Beverly Jerold - Music Performance Issues 1600-1900

vv
Music Performance
Jerold
W
ith some justification, a commen-
tator has described today’s typi-
cal early-music performance style
as the most modern thing around, despite
Issues: 1600-1900
its claim for historical accuracy. Early ac-
counts reveal this to be a valid assessment,
for today’s technology and high education standards give Beverly Jerold
Music Performance Issues: 1600-1900

us a massive advantage. In contrast to music composi-
tion, which needs no technology, music execution requires
skills that can be greatly enhanced through technology.
For example, the metronome (invented in 1816) is an ex-
cellent training tool for rhythmic steadiness, but this usage
did not become universal until some point in the twentieth
century. Countless reports from preceding centuries doc-
ument the rhythmic instability that posed a major obstacle
for even the best ensembles. Leaders had to resort to audi-
ble time beating, whether by stamping the foot, pounding
with a stout rod, or playing the first violin part at deafen-
ing volume. For us, the metronome also enables rapid tem-
pos: one simply begins slowly, and gradually increases the
tempo in small increments. Another great advance was the
invention of recording technology, which provided mod-
els for imitation, thereby improving intonation, tone qual-
ity, expression, and rhythmic stability. Today, it continues
to provide automatic ear training and many other benefits.
The articles in the present compilation not only offer in-
sight into early performance standards, but also treat sub-
jects that have proved controversial in modern thought,
such as tempo, do�ing, embellishment, and vibrato.
�� • ��, ��

PENDRAGON
Music Performance Issues:
1600-1900
Music Performance Issues:
1600-1900
Beverly Jerold
Pendragon Press
Hillsdale, NY
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Jerold, Beverly, 1938- author.
Title: Music performance issues : 1600-1900 / Beverly Jerold.
Description: Hillsdale, NY : Pendragon Press, 2016. | Includes
bibliographical references and index.
Identifiers: LCCN 2016017941 | ISBN 9781576472750
Subjects: LCSH: Performance practice (Music) | Style, Musical.
Classification: LCC ML457 .J47 2016 | DDC 781.4/309--dc23 LC record available

at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016017941
Copyright 2016 Pendragon Press

Contents
Abbreviations vi
Preface xi
Chapter 1 Dilettante and Amateur: Our Evolving Language 1

Chapter 2 Bach’s Lament about Leipzig’s Professional 25
Instrumentalists
Chapter 3 Choral Singing Before the Era of Recordings 43
Chapter 4 Why Most a cappella Music Could Not Have 53
Been Sung Unaccompanied
Chapter 5 Fasch and the Beginning of Modern Artistic 63
Choral Singing
Chapter 6 What Handel’s Casting Reveals About Singers of 82
the Time
Chapter 7 Intonation Standards and Equal Temperament 105
Chapter 8 Eighteenth-Century Stringed Keyboard Instruments 121
from a Performance Perspective
Chapter 9 The Tromba and Corno in Bach’s Time 141
Chapter 10 Maelzel’s Role in Beethoven’s Symphonic 165
Metronome Marks
Chapter 11 The French Time Devices Revisited 193
Chapter 12 The Notable Significance of C and ( in Bach’s 215
Era
Chapter 13 Numbers and Tempo: 1630-1800 229
Chapter 14 Overdotting in Handel’s Overtures Reconsidered 243
Chapter 15 Notes inégales: A Definitive New Parameter 265
Chapter 16 Distinguishing Between Artificial and Natural Vibrato 287
in Premodern Music
Chapter 17 A Solution for Simple (secco) Theater Recitative 299
Chapter 18 How Composers Viewed Performers’ Additions 311
Chapter 19 The Varied Reprise in Eighteenth-Century 333
Intrumental Music—A Reappraisal
v
Abbreviations
ATSK Allgemeine Theorie der schönen Künste, ed. Johann Georg
Sulzer, 2nd edn., 4 vols. (Leipzig, 1792-94; rpt. 1967).
Adlung/1758 Jakob Adlung, Anleitung zur musikalischen Gelahrtheit
(Erfurt, 1758; rpt. 1953).
Adlung/1768 ———, Musica mechanica organoedi, ed. J. L. Albrecht &
J. F. Agricola (Berlin, 1768; rpt. 1961).
Agricola/1757 Johann Friedrich Agricola, Anleitung zur Singkunst,
trans. of P. F. Tosi’s Opinioni de’ cantori with commentary
(Berlin, 1757; rpt. [1966]).
[Agricola]/1749 [Johann Friedrich Agricola], Schreiben an Herrn - - -, in
welchem Flavio Anicio Olibrio sein Schreiben an den critischen
Musikus an der Spree vertheidiget (Berlin, 6 July 1749).
AmZ Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung, 50 vols. (Leipzig, 1798-
1848); new series: 3 vols. (1863-65) and 17 vols. (1866-
92).
Bach/Dok Bach Dokumente, Supplement to NBA, vol. 3, ed. Hans-
Joachim Schulze (Kassel: Bärenreiter, 1972).
———,vol. 7, ed. Christoph Wolff with Michael Maul
(Kassel: Bärenreiter, 2008).
Bach/Versuch Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach, Versuch über die wahre Art
das Clavier zu spielen, 2 vols. (Berlin, 1753/1762; rpt.
1969).
Bach/Versuch1994 Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach, Versuch über die wahre Art
das Clavier zu spielen (Berlin, 1753/1762; rpt., together
with additions from the Leipzig 1787/1797 edns., ed.
Wolfgang Horn, Kassel: Bärenreiter, ca.1994).
BmZ Berlinische musikalische Zeitung, ed. Johann Friedrich
Reichardt, 2 vols. (Berlin, 1805-06).
Boyer/1767 Pascal Boyer, Lettre à Monsieur Diderot, sur le projet de
l’unité de clef dans la musique. Et la réforme des mesures,
proposés par M. l’abbé La Cassagne (Amsterdam, 1767).
Burney/GH Charles Burney, A General History of Music, ed. Frank
Mercer (New York: Harcourt, Brace & Co., 1935), vol.
2.
vi
Abbreviations
Burney/TourFI ———, An Eighteenth-Century Musical Tour in France and

Italy, ed. Percy A. Scholes (London: Oxford, 1959).
Burney/TourCE ———, An Eighteenth-Century Musical Tour in Central
Europe and the Netherlands, ed. Percy A. Scholes
(London: Oxford, 1959).
EDR Encyclopédie, ou, Dictionnaire raisonné des sciences, des arts
et des métiers, ed. Denis Diderot and Jean Le Rond
d’Alembert (for mathematics), 35 vols. (Paris, 1751-
80).
EMM Encyclopédie méthodique: Musique, ed. N. E. Framery,
P. L. Ginguené, and J.-J. de Momigny, 2 vols. (Paris,
1791/1818).
Francoeur/1772 Louis-Joseph Francoeur, Diapason général de tous les
instruments à vent (Paris, 1772; rpt. 1972).
Gerber/1790 Ernst Ludwig Gerber, Historisch-biographisches Lexikon
der Tonkünstler (Leipzig, 1790/1792; rpt. 1977) .
Gerber/1812 ———, Neues historisch-biographisches Lexikon der
Tonkünstler, 3 vols. (Leipzig, 1812/1814; rpt. 1966/69).
Grétry/1789 André-Ernest-Modeste Grétry, Mémoires, ou essais sur la
musique , 3 vols. (Paris, 1789; rpt. 1971).
Hefling/1993 Stephen Hefling, Rhythmic Alteration in 17th- and 18th-
Century Music (New York: Schirmer Books, 1993).
Heinichen/1728 Johann David Heinichen, Der Generalbass in der
Komposition (Dresden, 1728; rpt. 1969).
HKB Historisch-kritische Beyträge zur Aufnahme der Musik, ed.
Friedrich Wilhelm Marpurg, 5 vols. (Berlin, 1754-62).
Hiller/1774 Johann Adam Hiller, Anweisung zum musikalisch-richtigen
Gesange (Leipzig, 1774).
Hiller/1780 ———, Anweisung zum musikalisch-zierlichen Gesange
(Leipzig, 1780; rpt. 1976).
Hotteterre/1719 Jacques Hotteterre, L’Art de préluder sur la flûte traversière
(Paris, 1719; rpt. 1978),
Klein/1801 Johann Joseph Klein, Lehrbuch der theoretischen Musick
(Offenbach, [1801].
KBT Kritische Briefe über die Tonkunst, ed. Friedrich Wilhelm
Marpurg, 3 vols. (Berlin, 1759-64).
vii
Koch/1802 Heinrich Christoph Koch, Musikalisches Lexikon

(Frankfurt am Main, 1802; rpt. 1964).
Kürzinger/1763 Ignaz Xaver Kürzinger, Getreuer Unterricht zum Singen
mit Manieren, und die Violin zu spielen (Augsburg, 1763).
Laborde/1780 Jean-Benjamin de Laborde, Essai sur la musique ancienne
et moderne, 4 vols. (Paris, 1780).
Lasser/1798 Johann Baptist Lasser, Vollständige Anleitung zur
Singkunst (Munich, 1798).
Löhlein/1774 Georg Simon Löhlein, Anweisung zum Violinspielen
(Leipzig, 1774).
Loulié/1696 Étienne Loulié, Éléments ou principes de la musique (Paris,
1696; rpt. 1971).
Mancini/1777 Giovanni Battista Mancini, Riflessioni pratiche sul canto
figurato, 3rd edn. (Milan, 1777).
Marpurg/1755 Friedrich Wilhelm Marpurg, Anleitung zum Clavierspielen
(Berlin, 1755).
Marsh/Journals The John Marsh Journals. The Life and Times of a Gentleman
Composer (1752-1828), ed. Brian Robins (Stuyvesant,
NY: Pendragon, 1998).
Mattheson/1713 Johann Mattheson, Das neu-eröffnete Orchestre (Hamburg,
1713).
Mattheson/1739 ———, Der vollkommene Capellmeister (Hamburg, 1739;
rpt. 1954).
Mersenne/1636 Marin Mersenne, Harmonie universelle, contenant la théorie
et la pratique de la musique, 3 vols. (Paris, 1636; rpt. 1963).
MGG Die Musik in Geschichte und Gegenwart, 2nd edn., ed.
Ludwig Finscher, 29 vols. (Kassel: Bärenreiter,
ca.1994-ca.2008).
MK Musikalisches Kunstmagazin, ed. Johann Friedrich
Reichardt, 2 vols. (Berlin, 1782/1791).
MM Magazin der Musik, ed. Carl Friedrich Cramer, 2 vols.
(Hamburg, 1783-86).
Mozart/Versuch Leopold Mozart, Versuch einer gründliche Violinschule
(Augsburg, 1756); 3rd ed. (Augsburg, 1787].
Mozart’s Letters Mozart’s Letters, Mozart’s Life, trans. Robert Spaethling
(New York: Norton, [2000]).
viii
Abbreviations
NBA Johann Sebastian Bach, Neue Ausgabe sämtlicher Werke,

<94 in 102> vols. (Kassel: Bärenreiter, 1954-<2007>).
NBR The New Bach Reader, ed. Hans T. David and Arthur
Mendel, revised and expanded by Christoph Wolff
(New York: Norton, 1998).
NG2 The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, 2nd
edition, ed. Stanley Sadie and John Tyrrell, 29 vols.
(London: Macmillan, 2001).
Petri/1782 Johann Samuel Petri, Anleitung zur praktischen Musik,
2nd edn. (Leipzig, 1782; rpt. 1969).
Praetorius/1619 Michael Praetorius, Syntagma musicum (Wolfenbüttel,
1619; rpt. 1978)
Quantz/Versuch Johann Joachim Quantz, Versuch einer Anweisung die
Flöte traversière zu spielen (Berlin, 1752).
Quantz/Reilly ———, On Playing the Flute, trans. Edward R. Reilly
(New York: Schirmer Books, 1966).
Reichardt/Briefe Johann Friedrich Reichardt, Briefe eines aufmerksamen
Reisenden die Musik betreffend, 2 vols. (Frankfurt and
Leipzig, 1774; Frankfurt and Breslau, 1776).
Reichardt/1776 ———, Ueber die Pflichten des Ripien-Violinisten
(Berlin,1776).
Reichardt/1785 [Johann Friedrich Reichardt], “Briefe aus London,”
Studien für Tonkünstler und Musikfreunde, ed. F. L. A.
Kunzen and J. F. Reichardt (Berlin, 1793), Musikalisches
Wochenblatt portion (1791-92). According to Walter
Salmen, Reichardt’s report concerns London concerts
he attended in 1785 (Johann Friedrich Reichardt (Freiburg
und Zürich: Atlantis, 1963), 57ff.
Rousseau/1768 Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Dictionnaire de musique (Paris,
1768).
Saint-Lambert/1702 Saint-Lambert, Les Principes du clavecin (Paris, 1702; rpt.
1972).
Sauveur/1701 Joseph Sauveur, “Principes d’acoustique et de musique
ou Système général des intervalles des sons,” in Mémoires
de 1701 de l’Académie Royale des Sciences (Paris, 1701; rpt.
1973). Also reprinted in Joseph Sauveur, Collected
Writings on Musical Acoustics (Paris 1700-1713), ed. Rudolf
Rasch (Utrecht: The Diapason Press, 1984).
ix
Scheibe/1745 Johann Adolph Scheibe, Critischer Musikus, 2nd edition

(Leipzig, 1745).
Schönfeld/1796 Johann Ferdinand von Schönfeld, Jahrbuch der Tonkunst
von Wien und Prag (Vienna, 1796; rpt. 1976).
Schubart/1806 Christian Friedrich Daniel Schubart, Ideen zu einer
Ästhetik der Tonkunst (Vienna, 1806; rpt. 1990),
Social Status The Social Status of the Professional Musician, ed. Walter
Salmen, trans. H. Kaufman and B. Reisner (New
York: Pendragon Press, 1983).
Tartini/Traité Giuseppe Tartini, Traité des agréments de la musique, ed.
Erwin R. Jacobi (Celle: H. Moeck, 1961).
Triest/1801 Johann Karl Friedrich Triest, “Bemerkungen über
die Ausbildung der Tonkunst in Deutschland im
achtzehnten Jahrhundert,” Allgemeine musikalisches
Zeitung 3 (1801): 225-35, 241-49, 257-64, 273-86,
297-308, 321-31, 369-79, 389-401, 405-10, 421-32,
437-45.
Tromlitz/1791 Johann George Tromlitz, Ausführlicher und gründlicher
Unterricht die Flöte zu spielen (Leipzig, 1791; rpt. 1973).
Türk/1789 Daniel Gottlob Türk, Klavierschule (Leipzig and Halle,
1789; rpt. 1962).
Veracini Francesco Maria Veracini, “Il trionfo della pratica
musicale,” [Conservatorio di Musica Luigi Cherubini
in Florence, Signature: 2360 (olim: f-I-28)], ed. Jesper
B. Christensen in “‘Del modo di guidare colla battuta e
senza’. Francesco Maria Veracini über das Dirigieren,”
Basler Jahrbuch für historische Musikpraxis 24 (2000): 49-69.
Walther/1732 Johann Gottfried Walther, Musicalisches Lexicon oder
Musicalische Bibliothec (Leipzig, 1732).
WNAM Wöchentliche Nachrichten und Anmerkungen die Musik
betreffend, ed. Johann Adam Hiller, 3 vols. (Leipzig,
1766-1769). Continued by Musikalische Nachrichten und
Anmerkungen, 1 vol. (Leipzig, 1770).
Wolf/1787 Georg Friedrich Wolf, Kurzgefasstes musikalisches
Lexikon (Halle, 1787).
x
Preface
As a compilation of some of my performance-related articles published
since 2000, this book focuses on both the challenging conditions that our
forebears faced and specific matters related to the interpretation of their music.
In contrast to the visual and literary arts, which require no technology, music
execution has been greatly enhanced by the technological advances that began
in the nineteenth century and continue to the present day. We cannot imagine a
world in which the only music was “live” music and good role models were scarce.
When interpreting early texts, modern writers have often assumed conditions
and standards similar to our own. However, without the responsive instruments
and metronome training that we take for granted, rhythm was erratic and greatly
hindered cohesive ensemble execution, as did the low intonation standards.
Thus the state of performance as conveyed by early writers differs greatly from
our conception of it. In turn, this raises questions about historical performance
and whether it can be achieved, for modern musicians and audiences will not
gladly relinquish what has been gained by our technology.
The original texts included in the articles when first published have in
some instances been moved to the endnotes and in others, omitted. In most
cases, the chapters are not an exact replica of the original articles, for alterations
were necessary to make the book more useful for a general audience. Material
of greater interest to specialists has been removed, while occasionally new
information has been added. Translations throughout are my own, unless
indicated otherwise.
xi
CHAPTER 1
Dilettante and Amateur:

Our Evolving Language1
A necessary component has been missing from much modern writing about
music performance in earlier centuries — namely, the historical context. While
music composition requires no technology, music execution can be greatly en-
hanced by technology. Consider how much we absorb automatically simply
by hearing the recorded music that comes to us in a variety of ways. We can-
not imagine a world in which the only music was live music. In his biography
of Johann Sebastian Bach (1802), Johann Nikolaus Forkel marvels at Bach’s
custom of demonstrating to a pupil how a piece should sound, and concludes
that many who scarcely know how to make sense of such a piece after years of
practice would perhaps have learned it very well in a month if they had heard
it played once properly.2 Keeping musicians together in an ensemble presented
another great obstacle, for they had no metronomes to develop a sound sense
of rhythm. Thus audible time beating in one form or another was often neces-
sary. Major composers, such as Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, too, had to resort
to this means, as reported by Vincent and Mary Novello after their visit to
Mozart’s widow Constanze, who described his energetic directing. He “would
occasionally stamp with his feet, and once he was so loud in the Cathedral that
Madame heard him at an immense distance.”3 Such instances are why the first
part of this book concentrates on setting the scene, so to speak, and is essential
for interpreting commentary in early sources. Conditions and standards two
and three centuries ago were manifestly different from those of today, and must
be taken into account. Before discussing the original meanings of the terms
dilettante and amateur, let us examine the class system and its implications for
.music performance.
Effects of the class system

Generally speaking, professional musicians ranked low in society, as
implied in R. Campbell’s career advice in his London Tradesman (1747):
If a Parent cannot make his Son a Gentleman, and finds, that he has got
an Itch of Music, it is much the best Way to allot him entirely to that
Study. The present general Taste of Music in the Gentry may find him
better Bread than what perhaps this Art deserves.4
1
Considering the often inferior execution among professional musicians,

Campbell’s remark is not quite as philistine as it seems. In an effort to raise
standards, the Berlin Capellmeister Johann Friedrich Reichardt published a
manual entitled Ueber die Pflichten des Ripien-Violinisten (Concerning the Duties of
Orchestral Violinists, Berlin, 1776), which was directed to those already holding
a professional position in an orchestra. It covers the most elementary basics
of technique, material that is mastered by today’s string players when they are
young children.
By our standards, music education was limited. Those who could afford it
studied privately with the best musicians. The Naples conservatories, the only
ones in Europe for training professional musicians, were widely admired, but
the facilities were primitive. As the eyewitness English commentator Charles
Burney observes, one large room sufficed for everyone’s individual practicing,
“obliging them to play loud in order to hear themselves; but in the midst of such
. . . continued dissonance, it is wholly impossible to give any kind of polish or
finishing to their performance.”5 Since professional musicians in other locations
often came from the lower ranks of society, they had to settle for either study
with a teacher of modest attainment or several years of apprenticeship with
an authorized town musician, a course that was much less costly but whose
instruction was often mediocre and worse.6 Most German orchestral players
were trained in this system and often lacked a general education beyond the
elementary school level.7 Inevitably, coarse manners accompanied insufficient
education. In 1800, the Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung (AmZ), a pan-European
music journal, reported that the Viennese musician is now less apt to be treated
in a humiliating manner by the upper classes, but:
Many of our musicians have incurred an oppressive situation by their
lack of cultivation, crude manners, dissolute life-style, etc. Just as there
are exceptions among musicians, so too are there worthy homes where
that complaint [about humiliating treatment] does not apply.8
Several months later, a reader responded, citing opportunities for musicians in

