements in
music, 381–382, 458, sculpture, 30, 106, 142–14, 179, 181, 196–197; see also architecture; beauty
depiction: beauty and, 242–243; of evil, 344; in literature, 315–316; in Pfänder, 270n1; in sculpture,
175–178; subject matter and, 230–231, 232–234; of triviality, in literature, 355–361; see also imitation;
representation
depth: and frame of reference, 39, 40, 41; in music, 374–376, 402–404; in sculpture, 194–197; viability and,
536
diction, 513, 524
diminuendo, 373–374
dishes, 151–152
doors, 32
drama: in film and television, 542–543; music drama, 485–495; in opera, 452–457, 463, 465, 471–472;
 performance of, 529–531; in stand-alone overture, 498–499
drawing, 253–254; colored, 237; fresco vs., 253–254; painting vs., 253–254; photography vs., 210–211,
214–219; see also painting(s)

elegance, clothing and, 150, 152; in machines, 155–157; popular local songs vs., 450; zeitgeist, and, 156
English garden, 145–146
engravings, 147–148
essences, 6–7
ethos: in music, 415–418
evil, xxiii, 190–191, 346; see also ugliness
experience: of language, 270, 272; spatial, 109–110
expressed metaphysical beauty. see metaphysical beauty
expression: association vs., 425–426; bodily expression, and 390; in exterior architecture, 99–101; in figures
of speech, 307–316; in language, 274–276; in music, 99, 385–395, 400–402, 415–416, 421–423,
425–426, 427–428, 429–432, 435–436, 443–444, 451, 452, 453, 456, 458, 463–464, 466, 474, 488,
499–500, 504, 507–508, 509, 516–517, 520, 524, 526, 536; in painting, 247–250; in sculpture, 189–191;
in the theater, 287; and tone of voice, 300, 301–306; in union of words and music, 421–423; in voice,
516–517; words and, 307–316; see also metaphysical beauty
expressionism, xx

faces: in sculpture, 182, 189–191; see also expression (corporeal)

factum, 8–9, 215, 411, 445
fame, 22–23
familiarity, 18–19, 24
farmhouse, 79–80, 143
fashion, 22–23, 156–157, 441–442, 544–547; see also elegance
figures of speech, 307–316
film: books vs., 20–21; presentation of drama in, 542–543
folksongs: anonymity of, 439–441; social character of, 439; types of, 442–444; value of, 445–446
fountains, 85, 108, 142, 201
frame of reference, 39; and greatness/depth, 39, 41; in literature, 39; in painting, 39–40; and religious
themes, 40; and scale, 39–40; in sculpture, 39–40
fresco, 255; architecture and, 32–34, 103–108; as distinct from paintings, 237; drawings vs., 253–254;
representation in, 161; see also painting(s)
functionalism, 55
furniture: applied art and, 149–150, 153–154; architecture and, 111–112

gates, 83–84
genitum, 8–9, 215, 411, 445
genius: in music, 399–402; see also virtuosity
gods, statues of, 192; see also sacred architecture
greatness: and frame of reference, 39
green spaces, 135–136
Gregorian chant, 381, 422, 442, 458, 503–504, 505–506
grotesque, 201–203, 233–234, 246

harmony (in music), 368–370

hats, 152
height: in music, 374–376
historical analogy, 329–333
historical dimension, 66–68
historical event, 19–20, 228–229, 318–320
historical personality, 172
house, 110–113; see also residential architecture
human body. see body-feeling; nudity
human spirit, 266–268
humorousness, 201–202; see also comedy

illuminated manuscripts, 260–261

illusion (also: illusionary), 35–36, 68, 174–175, 180, 216–217, 489–492, 527, 529, 537–538, 541–542
illustration, 20–21, 200, 256–261, 387–388
image: representation vs., 207–210
imagination: “consciousness of” vs., 283–284; literature and, 280, 282–287; meanings of, 282–284; painting
and, 220; receptive, 284–287
imitation: music and, 387–389; in sculpture, 173–175; see also depiction; representation
importance: in music, 415–418
industrialization, 52–53, 65, 149
informing: language and, 270–274
inner unity, 193–194
intention, 12, 39, 41, 173, 200, 245; in music, 415–417, 428, 479, 507–508, 520, 548–549
interpersonal sphere, 538–543
interpretation: representation and, 222
intimacy: 49, 83, 89, 110, 139; in music, 437

jewelry, 153, 155

keys (major and minor): in music, 376–377

kitsch, 126, 134, 238, 329, 479; see also triviality
knowing, 6, 19, 20, 271, 273–274, 276,

