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Copyright © 1973, The Trustees of Columbia University in the City of New York Printed in Great Britain by William Clowes & Sons, Limited London, Beccles and Colchester

CORRESPONDING EDITORS:

Domestic Susan Gillerman

Carla Pollack Harriet Franklin Myrl Hermann

Harrison M. Schlee Jurgen Thyme

Robert E. Houston Adrienne F. Block

Anne Gugliotta Rita Mead

Monica Grabei Jack Light Laurel Fay

Betty J. Scott Susan Youens

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Samuel O. Douglas Marek Sowinski

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James H. Cook Michael Evans Paul F. Marks

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PUBLISHED The Music Department UNDER THE AEGIS OF COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY

New York

ADRIENNE FRIED BLOCK

JAMES R. MCKAY

RITA H. MEAD

THOM LIPICZKY

GEORGES FRANCK

GEORGES FRANCK

DON HARRAN

LADISLAV :REzNicEK

HANS CONRADIN AND ANDREAS WERNLI

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RICHARD W. HARPSTER

REPORTS From the Domestic Corresponding Editors:

7 New York: Doctoral Program at CUNY 15 Chicago: The Contemporary Chamber

Players 18 Hunter College: The Electronic Music

Studio 21 Wesleyan University: The Wesleyan

World Music Program

From the Foreign Corresponding Editors:

23 A Survey of the Relationship between Musicology and Performance at Sixteen Foreign Universities

32 Belgium: The Festival of Flanders, 1971 36 Hungary: Interforum for Hungarian

Television 38 Israel: Testimonium II, 1971 44 Oslo: Musicology at the University 45 Zurich: The Musicological Institute

48 Belfast: Music at Queen's University in Its Provincial Context

52 Marburg: Musicology at the University 55 Announcement

ARTICLES 56 Percy Grainger: Country Gardens and

Other Curses 64 The First Opera Repertoire of the

Castle Theater in Cesky Krumlov 73 Genius in the 18th Century: C. F. D.

Schubart's Vom musikalischen Genie

LEONIE ROSENSTIEL

MALCOLM FRAGER

EDMUND HAINES

OTTO LUENING

DAVID McALLESTER

SUSAN THIEMANN SOMMER

JOHN MORGAN

LESLEY A. WRIGHT

81 83

88 92 95 98

101

The Spheres of Music: Harm.ony and Discord, Part II Introduction and Overview The Manuscript of the Schumann Piano Concerto A Composer Reacts to Musicologists Musicology and the Composer Cerebration or Celebration How I Felt on 14 March 1972

DISSERTATIONS Michael John Shott Hugo Wolf's Music Criticisms: Trans-lation and Analysis According to Pepper's Four World Hypotheses

BIBLIOGRAPHICA 107 Roger Huntington Sessions: A Selective

Bibliography and a Listing of His Compositions

126 Performance Practices Bibliography-Third Supplement

137 Publications Received 141 Contributors

announcement

The College Music Society is undertaking the publication of a new series, Bibliographies in American Music, which will initially concentrate on the subject areas of composers, regional studies, and special topics. The first group of projects planned for publication includes: George Gershwin by Charles Schwartz (Hunter College); Louis Moreau Gottschalk by John G. Doyle (Mansfield State College, Pa.); Charles lues by Frederick Freedman (Vassar College); John Knowles Paine by Kenneth C. Roberts, Jr. (Williams College); and Horatio Parker by William Kearns (University of Colorado). Other pro-jects are also in the planning stage. Anyone interested in submitting a pro-ject for consideration should contact Frederick Freedman (Chairman, Publications Committee, College Music Society) at the Music Library, Vassar College, Poughkeepsie, N.Y. 12601.

55

Percy Grainger: Country Gardens and Other Curses David S. Josephson

[Ed. Note,' This is the first in a series of writings conceived by the author as an essay in bibliography, seeking to provide the foundation for a thorough and broadly-based study of the life and music of Percy Grainger.]

The lead obituary in The New York Times on 21 February 1961 began: "Percy Grainger, Composer, Dead/Creator of Country Gardens . .. " An edi-torial eulogy in the Times on the following day noted that "pieces like his Country Gardens will be delighting audiences long after some of the highly touted music of more 'advanced' composers is long, long forgotten." A recording published shortly before Grainger's death was given the title Country Gardens and Other Favorites.1

The sad litany always begins with Country Gardens, and it invariably con-tinues with Colonial Song, Handel in the Strand, Irish Tune from County Derry, Mock Morris, Molly on the Shore, Shepherd's Hey. Culled from a seemingly bottomless chest and published in any number of marketable arrangements, these charming little conceits provided their creator with a handsome in-come, but at the same time they obscured utterly the spirit and accom-plishments of the man and slowly drove his reputation into the ground. Their popularity is only one of a tangle of sources that have distorted our perception of Grainger. Certainly he himself was partly responsible for that distortion, just as he was for the gradual narrowing of his reputation as a pianist to exponent of the Grieg Piano Concerto (which he considered "hardly one of its composer's most exquisite works"2) and a handful of other pieces, despite his mastery of an immense and unconventional reper-tory. Indeed, his last recording documents an intensely vital performance of Country Gardens and an absolutely harrowing one of the Grieg Concerto.3

Now, however, with the passing of more than a decade since Grainger's death, it is high time to rescue the name of one of the brilliant musical lights of our century. We need not grind any axe. His was in the last analysis a limited genius, his creative breath short, his noble final experiment with what he termed Free Music a failure. Grainger was an erratic man, elusive, private, and vulnerable. But he was a character unique in the annals of 20th-century music: composer, arranger, teacher, writer, editor, linguist, collector and scholar of folk and ethnic musics. Blessed with a wonderfully imaginative ear and a radical, far-ranging mind, Grainger embraced Machaut and Duke Ellington, Russian folksong and Zulu dance.

To deal with the man is difficult. Perhaps we remain too close to our subject. The prejudices against which he fought remain to a great extent our prejudices, within both the concert hall and the classroom. The musical

56

frivolities into which he poured his consummate craft remain frivolities, not yet having gained the respect that comes with vintage. Much of the rest of his music yields its treasures unwillingly and often demands instrumental resources which we can gather only with difficulty. We must break through the isolation of the man, imposed in his youth by his sudden success and bewildering experiments, in later years by the stigma of old-fashionedness, and throughout his life by his stubborn convictions and eccentricities. Another problem is that Grainger's music is not readily accessible. Much of it remains scattered in manuscripts, and of that which was published a great deal is either out of print or irregularly available. There is little chance that this situation will soon be remedied; yet, until it is, our knowledge of Grainger's music will remain incomplete and our appraisal of it one-sided.

A more immediately fruitful approach to understanding Grainger is bibliographical, although here too one encounters some difficulty. During his long active career, Grainger's vast range of musical activities insured him continual printed notice. Much of it, however, was laudatory and repe-titive, and marred by garbled stories and outright misinformation. We must be careful even with primary materials. Grainger took a rather casual, not to say cavalier, attitude toward reporters and seems to have enjoyed exer-cising his wit on hapless interviewers. During one discussion taped for the BBC, he was asked: "You've never really gone in very much for sonata ... " "I've never touched it," he answered. "Never touched it? Why?" "Well," he hesitated, "the Italians were on our side in the First World War, were they?" "Yes." "Yes, well then that spoils my story. My story was that I wouldn't write anything that has an Italian title." Transparent enough. But later in the interview, his voice perfectly serious, Grainger mentioned that at the age of ten he went to study in Germany because the German language was closest to Icelandic. Now, in a certain context that statement does not seem preposterous: his mother's reading of Nordic epics marked them decisively upon the boy's consciousness and provided him with an artistic ideal which he would henceforth embrace-"shapely yet 'formless,' many-sided yet monotonous, rambling, multitudinous, drastic, tragic, stoical, ruthlessly truth-proclaiming."4 But it was preposterous. Rose Grainger took her son to Frankfurt am Main only because she wanted him to receive the best possible musical training and thought that he would get it there.

In this interview and elsewhere, Grainger's memory seems to have played tricks on him, so that his dating of earlier events was often unreliable. For instance, he attributed his lifelong interest in folk music to the influence of Lucy Broadwood, a towering figure in the young English Folk-Song Society (founded in 1898), whose lecture "On the Collecting of English Folk-Song," delivered to the Musical Association in March 1905, introduced him to the enormous variety and beauty of English folk music and to the high challenge and promise involved in its discovery and analysis.5 In fact, however, sur-viving autograph manuscripts dispute Grainger's attribution and push back

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his interest in traditional music to at least 1898, when he was sixteen years old. In that year he sketched the first of a series of settings of Old English Popular Music, "Willow, Willow" from Augener's Minstrelsy of England; set "Thora von Rimol," a song from The Saga of King Olaf; and composed a sailor's chanty, The Secret of the Sea, on a text by Conan Doyle.6 In 1900 came fourteen settings from the Scottish Songs of the North; in the following year, sketches for the Scotch Strathspey and Reel and for the Swedish folk tune A Song of Vermland; in 1902, his first version of the Irish Tune from County Derry7 and still more Scottish songs; and in January 1905, the earliest set-tings of tunes found in a printed anthology of Faeroe Island folksongs.

Grainger's faulty memory concerning Miss Broadwood, however, was not without cause; for she was instrumental in introducing him to the authentic experience of collecting (rather than merely setting) folksong, as well as to the work of a wide circle of musicians and scholars who were bringing their enthusiasm and professional knowledge to bear on the task. Grainger joined the Folk-Song Society, and his exposure to the ideas, discussions, and tech-niques of its members was to prove decisive. Early in April 1905 he traveled with his new colleagues to the town of Brigg and embarked on what was to become one of the monuments of English ethnological research, his col-lection of Lincolnshire folk music. The difference between the scrupulous transcriptions of the Brigg songs that he published in the Society's Journal on the one hand, and the earlier, rather homogenized Scottish settings on the other, gives eloquent testimony to the impact of his encounter with Miss Broadwood.8

The mixed blessings garnered from interviews are evident in a three-part series on Grainger published in The New Yorker early in 1948 and quoted all too often since.9 Rich insights and interesting statements abound, but at the same time we struggle with Grainger's blithe spirit. He dismisses his father as "an interesting fellow, although a confirmed drunkard," an in-credible statement in view of the crucial and far-reaching influence of the man's character, behavior, and marital relationship on his son's personal life. The interviewer embraces the flippant tone of his subject. In writing of Grainger's distaste for the piano ("For what possible reason should we be limited to what we can hit with ten fingers ?"), he regales us with the in-formation that the composer "wrote a number that requires the player to lean over and use his nose now and then, but playing it is strenuous, and even dangerous, and it hasn't gone very well." No words obscure more effectively the spirit of a man who questioned the dominance of the piano in concert life and spent years devising mechanical and keyed alternatives to it, but who also played the instrument supremely well, taught it, and wrote about its technical challenges.lO

Unlike the interviews, Grainger's published writings are invariably serious and rewarding. Even the minor articles-his contribution to the Carl Engel Festschrift,l1 his early reminiscences of great musicians "with whom I have had the privilege of coming in contact,"12 his "Appreciation" of Strauss,13

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and his brieflate essay on Grieg,14 as well as the forewords to his compositions and editions-reveal something of his restless, probing mind.

Among the major writings, one with the delightful mouthful of a title "The Culturizing Possibilities of the Instrumentally Supplemented A Cap-pella Choir" gives evidence of Grainger's broad historical knowledge of per-formance practice and of the professional experience, wide reading, and exquisite taste that he brought to the subject.15 The craggy integrity with which he argued here against contemporary concert life remains as striking today as it must have seemed thirty years ago. In "The Impress of Person-ality in Unwritten Music," Grainger ranged from primitive music to modern, displaying a remarkable familiarity with non-Western music, descriptive sources, and ethnographic materials, as well as a keen sensitivity to the tribal concept of personal ownership of songs and dances.16 In this essay he tentatively explored many ideas that were to find partial fruition in the Free Music. Furthermore, he so thoroughly assimilated his insights into the music of one particular people, the Rarotongans in the South Seas, that he used their music as the model for one of his most striking works, Random Round (1912-14).

The most remarkable article published by Grainger was his earliest, written at the age of twenty-six. "Collecting with the Phonograph" consists of a long introduction on his recording and transcribing techniques and his insights into folksong and singers, followed by his transcription of twenty-seven songs and their variants, as well as copious notes appended to each.17

Grainger had followed up his first trip to Brigg with collecting expeditions to Sutherland and Sussex in the autumn of 1905. He returned to Brigg with Miss Broadwood and other collectors in 1906 and there transcribed his first major collection of songs. Enthralled by the characters he met and at the same time disappointed by the inadequacies of traditional transcribing tech-niques, he came alone to Brigg at the end of July with a new-fangled wax cylinder phonograph. The article documents his experiences during these two trips and during a third Lincolnshire sojourn and a trip to Dartmouth in 1908. Grainger's life-long fascination with machines was already in evi-dence in his discussion of their advantages and drawbacks. He envisioned a mechanical device

that would record on paper (as the phonograph does on wax) all sounds played or sung into it, giving the number of vibrations of each note, precise rhythmic durations of notes (by accurately proportioned line lengths-much like the slits in pianola music) and pauses, dynamics, vowel-sounds and blends.18

Still, he used the primitive machine at his disposal to throw light on the pitch and key of performance, interval relationships, and scale variants; on fluctuations of tempo, lengths of rests, and precise degrees of rhythmic irregularity; on dynamic details, melodic variations, and the articulation of notes; on dialects, vowel-sounds, nonsense syllables, and details of note-

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to-syllable allotment; and on the component notes of what he called "twid-dles and ornaments." Such minute attention to details flowed from a desire to document the singer and his idiosyncrasies along with the song. Grainger noted that each singer considered the songs that he performed his own property and could not help but mold it to reflect his own character19 ;

therefore Grainger would record several versions of each song and also note the variants and even the bantering asides of the singer.

