Volume 1 — THE JOURNAL OF SPECULATIVE PHILOSOPHY. Vol. I. 1867. No. 4. (continued 2)
Reading edition
Nevertheless, the designation is valid only for the stand-point of reflection or of analysis, and cannot be applied for synthesis at all; and thus our system leaves off exactly at the point where the Dynamical Physics of Kant and his successors begins, namely, at the antithesis as it presents itself in the product.
And with this the author delivers over these Elements of a System of Speculative Physics to the thinking heads of the age, begging them to make common cause with him in this science, which opens up views of no mean order, and to make up by their own powers, acquirements and external relations, for what, in these respects, he lacks.
[The notes not marked as “Remarks of the original” are by the German Editor.—Note of the Translator.]
ANALYSIS OF HEGEL’S ÆSTHETICS. [Translated from the French of M. Ch. Benard, by J. A. Martling.]
II. Sculpture.—Architecture fashions and disposes of the masses of inert nature according to geometric laws, and it thus succeeds in presenting only a vague and incomplete symbol of the thought. Its [thought’s] progress consists in detaching itself from physical existence, and in expressing spirit in a manner more in conformity with its nature. The first step which art takes in this career does not yet indicate the return of spirit upon itself, which would render necessary a wholly spiritual mode of expression, and signs as immaterial as thought; but spirit appears under a corporeal, organized living form. What art represents is the animate, living body, and above all the human body, with which the soul is completely identified. Such is the rôle and the place which belong to Sculpture.
It still resembles architecture in this, that it fashions extended and solid material; but it is distinguished from it in this, that this material, in its hands, ceases to be foreign to spirit. The corporeal form blends with it, and becomes its living image. Compared to poetry, it seems at first to have the advantage over it of representing objects under their natural and visible form, while speech expresses ideas only by sounds; but this plastic clearness is more than compensated by the superiority of language as a means of expression. Speech reveals the innermost thoughts with a clearness altogether different from the lines of the figure, the countenance, and the attitudes of the body; further, it shows man in action—active in virtue of his ideas and his passions; it retraces the various phases of a complete event. Sculpture represents neither the inmost sentiments of the soul, nor its definite passions. It presents the individual character only in general, and 221to such an extent as the body can express in a given moment, without movement, without living action, without development. It yields also, in this respect, to painting, which, by the employment of color and the effects of light, acquires more of naturalness and truth, and, above all, a great superiority of expression. Thus, one might think at first that Sculpture would do well to add to its own proper means those of painting. This is a grave error; for that abstract form, deprived of color, which the statuary employs is not an imperfection in it—it is the limit which this art places upon itself.
Each art represents a degree, a particular form of the beautiful, a moment of the development of spirit, and expresses it excellently. To Sculpture it belongs to represent the perfection of the bodily form, plastic beauty, life, soul, spirit animating a body. If it should desire to transcend this limit, it would fail entirely; the use of foreign means would alter the purity of its works.
It is with art here as with science; each science has its object, peculiar, limited, abstract; its circle, in which it moves, and where it is free. Geometry studies extension, and extension only; arithmetic, number; jurisprudence, the right; &c. Allow any one to encroach upon the others, and to aim at universality; you introduce into its domain confusion, obscurity, real imperfection. They develop differently different objects; clearness, perfection, and even liberty, are to be purchased only at this price.
Art, too, has many phases; to each a distinct art corresponds. Sculpture stops at form, which it fashions according to its peculiar laws; to add color thereto is to alter, to disfigure its object. Thereby it preserves its character, its functions, its independence; it represents the material, corporeal side, of which architecture gives only a vague and imperfect symbol. It is given to painting, to substitute for this real form, a simple visible appearance, which then admits color, by joining to it the effects of perspective, of light and shade. But Sculpture ought to respect its proper limits, to confine itself to representing the corporeal form as an expression of the individual spirit, of the soul, divested of passion and definite sentiment. In so doing, it can so much the better content itself with the human form in itself, in which the soul is, as it were, spread over all points.
Such is also the reason why Sculpture does not represent spirit in action, in a succession of movements, having a determined end, nor engaged in those enterprises and actions which manifest a character. It prefers to present it in a calm attitude, or when the movement and the grouping indicate only the commencement of action. Through this very thing, that it presents to our eyes spirit absorbed in the corporeal form, designed to manifest it in its entirety, there is lacking the essential point where the expression of the soul centres itself, the glance of the eye. Neither has it any need of the magic of colors, which, by the fineness and variety of their shadings, are fitted to express all the richness of particular traits of character, and to manifest the soul, with all the emotions which agitate it. Sculpture ought not to admit materials of which it has no need at the step where it stops. The image fashioned by it, is of a single color; it employs primitive matter, the most simple, uniform, unicolored: marble, ivory, gold, brass, the metals. It is this which the Greeks had the ability perfectly to seize and hold.
After these considerations upon the general character of Sculpture, and its connections with other arts, Hegel approaches the more special study and the theory of this art. He considers it—1st, in its principle; 2d, in its ideal; 3d, in the materials which it employs, as well as in its various modes of representation and the principal epochs of its historic development.
We are compelled to discard a crowd of interesting details upon each of these points, and to limit ourselves to general ideas.
1. To seize fully the principle of Sculpture and the essence of this art, it is necessary 222to examine, in the first place, what constitutes the content of its representations, then the corporeal form which should express it; last, to see how, from the perfect accord of the idea and the form, results the ideal of Sculpture as it has been realized in Greek art.
The essential content of the representations of Sculpture is, as has been said, spirit incarnate in a corporeal form. Now, not every situation of the soul is fitted to be thus manifested. Action, movement, determined passion, can not be represented under a material form; that ought to show to us the soul diffused through the entire body, through all its members. Thus, what Sculpture represents is the individual spirit, or, according to the formula of the author, the spiritual individuality in its essence, with its general, universal, eternal character; spirit elevated above the inclinations, the caprices, the transient impressions which flow in upon the soul, without profoundly penetrating it. This entire phase of the personal principle ought to be excluded from the representations of Sculpture. The content of its works is the essence, the substantial, true, invariable part of character, in opposition to what is accidental and transient.
Now, this state of spirit, not yet particularized, unalterable, self-centered, calm, is the divine in opposition to finite existence, which is developed in the midst of accidents and contingencies, the exhibition of which this world of change and diversity presents us.