Vienna: “But the artist must also be a polite man, and it redounds to the credit
of Vienna, like several places in Germany, that we now see more of these than
formerly, because little by little there must be an end to the vulgar disorder of
so many musicians. I repeat, not without reason: the musician of genuine talent
will meet with deserved respect in the homes of both the highest nobility and
the cultured citizens. Only drunkards, or men without manners and upbringing
will be excluded by cultivated company — not because they are musicians, but
because they are indecent [‘unsittliche’] men.”9 Now it is clear why the upper
classes did not want their sons to pursue music as a profession. From these re-
2
Dilettante and Amateur: Our Evolving Language
ports, the number of ill-bred musicians made the musician with manners seem
exceptional. Mozart’s letter to his father of 9 July 1778 speaks to this issue when
discussing Salzburg’s “coarse, slovenly, run-down court orchestra:”
No decent man who has any self-respect can live with such musicians;
— instead of being honored to associate with them, one has to be
ashamed! — besides, and perhaps for this very reason, the orchestra is
not well liked in Salzburg, it’s not held in high esteem — if only it were
as well organized as the one in Mannheim! What discipline they have in
that orchestra! — and what authority Cannabich has — everything they
do is done with real dedication. Cannabich, who is the best music direc-
tor I have ever seen, commands the love and respect of his musicians
— he is well liked in town, and so are his Soldiers [players] — and that’s
because they behave properly, have decent manners, are well dressed
and don’t spend their time in local inns getting drunk.10
The average professional musician bore no resemblance to his counterpart

today. For example, Friedrich Wilhelm Marpurg’s music journal (Berlin, 1760)
notes that “many musicians have no sheet music at all and often only musical
instruments of poor quality; without music and good instruments, they are
almost not musicians.”11 Those not born into more propitious circumstances
had to have exceptional gifts and ambition to rise above this state.
In Germany, the mediocre professional musician is sometimes referred
to pejoratively as a Handwerker. According to the journalist Friedrich Rochlitz,
the mere Handwerker (in the broadest sense of the word) knows nothing more
than how to apply the fingers to produce the notes; his playing reflects simple
mechanical practice and blind imitation more than his own thinking. He rises
to the level of Künstler [artist] when he knows the theoretical basis of his art and
applies this knowledge to his playing.12 In 1838, the Berlin critic Ludwig Rellstab
calls it unfortunate that most of those permitting themselves the title of Künstler
are nothing more than a mere Handwerker.13
In contrast, the upper classes pursued music as an accomplishment, not
a profession. They fared best, for they could readily afford quality instruments
and private lessons with the best teachers. Also doing well were those from the
prosperous bourgeoisie, for they, too, could obtain adequate private instruction.
Thus these two groups were closely matched in skill and knowledge, and often
performed together. But usually only the bourgeois musician would practice
music professionally. Socially acceptable activity for upper-class musicians might
vary in different localities. The greatest distinction lay in music execution. As
the English writer and composer John Potter observes (1762), making music for
pay was an inferior station:
3
The elegant art of music, when consider’d as an occupation, is by some

thought to have little dignity; as having for its object nothing better than
mere pleasure and entertainment; and that tho’ we may arrive to a great
degree of perfection in it, a much less degree in many others is more
reputable, and far more preferable.14
Unless they had little to lose in inheritance, the upper classes generally avoided
music execution as a profession, although they offered their services gratis in
appropriate situations, such as private concerts or church. Composing or writ-
ing about music were more acceptable endeavors. On the whole, their perfor-
mance skills did not differ noticeably from those of the upper-level professional
musicians until well into the nineteenth century, when conservatories began to
flourish and the latter’s skills improved dramatically.
The terms amateur, dilettante, and Liebhaber

Knowledge of how the terms amateur, dilettante, and Liebhaber were applied
by early writers is often vital in interpreting their texts. In our usage, these
terms imply an achievement level below that of a professional practitioner.
Today’s Oxford English Dictionary, however, makes a careful distinction between
the original connotation of dilettante and our application:
A lover of the fine arts; originally, one who cultivates them for the love
of them rather than professionally, and so = amateur as opposed to pro-
fessional; but in later use generally applied more or less depreciatively to
one who interests himself in an art or science merely as a pastime and
without serious aim or study.15
Another term for the same was amateur, derived from the French verb
aimer. As adopted by the English, the Oxford English Dictionary (1:379) offers
two principal meanings for Amateur:
1. One who loves or is fond of; one who has a taste for anything.
2. One who cultivates anything as a pastime, as distinguished from
one who prosecutes it professionally; hence, sometimes used
disparagingly, as = dabbler, or superficial student or worker.
Accurate as far as they go, these definitions leave much unsaid about the terms’
early usage. The eighteenth-century literature associates them most often with
some aspect of arts and letters, but sometimes applies them more broadly, as in
amateur de politique, meaning a “person of quality” who invests considerable time
and effort in studying and reporting on the subject. While many of the sources
4
below concern music, similar information can be found in other fields.16 Music
is an especially fruitful avenue for study because so many “amateurs” practiced
it, often gaining skills rivaling those of the best professional musicians. For the
most part, the following source material will be limited to the eighteenth and
early nineteenth centuries.
Modern publications reflect our lack of consensus about these terms.
One viewpoint is expressed by Otto Biba when writing about concert life in
Beethoven’s Vienna:
During the eighteenth and throughout most of the nineteenth century, a
music dilettante was a trained musician who played his instrument perfectly,
but for his own pleasure rather than for a living. A dilettante was simply a
performer of professional caliber with amateur status. Of course, some dilet-
tantes had more talent, more training, and more practical experience than
others. But the unfavorable connotation which we are inclined to attach to
this designation today was entirely unknown at the time.17
On the other hand, Bernd Sponheuer’s article in the German music

encyclopedia Musik in Geschichte und Gegenwart equates Liebhaber and Dilettant with
“Musikfreund, Laie, Nichtkenner” (friend of music, layman, uninformed person)
as opposites to Kenner (one who is thoroughly informed about music). While he
acknowledges that early usage of Liebhaber and Dilettant did not exclude professional
training, he does not develop this subject, but contrasts the Kenner with the Liebhaber,
for whom “the hedonistic component is decisive.” He does, however, note the
positive depiction of the Dilettant in Hans Georg Nägeli’s book (1826).18
The terms as indicators of social class

As sources below confirm, the terms dilettante, amateur, and Liebhaber originally
were unrelated to proficiency with the subject under consideration, but referred to a
socioeconomic class with the period’s highest level of education. Broadly speaking,
this group comprised mainly those with the means to educate their children with
private tutoring; that is, the aristocracy and the upper middle class. In 1852 the
French composer Fromental Halévy makes the sociological aspect explicit when
observing that certain amateurs dedicate their entire lives to the art:
They are given the name of amateur only because their affluence frees
them from asking of their talent the remuneration that the artist of
profession is obliged to seek by his work. . . . If some [amateurs] do not
rise above the nocturne or the romance . . . others truly have talent of
the first order. In Paris, there have often been and still are today amateurs
whose talent leaves nothing to be desired in comparison with the most
renowned artists.19
5
Dividing the amateurs into active or passive participants, Halévy places

Frederick the Great, who played and composed for the flute, in the former
category. If the passive type of amateur happens to be wealthy, continues
Halévy, he takes pleasure in nurturing budding talents. For example, M. de La
Pouplinière of the previous century had the first act of Jean-Philippe Rameau’s
opera Hippolyte et Aricie (1733) performed at his mansion for an elegant audience
including those men of letters whose support was so important, thereby
opening to Rameau the theater’s previously closed gates. Halévy also discusses
the eighteenth-century writers who took part in musical controversies, and were
given the name of amateur because they did not study music professionally, but
judged questions with their intellect, and sometimes their particular tastes. Thus
their writings did not have the special character that critiques by musicians, if
there were any in this epoch, would have given them. [He is probably right in
speculating that there were no professional-musician critics during Rameau’s
age. One of the earliest may have been Pascal Boyer, who began writing in the
late 1760s.] According to Halévy, the mathematician Jean Le Rond d’Alembert
rendered another type of service to the musical art when putting his pen at
Rameau’s disposal, thereby lending his new doctrines the authority of his
name and reputation. Another type of amateur searches out manuscripts or
collects scores; one such is the librarian at the Paris Conservatoire, M. Bottée
de Toulmon, whom Halévy calls one of the best-informed amateurs of musical
archaeology.
When an early German writer describes a single individual as both a
Liebhaber and a Kenner, Liebhaber has to be a sociological term. For instance, the
obituary for Johann Sebastian Bach, written by his son Carl Philipp Emanuel
and others, states that Prince Leopold of Anhalt Cöthen, “a great Kenner and
Liebhaber of music,” called Bach to be his Capellmeister.20 Translating Liebhaber
as the modern “amateur” would negate the meaning of Kenner, so Liebhaber
designates a member of the upper classes. Similar instances include:
J. U. König writing to the literary critic Johann Christoph Gottsched

(1729): “. . . he is not only a Kenner and Liebhaber of poetry, but
also writes elegant German verse.”
Johann Joachim Winckelmann (archaeologist, 1717-1768): “from this
Liebhaber and Kenner of the art.”21
To be a dilettante was a mark of respect, as when the Italian composer

Benedetto Marcello identified himself as a “nobile Veneto dilettante di
contrappunto” in his Concerti à cinque, op. 1 (1708). Tomaso Albinoni, a member
of the upper middle class, and the aristocrat Emanuele d’Astorga did the same.22
6
In citing Francesco Antonio Bonporti and Henrico Albicastro as composers

who called themselves dilettanti, Erich Reimer observes that such usage defines
a sociological category.23 Instead of being simply interested in a subject, the
dilettante, amateur and Liebhaber could be highly skilled in it and make a mark on
history. In their original usage, these terms define the highest social classes.
They apply to the person who simply appreciates the matter at hand, as well as
the one who has acquired the greatest knowledge and skill.
Dictionary definitions
According to the Dictionnaire de l’Académie françoise (1694), an amateur
is devoted to something; hence, an amateur of virtue, of the arts, of good
books, of paintings, etc. Jacques Lacombe’s French dictionary of the fine arts
(1753) defines the amateur as one who distinguishes himself by his taste in and
knowledge of one of the fine arts, although he does not make of it a profession.
“We also owe much,” he adds, “to this class of amateurs who enlighten our taste
and extend our knowledge by their writings.”24
In his Dictionnaire de la langue française, Paul-Émile Littré quotes the French
writer and politician François-René, vicomte de Chateaubriand (1768-1848): “I
have spoken at some length about the ruins of Athens because, after all, only
the amateurs of the arts know them well.” Here, the amateurs have the highest
attainment in the field. Littré also notes the difference between simply liking
something and being an amateur of it. The latter usually indicates a particular
preference that becomes a type of study. “‘I am an amateur of roses’ means that
I investigate them; I collect them.”25
According to Jean-Jacques Rousseau (1768), an amateur (which he equates
with the Italian dilettante) is not a musician by profession, but performs his part in
a concert for his own pleasure and love of music. Also called amateur are those
who, without being trained in music or at least without practicing it, frequent the
concerts.26 What needs to be made more explicit to the modern reader is that
the amateurs taking part in concerts are playing alongside professional musicians,
but without remuneration.
In 1791, the French writer Pierre-Louis Ginguené divides the amateurs
into three categories, which can be summarized as follows. The first includes
those who do not practice music, but retain a lifelong taste for it and attend
the concerts and stage works. Sometimes their natural and sure instincts make
them better judges of music than the experts who lack taste or impartiality.
The second category of amateur comprises the now considerable number of
those who have developed their natural gifts by study and contributed to the
great progress recently made in music execution [which indicates the amateurs’
7
professional level of achievement]: “There are few concerts by invitation in

which one does not find among the amateurs of both sexes more talent than
there was among the most celebrated virtuosos twenty years ago in France.” The
third category of amateur is the smallest and most distinguished. Not content
with learning to perform music, they want to study music theory, in order to
judge the practice better. Some learn the rules of composition, and may write
music. If they also have natural sensibility, the professionals should like to have
them as judges. But as this combination is not common and those who do
have it are not always prompt to speak out, artists’ reputations are too often at
the mercy of amateurs who substitute for their lack of insight an enthusiasm for
or against without knowing why. Others are knowledgeable but cold—being
able to detect the faults without feeling the beauties.27 Ginguené’s assessment
reflects the higher level of general education among professional musicians
toward the end of the century.
The latter type of amateur may have been the stimulus for the poet Jean-
François Marmontel’s portrayal of this individual as hindering writers’ efforts.28
Yet he takes care to describe also the laudatory type of amateur. On the other
hand, Voltaire solicited the amateurs’ advice about six volumes of Questions sur
l’Encyclopédie (1777), a collection of new, enlarged or corrected articles: “It is to
them [the amateurs] that we dedicate our collection, from which they can accept,
correct or omit the articles, at their pleasure, in the large edition being prepared
by the Paris publishers. We are offering them exotic plants which merit entering
into their vast collection only insofar as they will be cultivated by such hands,
and it is then that they can receive life.”29
Samuel Johnson’s Dictionary of the English Language (1755) omits amateur
and dilettante, whether because they were not yet in common usage or because
of their foreign etymology. Just after the turn of the nineteenth century, these
terms did enter Abraham Rees’s Cyclopaedia: “AMATEUR, in the Arts, is a
foreign term introduced and now passing current amongst us, to denote a person
understanding, and loving, or practising, the polite arts of painting, sculpture,
or architecture, without any regard to pecuniary advantage.”30 The Cyclopaedia
also translates most of Ginguené’s above article. Its entry for “Dilettante” simply
equates it with “Amateur.”
The German usage of Liebhaber, too, denotes high social class. Around
the 1760s, the term Dilettant begins to substitute for Liebhaber when used in the
serious-musician sense and gradually becomes dominant, so that by century’s
end the Liebhaber is more often one who simply appreciates music. The
changing nature of the term is seen in Heinrich Christoph Koch’s German
musical dictionary where a Dilettant is defined as one who sings or plays [for
others] without making music his chief occupation or seeking remuneration.
8
A Liebhaber, on the other hand, can be either a simple music lover or one who
practices music in the same sense as the Dilettant, in which case the latter term is
preferable to distinguish the individual from the Liebhaber having no particular
knowledge about music. When the terms Kenner and Liebhaber are used together
[with reference to multiple persons], adds Koch, the latter implies simple music
appreciation, in contrast to the Kenner’s authoritative knowledge.31
Between 1779 and 1787, Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach wrote several collections
of keyboard works for “Kenner und Liebhaber.” By Kenner, says Rochlitz, Bach did
not mean the knowledgeable fault-finder, nor did he think of Liebhaber as the
person simply seeking amusement. He meant a Kenner who is at the same time a
true Liebhaber (that is, a friend of the art); and a Liebhaber who is simultaneously
a Kenner and understands the essence of the matter. This is evident from these
works, adds Rochlitz; above all, the great rondos and fantasias.32
When the Berlin Journal littéraire published a French translation of the
article “Kenner” from Johann Georg Sulzer’s encyclopedia of the fine arts,
it equated artiste with Künstler, connoisseur with Kenner, and amateur with
Liebhaber.33 In this instance, which refers to all the arts and humanities and
reflects the changing usage, amateur and Liebhaber are limited to one who simply
appreciates the subject. Writers, however, sometimes inadvertently omit an
alternate usage. For this reason and all the contradictory evidence extending into
the nineteenth century, it would be inadvisable to confine amateur and Liebhaber
to this definition, for which Sulzer’s article has probably been the principal
source today. In the foreword to his work, Sulzer observes that he has written
for the serious Liebhaber, and not for the Liebhaber or Dilettante who dabbles
in the arts.34 Yet his article “Kenner” describes the Liebhaber as judging a work
“merely according to the unthinking impressions it makes on him.”35 In 1772,
Johann Heinrich Merck, editor of the Frankfurter Gelehrte Anzeigen, took issue
with Sulzer’s denigration of the Dilettante: “If Herr S. were a dilettante himself,
his system of art would not be gloomy fervor, but more cheerful thought, which
never belittles.”36 And in response to a separate article by Sulzer in late 1772,
Merck and Johann Wolfgang von Goethe together wrote a review in which the
Liebhaber is depicted positively, while the Kenner is demoted to the diminutive
“Kennerchen.”37
Terms of achievement
Unlike dilettante, amateur, and Liebhaber, which originally denoted social class,
the following terms concern achievement. Kenner and connoisseur comprise those
who are knowledgeable about the technical aspects of a subject. According
to Koch, the Kenner not only correctly senses what is beautiful or lacking in a
9
product of the art, but also can offer reasons why this is so.38 In 1777, Forkel
published a guide to acquiring training in music theory so that the musical
Liebhaber could become “a genuine Kenner.”39 His writings reflect the transition
(which varied according to time and place) to defining the Liebhaber as a simple
music lover.40
The term virtuoso often means a professional musician, but, particularly
later in the century, is also applied to amateur musicians. While artiste and Künstler
usually define a professional performer, they, too, are occasionally applied to
amateurs. The Künstler, as Sulzer’s article mentions, is not necessarily a Kenner.41
That is to say, his musical knowledge might not extend beyond performance.
Let us consider how terms were applied in Italy, England, France, and Germany,
where the serious amateurs often joined forces with the best professional
musicians.
Italy
The association of dilettante with high social class is evident when Burney
cites a vocal performance in Naples (1553) in which some of the performers
were entitled Count and Marchioness, enabling us, he says, to distinguish the
“professors” from the “Diletanti.”42 Those with titles of nobility were dilettanti,
while the professore were professional singers. In this case, a professional
was censured for his faults, while an aristocrat had “all the requisites of vocal
perfection.”
In the account of his Italian tour, Burney occasionally mentions dilettante
musicians. At a private concert for Naples’ highest society hosted by the English
ambassador William Hamilton, for example, Burney heard the professional
composer Paolo Orgitano (who subsequently directed the opera at His Majesty’s
Theatre in London), “one of the best Harpsichord players and writers for
that instrument here. But Mrs. [Emma] Hamilton is herself a much better
performer on that instrument than either he or any one I heard there. She has
great neatness, and more expression and meaning in her playing.”43
“Among the Dilettanti at Florence,” says Burney, “the Marquis of Ligneville
is regarded as a good theorist and composer.” The title page of his setting
of the Salve Regina identifies him as “Prince of Conca, chamberlain to their
Imperial Majesties, director of the music of the court of Tuscany, and member
of the philharmonic society of Bologna.”44
Sometimes a dilettante had to turn professional, as Burney observes: “At
Rome I also had frequent conversations with Rinaldo di Capua, an old and
excellent Neapolitan composer. He is the natural son of a person of very high
rank in that country, and at first only studied music as an accomplishment; but
10
being left by his father with only a small fortune, which was soon dissipated, he
was forced to make it his profession.”45
Nearly half a century later, the Austrian writer Franz Sales Kandler’s report
about music in Venice indicates that dilettantes were on a par with professional
instrumentalists:
The instrumentalists of Venice, including the dilettantes . . . distinguish
themselves advantageously by energy in execution and by uniformity and rapid
comprehension. . . . Dilettantes and professionals also distinguish themselves
in the precise, nuanced performance of quartets. Those of Haydn, Mozart,
Beethoven, Krommer, Romberg, etc. are often sightread with amazing
competence.46
An 1822 letter to Kandler from the Florence musician Ignazio Maria
Colson describes how distinguished professional musicians combine with
“excellent Dilettanti” to provide great pleasure in the private accademie [concerts].
As outstanding singers, Colson names the professional Sig. Ceccherini and the
dilettantes Sigg. Campana and Franceschini. The AmZ (1819) praises the same
singers in these concerts, citing also four noteworthy female dilettante soloists by
name.47
According to the Italian music theorist and historian Carlo Gervasoni
(1812), four of Livorno’s leading professional musicians joined with dilettantes
in forming a society of amatori e dilettanti di musica to sponsor a weekly accademia
of vocal and instrumental music. And how could an institution not flourish,
asks Gervasoni, when its members include a Sig. Teresa Gialdini, a dilettante
of prodigious grace and strength who could rank among Europe’s principal
singers? A Sig. Enrichetta Kellermann, whose great ability is combined with
all possible knowledge of music? Space is insufficient to commend all the
other dilettanti who make this establishment flourish: “I will only say that the
Livorno dilettanti’s performance of the famous opera Gli Orazi ed I Curiozi [by
Domenico Cimarosa] was such that its immortal composer would have been
overcome by joy on hearing it.”48
England
A “Society of Dilettanti”—upper class young men who had visited
Italy—was formed in London in 1733-34, but “gentleman” is the term that
eighteenth-century English texts apply to the non-professional gentry and
aristocrat musicians, who had long played an important role in musical life.
As the Cyclopaedia implies, the usage of “amateur” may have begun toward the
end of the century; for example, Joseph Doane’s compilation of over 1,300
British musicians: A Musical Directory for the Year 1794 Containing the Names and
11
Address of the Composers & Professors of Music, with a Number of Amateurs, Vocal
and Instrumental. The word AMAMATEURS appears in larger typeface than
any but the first two words. The size of his undertaking did not permit Doane
to assess the capability of the individuals listed, so he added this caveat: “Great
pains have been taken to learn the various Places at which the several persons
have of late performed, as well as the Societies which they have belonged to, the
insertion of which will, it is hoped, apologize with gentlemen of the Profession,
for the introduction of so many Amateurs and Performers of inferior note;
for some such there undoubtedly must be in so large a collection of names.”49
According to Doane, those of inferior note include professionals as well as
amateurs.
Gentlemen musicians with professional-level qualifications included
such figures as John Blathwayt, who had studied with the Italian composer
and violinist Arcangelo Corelli and became a director of the Royal Academy
of Music, and Henry Needler, orchestra leader of the Academy of Ancient
Music during the 1740s and early 1750s.50 Another was the composer and music
director John Marsh (1752-1828), subject of a substantial article in today’s New
Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, and whose journals provide valuable
insights into eighteenth-century musical life. From his commentary, we can
judge that the skills of certain gentlemen musicians were commensurate with
and in some cases superior to those of leading professional musicians. In one
concert featuring the castrato Venanzio Rauzzini in the late 1770s, Marsh was
disappointed in the qualifications of the leader Kammell, “as he by no means
as a professor [professional] seem’d to rank above mediocrity; our own leader
Tewksbury as well as many gent’n performers being indeed equal & some
superior to him.”51
An interesting incident involving social mores of class occurred after
a performance of George Frideric Handel’s Messiah. On this occasion, says
Marsh: “Mr Carter played the 4th. of Handels Concertos very neatly upon the
organ, after w’ch he with Mess’rs Toll & Brown . . . dined etc. with us . . .
Mr Carter having, as we thought, agreed to take the organ at the church as a
gent’n, we were much surprized at his giving strong hints when the concert was
over of expecting to be paid, by asking me who was the person who paid the
performers, as he wish’d to go away early the follow’g morning.” All they could
afford was 5 guineas, a sum they thought would affront him. But he was “(as
it appear’d) ready to take anything he co’d get.”52 Whatever he lacked in class
awareness, Mr Carter had the credentials of a professional musician.
In 1791 the famed Austrian composer Franz Joseph Haydn was invited to
London and treated warmly by nearly all educated people during an extended
sojourn, but that did not prevent a certain element of the upper classes from
12
putting him in his place. As he entered the orchestra in the theater, the players
stood up to welcome him. Some experts in the upper gallery were amazed
at this courtesy, and when they learned that it was being accorded an artist
and, moreover, a foreigner, they began to hiss, whistle, and shout “Fiddler!
Fiddler!”53 Even though attitudes were changing, some still clung to the belief
that a professional musician, no matter how accomplished, was unworthy of
respect.
France
In France, the principal term for someone pursuing an interest avidly
without deriving a livelihood from it was amateur. When the composer André-
Ernest-Modeste Grétry wrote to the Bolognese theorist Giovanni Battista
Martini about Anton Bemetzrieder’s practical keyboard harmony book (Paris,
1771), he applied the term amateur to highly skilled individuals: “This book is
making a great stir in Paris; all the amateurs of Rameau’s fundamental bass are
crying heresy.”54 Understanding Rameau’s principles requires the music theory
known only by the elite professional musicians and the upper-class amateurs. One
of the latter was d’Alembert, whose Élémens de musique (1752) made Rameau’s
theories more accessible. Another important contribution from d’Alembert is
his critical essay “De la liberté de la musique” (1759).
In his 1732 book dedicated to the lives of those poets and musicians who
had earned placement in a French Parnassus, Évrard Titon du Tillet included
separately many “beaux Esprits, amateurs of poetry and music, who also have
composed beautiful verse or pleasing music, or who have excelled in the art of
singing or playing some instrument.” They appear in our Parnassus, he adds,
as honorary associates and admirers of our great poets and famous musicians;
they will at times recite their verse and join their voices and instruments in the
concerts of Parnassus. His list of amateur poets is especially large and includes
well-known names such as Saint-Evremont, as well as fifteen women. The
amateur musicians, too, include women: four singers and four harpsichordists.
While he believes that most of the illustrious individuals just cited can indeed
be admitted to Parnassus [as full-fledged members], he leaves it to the true
connoisseurs in poetry and music to assign them the places they merit.55
Not only did most of the writing about music before the latter part of the
eighteenth century come from amateurs (except for practical music-instruction), it
also seems directed largely to them as the educated musical elite. The first French
music journal to survive beyond two issues, the Journal de musique (founded in 1770),
changed its name in 1773 to read: Journal de musique par une société d’amateurs. It invited
musicians, amateurs, men of letters, and all the academies of Europe to submit
material. As a forceful voice for higher performance standards, the Journal’s criticism
13
of the long-standing Concert Spirituel series produced results: “With the greatest
pleasure, we announce a revolution of interest to the amateurs of good music. Up to
now this concert series has been an object of ridicule for true connoisseurs.”56
To improve musical standards, the Journal de musique (1777/5: 10-11)
recommended establishing a conservatory, a music library, and a music academy
(probably to be patterned on the literary Académie française). The latter would
be composed of artistes & amateurs and serve as a center of encouragement
and communication. Sharing their ideas, says the Journal, will facilitate mutual
enlightenment and contribute to artistic progress.57 Thus a well-informed
amateur had as much musical status as the best professional musician. Similar
music academies were subsequently established in various European centers.
As Halévy observed above, the amateurs’ practical musical skills often
equaled those of the best professional musicians:
— A female amateur whose keyboard and composition skills won her
wide renown was Marie Emmanuelle Bayon (Mme Louis), immortalized
in a poem (1783), together with the composers Grétry, François-Joseph
Gossec and François-André-Danican Philidor.58
— According to the lexicographer Nicolas Framery, the amateur Michel-
Paul-Guy de Chabanon (who wrote three books about music and be-
came a member of the Académie française) would have acquired great
fame had he chosen the career of violinist.59
— In his four-volume Essai sur la musique ancienne et moderne (1780), Jean-
Benjamin de La Borde (himself an amateur) included the amateur Joseph
Bologne, Chevalier de Saint-Georges among the composers of note,
adding that he also executes music with the greatest precision and finest
nuances.60 Born in Guadaloupe of a French plantation owner and a
native woman, he is thought to have studied violin with Antonio Lolli
and composition with Gossec when his father returned to France. He
performed as a soloist, and his compositions for violin require a virtu-
oso technique. Proposed as music director for the Paris Opéra in 1776,
his nomination was blocked by four leading ladies who did not want to
submit to the orders of a mulatto. Under Saint-Georges’s direction,
the Concert des Amateurs (an orchestra of the best amateur and profes-
sional players) acquired an enviable reputation. According to the Alma-
nach Musical (1775): “Everyone knows that M. de Saint-Georges leads .
. . the best orchestra for symphonies in Paris and perhaps in Europe.”61
The high status and accomplishment of many amateur musicians is evident,