H. G. Wells, after traveling with Grainger in Gloucestershire in 1909, remarked that he tried to record not their songs but their life.20 It is no wonder, then, that Grainger's printed transcriptions are so much more com-plex and fascinating than the others found in the early volumes of the Society Journal, or that in his later settings of many of these songs he favored those versions that were most irregular and characteristic of the singer. This article is the most impressive testament of his scrupulous editorial work. Its advocacy of the phonograph provoked a strong reaction within the Society, and a brief was prepared in reply. Yet, his essay changed the course of English ethnomusicological method and technique.

The research for this article proved decisive, too, in Grainger's creative life. The melodic quality of much of his original music seems to breathe the folk idiom in its directness, its irregular rhythm and phrasing, its under-lying simplicity and tunefulness. The folk influence may also help to account for his reluctance to attempt to develop and sustain large formal musical structures. One wonders what it was that so attracted and held Grainger to the scope of folk music. Although several of his contemporaries shared his love of folksong, they were not so charged by it in their creative life. Part of the answer may lie in the patterns of his life: he left a broken home at the age of twelve to live first in an alien German society and then in London; he did not settle permanently until he was in his thirties, and even then a year rarely passed without his crossing the Atlantic or Pacific. Grainger was a restless and unrooted spirit. Folksong, on the other hand, has everything to do with roots, with the land and its memories. His trips through Britain and Scandinavia were veritable searches for human and musical roots. And so in his later settings he took care to note the date, singer, and place of the original song, printed the melody and often its variants, and only then went on to decorate it with superb craft, taste, and invention, yet with utter integrity and faithfulness to the singer and his song. Grainger's British and Danish folksong cycles are treasures of 20th-century music, the neglected monuments of a cherishable composer.

* * * * * Of the voluminous bibliography of secondary material concerning Grain-

ger and published during his lifetime, the extended treatments can be counted on the fingers of one hand: Richard Franko Goldman's article in The Juilliard Review21 ; Charles Hughes's in The Musical Q.uarterry22; D. C. Parker's genial study, Percy Grainger23 ; and Cyril Scott's essay in an early issue of The Musical Q.uarterry.24 Scott was uncommonly perceptive. He alone,

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recognizing the decisive impact of Kipling on the young composer, correctly attributed to it the first fruits of Grainger's idiom. He noted a certain senti-mentality in Grainger's character which permeated his melodies and drew him back to old sketches and "often, things of no apparent value"-an accurate assessment of Grainger's collecting mania which the passing of time and the evidence in the composer's home in White Plains have rein-forced. Scott understood Grainger's "vulgarities" as expressions of strength, natural being, and refusal to pose. The simple works, he observed, were not written to please the public; rather, they were expressions of a "certain obvious simple part of his childlike nature." Finally, Scott perceived sharply that Grainger "is not an evolving artist, but one who branches out more than actually grows." The different idioms and techniques in his music were thus a function of mood, not of growing maturity. Scott awaited the day when Grainger would complete the more serious sketches, the Bush Music and Train Music among them, for these were "the beginnings of what promise to be very great works."25 Grainger never did.

Aside from these major writings there remains a great deal of secondary material, ranging widely in utility and literacy, published on Grainger during his lifetime and since. Much of it is hidden away in articles and books of a general nature and in newspaper reports and articles. The sum total of these published resources pales, however, beside the enormous amount of manuscript material available for study. Although this material is scat-tered throughout Europe, America, and Australia, and some is not easily accessible (Grainger's letters to Grieg, for instance, are found in the public library of Bergen, Norway), the bulk lies in three repositories: the Grainger Museum in Melbourne, the composer's home in White Plains, and the Library of Congress in Washington, D.C. The Grainger Collection at the Library of Congress alone possesses a considerable number of music manu-scripts and sketchbooks; the entire collection of Grainger's British folksong wax cylinder recordings and his other folk and ethnic recordings from Scandinavia to New Zealand; recordings that document his own perfor-mances and music; thirty cartons of letters in alphabetical order of the correspondents; other letters still unordered; two large files of letters from his friend Karen Holten and photostats of over 600 letters to her (most of them in Danish); some twenty-five cartons with diaries and sketchbooks, academic records, drafts of articles, postcards, calling cards, newspaper and magazine clippings, tax records, royalty statements and other financial documents; and three unpublished autobiographical studies. The first of these studies, a series of sketches for a work with the revealing title The Life of my Mother and her Son, was the issue of a profound need to purge his grief at Rose Grainger's suicide. Seventy-five pages long, it was begun in August 1922 as a passionate diary and slowly evolved into a commonplace book containing copies of her letters, cards and inscriptions, miscellaneous expense accounts, and various factual and reminiscing entries. This out-pouring was abandoned after ten years; it was replaced by a far larger and

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more detached study, The Aldridge-Grainger-Strom Saga, written during the fall and winter of 1933 while Grainger was on the high seas with his wife and friends. 26 Containing probably close to a half-million words cramped into some 230 large pages, it is an invaluable document, discursive, rambling, intensely personal, perceptive, comprehensive-in short, a basic tool for a study and understanding of the man's life. The third document, an eighteen-page typescript written in January 1947 and entitled Bird's-Eye View rif the Together-Life of Rose Grainger and Percy Grainger, retraces the ground of the first essay, this time in a more orderly and detached fashion.

The other major repositories of Graingeriana are the British Museum, the National Libraries of Ireland and Scotland, the New York Public Library, the Royal Library in Copenhagen, and the libraries at the Uni-versity of Rochester (New York) and Upsala College (New Jersey). Given this dispersion of materials, Grainger scholars can be thankful for the dupli-cation of some of the major documents: the autobiographical studies at the Library of Congress just cited, for example, are copies of the Grainger Museum originals, while the British Institute of Recorded Sound (London) has copies of the Grainger wax cylinder collection at the Library of Congress. Furthermore, the British Museum, the New York Public Library, and the University of Rochester have published bibliographies of their music manu-script holdings, and there is an incomplete published list of music in the Library of Congress.27 Also at our disposal, of course, are the printed card catalogues of the British Museum, the Library of Congress, and the New York Public Library. But that is all. To my knowledge, no complete catalogue, published or in manuscript, exists of any of the major collections aside from the British Museum, or of any of the minor collections aside from the two mentioned above. As a result, we are on our own, for the most part, in an impenetrable jungle of materials. Especially lamentable is the lack of scholarly and bibliographical communications from the Grainger Museum and from the Grainger Library Society at White Plains. (One would like to know, to choose a random example, which repositories besides the British Museum have copies of the rare little volume of Photos rif Rose Grainger, and of 3 Short Accounts rif her Life by Herself . .. , privately printed and circu-lated by Grainger after her death-a most valuable source of information for his early years.)

The task of absorbing, assessing, and balancing the collection of materials on Grainger, and then piecing together a rounded study of the man, is staggering. It could be most fruitfully explored in its early stages through bibliographical studies and guides and through scholarly essays on specific areas of his life and work. Furthermore, because of the wide scattering of materials, it will have to be a communal effort, one whose contours are just now beginning to achieve some definition in the fine work of a small number of Australian and English scholars. From Grainger's homeland have come recently a lucid and penetrating summary examination by Roger Covell28 and a fine historical essay on the Free Music by Ivor Dorum,29

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while from England we now have a sturdy edition of a score of Lincolnshire folksongs by Patrick O'Shaughnessy30 and a trenchant musical appreciation by Ates Orga.31 Dissertations dealing with the wind music and the Free Music have been written during the past few years in the United States; one of these will be discussed in the second part of this bibliographical essay, to appear in the next issue of this journal.

NOTES 1 Available now on Mercury Wing SRW 18060. 2 "The Culturizing Possibilities of the Instrumentally Supplemented A Cappella Choir,"

The Musical Quarterb 28 (1942): 165. 3 Vanguard VRS 1098. 4 Robert Lewis Taylor, "Profiles: Musician," The New 'Yorker, 14 February 1948, p. 33. 5 Proceedings of the Musical Association 31 (1904--05): 89-109. 6 White Plains, New York, Grainger Library Society MSS. 7 Grainger found the tune in The Petrie Collection of the Ancient Music of Ireland, ed. George

Petrie (Dublin: M. H. Gill, 1855-82). 8 The Brigg songs are found in the Journal of the Folk-Song Society 2 (1905-06): 79-81; the

Scottish settings, in the Grainger Library Society MSS. 9 Taylor, "Profiles," 31 January 1948, pp. 29-37; 7 February 1948, pp. 32-39; 14 February

1948, pp. 32-43. 10 "Reaching Your Goal at the Keyboard," The Etude 59 (1941): 79-80, 134. 11 "The Specialist and the All-Round Man," A Birthday Tribute to Carl Engel (New York:

G. Schirmer, 1943), pp. 115-19. 12 "Glimpses of Genius," The Etude 39 (1921): 631-32, 707-08. 13 Henry Finck, Richard Strauss, the Man and His Works (Boston: Little, Brown & Co., 1917),

pp. xvii-xxv. 14 "Edvard Grieg: A Tribute," The Musical Times 98 (1957): 482-83. 15 The Musical Quarterly 28 (1942): 160-73. 16 The Musical Quarterly 1 (1915): 416-35. 17 Journal of the Folk-Song Society 3 (1908-09): 147-242. 18 Ibid., p. 152. 19 Recognizing this fact, Grainger insisted on sending royalties to those surviving singers

whose songs he had used in published arrangements. 20 Quoted in Grainger, The Musical Quarterb 1 (1915): 420. 21 "Percy Grainger's 'Free Music,'" The Juilliard Review 2 (Fall 1955): 37-47. 22 "Percy Grainger, Cosmopolitan Composer," The Musical Quarterb 23 (1937): 127-36. 23 New York: G. Schirmer, 1918. 24 "Percy Grainger: The Music and the Man," The Musical Quarterly 2 (1916): 426-27. 25 Ibid., pp. 432, 427, and 428, respectively. 26 Aldridge was his mother's maiden name; Strom, his wife's. 27 PamelaJ. Willetts, "An Autograph Manuscript of Percy Grainger," The British Museum

Quarterb 25 (1962): 18-19, and "The Percy Grainger Collection," The British Museum Quarterb 27 (1963-64): 65-71; Philip L. Miller, "Percy Grainger Gift," Bulletin of the New 'York Public Library 66 (1962): 415-16; Ruth Watanabe, "The Percy Grainger Manuscripts," The University of Rochester Library Bulletin 19 (1963-64): 21-26; Edward Waters, "Music," The Library of Congress Quarterb Journal of Current Acquisitions 20 (1962-63): 35-37.

28 Australia's Music (Melbourne: Sun Books, 1967), pp. 88-103. 29 "Grainger's 'Free Music,'" Studies in Music 2 (1968): 86-97. 30 Twenty-One Lincolnshire Folk-Songs from the MS. Collection of Percy Grainger (London:

Oxford University Press, 1968). 31 "Percy Grainger 1882-1961," Music and Musicians 18 (March 1970): 28-32, 34, 36,

38-40,70.

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The First Opera Repertoire of the Castle Theater in Ceskj Krumlov

]iN Za10ha

The South Bohemian city of Cesky Krumlov was first mentioned in 1253 as an estate of the Lords of Krumlov, a branch of the Vitkovci family. After these first owners died out, another branch of the family, the Rozm-berks, took over the property as their familial residence. Next to the sover-eign, they were the most powerful noblemen in all of Bohemia. Considerable economic development of the whole region took place around 1600 during the reigns of the last two members of this family, Vilem and Petr Vok. The former medieval stronghold was reconstructed and turned into a Renaissance residence suitable for a family of noble position. The city's wealthy citizens copied the tastes of their lords by adorning the walls of their homes with paintings and by building entrances with stone facings. Both hitherto independent settlements-the extramural one called "The Latdm" and the inner city-were also united into a single administrative and economic entity at this time.

Before he died, Petr Vok sold the castle, with its accompanying town and estate, to Emperor Rudolph II of Austria. After an uprising of the Czech nobility had been suppressed in 1622, the estate was given to the Austrian nobleman Johann Ulrich von Eggenberg. The family's successors sold the property in 1719 to the Schwarzenbergs, who undertook further modifications of the castle and its surroundings. The old aristocratic system broke down in 1848, with the onslaught of a new era. When the new Czech settlers took control of the area after the Second World War, the city's monuments were in poor condition. However, a number of buildings of historical interest have been saved, and others will be renovated in the near future during a general reconstruction of the city. Cesky Krumlov has been declared a historic shrine and has become a center of lively tourism in the southern Sumava mountain range.

The period of most interest musically is that encompassed by the life of Joseph Adam von Schwarzenberg (1722-82). His reign was marked by extraordinarily intensive building activity and a busy social and cultural life. The additions of this era contributed a great deal to the beauty of the castle and fortress.

After his father's unexpected death,l Schwarz en berg spent the rest of his youth in Vienna and touring in other European countries. He subsequently endeavored to utilize on his estate the experience he had acquired in the imperial residential city and abroad. He did so not only in the economic sphere but also in purposeful construction, initiated by his fascination for social and cultural reforms. The castle premises were enriched by numerous paintings, sUttues, and other objets d'art. In 1742 the Prince had his personal

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Council of Grenadiers transferred from Hluboka nad Vltavou to Cesky Krumlov. Two years later a winter riding school designed by Andrea Alto-monte was built on the slope above the castle. A beautiful Masquerade Hall was appended to the castle complex in 1748, and more adjustments were made in the following years. The castle chapel was rebuilt and has kept its appearance to this day. In 1755-56 a pavilion called Bellaria was added to the decor of the castle garden, and in 1759-60 a new stone bridge was constructed in front of the castle entrance next to the Bear's Pit. In 1764 a stone bridge, situated in the upper castle and adorned by statues of saints, replaced a hitherto wooden one that was called "Na Plasti" (On the Coat).