According to this, Sculpture should represent the divine in itself, in its infinite calm, and its eternal, immovable sublimity, without the discord of action and situation. If, afterward, affecting a more determinate mode, it represents something human in form and character, it ought still to thrust back all which is accidental and transient; to admit only the fixed, invariable side, the ground of character. This fixed element is what Sculpture should express as alone constituting the true individuality; it represents its personages as beings complete and perfect in themselves, in an absolute repose freed from all foreign influence. The eternal in gods and men is what it is called upon to offer to our contemplation in perfect and unalterable clearness.
Such is the idea which constitutes the essential content of the works of Sculpture. What is the form under which this idea should appear? We have seen, it is the body, the corporeal form. But the only form worthy to represent the spirit, is the human form. This form, in its turn, ought to be represented, not in that wherein it approximates the animal form, but in its ideal beauty; that is to say, free, harmonious, reflecting the spirit in the features which characterize it, in all its proportions, its purity, the regularity of its lines, by its mien, its postures, etc. It should express spirit in its calmness, its serenity—both soul and life, but above all, spirit.
These principles serve to determine the ideal of beauty under the physical form.
We must take care, in the works of Sculpture, not to confound this manner of looking at the perfect correspondence of the soul and bodily forms, with the study of the lineaments of the countenance, etc. The science of Gall, or of Lavater, which studies the correspondence of characters with certain lineaments of face or forms of head, has nothing in common with the artistic studies of the works of the statuary. These seem, it is true, to invite us to this study; but its point of view is wholly different; it is that of the harmonious and necessary accord of forms, from which beauty results. The ground of Sculpture excludes, moreover, precisely all the peculiarities of individual character to which the physiognomist attaches himself. The ideal form manifests only the fixed, regular, invariable, although living and individual type. It is then forbidden to the artist, as far as regards the physiognomy, to represent the most expressive and determinate lineaments of the countenance; for, beside looks, properly so-called, the expression of the physiognomy includes many things which are reflected transiently upon the face, in the countenance or the carriage, the smile and the glance. Sculpture should interdict to itself things so 223transient, and confine itself to the permanent traits of the expression of the spirit; in a word, it should incarnate in the human form the spiritual principle in its nature, at once general and individual, but not yet particularized. To maintain these two terms in just harmony, is the problem which falls to statuary, and which the Greeks have resolved.
The consequences to be deduced from these principles are the following:
In the first place, Sculpture is, more than the other arts, suited to the ideal, and this because of the perfect adaptation of the form to the idea; in the second place, it constitutes the centre of classic art, which represents this perfect accord of the idea and the sensuous form. It alone, in fact, offers to us those ideal figures, pure from all admixture—the perfect expression of physical beauty. It realizes, before our eyes, the union of the human and divine, under the corporeal form. The sense of plastic beauty was given above all to the Greeks, and this trait appears everywhere, not only in Greek art and Greek mythology, but in the real world, in historic personages: Pericles, Phidias, Socrates, Plato, Xenophon, Sophocles, Thucydides, those artistic natures, artists of themselves—characters grand and free, supported upon the basis of a strong individuality, worthy of being placed beside the immortal gods which Greek Sculpture represents.
2. After having determined the principle of Sculpture, Hegel applies it to the study of the beau ideal, as the master-pieces of Greek art have realized it. He examines successively and in detail the character and conditions of the ideal form in the different parts of the human body, the face, the looks, the bearing, the dress. Upon all these points he faithfully follows Winckelmann, recapitulates him, and constantly cites him. The philosopher meanwhile preserves his originality; it consists in the manner in which he systematizes that which is simply described in the History of Art, and in giving throughout, the reason of that which the great critic, with his exquisite and profound sense, has so admirably seized and undeniably proved, but without being able to unfold the theory of it. The subject gathers, henceforth, new interest from this explication. We may cite, in particular, the description of the Greek profile, which, in the hands of the philosopher, takes the character of a geometric theorem. It is at the same time an example which demonstrates unanswerably the absolute character of physical beauty. The beauty of these lines has nothing arbitrary; they indicate the superiority of spirit, and the pre-eminence of the forms which express it above those which are suited to the functions of the animal nature. What he afterwards says of the looks, of the bearing, of the postures, of the antique dress compared with the modern dress, and of its ideal character, presents no less interest. But all these details, where the author shows much of discrimination, of genius even, and spirit, escape in the analysis. The article where he describes the particular attributes and the accessories which distinguish the personages of Greek Sculpture, although in great part borrowed also from Winckelmann, shows a spirit familiarized with the knowledge of the works of antiquity.
3. The chapter devoted to the different modes of representation of the materials of Sculpture, and of its historic development, is equally full of just and delicate observations. All this is not alone from a theorist, but from a connoisseur and an enlightened judge. The appreciation of the materials of Sculpture, and the comparison of their æsthetic value, furnish also to the author some very ingenious remarks upon a subject which seems scarcely susceptible of interest. Finally, in a rapid sketch, Hegel retraces the historic development of Sculpture, Egyptian Statuary, Etruscan art, the school of Ægina, are characterized in strokes remarkable for precision.
Arrived at Christian Sculpture, without disputing the richness and the ability which it has displayed in its works in wood, in stone, etc., and its excellence in respect to expression, Hegel maintains with reason, that the Christian principle is little favorable to Sculpture; and that in wishing 224to express the Christian sentiment in its profundity and its vivacity, it passes its proper limits. “The self-inspection of the soul, the moral suffering, the torments of body and of spirit, martyrdom and penitence, death and resurrection, the mystic depth, the love and out-gushing of the heart, are wholly unsuited to be represented by Sculpture, which requires calmness, serenity of spirit, and in expression, harmony of forms.” Thus, Sculpture here remains rather an ornament of architecture; it sculptures saints, bas reliefs upon the niches and porches of churches, turrets, etc. From another side, through arabesques and bas reliefs, it approximates the principle of painting, by giving too much expression to its figures, or by making portraits in marble and in stone. Sculpture comes back to its true principle, at the epoch of the renaissance, by taking for models the beautiful forms of Greek art.
A DIALOGUE ON MUSIC. By Edward Sobolewski.
Q. Tell me what is good music?
A. Concerning tastes—all fine natures—not the “fair sex” only, possess, as Bossuet says, an instinct for harmony of forms, colors, style and tones, especially for the latter, because the nerves of the ear being more exposed, are consequently more sensitive.