too, in the Dictionnaire historique des musiciens, artistes et amateurs by Alexandre
Choron and François-Joseph Fayolle (Paris, 1810-11).
14
Germany/Austria
According to the tenor and composer Ernst Christoph Dressler (1767):
“The Liebhaber often reaches a higher level of attainment in this art than the
virtuosos themselves.”62 And in 1802, the aesthetician Christian Friedrich
Michaelis observes: “It is easy to see that the . . . modest Dilettant can very
often with more right deserve to be called a true artist and musical expert than
can the artist of Handwerk.” The Dilettant’s ability to practice the art free of
necessity and outside pressures, continues Michaelis, gives him an advantage
over the professional musician. Even if the latter belongs to the upper classes,
he is tempted to follow false paths of affectation to please the public. Excluding
Dilettanten who are dabblers, Michaelis adds that the professional musician can
learn much from the true Dilettant who constantly strives for further knowledge
and improvement, avoiding rote-like mechanical execution.63
Upper-class women often achieved extraordinary musical skills for their
time, but were restricted to performing for their peers in private settings. Some
of Beethoven’s best keyboard interpreters were such women, one being the
Baroness Dorothea von Ertmann who has a separate listing in today’s New Grove
Dictionary. Beethoven’s associate and biographer Anton Schindler called her
“unequaled,” adding: “She grasped intuitively even the most hidden subtleties of
Beethoven’s works with as much certainty as if they had been written out before
her eyes.”64 Das gelehrte Oesterreich (1776/78), which describes the leading figures
in Austrian arts, sciences and letters, includes the dilettante Anne Marie Koffler
among the few musicians cited, noting her uncommon facility and excellence in
cantabile singing.65 According to the Journal für Literature, Kunst, Luxus und Mode
(1817), the accomplishments of the violinist Mariane von Berner are equaled
by only a few of the greatest artists. Such a superb virtuosa should belong to
the musical world, adds the writer, but as the daughter of a banker she will never
bring her art to the rest of Europe. Yet no friend of music travels through
Mitau without making a point of hearing her at her father’s home.66
Leipzig. The Liebhaber’s superior skill is suggested by Johann Sebastian
Bach’s note on the title page of his published keyboard collections (such as the
six partitas) offering them for the Liebhaber’s pleasure. In comparison with other
keyboard literature of the period, these are so very difficult that they could have
been executed by few individuals other than those whom Bach had trained with
his advanced fingering system.67 A number of Bach’s students and acquaintances
probably fell into the Liebhaber category. One would have been the theorist
and writer Lorenz Christoph Mizler von Kolof; another was Johann Friedrich
Agricola, who had studied law, but turned to music, becoming a composer at
the Berlin court and writing fluent criticism. In fact, Agricola used this term
to describe himself in his pamphlet Schreiben eines reisenden Liebhabers, published
under the pseudonym Flavio Anicio Olibrio (Berlin, 1749).
15
The Liebhaber’s capability is the subject of a response in the Berlin Allgemeine

deutsche Bibliothek to Burney’s account of his 1772 journey through Germany. To
the Englishman’s slighting of Leipzig musicians, the writer cites one singer, one
flutist, two violinists, and one cellist as virtuosos there, adding:
Besides these artists, there are skilled Liebhaber and Liebhaberinnen on
various instruments. To be sure, these musicians are all so modest that they do
not refer to themselves as virtuosos, although they perhaps could make more
claim to it than many whom Dr. Burney honors with this title.68
Besides indicating that the amateurs’ playing level sometimes rivaled or
exceeded that of professionals, this quotation confirms that women participated.
Berlin. When praising in 1774 the concert series whose orchestra
included many Liebhaber musicians, Reichardt calls Friedrich Nicolai, editor of
the Allgemeine deutsche Bibliothek, a fine Kenner of music who constantly strives to
improve these concerts.69 Another Kenner and Dilettant well-known to us is the
theorist and journalist Marpurg, a major authority on a wide variety of musical
subjects during the second half of the eighteenth century.70
Under the direction of the composer and writer Johann Adam Hiller, the
Berlin court orchestra combined with “a large number of excellent Dilettanten”
to present George Frideric Handel’s Messiah in 1786. The orchestra comprised
78 violins, 19 violas, 22 violoncellos, 15 double basses, 10 bassoons, 12 oboes,
12 flutes, 3 horns, 6 trumpets, 4 trombones and two pair of kettle drums. The
visiting violinist and composer Carl Stamitz, too, joined in.71 These numbers
suggest that well over half of the players were Dilettanten.
For the benefit of musicians’ widows in 1801, Berlin’s best musicians
performed Haydn’s oratorio The Creation with an orchestra of 55 strings, 20
woodwinds and horns, plus trumpets and tympani. After naming fifteen of the
city’s highest ranking professional musicians, the reviewer adds: “Berlin’s best
Musikliebhaber, among whom are Virtuosen, combined their talents with those of
the famous names.”72
When the English music critic Edward Holmes visited Germany in 1830,
he was impressed by the musical accomplishments of the many dilettanti:
The amateurs in Berlin are all little maestri; they dabble in composition, and
have most of them the score of a mass, sinfonia, or overture locked up in their
desks, the consciousness of which helps to sweeten their lives . . . The question
is not answered in Berlin as it used to be with us — “Is Mr. _____ musical?”
“Yes, he plays a little on the flute:” after which the wary inquirer would be sure
to avoid a demonstration of the fact. But the answer might run thus: “Yes, he
plays Sebastian Bach, sings at sight, and has written a set of quintetts.”73
16
For professionals and dilettanti alike, the ability to play the demanding
works of Sebastian Bach was noteworthy.
Hamburg. When Reichardt visited Hamburg in the early 1770s, he found
only Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach worthy of mention, but added a footnote:
“Hamburg is very rich in musical Liebhaber (dilettanti), who are not only skilled
in practice but also have solid knowledge and insight. But I do not consider it
appropriate to name them here.”74 Since Reichardt’s book describes the state of
music as practiced by professionals, it would not have been judicious to name
specific Liebhaber as exceeding the qualifications of professionals. Moreover,
the Liebhaber themselves would not have sought this recognition because it
would identify them too closely with an inferior class to which they did not
aspire. Also pertinent are Johann Joachim Christoph Bode’s remarks appended
to his German translation of Burney’s travels: “He has praised certain singers
[in other localities] who are certainly not better than the Liebhaberinnen here of
whom I am thinking.”75
Vienna. Johann Adolph Hasse’s letter of 17 December 1768 about the
performance of his opera Piramo e Tisbe discusses a promising dilettante who may
turn professional from necessity:
Another dilettante here has the role of Piramo. He doesn’t have a lot of
experience in music, but his voice is beautiful and nature has given him a special
gift for acting. This person is a dilettante now, but I believe that with time he will
be on stage as a professional because he does not have a large fortune.76
In Johann Ferdinand von Schönfeld’s Jahrbuch der Tonkunst von Wien und
Prag (The Musical Yearbook of Vienna and Prague; 1796), the accomplishments
of these cities’ most outstanding Virtuosen und Dilettanten are described. Only
the best professional musicians are listed (including Haydn and Beethoven),
implying that the Dilettanten’s achievements, too, are equally noteworthy. Nanette
von Martines, for example, is “one of the most superior Kennerinnen among our
numerous Dilettantinnen. She sight-reads, accompanies from the score, is an
excellent singer, and is rigorously grammatical in composition and execution. . . .
She has composed masses and many arias.”77
Vienna was known for its many capable Dilettanten. When Haydn
conducted the first performance of his Creation at an aristocrat’s mansion in 1798,
the soprano soloist was an acclaimed dilettante named Christine Gerardi. And
the violinist and conductor Paul Wranitsky’s letter (1799) about Vienna’s best
composers included “Hauschka — virtuoso on the violoncello. A Bohemian, a
dilettante. Has written some songs.”78
With the Kaiser’s support, Handel’s cantata Timotheus with instrumentation
by Mozart was given a splendid performance in 1812. The conductor was a
17
noted Dilettant—the composer and writer on music Ignaz Franz von Mosel,
Hr. Hofconcipist des k. k. Obersthofmeisteramts. Of the seven vocal soloists,
four can be identified as Dilettanten by their titles: Frau v. Geymüller, Hr. Hofrath
v. Kiesewetter, der k. k. Rath und Doktor der Rechten Hr. Sonnleithner, and
the silk manufacturer Hr. Soini. The concertmaster, too, was a Dilettant—the
wholesale merchant Hr. J. Tost. The remaining solo and principal instrumentalists
comprised “Dilettanten and the best professional musicians:”79
Violoncello: Hr. Hauschka

Double bass: Hr. Langhamer
Viola: Hr. Toeuber and Hr. Kratki
Flute: Hr. Bogner and Hr. Baron v. Knorr
Oboe: Hr. Czerwenka and Hr. Kiess
Clarinet: Hr. Graf v. Troier and Hr. Friedlovky
Bassoon: Hr. Romberg and Fürst Corolat
Horn: Hr. Radezky and Hr. Gowerlovsky
We already know that Hauschka was a Dilettant; so perhaps others with

the title of Hr. were Dilettanten as well. The review mentions that the chorus,
too, included Dilettanten of high rank, which “further increased the merit of the
whole undertaking.”
According to Biba’s research, the Viennese Dilettant’s capability generally
exceeded that of many professional orchestral players: “When, in 1808,
Beethoven engaged the orchestra of the Theater-an-der-Wien for an ‘Akademie’
at which the Fifth and Sixth symphonies were premiered, the result was a
very unsatisfactory performance—even though only professional musicians
were used. Thereafter it again became the rule that orchestras for concerts
were composed of dilettantes, or at the most some mixture of dilettantes and
professional musicians.”80
Prague. An article (1800) about the state of music in Bohemia lists
various professional performers, adding that the Dilettanten include many solid
experts and trained artists who are little inferior to the musicians of profession.
Exclaiming that listing all of them would lengthen the article too much, the
writer limits it to about a dozen, including the composer, pianist and inventor
Thomas Kunz, whose biography appears in The New Grove Dictionary. Others
are described as “one of the most important pianists in Prague,” “one of our
best violinists,” “deserves to rank with our best singers,” “our best artist on
wind instruments,” etc.81
18
Eventual change
Toward the end of the eighteenth century, Dilettant began to acquire a
negative connotation in literature.82 But in music, this meaning did not become
dominant until much later. For example, the German critic and editor Gottfried
Wilhelm Fink still used Dilettant in its positive sense in 1833 when asking: “Don’t
we have the most excellent artists of all types among our German Dilettanten?
Their number, abilities and knowledge are so significant as to give the whole
musical establishment a reputation that all the musicians of profession are
scarcely able to surpass.”83 Undoubtedly there were different interpretations
and applications of the terms amateur and dilettante during this period of rapid
change. The French Revolution had repercussions far beyond its borders, and
social revision was in the air. Class distinctions were beginning to diminish, but
continued to be an important force in people’s lives for many years to come.
In Arrey von Dommer’s updating (1865) of Koch’s dictionary, Dilettant
now means someone who practices music or another art as a hobby instead
of professionally, and thus has no standing as an artist. But, he adds, a clear
line between artist and Dilettant is not easily determined. When it comes to
judging the performance of many artists and Dilettanten, this definition is very
imprecise; many musicians in both practical music and music scholarship are
not professionals, yet are highly productive. For the Liebhaber, the term Dilettant
is never degrading, adds Dommer, but it carries a strong flavor of disdain when
applied to the artist, for it indicates a carelessness in fulfilling the requirements
of the art.84
At some point, the term dilettante acquired a different connotation also in
France, as in the French critic Joseph d’Ortigue’s discussion (1833) of Italian
opera in Paris: “But between these two extremes [the informed connoisseurs
and the public interested only in the plot] is a group that in fact forms the clever
part of the public—the dilettantes. These affected, perfumed, and good-form
people are nearly to music what the pedants are to politics, and hold the middle
ground between the artists and distinguished amateurs propelling the art forward,
and the crowd of reactionaries comprising the resistance. This third group . . .
displays an excessive fastidiousness for everything relating to performance, and
especially vocal performance. They meet at the Théâtre-Italien.”85 As with
Halévy’s text above, the amateur is still a highly regarded individual.
****
While early usage of the terms amateur, dilettante and Liebhaber denoted
a social class, ours implies an achievement level. In the former instance,
context determines whether the amateur is pursuing a subject seriously or simply
19
appreciates it. It will often be misleading to let our definition represent what
the early writers meant. The above texts indicate that the music execution skills
of the high-level professional musicians and the serious amateurs were much
more closely matched than today. Such amateurs were professional musicians
in everything but name—a name they themselves did not wish to adopt. Our
present interpretation of amateur, dilettante and Liebhaber took root in the late
eighteenth century and gradually increased as class distinctions lost ground and
professional skills increased markedly, helped in large part by the establishment
of conservatories. In other fields, early usage of these terms was similar,
although change may have occurred at differing times.
Endnotes
1
This chapter appeared originally in 1650-1850: Ideas, Æsthetics, and Inquiries in the Early Modern Era
19 (2012): 3-29.
2
NBR, 454, an English translation of Forkel’s Ueber Johann Sebastian Bachs Leben, Kunst und Kunst-
werke.
3
Otto Erich Deutsch, Mozart. A Documentary Biography, trans. E. Blom, P. Branscombe and J.
Noble (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1965), 541.
4
R. Campbell, The London Tradesman (1747): 89, 93. Quoted by John Spitzer and Neal Zaslaw, The
Birth of the Orchestra. History of an Institution 1650-1815 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004),
405f.
5
Burney/TourFI, 269.
6
See chapter 2.
7
Christoph-Hellmut Mahling, “The Origin and Social Status of the Court Orchestral Musician in
the 18th and Early 19th Century in Germany,” in Social Status, 219-64 at 233-36.
8
Anon., “Kurze Uebersicht des Bedeutendsten aus dem gesammten jetzigen Musikwesen in
Wien,” AmZ 3 (22 October 1800): 68.
9
Anon., “Neuer Versuch einer Darstellung des gesammten Musikwesens in Wien,” AmZ 3 (17
June 1801): 642-43.
10
Mozart’s Letters, 165.
11
HKB 5 (1760): 9.
12
Editorial footnote to Triest/1801 (28 January): 305. For more about the Handwerker, see David
Gramit, Cultivating Music. The Aspirations, Interests, and Limits of German Musical Culture, 1770-1848
(Berkeley: University of California Press, 2002), 19, 233 n94, 75f., 164. Mattheson/1739, 103,
used Handwerk somewhat differently when observing that the arts and sciences are interdepen-
dent: “The person who knows only his Handwerk knows nothing, but is a pedant, even if he holds
a high position like a general.”
13
Ludwig Rellstab, “Kunst” in Encyclopädie der gesammelten musikalischen Wissenschaften, oder Universal-
Lexicon der Tonkunst, 2nd edition, ed. Gustav Schilling (Stuttgart, 1840), 4:268.
14
John Potter, Observations on the present state of music and musicians (London, 1762), 61.
15
Oxford English Dictionary, 2nd edition, J. A. Simpson and E. S. C. Weiner, eds. (Oxford: Clarendon
Press, 1989), 4:665.
16
See Richard Hibbitt, Dilettantism and its Values: From Weimar Classicism to the fin de siècle (London:
Legenda, 2006), introduction (which cites modern studies of this subject) and chapter 1, “The
Etymology of the Term.”
20
17
Otto Biba, “Concert life in Beethoven’s Vienna” in Beethoven, Performers, and Critics: The Interna-
tional Beethoven Congress, Detroit, 1977, ed. Robert Winter and Bruce Carr (Detroit: Wayne State
University Press, 1980), 77-93 at 78f.
18
Bernd Sponheuer, “Kenner-Liebhaber-Dilettant” in MGG, part I, 5:31-37.
19
Fromental Halévy, “Dictionnaire des beaux-arts,” La Revue et Gazette musicale de Paris 19 (1852):
303f.
20
Bach/Dok, 3:84.
21
Jacob Grimm and Wilhelm Grimm, “Kenner” in Deutsches Wörterbuch (Leipzig: S. Hirzel, 1873),
5:547.
22
Cited by Arnold Schering, “Künstler, Kenner und Liebhaber der Musik im Zeitalter Haydns
und Goethes,” Jahrbuch der Musikbibliothek Peters 38 (1931): 9-23 at 19. See also Buckley Harris
Crist, “The ‘Professional Amateur’: Noble Composers, Court Life, and Musical Innovation in Late
Sixteenth-Century Italy,” (Ph.D. dissertation, Yale University, 2004).
23
Erich Reimer, “Kenner—Liebhaber—Dilettant” in Handwörterbuch der musikalischen Terminologie,
ed. Hans Heinrich Eggebrecht (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner, 1974), 1-17 at 12.
24
Jacques Lacombe, Dictionnaire portatif des beaux-arts (Paris, 1753). Quoted by Reimer, “Kenner,”
4.
25
Paul-Émile Littré, “Amateur” in Dictionnaire de la langue française (Paris, 1880; rpt. 1991), 1:182.
26
Rousseau/1768, “Amateur,” 31.
27
Pierre-Louis Ginguené, “Amateur” in EMM, 1:77f.
28
Jean-François Marmontel, “Amateur” in EDR.
29
[Voltaire], Questions sur l’Encyclopédie, par M. de V*** (Geneva, 1777), 1:intro., 1, 6.
30
“Amateur” in The Cyclopaedia; or, Universal Dictionary of Arts, Sciences, and Literature, ed. Abraham
Rees; 1st American edition (Philadelphia, [1805-25]), vol. 2.
31
Koch/1802, 431, 900f.
32
Friedrich Rochlitz, Für Freunde der Tonkunst (Leipzig, [1832] 31868), 4:210f. Quoted by Reimer,
“Kenner,” 8.
33
Anon., “Article tiré du Dictionnaire de Mr. Sulzer,” Journal littéraire 23 (Berlin, May-June 1776):
121-48 at 121.
34
Johann Georg Sulzer, ATSK, 1: xvi-xvii.
35
Ibid., 3:5-14 at 6.
36
Quoted by Hibbitt, Dilettantism, 14f.
37
Ibid., 16f.
38
Koch/1802, 828.
39
Johann Nikolaus Forkel, Ueber die Theorie der Musik, insofern sie Liebhabern und Kennern notwendig und
nützlich ist (Göttingen, 1777), 32. Quoted by Reimer, “Kenner,” 11.
40
See also Matthew Riley, “Johann Nikolaus Forkel on the Listening Practices of ‘Kenner’ and
‘Liebhaber’,” Music & Letters 84/3 (2003): 414-33; and Matthew Riley, Musical Listening in the Ger-
man Enlightenment: Attention, Wonder and Astonishment (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2004), 88-100.
41
Sulzer, ATSK, 3:5f.: “Der Künstler, wenn er nicht zugleich ein Kenner ist, und er ist es nicht
allemal.”
42
Charles Burney, A General History of Music (London, 1789), 3:161.
44
Burney/TourFI, 264.
44
Ibid., 192.
45
Ibid., 234.
46
Quoted from the Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung mit besonderer Rücksicht auf den österreichischen Kai-
serstaat 1 (Vienna, 1817): 107, by Luca Aversano, Die Wiener Klassik im Land der Oper; Analecta
21
Musicologica 34 (Laaber: Laaber-Verlag, 2004), 123.