All of these modifications and innovations were crowned by the building of a new castle theater. Theatrical presentations in Cesky Krumlov Castle had always been a favorite pastime of the inhabitants, and accurate reports on performances onginate from the years toward the close of the 16th century. The first permanent theater was designed by J. M. Schaumberger in 1682 and was built shortly thereafter during the reign of Prince Johann Christian von Eggenberg. The Prince had his own ensemble, whose members were part-time professional actors, part-time castle employees.2 No records of the repertoire of this theater have been preserved. In the castle archives, how-ever, there are some manuscripts of Italian operas which date from the end of the 17th century and which were probably performed in the castle theater at this time.

Music was, in any case, an important aspect of the theatrical pursuits in which the noble family engaged. The death of Prince Johann Christian in 1710 unfortunately caused a discontinuation of the theater life in Cesky Krumlov. Endeavors to renew it were made in the first half of the 18th century when Joseph Adam von Schwarzenberg became acquainted with French opera comique in Vienna.

By 1756 the old theater had fallen into a bad state of disrepair. Even in good condition, its technical equipment would have been incapable of ful-filling the requirements of the period. If performances in the theater were ever to be resumed, a total renovation would have to take place. Designs for the reconstruction of the theater were in preparation from 1760 on, but actual construction did not commence until 1765. In the meantime a smaller stage in one of the great castle halls was used until work on the theater proper was completed in 1766.

The equipment for the change of coulisses, curtains, and other stage settings, which is still preserved intact today, was made by the Viennese carpenter Lorenz Mak and displays the ingenuity of its designers and creators. Wall and ceiling paintings, the curtain, and drapery, as well as the coulisses, represent the work of the Viennese theater painters Johann Wetschel and Leo Merk1.3 Both artists also decorated the walls of the small theater hall called The Gold Room. "Plays started as soon as the construction of the new castle theater was concluded and the stage and auditorium provided with the necessary equipment," states a contemporary

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record from the year 1767.4 One special presentation of note, which took place in the summer of 1768, was a gala opera in honor of the wedding of the castle owner's son, Johann von Schwarzenberg.

After twenty brilliant years of existence the theater outlived its term of usefulness and ceased to be popular. The number of performances kept dropping from year to year and, by the end of the 19th century, had stopped altogether. Mter the Second World War a few opera performances took place, but the old glory of the Cesky Krumlov Castle Theater should be reborn when the present repairs are concluded.

Although archival research dealing with the past of the Cesky Krumlov Theater has been rather successful, exactly who the actors were has not yet been clearly established. There was no resident company attached to the castle; however, some of the castle employees did participate in performances. Neither is there evidence of regular entertainments provided by a foreign company, although there are records of occasional performances by visiting artists who were reimbursed by the Prince for their services. Judging from the documents and literature of the period, one may assume that the company was really a domestic amateur ensemble composed of the Prince's family and, sometimes, their aristocratic friends. Thus, some of the facts about the theater have been ascertained, but much remains to be explained.

Music from the second half of the 18th century preserved in the state archives gives evidence of frequent operatic presentations which took place in this charming setting. These spectacles were usually supplemented by ballet pieces. There are about 300 music manuscripts in the castle library from the period which show signs of use during a past era. Whoever had such a theater built and equipped with costly furnishings then saw to it that the music available in the library for performances in the theater was indeed used.

Information on the composition of the repertoire is given by an inventory originating from the second half of the 18th century, i.e., the first years of the theater's existence. It contains elementary records of operas and ballets and states that the manuscripts were deposited during that period in Cesky Krumlov Castle. The most remarkable thing is that, with very few exceptions, all the mentioned compositions have been preserved and are now part of the Cesky Krumlov music collection.

The repertoire divides itself easily into certain primary types of compo-sitions. There are French comic operas (called operas comiques in the in-ventory), Italian operas (opere serie and opere bu.ffe), and ballets. On the whole, the origin of the above music is evident. The Prince was often in Vienna and attended performances there. He became acquainted with everything connected with the theater. In his memoirs Count Khevenhiiller-Metsch gives an impressive and detailed account of these Viennese performances.5

In the following listings6 the composer is included, together with his dates and the name of the work. If no composer was given for a particular work but research has since determined his identity, the name is listed in

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brackets; a question mark in brackets indicates that authorship of the work remains unknown. Opera titles have been left as they appear on the manu-scripts, although the more usual names have been added where there are major differences. Information such as the date of the first performance in Vienna or nearby Laxenburg has also been included. The numbering of the manuscripts in the old inventory has also been kept. Accordingly, each of the works has been provided with a call number indicating its place in the collection.

There are twenty-seven French operas comiques recorded in the inventory, twenty-six of which are still intact in the castle library. With regard to the dates of these operas, the music was probably brought to Cesky Krumlov during the first performances, while the works were still part of the Vienna theater repertoire. The composers' names are not mentioned for the majority of these operas, but most have been determined and are listed.

The opere serie form another important category in the inventory. These operas did not seem to have been too popular in the castle of Cesky Krumlov, because their performance required a large number of singers and actors. Altogether, there were six works of this type in the collection, all originating from the 1760's, and five of them have been preserved. Three are manu-scripts, and two are printed. The manuscripts are works by Johann Adolph Hasse, and the printed operas are works by Christoph Willi bald Gluck. The missing opera was also composed by Gluck.

Most of the performances staged in Cesky Krumlov belong to the opere buffe group. To the audience they were the most acceptable ones, easy to understand and not requiring much scenery. During the first years of the theater's existence, this type of opera represented the dominant artistic trend in Vienna. It must have been easy to procure the music, as well as organize theater company tours to a small but interesting provincial place like Cesky Krumlov. A number of performances were supplemented by other topical works and frequently by ballets with serious subject matter. Everything was inspired by fashion, and it would be wrong to suggest that theater life in Cesky Krumlov did not depend largely on foreign models.

A separate list of five operas-bernesche-was later added to the existing register. The bernesche are of obvious Italian origin. In the inventory they are placed between the lists of opere serie and opere bujfe. Of these five bernesche, one, an anonymous opera, was lost. One opera buffa out of twenty-three listed titles is missing at present. The only non-Italian composer is the Czech Florian Leopold Gassman, who first brought Salieri to Vienna. In one case, No. 11, the original printed libretto is preserved apart from the music. Research as to the time of creation of these operas has established that most of them were composed at the end of the 1760's and the beginning of the 1770's, i.e., exactly at the time when the Cesky Krumlov Castle Theater began its performances. Such discoveries give proof of a lively and interesting Czech musical tradition which can still be seen today through the successful

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performances of modern Czech artists all over the world and through the international renown of Czech composers.

Operas comiques

1. Ciampi, Vincenzo Legrenzio, 1719-62. Li tre gobbi rivali (arias). The work is better known under the title La favola dei tre gobbi. The premiere took place in Venice in 1 749. Sign. No. 281/2/5 K 16. 2. Dauvergne, Antoine, 1713-97. Les Troqueurs. The first Vienna performance was in 1758. Sign. No. 281/2/3 K 16. 3. [Duni, Egidio Romoaldo, 1709-75]. Ninette a la cour (airs accompagnes). The full title of this work is Le Caprice amoureux ou Ninette a la cour. The first Vienna performance was in 1760. Sign. No. 191/2/3 K 14. 4. [--]. L'Isle desfoux (ariettes). The first Vienna performance was in 1761. Sign. No. 271/2/20 K 16. 5. [Galuppi, Baldassare, 1706-85]. Filosofo di campagna (arias). The first Vienna performance was in 1763. Sign. No. 241/2/7 K 15. 6. Gluck, Christoph Willibald, 1714-87. L'Arbre enchante (airs nouveaux). The premiere took place in Schonbrunn in 1759. Sign. No. 241/2/6 K 15. 7. --. Le Cadi dupe (airs nouveaux). The premiere took place in Vienna in 1761. Sign. No. 271/2/21 K 16. 8. [--]. Le Chino is poli en France (airs accompagnes). The premiere took place in Laxenburg, near Vienna, in 1756. Sign. No. 261/2/17 K 15. 9. --. La Cythere assiegee. The first Vienna performance was in 1759. Sign. No. 241/2/10 K 15. 10. [--]. La fausse esclave. The premiere took place in Vienna in 1758. The work is missing from the collection. 11. [--]. L'Isle de Merlin (airs accompagnes). The premiere took place in SchOnbrunn in 1758. Sign. No. 281/2/1 K 16. 12. [--]. La Rencontre imprevue. The premiere took place in Vienna in 1764. Sign. No. 181/2b/l K 13. 13. [--]. La Rencontre imprevue. See No. 12. Sign. No. 181/2b/2 K 13. 14. --. Les trois sultanes (ariettes). There is no record of Gluck having

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provided music for this work. It is perhaps Soliman second ou les trois sultanes by Paul Cesar Gibert, 1717-87, based on a text by Charles Simon Favart. Soliman second was first presented in Paris in 1761. Sign. No. 24 K 14. 15. --. L'Yvrogne corrige (airs nouveaux). The premiere took place in Vienna in 1760. Sign. No. 241/2/8 K 15. 16. [Maid ere, Pierre van, 1 729-68J. Les Amours champestres (airs accom-pagnes). This is a parody of Les Sauvages, part of Les Indes galantes by Jean Phillipe Rameau, 1683-1764. The text is by Charles Simon Favart, and the first Vienna performance of Les Amours champestres was in 1755. Sign. No. 261/2/13 K 15. 17. [Monsigny, Pierre Alexandre, 1729-1817J. Le Roi et le fermier. The first Vienna performance was in 1763. Sign. No. 231/2 K 14. 18. [Pergo1esi, Giovanni Battista, 171O-36J. La Servante maztresse. This is a translation of La Serva padrona. The first Vienna performance, in French, was in 1758. Sign. No. 261/2/19 K 15. 19. [Philidor, Fran<;ois Andre Danican, 1726-95]. Le Diable a quatre. The first performance in Laxenburg, near Vienna, was in 1759. Sign. No. 241/2/9 K 15. 20. [--J. Le Marechal ferrant. The first Vienna performance was in 1763. Sign. No. 271/2/22 K 16. 21. [Sodi, Charles, ?-?J. Les Amours de Bastien et Bastienne. The libretto, by Charles Simon Favart, his wife, and Harny de Guerville, is a parody of Le Devin du village by Jean-Jacques Rousseau, 1712-78. The name Charles Sodi might be a pseudonym. The first performance of Les Amours in Laxen-burg, near Vienna, was in 1755. Sign. No. 241/2/15 K 15. 22. [?J. Le Magazin des modernes (airs accompagnes). The first performance in Laxenburg, near Vienna, was in 1756. Sign. No. 281/2/2 K 16. 23. [?J. Recueil des chansons les plus nouvelles avec la basse. Sign. No. 261/2/18 K 15. 24. [?J. Suffisant (airs). The text is by Jean Joseph Vade. The premiere took place in Paris in 1753. Sign. No. 281/2/4 K 16. 25. [?J. Le Trompeur trompe (airs nouveaux). The text is by Jean Joseph Vade. The first Vienna performance was in 1756. Sign. No. 261/2/16 K 15. 26. [?J. Tyrcis et Doristee (airs accompagnes). The work is a parody of Acis et Galatee by Jean Baptiste Lully, 1683-1764, and is on a text by Charles

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Simon Favart. The first performance in Laxenburg, near Vienna, was in 1756. Sign. No. 261/2/12 K 15. 27. La Vengeance inutile. This work, whose full title is Raton et Rosette ou La Vengeance inutile, is a parody of Titon et l'aurore by Jean Joseph de Mondon-ville, 1711-72. It is on a text by Charles Simon Favart. The first Vienna performance was in 1755. The music is partly by Charles Sodi, partly by Mondonville. Sign. No. 261/2/14 K 15.

Opere serie

1. Gluck, Christoph Willibald, 1714-87. Alceste (in Italian). The premiere took place in Vienna in 1767. This edition was printed in Vienna in 1769. Sign. No. 126 K 19. 2. [--]. Orfeo ed Euridice. The premiere took place in Vienna in 1762. The work is missing from the collection. 3. --. Paride ed Elena. The premiere took place in Vienna in 1770. This edition was printed in Vienna in the same year. Sign. No. 124 K 19. 4. Hasse, Johann Adolf, 1699-1783. Alcide al bivio. The premiere took place in Vienna in 1760. Sign. No. 11/3 K 10. 5. [--]. Romolo ed Ersilia. The premiere took place in Innsbruck in 1765. Sign. No. 31/3 K 10. 6. --. It trionio di Clelia. The premiere took place in Vienna in 1762. Sign. No. 21/2 K 10.

Bernesche

1. [Galuppi, Baldassare, 1706-85]. Arcifanfano, re dei Matti. The premiere took place in 1 749. Sign. No. 201/2 K 14. 2. Piccinni, Nicola, 1728-1800. L'astrologa. The premiere took place In

Naples in 1756. Sign. No. 201/2 K 14. 3. --. L'incognita perseguitata. The premiere took place in Venice in 1764. Sign. No. 191/2 K 14. 4. Rust, Giacomo, 1741-86. La contadina in corte. The premiere took place in Venice in 1764. Sign. No. 191/2 K 14. 5. [?]. Piu briconi it piacer. Missing from the collection.