lakes, 130
landscapes: cities and, 132–133; painting and, 207–208, 211–212, 218, 220–225, 243–245; sculpture and,
180–181
language: communication and, 272–273; experience of, 270, 272; expression in, 274–277; fiction and,
318–320; figures of speech in, 307–316; as human domain, 305, 305n12; in life, 317; medium of,
269–277; onomatopoeia and, 293–294; in philosophy, 317–318; representation and, 269n1; rhyme and,
295–298; in science, 317–318; in song vs. speech, 422–423; tone in, 291–292; and tone of voice,
299–301; understanding and, 270–274; see also literature; words
legato, 373; see also staccato
leitmotif, 487–489, 494
letters, in writing, 289, 289n1
libretto, 467–470
Lied, 421–437, 440, 524–525
life: in music, 411–412
“life of its own” (Eigenleben), 535–538
light: in paintings, 241–242
“literary” requirements, 229–231
literature: adjectives in, 323–325; aesthetic value in, 343–347; analogy in, 324, 326–333; author as voice in,
315–316; beauty in, 51–52, 360–361; children’s, 259–260; comédie humaine in, 359–360; comedy in, 199,
350–352; communication and, 280–281; compositional means in, 323–333; composition in, 335–341;
 contact with object in, 279–287; depiction in, 315–316; film vs., 20–21; form of existence of, 265–268;
frame of reference in, 39; historical events in, 318–320; human spirit in, 266–268; illustration in, 20,
256–259; imagination and, 280, 282–287; indirect representation in, 340–341; and medium of language,
269–277; metaphysical dimension in, 165–168; metaphysical ugliness in, 343–347, 352–354; opera and,
469; performance of, 528–531; reality and, 163–165, 166–167, 318–320; receptive imagination in,
284–287; representation in, 163–165, 352–354; repulsive characters in, 347–349; satire in, 354; sculpture
vs., 171; senses and, 269; sentences and, 290–295; sound and, 290–295; and tone of voice, 299–306;
tragedy in, 346, 349–350; transposition in, 165–168, 357–358, 358n12; truth and, 281–282; truth in,
165; unity in, 337; word choice in, 323–325; words and, 290–295; see also language; poetry; words
local songs, 446–450
logic, inner: in music, 405–411; in sculpture, 194–197
love: in analogy, 326; crescendo and, 373–374; in folksongs, 444; in music, 379–380, 393, 425, 431; in
music drama, 487–488; in poetry, 379–380; as proposition, 276
lullabies, 443–444

machine: beauty in, 155–157; work of art vs., 8–9

marble, 97, 183, 184
masks, 107
Masses, polyphonic, 504–507
materials: in architecture, 96–97; in clothes, 152; in sculpture, 182–184
meaning: depiction and, 270n1; language and, 271; poetry and, 175; sound and, 293; tone of voice and, 299;
understanding and, 271
mediocrity: in literature, depiction of, 355–361
melodrama, 457–460, 472
melody, 368–371
metaphysical beauty, 51, 99–101, 165–166, 189–191, 248, 316, 325, 326, 343, 345–346, 348–349, 359,
386–387, 389, 391–395, 398, 403, 417, 425–426, 431–432, 453–454, 471, 510; see also, beauty; “beauty
of the second power”
metal: in architecture, 97
meter, 291, 298–299, 321
mirandum, 81, 100, 114–115, 248
modernity, 25–26
modulation: in music, 376, 381, 457–458
monasteries, 81, 133–134
morality: metaphysical beauty of, 394–395; philosophical knowledge and, 14; representation and, 167–168;
suffering and, 349; transposition and, 345; vitality and, 549
mosaics, 255–256; architecture and, 32–34, 103–108, 256; as type of painting, 238
mountains, 130
music, xxiii–xxiv, xxvi; abstract, 501–502; affectivity in, 389–394; apprehension of, 366; architecture and,
34, 49–50; arie antiche, 426–428; artistic value in, 397–419; atmosphere in, 413; background in, 377–379;
beauty in, 397–399; chamber, 517, 522; coloratura in, 381–382; composition in, 339, 371, 382–384;
contrast in, 412–415; depth in, 374–376, 402–404; ; elements of, 365–384; ethos in, 415–418; folksongs,
439–450; genius in, 399–402; harmony in, 368–371; as illustration, 387–388; imitation and, 387–388;
importance in, 415–418; instruments in, 183, 521–522; intention in, 416–417; keys in, 376–377; Lied,
421–437, 440; logic in, 195, 405–411; love in, 379–380, 393; melody in, 368–371; moral values in,
394–395; movements in, 384; musical edifice in, 383; musical whole, 371–372; nature in, 388–389;
perfection in, 404–405; performance of, 511–533; poetry and, 385–386, 423, 435–437; power in,
402–404; program, 497–502; reality and, 387; representation in, 365, 385–395, 451–457; rhythm in,
368–371; sacred, 503–510; senses and, 365–366; significance in, 402–404; song cycles, 434–435; sound
in, 290–291, 366–368; unified character in, 412–415; variations in, 379–382; virtuosity in, 514–515;
 voice as instrument in, 423, 516–517; voice in, 375; words and, union of, 421–428; see also expression;
folksongs; opera
music drama, 485–495

nakedness: in painting, 245–247; in sculpture, 191–193; and subject matter, 233–234

nationalism, 23–25
nature: architectural forming of, 139–146; architecture and, 129–137; buildings and, 133–135; city and,
130–132; color in, 238–239; deviation from, 223; in music, 388–389; in opera, 456; painting and,
221–223; parks and, 139–143; poetry and, 389; representation of, 161–162; sculpture and, 175–178, 187
nave, 116
necessity, artistic: dimensions of, 406–409; in music, 405–411
niches, 92
non-aesthetic attitudes, 17–18, 19–22
non-artistic vs. artistic, 18–19, 21, 37, 113, 172, 174, 220–221, 259, 553
notes, musical, 366–368
novels, 164, 265–266, 318, 339; see also literature

object, in literature, contact with, 279–287

onomatopoeia, 293–295
ontological reality of art, 5–9
opera, 451–460; aria in, 457–460; body-feeling in, 392; coloratura in, 381; comedy in, 199–200; congruency
of framework and content in, 478–482; dance in, 482–483; drama in, 452–457, 463, 465, 471–472;
expression in, 386; illusion in, 489–490; leitmotif in, 487–488; libretto in, 467–470; literature and, 469;
melodrama in, 457–460; music drama, 485–495; nature in, 456; orchestra in, 473, 486–487; overture in,
473; reality and, 527; recitative in, 457–460, 458n2, 465; representation in, 451–457; singers in, 477–478,
526; stage set in, 35, 475–478, 489–493; theater and, 36; types of, 461–483; viability of, 549–550
operetta, 200, 404, 417, 548, 549, 553
orchestra: in opera, 473, 486–487; performance and, 517
overture: in opera, 473; stand-alone, 497–502