Discords massed together without system, produce a more disagreeable effect than ill-assorted colors; and on the other hand, the etherial beauty of tone-poetry excites the soul more powerfully than the splendor of a Titian or Correggio.
Q. This “instinct” and “taste,” are they one and the same?
A. To a certain degree only—though many amateurs, critics, musicians, and even composers, have had no other guide than a fine instinct.
Q. You speak as Pistocchi to the celebrated Farinelli: “A singer needs a hundred things, but a good voice is ninety-nine of them—the hundredth is the cultivation of the voice.”
A. The instinct of a delicate, sensitive organization, may go far, but I think the hundredth thing is also necessary; therefore, one possessed of the finest voice, but uncultivated, will sing sometimes badly, sometimes pretty well, but never quite perfectly for a real judge.
So it is with taste. Depending on natural gifts alone, without cultivation—you will be sometimes right—as often wrong. In short, your taste is good, if you find pleasure in those works only which are composed according to the principles of art; on the contrary, your taste is bad, false, corrupt, if you find pleasure in music full of faults and defects.
Q. Therefore, to be correct in taste, I must know the principles of the art; I must know the rules of “Harmony, Rhythm and Form,” and perhaps much more. Why, G. Weber has written three large volumes on “Harmony” alone. No, it is too difficult and takes too much time.
A. Yet it is not so difficult as it seems. To understand music rightly, nothing is necessary but the knowledge of two keys—major and minor; two kinds of time—common and triple—one simple chord and two cadences.
Q. But Rhythm, Form?
A. Form is Rhythm, and Rhythm is time.
Q. Let us begin then with the keys, you speak of two only—major and minor—but I have heard something of Ambroseanic, Gregoryanic, Glareanic and Greek keys, wherein are composed the beautiful and sublime compositions of Palestrina, Allegri, Lotti, that are performed annually during Passion-week in the church of St. Peter, at Rome.
A. Well, if you like to go so far back, 225we will speak about Ambrose, Gregory, Glareanus, but there are no such things as “Greek” keys.
The knowledge we have of the music of the Greeks, is too slight and imperfect to enable us to assert positively anything concerning it; and as nothing important or necessary to modern art is involved, we may be content to let the music of the ancients rest in the obscurity which surrounds it.
With the first Christians, who hated everything which came from the temples of the heathens, arose our music.
Their religious songs were a production of the new soul which came into them with Jesus Christ, and are the foundation of our great edifice of art, as it now exists. In the year 385, Saint Ambrose introduced four keys, D, E, F, G; Pope Gregory, in 597, added four others to these, and named the four of Ambrose, “authentic moods,” and his four, which began on every fifth of the first four, “plagalic.” In these eight keys, without sharps or flats, are composed the liturgic songs of the Roman church, called “Gregorian chants.” They are written in notes of equal value, without Rhythm or Metre, and are sung in unison with loud voice. Glareanus added to those eight keys, two more, A and C, with their plagal moods. To distinguish more clearly, some one called the key beginning with “D,” Doric, “E,” Phrygic, “F,” Lydic, “G,” Mixolydic, “A,” Æolic, and “B,” Tonic. These names are all we have borrowed from Greece.
Palestrina, the preserver of our art, wrote his compositions in these keys, and for the highest purity of harmony, rhythmical beauty, sublime simplicity, and deep religious feeling, his works are still unrivalled.
Q. Why don’t you compose in the old keys and in Palestrina’s style?
A. They are used sometimes by Handel in his Oratorios, by Sebastian Bach in his fugues for organ and piano. Later, Beethoven has written an Andante in the Lydic mood in his string-quartette (A minor). I myself have composed the first chorus of Vinvela, in the Mixolydic mood, and in Comala, the song to the moon, in the Doric mood; but Handel, Bach, Beethoven, and myself, have written in our own style, and never imitated Palestrina’s. Men in similar situations, only, have similar ideas. All older works of music utter a language which we yet understand, but cannot speak. We feel its deep innermost accents, but we cannot tune the chords of our soul to that pitch which harmonizes in every respect with that feeling. Palestrina’s music sounds like that of another world; it is all quite simple; mostly common chords, here and there only a chord of the sixth; and always an irresistible charm.
This riddle is partially explained, if we observe how Palestrina selected the tones for the different parts in his choruses. Let us take the third, c—e; e. g. let the soprano and the alto sing this third, and you will have the same harmonic sound that the piano or organ gives. But let the tenor sing one of these tones, and soprano or alto the other, and the effect will be very different, although the tones are the same. Palestrina knew not only the particular sound of every tone in every voice, but also the effect which such or such combinations would produce.
This mystery is taught neither by a singing school, nor by a theory of composition, and few composers of to-day know it. How great and beautiful is Beethoven’s solemn mass in D! What an effect would it make, had Beethoven possessed the same knowledge of voices that he had of instruments? Now, unfortunately, one often overpowers the others, and the enjoyment of this composition will be always greater for the eye than the ear.
We will now go back to the old keys. These are taken from the music produced at that time, as our two keys, major and minor, are taken from the melodies of later times.
This seems very simple to us, but not to our great theorists. Gottfried Weber takes two keys, major c, d, e, f, g, a, b, c, and minor a, b, c, d, e, f, g sharp, the same rising and falling equally.
Hauptmann, the first teacher of harmony in the Conservatory of Music at Leipsic, says in his book, The Nature of Harmony and Metre, page 30—“The key is formed, 226when the common chord (c, e, g), after having gone through the subdominant-chord (f, a, c), and dominant-chord (g, b, d), has come in opposition with itself; this opposition coupled together, becomes unity and the key.” He finds in our music three keys, and names them, the major, the minor, and the minor major.
R. Wagner recognizes no key at all; for him exists a chromatic scale only. He says: “The scale is the most closely united, the most intimately related family among tones.” He does not like to stay long in one key, and takes the continuous change of keys for a quality of the music of the future; therefore, he finds in Beethoven’s last symphony, in the melody to Schiller’s poem, a going back, because it has scarcely any modulation.