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Opere buffe

1. Anfossi, Pasquale, 1727-97. La Metilda ritrovata. The work is also known as L'Incognita perseguitata. The first Vienna performance was in 1773. Sign. No. 221/2 K 14. 2. Fischietti, Domenico, ca. 1720-ca. 1810. II dottore. The full title is II signor dottore. The first performance in Laxenburg, near Vienna, was in 1764. Sign. No. 41/2 K 10. 3. --. II mercato di Malmantile. The first Vienna performance was in 1763. Sign. No. 11/2 K 10. 4. Galuppi, Baldassare, 1706-85. Le nozze. The first Vienna performance was in 1764. Sign. No. 51/2 K 11. 5. Gassmann, Florian Leopold, 1729-74. L'amore artigiano. The premiere took place in Vienna in 1767. Sign. No.1 11/2 K 12. 6. --. La contessina. The first Vienna performance was in 1770. Sign. No. 171/2 K 13. 7. --. La notte critica. The premiere took place in Vienna in 1768. Sign. No. 131/2 K 13. 8. --. II viaggiator ridicolo. The premiere took place in Vienna in 1766. Sign. No. 81/2 K 11. 9. Gazzaniga, Giuseppe, 1743-1818. La locanda. The first Vienna perfor-mance was in 1772. Sign. No. 211/2 K 14. 10. Guglielmi, Pietro (Alessandro), 1728-1804. Piu bricconi, piufortuna. No performance date or place could be determined for this work. Sign. No. 161/2 K 13. 11. Piccinni, Nicola, 1728-1800. La buonafigliuola (libretto). The first Vienna performance was in 1764. This libretto was printed in Vienna in the same year. Sign. No. 10 K 12. 12. --. Ii cavaliere per amore. The first Vienna performance was in 1766. Sign. No. 91/2 K 11. 13. [--J. Le contadine bizzare. The first Vienna performance was in 1767. Sign. No. 101/2 K 12. 14. --. Figliuola maritata. The full title is La buona figliuola maritata. See No. 11. Sign. No. 31/2 K 10. 15. --. La pescatrice. The full title is La pescatrice ovvero L'erede riconosciuta. The first Vienna performance was in 1769. Sign. No. 14 K 13.

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16. [--]. La schiava. The work is better known as Gli stravaganti. The first Vienna performance was in 1768. Sign. No.6 K 11. 17. Sacchini, Antonio Maria (Gaspero Gioacchino), 1730-86. La contadina in corte. The first Vienna performance was in 1767. Sign. No.9 K 11. 18. --. Ilfinto pazzo per amore. The first Vienna performance, in German, was in 1779. The premiere took place in Rome in 1772. Sign. No. 13 K 12. 19. [Salieri, Antonio, 1750-1825]. II barone di Rocca Antica. The premiere took place in Vienna in 1772. The work is missing from the collection. 20. --. Lafiera di Venezia. The premiere took place in Vienna in 1772. Sign. No. 12 K 12. 21. Scarlatti, Giuseppe, ca. 1718-77. L'isola disabitata. The first Vienna performance was in 1 757. Sign. No. 11 K 12. 22. --. Gli stravaganti. The work was later known as La moglie padrona. Its premiere took place in Vienna in 1765. Sign. No. 71/2 K 11. 23. Scolari, Giuseppe, 1720-69. La cascina. The first Vienna performance was in 1768. Sign. No.2 K 10.

NOTES 1 Joseph Adam von Schwarzenberg's father had a fatal accident during a hunt at Brandys

near Laxenburg. 2 Dusan Ludvik, "Die Eggenbergschen Hofkomodianten," Acta Neophilologica 3 (1970):

65-92. 3 JiH Hilmera, "Zwei bohmische Sch1osstheater," Maske und Konthurn 4 (1958): 125-34. 4 Cesky Krum10v Archives, Sign. No. I 7Bb 10. S Furst Johann Josef Khevenhuller-Metsch, Aus der Zeit Maria Theresias, ed. Rudolf Graf

Khevenhuller-Metsch and Hanns Schlitter, 7 vo1s. (Vienna: Adolf Ho1zhausen, 1907-25). This is the diary of Khevenhuller-Metsch, who was the Supreme Imperial Steward from 1742 to 1776.

6 The author wishes to thank Stephen Willis of Current Musicology for his help in preparing the catalogue.

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Genius in the 18th Century: C. F. D. Schubart's "Vom musikalischen Genie"

Richard W. Harpster

In the mid-18th century there arose among diverse artists and philoso-phers a fascination with the notion of Genius. This enthusiasm (which had its roots in thefurores of Plato) reached its peak in the so-called Genieperiode, or Sturm und Drang era, as a reaction against the view of Nature held by Johann Winckelmann and Abbe Batteux: that art is eclectic mimesis. Perhaps the greatest catalytic force in this reaction was Voltaire's Nature, Dialogue entre le Philosophe et la Nature (1771). If Nature is so worthy of imitation, he asked, how do we account for its caprices and waste; for example, how do we explain the countless acorns needed to produce just one oak tree?

Thus the evolution of the concept of Genius in the 18th century was to a large extent coexistent with the development of a view of Nature. As Rudolf Wittkower has pointed out in his enlightening essay "Imitation, Eclecticism, and Genius,"l there were four approaches to Nature in the 18th century:

(1) The view that the closer a work of art is to Nature, the more perfect it is. Thus, Art may never surpass Nature.

(2) The interpretation of Nature as imperfect. In this sense the artist should choose the most perfect parts from Nature and combine them in his work of art. Thus, Art surpasses Nature and results in what Batteux called la belle Nature.

(3) Another interpretation of Nature as less than perfect. Here the artist uses the works of the ancients as models; combining the "virtue of his models," he then creates works of an even higher quality. The guiding ideal of this process is none other than Winckel-mann's epithet "stille Grosse und edle Einfalt."

(4) The notion that, in his imagination, an artist can render concepts formed by images from Nature that were stored in his mind.

The explanations in defense of Genius, like those of Nature, were multi-farious. One was the eclectic Genius of Batteux:

First the genius, who is the father of the arts, should imitate Nature. Secondly, he should not imitate anything which is ordinary or common-place. And thirdly, taste, for which the arts are made and which is their judge, should be satisfied when Nature is well chosen and well imitated by the arts .... 2

And there was the reaction against this eclecticism, the "original genius": Many a Genius, probably there has been, which could neither write nor read. 3

Human nature also el}tered into the development of the concept of Genius, in the guise of the twin ideas of Sensibilite and Empfindsamkeit. The painter

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Jacques Louis David, for example, revealed his heritage of Sensibilite when he declared: "The artist must therefore have studied all the springs of the human heart .... "4 And Diderot coupled Sensibilite and the Sublime when he offered the following definition of Geni us in the Encyclopedie:

To be of genius it [the work of art] must sometimes be careless and have an irregular, rugged, savage air. Sublimity and genius flash in Shakespeare like streaks of lightning in a long night .... 5

InJ. G. Sulzer's opinion Empfindsamkeit was the sole criterion for determining the presence of Genius:

[Geniuses are only those who] conceive and feel more sharply and have their ideas and feelings more in their authority than other men .... 6

The last generation of 18th-century Geniuses-the progenitor of the 19th century's lonely Genius-was that of the Sturm und Drang. With this move-ment the aim of the Genius was shifted from mimesis to originality; the watch-word changed from imitation to Ursprunglichkeit. And the judge of this Genius's art was the heart. Thus, Herder could declare that the sign of a Genius was a "natural or spontaneous god-like creativity and the facility to ascend to a great height while at the same time not dispensing with his originality."7 Schiller echoed these sentiments in his essay "The Pathetic," when he stated:

Poetry ought not to take its course through the frigid region of mem-ory .... It ought to go straight to the heart, because it has come from the heart .... 8

When C. F. D. Schubart's Ideen zu einer Aesthetik der Tonkunst appeared in 1806, it stood less as a document of original thought than as a synthesis of the myriad ideas of Schubart's artistic contemporaries. Hence, many of the notions of Genius and Nature discussed above appear in the chapter entitled "Vom musikalischen Genie." This portion of the book is a pasticcio whose sources range from the autodidactic Genius of Edward Young and the Sensibilite Genius of David to the Herz-Genie of Herder and Schiller. It was especially toward these Sturm und Drang figures that Schubart was inclined: witness the opening statement of the chapter. Here, then, is a translation of Schubart's ideas on Genius:9

No proverb is so true and appropriate to the nature of things as this venerable one: Poets and musicians are born. As certain as it is that each man brings along into the world a musical germ, it is just as certain that this musical germ involves the tools of the ear and throat, and even the detrimental structure of the hands; sometimes even education may hinder the development of this musical germ. The musical genius has the heart as its foundation, and it receives its impressions through the ear. "He has no ear, no hearing" in musical terms means that "he has no musical mind." Experience teaches that men are born with-out a feeling for rhythm and that they are deaf and unreceptive to the beauty of music. On the other hand, artistic virtuosity announces itself

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already in the youth. This youth's heart is his principal chord, with strings stretched end to end, each string so fine that they all blend at every harmonic agitation. All great musical geniuses, therefore, are autodidactics; for the fire that inspires them compels them to seek, undetained, their own individual line of flight. The Bachs, a Galuppi, Jommelli, Gluck, and Mozart excelled already in their childhood with the splendid productions of their spirits. Musical euphony dwelled in their souls, and soon they threw away the crutch of art. The characteristics of a musical genius are thus indisputably as follows: 1. Zeal, or enthusiastic feeling for musical beauty and greatness. 2. An especially delicate feeling of the heart, which sympathizes with all

the Noble and Beautiful that music evokes. The heart is like a sound-ing board of the great musicians: without it there is nothing; without it the artist can never create something great.

3. A most highly refined ear, which drinks in each consonance and listens reluctantly to each disturbing sound. When a child without any instruction produces a chord on the piano; when a maiden or lad can improvise a second part to a folksong; when the brows of young listeners wrinkle on hearing dissonance and relax on hearing consonance; when the young throat trills a melody at a very early age -then musical genius is present.

4. A natural feeling for rhythm and meter. Let one give a child of six or seven years a key and then sing or playa piece: if the child taps the meter by himself, even when I mix even and uneven meters back and forth-then there certainly is a musical head before us.

5. Irresistible love and priference for music, which sweeps us up so su-premely that we prefer music to all other joys of life-this is a very strong criterion for the presence of a musical spirit. Nevertheless this characteristic is at times misleading, for there are people who fiddle all day, who strum and play the lyre, and who themselves hardly rise above the mediocre. In a word, the heavenly flash of genius is of so splendid a nature that it

cannot be concealed. This heavenly flash presses, propels, pushes, and burns until it erupts in flames and, in its olympic magnificence, trans-figures itself. The mechanical musician puts one to sleep; but the musical genius excites and lifts himself up to heaven. Yet he has room enough on his cherub wings to carry the listener up as well. However, the musical genius without culture and practice will always remain quite imperfect. Art must complete what Nature presents raw. If in any of the arts there were men who were born perfected, industry and fatigue would easily become extinct in the world.

The history of great artists gives evidence of how much sweat trickled off their brows as a result of practice; how much oil their nightly lamps consumed; how many imperfect attempts they let evaporate up the chimney; how, deeply hidden in solitude, they trained fingers, ears, and heart until they eventually stepped into the limelight and then, by their masterpieces, elicited from the world a jubilant Bravo.

The greatest strength of the musical genius manifests itself in com-posing and in wisely directing great orchestras. A true Capellmeister

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and music director must know all the musical styles and, at all events, prove himself as master in at least one of them. He must have studied counterpoint from the strictest approach; he must be rich in the greatest and most interesting technique of melodic motion; he must have studied deeply the hearts of men, in order to be able to play on the heartstrings [Cordialnerven] as surely as on his own favorite instru-ment. Finally, he must be an acoustician and also know how to direct, with whisper and stroke, a hundred heads as if they were one, so that by this means a great all-working whole is formed. Even if one studied the perfected Capellmeister only from a Mattheson or a Junker, he would be amazed at the wide circumference of the theoretical and practical requisites.

Woe unto thee, Pupil of Music, if you deceive yourself into thinking that you are already among the CapeUmeister before you have the quali-ties ofa good ripienist. Or, as Handel cared to state it: it is like wanting to be an admiral without having even the training of a sailor. The half-developed musicians, these traveling he-men, who from dawn to dusk blacken the musical world like a swarm of locusts, may threaten you so that you will wear yourself out in your chamber; for you must discipline yourself in melody, modulation, and harmony-and only then can you step forth among your contemporaries in the glory of a cultivated genius.

We have seen the wave of the 18th-century Genius swell from the depths of the eclectic-mimetic Genius to the crest of the Sturm und Drang original Genius. There was, nevertheless, one other ripple provoked by the 18th-century Genius. This was the notion of the Genius in Kant's sense, as one who "in-vents the rules which others follow."lo This sense of Genius also appears in Schubart's text, in the chapter entitled "Von der Applicatur," according to which fingering cannot be fixed exactly since the Genius, who can invent new compositions, will also invent his own fingering.ll

This second sense of the term is a significant testimony to a sociomusicolo-gical phenomenon of the late 18th century. For with the rise of the middle class and the concOlnitant return of the amateur, when almost anyone could try his hand at Musi;::.ieren, it became necessary to distinguish between the professional and the amateur, between the Genie and the Liebhaber, a problem not unfamiliar to our own epoch.

In summary, two themes can be found under the surface of Schubart's "Vom musikalischen Genie": his notion that "Art must complete what Na-ture presents raw" and his definition of Genius as a delicate feeling of the heart which sympathizes with the Noble and the Beautiful. Both motives have their origins in the writings of Winckelmann and Batteux; both reveal Schubart's dependence on the concept of Nature for his definition of Genius.