painting(s), xxii–xxiii; abstract, 160, 223, 230; architecture and, 33–34, 49, 114–115; architecture in, 36–37,
233; artistic means employed in, 237–251; beauty in, 221–222, 242–243; body-feeling in, 247–250; color
in, 238–241; composition in, 250–251; drawing vs., 253–254; frame of reference in, 39–40; imagination
and, 220; landscape, 207–208, 211–212, 218, 220–225, 243–245; mosaics as, 238; nature and, 221–223;
nudity in, 245–247; photography vs., 210–211, 214–219; reality and, 221; replication and, 212–214;
representation in, 159–160, 160–163, 207–225; in rooms, 112–113; sculpture in, 36–37; sculpture vs.,
177, 181; similarity in, 208–209; subject matter in, 228–229; transposition in, 224–225; types of,
237–238, 243–245; union of, and subject, 207–208; see also fresco; portraiture
parks, 139–143, 181
Passion music, 507–508, 526
perfection: in music, 404–405
performance, 511–533; artistic personality in, 518–524; conductor in, 518, 522–524; of drama, 529–531;
instruments in, 521–522; of literary works, 528–531; of poetry, 529; production in, 520; singers in,
524–528; technical elements in, 512–513; viability and, 538–543; virtuosity in, 514–515; in visual arts,
absence of, 531–533; voice in, 516–517
period, 26–27
personality: of artist, 1, 11–16, 315–316, 400–401, 419, 445; of actor, 530; confessional aspect, and,
417–418; in music, 439, of the performing musician,, 518–524; in sculpture, 189–190; of the singer,
524–528
pews, 121
philosophical works, 8, 265–266, 317–318
phonetic, qualities in words, 291–294; meter and, 298–299; rhyme and, 295–298; in song, 424–425, 428,
429; structure, 289, 294, 424; tone of voice and, 299
photography: “consciousness of” and, 218–219; drawing vs., 214–219; painting vs., 210–211, 214–219;
reality and, 216–217; representation and, 210–212; similarity and, 208
pictures. see drawing; fresco; painting(s)
pilasters, 91
place: familiarity and, 18–19
plaster of Paris, 182
plates, 151–152
plays, xx, 164–168, 312, 315, 320, 321, ; meter, and, 299; tone of voice in, 304, 306; see also literature;
theater
poetry: analogy and, 327; composition in, 339; form in, 321; intimate character of, 320; meter in, 298–299;
music and, 385–386, 423, 435–437; nature and, 389; performance of, 529; rhyme and, 295–298; tone in,
292; voice in, 315; word choice in, 324; see also literature
polyphonic Masses, 504–507
popular local songs, 446–450
portals, 103–104
portraiture, xxii, 231–232, 234; see also painting(s)
prejudice: of nationalism, 23–25; of period, 26–27
program music, 497–502
promenades, 135–136
proportion: in architecture, 95–96
public buildings, 79–80, 113–115
pulpit, 120–121

railway stations, 58–59

reality: architecture and, 47, 55–60, 60–61, 64–65, 66–68, 71–74, 93–94, 177–178; beauty and, 93–94;
fiction and, in language, 318–320; historical dimension of, 66–68; historical events and, 319–320;
literature and, 163–165, 166–167, 318–320; music and, 387; opera and, 527; painting and, 221;
photography and, 216–217; reliefs and, 178; representation and, 163–165, 167, 220–221; sculpture and,
174, 176–178; see also truth
realization: of artistic content, architecture and, 94–99; tension of aspiration and, 41–42
recitative, 457–460, 458n2, 465; accompagnato recitative, 458n2, 459–460, 472; secco recitative, 458,
465–466, 472
reliefs: in architecture, 106–107; objects in, 180–181; reality and, 178; see also sculpture
religious themes, 40, 172–173, 228–229, 442, 503–510
replication, 212–214
representation: abandonment of, 223; artistic vs. non-artistic, 220–221; beauty and, 162–163;
“consciousness of” in, 218–219; correctness of, 161; features of, 216–218; illusion and, 217; image vs.,
207–210; indirect, in literature, 340–341; interpretation and, 222; language and, 269n1; in literature,
163–165, 352–354; morality and, 167–168; in music, 365, 385–395, 451–457; of nature, 161–162;
onomatopoeia and, 293–294; in opera, 451–457; in painting, 160–163, 207–225; phenomenon of,
159–160; in photography, 210–212; reality and, 163–165, 167, 220–221; in sculpture, 160–163,
175–178; similarity vs., 207–210; transposition and, 224–225; truth and, 270n1; viability and, 537–538;
see also depiction; imitation
reproductions, 147–148, 175
residential architecture, 50–51, 57–58, 79–80, 98, 110–113
rests: in music, 378
reverence, 21, 51, 72, 222, 261, 307, 311, 379, 493, 507
rhyme, 295–298
rhythm: in music, 368–371; in poetry, 298; see also tempo
rivers, 130
rooms: in public buildings, 113–115; in residential architecture, 111
rosette windows, 104