47
Colson’s letter quoted by Aversano, Wiener Klassik, 143. Anon., “Nachrichten. Florenz,” AmZ
21 (21 April 1819): 266-67.
48
Quoted by Aversano, Wiener Klassik, 151, from Carlo Gervasoni, Nuova teoria di musica (Parma,
1812), 72-74.
49
Joseph Doane, A Musical Directory for the Year 1794 . . . (London, 1794), v.
50
Cited by William Weber, The Rise of Musical Classics in Eighteenth-Century England (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 1992), 72.
51
Marsh/Journals, 147.
52
Ibid., 250f.
53
Anon., “Anekdoten,” AmZ 2 (23 October 1799): 80.
54
Quoted by Jean Gribenski, “A propos des Leçons de clavecin (1771): Diderot et Bemetzrieder,”
Revue de musicologie 66 (1980): 143. Concerning the authorship of Bemetzrieder’s book, see Bev-
erly Jerold, “Diderot (Part I) — Authorship and Illusion,” Music Theory & Analysis 1/1&2 (2014):
38-60.
55
Évrard Titon du Tillet, Le Parnasse françois (Paris, 1732), 39f.
56
Anon., “Concert Spirituel,” Journal de Musique par une société d’amateurs (Paris, 1773/2): 74.
57
Ibid. (1777/5): 10f.
58
Cited by Jean-Baptiste Weckerlin, Nouveau musiciana . . . (Paris: Garnier Frères, 1890), 82.
59
Framery, EMM, 1:ix.
60
Laborde/1780, 3:484.
61
Quoted from the Almanach musical (Paris, 1775, 2) by Barry S. Brook, La Symphonie française (Paris:
Institut de musicologie de l’Université de Paris, 1962), 1:254f.
62
Ernst Christoph Dressler, Fragmente einiger Gedanken des musikalischen Zuschauers (Gotha, 1767),
28. Cited by Reimer, “Kenner,” 2.
63
Christian Friedrich Michaelis, “In wie fern giebt es einen unschuldigen Dilettantismus in der
Musik . . .?” AmZ 5 (22 December 1802): 210-11.
64
John Warrack, “Ertmann, Dorothea von” in NG2, 8:309.
65
Ignaz de Luca, Das gelehrte Oesterreich (Vienna, 1776/78), vol. 1, part 2, 323f.
66
Journal des Luxus und der Moden, with excerpts from the Journal für Literature, Kunst, Luxus und Mode
[1786-1827], ed. F. J. Bertuch and G. M. Kraus (Leipzig, 1967-68), 4:285f.
67
Among writers implying this is Triest/1801, 306-07.
68
Anon., “D. Burneys Tagebuch seiner musikalischen Reisen . . . ,” Allgemeine deutsche Bibliothek, ed.
Friedrich Nicolai (Berlin, 1777), Anhang to vols.13-24, 490-93 at 492.
69
Reichardt/Briefe, 1:32f.
70
Marpurg’s birth in Marpurgshof (cited by Gerber/1790) defines his aristocratic origins.
71
MM, 2.2 (1786): 974f.
72
Anon., “Briefe an einen Freund über die Musik in Berlin,” AmZ 3 (21 January 1801): 289-90.
73
Edward Holmes, A ramble among the musicians of Germany (London, 1828), 236f.
74
Reichardt/Briefe, 2:40.
75
Charles Burney, Tagebuch einer musikalischen Reise, trans. Johann Joachim Christoph Bode (Ham-
burg, 1773), 3:286f.
76
Johann Adolf Hasse e Giammaria Ortes: Lettere, 1760-1783, ed. Livia Pancino (Turnhout: Brepols,
1998), 168.
77
Schönfeld/1796, 41f.
22
78
H. C. Robbins Landon, Haydn: Chronicle and Works (Bloomington: Indiana University Press,
1977), 4:319, 321, 332.
79
Anon., “Nachrichten. Wien im November,” Musikalische Zeitung für die österreichischen Staaten 1
(Vienna, 1812): 130f. Quoted by Gramit, Cultivating Music, 228f, n63.
80
Biba, “Concert Life,” 79.
81
Anon., “Ueber den Zustand der Musik in Böhmen,” AmZ 2 (23 and 30 April 1800): 513-23,
537-42.
82
See Reimer, “Kenner,” 13f.
83
Gottfried Wilhelm Fink, “Ueber den Dilettantismus der Teutschen in der Musik,” AmZ 35 (2
January 1833): 10.
84
“Dilettant” in Musikalisches Lexicon auf Grundlage des Lexicons von H. Ch. Koch, ed. Arrey von
Dommer (Heidelberg: Mohr, 1865), 237f.
85
Joseph d’Ortigue, Le Balcon de l’opéra (Paris, 1833), 148f.
23
CHAPTER 2
Bach’s Lament about Leipzig’s Professional

Instrumentalists 1
At the time of Johann Sebastian Bach and for long afterward, it was customary
for German towns and cities to employ a certain number of instrumentalists
whose duties included playing at specified times daily from the town tower, as
well as for civic ceremonies/functions and church music. Sometimes they also
acted as watchmen from the tower.2 According to Bach in his “Short But Most
Necessary Draft for a Well-Appointed Church Music, with Certain Modest Re-
flections on the Decline of the Same,” addressed to the Leipzig Town Council
in 1730:
Discretion forbids me to speak at all truthfully of their qualities and
musical knowledge. Nevertheless it must be remembered that they are
partly emeriti and partly not at all in such exercitio as they should be.3
Thus some are beyond their prime or not as practiced as necessary. By focusing
here on the professional instrumentalists supplied for church music by the town
of Leipzig, where Bach spent the last twenty-seven years of his life as cantor,
we shall find that the overall level of music performance in Germany had to be
well below anything we have envisaged.
By his stipulated right to have apprentices, the town musician also
furnished the training of most German instrumentalists.4 After five or
more years of study and unpaid labor with a master, the apprentice became
a journeyman (a middle stage between apprentice and master) and traveled
about to gain additional experience. While the requirements may have
varied slightly in different locations, the system overall was the same. Of the
seven instrumentalists supplied by the town of Leipzig, four had the rank of
Stadtpfeifer and three, Kunstgeiger. The difference between the two categories
lay principally in rank, salary and benefits, for the Stadtpfeifer were substantially
better off. These players (plus one journeyman) formed the core for Bach’s
weekly cantatas.
Once a journeyman obtained a regular position as a town musician, he was
likely to remain there until death. The Leipzig tenure of the town musicians
on Bach’s list ranged from eleven to thirty-nine years, with most having more
than twenty years of experience.5 Although he names from this group two each
for trumpet, violin, and oboe, everyone was expected to play all or most of the
25
instruments. The remaining vacancies, he says, have to be filled by university

students (who are becoming reluctant to play without pay) and by pupils from
the St. Thomas School, thereby depriving the choir of their voices.6
Although instrumentalists employed at courts enjoyed much greater
prestige and remuneration than did town musicians, they also were subject
to capricious dismissal—in this respect, the town musician’s security looked
inviting. In his autobiography, Georg Philipp Telemann wonders why he left
the choice post he had at the Eisenach court to take a church position in 1712
in Frankfurt am Main, but recalls hearing it said that whoever desires lifetime
security should settle in a republic. A higher level of instrumental playing
at court can be inferred from his statement that the liberties he enjoyed in
Frankfurt were some compensation for having lost the court’s gracious prince
and excellent virtuosos.7 Despite the lack of security, the stronger German
instrumentalists generally preferred to take their chances at a court.
Training
According to Ignaz Franz Xaver Kürzinger (1763), the town musician
could not specialize on one instrument, but had to learn a great many. From his
list of twenty-three instruments, the ones best known to us are the four voices
of the string family plus viola da gamba, trumpet, horn, recorders, transverse
flute, oboe, bassoon, clarinets, cembalo, cornetts, and all three trombones. But
this was a far from satisfactory method of training. In many places, he says,
apprentices are taken on to avoid hiring a maid servant, for the lad supplies
woodchopping, water-carrying, and other difficult chores. Through the help of
vigorous thrashings and the meanest insults on a daily basis, he obtains partly
a great capability in music and partly a fine education, so that after four or
five years he is qualified to wear the sword.8 Now the apprentice becomes a
journeyman to complete his education. With still more irony Kürzinger adds:
. . . when he travels about, he does honor to his teacher and the town
musician’s art. For the most part, journeymen are those who . . . very
often scratch away at the double bass or at most, second violin, while
boozing at the public house. Yet they at least blow a fine trumpet and
horn and have learned artistically-sound tippling. But, to be sure, there
is another type of journeyman who, brought to diligence and soberness
by instruction with a capable, levelheaded and reasonable teacher, has
untiringly practiced all the instruments; given effective tests of his thor-
oughly learned art, as well as good manners; and achieved great praise,
honor and excellence everywhere, even in the highest places.9
26
Bach’s Lament about Leipzig’s Professional Instrumentalists
This is what constituted “formal” training for most professional

instrumentalists (apart from those able to afford private instruction). Those who
did not complete their apprenticeship or learned an instrument unconventionally
became itinerant musicians—beerhall fiddlers—and ranked low in society.
Half a century earlier, Johann Mattheson had given an even more vivid
account of the suffering many apprentices endured at the hands of unscrupulous
masters. Instead of receiving food and drink, he says, they spend their years
in abominable servitude doing the work of maidservants, accompanied by
thrashings, ear-boxing and injuries from morning to night. Such a regimen
has to ruin the best of talents; he takes on a brutal lifestyle, becomes uncouth,
loutish, and impudent:10
. . . and at the end of his apprenticeship, doesn’t he remain just as much
an idiot as when he started? Without a doubt, for talent is extinguished
by coercion. The man loses his natural temperament, becomes ill-
tempered, sluggish, worthless and indolent, and can never do anything
right. When his time is up, the fellow rejoices as one escaped from
prison, sticks his sword at his side, and departs. He is now supposed to
be a Musicante for weddings.11
In 1725, Mattheson attributes the rarity of instrumentalists with a solid
understanding of music to the all-too-slavish instruction. Also, “the poor
encouragement/remuneration for musicians is probably one of the greatest
reasons for music’s decadence.” He regrets that music is not taught as a
discipline in schools and universities.12 Mattheson also quotes a letter from
Johann Christoph Roubenio, music director in Luckau, who finds it impossible
to believe that other professions have so many miserable bunglers and
blunderers who conduct themselves so clumsily, coarsely, arrogantly, stubbornly
and absurdly, and are so ill-behaved as the organists and Kunst- or Stadtpfeifer,
among whom is seldom one who knows his musical ABCs; for example, can
identify the difference between a major and minor key.13
As Arnold Schering observes (1921), apprentice instruction was harsh—
many beatings and little bread: “The fact that occasionally men of mature
mastery emerged from this system in certain towns, such as Leipzig, Hamburg
or Erfurt, should not obscure the reality that the training of town musicians left
much, too much to be desired, both artistically and ethically. Art counted as a
trade, and from the very first, apprenticeship was viewed as being the greatest
possible, often brutal exploitation of the pupil for profit.”14 Apprenticeship
served the needs of those without the means for private instruction. If the pupil
could have been certain of having an outstanding master, it would have been a
useful system. Such masters, however, appear to have been in the minority, and
27
they were usually limited to having no more than three apprentices at a time.
Fortunate indeed were those who could afford private instruction, for they were
not yoked to an unsuitable teacher for five long years or more.
Apprentices received instruction only in playing the various instruments.
In most cases, this must have consisted of little more than learning the fingering
for the notes. There was no training in harmony or any other subject we
consider vital. Often they were illiterate. In his 1690 fictional but true-to-life
account entitled Musicus vexatus, Johann Kuhnau (Bach’s predecessor at Leipzig)
observes the low level of education. Among a hundred Stadtpfeifer journeymen,
he says, would scarcely be found one “who can put ten ordinary words on paper
without error.”15 Indeed, there is in Germany a notable scarcity of published
method books for instruments until later in the eighteenth century. Referring
to a period half a century before 1807, the Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung (AmZ)
says that good instructional material was as rare as it was imperfect.16 In 1687,
Daniel Speer published a small book to address the Stadtpfeifer’s needs (revised
and enlarged in 1697). It includes the most basic information and fingering for
the violin, viol-braccio, gamba, double bass, trumpet, kettle drums, trombones,
cornett, bassoon and recorders.17 Although a few pages of exercises are
included for each, these could not produce the elementary level of technique
we expect from young pupils. The teaching material probably consisted in large
part of the dance and tower music that formed so much of town-musician life.
The town musicians’ general lack of basic reading and writing skills
placed them below the organists and cantors in both musical achievement and
social status. Thus Johann Heinrich Quiels, an organist and teacher whose
autobiography was published in 1756, tells of his disappointment in having to
leave school at the age of 12 to help his father in his trade, for which he had
no inclination. Against his parents’ wishes, he was determined to go to a nearby
town to become an apprentice to a town musician. Somehow his music teacher
heard of it and advised him against it with so much eloquence and resolve that
he agreed to give up the idea. The cantor, too, told him: “Believe me, my son,
in time heaven will make something else out of you.”18 The low status of the
town musician is implied also when Kuhnau reports that the students at Leipzig’s
Neukirche (the university church) prefer to make music with their peers than
stand with the Stadtpfeifern.19 Few of these students who played instruments
for pleasure intended to make it a profession, for it was considered beneath
their station. So low was the professional musician’s status that even parents
of modest circumstances hoped better for their sons. For example, Johann
Abraham Peter Schulz, who later achieved considerable musical distinction, ran
away from home to Berlin because his father (a baker) wanted him to pursue
an ecclesiastical career: “I do not want to live to see you as a beerfiddler.” The
28
destitute but highly talented Schulz was fortunate in obtaining private instruction
from Johann Philipp Kirnberger in Berlin.20
Quantz’s apprenticeship
A firsthand account of town-musician training comes from the flutist
Johann Joachim Quantz (1697-1773), who overcame daunting obstacles to rise
to an important position at the Berlin court of Frederick the Great. According
to his 1754 autobiography, he became an orphan in 1707 after his father died,
his mother having died five years earlier. At this point, he abandoned the
blacksmith training his father had given him and moved to Merseburg to study
music with his uncle, the town musician Justus Quantz, who likewise died within
three months. The latter’s position was then filled by his subsequent son-in-law,
Johann Adolf Fleischhack, whose instruction Quantz now describes:
I was in service with this man for five and a quarter years as an appren-
tice and two and a quarter years as a journeyman. By standards of the
times, he was regarded as certainly no ordinary musician, particularly on
the violin. But he was inclined to attend more to his own convenience
than to giving the apprentices the necessary musical instruction. For
the most part, the journeymen did the same. Accordingly, there was
no other instruction than what one apprentice could give the others as
well as he was able. Under these circumstances, I would certainly have
remained as backward in music as my comrades if the burning love for
this knowledge which the Creator had given me (together with a good
natural disposition for it) had not driven me to pursue it diligently on
my own, and made a pleasure out of the most difficult pains in learning
the art of music.
The first instrument I had to learn was the violin, for which I
appeared also to have the most desire and capability. Then followed
the oboe and trumpet. These three instruments occupied most of
my efforts during my years of training. But I was not exempted from
learning the other instruments, such as cornett, trombone, Waldhorn,
recorder, bassoon, German double bass, violoncello, viola da gamba,
and who knows how many others that a true town musician must be
able to play. Because of being spread so thin with all these different
instruments, it is certainly true that one always remains a bungler on
each. Nevertheless, one does come to learn their characteristics, which
is almost indispensable knowledge for composers, particularly those
working with church music.21
According to Jakob Adlung (1758), few instrumentalists can aspire to the title of
virtuoso because of having to play several different ones, so that no one instru-
29
ment can be perfected. With blown instruments, he adds, the embouchure for
one instrument spoils what is required for the others.22
While Quantz may have been spared corporal punishment, he did not
receive much actual instruction. What probably saved him from becoming just
another town musician was his extraordinary initiative in seeking out additional
instruction and the fact that he had access to another relative, the organist
Johann Friedrich Kiesewetter, who appears to have been a better than average
musician. In giving the boy keyboard lessons (which were apart from his town-
musician training), he also gave him his first understanding of harmony and
incentive for learning composition. Fortunately, his master Fleischhack did keep
abreast of new developments, so that Quantz became acquainted with modern
music by such composers as Telemann, Melchior Hofmann, and Johann David
Heinichen. Left to his own devices, he diligently practiced the violin solos of
Heinrich Biber, Johann Jakob Walther, Henrico Albicastro and then Arcangelo
Corelli and Telemann. The town musicians were often called on to fill out the
Merseburg court orchestra, which at that time was not large. There, Quantz also
was able to hear musicians from other courts. All in all, he probably fared better
than most apprentices because his master was at least a competent musician
with an open mind, his extracurricular keyboard study gave him a knowledge of
harmony, and he was able to absorb much from his contact with court musicians.
Realizing that a steady diet of dance music stood in the way of acquiring greater
artistry, he decided to leave the town-musician’s life and set his sights on the
Dresden and Berlin courts, where the best music was to be found. He eventually
played in both courts. Turning down an offer from a small court because being
the strongest musician there would offer no opportunity for further learning, he
traveled about, playing in various locations, taking flute lessons from the noted
virtuoso Pierre-Gabriel Buffardin at the Dresden court, and hearing leading
musicians of the day. Despite a minimum of actual instruction, Quantz became
an outstanding musician largely by imitating those who were.
At the age of 21, Quantz joined the Polish Capelle with a salary of 150
talers plus lodging (increased to 216 talers in 1722). His salary rose to 250 talers
upon joining the Saxon court in 1728 and in 1733 it leapt to 800 talers. Coming
to the attention of Frederick the Great, the flute-playing King of Prussia,
Quantz in 1741 was offered 2000 talers per year for life, plus supplements
for his compositions and flutes that were made to his specifications. He was
released from all orchestral responsibilities, so that he played only for the King’s
chamber music, and answered to no one else.23 But Quantz represents the rarest
of exceptions to what a town musician could expect to attain.
30
Compare Quantz’s situation to what Sebastian Bach experienced as cantor

in Leipzig, where his base salary was 87 talers, plus lodging, allowances for
wood and candles, payments in kind (such as corn and wine), payments from
endowments and bequests, and additional income from miscellaneous sources.
In a letter to George Erdmann of 28 October 1730 expressing his availability
for a new position, Bach estimates his total income as 700 talers.24 The town
instrumentalists, of course, were far below this level. The Stadtpfeifer had a
yearly base salary of 39 talers plus supplements and housing. The Kunstgeiger,
on the other hand, had no housing included until a later date, and this item
consumed most of their salary. From the churches, they received almost 22
talers yearly.25 Hence the town musicians needed the extra income gained from
their stipulated right (against incursions by itinerant musicians) to play weddings
and other freelance engagements. More recent documentation, however,
suggests that some may not have been as destitute as has been portrayed in the
modern literature.26
A later account of town musicians