We will not be so lavish with keys as Hauptmann, nor so economical as R. Wagner, neither are we of Weber’s opinion. We find in C major the old Glareanic key, called also “Ionic;” in our A minor of this day, a “mixtum compositum” of several old keys; it begins as the “Æolic” a, b, c, d, e, f, takes then its seventh tone, g sharp, from the Lydic, transposed a third higher; uses sometimes also the sixth of the last, accepts lastly the character of the Phrygic, transposed a fourth higher, and brings thus the tone b flat into its scale, which has been already the subject of much discussion, although that has never succeeded in throwing this tone out of many melodies in A minor. We have melodies which are the pure A minor from the beginning to the end, wherein we find f sharp and f natural, g and g sharp, b and b flat, and the last oftener than f sharp; therefore, we must build the scale of A minor, and its harmony, according to those different tones; it will
be a, {b, c, d, e, {f, {g sharp, a,
{b flat, {f sharp, {g natural.
Let us proceed. The two kinds of time are common and triple. The rhythm of the first is—__, that of the second—__ __. The accentuation of subdivisions is governed by the same law. It makes no difference whether a piece of music is written in 2|3 or 2|4, or even 2|8 time; but good composers of music, writing in 2|4 time, intend the same to be of lighter rendition than those composed in 2|2 time, etc.
Concerning harmony, there is one chord only—all other harmonies are passing notes, inversions, prolongations, suspensions or retardations of chord-tones, or from sharped and diminished intervals. Harmony is a connection of different melodies. Before chords were known, they descanted, that is, they tried to sing to a melody, commonly a sacred hymn, called cantus firmus, different harmonical tones, and named this part, Descant; Italian, soprano; French, Le dessus. Later there was added to the tenor (which performed the cantus firmus) a higher part, named alto, and lastly, a lower part was added called bass. These four parts, though each melodious and independent in itself, harmonized closely with each other, all striving for the same aim.
Even to-day we must necessarily call such music good, wherein every voice acts independently of all others, and still in harmony with the same, in order to express the reigning feeling, and sustain the various shades in contrast to non-acting and lifeless trabants, which may be strikingly seen in many compositions, particularly in four-part songs for male voices, by Abt, Gumbert, Kücken, etc., wherein three voices (Brummstimmen) accompany the fourth with a growling sound escaping their closed lips.
The two cadences or musical phrases are the cadence on the tonic and the cadence on the dominant. The cadence on the tonic, consisting of the chord in the dominant, followed by that of the tonic, concludes the sense of the musical phrase, and is called “perfect” when the tonic is in the highest and lowest part. It corresponds to a period in language. The cadence on the dominant consists of the tonic, or the chord of the second or fourth going to the dominant. The cadence of the dominant suspends the sense of the musical phrase without concluding it. This is likewise the case with the cadence on the tonic, if the tonic is not in the highest and lowest part.
Q. You say nothing of the great mistake wherein two fifths or octaves follow each other?
227A. Of course, the true nature of the proper arrangement of parts excludes all direct fifths.
It is considered by the new school “an exploded idea.” Mozart himself made use of fifths in the first finale of Don Giovanni.
Q. I have heard something of these fifths, but was told it was “irony,” being contained in the minuet which Mozart composed for “country musicians”?
A. You also find octaves in S. Bach’s “Matthew Passion,” p. 25, “On the cross,” where surely no ironical meaning was intended.
Q. Do you not say anything in regard to form?
A. Form is an “exploded idea” also. The composers of the new school construct their vocal music so as to let the poem govern the music in relation to metre and form; in their instrumental compositions, the form is governed by phantasy.
Q. But what do you understand by a symphony, sonata or overture?
A. I must again go back, in order to explain this properly.
Revolutions often beat the path for new ideas. Palestrina towers great and unattainable in his compositions of sacred music, which breathe and express the purest catholicism.
But a Luther, Zwingli, and others came, followed soon by Handel and Bach, who, about the middle of the eighteenth century, created a music full of freshness, primitiveness and transporting power, which lived and died with the reformers.
The three grand-masters, Palestrina, Handel and Bach, equal, but do not rival each other. We cannot judge them for the different sentiments they indulged in. The philosophers may settle which is the best religion, for to the necessity of one they all agree, but music cannot be chained by dogmas. Heaven is an orb, whose centre is everywhere. Palestrina’s music is the language of the south, Handel’s and Bach’s that of the north. Though one sun illumes both lands—though one ether spans both, yet in the south the sun is milder, the ether purer. Flowers which there grow in wild abundance, the north must obtain by culture.
We must think at our work.
This necessity of thought is apparent in religion, language and art, and can be seen most clearly in the greatest works of the German grand-masters, in Bach’s “Matthew Passion,” and Handel’s “Israel.”
Sebastian Bach’s astonishing dexterity in thematical works is the reason that even unto this day we do not find a symphony or overture appropriate for a concert, of which the single motive forming the principal thought of the movement is not worked up on the basis which he constructed with such deep knowledge and skill.
To him we must retrace our steps, in order to perceive the true nature of our instrumental music, for we are as little masters of the course of our ideas, as of the circulation of the blood in our veins. Centuries have passed, and although the first great instrumental-piece—the overture—was a French production, (Lulli was the first master in this genre of art,) yet Bach and Handel impressed the first decided stamp upon it.
Later, the overture was supplanted by the symphony, for the reason that it was of easier composition and execution than the former. The overture consisted of a grave, followed by a fugue. The symphony was composed somewhat in the style of a fugue and that of the lively dances of that time.
Shortly after this period, the dance-music was thought no longer fashionable, and was succeeded by two Allegros, with an Andante or Largo placed between them.
Father Hayden felt hurt at the complete abandonment of dance-music, and again adopted the minuet. Mozart also preferred the grave and majestic dancing-step of his ancestors, the minuet. But Beethoven’s impetuous and passionate nature scoffed at the slow and gracious movements of the minuet, and revelled instead in the wild Scherzo, or in the capricious demonical leaps of the old Passepied. Dark and mighty forms rose before the gloomy vision of his inner-man, acting powerfully upon the phantasy, and wherever they met this volcanic fire, always leaving a deep impression.
228Two comets ushered in the existence of our century; the one revolutionized the exterior—the other, the interior world. Especially were the young generation touched by the electric sparks of their rays.
Napoleon’s battles were repeated a thousand times in the nurseries with lead and paper soldiers. Beethoven’s melodies agitated the souls of the young generation in their working and dreaming hours. When the shoes of the child became too small they were thrown aside; the lead and paper soldiers shared the same fate; but the melodious tones grew with the soul to more and more powerful chords. Beethoven’s star shone brighter, while Napoleon’s was already fading. Then we heard that Beethoven intended to destroy his great symphony called “Eroica.” Napoleon, the consul, to whom Beethoven designed to dedicate this great work, had sunk to Napoleon the Emperor, and Beethoven felt ashamed.