sacred, 192–193, 231, 256, 261; sacred architecture, 51, 56–57, 80–81, 115–122; sacred music, 457,
503–510, 526
sacristy, 121–122
satire, 202–203, 354; see also comedy
scale: and frame of reference, 39–40
scenery, 34–35
Schlager: folksong vs. 441–442; popular local songs, vs., 446, 449–450; zeitgeist and, 553
sculpture: animals in, 30, 180, 201; architecture and, 29–32, 104–106, 114–115, 177, 181; architecture vs.,
177; artistic value of, factors in, 185–197; beauty in, 171, 186; body-feeling and, 188–189; body in,
186–187; Christ in, 172–173; clothing in, 179–180, 191–193; color in, 183–184; composition in,
194–197; as copy, 173–175; decorative, 30; depiction in, 175–178; depth in, 194–197; faces in, 182,
189–191; in fountains, 108; frame of reference in, 39–40; groups in, 180; imitation in, 173–175; inherent
necessity in, 195; landscapes and, 180–181; literature vs., 171; logic in, 194–197; material of, 182–184;
nature and, 175–178, 187; nudity in, 191–193; objects represented in, 179–182; in painting, 36–37;
painting vs., 177, 181; in parks, 142–143, 181; personality in, 189–190; reality and, 174, 176–178;
representation in, 159–160, 160–163, 175–178; satire in, 202–203; scale in, 39–40; size of, 184; subject
matter in, 172–173; transposition in, 174, 185–188; types of, 179–184; wooden, 183; see also fountains;
reliefs; statues
seeing, 17, 20–21, 217, 270, 326–327, 406, 543
sentences, 290–295
similarity: representation vs., 207–210
singing, 524–528; in opera, 477–478; speaking vs., 422–423
sketches, 254; see also drawing
soldier’s song, 443
song cycles, 434–435
soprano, 375–376
sound [Klang]: literature and, 290–295; meaning and, 293; in music, 290–291, 366–368, 369, 375,
423–424, 516, 541n1; in words and sentences, 290–295
space, 34; architecture and, 48–50; being encompassed and, 109–110; significance of human, 48–50
spatial experience, 109–110
spatial structures: in architecture, 91
spiritual, 5–7, 13; beauty, 11, 12, 110, 171; elements in music, 366–368, 387, 394–395; person(s), 207, 211,
305, 317, 445; process, 9, 222, 271; purpose of architecture, 50–51, 53, 56–57; quality, 13, 100–101,
325–326, 367, 506; themes, 40, 114, 120, 122
squares, 85–90
staccato, 373; see also legato
stage: in opera, 34–35, 475–478, 489–493
staircases: in churches, 120–121; in cities, 84; in residential architecture, 111
stand-alone overture, 497–502
“standing on its own” (variant: “standing on its own feet”), 13, 16, 70, 258, 319, 427, 430, 468, 470, 494,
535, 548
statues: of gods, 192; inner unity and, 193–194; in parks, 142–143; see also sculpture
stimulation: music and, 418–419
storyline, 335–341
streets, 85–90
student songs, 443
style, xxii, 15, 25–27, 51, 64–66, 71, 80, 81, 87, 104, 115, 117–118, 123, 152, 155, 299, 312, 324, 413, 427,
429–430, 432, 443, 462, 464, 465, 471–472, 490, 526
subject matter: artistic value and, 227; beauty of, 232–234; choice of, 235; depiction and, 230–231,
232–234; historical events as, 19–20, 228; “literary” requirement of, 229–231; meanings of, 228–229; in
paintings, 228–229; in portraiture, 231–232, 234; sacred, 231; in sculpture, 172–173; title as, 228
substance (ontological): 5–8
suffering, 349–350
surface: in architecture, 97

tabernacle, 120
tableware, 155
television, 542–543
temple, of classical antiquity, 81–82
tempo: in music, 372–373; see also rhythm
tenor, 375–376
terraces, 83
theater: architecture and, 34–36; expression in, 287; plays, and, 287; representation in, 164; tone of voice in,
306
timbre, 375
time period. see chronolatry
title(s): of program music, 501; of sculpture, 171–172; subject matter as, 228; of symphonies, 501
tone: in language, 291–295, 297, 298, 312
tone of voice, 299–306
tonus fermus, 457–458
tonus rectus, 458
towers, 84, 92, 100, 104
tragedy, 227, 346, 349–350
transposition, artistic, xxii–xxiii, xv; 15, 36–37, 93, 120, 161–163; of evil figures, 343–361; in literature,
165–168, 343–361; in mosaic, 255; in painting, 224–225, 232, 242, 243, 245, 246–247, 249; and
photography, 210; representation and, 224–225; in sculpture, 174, 176, 185–188
travertine, 96–97
trees, 136
triumphal arch, 85
triviality, 56, 134, 167, 173, 329; depiction of, in literature, 347, 352, 354, 355–361; music and, 382, 412,
428, 446, 449, 479; see also kitsch
truth: analogy and, 328–329; artists and, 16; communication and, 281–282; in literature, 165; literature and,
281–282; representation and, 270n1; see also reality

ugliness: in literature, 343–347, 352–354; metaphysical, 166, 343–347, 352–354; sculpture and, 190
understanding: language and, 270–274; see also apprehension
unified character: in music, 412–415
unity: inner, 193–194; in literature, 337

value. see artistic value

vases, 151
viability: artistic rank and, 547–553; artistic value vs., 535; continued existence and, 543–544; depth and,
536; fashion and, 544–547; interpersonal sphere and, 538–543; and “life of its own,” 535–538; longevity
and, 536; of opera, 549–550; performance and, 538–543; representation and, 537–538; success and,
 547–553; success vs., 536; zeitgeist and, 544–547
villas, 143–144
virtuosity, 514–515; see also genius
vitality: in architecture, 64
voice: as instrument in music, 423; in music, 375, 516–517; tone of, and language, 299–301
volume: in music, 373–374
vowels, 291, 368n2, 424

walls, city, 84–85

water: in parks, 141–142
wickedness, 190–191, 344–345
windows: in architecture, 95, 97–98, 103–104; ornaments on, 103–104; rosette, 104; shape of, 98
wood, 97, 183
word order, 300
words, 289; in arie antiche, 426–428; choice of, 323–325; expressive qualities of, 307–316; in folksongs, 443;
music and, union of, 421–428; in opera, 467–470; in song vs. speech, 422–423; sound and, 290–295;
sung, 524–525; see also language; literature
writing. see literature; poetry

zeitgeist, 156, 354, 552–553; architecture and, 63, 65–66, 68; Schlager and, 441; viability and, 544–547
 Index of Names, Places, and Works