Itself eclectic, the chapter translated above and, in fact, the entire Ideen represent a synoptic record of the evolution of the idea of Genius in the 18th century. In his frequent use of terms like Her;::., Empfindung, Ausdruck, etc., Schubart stands in the very center of the empfindsamer Stil. With its concept of

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Genius, his book is representative of a line of thought which is tangent to two epochs. For, with the heart as judge, Schubart's Genius stands in the midst of the Sturm und Drang philosophy, still within the chambers of the 18th century and yet at the very threshold of the Donnersturm of Romanticism.

NOTES

1 In Earl R. Wasserman, Aspects of the 18th Century (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins Press, 1965), pp. 143-63.

2 Mssr. l'Abbe Batteux, Principe de la litterature, "Premier traite" (Paris: Durand, 1774), p. 30. Translation by the author.

3 Taken from Edward Young's Conjectures on Original Composition, 1759, cited in Logan Pearsall Smith, "Four Words: Romantic, Originality, Creative, Genius," Society for Pure English, Tract 17 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1924), p. 27. This "natural genius," incidentally, was denounced by Dr. Johnson as "the mental disease of the present generation" (ibid., p. 25).

4 Hugh Honour, Neoclassicism (Baltimore: Penguin Books Ltd., 1968), p. 145. 5 Ibid. 6 Allgemeine Theorie der schonen Kunst, vol. 2 (Leipzig: M. G. Weidemann, 1792), p. 364.

Translation by the author. 7 Hugo Goldschmidt, Die Musikaesthetik des 18. Jahrhunderts (Zurich: Rascher & Company,

1965), p. 172. Translation by the author. 8 Nathan Haskell Dole, ed., Aesthetical and Philosophical Essays, vol. I (Boston: Francis

Niccolls & Co., 1903), p. 165. 9 Ideen zu einer Aesthetik der Tonkunst (Vienna:J. V. Degen, 1806; reprint Hildesheim: Georg

Olms Verlagsbuchhandlung, 1969), pp. 368-71. Passages translated by author and Dr. Pierre Tagmann.

10 See Kant's Kritik der Urteilskraft (Berlin: Lindemann & Ludecke, 1799; reprint Hamburg: Felix Meiner, 1954), p. 160, paragraph 46.

11 Schubart, Ideen, p. 292.

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SPECIAL PROJECT

The Spheres of Music: Harm.ony and Discord

Part II

Introduction and Overview

Leonie Rosenstiel, Project Editor

The articles in this section of Current Musicology form the second and con-cluding part of our project, "The Spheres of Music: Harmony and Discord," which was begun in Issue Number 14/1972. In Issue Number 15 our con-tributors have also concerned themselves to a great extent with past, present, and possible future problems of communication among the various branches of music and related fields and with the positive and negative effects that these disciplines may have on each other. Again, the articles are written from widely differing points of view and treat their subjects in diverse man-ners, but this variety is, itself, inherent in the nature of the project.l

Malcolm Frager uses his own experience with the manuscript of Robert Schumann's Piano Concerto as a case study, demonstrating how musicologi-cal methods and information may help a performer "to better realize the original intent of a composer," as well as to correct errors in published editions. The differing reactions of composers to musicologists and the potential uses of musicology as an aid both in unearthing music for perfor-mance and in understanding contemporary scores are emphasized by Edmund Haines. Citing early exposure to musicology as a factor in his positive reaction to the field, Mr. Haines describes his own methods for re-searching contemporary Spanish music. The ubiquitous quality of musi-cological research is stressed by Qtto Luening, who shows how his own background in that field influenced his development as composer, teacher, and "practitioner in the arts." Going a step farther, he discusses the signifi-cance of environmental factors in the continued survival of the art of music and the need for an understanding of related disciplines.

In describing the relatively recent recognition of musical performance as an integral part of teaching music within the liberal arts curriculum at Wesleyan University, David McAllester argues for the universal acceptance of this procedure as the equivalent of laboratory or field experiences in other liberal arts and sciences. Susan Thiemann Sommer believes that problems of communication lead many musicians to the false conclusion that there is little or no relationship between musicology and performance. Performance decisions should remain with the performer, but he should also be aware of his options, and the musicologist can provide this information. As a record reviewer, Mrs. Sommer notes with approval the growing trend toward more historically valid performances of early music.

The writers, be they performer, composer, scholar, or critic, show a common interest in the ways in which musicological research and resources may be of particular help to both composers and performers. They all stress the need for better communication and greater understanding, so that each specialist may benefit from the insights of others.

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Using their own experiences and those of their friends and colleagues, the contributors to this issue argue strongly-both implicitly and explicitly-for the exposure of the developing musician, no matter what his ultimate field of specialization, to the information and techniques of both the practical and the theoretical aspects of his art. In so doing, they scrutinize past and present practices and attitudes in the various areas of music and offer suggestions for the modification of those aspects which they feel have been and will continue to be detrimental to the best interests of music and musicians in general. The authors of the present articles, as well as of those in Issue Number 14 not only pinpoint areas of discord but also set forth concrete, constructive sug-gestions for achieving greater harmony and more effective communication among members of the musical community.

NOTE

1 See Leonie Rosenstiel, "Introduction and Overview," Current Musicology 14 (Fall 1972): 81-83.

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The Manuscript of the Schumann Piano Concerto

Malcolm Frager

Of what benefit is musicological research to the performer? In my own experience I have often found that musicological methods have helped me to better realize the original intent of a composer. Has anyone ever noticed, for instance, the unusual metronome marking in the major section of the Schumann Piano Concerto: Andante espressivo (d. = 72)? This metronome marking is precisely the same as the metronome indication of the finale: Allegro vivace (d. = 72). For years I wondered if these markings were authen-tic. It seemed logical that, whatever the speed of Schumann's metronome, if the markings were authentic, he intended these two passages to be played at the same tempo. One day about six years ago I decided that the only way to ascertain the authenticity of these markings was to take a look at the manuscript, but I had no idea where it was, nor had I ever met anyone who knew of its existence. Oddly enough, it was a photograph in Georg Eismann's Schumann biographyl which led me to the manuscript. This photograph had a caption, "Schumann HallS, Zwickau," and I decided to write to the director of this landmark, the house in which Schumann was born, and ask ifhe knew where I could find the manuscript of the A Minor Piano Concerto. A few months later I received a reply saying that I should get in touch with the owners of the Wiede Collection. Until recently, this collection, which con-tains over seventy Schumann manuscripts, was in the possession of Mr. Alfred Ancot in Aigenstadl, near Passau, Germany.

My only reason for wanting to see the manuscript of the concerto was to verify the authenticity of the metronome indications. I was not really expecting anything unusual and was therefore very much surprised when Mr. Ancot handed me the manuscript in Aigenstadl. I saw, first of all, that I was looking at two orchestrations of the first movement, one superimposed upon the other. What I had before me was not only the manuscript of the concerto but also the manuscript of what once was the Fantasiafor Piano and Orchestra, a one-movement work which Schumann had written in 1841 but never published. I had always assumed that this Fantasia later became the first movement of the concerto without any alteration. But here I saw that the orchestration of the Fantasia was more symphonic and in many ways more imaginative than the orchestration of the first movement of the con-certo. The Fantasia, i.e., the first movement of the concerto, is in Robert Schumann's hand with the exception of the solo part, which is extremely neat and may have been written out by Clara Schumann. The second and third movements are entirely in Robert's hand. In all three movements there are a few pencil markings, which appear to be a third party's emenda-tions. Clara may have used this manuscript when she played through the Fantasia at an informal orchestral rehearsal in Leipzig in 1841; the piece was never performed in public during Schumann's lifetime. By studying a fac-

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simile of the manuscript, which Mr. Ancot later sent me, I was able not only to reconstruct the original orchestration of the Fantasia, which I have since performed in a number of countries, but also to correct several misprints which appear in almost every edition of the concerto. These include the following: *

First movement (Allegro affettuoso) Mm. 3 and 4: The last two chords in the right hand of the piano should be (Ex. 1):

EXAMPLE 1

The chords printed in all scores are written in the manuscript in very small notes and appear to be merely an indication to the soloist of what the orchestra is playing. Third measure before A: fourth beat is if (see parallel passage in reca pitula-tion). Animato: Accents in the left hand are missing in all editions. In the MS. the left hand reads (Ex. 2) :

EXAMPLE 2

Mm. 26-28 of the Animato: the original diminuendo has been scratched out in pencil, -=-::::::: I::::::::-:=- added in mm. 26 and 27, and fp penciled in at m. 28 in the horns and strings. M. 29 of the Animato: p scratched out in pencil. 8 mm. before B: p missing in all editions. Mm. 14-17 ofB: accents in the right hand are missing in all editions. In the MS. the right hand reads (Ex. 3) :

EXAMPLE 3

Andante espressivo: Strings are marked sempre p, not sempre pp. Fifteenth measure ofD: 4th beat in the right hand should be DFB, not BFB as in most editions.

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Three measures preceding change of key signature to A major (Ex. 4):

EXAMPLE 4

Mm. 26-28 of the second Animato: see note for mm. 26-28 of the first Animato. Mm. 44 and 45 of the second Animato: the grace note, missing in the first edition, is in the MS! (Ex. 5):

EXAMPLE 5

M. 5 of the Un poco andante section of the cadenza: Espressivo.

Intermezzo (Andantino grazioso) M. 2: last three sixteenths in the right hand should read (Ex. 6) :

EXAMPLE 6

Mm. 23-24: staccato, corresponding to Violin I (Ex. 7):

EXAMPLE 7

M. 86: ditto. M. 98: the solo part pp.

Allegro vivace Eighth measure before G: the soloist's part piano.

Mm. 33-36 of G: one phrase per measure in the left hand (see parallel passage in the exposition). Mm. 53 and 54 before K: right hand originally (Ex. 8): EXAMPLE 8

-------ret It; 85

Mm. 5 and 93 of the coda: mordent on first note in right hand. M. 144 of the coda: the solo part is marked cresco

The metronome markings which appear in the first edition of the concerto and in almost all subsequent editions are substantiated in the manuscript. In her later years Clara Schumann appears to have felt no compunction in changing her husband's metronome markings. In her edition of, among other works, the Scenes from Childhood and the Davidsbundler Dances, she alters almost every one of the metronome markings printed during Schumann's lifetime. In the second of the Davidsbundler, for instance, she changes the mark-ing from .I = 138 to .I = 96, and she slows down the "Traumerei" in the Scenes from Childhood from .I = 100 to .I = 80. She does this time and again and in almost every case radically alters the mood of the music. And yet even Clara, in her edition of the A Minor Piano Concerto, does not change the metro-nome indications which we find in the manuscript and the first edition! In spite of years of differing tradition, I believe that these original metronome markings have validity. The opening Allegro affettuoso is marked d = 84, which is very fast. The AD major section in the first movement and the opening of the last movement are both marked d. = 72. I have come to believe that Schumann did not originally intend the Andante espressivo to be played too slowly nor the finale too fast. The intermezzo, which is marked Andantino grazioso, J = 120, should not be too slow. I know that a musical passage can be played at many different speeds and still sound convincing, and I realize that the matter of tempo is a very personal one. But I believe that the metro-nome markings which Schumann gave indicate the tempos he originally intended. Even if he later changed his mind (although there is no evidence to this effect), I think we should at any rate take his original ideas into con-sideration. In his Denk- und Dichtbiichlein Schumann wrote: "Die erste Konzeption ist immer die nattirlichste und beste. Der Verstand irrt, das Gefuhl nicht." ("The first conception is always the most natural and the best. The intellect errs, feeling does not.") And three pages later we find this little dialogue between Eusebius and Master Raro:

Eusebius: Oft konnen zwei Lesarten von gleichem Wert sein. (Two versions can often be of equal value.)

Raro: Die ursprungliche ist meist die bessere. (The original is usually the better.)2

True enough, Master Raro, but how can the performer tell what the original reading is ifhe has never seen it? Here may I make a plea to anyone who has the time and resources at his disposal to do for Schumann what Kochel did for Mozart or Jahns for Weber: to compile a catalogue of all Schumann's works and list the whereabouts of all extant manuscripts and the facts concerning early printed editions. The Schumann catalogues now available are woefully incomplete and inaccurate. For the benefit of both

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performer and musicologist, the compilation of a new catalogue IS indis-pensable.

NOTES

1 Robert Schumann: Eine Biographie in Wort und Bild (Leipzig: VEB Deutscher Verlag fur Musik, 1964).

2 See Schumann's Gesammelte Schriften iiber Musik und Musiker (Leipzig: Breitkopf & Hartel, 1914), Vol. I, p. 25. See also Georg von Dadelsen's article, "Die 'Fassung letzter Hand' in der Musik," Acta Musicologica 33 (January-March 1961): 1-14.

• Measure numbers and letters conform to those found in the third volume of the com-plete works, edited by Clara Schumann (Leipzig: Breitkopf & Hartel, 1883).

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A Composer Reacts to Musicologists

Edmund Haines In considering the interrelationship between musicologists and composers

on the musical scene, I tend to think in broad generalities and to appreciate greatly the impact of research carried on in the past generation or so. This aura of warmth toward musicologists and their work is undoubtedly due to the kind of music history study to which I was subjected in my youth. This study, it should be added, took place about a generation ago with professors who used texts, such as Waldo Selden Pratt's, that have by now been sup-planted. In these texts Leonin and Perotin were little footnotes in fine print, if any mention of them occurred at all, and the Bamberg motets had not yet found their way via Pierre Aubry into many books. There were precious few recordings of nonconcert music, and one had to get pretty far off the beaten track to locate any scores that were not in the standard repertory. Fortunately, just before that era, there was a flowering of musicological research; and by the time I was engaged in what might be called the ad-vanced study of music, some aspects and periods of music history had been better dealt with, and more and more material was being made available in print and on recordings. As a graduate student, I was lucky enough to gain access to excellent libraries, such as the Sibley in Rochester.