Majesty of rank is often devoid of the grace and majesty of the soul. The chord eb, g, bb wherewith the bass solemnly introduced the third symphony (Eroica), and his inversions in the Scherzo bb, eb, g, bb, and in the last movement e, b, b, e, this echo of the Marseillaise suited no longer and should perish with it. Only then, when fate, in the icy deserts of Russia, clasped the grand General in its iron grip, and never loosened its hold until it had crushed him, did the composer of the Eroica comprehend that in the marcia funebre contained in this symphony, he had spoken in prophetic voice. The prophecy contained in the last movement was destined to be fulfilled in the latter half of this century.
As Beethoven poured out his soul in a prophetic epopee, so did Mozart embody his genius in his Don Giovanni. But as the sublime always acts more powerfully upon youth than knowledge and beauty, so likewise was the success of Beethoven greater than that of Mozart in this century. Altogether Mozart is generally appreciated better in riper years. “La delicatesse du gout est une première nuance de la satiété.”
Mendelssohn, whose compositions ever flowed smoothly and quietly, understood well how to tune his harmonica to Mozart’s tuning-fork.
Q. You represent Beethoven as grave and solemn, and yet it appears he was not a great despiser of dances. Take, for instance, his A major symphony. Lively to overflowing, almost mad with frantic joy, is the first movement. Equal to a double quick-step, the last, about as the peasants of Saxony perform their dances, the Scherzo gay; and in the Andante, he even calls upon a lot of old bachelors and maiden-ladies, with their hoop accompaniment, to fall in and execute their tours?
A. What opposite views are often taken of the same thing by different minds! In the andante, in which you find so much humor, Marx observes the sober view of life, at first the peaceful and untroubled step, but growing ever more and more painful, and suffering, fighting the battle of life; yet, be this as it may, such music is ever successful, even in spite of the biting criticism of Maria v. Weber, and the ferocious attacks of Oulibischeff.
Q. A good dance is always successful, I believe?
A. Mendelssohn knew this, as he also understood Beethoven and the public, when he wrote his dance overture, “A Summer-night’s Dream.” Auber, Herold and others wrote dance overtures en masse, and we often find more piquant themes in them than Beethoven’s A major symphony, or Mendelssohn’s Summer-night’s Dream can boast of, yet we do not prefer them for the concert.
All compositions for an orchestra, be they overture or symphony, must first contain a theme, which expresses the character of the principal composition. Second, the expansions of compositions in the style of a symphony, must, according to my opinion, originate from one theme, germinate from one seed, growing larger and stronger all the time, until the swelling bud bursts into a beautiful blossom; yet there must not be orange-blossoms on an oak-tree; all must fit harmoniously.
The theme, sujet, or motive, must be a fixed idea, such as “love;” it must be ever 229present—the first at day-break, the last at night—no other impression must be strong enough to erase it.
If, by the blossom, you understand the creation of a second thought, often called the second theme, even this second theme ought to be governed by the first, even this blossom ought to glow in the same colors. It must be so twined around the heart of the composer, that nothing foreign could possibly enter it. Merely thematical productions are exercises for the pupil; compositions which merely contain parts composed by rule, are merely a musical exercise. Lobe certainly is wrong, if he thus teaches the art of composing.
True, it is easy to point out how one part belongs here, the other there, yet the composition must be a free expression of the soul.
Third—The finishing of the same. This must also be governed in its main parts by the predominating feeling, and only minor thoughts and impressions must be used by the composer to fill up or cast away.
Let us now turn, for illustration, to the theme of Wagner’s overture to Faustus. In the introduction we first see it in the eighth measure, very moderate, in the dominant d minor, commencing with the notes a ā | bb bb. a | g sharp, and headed “very expressive,” concerning which Von Bulow observes, that it truly expresses the feeling and character of the last lines of the motto which Wagner chose at the heading:
“Thus life to me a dire burden is;
Existence I despise, for death I wish.”
If we designate the above-mentioned theme by figure I. we must name the figure which already makes its appearance in the second measure, and which is of the utmost importance, to wit, d sharp, e, f, f, e, e, b, b, figure II., the first theme having been expressed by the violin, the second figure reappears again in the tenth measure, executed by the viola, growling like a furiously racked demon, while the wind instruments, flute, oboe and clarionet, “very expressive,” and yet full of sympathizing sorrow, intervene at the last quarter of the tenth measure with the motive, which we will call figure III. Figure II. continues rumbling in the quartette, relieved by another figure (IV.) descending from above, which is introduced by the second violin in the fourteenth measure. Figure IV. now extends itself further above a chromatic bass, until in the nineteenth measure, in d major, a clear and distinct new motive, gentle and forgiving in character (V.) makes its appearance.
These five motives which the composer so exquisitely leads before us, in his very moderate introduction, now receive the finishing-touch in the allegro. Thus speaks Von Bulow.
Truly, as Goethe says: “If you perform a piece, be sure to perform the same in pieces.”
I will pass over the introduction, though I have as little taste for such “theme pieces” succeeding each other, as for Opera-overtures, such as that of Tannhäuser, where pilgrim-songs, the love-sick murmurings of the voluptuous Venus, and the tedious Count’s drawling sorrow for his only daughter and heir, form a hash, which in the details, and in the heterogeneous compilation of the same, is unpalatable enough, but which is made unbearable by the soul-killing figures—no! not figures, but by the up and down strokes of monotonous bases, which continue for about sixty measures. Setting aside even all this, we may justly expect in the allegro the expansion of the principle theme I., yet we have no such thing; in place of the “idea” he produces after the first five measures a worthless figure, fit for accompaniment only, which is supported on its tottering basis by the twenty-seven times repeated downstroke of the conductor only.
Q. Excuse me; but the tone-picture, which Von Bulow, R. Wagner’s friend and admirer, calls the forgiving voice (III), reappears twice in wind-instrument music?
A. According to Lobe’s system. Borrow a measure or two from a theme, then a motive, which you may construct from this or that or a third figure, and you have, besides the required unity, the grandest variation.
Do you know, my young friend, what a composer understands by an exploded 230idea? The technical! All who study the art of composing, as Lobe teaches it, may learn to become compilers but not composers; or they must drink elder-tea, till their visions appear black and blue to them, in order to evaporate the schooling they enjoyed. After twenty-seven measures of earthly smoke, there appears a solitary star, theme I., continuing for four whole measures, followed by a little more mist.