1812 Overture (Tchaikovsky), 500

Abendroth, Hermann, 476n12

Abolition of Man, The (Lewis), 313
Adolescent, The (Dostoevsky), 164
Adoration of the Magi (da Vinci), 250
Aida (Verdi), 483
“Air” (Bach), 373, 398
Albi, 128
Alceste (Gluck), 464, 470n8
Alhambra (Granada), 133
Allegory of Purgatory (Bellini), 243, 244
Also sprach Zarathustra (Nietzsche), 500, 501–502
Also sprach Zarathustra (Strauss), 499
Amiens cathedral, 116
An Chloë (Mozart), 430-431
An die ferne Geliebte (Beethoven), 431–432
Anna Karenina (Tolstoy), 59
Antony and Cleopatra (Shakespeare), 75
Apelles, 161
Aristotle, 7, 401
Assisi cathedral, 117
As You Like It (Shakespeare), 69

Bacchus and Ariadne, Sacred and Profane Love (Titian), 112

Bach, Johann Sebastian, 15, 23, 26, 27, 183, 373, 397, 398, 402, 410, 411, 416, 442, 459, 481, 503,
507–510, 514, 520, 521, 524, 536, 546,
Balzac, Honoré de, 358, 359, 519
Bamberg cathedral, 31, 106
Bamberg Horseman, 201
Barber of Seville (Rossini), 69, 477, 479–480
Bartered Bride, The (Smetana), 480
Baudelaire, Charles, xxiii
Beethoven, Ludwig van, 15, 23, 99, 103, 125, 183, 187, 196, 200, 350, 376, 378, 378n5, 380, 383, 384n8,
388, 390–392, 394, 398, 401, 403-404, 407, 410–411, 413–419, 429, 431–432, 434, 442, 455–456,
470–475, 497–499, 501, 503, 505–507, 514, 520–521, 524, 531, 543–544, 546
Bellini, Giovanni, 243, 244
Belvedere (Vienna), 140
Benvenuto Cellini (Berlioz), 482
Bergmann, Anton, 48
Berlioz, Hector, 40, 41, 402, 476n12, 481–482, 499–500, 524
Bernini, Gian Lorenzo, 77, 89, 90, 142, 179, 180
Betrothed, The (Manzoni), 165, 166, 281, 286, 345, 358, 374
Bieber, O. E., 65
Bizet, Georges, 404–405, 548, 550, 551, 552
Bohème, La (Puccini), 551–552
Botticelli, Sandro, 33, 255
Bourges cathedral, 115
Brahms, Johannes, 411, 521, 524, 546n4
Bramante, Donato, 140
Brancacci Chapel, 32, 255
Braunfels, Walter, 476, 476n12
Brecht, Bertolt, 354, 356
Bright Star (Keats), 327–328
Broken Jug, The (Kleist), 353
Brothers Karamazov, The (Dostoevsky), 16, 345, 359
Bruckner, Anton, 398, 403, 416, 419, 437, 442, 447, 449n4, 503, 510, 524, 546,
Bruegel the Elder, 33, 244
Brunelleschi, Filippo, 64, 105, 122, 124, 140
Burckhardt, Jacob, 546–547
Burial of Christ (Rembrandt), 242
Busch, Wilhelm, 260, 296, 324, 356–357

Callista (Newman), 15, 165, 549

Campanile (Florence), 84
Cancelleria (Rome), 76
Capella Medici (Florence), 105
Capitol (Rome), 107
Carmen (Bizet), 404–405, 548, 550, 551, 552
Castel Sant’Angelo (Rome), 107
Cefalù (Sicily), 119
Cervantes, Miguel de, 16, 199, 200, 202, 257–259, 281, 285, 312–313, 338, 341, 351, 358, 360
Charles Bridge (Prague), 107
Charles V at the Battle of Mühlberg (Titian), 244
Charles V on Horseback (Titian), 33
Chartres cathedral, 31, 48, 92, 96, 106, 115, 117, 119
Chopin, Frédéric, 408, 520
Christmas Oratorio (Bach), 459, 509–510
Cimabue, 33, 255
Clemenza di Tito, La (Mozart), 547
Colleoni (Venice), 107
Colleoni (Verrocchio), 196, 201
Collin, Heinrich Joseph von, 499
Concert (Titian), 250
Confessions (Augustine), 7, 51, 390, 504
Coriolan Overture (Beethoven), 499
Coriolanus (Shakespeare), 499
Corso Umberto (Rome), 86
Corso Vittorio Emanuele (Rome), 86
Crime and Punishment (Dostoevsky), 16, 39, 69, 163–164, 285, 286
Critique of Judgment (Kant), xix
Crucifixion (Fra Angelico), 33, 255
Cuvilliés Theater (Munich), 57
Cymbeline (Shakespeare), 42–43

Damnation of Faust, The (Berlioz), 41, 481

Danaë (Titian), 247
Dante Alighieri, 16, 325, 331
da Ponte, Lorenzo, 470
Das Rheingold (Wagner), 388–389, 456
Das Veilchen (Goethe), 430
David (Michelangelo), 31, 176, 183
da Vinci, Leonardo, 235, 242, 248–249, 250, 253
Da Vinci, Leonardo, 14
“Death and the Maiden Quartet” (Schubert), 391
De Musica (Augustine), 409
Deposition of Christ (Michelangelo), 180, 418
Der Freischütz (Weber), 408, 478, 479
Der Kuss (Beethoven), 200
Descartes, René, 87, 305n12
Dew-Sisters, 196
Die Entführung (Mozart), 464–467, 468–469, 474–475
Die Fledermaus (Strauss), 404, 550
Die Meistersinger (Wagner), 202
Die Walküre (Wagner), 388, 403
Discours de la Méthode (Descartes), 305n12
Divine Comedy (Dante), 16, 298, 331, 539
Donatello, 177,, 418
Don Giovanni (Mozart), 200, 454, 459, 467, 470
Don Quixote (Cervantes), 16, 199, 200, 202, 257–259, 281, 285, 286–287, 312–313, 338, 341, 351, 358,
360
Doré, Gustave, 257–259
Dostoevsky, Fyodor, 16, 39, 69, 163–164, 285, 286, 345, 358–359, 358n13
Drunk Dionysus, The (von Hildebrand), 203
Dying Slave (Michelangelo), 162, 183, 187, 191–192, 201, 248