While I was still in this formative and impressionable stage, I saw and heard various kinds of music that excited me and made me realize that there had been ways to achieve musical expressivity different from those I had known, ways other than the tonal means of the stylistic periods of the 18th century, or even the practices of the Hindemiths and Bart6ks of the 20th. I was entranced, for example, by the unpulsed melismas of the Notre Dame composers, the fresh harmonic unconcern of 13th-century motets, and the self-conscious sonorities and literary-musical form of Gesualdo, just to men-tion three disparate examples. Without the expansion of interest in musico-logical research that has been, at least in terms oflong-range history, a fairly recent development, this music would not be available.

There is one other thing I must say by way of prefatory remarks, namely, that composers, among all the segments of the professional music population, are the least subject to categorization, although they often segregate them-selves into cliques. Even though they are almost all eclectic and usually erudite in some fashion, they feed their creative impulses in different ways. Some composers draw almost entirely upon the very recent past and shun older traditions and techniques. I have known only one person who could be called a nonliterate but "useful" composer, and he created pieces chiefly for the theater. Although he was almost entirely illiterate, he was able, by ear and instinct, to come up with electronic tapes done with Buchla patches. Composers, made as they are from such varied and individual component traits, will react differently to and with musicologists, and occasionally some

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will not respond at all. A good many other composers, and I think I am one of these, tend primarily to react, hot after information, but also to push specific scholarly information back somewhere into the recesses of the intellect. They float the iceberg of data so that only the factual tip is visible, while the effective mass which becomes idiomatic influence is merged synthetically into a part of the general personality profile. In my opinion, most composers do not believe that any amount of theoretical analysis can describe a good piece completely, or that any amount of historical research into a given period or style can explain the usefulness of that material to them. But I, for one, still rely heavily on information gleaned from the research or thoughts of others.

The universities and colleges, which, as a group, provide an important protective umbrella for the arts in the United States, offer an arena for easy communication among composers, performers, and music historians. Solely from my own experience, I think that, for the most part, the contacts are functional and travel primarily in one direction-outward from the musicolo-gist. Perhaps this is a normal meaning of research and scholarship. A per-former, let us say a pianist, might find, through someone else's research, certain works of Wagenseil, Cannabich, or Soler which he wants to present in public. He may, on the other hand, discover something in the jumpy little rhythms of Landini that he can sense and project in a 20th-century piece. Although musicologists are performing early music in concert halls and salons more frequently than they used to, the taste for living music history often seems, at present, to be largely missing. I remember talks I had with Hans David over Roman dinners in which I felt that he took little from me except chatter and amusement, since he admittedly cared nothing for any music of the past century and a half. He, on the contrary, was stimulating for me, as he talked, for example, about The Musical Offering and made it more accessible to me. I still refer to his edition of the work. From what David said, I gathered that his work on Bach was pretty much a straight research job and that Bach's music was a little late stylistically for his own preferences, and a bit decadent at that!

I like to say that once upon a time I, too, was a musicologist for a while, but I doubt that I properly deserved the label in terms of career professional-ism. Yet I carried the designation publicly, and my topic was contemporary Spanish music, one that led me into earlier music and into nonmusical but tangential fields as I acquired a background in the subject. Having read just enough about recent events in Spain to know that something was afoot which was new and vital and very different from flamenco and other folk-provincial music, and also different from DeFalla and Granados, I had developed a "research curiosity." I could not satisfy this curiosity readily at a distance, since practically nothing pertinent and recent about Spanish music had been written in the English language except for one article by Arthur Custer, in The Musical Quarterly.1 I applied for a grant to go to Spain and lived there for two years while engaged in "research." As a composer and a

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"nonprofessional" musicologist, I had some trouble getting myselfhyphenat-ed, i.e., becoming a composer-musicologist. On the musical scene one is always one or the other.

I t was stimulating to have the fertilization from two directions, to be both the giver and taker, to bring my composing experience to bear upon the new material, at the same time to accept some influences, and, all the while, to accomplish my main purpose of obtaining the information I wanted and writing about it. A good deal of the research was almost journalistic, since it dealt with active composers and conductors and involved interviews with the Ministry of Popular Culture personnel. I did, however, spend much time in certain archives, such as those of the National Radio-Television. One peri-pheral pleasure was having my articles relating to Spanish musical life pub-lished almost immediately. This probably parallels the satisfaction a careful historical researcher gleans from having the results of his work appear in print.

My involvement with Spain became more intense than I had anticipated, partly because my introduction to the core of musical happenings was im-mediate and spontaneous, but more importantly because of the unique characteristics of Spain's music history, past and present. The most striking fact I found is that composers in Spain have partially skipped a phase of development that was pronounced elsewhere: the epoch of Stravinsky, Hindemith, and Bartok. In composers such as Luis de Pablo, Cristobal Halffter, and Carmelo Bernaola, the schism with the traditions of DeFalla and Granados is complete, and there was no generation of preceding com-posers to bridge the idiomatic gap between the national-folklore tradition and what is termed the current international avant-garde. Undoubtedly, some of the reasons lie in the political-economic realm-Spain's internal difficulties in the 1930's and 1940's.

Other explanations have to do with deeper and more permanent condi-tions. Spain has undergone a unique national development, having its own wars at its own times, and not participating openly in this century in the major international conflicts. Its music history has been its own as well. There were high points in the 16th century and bright moments in the 17th. The 19th century saw no great parallel to the growth of the symphony and opera that occurred elsewhere. Spain has had orchestras of international repute for only about half a dozen years, and the most significant event in this realm has been the founding of the National Radio-Television Orchestra. Furthermore, in Spain nationalism versus internationalism is not so much the real issue; rather, it is provincialism versus modernity.

Whether it is healthy or not, perhaps the outstanding feature of Spanish culture has been, after all, the artistic autonomy of the provinces. To be the most distinguished composer, the most revered of one's own province, has been the goal of many otherwise unknown Spaniards, and this ambition must at least have kept creators in touch with audiences. I would venture to say, for example, that Cabezon was concerned mostly about the status he

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had in Burgos! Certainly this individuality of the provinces has made possible the most varied and colorful folk-related music in all of Europe. For the past few years Spain has been changing rapidly; she is now in a period oftremen-dous growth and is joining the modern world. There are those who nos-talgically resist this direction, but I prefer to think of the changes as a sort of renaissance.

My involvement in my main research effort and inevitably related subjects was intensified by the scrambling of my historical preconceptions. Most of us are oriented toward the Germanic view of history as logical movement and growth through historical necessity. Causes and effects can be discovered in Spanish history as well, but they are less apparent and more evanescent. Some events even appear to occur only by chance.

It is not my intention in this article to give a detailed account of what I found in Spanish music, for I have written much of this information in other periodicals.2 My aim here is to indicate the satisfaction I found in being my own researcher.

I cannot quite understand the vitriolic competition and violent disagree-ment that is often evident between some composers and some musicologists. Composers should not be unduly concerned or upset by musicologists' occasional tendencies toward limitation and microscopic focus. Research, taken as a totality of its little pieces, should expand vistas. In any event, a good piece of research can either be used or ignored.

I have one concluding thought relating to vistas, perspectives, and the proper influences of musicological research. In all other areas of historical-scholarly research, particularly those concentrating upon sociological, economic, and political questions, certain titans of scholarship have appeared on the scene who not only exposed the results of their research but were also able to synthesize their thinking to such an extent that they influenced the course of human events. This must be the ultimate task for musicology, too.

NOTES

1 "Contemporary Music in Spain," The Musical QuarterlY 51 (January 1965): 44-60. 2 "Report from Spain," The Musical QuarterlY 52 (July 1966): 380-83; "The New Dada in

Spanish Music," Antioch Review (Spring 1967); "Report from Spain," The Musical QuarterlY 53 (October 1967): 576-80; "EI nuevo dadaismo en la mlisica de Espana," Humboldt 33 (1968). Also a series of reports from Spain during 1966-68 for High Fidelity/Musical America which included "In Spain, New Music on the Rise," 16 (August 1966): MA 18-19; "Notes from Our Correspondents. Madrid," 17 (ApriI1967): 18-22; and, with A. de Larrocha, "Grana-dos," 17 (December 1967): 56-58.

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Musicology and the Composer

Otto Luening

In preparing for this article, I thought it would be good to start with de-finitions of musicology. To my surprise, my desk dictionary did not list the word, and so I read the definition in Grove's Dictionary, which I found mag-nificently vague: "MUSICOLOGY. This term has occurred more and more frequently of recent years in English books, periodicals and articles. It is used to express the scientific study of music in the widest sense. In France and America the word has been in current use for some considerable time .... " etc., etc.1 Under "Method" Grove's says, "It is still sometimes ques-tioned whether the term musicology really corresponds to the idea it is meant to express or whether it has merely come into use for the convenience of having a single word for 'musical science.'''2 As Busoni used to say, "One knows what one means, doesn't one?"

But in my search to find out what I was writing about, I did come across Adler's table from his Methode der Musikgeschichte, and I saw that it included the general teaching of music; the teaching of harmony and counterpoint; the teaching of composition; the teaching of orchestration; methods of teaching singing and instrumental playing; the laws of the compositions of each epoch, as they are conceived and taught by the theorists of each period and as they appear in the practice of the arts. The "systematic" section men-tions the tabulation of the chief laws applicable to the various branches of music and their investigation and justification in harmony, rhythm, and melody. Contributory sciences include general history, chronology, diplo-macy, literature and languages, biography, acoustics, physiology, psychol-ogy, grammar, metrics, aesthetics, etc.

After due deliberation I concluded that I have been a musicologist all my life but did not know it. However, it also seems that with such an all-inclusive table of subjects and sub-subjects, hardly anyone can escape being a musicol-ogist in one field or another. So, if! am asked what effect musicology has had on me as a composer, I find that, in self-defense and while groping for an answer, I reverse the question and ask, "How has composition affected musicology?" But after coming up for air, I find that I am somewhat preju-diced!

My first contacts with musicology were when I heard lectures by Adolf Sandberger, read his Life and Works if Peter Cornelius, and used some of his Bavarian Denkmiiler. So far, well and good. But Sandberger fancied himself a composer, and when I heard one of his orchestral works, Overture to a Drama, in Munich around 1913, I was astonished that anybody could make an orchestra sound as horrible as he did. I then realized that only a very learned man could know exactly what to leave out in order to make the end result hopelessly dreary and dismal.

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But to be fair, I must say that in some of his greener fields of research, Sandberger probably did have an influence on me. He was Curator of the Music Department of the State Library in Munich, and I used that library a lot; I also used his Denkmiiler quite a bit, and other Denkmiiler as well. I could not escape his Lassus research and was almost moved to tears when I saw that he had written a study of Chabrier's Gwendoline, a study which I have avoided reading to this very day.

But now back to Adler's list. Having participated in the General Teaching of Music since I was fifteen years old, I suppose that this subject did have an influence on me as a composer. I have been involved ever since in such various activities as the teaching of harmony, counterpoint, composition, and orchestration, and methods of teaching singing and instrumental playing; and I am sure that as a composer I must have been influenced by this whole business.

Having been drafted from time to time to teach history of music, survey, and theory courses, and having been a practitioner in the arts, I imagine again that these activities probably had a considerable influence on me as a composer. As part of the job I had to investigate and justify many interesting laws of harmony, rhythm, and melody, although I am afraid I was not very systematic about it (I probably realized that if I became too systematic I would not do much composing). Here again I was influenced by musicology and kept certain areas at arm's length, so that they would not infringe on the marvelous world of composition. I must admit, however, that the teaching of compositional systems and of orchestration had quite an influence on me as a composer, because it taught me to differentiate between that which is teach-able and that which is not, the latter being, perhaps, much the more im-portant to the composer.

Under the other headings I have listed above, no one who has been called upon to teach general history can escape without getting some vague know-ledge of it, and chronology is very handy if you want to put things in the right order. The latter field, I am sure, influenced my composing, because I have long since given up the idea of beginning at the very beginning of any-thing and carrying it through to the very end.

Diplomacy is, of course, what one needs in order to get along with any of one's colleagues in any of the aforementioned fields, and with an administra-tion. I like libraries and have often used them but offer, as an important innovation that will help composers and perhaps others, a new cataloguing system. I suggest one that will bring the user in the shortest possible time from card catalogue to book, score, or record. Arrows and maps might be useful.

My research in acoustics has helped me very much as a composer because I am of the old-fashioned school that likes a little sound with its music, and so physiology too has always interested me. My studies indicate that unless the general level of rock and roll is reduced, we will have a generation with a severely damaged hearing capacity. This affects me as a composer, for what

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is the use of writing certain kinds of music, if people have become so deaf that they cannot hear them?

Psychology, another of the contributing sciences in Adler's systematic section, has definitely been of use to me as a composer, but only in the applied psychology department. Without it, how could one communicate, endure, and be endured by one's students and colleagues over the years?

The direct influence of any of these fields has hit me hardest when it has come from a composer turned musicologist, that is to say, a composer writing about anyone of these subjects. I think of Berlioz, Richard Wagner, Robert Schumann, Liszt, Busoni, Weingartner, the Strauss-Hofmannsthal letters, Abbe Vogler, Zarlino, Debussy, Carl Maria von Weber, Reichardt, and many others. But I have also been influenced by noncomposing musicologists, or by musicologists who have no practical knowledge of music at all. I think here of Thayer's Beethoven, a magnificent biography; Jacques Barzun's Berlioz; Scriabin, by Faubion Bower, a pianist turned writer; Schopenhauer's attempts to describe music; and St. Foix's Mozart biography.