Q. No; I think Bulow says the mist is parted by a firm and punctuated motive.
A. If it is not firm, it is at least fortissimo. Enough, we again hear thirteen measures of unimportant music, concluded by d minor, followed by a new melody for a hautboy, which, as it repeats the two first notes of the first theme, may claim to be considered as belonging there, leading to a third in f major, in company with a tremulando, à la Samiel, crescendo and diminuendo. We have now arrived at the point where we may look for the second theme, “the blossom,” as we before said, but alas, in vain your tortured soul waits, no blossoms! The thermometer sinks again! With the cadence we again hear theme I., after four measures we find ourselves once more in d flat major—no, in a minor, b flat major or b flat minor, or g minor, it is difficult to say which, for this part may be said to belong in the “most inseparably combined, the closest related family of all keys.” Enough, we find ourselves after twenty-six measures exactly at the very place we started from, before the performance of twenty-six measures, namely, in f major.
This movement of twenty-six measures might be wholly thrown out, without one being any wiser—a possibility which, in every good composition, must be looked upon as a great fault, as all parts must be so closely united as to enforce the presence and support of each other.
We will now look at the second theme. In it no critic can find a fault. It unravels itself smoothly, and, after forty-nine measures, conducts us again to motive V. in the introduction, as likewise to figure II., which here does not frown quite so much.
Figure V. first appears in f, after twenty-two measures in g flat major, after fourteen more in A minor, after thirty-four in d minor, and after another thirty-nine measures we at last hear theme I. again, in the dominant of the bass, a Faustus with lantern jaws, sunken temples, sparse hair, but with a very, very magnificent bread-basket.
The blossom is larger than the whole tree. If it is not a miracle, it is a wonderful abortion. Are you now curious as to the second part? Oh! it almost appears like a fugue, the bass dies away, a fifth higher the cello commences, another fifth higher the viola in unison with the second violin; but as the composer has strayed already from d minor to b minor, he does not think it safe to stray further; the wind instruments continue by themselves in figure II.
Q. Bulow says the cello and viola united, once more introduce the principal theme.
A. Just so. After the bassoon has tried twice to begin the same, after about thirty measures of worldly ether, more devoid of stars than the South Pole, it is headed “wild!” The leading theme once more begins in the principal tonic (d minor), etc., afterwards enlarged, the first two notes converted, caught up by the cello and the trumpet, wherein the bass-trombone is expected to perform the high A, and after twenty-eight measures of “hated existence” the second theme in d major, together with the finale, appears like a short bright ray of the glorious sun on a misty winter day.
“He, who reigns above my powers,
Cannot shake the outer towers”—
is Wagner’s motto, which he has justly chosen for the heading of his overture, and I attempt no alteration only at the conclusion, and close with—
“In such music existence a burden is,
The future I hate, for the End I wish.”
Q. Bulow would also answer as Goethe:
“To understand and write of living things,
Try first to drive away the soul,
The parts will then remain within your hand!”
A. I have never found fault with these 231parts, excepting, perhaps, that I said the working out of the second theme is, in proportion to the first theme, too extensive; in fact, there is nothing of the future contained in the overture.
Q. No future?
A. I mean to say, no music of the future—not even a chromatic scale for the fundamental key—it moves entirely in the common form:
Principal theme—d minor;
Second theme—f major;
Return to fundamental key;
Second theme—d major, and conclusion in this key.
The finish and working up is neat and careful, and many pretty and uncommon effects occur therein; still I do not think the same in its proper place for a concert.
It inherits nothing of the Bach; the piece is well constructed, yet the small pieces cannot escape criticism. Even Beethoven, in the first movements of his Eroica makes us acquainted with all the parts he intends to work up, and in his c minor symphony he says plainly: Now observe; the notes g g g e flat compose the whole, nothing more. But after that it is a rushing flow, an unbroken ring and song, pressing breathlessly onward, which captivates and carries us along with its force. To express myself plainly, I may say that we can perceive the work was done before it began.
It is true, and I will not deny that even he applied the file to heighten its polish, yet the whole structure stood finished to his vision before even these first four notes were penned.
No doubt R. Wagner also imagined a picture before he painted it, but surely no musical one; the poetry was there—the music had to be manufactured. It is full of genius, and not untrue; but he does not allow sufficient freedom to the different instruments, and is, consequently, not sufficiently “obligato.”
The parts succeed, instead of going in company or against each other.
Although now one, then another instrument catches up a thought, yet the whole appears more like a Quartette of Pleyel than one of Beethoven’s—the overture is not thought out polyphonically. Many, however, do not know what Polyphonism is; it has been written about in many curious ways. The pupil will best learn to write music in a polyphonic manner, if, at the commencement, he invents at once a double-voiced movement, but in such a manner that one voice is not the subordinate of the other; both are equally necessary to represent the meaning of the thought he wishes to express.
In this manner he may or must continue in regard to the three or four-voiced movements likewise.
The addition of voices to a melody satisfactory in itself, be they ever so well flourished, cannot properly be called polyphonism.
Polyphonism, however, should be the ruling principle in all orchestral concert compositions, although in some points, for instance, in the second theme, homophony may take its place.
A well composed symphony or overture must not entertain the audience only, but every performing musician must feel that he is not an instrument or a machine, but a living and intelligent being.
The overture to Faustus so entirely ignores Polyphony, that it seems a virtual denial of its effectiveness and importance in orchestral composition.
Richard Wagner will never become a composer of instrumental music, but in his operas he has opened a new avenue, and his creations therein are something grand and sublime.
232
SCHOPENHAUER’S DOCTRINE OF THE WILL. Translated from the German, by C. L. Bernays.
[We print below a condensed statement of the central doctrine of Arthur Schopenhauer. It is translated from his work entitled “Ueber den Willen in der Natur,” 2d ed., 1854, Frankfort—pp. 19-23, and 63. To those familiar with the kernel of speculative truth, it is unnecessary to remark that the basis of the system herewith presented is thoroughly speculative, and resembles in some respects that of Leibnitz in the Monadology, printed in our last number. It is only an attempt to solve all problems through self-determination, and this in its immediate form as the will. Of course the immediateness (i. e. lack of development or realization) of the principle employed here, leads into difficulty, and renders it impossible for him to see the close relation he stands in to other great thinkers. Hence he uses very severe language when speaking of other philosophers. If the Will is taken for the “Radical of the Soul,” then other forms of self-determination, e. g. the grades of knowing, will not be recognized as possessing substantiality, and hence the theoretical mind will be subordinated to the practical;—a result, again, which is the outcome of the Philosophy of Fichte. But Leibnitz seizes a more general aperçu, and identifies self-determination with cognition in its various stages; and hence he rises to the great principle of Recognition as the form under which all finitude is cancelled—all multiplicity preserved in the unity of the Absolute.—Editor.]