Ecstasy of Saint Teresa (Bernini), 179

Egmont (Goethe), 497–498
Egmont Overture (Beethoven), 497–498
Eichendorff, Joseph von, 39, 69, 358
El Greco, 180
Erasmus, 232
Erlach, Fischer von, 98

Fabrica de Tabacos (Seville), 59

Fall of Icarus (Bruegel the Elder), 33, 244
Falstaff (Verdi), 493–495
Family of Charles IV (Goya), 200
Faust (Goethe), xxiii, 15–16, 340, 344, 379–380, 433, 481, 482–483, 548
Feed my Lambs, Feed my Sheep (Raphael), 249
Femmes savantes, Les (Molière), 353–354
Ferrero, Guglielmo, 319
Fidelio (Beethoven), 378, 378n5, 379, 390, 455, 460, 465–466, 470–475, 528
Fiedler, Konrad, 187, 222, 546n4
Fischer von Erlach, Johann Bernhard, 140
Fleurs du mal, Les (Baudelaire), xxiii
Florence, 124, 127–128, 131
Flying Dutchman, The (Wagner), 486–487, 488
Fra Angelico, 33, 255
Frischeisen-Köhler, Max, 367n2
Fromme Helene (Busch), 324
From the Life of a Good-for-Nothing (Eichendorff), 39
Furtwängler, Wilhelm, 384n8, 408, 410, 411, 416, 449, 524, 533, 543n3

Galla Placidia (Ravenna), 119, 255

Gattamelata (Donatello), 177, 201
Gattamelata (Padua), 107
Georges, Stefan, 552
Gerhardt, Paul, 508
Ghiberti, Lorenzo, 32
Ghirlandaio, Domenico, 255
Giambologna, 30, 142
Giorgione, xxi, 12, 33, 112, 163, 222, 234, 235, 243, 244, 247, 248, 250
Giotto, 97, 105, 201
Gluck, Willibald, 397, 425, 427, 461–464, 468, 470n8
Goethe, Johan Wolfgang von, xx, xxiii, 15–16, 187, 297, 328, 340, 344, 379–380, 430, 433, 481, 482–483,
497–498, 548
Goldoni, Carlo, 69, 479
Goya, Francisco, 200
Gozzoli, Benozzo, 105
Great Elector (Schlüter), 179, 193
Great Fugue (Beethoven), 17
Gretchen am Spinnrade (Schubert), 433–434, 435
Grünangergasse, 30, 105
Grünewald, Matthias, 241, 250

Haecker, Theodor, 155, 215

Hagia Sophia, 48, 66, 92, 110, 116
Hamlet (Shakespeare), 42–43, 348
Handel, Georg Frideric, 27, 372, 383, 397, 398, 458, 461–464
Harp Quartet (Beethoven), 99, 426
Haydn, Joseph, 196, 388n4, 417, 429–431, 501, 521
Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich, xix, xxi
Henrici, Christian Friedrich, 508
Henry V (film), 491
Hermannsschlacht (Kleist), 41
Herzogenberg, Elisabeth von, 546n4
Hildebrand, Adolf von, 66–67, 92, 108, 142, 203, 222, 283–284, 546n4
Holbein the Younger, Hans, 232, 242
Hölderlin, Friedrich, 187, 436
Hollweck, W., 65
Homer, 298, 361, 539
Hubertus Fountain (Munich), 92, 108, 142

Idiot, The (Dostoevsky), 16, 164, 358–359, 358n13

Iliad (Homer), 298
Ion (Plato), 12, 266, 400–401
Isenheim Altarpiece, 250

Jewish Bride (Rembrandt), 33, 112

Jörgensen, Johannes, 165–166
Julius Caesar (Handel), 461–462
Julius Caesar (Shakespeare), 75, 340, 378
Julius II, Pope, 232

“Kakadu Variations” (Beethoven), 380

Kant, Immanuel, xix, xx
Keats, John, 327–328
Kierkegaard, Søren, 164, 399, 400n6, 418
Kindlifresser Fountain, 202
King Lear (Shakespeare), 326–327
Kleist, Heinrich von, 40, 41, 353
Knopp Trilogy (Busch), 260, 324, 356–357

Landscape with a Stone Bridge (Rembrandt), 245

Landscape with Odysseus and Nausicaa (Rubens), 244
Largo (Handel), 372, 383, 397, 461
Last Supper (da Vinci), 248–249
Last Supper (El Greco), 180
Last Supper (Ghirlandaio), 255
Laudate Dominum (Mozart), 17, 397, 510
Lebenswerte der bildenden Kunst (Sattler), 49n2
Le Corbusier, 55
Lectures on Aesthetics (Hegel), xix
L’Enfance du Christ (Berlioz), 41
Leonore Overture No. 3 (Beethoven), 378, 378n5, 383
Levi, Hermann, 546
Lewis, C. S., 313
Liberation of Saint Peter (Raphael), 32–33, 255
Locandiera (Goldoni), 69
Logik (Pfänder), 270n1
“London Symphonies” (Haydn), 196
Lorrain, Claude, 244
Lourdes, 72