Some musicological efforts have had no influence on me at all. I think of the musicologists' musicologists, who will come up with some special studies, such as "The History of the Violin Bow from Horse to Hindemith," or "The Significance of the Note G in the Works of Johann Sebastian Bach," or per-haps "Musical Figures and Other Figures that Figured in Wagner's Tristan and Isolde." These, I think, are more for the specialist.

I hope that this tribute to an emerging field, already populated with many activists who are making their scholarship sound, will be accepted for what it is: words without song.

NOTES

1 Groves Dictionary of Music and Musicians, 5th ed., ed. Eric Blom, vol. 5 (London: St. Mar-tin's Press, 1954), pp. 1020-21.

2 Ibid., p. 1021.

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Cerebration or Celebration

David McAllester

Until recently the place of performance in a liberal arts education was hardly a matter of debate where the arts of liberal arts were concerned. Performance in the arts has been considered distinctly second class, infra dig, base, common, and popular, at least from the time of the ascendency of the German university system, that enormously influential prototype of "civi-lized" education all over the world. No doubt, Plato's mistrust of the arts as unreal ("the shadow of a shadow") but nevertheless able to disrupt ration-ality lies behind the purdah they have enjoyed so widely and so long.

This was not always the case. Some of our "Old Ones" in Greece and China considered performance in music, poetry, and sometimes even paint-ing and dance to be necessary parts of a proper education. Traces of this wisdom remain with us to this day. Mao Tse-Tung and Emperor Hirohito are honored for their poetic skill, as are not a few South American generals and presidents. The North European-Platonic blight has not been quite universal in its effects, but we need to remember how low we have fallen: dance relegated to "phys. ed.," performance confined to conservatories granting degrees in "science" rather than in "arts" and elsewhere denied academic credit.

This state of affairs is all the more strange when one reflects on the in-sistence upon performance in other areas of liberal knowledge. Proficiency in languages is measured by fluency; the physicist must show his skill in the laboratory; anthropologists and geologists, as other examples, earn their spurs in their field work.

For me the question of performance in the liberal arts was settled when I first met Mantle Hood on the occasion of the formal organization of the Society for Ethnomusicology at the Fifth International Congress of the Anthropological and Ethnological Sciences, which took place in Philadelphia in 1956. Mantle held forth on his concept of "bi-musicality" and cited his own experience and that of his students to show that it was possible for non-Indonesians to perform gamelan music well enough to please Indonesians. (President Sukarno on a state visit to the United States was enchanted to be greeted with such a performance.) More importantly, Mantle stressed that essential dimensions of musical understanding could be acquired only through performance.

When Robert E. Brown joined the Wesleyan faculty, his dedication to non-Western performance formed a true marriage with our own well-established dedication to Western performance. Faculty and students were soon seated cross-legged on his Indian rugs, while eating curry and practicing their sa-ri-ga-ma. It was assumed that the aptest pupils would give public concerts in Indian costume, that Indians would be coming here, and that

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we would be going to India. "Performance" meant every possible identifica-tion, experientially, with the music and the culture that produced it.

On reflection, I find that the United States is fertile soil for the doctrine of bi-musicality. Several luxuriant gardens of multi-musicality were already in full flower before the gamelan bloomed at U.C.L.A. under Mantle Hood. Jazz and blues and their subspecies were too irresistible to remain for long solely in the hands of the Blacks. Soon White imitators were outnumbering the Blacks, and in a few instances the former have been good enough to pass muster even in Black opinion. The same has happened, also without benefit of university, in urban folk singing. Not only have rural folk songs been altered to fit urban canons, but young people from the Bronx have adopted Kentucky accents, dress, and other mannerisms in a single-minded effort to conform with every nuance of what was to them a new and exciting musical tradition. A similar devotion to a new experience developed among American Indian hobbyists. I became aware of this movement in 1964 when Tony Isaacs came to Wesleyan to study American Indian music. He came from a non-Indian West Coast background, but he could sing like a Ponca or a Sioux and knew the exact shades of difference between the two styles. It was then that I learned that there were more hobbyists than there were Indians, and that some of them could sing in Plains style (one of the most difficult) well enough to be considered equals by highly regarded Indian singers. Mantle Hood's movement at the university level, then, was matched by the same devotion and practice at various popular and grass-roots levels in this country.

Another factor in the 1950's and 60's was the massive exposure of Ameri-cans to non-European cultures. Begun during World War II, it was rein-forced via the Peace Corps and increased foreign travel in the decades after 1945. American cultural isolation has thus been shattered, and the effects of our exposure are reverberating through the synapses of religion and art, where cultural nerves are most exposed. There are faint twitches even in the SCIences.

Culture shock at Wesleyan has been felt in the fields ofliterature, history, government, languages, and others, but most deeply in music. Mter Bob Brown's arrival, came an ever-growing number of visiting artists from India, Japan, Java, Mrica, and Afro-America, as well as a steady swell of students from the armed forces, from the Peace Corps, and from Western music pro-grams all over the country. Our music department was transformed from a well-loved service operation, providing operas, choruses, and concerts at a high level (but with very few majors) to one of the largest undergraduate and graduate programs at Wesleyan, both in research and in performance. It was the second Ph.D. program to be established at the college and is still the only one outside the natural sciences. The department has grown to thirty-one graduate students, thirty-three undergraduate majors, three ethnomusicologists among an academic staff of eleven, and twelve visiting artists in non-Western music among a performance-teaching staff of thirty-

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seven. With Wesleyan's student enrollment numbering about 1500 in all, these figures represent impressive support from the college.

These figures also speak eloquently with regard to the role of performance in the \Vesleyan program. Our goal is to produce exceptional scholars who will make a contribution to intercultural understanding with their know-ledge of and respect for a variety of the world's cultures through the avenue of music. We hope that whatever they write will show a sensitivity to the ma-terial that can be possible only if they have actually performed the musics they are discussing. Ideally, this performance, begun at Wesleyan under teachers from the cultures involved, will continue during a field study period in that country under conditions of maximum exposure to the culture as a whole.

We are aware of the powerful pull of any music toward experience rather than discussion: celebration rather than cerebration. Plato considered it a distraction from the Good. But we have found that most students realize the rarity of musical talent sufficient to make a living by performance alone and the special difficulty of achieving this in a new cultural setting. We prefer to think of the Good as the combination, and so far we have found that even the highest levels of attainment in performance skills have not tended to supplant "scholarship" but have, instead, given it a deeper meaning. Cerebration need not be a poor second to celebration but may be infinitely enriched by it.

This is not to say that we have been immune to the tension between per-formance and academic study. But in the decade of our program's existence we have found that performance has been a safeguard against niggling scholarship and that scholarship has added a healthy dimension of specula-tion to the creative process. Historical and analytical studies, valuable as they can be, constitute only haIfa loaf in the world of music. In dealing with the music of another century, where fragmentary memories and notations, skeletal at best, are all the record we have, half a loaf is better than none. But in ethnomusicology most of our research is done in a living music whose best performers can communicate with us. In a situation of such splendor it would be a matter of inexcusable scholarly neglect to fail to study the material in every accessible dimension.

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How I Felt on I4 March I972

Susan Thiemann Sommer Musicology and performance-just how much of a connection is there

between the two? "Not much" was the immediate and overwhelming answer in my informal poll of musicians I know well enough to ask for an honest reply. Perhaps it would be kinder, however, to say "not enough," because surely musicologists and performers do have something to say to one another. The problem is a breakdown of communication somewhere along the line.

One justification for the existence of musicology (and, concomitantly, of musicologists) is, of course, its position in the history of ideas. Like the study of English literature or medieval art, the analytical and historical study of music reveals something precious of our cultural heritage, something which, one hopes, enhances the beauty and meaning of the work of art itself. But music, unlike art or literature, depends on an intermediary creator, the per-former. Without him there is no music at all for practical purposes. The audience needs the performer; and in order for the audience to hear the music as the composer intended, the performer needs the musicologist.

From the performer's point of view the final decisions as to the interpreta-tion of a piece of music are his and rightly so. We, the audience, can only hope that he will be as well informed as possible about the basic stylistic necessities and the options available to him in terms of contemporary prac-tices of ornamentation and instrumentation, textual variants and their authenticity, and all the paraphernalia of the musicologist's art.

One of my main jobs as librarian in a major research collection located in the heart of the performing world is to bring these people together. All I can say is that it is very difficult, especially since the musicologists are usually looking down on the performers, who are, in turn, looking in a different direction. From another point of view, as a record reviewer I get a more encouraging impression. There have been audible results from the coopera-tion of sympathetic musicologists and knowledgeable performers in the field of early music in particular. Sometimes musicologist and performer is one and the same person; Thurston Dart was a perfect example. It is even more noteworthy when artists from a different sphere, Victoria de los Angeles or Cathy Berberian, for instance, can apply their skills to Spanish villancicos or Monteverdi operas. And more musicologically oriented groups have raised their performance levels high enough to sound authentically impro-visational, as witness the Early Music Quartet's dazzling rendition of the troubadour repertoire.

The influence of musicology on the garden variety musician is not nearly so clear. Of course there have been changes; we are much less likely to hear massive orchestras pounding out Mozart serenades, for example, but the gap is still there. Why? Part of the answer lies, I think, in the difference between the performer's upbringing and the musicologist's attitude.

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110st mUSICIans spend the early part of their careers concentrating on technique, being able to play or sing any passage in any piece no matter what the speed, range, or other difficulties. Their next concern is repertoire-simply learning enough pieces to meet the concert or ensemble demands of a professional career. At this point they do not have time to sift and weigh conflicting theories of performance practice; they just want to know how to do it-now, right here, in this measure. Of course, a well-brought-up novice will want the best edition. He calls it the Urtext, and he believes, naIvely and rather winningly, that it is in fact a perfect authentic score containing the answers to all his questions-questions musicologists and their ilk are all too willing to bring up and throw at him. "How do you ornament the repeats?" "Where did you get that cadenza?" "Do you follow the autograph or the first edition?" "Urtext! What do you mean? There is no such thing." "All very good for them; they haven't had to spend hours and hours every day on scales and arpeggios," mutters the young musician resentfully, and the seeds of mistrust are sown.

It is only the mature musician, or the extraordinarily intellectually gifted one, who has time to explore unusual repertoire, refine his ornamentation, and follow up the textual history of the score. Unfortunately, by the time he is ready to enjoy the benefits of scholarship fully he is often so suspicious and afraid of the whole thing that he avoids it altogether-and then feels guilty and consequently more hostile. An endless chain is forged.

This is really true. I see it behind the eyes of my friends who are performers, in the hesitant step and apologetic air of a famous opera singer approaching the librarian's desk, in the expression of a member of one of the world's great symphony orchestras who is "just inquiring for a friend." I see it and it upsets me, because I know that we musicologists are largely to blame. And we librarians, too. I realize that libraries are scary places. If I had my way, all librarians would have to do research in a strange library once every six months just to reacquaint themselves with the new reader's confusion and terror. But a library is only one of many grounds on which musicologist and performer may meet.

I t is the task of the musicologist to communicate on the right levels to the audience he wants to reach. The classroom is an obvious example. Will a semester spent in transcribing Aquitanian neumes or its equivalent really help a conservatory student, especially if this is the only exposure to musi-cology he is likely to get? The point hardly needs belaboring. I can think of a few more suggestions, however, which might help the young musicologist who really wants to reach his contemporaries in the performing world. First, turn out good performing editions if you are equipped to do so. Performers work from scores, not books. Second, write for the musician in his own journals, trade magazines, and publications aimed at music educators. Why scorn popularization? But be forewarned that it is not easy to do well. Third, get to know some professional musicians personally. They will dis-cover you are not a fabulous monster, and you, in turn, will probably learn a

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great deal of practical information from them. Finally, praise and appreciate the performing musician. A large and tender ego is the hallmark of the soloist in particular, and you may have to move carefully here, but the results of this treatment are astonishing. For a "veIl praised musician can be like a well polished Aladdin's lamp in responding enthusiastically to your suggestions, making beautiful music, and bringing your ideas alive in sound to a whole new audience. And isn't that what it's all about?

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Michael John Shott-Hugo Wolf's Music Criticisms: Trans-lation and Analysis According to Pepper's Four World Hypotheses

Ann Arbor: University Microfilms (UM order no. 64-12,087, 1964. 655 pp., Indiana University diss.)

John Morgan

Between 1884 and 1887 the attention of Viennese musical circles was drawn to the previously unknown name of Hugo Wolf. This was not because, as Wolf had hoped, he had caught their interest and enthusiasm with the brilliance of his own creative achievements in music. (As a matter of fact, Wolf had at this point in his career composed scarcely anything even sug-gesting the mastery that he was to attain within a very few years.) Rather, it was as music critic for one of the city's most widely-read magazines of fashion that the young composer made his debut. His position as a contribu-tor to the Wiener Salonblatt was secured through his friends, the K6cherts, who, as court jewelers, were important advertisers in the periodical. They were consequently able to wield their influence in Wolf's behalf upon the journal's publisher, Moritz Engel.1 The position as music critic may not have fulfilled Wolf's ambitions with regard to his introduction to Viennese musical society, but it at least provided him with regular employment for three years and released him from financial dependence upon his family. More importantly, it insured that nearly every Sunday his name would lie before the eyes of the city's elite and fashionable.

The products of Wolf's journalistic activities were gathered into book form over half a century ago by two of the composer's friends, Richard Batka and Heinrich Werner.2 For his 1964 Indiana University dissertation, Michael John Shott prepared an English translation of the 378-page Batka-Werner edition, complete with Werner's preface. While the translation accounts for the bulk of Shott's project, a brief section of commentary concludes his study.