The idea of a soul as a metaphysical being, in whose absolute simplicity will and intellect were an indissoluble unity, was a great and permanent impediment to all deeper insight into natural phenomena. The cardinal merit of my doctrine, and that which puts it in opposition to all the former philosophies, is the perfect separation of the will from the intellect. All former philosophers thought will to be inseparable from the intellect; the will was declared to be conditioned upon the intellect, or even to be a mere function of it, whilst the intellect was regarded as the fundamental principle of our spiritual existence. I am well aware that to the future alone belongs the recognition of this doctrine, but to the future philosophy the separation, or rather the decomposition of the soul into two heterogeneous elements, will have the same significance as the decomposition of water had to chemistry. Not the soul is the eternal and indestructible or the very principle of life in men, but what I might call the Radical of the soul, and that is the Will. The so-called soul is already a compound; it is the combination of will and the νοῦς, intellect. The intellect is the secondary, the posterius in any organism, and, as a mere function of the brain, dependent upon the organism. The will, on the contrary, is primary, the prius of the organism, and the organism consequently is conditioned by it. For the will is the very “thing in itself,” which in conception (that is, in the peculiar function of the brain) exhibits itself as an organic body. Only by virtue of the forms of cognition, that is, by virtue of that function of the brain—hence only in conception—one’s body is something extended and organic, not outside of it, or immediately in self-consciousness. Just as the various single acts of the body are nothing but the various acts of the will portrayed in the represented world, just so is the shape of this body as a totality the image of its will as a whole. In all organic functions of the body, therefore, just as in its external actions, the will is the “agens.” True physiology, on its height, shows the intellect to be the product of the physical organization, but true metaphysics show, that physical existence itself is the product, or rather the appearance, of a spiritual agens, to-wit, the will; nay, that matter itself is conditioned through conception, in which alone it exists. Perception and thought may well be explained by the nature of the organism; the will never can be; the contrary is true, namely, that every organism originates by and from the will. This I show as follows:
I therefore posit the will as the “thing in itself”—as something absolutely primitive; secondly, the simple visibility of the will, its objectivation as our body; and thirdly, the intellect as a mere function of a certain part of that body. That part (the brain) is the objectivated desire (or will) to know, which became represented: for the will, to reach its ends, 233needs the intellect. This function again pre-supposes the whole world as representation; it therefore pre-supposes also the body as an object, and even matter itself, so far as existing only in representation, for an objective world without a subject in whose intellect it stands, is, well considered, something altogether unthinkable. Hence intellect and matter (subject and object) only relatively exist for each other, and in that way constitute the apparent world.
Whenever the will acts on external matter, or whenever it is directed towards a known object, thus passing through the medium of knowledge, then all recognize that the agens, which here is in action, is the will, and they call it by that name. Yet, that is will not less which acts in the inner process that precedes those external actions as their condition, which create and preserve the organic life and its substrate; and secretion, digestion, and the circulation of the blood, are its work also. But just because the will was recognized only while leaving the individual from which it started, and directing itself to the external world, which precisely for that purpose now appears as perception, the intellect was regarded as its essential condition, as its sole element, and as the very substance out of which it was made, and thereby the very worst hysteron proteron was committed that ever happened.
Before all, one should know how to discriminate between will and arbitrariness (Wille und Willkühr), and one should understand that the first can exist without the second. Will is called arbitrariness where it is lighted by intellect, and whenever motives or conceptions are its moving causes; or, objectively speaking, whenever external causes which produce an act are mediated by a brain. The motive may be defined as an external irritation, by whose influence an image is formed in the brain, and under the mediation of which the will accomplishes its effect, that is, an external act of the body. With the human species the place of that image may be occupied by a concept, which being formed from images of a similar kind, by omitting the differences, is no longer intuitive, but only marked and fixed by words. Hence as the action of motives is altogether independent of any contact, they therefore can measure their respective forces upon the will, on each other, and thereby permit a certain choice. With the animals, that choice is confined to the narrow horizon of what is visibly projected before them; among men it has the wide range of the thinkable, or of its concepts, as its sphere. Those movements, therefore, which result from motives, and not from causes, as in the inorganic world, nor from mere irritation, as with the plants, are called arbitrary movements. These motives pre-suppose knowledge, the medium of the motives, through which in this case causality is effected, irrespective of their absolute necessity in any other respect. Physiologically, the difference between irritation and motive may be described thus: Irritation excites a reaction immediately, the reaction issuing from the same part upon which the irritation had acted; whilst a motive is an irritation, which must make a circuit through the brain, where first an image is formed, and that image then originates the ensuing reaction, which now is called an act of the free will. Hence the difference between free and unfree movements does not concern the essential and primary, which in both is the will, but only the secondary, that is, the way in which the will is aroused; to-wit, whether it shows itself in consequence of some real cause, or of an irritation, or of a motive, that is, of a cause that had to pass through the organ of the intellect.
Free will or arbitrariness is only possible in the consciousness of men. It differs from the consciousness of animals in this, that it contains not only present and tangible representations, but abstract concepts, which, independent of the differences of time, act simultaneously and side by side, permitting thereby conviction or a conflict of motives; this, in the strictest sense of the word, is called free will. Yet this very free will or choice consists only in the victory of the stronger motive over a weaker in a given individual character, by which the ensuing action was determined, just as one impulse is overpowered by 234a stronger counter impulse, whereby the effect nevertheless appears with the same necessity as the movement of a stone that has received an impulse. The great thinkers of all times agree in this decidedly; while, on the contrary, the vulgar will little understand the great truth, that the mark of our liberty is not to be found in our single acts, but in our existence itself, and in its very essence. Whenever one has succeeded to discriminate will from free will, or the arbitrary, and to consider the latter as a peculiar species of the former, then there is no more room for any difficulty in discovering the will also in occurrences wherein intelligence cannot be traced.