For a graphic account about town-musician conditions and attitudes, we
can leap ahead to 1805, a time when musical standards and musicians’ skills were
said to have improved greatly over what they had been in the first half of the
eighteenth century. As part of a serialized article about methods for improving
church music, Georg Christian Friedrich Schlimbach discusses the instrumental
music provided by town musicians. Since he is speaking about Prussia, certain
particulars may vary from those elsewhere in Germany. Nevertheless, the overall
picture is probably not too far from conditions in general. When Prussian army
oboists and trumpeters become too infirm to march, says Schlimbach, they are
reassigned as town musicians, and church music is part of their duties:
As a rule, the designated instrumentalists for church music comprise a
company of four to six persons, who often have neither good intona-
tion nor rhythm, neither music nor anything else that is most indis-
pensable to even only mediocre music. With every bowstroke and every
attack on their instruments they produce tones arousing disgust and
distress.27
Each instrumentalist was expected to provide from his pupils an additional
three players of journeyman and apprentice rank. Schlimbach’s account is useful
not only for describing their various responsibilities, but also for indicating the
level at which most of them played. In response to the adage that a capable
cantor can build his church orchestra in short order, he offers arguments
showing this to be a pipedream:
31
Whoever would maintain this in all seriousness has very little or no

knowledge of the relationship between the cantor and the town musi-
cian and his people [journeymen/apprentices], or of the cantor’s whole
situation in general. The primary hindrance is lack of authority. Will
the town musician, who in his military career never once felt himself
subordinate to a lesser officer, let himself be criticized by a man so little
respected as the cantor? What does he care about the cantor? To him,
his position is a deserved livelihood. He believes he has no further
need of instruction, thinks himself perfect, and in general considers the
dance hall his primary place of business because he has to pay a lease
for it. On the other hand, church music is a tiresome little matter, even
though he is likewise paid for it. Dance pieces, a couple of symphonies,
and some parts for playing from the tower are the object of his practice
and the sum of his and his people’s knowledge.
Moreover, one seldom encounters solid, respectable people
among them; the dance hall spoils everything—health, common de-
cency and art. This is unavoidable for they often have to spend succes-
sive days blowing and fiddling at peasant weddings. Custom requires
. . . joining in with the peasant and his pals. Spirits, bad beer, tobacco
smoke, chaotic eating, often poor, absurdly mixed together food, and
lack of rest cannot help but devastate head and stomach. And their
playing! A constant squawking and scratching, the more blaring the
better—wouldn’t that in time spoil the best player? And here on the
dance floor, under these circumstances, boys and journeymen receive
their first training in morality, urbanity [most were peasants or from
small villages] and art!
Having spent Thursday and Friday this way, they use Saturday
morning for lugging their instruments home, often several miles. Then
the cantor has to lead them in the afternoon rehearsal! Their head is
full of haze, their eyes full of sleep, their instruments full of dust. They
are irritable and surly. Woe to the cantor if he—which under such
conditions is unfortunately all too often necessary—is forced to remind
them about tuning their instruments and playing in tune (never mind
good execution).28
But suppose the town musician to be a capable, respectable, well-off man,
adds Schlimbach, he is still not obliged to provide more than four people for the
church—usually himself, two journeymen and an apprentice, but sometimes just
one journeyman and two apprentices. “What should the cantor do with these?”
he asks [probably meaning the apprentices]. A few years later, the lexicographer
Ernst Ludwig Gerber recommends Schlimbach’s article in the highest possible
terms, citing it as an accurate and frank depiction of their church music.29
That coarseness was not limited to Prussia’s ex-army town musicians is
suggested by a comment from Johann Samuel Petri, writing from Saxony in
32
1782. For the sake of their journeymen and apprentices, he says, “the town
musicians should not keep time with such ferocious stamping that we think
ourselves in a paper mill or foundry. In well-ordered music, the ear is not to be
pleased on the one hand and pained on the other.”30
The state of instruments

A portion of this section from the original article is omitted here because
it is included in my book entitled The Complexities of Early Instrumentation: Winds
and Brass (Turnhout, 2015). Eighteenth century blown instruments had many
mechanical limitations unknown in today’s period instruments, but composers
had no way to learn about them. The earliest book to offer composers
substantive guidance for all the basic wind and brass instruments is Louis-
Joseph Francoeur’s Diapason général de tous les instruments à vent (1772).31 Besides
supplying each instrument’s range, it also cites notes, passages, and ornaments
that are difficult, impossible, or out of tune. Composers outside of France
had no access to similar information in print until much later. Thus it is not
surprising that early writers complain about music that could not be performed
adequately on the existing instruments.
Intonation constituted a problem of major proportions. Even brand-new
instruments were seldom in tune, according to Frédéric Blasius, who taught
at the Paris Conservatoire founded in 1795: “Rarely is a blown instrument in
tune when it leaves the maker’s hands.”32 The flute in particular was known for
poor intonation, as the Leipzig flute virtuoso Johann George Tromlitz observes
in 1791: “I do not believe that there exists an instrument on which it is more
difficult to play in tune than the flute. Many factors contribute to this: first,
the natural unevenness of the tone of the instrument; blowing too hard or too
softly; incorrect embouchure; a badly trained ear; an improperly tuned flute, etc.
Experience gives enough proof of this.”33
In an 1803 article, Heinrich Wilhelm Theodor Pottgiesser cites the defects
of well-made one-key flutes:
Notes out of tune, such as F, F\, G\, B[;
Notes lifeless and dull, such as F, G\, B[, C;
Notes that have to be forced, or are out of tune if produced differently,
such as high F and A[.34
According to Pottgiesser’s commentary, the technology for a reliable key

mechanism was slow to develop: “It is always more difficult to produce a note
by pressing down a key than merely raising a finger [because the keys lacked
33
the ease of a modern mechanism]. If the key springs are somewhat strong,
the difficulty is all the greater. If they are weak, they cannot close the hole
properly, so all the playing is crippled. . . . Particularly in rapid passages, the keys
often produce a noticeable noise or clatter, even if well padded. Sometimes a
spring snaps in the middle of playing, putting an end to everything. . . . When
the leather deteriorates and the keys become leaky, it often takes much effort to
make the instrument useable again.”35
Oboists, bassoonists and clarinetists shared the onerous task of making
reeds. In 1780, the Paris bassoonist Pierre Cugnier declares that the established
measurements do not guarantee a good reed. It sometimes happens that the
best reed made with precision in all its proportions is completely poor when
used, and that another, less well made, will be good or at least passable. A
stiff reed is very fatiguing for playing, and requires much breath and greater
lip pressure; it produces a hard tone. A reed too weak makes the tone thin and
lacking the fullness needed for the bassoon.36
In 1783, Justus Johannes Heinrich Ribock discusses the scarcity of good
reeds and thus of good players: “The extraordinary difficulty of the oboe will
always make such men as Barth, Fischer, Le Brün, and Besozzi a rarity. . . . An
extra good reed is seldom achieved, and without it, nothing worthwhile can be
done. . . . The best softened reed never speaks well before it has been pacified by
playing; that is, before the steel lips give out and one has to put the instrument
down. If the flutist can practice for an hour, the oboist measures his time by
minutes.” Since purchased reeds are seldom usable, he adds, the player has to
show his hand at cutting, which not everyone can do. Add the qualities of art
and science necessary for a virtuoso, and “one has to be astonished not at the
rarity of such men as I have named, but much more that any exist.”37
Exceptional stamina was required to play the wind and brass instruments,
as Johann Joseph Klein observes in 1801: “Many trumpeters, oboists, flutists,
etc. have to strain their lungs to such a degree that not seldom a resulting lung
disease shortens their career.”38 This type of straining had to produce a tone
that to us would be loud and offensive.
The fingering for woodwind instruments often required covering a hole just
partially or using cross fingering. Such difficulties were why writers like Othon
Vandenbrock (ca.1794) advise composers to use keys with as few sharps or flats
as possible.39 Illustrating passages for composers to avoid, he recommends that
the woodwind instruments be given only vocal, song-like passages.
What composers wrote for a specific instrument is often no guide to the
capability of either the instrument or the player. Francoeur wrote his above-cited
book to inform composers about the limitations of the various instruments,
34
because they were blaming players for the poor results obtained. In 1764,
Valentin Roeser cites such an instance for horn (Example 1) from a certain
very famous composer’s quartets for two clarinets and two horns. When Johann
Wenzl Anton Stamitz (d.1757) visited Paris, Roeser asked his opinion about the
writing in this example. Stamitz replied that he would never use passages of
this nature, even if they were to be played by the premier hunting hornist of
the universe. Roeser valued Stamitz as the composer who best grasped the true
nature of the blown instruments.40
Example 1. Roeser, unrealistic writing for horn.

Some composers, says Vandenbrock, write for horn in the same way
as for violins; that is, with all the semitones: “When one does not know the
instruments better, one should then write Cor Tacet, for otherwise the musicians
make the tacet themselves.” This revealing statement warns us to beware of
thinking that a composer’s demanding writing was actually played. “Our
modern composers do not take the trouble of studying the blown instruments,”
declares Vandenbrock. “They write solos for them in the same way as those
for fortepiano or violin. . . . This is why most players often find the solos too
difficult.” He advises composers to learn to play each instrument, at least up to
the point of becoming familiar with the fingering, for without this knowledge it
is impossible to write well for an instrument.41
Composers during Bach’s age did not have the benefit of the above
instructional material, and most of them composed for the blown instruments
in the same way as they did for their own instrument. Since instruments were
constantly being improved, those for which Bach wrote would have been still
more defective, as confirmed in 1799 by a former director of Berlin’s National
Theater, Bernhard Wessely. Citing the more varied uses now made of the blown
instruments, he attributes this progress to the mechanical improvements that
have been made to nearly all of them; for example, the flute, bassoon, horn,
trumpet, etc.42
Leipzig
As in other German towns, the Leipzig town musicians’ primary function
was to play twice daily—at 10:00 am and 6:00 pm—from the tower of the town
hall.43 For the sound to carry sufficiently far, loud instruments and vigorous
blowing were necessary. The trumpet, of course, was essential, but it had the
35
disadvantage of being able to produce only notes from the harmonic series. The
solution was the Zugtrompete, whose trombone-like slide enabled it to produce
all the necessary notes at high volume. In 1767, the trumpeter Johann Ernst
Altenburg compares this instrument, which “nowadays almost all the Thürmer
and Stadt-Pfeifer have,” to a small alto trombone:44
. . . thus the town musicians are able to play all the church songs on it,
which they could never do on the ordinary trumpet. What would they
do if they didn’t have this? They would have to be content with play-
ing some general songs [having only the notes of the natural trumpet],
or use a trombone, or even a cornett. On the other hand, these could
not be heard very far, particularly from high towers or in large towns.45
Therefore, the town musicians’ daily fare consisted of producing as much
volume as possible. When they then had to shift into playing church music, it
would have been difficult to change their customary forceful style. According
to Bach’s former student Johann Adolph Scheibe, the addition of trumpets
and kettle drums required still more volume from the other instruments and
a greatly enlarged orchestra,: “Each violin section should have at least four
to five times as many players as usual, and the violas twice as many.” The
bass section, too, needs to be increased substantially, and the violins should be
doubled by oboes. Scheibe also recommends increasing the size of the chorus,
for otherwise it will not be heard.46
The multiple instruments that the town musician had to play are listed in
Bach’s 1745 report citing a candidate’s competence in playing the violin, oboe,
transverse flute, trumpet, horn, and the bass instruments.47 Bach’s usage of
the term “competent” needs to be put in context; that is, the candidate was
competent in relation to other town musicians. Whether he was competent to
play Bach’s difficult music is a different question. As Quantz said, having to
play so many instruments makes one a bungler on each. That Bach knew this
only too well is indicated by a comment about the resources of the Dresden
court in his above memorandum to the Town Council: “. . . the musicians are
relieved of all concern for their living, free from chagrin, and obliged each to
master but a single instrument: it must be something choice and excellent to
hear.”48 By 1732/33, the Dresden court’s orchestra numbered over forty, not
including trumpets and tympani, but the economic picture was not as secure
as Bach imagined.49 On the other hand, musicians at smaller courts generally
had to play multiple instruments. In his 1773 account of his travels through
Germany, Charles Burney observes the considerable musical difference between
courts and the free cities:
I stayed but a short time at Augsburg; for, to say the truth, I was some-
what tired of going to imperial cities after music; as I seldom found any
36
thing but the organ and organist worth attending to, and not always them;
for they, like those in our country towns, are sometimes good, and some-
times bad. These cities are not rich, and therefore have not the folly to
support their theatres at a great expence. The fine arts are children of
affluence and luxury; in despotic governments they render power less in-
supportable, and diversion from thought is perhaps as necessary as from
action. Whoever therefore seeks music in Germany, should do it at the
several courts, not in the free imperial cities, which are generally in-
habited by poor industrious people, whose genius is chilled and repressed
by penury; who can bestow nothing on vain pomp or luxury; but think
themselves happy, in the possession of necessaries. The residence of a
sovereign prince, on the contrary, besides the musicians in ordinary of
the court, church and stage, swarms with pensioners and expectants, who
have however few opportunities of being heard.50
In contrast to the free cities like Augsburg and Leipzig, which had few
resources for music, courts attracted more musicians than were on their
rosters. This sociological fact of life explains why Bach cast longing eyes at
the Dresden court.
More detail about how well the town musicians played appears in a 1769
report about two candidates already employed in Leipzig as Kunstgeiger who
wished to attain the higher rank of Stadtpfeifer. According to Johann Friedrich
Doles, one of Bach’s successors, the candidate Pfaffe played the following either
passably or well:
A piece for horn
A trio on the violin
A concertirenden chorale on the Zugtrompete
A simple chorale on the discant, alto, tenor and bass trombones
The concertirenden chorale again on the double bass
On the other hand, candidate Herzog forced the natural singing tone
of the oboe, his principal instrument, so that it often cracked; this had been
a long-standing problem with him. He was not able to play the concertirenden
chorale on the Zugtrompete, but had to use an alto trombone; moreover, he was
careless about observing the value of notes and rests. While he played the
simple chorale on the alto trombone moderately well, he could not handle the
other trombones, which, says the report, are so essential in church music. He
played the violin well, but not the double bass.51 Doles’ commentary about
Herzog, who had already been a professional musician in Leipzig for six years,
indicates that his basic skills were well below what is expected of professionals
37
today. In 1748, the Burgomaster Born must have criticized the town musicians’
execution, for they promised in the future to provide “greater accuracy in their
playing.”52
Even by the much lower standards of his day, Bach’s comments about the
mediocre quality of the town musicians must have been accurate. He seems
to include Gottfried Reiche, the famed trumpeter, in the same category as the
remaining players. While his reputation was unquestionably far above that of
other town musicians, he was 63 or 64 in 1730 when Bach wrote—an advanced
age for the period, especially for one playing an instrument requiring so much
physical exertion. According to Christian Friedrich Daniel Schubart (writing in
the 1780s), trumpet players needed “nearly steel-like lungs.”53
Shortly after his 1730 memorandum to the Council, Bach may have obtained
a player of better quality when filling an opening for a Kunstgeiger—the first vacancy
that had occurred since his arrival in Leipzig—with Johann Friedrich Caroli (who
is recorded as having enrolled at Leipzig University in 1719). The son of an
esteemed Stadtpfeifer, he helped with Bach’s church music and received a payment
in 1728.54 His level of general education was unusually high for a Kunstgeiger.
Perhaps he hoped to rise through the ranks to a music-director position, but ill
health and an early demise in 1738 prevented any such goal.
Even by 1807 standards, which were considerably higher than those
of Bach’s day but still far from ours, the AmZ notes ruefully that Bach had
had to make do with the “most wretched orchestra.”55 This and the above
documentation clarify why Moritz Hauptmann, one of Bach’s successors as
cantor at Leipzig’s Thomaskirche and a founder of the Bach Gesellschaft,
observed that Bach’s “difficult and continuously active Oboi d’Amore parts played
by the town musicians may not always have sounded completely with amore.”56
****
Let us suppose that Leipzig’s town musicians were not of the type described
by Mattheson, Kürzinger and Schlimbach, but were exemplary models of the
art. Nevertheless, their daily duty of producing as much volume as possible
from the town tower could not have failed to encourage poor tone quality.
Their technique would have been severely limited by having to play so many
instruments, and these instruments lacked the good intonation, mechanical
reliability and fluency that we consider essential. If the town musician had
any general education, it usually ended at the elementary school level.57 The
period knew no graded exercises for developing technique on an instrument, no
theoretical instruction for instrumentalists (unless in exceptional circumstances),
no metronomes for attaining rhythmic stability, and no recordings for instilling
38
a sense for good intonation and fine tone quality. Even with today’s greatly
improved instruments, such individuals would be likely to produce loud,
displeasing tone. This volume was probably the major factor necessitating the
“screaming” reported in German choirs.58 It takes many years of intensive study
on one instrument to develop the embouchure (or in the case of strings, the
finger and bow technique) essential for refined tone quality.
As noted in chapter 1, low standards for orchestral players in general can
be surmised from Johann Friedrich Reichardt’s 1776 manual directed to string
players already holding a ripienist position, whether court or civic. Much of it
concerns remedial work for the most elementary string technique—mastered
today by young children. And in large orchestras, adds Reichardt, “nothing is
so often lacking as good tuning.” He has to tell players to tune individually with
the leader’s violin and not just with their neighbors.59 Reichardt’s book may have
been inspired by both the orchestras he encountered during his extensive travels
and his experiences with the well-regarded Berlin court orchestra, of which he
became Capellmeister in 1775. According to Carl Ludwig Junker, the Dresden
orchestra during Johann Adolph Hasse’s tenure far surpassed Berlin’s in accurate
performance; only now (1778) under Reichardt, is the Berlin orchestra trained
to the most solid execution. Despite the fact that the orchestra still contains
“many bunglers,” a 1784 commentator was impressed by the unified execution
obtained.60 Thus major court orchestras, too, included players of very limited
technique and Reichardt’s remedial manual served a pressing need.
The difficulty of Bach’s instrumental writing makes a strange contrast to
the level at which the town musicians must have played. How could they have
managed his music? One conjecture is that they (except for Reiche) played a
secondary role, acting mainly as filler for ripieno sections. According to Carl
Philipp Emanuel Bach, his father usually led the ensemble by playing first violin.61
Other important instrumental parts could have been played by members of
the Bach family, university students, and older students at the Latin School.
Another possibility is that skilled members of the upper classes (Liebhaber)
assisted. While their social position prevented playing professionally, they could
contribute their services. Their participation in the music at the Thomaskirche
is confirmed in a petition that Johann Kuhnau, Bach’s predecessor, submitted
to the Town Council in 1709 via the school’s principal, Dr. Leonhard Baudiss,
who made annotations. When Kuhnau describes the lack of musicians, Baudiss
tells the Council that this depends on their generosity. In former times, he adds,
stipends were available for hiring musicians; afterwards, Liebhaber were used.62
Even though the Liebhaber and students were not professional musicians in the
technical sense of the word, their much higher educational level would have
produced playing skills undoubtedly superior to those of town musicians
39
trained principally in playing dance and tower music. A further possibility is