Macbeth (Shakespeare), 340, 344, 414

Magic Flute, The (Mozart), 376, 379, 381, 425, 473–474, 478
Mailied (Goethe), 297, 328
Man in a Golden Helmet, The (Rembrandt), 242
Manon Lescaut (Prévost), 285, 358
Manzoni, Alessandro, 165, 166, 281, 286, 345, 358, 374
Marées, Hans von, 40, 41, 162, 552
Maritain, Jacques, 11, 12,
Marriage of Figaro (Mozart), 69, 200, 402, 405, 408, 451–452, 454–455, 467–469, 470–474, 480, 482–483,
550–551
Martius, Hedwig Conrad, 283n5
Masaccio, 32, 250, 255
Mass in C Minor (Mozart), 381, 401, 503, 505, 506, 515
Max and Moritz (Busch), 260
Medici Funeral Chapel, 248
Medici tombs (Florence), 162, 176, 180
Meissener Nymphenburg, 155
Mendelssohn, Felix, 498, 501, 539
Merchant of Venice (Shakespeare), 325, 329–330, 332
Merry Wives of Windsor, The (Shakespeare), 495
Mertens, Karla, xxvi
Messiah (Handel), 398, 462
Michelangelo, 31, 33, 105, 162, 176, 180, 183, 187, 191–192, 193, 194, 196, 201, 248, 253, 418
Midsummer Night’s Dream, A (Shakespeare), 164, 498
Midsummer Night’s Dream Overture (Mendelssohn), 498
Minster (Strasbourg), 106
Mirabell Garden (Salzburg), 143, 181, 202
Miraculous Draught of Fishes (Raphael), 249
Missa solemnis (Beethoven), 505, 506–509, 543–544
Modena cathedral, 117
Molière, 306, 338–339, 353–354, 359–360
Mommsen, Theodor, 319
Mona Lisa (da Vinci), 235, 242
Monreale (Sicily), 122
More, Thomas, 232, 242
Morgenstern, Christian, 295–296
Mörike-Lieder (Wolf), 200, 434–435
Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus, 14, 17, 69, 200, 376, 377, 379, 381, 392, 397–398, 401–402, 405, 408, 410,
416–418, 425, 430–431, 451–452, 454–455, 464–467, 468–469, 470, 473–475, 476–477, 476n11, 480,
501, 505, 506, 513, 524, 533, 546, 547, 550–551

National Library (Vienna), 98, 110, 114

Naturgeschichtliches Alphabet (Busch), 296
Neptune (Giambologna), 30
Newman, John Henry, 15, 165, 549
Nietzsche, Friedrich, 500, 501–502
Night (Michelangelo), 248
Nimmersatte Liebe (Wolf), 200

Odyssey (Homer), 298

Of the Life of a Good-for-Nothing (Eichendorff), 69
Olivier, Laurence, 491
Orcagna, 105
Organon (Aristotle), 401
Orpheus and Eurydice (Gluck), 397, 425, 462–464, 468
Orpheus and Eurydice (Naples), 196
Orsanmichele (Florence), 60, 104
Orte, 126
Orvieto, 127
Orvieto cathedral, 116
Otello (Verdi), 481, 493–495
Othello (Shakespeare), 166, 345, 346–347, 494
Ottobeuren, 114
“Oxford Symphony” (Haydn), 196

Palace of Justice (Rome), 97, 115

Palace of the Doges, 60
Palazzo Corsini, 83
Palazzo Farnese (Rome), 76, 97, 98, 125,
Palazzo Medici-Riccardi (Florence), 105
Palazzo Pubblico (Siena), 80
Palazzo Rucellai (Florence), 79, 91
Palazzo Strozzi (Florence), 79
Palazzo Vecchio (Florence), 60, 80, 96, 97
Palazzo Vendramin (Venice), 79
Palazzo Venezia (Rome), 97, 98
Paride ed Elena (Gluck), 427
Parma cathedral, 116, 117
Parthenon, 30, 81–82, 106–107, 142, 181
Pastoral Concert (Giorgione), 112, 234, 235, 243, 244, 247
Pastoral Symphony (Beethoven), 388, 414–415, 456
Père Goriot, Le (Balzac), 358
Pfänder, Alexander, 270n1
Phaedo (Plato), 7, 266, 418,
Phaedrus (Plato), 266
Piano Concerto No. 5 (Beethoven), 183
Piazza di Spagna (Rome), 84
Piazza San Marco (Venice), 89
Picander, 508
Picasso, Pablo, 160, 222
Pietà (Michelangelo), 180, 193
Pitigliano, 126–127
Plato, 7, 12, 16, 51, 266, 329, 400–401, 418
Polish Knight (Rembrandt), 244
Porta delle Fonti (San Gimignano), 53
Précieuses ridicules, Les (Molière), 306
Prévost, Antoine François, 285, 358
Problem der Form in der bildenden Kunst (Hildebrand), 54n6, 283–284
Puccini, Giacomo, 551–552

Quartet, Op. 59 no. 2 (Beethoven), 390–391

Quartet no. 18 (Mozart), 377

Raphael, 32–33, 115, 231–232, 249, 253, 255, 547

Ray of Sunlight (Ruisdael), 245
Rembrandt, 33, 112, 227, 235, 241, 242, 244, 245, 250
Requiem (Verdi), 493
Rheims cathedral, 31, 96, 106, 115
Richard III (Shakespeare), 166, 167, 344, 345–346, 349n7, 549
Ring (Wagner), 487–488, 492
Rome, 74–77, 124–125
Romeo and Juliet (Berlioz), 499
Romeo and Juliet (Shakespeare), 379, 499
Romeo and Juliet (Tchaikovsky), 499
Rossini, Giaochino, 69, 405, 477, 479–480
Rubens, Peter Paul, 119, 230, 235, 244
Ruisdael, Jacob van, 245