Because copies of the Batka-Werner original are difficult to 10cate,3 and since few institutions are likely to own appropriate numbers ofthe Salonblatt-which was, after all, little more than a fashion sheet-Shott's dissertation takes on major importance as a readily available source for Wolf's significant essays. It is therefore most unfortunate that the translation as Shott leaves it is adequate neither for publication nor for continued scholarly use. Objec-tions to Shott's completed translation are of two kinds: errors of judgment and policy in the mechanical process of converting Wolf's ideas from Ger-man into English, and failure to provide the translation with the critical apparatus necessary for utilizing it as a research tool.

The translation itselffollows Wolf's text closely and accurately enough, but

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herein lies the first stumbling block. Shott's English is so bound to the Ger-man original that it is often clumsy and unidiomatic. This is particularly regrettable since Wolf's German is literary, polished, and elegant; certainly any English translation must approach a similar level in order to achieve permanent acceptability, even at the expense of a literal word-for-word rendering. Take, for example, this extract from a remarkable passage in a review (23 March 1884) inspired by Brahms's String Quintet in F Major, Op. 88. Shott's translation4 is here juxtaposed against the German origina1.5

Die Phantasie des Komponisten The imagination of the composer schwelgt nur in pittoresken Bil- abounds in picturesque images; dern; die frostigen Novembernebel, the frosty fogs of November, die sonst tiber seine Kompositionen which usually lie over his compo-sich lagern undjedem warmen Her- sitions and take the breath away zenslaut, noch ehe er erklingen from every warm sound coming kann, den Atem benehmen,-hier from the heart even before it can entdecken wir keine Spur davon: be heard,-here we detect no trace alles ist sonnig, bald heller, of all this; everything is sunny, bald dammriger; ein zauberhaftes now brighter, now duskier, a magi-Smaragdgrtin gieBt sich tiber dieses cal emerald green is poured over marchenhafte Frtihlingsbild aus. this fairy tale picture of spring. All Alles grtint und knospet. Ja man is green and budding. Yes, one h6rt formlich das Gras wachs en- can practically hear the grass die Natur so geheimnisvoll, so grow-nature so mysterious, so feierlich still, so selig verklart, solemnly peaceful, so blissfully -der Komponist konnte sich radiant,-the composer had to nur mit Gewalt durch raschen Ent- drag himself away from this magic schluB dies em Zauber entziehen, so only through forcing a quick re-sehr hielt ihn die Muse im Banne. solution, so securely did the muse 1m zweiten Satze senken sich hold him in bondage. In the se-die Schatten tiefer herunter. Der cond movement the shadows sink Abend und allmahlich die Nacht lower. The evening and gradually htillen die phantastischen Gebilde the night envelop the fantastic des wunderlichen Lebens aus dem configurations of the strange life ersten Satze ein. Tiefes Sinnen of the first movement. Deep medi-und Schweigen. Ein lebhaft be- tation and silence. A sprightly, wegtes anmutiges Bild durchschwirrt animated, graceful image whirls die tiefe Einsamkeit. Es ist, als through the deep loneliness. It ob Gltihwtirmer ihren Reigen tanz- is like fireflies doing a round ten, so blitzt und funkelt es in den dance, flashing and sparkling in hastigen Figuren der Instrumente. the hurried passages of the instru-Aber das Bild verschwindet. Die ments. But the image disappears. vorige Stille tritt ein, urn jedoch The earlier silence comes back, to wiederum durch ein ahnliches Motiv be interrupted again by a similar unterbrochen zu werden. In selt- motif. In strange harmonies which samen Harmonien, die wie zwischen modulate between dreams and Traum und Wachen modulieren, waking, this mysterious tone verhallt dieses mysteri6ses Tonge- picture dies away. malde.

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Frank Walker, in the chapter of his biography dealing with Wolf's criti-cism, translates the same passage as follows:6

The imagination of the composer revels in picturesque images; we find no trace of the frosty November mists that elsewhere brood over his compositions and stifle each warm tone from the heart before it can sound out-all is sunny, now brighter, now more dim; a magical emerald green is diffused over this fairy-like picture of spring; every-thing grows green and buds, one really hears the grass growing-nature is so mysterious, so solemnly still, so blissfully transfigured-the composer could only by a sudden effort of will withdraw himself from this magic, so closely did the muse hold him under her spell. In the second movement the shadows sink lower. Evening, and then night, shroud the fantaslic creations that moved so wonderfully in the first movement. Deep meditation and silence. An animated form moves through the deep solitude. It is as if glow-worms danced their rounds, it flashes and sparkles so in the rushing figures of the instruments. But the form disappears. The former silence returns, to be once again broken by a similar motive. In strange harmonies, that modulate between dream and waking, this mysterious tone-picture dies away.

Certainly Walker's translation conveys the sense of Wolf's remarks as well as Shott's, but it reads in English with a polish that reflects the quality of style found in Wolf's German-a quality that inspired Walker to apply the term "prose poem" to some of the composer's best writing. A strong sense of poetry also graces Ernest Newman's somewhat freer rendering of selections from the same review.7

Beyond this general criticism of Shott's manner of converting German into English, there are particular problems in the translation that betray Shott's provincialism in approaching 19th-century music. For example, Wolf sometimes refers to the titles of individual works in the original language, sometimes in the German equivalent. This is a common and perfectly na-tural outgrowth of the fact that music, particularly in the operatic sphere, has always been somewhat multilingual in Germany. Since, however, in modern English most operas are referred to either by their original titles or by some commonly-recognized English translation, one title should be employed consistently. II Trovatore, for example, should not appear as Troubadour (pp. 6, 56)8; L' Enfance du Christ is known better by that title than by The Childhood of the Lord (p. 473). Guillaume Tell is probably more familiar as William Tell, but in any event should not be called Guglielmo Tell (p. 52). Auber's La Muette de Portici is best known by that title or by its subtitle, Masaniello; few readers would know the work as Mute Woman of Portici (p. 9). Sometimes Shott's use of titles suggests that he is unsure about the country of origin. There can be no excuse, however, for the appearance of titles like Robert der Teufel (p. 81), Die Afrikanerin (p. 81), Die Jiidin (p. 91), or fo r the consistent misspellings Symphonie phantastique and The Hugenots.

Shott's failure to provide his text with a critical apparatus points the way

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to another project that must be undertaken before Wolf's CritiCisms can appear in a satisfactory edition. In the first place, the Batka-Werner edition, while complete in most respects, does contain certain clearly indicated de-letions. These could be restored by reference to the Salonblatt itself. Complete information about the programs reviewed by Wolf should also be provided in critical notes, including the date and place of each performance, a list of performers, and the title of each work presented. For example, Wolf may refer to a "Brahms symphony," without any further indication; more thorough documentation would eliminate such obscurities and allow more immediate access to Wolf's observations.

Shott's "analysis" section explores questions that appear, to this reviewer at least, of dubious value. The author sets himself (p. 541) the task of testing the "validity" of Wolf's criticisms. After a labored discussion of what validity is, why it is important, and then a capsule biography of Wolf, we read the following, which is the cornerstone of justification for the edifice that Shott is about to construct (pp. 554-55) :

Although Wolf was certain that the styles of Berlioz, Wagner, and Liszt were going to constitute the foundation for the future, subsequent history has proved him mistaken. Had he lived for another twenty years, he would have become a witness to a marked reaction against the romanticism in which he believed so strongly. Today Brahms is con-sidered a great composer, and the opinions of Wolf's adversaries seem to have been vindicated, while the works of Wagner and Liszt no longer enjoy the esteem accorded to them by Wolf and his supporters.

Having assumed that history has settled the supposed Brahms-"Wagner controversy once and for all and has thereby rendered \Volf's criticisms "invalid" in one sense, Shott sets out to test "whether Wolf's judgments of compositions and performances are based upon standards that may be con-sidered valid in the light of acceptable aesthetic criteria of the present day" (p. 559). Before this test can be made, however, Shott screens vVolf's reviews to arrive at a core of material that meets the requirements of being at least 125 words in length, exclusively devoted to clear opinions about a composi-tion or performance (rather than description), and characterized by ob-jectivity rather than subjective bias. Shott is thus left with about eighty pages of Wolf's writing-less than twenty per cent of all the criticisms published in the Salonblatt. At this point there follows a chapter surveying Shott's search for "acceptable aesthetic criteria" against which to weigh the reduced body of criticism (pp. 576-87). The choice falls upon the system first expounded by Stephen C. Pepper in World If;potheses9 and amplified in his The Basis of Criticism in the Arts.1° In a chapter summarizing Pepper's ideas Shott describes each of the four hypotheses and then concludes (p. 599) :

The critic, then, must ask the following separate questions about a work of art: (1) How pleasant are the feelings it arouses? (2) How vivid an experience does it provide? (3) How well integrated is it? (4) How satisfying is it to a normal person?

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All this is by way of preparation for a very brief (twelve-page) section of analysis, in which Shott demonstrates that Wolf never seems to have applied Pepper's "mechanist" standard (number 1 above) to a musical work, and that his criteria are valid primarily by "formist" standards (number 4 above).

Even if one is willing to accept the premise of Shott's approach, one cannot help but feel that he has drawn back from reaching the inevitable conclusion of his own researches: that Wolf's criticisms are, by Pepper's standards, invalid. On page 598 we learn that Pepper's method demands the simul-taneous involvement of all four viewpoints represented by the world hypo-theses:

The only requirement that must be fulfilled to arrive at a valid judgment is that all of these four world hypotheses are to be consulted. The per-ceiver of a work of art can and often does reflect only one. However, if the critic disregards the ideas of even one of the four, it would prevent him from arriving at a fair judgment, because the data would not be comprehensive, as we are using the term.

Since, according to Shott's findings, Wolf never expressed in his written reviews a single attitude that reflected the composite of all four world hypo-theses, one must conclude that his essays are, in these terms, invalid. Shott's failure to draw this conclusion would seem to indicate that he is as unconfi-dent in the approach he has taken as we are.ll

Certainly, an examination of the circumstances surrounding Wolf's assumption of his post with the Salonblatt, as well as a consideration of the audience for which the reviews were intended, suggests that the application of such abstract, ideal criteria as those advanced by Shott is extremely unfair. Wolf aimed to set down what he considered the faults of musical society in the Vienna of his day; but he was not prepared to do so in the systematic, analytical way demanded by Pepper's methods, nor would such an approach have interested or satisfied his readers. The story12 that Wolf rejected the idea of publishing his criticisms in book form because they were poorly written has baffled biographers, since, as reviews, they are extremely well written. In fact, Wolf's attitude may have arisen from an unwillingness to present his ideas in the impassioned Salonblatt style before a more discerning public. The delectable treat Wolf whipped up to please Vienna's dilettantes would not, he knew, satisfy the more substantial and circumspect tastes of the Musikus.

Beyond this, the question of "validity" in Wolf's criticisms is, for the historian, quite beside the point. Because Wolf ranks as an important figure in the development of new music in the later 19th century and because his criticisms reflect his tastes and preferences in colorful and meaningful prose, they have already earned a validity of their own and are more interesting when studied as historical documents than as mere records of opinion. From this standpoint the Musikalische Kritiken are a musicologist's treasure-trove. Surely, for example, Wolf's thoughts with regard to the symphonic poem

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recorded here are of major significance in casting some light on his own important essay in the genre, Penthesilea, with which he was occupied while writing for the Salonblatt. Wolf's observations on songs and song-writing are few and far between in the criticism; yet he discusses the qualities he found admirable and damnable in most of the famous singers of his time. Not only do these comments illustrate the composer's ideas about what constitutes good musicianship and good drama, but they are also a guideline to what he expected-no, counted upon-for effective delivery of his own songs. Furthermore, many of the artists reviewed by W olflived long enough to make recordings. Gustav Walter, for example, who seems to have been among the first well-known singers in Vienna to abandon opera for the recital hall, always received Wolf's warm approval. Walter's voice was, from Wolf's comments, already in decline in the 1880's, and by the time he cut records early in 1904 there was little left of its former glory. But the sensitivity to poetry, the vividness of interpretation combined with smooth vocal tech-nique that fired Wolf's imagination twenty years before, may still be heard by students of the Lieder-singer's art. Nor is it difficult to discern from Lilli Leh-mann's recordings the virago side of her delivery that sometimes offended Wolf and inspired his poetic vision of the soul of Isolde.13 Similarly, Wolf's comments on operatic composition and production, performance at the piano, and the art of ensemble playing take on particular significance and interest when considered in conjunction with the products of Wolf's own career as a composer.

In other words, Wolf's criticisms, like those of other composer-critics, are most valuable when they reflect upon his own musical ideas and feelings; no analysis can be considered satisfactory if it fails to deal with this aspect of their importance as historical documents. Shott's avoidance of these matters for what seems, by comparison, an intellectual goose-chase seriously under-mines the musicological significance of his project and leaves much to be considered in some future study of Wolf's essays.

NOTES

1 Frank Walker, Hugo Wolf: A Biography (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1968), p. 147. 2 Hugo Wolfs musikalische Kritiken (Leipzig: Breitkopf & Hartel, 1911). 3 On p. viii of his dissertation Shott lists the six libraries he knew to hold copies in 1964. 4 Shott, p. 45. o Batka-Werner, p. 31. 6 Walker, pp. 157-58. 7 Hugo Wolf (New York: Dover Publications, Inc., 1966), pp. 37-38. 8 All page numbers in the text refer to Shott's dissertation. 9 Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1961. 10 Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1963. 11 Shott, in fact, appears to lay the groundwork for this conclusion on p. 607. But he

ultimately backs down from the harsher verdict, allowing in his final summary that Wolf's criticisms are "valid according to formist standards" (p. 621).

12 Related by Walker, pp. 161-62. 13 Review for 25 January 1885; Batka-Werner, pp. 137-38.

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