that Bach himself played obbligato instrumental parts on the violin or organ.
As a recent article documents, he sometimes scored a cantata differently for
another occasion, so that the organ performs an instrumental part, a practice
that Adlung recommends when an instrument is lacking (or the player unfit).63
That Bach created great art while coping with what to us would be meager
resources is truly remarkable.
Endnotes
1
This chapter appeared originally in BACH, Journal of the Riemenschneider Bach Institute 36/1 (2005):
67-96.
2
For historical background about the town musicians, see Heinrich W. Schwab, “The Social
Status of the Town Musician,” in Social Status, 33-59; and Werner Greve, “Stadtpfeifer” in MGG,
I/8:1719-32.
3
NBR, 147.
4
According to Christoph-Hellmut Mahling, “The Origin and Social Status of the Court Orchestral
Musician in the 18th and Early 19th Century in Germany” in Social Status, 233: “By far the greatest
number of orchestral musicians appear to have received training in the Stadtpfeifereien. Money was
probably an important factor. . . . the money required for such training with piper associations, if
there actually was a fee, was far less than that required for private lessons.”
5
Arnold Schering, “Die Leipziger Ratsmusik von 1650 bis 1775,” Archiv für Musikwissenschaft 3
(1921):53.
6
The limited instrumental and choral forces implied by Bach’s document are discussed by Ulrich
Siegele, “Bachs Endzweck einer regulierten und Entwurf einer wohlbestallten Kirchenmusik,”
Festschrift Georg von Dadelsen, ed. Thomas Kohlhase and Volker Scherliess (Neuhausen-Stuttgart:
Hänssler-Verlag, 1978), 333-38.
7
See Telemann’s autobiography in Johann Mattheson, Grundlage einer Ehren-Pforte (Hamburg,
1740), 363.
8
Kürzinger/1763, 91f.
9
Ibid.
10
Mattheson/1713, 14f. Cited by Schering, “Leipziger Ratsmusik,” 37.
11
Mattheson/1713, 15.
12
Johann Mattheson, Critica musica 2 (Hamburg, 1725): 217.
13
Ibid., 262.
13
Schering, “Leipziger Ratsmusik,” 37.
15
Ibid.
16
Petiscus, “Ueber musikalische Lehrbücher,” AmZ 10 (Leipzig, 9 December 1807), 163.
17
Daniel Speer, Grundrichtiger Unterricht der musikalischen Kunst, 2nd ed. (Ulm, 1697; rpt. 1974), 188-
260.
18
HKB 2 (1756): 549.
19
Quoted by Schering, “Leipziger Ratsmusik,” 37.
20
Johann Friedrich Reichardt, “Biographische Nachrichten. I. A. P. Schulz,” AmZ 3 (3 December
1800): 155-56.
21
Johann Joachim Quantz, “Lebensläuffe,” HKB 1 (Berlin, 1754): 199f.
40
22
Adlung/1758, 804.
23
Quantz, “Lebensläuffe,” 208, 215, 245, 247, 248.
24
NBR, 152.
25
Arnold Schering, Der Musikgeschichte Leipzigs (Leipzig, 1926), 2:264-66. See also B. Fr. Richter,
“Stadtpfeifer und Alumnen der Thomasschule in Leipzig zu Bachs Zeit,” Bach-Jahrbuch 4 (1907):
35-38.
26
Hans-Joachim Schulze, “Besitzstand und Vermögensverhältnisse von Leipziger Ratsmusikern
zur Zeit Johann Sebastian Bachs,” Beiträge zur Bachforschung 4 (1985): 33-46.
27
Georg Christian Friedrich Schlimbach, “Ideen und Vorschläge zur Verbesserung des
Kirchenmusikwesens,” BmZ 1 (1805): 283.
28
Ibid., 283f.
29
Gerber/1812, “Schlimbach.”
30
Petri/1782, 183.
31
Francoeur/1772.
32
Frédéric Blasius, Nouvelle méthode de clarinette et raisonnement des instruments (Paris, n.d.; rpt. 1972),
47.
33
The Virtuoso Flute-Player by Johann George Tromlitz, trans. and ed. Ardal Powell (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1991), 114f.
34
[Heinrich Wilhelm Theodor Pottgiesser], “Ueber die Fehler der bisherigen Flöten,” AmZ 5 (8
June 1803): 609-16 at 609.
35
Ibid., 613-14.
36
In Laborde/1780, 1:331f.
37
Justus Johannes Heinrich Ribock, “Ueber Musik; an Flötenliebhaber insonderheit,” MM
1.1 (1783): 686-736 at 701f. The oboists named are Christian Samuel Barth, probably Johann
Christian Fischer, Ludwig August Le Brün, and probably Carlo Besozzi.
38
Klein/1801, 134.
39
Othon Vandenbrock, Traité général de tous les instruments à vent (Paris, ca.1794; rpt. 1974), 58f.
40
Valentin Roeser, Essai d’instruction à l’usage de ceux qui composent pour la clarinette et le cor (Paris, 1764;
rpt. 1972), 19.
41
Vandenbrock, Traité, 20. Also 21, 23, 64f.
42
Bernhard Wessely, “Kritische Bemerkungen über Verschiedene Theile der Tonkunst,” AmZ 2
(11 December 1799): 193.
43
Schering, Musikgeschichte Leipzigs, 271.
44
J. E. Altenburg’s letter quoted by Detlef Altenburg, Untersuchungen zur Geschichte der Trompete im
Zeitalter der Clarinblaskunst (1500-1800) (Regensburg: Gustav Bosse, 1973), 1:260. Bach’s tromba
parts, with their many notes outside the harmonic series, are discussed in chapter 9 below.
45
Altenburg, Untersuchungen, 260.
46
Scheibe/1745, 713.
47
48
NBR, 150.
49
See Ortrun Landmann, “The Dresden Hofkapelle during the lifetime of Johann Sebastian
Bach,” Early Music 17 (1989):17-30; and Richard Petzoldt, “The Economic Conditions of the
18th-Century Musician,” in Social Status, 166-68.
50
Burney/TourCE, 42.
51
52
Ibid., 44.
53
Schubart/1806, 310.
41
54
Schulze, “Besitzstand,” 34f.
55
Anon., “Kirchen- und Konzert-Musik in Leipzig,” AmZ 9 (22 April 1807): 471.
56
Briefe von Moritz Hauptmann . . . an Franz Hauser, ed. Alfred Schöne (Leipzig, 1871), 2:150 (letter
of 21 March 1858).
57
Mahling, “Orchestral Musician,” 236.
58
See chapter 5 below.
59
Reichardt/1776, 89.
60
Quoted by Thomas Drescher, “Johann Friedrich Reichardt als Leiter der Berliner Hofkapelle,”
Basler Jahrbuch 17 (1993): 52-90 at 143, from Carl Ludwig Junker, Betrachtungen über Mahlerey, Ton und
Bildhauerkunst (Basel, 1778), 105f.; and MM 2 (Hamburg, 1784): 81f.
61
NBR, 397.
62
Cited by Philipp Spitta, Johann Sebastian Bach (Leipzig, 1873-80, 4th edition, 1930), 2:859, note.
63
Adlung/1758, 488f., cited by Evan Philip Cortens, “Ein Musikdirector hat an einem Instrumente
Mangel”: Obbligato Organ in the Bach Cantatas,” in SECM in Brooklyn 2010: Topics in Eighteenth-
Century Music, ed. M. R. Butler and S. K. Page (Ann Arbor: Steglein, 2014): 52-77.
42
CHAPTER 3
Choral Singing Before the Era of

Recording1

When King George II was crowned in 1727, the Archbishop of Canterbury
noted in the Order of Service next to George Frideric Handel’s “My heart is
inditing,” sung by a choir of 47 voices:
The anthems in confusion: all irregular in the music.2
With no metronome to train musicians in rhythmic accuracy, it is likely that much
other choral music experienced the same confusion. Many eighteenth-century
accounts from all over Europe indicate that loud time beating in the form of
foot-stamping or stick-pounding was often necessary to hold an ensemble to-
gether. Contrary to what we might think from the quality of their music, early
composers rarely had the luxury of hearing their works performed with what
we consider to be good musicianship. According to the music historian Charles
Burney (1771): “Our Church music is not so bad in itself as ill performed. But
till we have music schools under the Direction of men of Taste & Genius . . .
our singing must be so barbarous as to ruin the best Compositions of our own
or of any Country on the Globe.”3 The beauty of today’s singing in cathedral
and other major choral groups is of relatively recent origin, for many obstacles
faced earlier musicians who labored to improve performance standards.
One such obstacle was the low education level for most musicians, as John
Brown implies in 1763 when discussing the men of cathedral choirs:
The Performance of our Cathedral Music is defective: We have no
grand established Choirs of Priests, as in FRANCE; whose Dignity of
Character might in a proper Degree maintain That of the divine Ser-
vice. This Duty is chiefly left to a Band of Lay-Singers, whose Rank
and Education are not of Weight to preserve their Profession from
Contempt.4
And contempt it was, for members of the upper classes usually disdained enter-
ing music as a profession, although they pursued the higher callings of com-
position and scholarship, and donated their performing skills in appropriate
situations. John Earle’s commentary (1628) reveals that musicians’ often rowdy
behavior did little to alter the general perception that making music for pay was
an inferior station:
43
The Common singing-men in Cathedral Churches are a bad Society,

and yet a Company of good Fellowes, that roare deep in the Quire,
deeper in the Taverne. . . . Upon Workydayes they behave themselves
at Prayers as at their Pots, for they swallow them downe in an instant.
Their Gownes are lac’d commonly with streamings of Ale . . . Long
liv’d for the most part they are not, especially the base [bass], they over-
flow their banke so oft to drowne the organs. Briefly, if they escape
arresting, they dye constantly in Gods Service.2
A roaring sufficient to drown out the organ suggests musical values far removed
from our own.
Exertion in choral singing

As literacy and publication increased in the latter half of the eighteenth
century, reports about offensively loud choral singing became more frequent,
and indicate that most choral directors knew little about using the voice properly.
Germany. In 1791 a journalist was taken aback by the leadership of the
Berlin choirs. The bungling of the noblest four-part pieces and the terrible
aimless screaming and screeching have been carried so far, he says, that one
can no longer endure it. Recently at the Döhnhof Platz on one of the coldest,
rawest days, Johann Abraham Peter Schulz’s brilliant chorus in D major from
Athalia, “Laut durch die Welten,” was transposed a fifth higher into A major.
Thus the poor discantists shrieked and screeched up to e’’’ (“unbelievable!” he
exclaims), while the tenors and basses roared with dreadful screams of anguish:
“Can one remain indifferent to the fact that the young people’s health is being
ruined by such enormous exertion and excess?”6
The extent of the vocal straining can be gauged by Dr. Friedrich August
Weber’s criticism in 1800 of training that leads to coughing up blood.7 When
he doubts the possibility of converting a chorister into a soloist, it implies loud
choral volume: “Usually the choral voice has more fullness and strength than the
solo voice, and the latter more delicacy and flexibility than the former.” Voices
with both solo and choral capability—which combine great flexibility and tonal
richness together with strength—“belong to nature’s extraordinary creations,
which scarcely happen twice in an entire century.”8 As one of these exceptional
voices, he cites Anton Raaff (1714-97), famed German tenor. Weber does not,
however, rule out creating a soloist from a choral voice. Because soloists have
always been trained to project in order to fill large theaters, his remarks indicate
that choral singers were using at least as much, if not more volume than soloists.
France. When attending a 1770 performance at the Concert Spirituel in
Paris, Burney found offensively loud choral singing: “But the last chorus was a
finisher with a vengeance! it surpassed, in clamour, all the noises I had ever heard
44
“Choral Singing Before the Era of Recording”
in my life. I have frequently thought the choruses of our oratorios rather too
loud and violent; but, compared with these, they are soft music, such as might
sooth and lull to sleep the heroine of a tragedy.”9
England. The Berlin Capellmeister Johann Friedrich Reichardt’s
description of a 1785 London performance of Handel’s oratorio Samson (with
the king and queen present) verifies Burney’s comment about “loud and violent”
English choral singing: “Often [the choral singing] was filled with screaming
from the most wretched voices.”10
Italy. The Italians had long held a monopoly on good opera singing, but
choral singing was another matter, as Burney indicates: “All the musici [castrati]
in the churches at present are made up of the refuse of the opera houses, and it
is very rare to meet with a tolerable voice . . . in any church throughout Italy.”11
On one of his journeys, Reichardt visited the Milan Cathedral, which had the
pious custom of singing only certain compositions by Palestrina and Asola at
daily masses and other church ceremonies:
The present director has only to beat time. These compositions . .
. are of such dignity and power that they make a great effect, even
with the most wretched execution imaginable. With their mostly mis-
erable voices, worn-out castrati and some old clerics completely chop
up this noble, majestic composition, in the same way as our miserable
instrumentalists usually play fugues. . . . One might weep when hearing
masterworks bungled so wretchedly, yet one still experiences the great
power and majesty. What joy would a great, noble execution of such
composition give the heart!12
At the Cathedral of San Marco in Venice, Reichardt found the music
“screamed out still worse than in Milan. . . . The church music lacks even the
good voices heard in all the streets, often among the most common rabble.
Decrepit, unfortunate castrati and old clerics . . . whose wretched voices would
never be tolerated elsewhere, blare out the magnificent masterworks without
feeling and diction.”13 Even though the four Venice conservatories for girls
were now on the decline from near bankruptcy, Reichardt was considerably
more positive about their choruses, which also included some female tenors.
The trend toward accepting women’s voices

Our image of cathedral choirs bears little resemblance to those of the
eighteenth-century. In 1728, Roger North notes the disadvantage of using
boys’ voices: “One might . . . maintain that, if female choristers [women] were
taken into choirs, it would be vast improvement of choral music, because they
come to a judgement, as well as voice, which the boys do not arrive at before
45
their voices perish, and small improvement of skill grows up in, till they come
to man’s estate.”14
Not only did boys lose their high voice too early to be of service, but
there was a shortage of boys in England. Recall that the upper classes, which
would have furnished the most promising material for training, generally did
not participate in “professional” music-making. A history of the Academy of
Ancient Music, attributed to John Hawkins, describes the situation sometime
after 1732: “. . . the want of boys . . . drove them to the necessity of trying what
could be done without the assistance of treble voices.”15
Falsettists, too, were an imperfect solution for the upper parts. While
they could read music better than boys, they were unable to produce good tone
quality. For example, an article in Johann Georg Sulzer’s encyclopedia of the
fine arts (Berlin, 1771) declares: “Seldom can a male voice sing the alto part
without harshness. In the protestant churches of Switzerland where four-part
music is generally sung, young men take the alto part, but usually with some
forcing. Thus, from a distance one hears only the bass and alto parts.”16 By this
date, the earlier practice in some localities of using soprano falsettists seems to
have abated, for Sulzer’s article “Discant” specifies that only children, women
and castrati can sing the soprano part.
Until women were permitted to sing in church, filling the soprano part was a
perennial problem. In 1803, the lexicographer Ernst Ludwig Gerber specifically
mentions England as one of the countries where cornetts had substituted for
unavailable soprano voices. The three lower parts, on the other hand, were
sung. He also provides a clue to falsettists’ tone quality when discussing the
serpent, a powerful, raucous blown bass instrument with a four-octave range:
Its upper range is extremely difficult to control if one wants to avoid
reminding the listener of the old men in Thuringian villages who used
to sing the soprano part.17
In his autobiography (1805), Reichardt recalls his boyhood days in
Königsberg (seat of a great university), where a falsettist screeching like a furious
banty rooster used to “murder” beautiful arias in the best concerts.18
To progressive musicians, women’s voices represented the logical solution
to the problem of the upper parts. In Hamburg, Handel’s friend Johann
Mattheson pleaded in print at least three times for women’s voices in church
music. Besides two instances cited in chapter 5 below, he observed in 1713
that denying women admission for the sake of an invalid and hypocritical
pretext robs the church service of its best ornament and tramples God’s gifts
underfoot.19 By 1737, some churches must have been permitting women to
sing, for Johann Adolph Scheibe recommends them as the core sopranos and
altos in a chorus or choir:
46
A complete chorus, which is used the same way in the theater as in the
church and chamber, can consist of not fewer than eight persons: two
sopranos, two altos, two tenors, a high bass (or so-called baritone), and
a low bass. . . . Because the chorus still needs to be filled out, one can
train boys from the court’s musical forces, or, in towns, some schoolboys.
Among the eight principal singers, however, women should be selected
for the soprano and alto parts, because their voices are more natural, and
of better permanence and intonation.20
In Brussels, Burney heard two boys sing a duet “very agreeably: but there
is generally a want of steadiness in such young musicians, which makes it to be
wished that females were permitted in the church, to take the soprano part . . . as
the voices of females are more permanent than those of boys, who are almost
always deprived of theirs before they know well how to use them.” At the
collegiate church of St. Gudula in Brussels, Burney was glad to find two or three
women in the substantial choir: “Their being employed, proved that female
voices might have admission in the church, without giving offence or scandal
to piety, or even bigotry. If the practice were to become general, of admitting
women to sing the soprano part in the cathedrals, it would, in Italy, be a service to
mankind [by helping to eliminate castration], and in the rest of Europe render
church-music infinitely more pleasing and perfect; in general, the want of treble
voices, at least of such as have had sufficient time to be polished, and rendered
steady, destroys the effect of the best compositions.”21 As an astute and widely-
traveled musician, Burney was well qualified to comment on boys’ inability to
perform the soprano part acceptably.
When reviewing Johann Adam Hiller’s vocal method (1774), Reichardt
blames the generally poor singing in Germany on the lack of both good music
instruction in the schools and qualified private instruction. He approves Hiller’s
“valid” complaint: “The female sex has no opportunity to study singing at
school, and from an absurd prejudice (at least in most places in Germany) is
excluded from singing in church music; indeed basic instruction in music is
completely neglected for them (again in most places).”22
After hearing the choir at St. Stephen’s Cathedral during his Vienna visit
in 1825, the Berlin critic Ludwig Rellstab implies that he had rarely heard boys
sing acceptably: “In the enormous space of this noble church, the tortured
straining of the boys’ voices is mitigated somewhat. . . . Would that this dubious
custom [of an all-male choir], which is degrading to women, be banished from
all churches, for it still keeps church music from flourishing in so many places.”23
In 1849, the Winchester Cathedral organist Samuel Sebastian Wesley calls
boys’ voices a “poor substitute for the vastly superior quality and power of those
of women.”24 Nothing in sources up to this time suggests that boys ever attained
the tone quality and musicianship required in today’s high-level choirs.
47
Toward modern refinement

Wesley’s tract, whose goal was to improve cathedral music, describes
the low state of choral singing: “The Cathedral Choirs have long been in a
state very far below one of the least ‘efficiency’. It may appear too sweeping an
assertion to declare that no Cathedral in this country possesses, at this day, a
musical force competent to embody and give effect to the evident intentions of
the Church with regard to music; but such is the state of things, nevertheless.”25
At cathedrals, “there may be sometimes seen one man singing chorus!” exclaims
Wesley, who had observed such an instance at Christ Church, Oxford.26 Thus the
transformation of choral singing seems to have occurred later in the nineteenth
century. Perhaps his book helped serve as a catalyst.27 Other evidence, too,
suggests that the beautiful tone and refinement of today’s English cathedral
choirs did not begin to take shape before then; for example, the composer
Charles Villiers Stanford notes in 1914:
In respect of performance, of demeanour, and of general efficiency,
the conduct of the musical part of the service is an immense advance
upon the conditions which prevailed thirty or forty years ago.28
Recently, Timothy Day cited the late nineteenth-century achievements of
men such as J. Varley Roberts at Magdalen College, Oxford; A. H. Mann at
King’s College, Cambridge; Walter Parratt at St. George’s Chapel, Windsor; and
John Stainer at St. Paul’s Cathedral, London, who were influential in refining
the tone quality of the English cathedral choir.29 The innovative quality of
this achievement can be judged from Richard Runciman Terry’s commentary
(1929): “That church music is in a bad way all the world over will not, I think, be
denied by anyone whose opinion matters. In England it is perhaps better than
elsewhere, but that is not saying much. . . . In Germany there are some good
church organists, and in France some excellent ones, and in both countries as
well as Italy there are some good male-voice choirs, but whenever and wherever
boys are employed it is safe to say that the tone is raucous and horrible. In
America things are little better. . . . There are many things we might learn from
the continent and America, but choir-boy training is not one of them. It is
safe to say that the best boys’ singing in the world is to be found in the English
cathedrals and the larger parish churches.”30
N. Lindsay Norden’s 1917 description of the boy choir in the United States
indicates that Terry’s assessment is correct: “The actual mechanism of running a
boy choir is most complex—vocal lessons, constant rehearsals, school machinery
for maintaining discipline and control . . . Such a stupendous amount of work
might be considered rational, were the results obtained equal to those obtained
48
with adult singers; but they will not bear the light of just criticism, nor even
comparison with a mixed choir having but one weekly rehearsal. Such a choir will
progress more in one month, and will be of more value to a congregation than a
boy choir will in a year. And further, the finished product in the case of the mixed
choir is worth while, while the boy choir never ‘arrives’. An adult singer may be
replaced, but it takes a year to train a new boy. . . .Many well-known choirmasters,
now managing boy choirs, have expressed themselves confidentially as disgusted
with such unfruitful musical work, but they cannot afford to give up their work.”31
From Norden’s following passage, it is apparent that male altos, too, had not
attained the tone quality of those today:
This problem [of the alto part] never has been and never will be solved,
for a solution is impossible. In England, and generally in this country
also, the alto part of a boy choir is sung by men who sing above the
‘crack’ in their voices. . . . The sound produced is unnatural, atrocious,
inhuman; it is but an unmusical hoot and often false in intonation. . . . In
other words, there is no alto part possible in a boy choir. . . . It is a most
exasperating experience to hear the awful squawk of the male altos in
the boy choirs in our churches. The tone does not combine with the
other three parts in producing a balanced ensemble, but—in all its hor-
ror—shines through the combined efforts of the other three parts of
the choir. It seems as though it could not be subdued, for one male alto
will well nigh ruin the work of a chorus of forty voices.32
On the other hand, some English choirmasters were attaining male-alto
tone of much better quality, according to Roberts (1898): “. . . nothing can
replace the beautiful thin flute-like tone of the pure Alto, it brightens the entire
quality of the tone of the choir.”33 But Norden’s commentary implies that
acceptable falsetto tone was largely unknown in England too, despite what a
handful of unusually skilled choirmasters may have achieved.
****
Burney was correct in asserting that their eighteenth-century music