Sacred and Profane Love (Titian), 247

St. Augustine, 7, 51, 390, 400, 409, 422, 504
St. Bonaventure, 209, 390
St. Gudule (Brussels), 119
St. Mark’s Square (Venice), 55, 60
St. Mary Major (Rome), 118
Saint Matthew (Michelangelo), 196
St. Matthew Passion (Bach), 15, 398, 402, 459, 507–509
St. Michel (Brussels), 119
St. Paul Outside the Walls (Rome), 117
Saint Peter Healing the Sick with his Shadow (Masaccio), 250
St. Peter’s (Rome), 76–77, 90, 96, 115, 180, 193
St. Peter’s (Salzburg), 115, 117–118
St. Sernin (Toulouse), 117
St. Stephen’s (Vienna), 110, 115, 116, 117
St. Trophime (Arles), 122
Salzburg, 127
San Francesco (Assisi), 33, 122
San Frediano (Lucca), 104, 105
San Giovanni baptistery, 32, 255
San Giovanni degli Eremiti (Palermo), 122
San Lorenzo (Florence), 105, 121
San Marco (Florence), 255
San Marco (Venice), 48, 60, 64, 66, 84, 105, 110, 115, 119
San Miniato (Florence), 116, 117
Santa Costanza (Rome), 76
Santa Croce (Florence), 48, 115, 116, 117, 122
Sant’Agnese (Rome), 77
Santa Maria (Rome), 76, 116, 117
Santa Maria degli Angeli (Florence), 131
Santa Maria del Carmine (Florence), 255
Santa Maria del Fiore (Florence), 55, 418
Santa Maria della Vittoria (Rome), 179
Santa Maria Novella (Florence), 105, 116, 128, 154, 181,
Sant’Ambrogio (Milan), 48, 115, 117
Sant’Andrea (Carrara), 116, 117
Sant’Apollinare (Ravenna), 117
Santayana, George, 27n4
Santi Apostoli (Florence), 117
Santi Cosma e Damiano (Rome), 76
Sant’Orso (Aosta), 122
San Vitale (Ravenna), 119, 255
San Zeno (Verona), 116
Sattler, Bernhard, 49
Scheler, Max, 317n1
Schiller, Friedrich, xx, 318,
Schlüter, Andreas, 179, 193
Schopenhauer, Arthur, xx, 282, 388n4, 421n2
Schubert, Franz, 275n6, 376, 377, 380, 391, 401, 411, 432–434, 435, 436, 538–539
Schumann, Robert, 437, 501, 520, 539
Scrovegni Chapel (Padua), 105
Sense of Beauty, The (Santayana), 27n4
Serse (Handel), 461
Shakespeare, William, 35, 42–43, 69, 75, 164, 166, 167, 299, 321, 325, 326–327, 329–330, 332, 337, 340,
344, 345–346, 346–347, 348–349, 353–354, 356, 360, 378, 379, 414, 436, 481, 492, 494, 498–499
Siegfried (Wagner), 200, 385, 389,
Siena, 123–124
Sistine Chapel, 33
Slaughtered Ox (Rembrandt), 227
Smetana, Bedřich, 480
Socrates, 418
Spanish Steps, 84
Spranger, Eduard, 369
Strauss, Johann, 200, 404, 550
Strauss, Richard, 499, 500–501
String Quartet, Opus 163 (Schubert), 401
Suleika (Schubert), 436
Supper at Emmaus (Rembrandt), 242
Surrender of Breda (Velázquez), 244
Susanna and the Elders (Tintoretto), 240
Symposium (Plato), 266

Taugenichts (Eichendorff), 358, 408, 536

Tchaikovsky, Pyotr, 499–500
Teatro Olimpico of Palladio (Vicenza), 57
Tempest (Giorgione), 33, 163, 235, 244
Terni, 132
Threepenny Opera (Brecht), 354
Till Eulenspiegel lustige Streichen (Strauss), 500–501
Tintoretto, 115, 240
Titian, xxii, 12, 33, 112, 235, 242, 244, 247, 250
“Toccata and Fugue” (Bach), 397, 402
Tod und Verklärung (Strauss), 499
Tolstoy, Leo, 59, 281, 318
Ton und Wort (Furtwängler), 384n8, 411
Torre del Mangia (Siena), 84
Tortoise Fountain, 30, 108, 142
Trevi Fountain, 30, 108, 142, 181
Trinità dei Monti (Rome), 84
Tristan und Isolde (Wagner), 379, 398, 455, 456, 488, 548
Trojans, The (Berlioz), 41, 481–482

Velázquez, Diego, 231, 244

Venus (Giorgione), 163, 222, 234, 235, 247, 248
Verdi, Giuseppe, 481, 482, 483, 486, 493–495, 524, 552n6
Vergnügte Ruh; beliebte Seelenlust (Bach), 510
Verrocchio, Andrea del, 196, 201
Via della Vigna Vecchia (Florence), 86
Via de’Tornabuoni (Florence), 86
Vignola, Jacopo Barozzi da, 141
Villa Artimino (Carmignano), 143
Villa Bombicci (Florence), 143
Villa d’Este, 141
Virgin and Child Saint Anne (da Vinci), 250
Via Porta Rossa (Florence), 86

Wagner, Richard, 200, 202, 379, 388–389, 403, 460, 465, 475, 485–489, 492, 493, 494, 524, 533, 548
War and Peace (Tolstoy), 281, 318
Weber, Carl Maria von, 392, 408, 478
William Tell (Rossini), 479–480
Winged Victory of Samothrace, 249
Wittelsbach Fountain (Munich), 142
Wittgenstein, Ludwig, xxii
Wolf, Hugo, 200, 434–435
World As Will and Representation, The (Schopenhauer), 282, 388n4, 421n2

Young Englishman (Titian), 33, 112, 235

Zola, Emile, 356

“Zur Idee des Menschen” (Scheler), 317n1