The will is the original. It has created the world, but not through the medium of an intellect either outside or inside of the world, for we know of the intellect only through the mediation of the animal world, the very last in creation. The will itself, the unintentional will which is discovered in everything, is the creator of the world. The animals, therefore, are organized in accordance with their mode of living, and their mode of living is not shaped in conformity with their organs; the structure of any animal is the result of its will to be what it is. Nature, which never lies, tells us the same in its naïve way; it lets any being just kindle the first spark of its life on one of his equals, and then lets it finish itself before our eyes. The form and the movement it takes from its own self, the substance from outside. This is called growth and development. Thus even empirically do all beings stand before us as their own work; but the language of nature is too simple, and therefore but few understand it.
Cognition, since all motives are dependent on it, is the essential characteristic of the animal kingdom. When animal life ceases, cognition ceases also; and arrived at that point, we can comprehend the medium by which the influences from the external world on the movements of other beings are effected only by analogy, whilst the will, which we have recognized as the basis and as the very kernel of all beings, always and everywhere remains the same. On the low stage of the vegetable world, and of the vegetative life in the animal organizations, it is irritation, and in the inorganic world it is the mechanical relation in general which appears as the substitute or as the analogue of the intellect. We cannot say that the plants perceive the light and the sun, but we see that they are differently affected by the presence or absence of the sun, and that they turn themselves towards it; and though in fact that movement mostly coincides with their growth, like the rotation of the moon with its revolution, that movement nevertheless exists, and the direction of the growth of a plant is just in the same way determined and systematically modified as an action is by a motive. Inasmuch, therefore, as a plant has its wants, though not of the kind which require a sensorium or an intellect, something analogous must take their place to enable the will to seize at least a supply offered to it, if not to go in quest of it. This is the susceptibility for irritation, which differs from the intellect, in that the motive and subsequent act of volition are clearly separated from each other, and the clearer, the more perfect the intellect is; whilst at the mere susceptibility for an irritation, the feeling of the irritation and the resulting volition can no longer be discriminated. In the inorganic world, finally, even the susceptibility for irritation, whose analogy with the intellect cannot be mistaken, ceases, and there remains nothing but the varied reaction of the bodies against the various influences. This reaction is the substitute for the intellect. Whenever the reaction of a body differs from another, the influence also must be different, creating a different affection, which even in its dullness yet shows a remote analogy with the intellect. If, for instance, the water in an embankment finds an issue and eagerly precipitates itself through it, it certainly does not perceive the break, just as the acid does not perceive the alkali, for which it leaves the metal; yet we must confess that what in all these bodies has effected such sudden changes, has a certain resemblance with that which moves ourselves whenever we act in consequence of 235an unexpected motive. We therefore see that the intellect appears as the medium of our motives, that is, as the medium of causality in regard to intellectual beings, as that which receives the change from the external world, and which must be followed by a change in ourselves, as the mediator between both. On this narrow line, balances the whole world as representation, i. e. that whole extensive world in space and time, which as such cannot be anywhere else but in our brain, just as dreams; for the periods of their duration stand on the very same basis. Whatever to the animals and to man is given by his intellect as a medium of the motives, the same is given to the plants by their susceptibility for irritation, and to inorganic bodies by their reaction on the various causes, which in fact only differ in respect to the degree of volition; for, just in consequence of the fact, that in proportion to their wants the susceptibility for external impressions was raised to such a degree in the animals that a brain and a system of nerves had to develop itself, did consciousness, moreover, originate as a function of this brain, and in this consciousness the whole objective world, whose forms (time, space and causality) are the rules for the exercise of this function. We therefore discover that the intellect is calculated only for the subjective, merely to be a servant of the will, appearing only “per accidens” as a condition of animal life, where motives take the place of irritation. The picture of the external world, which at this stage enters into the forms of time and space, is but the background on which motives represent themselves as ends; it is also the condition of the connection of the external objects in regard to space and causality, but yet is nothing else but the mediation and the tie between the motive and the will. What a leap would it be to take this picture to be the true, ultimate essence of things,—this image of the world, which originates accidentally in the intellect as a function of animal brains, whereby the means to their ends are shown them, and their ways on this planet cleared up! What a temerity to take this image and the connection of its parts to be the absolute rule of the world, the relations of the things in themselves—and to suppose that all that could just as well exist independently of our brain! And yet this supposition is the very ground on which all the dogmatical systems previous to Kant were based, for it is the implicit pre-supposition of their Ontology, Cosmology, Theology, and of all their Eternal Verities.
By this realistic examination we have gained very unexpectedly the objective point of view of Kant’s immortal discovery, arriving by our empirical, physiological way to the same point whence Kant started with his transcendental criticism. Kant made the subjective his basis, positing consciousness; but from its à priori nature he comes to the result, that all that happens in it can be nothing else but representation. We, on the contrary, starting from the objective, have discovered what are the ends and the origin of the intellect, and to what class of phenomena it belongs. We discover in our way, that the intellect is limited to mere representations, and that what is exhibited in it is conditioned by the subject, that is, a mundane phenomenon, and that just in the same way the order and the connection of all external things is conditioned by the subject, and is never a knowledge of what they are in themselves, and how they may be connected with each other. We, in our way, like Kant in his, have discovered that the world as representation, balances on that narrow line between the external cause (motive) and the produced effect (act of will) of intelligent (animal) beings, where the clear discrimination of the two commences. Ita res accendent lumina rebus.
Our objective stand-point is realistic, and therefore conditioned, inasmuch as starting from natural beings as posited, we have abstracted from the circumstance that their objective existence presupposes an intellect, in which they find themselves as representations; but Kant’s subjective and idealistic stand-point is equally conditioned, inasmuch as it starts from the intellect, which itself is conditioned by nature, in consequence of whose development up to the animal world it only comes into existence. Holding fast to this, our 236realistic-objective stand-point, Kant’s doctrine may be characterized thus: after Locke had abstracted the rôle of the senses, under the name of “secondary properties,” for the purpose of distinguishing things in themselves from things as they appear, Kant, with far greater profundity, abstracted the rôle of the brain functions [conceptions of the understanding]—a less considerable rôle than that of the senses—and thus abstracted as belonging to the subjective all that Locke had included under the head of primary properties. I, on the other hand, have merely shown why all stands thus in relation, by exhibiting the position which the intellect assumes in the System of Nature when we start realistically from the objective as a datum, and take the Will, of which alone we are immediately conscious, as the true που στῶ of all metaphysics—as the essence of which all else is only the phenomenon.