was composed much better than it was performed. By the late nineteenth
century, literacy and educational standards had risen dramatically, paving the
way for better tone quality and musicianship. Undoubtedly, the advent of
recording technology was a major factor in achieving the improvement Stanford
cited in 1914, for these recordings served to train musicians in every aspect
of performance. Even though the 1914 accomplishments represented a
monumental advance over previous conditions, they probably could not bear
comparison with present-day standards, but did provide a base upon which to
49
build. The historical record indicates that today’s refined singing from male
altos and boys is a twentieth-century accomplishment, as is the high quality of
our choral performance in general.
Endnotes
1
This chapter appeared originally in The Musical Times, 147, no.1895 (Summer 2006), 77-84.
2
Cited by Winton Dean, The New Grove Handel (New York: Norton, 1983), 34.
3
The Letters of Dr. Charles Burney, ed. Alvaro Ribeiro (Oxford: Clarendon, 1991), 1:96.
4
John Brown, A dissertation on the rise . . . and corruption of poetry and music (London, 1763), 214.
5
Quoted by David Scott, The Music of St. Paul Cathedral (London: Stainer & Bell, 1972), 15, from
John Earle, Microcosmographie (London, 1628).
6
Studien für Tonkünstler und Musikfreunde, ed. F. A. Kunzen and J. F. Reichardt (Berlin, 1792/93),
Musikalisches Wochenblatt portion, 173f.
7
Friedrich August Weber, “Von der Singstimme,” AmZ 2 (23 July 1800): 741: “Zu lange daurende
und mit allzuviel Anstrengung verbundene Singübungen machen die Stimme kreischend, geben
Gelegenheit zum Distoniren, und sind nicht selten eine entfernte Ursache des Bluthusten und der
Lungensucht.” On 809-10, Weber discusses this subject again.
8
Ibid. (20 August 1800): 808-10.
9
Burney/TourFI, 17.
10
Reichardt/1785, 130: “. . . oft schrien die elendsten Stimmen durch.”
11
Burney/TourFI, 248.
12
MK 2 (1791): 16f.
13
Ibid., 17.
14
Quoted by Peter Giles, The History and Technique of the Counter-Tenor (Aldershot, Hants, England,
ca.1994), 56, from North’s “Musicall Grammarian.”
15
[John Hawkins], An Account of the Institution and Progress of the Academy of Ancient Music (London,
1770), 7.
16
ATSK, “Alt . . . Selten kann eine Mannsstimme den Alt ohne Härte singen. In den Kirchen
der protestantischen Schweiz, wo durchgehends vierstimmig gesungen wird, führen die jungen
Mannspersonen den Alt, aber insgemein so, dass die Stimmen etwas übertrieben werden, daher
man von weitem nur den Bass und den Alt höret.”
17
Ernst Ludwig Gerber, AmZ 6 (1803): 20, 23.
18
Johann Friedrich Reichardt, in BmZ 1 (1805): 280.
19
Mattheson/1713, 206: “. . . die Dona Dei fast mit Füssen treten / unter nichtigen / scrupuleusen
und heuchlerischen Vorwand kein Frauen-Zimmer zur Kirchen-Music admittiren / und den Got-
tesdienst also des besten Ornats berauben wollen.”
20
Scheibe/1745, 156f: “Unter den acht Hauptsängern aber müsste man zu den Diskantisten
und Altisten Frauenzimmer nehmen, weil ihre Stimme natürlicher und von besserer Dauer und
Reinigkeit seyn wird.”
20
Burney/TourCE, 17, 20f.
22
[Reichardt], Allgemeine deutsche Bibliothek, ed. F. Nicolai, XXV.1 (Berlin, 1775): 100f.
23
Ludwig Rellstab, in Berliner allgemeine musikalische Zeitung 2 (1825): 143.
24
Samuel Sebastian Wesley, A Few Words on Cathedral Music (London, 1849; rpt. ca.1961), 72f.
50
Quoted by Timothy Day, “English cathedral choirs in the twentieth century,” in The Cambridge
Companion to Singing, ed. John Potter (Cambridge, 2000), 124.
25
Wesley, A Few Words, 5.
26
Ibid., 9.
27
See also Peter Horton, Samuel Sebastian Wesley. A Life (Oxford, 2004).
28
Charles Villiers Stanford, Pages from an Unwritten Diary (London, 1914), 307. Partially quoted by
Day, “English cathedral choirs,” 123f.
29
Day, “English cathedral choirs,” 124ff.
30
Richard Runciman Terry, A Forgotten Psalter and Other Essays (London, 1929), 105. Partially
quoted by Day, “English cathedral choirs,” 125.
31
N. Lindsay Norden, “The Boy Choir Fad,” Musical Quarterly 3 (1917): 190f.
32
Ibid., 195f.
33
J. Varley Roberts, A Treatise on a Practical Method of Training Choristers (London, 1898), 12. Cited
by Day, “English cathedral choirs,” 125.
51
CHAPTER 4
Why Most a cappella Music Could Not

Have Been Sung Unaccompanied1
Choral music from the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries which lacks an inde-
pendent accompaniment seems to be associated today with an unaccompanied
style—a view that has been transmitted by performing editions and recordings.
The purity and precision achieved by outstanding choral ensembles is thought
appropriate to the transparency and intricate counterpoint of the music, and
a probable reflection about the performing priorities of the original singers.
Conditions today, however, differ greatly from those of this period and call
into question whether early musicians could have had the proficiency we have
attributed to them in terms of singing unaccompanied with good intonation,
refinement, and control. This chapter will focus on the disparity in aesthetic
goals and skill between these musicians and those of today, to the degree that
unaccompanied singing would have been unlikely for most music. As modern
writers have noted, early sources are both scarce and uninformative about how
choral music was sung. Newly discovered ones, however, do shed some light
on this question.
Much of today’s expertise with unaccompanied singing can be traced
directly to recordings to imitate—not only with respect to notes, but also to
tone quality, intonation, and stylistic matters. Unlike us, practicing musicians of
the past had no technology enabling them to hear fine role models at any time.
They were drawn principally from the lower classes of society, and few had a
general education beyond the elementary-school level.
Early accounts documenting excessive absenteeism and rowdy, drunken
behavior by some English cathedral “singing men” (as they were called)
suggest a shortage of musicians and an even greater scarcity of good ones.
Coarseness in everyday life would have been reflected in music execution. This
type of behavior probably tarnished the image of all musicians, so that even
outstanding composers achieved little respect. John Tavener was described as
“but a Musitian,” and Sir Thomas More, when he acted the common singing-
man, was reproached by the Duke of Norfolk, “God bodye, God bodye, my
Lorde Chancellour, a parishe clarke, a parish clarke! You dishonour the Kinge
and his office.”2
53
Music Performance Issues: : 1600-1900
Volume and tone production

Early accounts of the cathedral singing men do not accord very well with
the genteel refinement we ascribe to this repertoire. In 1599 Thomas Morley
(Gentleman of the Chapel Royal, formerly organist at St. Paul’s Cathedral,
London) describes them in this manner:
Though a song be never so well made and never so aptly applied to the
words yet shall you hardly find singers to express it as it ought to be,
for most of our churchmen, so they can cry louder in their choir than
their fellows, care for no more, . . . But this for the most part you shall
find amongst them, that let them continue never so long in the church,
yea though it were twenty years, they will never study to sing better than
they did the first day of their preferment to that place.3
In plain terms, their singing was loud and coarse, and they took no interest
in bettering their skills. While we fret about missing and misplaced text underlay
in manuscripts, Morley complains that singers simply omitted the text, and
treated it like an instrumental part. This lack of concern for communicating
the text suggests an aesthetic far removed from ours.
Typical of several accounts about excessive volume from singers is that
of Charles Butler (1636): “Let the whole Choir endeavor so to moderate their
Voices, that their words may be plainly heard and understood . . . too much
shaking and quavering of the Notes [and] harsh straining of the Voices beyond
their natural pitch” are “odious and offensive to the ear.”4 Since stone-church
acoustics mask many imperfections, the level of straining had to be significant
to be perceived by observers. Singers who habitually force their voices usually
sing out of tune and are not listening for refinements in blend and intonation.
Loud church singing seems to have been the norm also on the Continent
during this period. Besides instances cited today,5 consider the librettist
Metastasio’s late (1770) but probably still applicable description of singing at
the papal chapel. In contrast to the above cases, this one seems to concern
volume produced without undue straining. After observing that orators in
ancient Rome began in early youth to make their voice “strong, firm, clear, and
vigorous” in order to be heard in the vast squares, Metastasio contrasts this with
the present practice among opera singers: “Our singers . . . instead of fatiguing
themselves in rendering their voices firm, robust, and sonorous, study to make
them more delicate and flexible. By this new method, they have attained the
wonderful power of velocity, which astonishes the hearers, and procures them
unbounded applause.” [By our standards, these voices were not delicate, for
they had to fill immense theaters like the San Carlo in Naples.] But this style
of singing, continues Metastasio, can never afford the pleasure derived from a
54
Why Most a cappella Music Could Not Have Been Sung Unaccompanied
“clear, firm, and robust voice, which affects our organs of hearing with equal
force and delight, and has the power even to penetrate the soul.” He approves
those who continue the ancient method:
The singers of the pontifical chapel, though from their childhood edu-
cated in the modern school, when they are admitted in that choir, are
obliged rigorously to abandon all the applauded embellishments of
common singing, and to accustom themselves, as much as possible, at
so late a period, to swell and sustain the voice.6
Strong and robust singing, which had likely been a tradition at the papal
chapel for centuries, implies a slower tempo than we practice. It may be that
the original long note values provide a more accurate visual impression of the
tempo than the halved values of today’s editions.
Rhythm and other matters

Even with the technological marvels of the present day, our professional
singers still experience at least one of the problems that would have made
unaccompanied singing very difficult in 1600. Consider rhythm, which was
such a formidable barrier for early ensembles that they often had to resort to
audible time beating, such as foot stamping. And in 1678, the German writer
Johann Caspar Printz counsels the leader against striking with a cudgel on a solid
surface so strongly that “one hears these thundering blows farther away than the
singers themselves.”7 Today, the conductor Nicholas McGegan finds that some
singers are still weak in this area: “The other thing you need [besides harmony],
which is also very poorly taught to singers, is rhythm. I find when I’m working
with singers who were or still are good instrumentalists . . . that their sense of
rhythm is so much stronger . . . Some singers merely sing out of time because
they’ve never been disciplined to sing in time.”8 We have metronomes and
recordings to aid in acquiring a rhythmic sense. Could early choirs have stayed
together in the elaborate polyphony without outside assistance?
According to the English writer Thomas Mace (1676), being a Master in
the Art of Singing “is no such easie Task as is vulgarly thought to be.” 9 This is
still true today. Instrumentalists can produce the right pitch simply by applying
a finger in the correct location, but the unaccompanied singer must produce
it without any external help. Consider how much greater the singer’s task is
when reading a vocal part of only one line (like an instrumental part), as did
the early singers. Without some knowledge of what the other contrapuntal
parts are doing, it is easy to lose one’s way with either the notes or the counting.
Our meticulous modern scores of early music, where the rhythmic location
of each note in relation to the other parts is shown with exactitude, give us
55
an incalculable advantage. Moreover, aside from those early singers with an

interest in composition, few had much knowledge of harmony or counterpoint.
The need for intonation support

Lacking all of our advantages for automatic ear training, early choirs
found it difficult to sing in tune, a subject Johann Joseph Fux discusses in his
Gradus ad Parnassum (1725). Writing from Roman Catholic Vienna, he defines all
music written for full choir as being in a capella [the spelling in early texts] style,
which is divided into two types: one unaccompanied by organ or instruments,
and the other with accompaniment. The first and older manner, he says, is
still in use in most cathedrals and at the Emperor’s court during Lent. But
music to be performed in this way must remain within the diatonic genus (ex.
1a). Otherwise, the voices will be out of tune: “Intonation is difficult for
the voices when they have no help, not even from other instruments.” Fux
therefore advises composers to write musical lines that are easy and natural for
singing.10 His further advice to avoid keys having too many sharps or flats was
probably related to the fact that they are visually more confusing to the singers,
even though the music may remain within a diatonic compass.
Ex. 1. Fux, a. diatonic genus; b. chromatic genus.

If a composer wants to venture into the chromatic genus (ex. 1b) by using
accidentals, Fux recommends doubling the vocal parts with instruments. With
respect to ex. 2, he has the pupil ask what instruments to use, since they are
needed in this style. The trombones usually play in unison with the alto and
tenor, but what do the violins do? According to the teacher, in this a capella style
all the violins should play in unison with the discant voice.11
Therefore, Fux’s text indicates: 1) both accompanied and unaccompanied
works in this style are classified as a capella; 2) at least in certain areas, cathedrals
were able to support a tradition of unaccompanied singing on occasion; 3) to
be performed with reasonable intonation, the music for unaccompanied singing
had to be diatonic—the importance of which Fux says he has learned from long
experience. Thus music of any harmonic interest could not have been sung
56
Ex. 2. Fux, Tab. 45, f.12.
unaccompanied with the intonation we expect. This is corroborated by Johann

Mattheson (1717): “Where are the singers who can sing a single aria without
instruments and stay on pitch?” 12 He has never heard unaccompanied singing
from anyone but the itinerant choirboys [periodically, German choirboys were
required to sing in the streets for alms]. And in 1731, Mattheson declares:
Nowadays no one sings like the itinerant choirboys without instruments
or accompaniment, for from that derives a much greater degree of poor
intonation, out-of-tuneness and flatting of the voices than through all
the imperfect intervals in well-tempered instruments.13
Mattheson’s last clause requires some clarification, for it refers to his
disagreements with the theorists who opposed equal temperament because it
contains no pure (i.e., having no beats) interval but the octave. These theorists
reasoned that the more pure intervals a temperament has, the better it will be.
But, as Mattheson sought to convey on many occasions (see chapter 7), this is
not the case in actual practice. In equal temperament, the tiny amount each
fifth is narrowed is barely perceptible to the ear and makes all keys usable,
something no unequal temperament can accomplish. On paper, however,
equal temperament gives the appearance of being deficient, because of all its
mathematically “impure” intervals. Thus the argument was between theorists
who considered pure intervals on paper the most important issue and practicing
musicians who wanted the tonal freedom that only equal temperament can
supply. Mattheson’s sentence, therefore, means that unaccompanied singing
produces a false intonation many times greater than that of equal temperament’s
“impure” intervals.
In his Dictionnaire mathématique (1691), Jacques Ozanam explains that all
vocal music “must always be accompanied by some instrument so that the pitch
does not drop, as usually happens without this help.”14 Faulty intonation is the
57
subject when the castrato Pier Francesco Tosi’s vocal manual (1723) cautions
the teacher to pay special attention to developing a good sense of pitch in his
pupils: “I can in all truth say that (aside from a few singers) modern intonation
is very poor.”15 Reports of this nature continue for well over a century.
According to Mace, even the “best-accomplish’d Voice, adjoyned to the
most exact Ear . . . together with the most perfect and profound skill in the Art
of Musick” needs support: “No Voice has ever been found able (certainly) to sing steadily
and perfectly in Tune, and to continue it long, without the assistance of some Instrument”
[italics original].16 This indicates no acquaintance with the unaccompanied
singing we admire. Since Mace had more than fifty years of singing experience
when he wrote, he likely began as a chorister around 1622-1625, when cathedral
music was flourishing; he was appointed a “singing-man” in the choir of Trinity
College, Cambridge in 1635. Describing music-making before the Civil War
(1642), Mace specifies that the following vocal pieces were accompanied by the
organ or, when unavailable, the theorboe:
The Best which we did ever Esteem, were Those Things which were most
Solemn, and Divine . . . viz. Mr. Deering’s Gloria Patri, and other of His
Latin Songs . . . besides many other of the like Nature, Latin and English
by most of the above-named Authors [e.g., William Lawes, John Ward,
Mr. White, Mr. Coperario].17
Much of this music lacks an independent accompaniment. Similarly,
Butler refers to Thomas Tomkins’ “When David heard” as being performed
“with consonant instruments.”18 Yet this vocal piece contains no instrumental
parts or directions for instruments.
Mace also provides information useful for evaluating the related issue of
whether choirs would by choice have been reduced to one on a part. Writing
when English cathedral music was feeling the ill effects of the Cromwell era, he
laments its deficient condition:
First, by the General Thinness of most Quires . . . [where] there is but allot-
ted One Man to a Part; and by reason of which it is impossible to have That
Service constantly performed, although but in a very ordinary manner,
(Thinly, yea very Thinly).19
Mace implies that such a state of affairs, which resulted from the effects
of war, extremely low wages, and the lack of attention from church authorities,
was unheard of in earlier times. Before the Civil War, choirs were much more
fully constituted.
58
Also indicating that support was needed to keep voices in tune is the French
gambist André Maugars’s account of his visit to Rome in 1639: “They equip
their choirs better than we do, giving each one a small organ, which indubitably
lets them sing with better intonation.” Describing a program he heard in the
long, spacious church of Santa Maria sopra Minerva, he recalls two large organs
elevated on either side of the main altar, each with its choir. Along the nave were
eight other choirs, four on each side, standing in a gallery about eight to nine feet
high, and separated from each other by about the same distance. “For each choir
there was a portable organ, as is customary. One should not be surprised, for in
Rome can be found more than two hundred of these, whereas in Paris one would
scarcely be able to find two at the same pitch.”20 With reference to standard Italian
organs, which do not have as many registers and different tone colors as French
organs, Maugars believes that most serve only to support the voices and enhance
the other instruments. From his account, it appears that any unaccompanied
singing in Rome at this time had to be exceptional.
Ex. 3. Positive and Regal organs (Praetorius, Plate IV).
59
Perhaps these portable organs were similar in appearance to a positive

organ from Michael Praetorius’ Syntagma musicum (1619; pictured at the top of
ex. 3). Also shown is a Regal organ of small, rasping reed pipes, which a century
later, to Mattheson’s annoyance, was still being used here and there.
Thus the portable organ is a further means of vocal support to add to the
ample documentation in the modern literature about the use of winds, brass
and stringed instruments to accompany early singers. Placed in the midst of
the choir, its pitches were easier to grasp than those from a large organ at some
distance, whose pipes were enclosed in a case. Because less volume was required
from the portable organ, its tone would have been nearly covered by the singers,
giving an illusion of unaccompanied singing.
The meaning of a capella

As Fux indicates, music sung a capella encompasses not only unaccompanied
singing by the full choir, but also that with organ/instruments doubling the
vocal lines. Capella refers to the entire musical establishment, which usually
includes instruments. Our usage of a cappella to designate unaccompanied
singing appears to have originated much later.
Other sources do not mention unaccompanied singing when defining a
capella, but associate the term with using instruments to double vocal lines.21
Under Capella in his Dictionaire de musique (1705), Sébastien de Brossard refers
to the Italian da capella, which requires that all the voices and instruments of
each part perform simultaneously to make more volume [“bruit”], even in fugal
entrances. Because bruit usually signifies “noise,” it suggests the decibel level.
Johann Gottfried Walther’s Musikalisches Lexikon (1732), too, defines a capella as
having instruments double the vocal lines in unison.22
According to Heinrich Christoph Koch’s Musikalisches Lexikon (1802),
the term a capella primarily specifies that instruments are to double the vocal
lines in church music. Originally, he says, it meant a style in which the parts
were strongly constituted with many voices.23 [This can be seen in Praetorius’s
discussion of Capella, which he associates with the Emperor’s court and other
large Catholic music establishments.24 Koch’s first meaning is found also in
Gustav Schilling’s Encyclopädie der gesammten Wissenschaften (1840).
****
An unaccompanied performing tradition seems to have originated more

from modern ideals as to how this music should sound than from documentation
in early sources. Exclusively unaccompanied traditions are said to be securely
60
documented only for the choirs of the Sistine Chapel and of Cambrai Cathedral,
where there was no organ and no record of instrumentalists having accompanied
singers.25 But are we certain that a portable organ never furnished the necessary
intonation support in these locations? In 1737, Mattheson mentions that the
misuse of instruments caused them to be banned from the papal chapel, where
only “the organ and bass instruments, which are merely for strengthening, are
permitted.”26 And in 1784, Christian Carl Rolle, too, says that the singers of the
papal chapel are accompanied by organ, but not instruments.27 In any event,
Maugars’s account of the extensive use of the portable organ in Rome opens
up a new avenue for investigation.
If we were somehow able to hear this repertory sung by a choir of the
period, we would most likely be profoundly disappointed, for it would lack the
refinement that we value. Besides faulty intonation, rhythm would have been
much more erratic than ours, blurring the clarity of the individual parts. The
overly loud singing mentioned in early sources implies coarseness and absence
of unity in the ensemble. These factors indicate that accompaniment would
have been necessary for all but the simplest music.
We find an unaccompanied style pleasing. It cannot be denied that this
polyphonic repertory, sung superbly by modern ensembles, produces an effect
enchanting to modern sensibility. This is perfectly acceptable, as long as no
claims are made for its representing historical practice.
Endnotes
1
This chapter appeared originally in the Choral Journal 40 (Feb. 2000): 21-27.
2
Cited by John Stevens, Music and Poetry in the Early Tudor Court (Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 1979), 320.
3
Thomas Morley, A Plain and Easy Introduction to Practical Music, ed. R. Alec Harman (New York:
Norton, 1973), 292f.
4
Charles Butler, The Principles of Musik (London, 1636), 116 (spelling modernized).
5
Christopher A. Reynolds, “Sacred Polyphony,” Performance Practice. Music before 1600, ed. H. M.
Brown and S. Sadie (New York: Norton, 1990), 189f.
6
From a letter to Saverio Mattei (25 April 1770), trans. Charles Burney in Memoirs of the Life and
Writings of the Abate Metastasio (London, 1796), 2:405f.
7
Johann Caspar Printz, Musica modulatoria vocalis (Schweidnitz, 1678), VII, §11: “. . . dass man
solche donnernde Schläge weiter höret/ als die Sänger selbst.” Cited by Georg Schünemann,
Geschichte des Dirigierens (Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1913), 112.
8
Bernard D. Sherman, Inside Early Music (London: Oxford University Press, 1997), 248.
9
Thomas Mace, Musick’s Monument (London, 1676; rpt. 1966), 23.
10
Johann Joseph Fux, Gradus ad Parnassum, oder Anführung zur regelmässigen musikalischen Composition,
trans. Lorenz Christoph Mizler (Leipzig, 1742), 183: “Diese doppelte Gattung des Styls a Capella
herscht noch zu unsern Zeiten: Ohne Orgel und andere Instrumenten, blos mit Singstimmen:
61
und mit der Orgel und andern Instrumenten. . . . Bey der ersten Gattung dieser Composition
muss man sich vor allem des vermischten Geschlechts enthalten, und der versetzten Tonarten, die
allzu sehr mit Creutzen und weichen b angefüllet sind, und nur blos das diatonische Geschlecht
nehmen: Ausser dem wird die Zusammenstimung niemahls die verhoffte Würckung verursachen.
. . . Nemlich den Stimmen ist die Intonation schwer, wenn sie keine Hülffe, auch nicht von andern
Instrumenten haben.” Also 53f.
11
Ibid.,191f., Table 45, Figure 12.
12
Johann Mattheson, Das beschützte Orchestre (Hamburg, 1717), 83.
13
Johann Mattheson, Grosse General-Bass-Schule, 2nd edn. (Hamburg, 1731; rpt. 1994), 113: “Singt
niemand heutiges Tages/ wie die Currente/ ohne Instrumente oder Accompagnement; denn
daraus entstehet eine viel grössere Unreinigkeit/ Falschheit und Versinckung der Stimmen/ als
durch alle unrichtige Intervalle in wol-temperirten Instrumenten.” In support of his statement
about the weakness of vocal intonation, Mattheson cites a sentence from Johann Lippius, Dispu-
tatio musica secunda (Wittenberg, 1609), unnumbered p.2 of text: “Nonnihil commoditatis, & per-
fectionis videtur accedere vocali ab instrumentali Musica, propter vocis humanæ inconstantiam,
solitudinem, & terminos exiguos.”
14
Jacques Ozanam, Dictionaire mathématique (Amsterdam, 1691), 663: “La Musique Vocale est toute
sorte de Musique composée pour les voix seulement, mais elles doivent être toûjours accompa-
gnées de quelque Instrument, afin qu’elles ne baissent pas, comme elles font ordinairement sans
ce secours.”
15
Pier Francesco Tosi, Opinioni de’ cantori antichi e moderni (Bologna, 1723; rpt. included in Ag-
ricola/1757), 11: “Io posso dir senza mentire, che (a riserva di pochi Professori) la moderna
intonazione è assai cattiva.”
16
Mace, Musick’s Monument, 6.
17
Ibid., 235.
18
Butler, Principles, 5.
19
Mace, Musick’s Monument, 23.
20
André Maugars, Response faite à un curieux sur le sentiment de la musique à Italie: Rome 1639, notes
and appendices by Joël Heuillon, 2nd edn. (Paris: GKC, 1992), 13f.: “ils . . . disposent mieux leurs
choeurs que nous, mettant à chacun un petit Orgue, qui les fait indubitablement chanter avec plus
de justesse. . . . A chaque choeur il y avoit un Orgue portatif, comme c’est la coustume: il ne faut
pas s’en estonner puisq’on en peut trouver dans Rome plus de deux cens, au lieu que dans Paris à
peine en sçauroit-on trouver deux de mesme ton.” Also 21.
21
Regarding instruments doubling parts in English music, see John Morehen, “English Church
Music,” in The Blackwell History of Music in Britain, ed. Ian Spink (Oxford: Blackwell, 1995), 2:141.
22
Walther/1732.
22
Koch/1802.
24
Praetorius/1619, 3:133.
25
Reynolds, “Sacred Polyphony,” 191. For the quality of singing, see Richard Sherr, “Competence
and Incompetence in the Papal Choir in the Age of Palestrina,” Early Music 22 (1994): 607-28.
26
Johann Mattheson, Kern melodischer Wissenschaft (Hamburg, 1737), 19: “. . . wie er [the instru-
mental style] denn eben deswegen aus der Päbstlichen Capelle verbannet worden, woselbst keine
andre, als die Orgel und Bass-Instrumente, bloss zur Verstärckung, zugelassen sind.”
27
Christian Carl Rolle, Neue Wahrnehmungen zur Aufnahme . . . der Musik (Berlin, 1784), 87: “Zu
Rom . . . bestehet die Ausführung der Kirchenmusik [at the papal chapel] alsdenn allemal nur . . .
in 32 singenden Personen, ohne alle weitere Instrumental-Musik, ausser mit der einzigen Beglei-
tung der Orgel.”
62
CHAPTER 5
Fasch and the Beginning of True Choral

Singing1
Today’s historically-informed performances mirror the view that eighteenth-
century musicians were nearly our equal in technique and musicianship, and
that they performed with considerable refinement. To all appearances, this
has simply been assumed. The historical context and the obstacles they faced,
however, are vital to interpreting early texts in many areas. A case from one
small corner of music history involving the German composer Carl Friedrich
Christian Fasch will demonstrate that Johann Sebastian Bach did not likely have
musicians of the quality we imagine for his works. First, we can consider some
background material.
The time line of musical progress

In 1721, the Hamburg theorist Johann Mattheson said in essence that many
musicians have no ear, for they hear nothing amiss when unequally tempered
instruments at different pitch levels play together in ensemble (transposed to a
common pitch).2 Under such circumstances, the sound produced was not merely
out of tune, but pure cacophony. Yet without the fine intonation to which we
are accustomed, there can be no precision in our sense of the word, for players
are unable to judge their own intonation and whether they are playing the right
notes at the right time. The generally prevailing poor intonation and the erratic
rhythm that resulted from the lack of metronomes for rhythmic training are two
factors that made eighteenth-century ensemble performance so difficult.
Over the course of the eighteenth century, musicians’ skills and education
level increased significantly. The amount of commentary on music also
increased markedly during the second half of the century, as shown by the
number of pages that the Répertoire international des sources musicales needed to list
early publications:3
1700-24 1725-49 1750-74 1775-99
3 pages 4½ pages 7½ pages 10½ pages
Generally speaking, the writing also becomes more sophisticated and
furnishes much more detailed information as the century progresses. This
reflects the growing literacy rate among those of the working to lower-middle
classes. The Latin schools, such as the one at which Bach taught in Leipzig,
63
played an important role in this process. The upper classes, meanwhile,

continued to receive all of their pre-university training from private tutoring.4
For progress to continue, it was necessary to remedy musical instruments’
flawed mechanism and faulty intonation.5 Throughout the eighteenth and
nineteenth centuries, instruments were continually being improved, enabling
playing technique to advance commensurately. Thus these four elements—
increasing literacy (implying also ever-increasing educational standards), greater
abundance of printed material, better instruments, and higher skill level—go
hand in hand throughout both the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, until
they start to approach modern standards.
Clues to how much musicians’ execution skills were improving as literacy
increased can be gained from commentators who cite the increased tempos
deriving from improved technique. This begins about the mid-eighteenth
century and continues through the nineteenth, with each generation in turn
believing that tempo has reached its apex and can be increased no further. Two
years after Bach’s death, Johann Joachim Quantz writes:
What formerly was considered quite rapid was played nearly half again
as slowly as nowadays. An Allegro assai, Presto, Furioso, etc. was
scarcely ever played faster than one today performs an Allegretto. . . .
For the most part, today’s French have retained this type of moderate
speed for lively pieces.6
` Commentators now become concerned that increased speed has
interfered with expression. For example, a writer in Johann Adam Hiller’s
Leipzig music journal (1770) believes that music has departed from its original
goals of beauty and naturalness. Explaining the laborious process by which
technique improved, he notes that, because it required so much effort, one
became reconciled to calling it “Art:” “Indeed, today speed and fire in music
have been driven to a point beyond which nothing further is possible. Our
forefathers would be greatly astonished if they could hear the rushing of our
symphonies, the rapidly alternating notes in the human voice, and the runs and
leaps on this or that solo instrument in one of our concerts.”7 Yet a generation
later, technique had increased still more, according to Heinrich Christoph Koch:
Skill on his instrument is a highly necessary quality for every player.
And it cannot be denied that in the last eighteen to twenty years music
has made giant steps in this direction. For all the instruments, it is no
longer a rarity to find concert soloists who have acquired extraordinary
skill.8
Koch is less than sanguine about this greater capability, however, for it has
brought with it mechanical execution. His passage also underscores the scarcity
of fine players before the end of the eighteenth century. The tempos of his
64
Fasch and the Beginning of True Choral Singing
day cannot be compared to our own, for instruments still needed a great many
mechanical improvements to reach the reliability and fluency we expect.
In comments dated 1802, Ernst Ludwig Gerber, the lexicographer and
son of a Sebastian Bach pupil, outlines the progress that has been made in many
areas of music. The most remarkable developments have occurred in the area
of vocal music, as the following paraphrase of his text indicates:
Particularly in Germany, singing has improved immensely and spread so
widely that our forefathers’ singing simply cannot compare with it. One
need go back only some thirty-odd years to find a time when good sing-
ing in Germany seemed to be the monopoly of a few Italian singers at
this or that court. At Leipzig, which had the only German theater stag-
ing operettas, a lack of singers necessitated using an almost 40-year-old
woman making her first attempt at a prima donna role. In contrast, there
now are few large cities without either a permanent theater or at least
a traveling theater company with good singers. In cities such as Berlin,
Vienna and Dresden, it would not be difficult to assemble hundreds of
singers, including the Dilettanten [members of the upper classes who
chose to retain their amateur status], who are distinguished by a good
voice, beautiful execution, or particular technical skill, or by all three
together. It is clear that Berlin has much for which to thank Fasch’s
excellent Academy. How easy it would be for even smaller communities
to have beautiful singing if they had a Fasch. In Italy, singing in general
seems to have declined, but this loss consists not in the lack, but in the
excess of technical skill [a reference to the over-embellished style of
many Italian singers]. But where there are still singers like a Marchesini
and an Antonio Benelli, a Brigida Georgi Banti and a Giuseppa Gras-
sini being trained, the art is not yet in decline! Yes, Germany has lost
her Gertrud Elisabeth Mara, but we still have an Amalie Schmalz and a
Margaretha Lutse Schick.9
The progress Gerber describes concerns only vocal soloists. Choral music, on
the other hand, centered chiefly around the church, where the use of boys’
voices for the upper parts predominated. Here, progress was less apparent.
German singing
Gerber was right in saying that one did not need to go back much further
than 1770 to find a level of solo singing that could in no way be compared
with that of their soloists in 1800. What German singing was like in times
past, says Quantz in 1752, is still apparent today from the singers in choirs and
schools in most localities. While they read music better than certain soloists of
other nations, they scarcely know how to manage the voice at all. Thus they
65
generally sing everything uniformly loudly, without shading. They are hardly
aware of vocal defects stemming from the nose and throat. Their disagreeable,
forced, and exceedingly noisy chest attacks that vigorously employ the German
expertise with h—thus singing ha-ha-ha-ha for notes on one syllable—make all
the passagework sound hacked up.10
In 1744, Bach’s neighbor Georg Sorge had made similar remarks. Noting
that the profession of singing master requires various types of learning, he
asks where in Germany the necessary knowledge can be acquired. In schools,
certainly not, or very little, nor in the universities. At examinations in the great
majority of their Latin schools, they are satisfied with just a chorale, screamed in
such a coarse, heavy and rough fashion that many an organist must be anxious
about accompanying a crowd of such ignorant and undisciplined young people.
Questioning whether this negligence serves the praise of God, he wonders if it
should not be said: “God is a God of order who takes no pleasure in chaotic,
out-of-tune, and coarse screaming.” As if to drive home his point still more
strongly, Sorge declares: “No one can be induced to devotion by worthless,
faulty and disorderly screaming and noise.”11
Johann Friedrich Agricola, a former student of Sebastian Bach, composer
at the Berlin court, and Germany’s foremost vocal authority, may well have been
an important catalyst in the transition to a better style of singing. Acquiring
his vocal expertise through his contacts at the Berlin court, where most of
the soloists were Italian (by common consent, the best singers of the period),
he also married an Italian singer: Benedetta Emilia Molteni. In translating
Pier Francesco Tosi’s Italian vocal treatise in 1757, Agricola added a great many
annotations that provide insights into vocal and other musical practices of the
time.12 His announcement of this work observes that previous vocal methods
had taught music fundamentals but nothing about voice production: “Is it
therefore surprising that the art of singing with good taste is still at the moment
so little known in Germany? . . . What is heard on a daily basis in most places
has been criticized so frequently by distinguished men that it has spared me the
trouble of further laments about the great lack of refined singing.” Agricola
hopes that his book will provide a means with which his fellow Germans can
eventually free themselves from foreign criticism of their poor singing manner.13
Several years later, Hiller in Leipzig, too, began to play an important role
in improving Germany’s vocal standards. His own vocal training as a schoolboy
in Görlitz from 1740 to 1745 did not differ from that described above: “Little
or nothing was said about using the voice well, comfortable breathing, or clean
and clear diction, despite their being essential for singing.”14
When supporting the use of women’s voices for church music (1774),
Hiller deplores the screaming in German choirs. Foolish prejudice excludes
66
women from serving in something to which they could be a distinguished credit,

he says, and to which “they certainly have as much right as those screaming and
falsetto soprano or alto voices of bearded or unbearded boys.”15 In his 1780
vocal method, Hiller brings up this matter once more, finding their forefathers’
excuses for excluding women to be invalid for their times.16 Back in 1723,
Johann Mattheson had stated his preference for an adult woman’s voice over
a boy’s voice “because the former is much more steady, fully developed and
assured than the other.” By using invalid and hypocritical pretexts for excluding
women’s voices from church music, he adds, we trample God’s gifts underfoot
and rob the worship of its finest adornment.17 In 1739, Mattheson again advises
that women’s voices are “almost essential” for church music, unless there are
eunuchs. “Boys are of little use,” he says. “They lose their high voice before
they acquire passable skill in singing.”18 And even with all the musical progress
that had been made by 1805, G. C. F. Schlimbach still finds training boys’ voices
to be a problem of major magnitude in church music.19
After lamenting the lack of qualified German singers for the theater, Hiller
cites the church as having the same problem:
And the church—ah! dear God! . . . Under such circumstances, can the
music be anything but poor?—to the degree that many reasonable men
hold it to be completely dispensable. Can we let something which has
always been regarded as an essential part of Christian worship . . . and
which Luther ranked right after theology decline to such contempt?20
Describing the musical training offered by the conservatories in Naples
and Venice, Hiller asks what Germany has to compare with it. Their Latin
schools are supposed to supply singers for church music. But since no pupil is
admitted for the purpose of excelling in music, and in many places disapproval
is certain to follow if a young man reveals a strong inclination to this estimable
science, it is no wonder that he never rises above mediocrity, but regards his
training as a means to spend nine to ten years at a public school with all needs
provided.21
Hiller reveals the poor music-reading skills of German soloists when
observing that many theater singers would be unusable in church music, where
one has to know at least the basic fundamentals of music.22 As Quantz implies
above, a lack of such skills characterized many theater singers throughout
Europe. Because German women usually lacked the educational opportunities
granted boys, they were more likely to fall into this category. And upper-class
women, who were better educated, could not sing for the theater if they wished
to retain their social standing. In general, German schools could be given good
marks for teaching music reading, but poor ones for teaching how to sing.
67
Defective vocal tone quality is what prompts Hiller to note that “the poor
condition of our church and theater music is related to yet another disadvantage:”
Talented young people never have the opportunity to hear something
excellent, which could serve as a model for imitation. At least this is the
case in all the cities where there is no court that keeps a Kapelle [musical
establishment]. The number of these is certainly 30 to 1.23
For this reason, he advises gifted young people to visit Italy to hear good sing-
ing. Here, Hiller has put his finger on what made progress so difficult and
slow: the lack of suitable role models. Aside from a few German courts that
employed Italian singers, Germans lacked access to good singing. A very large
portion of our own skill in music execution comes from imitating the world-
class role models that we have on recordings and the mass media.
In 1774, Johann Friedrich Reichardt applauds and encourages Hiller’s
efforts to improve vocal training. When traveling through Germany, he says,
one cannot help but feel pity and indignation at finding in almost every locality
the most beautiful voices, but without the slightest instruction. If good singing
were taught in the schools from an early age, he continues, we would be able
to praise God with voices more in tune: “The dreadful cacophony that now
reigns in our public singing, which is intolerable to a fine ear despite all efforts
and forbearance, certainly disturbs the devotion of many among us.”24 With
congregational singing of this nature, it is implausible that choral singing
could have approached modern standards for tone and intonation. Otherwise,
the congregation would have had a model to imitate; this alone would have
compensated to a large degree for the lack of vocal training in the schools.
Today, people who are completely untutored in music are surrounded by good
role models of every description, and gain immeasurably from this fact.
In 1802, Koch explains why vocal tone quality was so poor in German
churches—during church services many members of the congregation scream
[“schreyen”] instead of sing. He attributes it to what the men heard during their
schoolboy days: “How can it be otherwise when the choirboys . . . whom the
cantor’s leadership should assist in making the singing successful, in reality are
incited to scream!” Now the other schoolboys are roused to screaming also, he
adds, and the teacher has either too little feeling for good singing to stop this
evil or believes that admonitions of this type lie outside the requirements of his
office.25
That these writers really did mean “screaming” in a literal sense is
confirmed by a comment in an 1827 article by August Ferdinand Häser, who
presses for making music a standard part of the school curriculum:
68
It appears that the only obstacles are a bias against music in general, or
the views that singing is unhealthy because it over-exerts the chest, or
that it leads to a certain conceit, takes much time, and creates significant
expense.26
For anyone to maintain that singing is unhealthy for the chest means that
the strain and forcing had to be well beyond anything we could envision. In
response to the arguments cited, Häser agrees that prolonged strenuous singing
is harmful to young people, but maintains that it is unnecessary. Even if the
director is less careful about this matter, harm is unlikely to occur, for the actual
amount of time spent singing is minimal. He favors a moderate style of singing
in which the chest is strengthened by careful breathing.
The type of forcing that Häser describes is consistent with eyewitness
reports about the singing at Leipzig’s St. Thomas School fifteen years later. For
example, Anton Schindler, Beethoven’s secretary and biographer, attended a
rehearsal of Bach’s double chorus motet “Singet dem Herrn ein neues Lied” in
September, 1843:
If, in the preceding chorus from Samson, I already had been surprised
in the most unpleasant way by how the singers scream instead of sing,
the execution of the Bach motet appeared to surpass everything I had
ever heard in some synagogue of wild screaming and bawling, so that
following the course of the voices was not possible.27
Shortly after assuming the Leipzig cantorate the year before, Moritz
Hauptmann had observed: “The young people are first-rate; the notes are there
the first time through, but it is more screaming than singing when one is right
in front of it.”28 Thus vocal forcing was already present when Hauptmann
arrived, and had perhaps been so for a great many years. The fact that choirs in
prominent churches were still singing this way may be why Häser chose not to
critique it more directly.
What these writers have criticized in German singing is necessary
background for understanding Gerber’s description of the wonders that Fasch
and, later, his pupil Carl Friedrich Zelter were able to achieve in Berlin with a
new approach to choral singing.
Fasch’s contribution to modern choral singing

Fasch’s choral society marked a milestone in the development of choral
singing in Germany, as well as elsewhere, and he is remembered as the founder
of the Berlin Singakademie, the first of modern oratorio societies. From
Gerber’s account of its beginnings, we see how primitive the choral art was,
69
even near the end of the eighteenth century and in North Germany’s leading
musical center. Fasch’s singers were Dilettanten from the upper classes, many
of whom had the period’s most highly developed musical skills. This was a key
factor in his success, for this social group was the only place to find sufficient
numbers of women with enough education (through private tutoring) to be
useful for training as choral singers. Women from lower socio-economic groups
generally had few opportunities for education and many remained illiterate. By
working with singers from the best-educated segment of society, Fasch could
obtain a tonal refinement that had heretofore been absent from choral singing.
The refinement we take for granted took a long time to achieve and grew
commensurately as educational standards rose.
The seed for Fasch’s Academy was sown in 1783, says Gerber, when
Reichardt returned from Italy with a copy of Orazio Benevoli’s mass for four
choirs and sixteen vocal parts. This work so intrigued Fasch that he likewise
wrote a mass for four choirs and sixteen obbligato parts. But now the difficulty
arose of finding male and female singers able to perform this work. In Potsdam
he had the resources of all the court’s singers plus others [unnamed]. But after
several unsuccessful attempts, he was forced to abandon this project. Then
he tried the choirs in Berlin’s Nikolaikirche. Here, too, his wishes for his mass
were not fulfilled despite their best efforts, and he gave up all hope of hearing
it according to his conception, turning his attention instead to his theoretical
studies.29
We would think that the king’s singers, who were highly-regarded
professionals and included several Italians, would surely have been able to learn
Fasch’s composition. But many Italian singers had inadequate music-reading
skills. As soloists, they were accustomed to learning their parts mostly by rote
and taking great liberties with the rhythmic pulse. They had not experienced
the discipline necessary for executing choral music whose simultaneously sung
parts must be subject to a reasonably steady rhythmic beat. And since soloists
normally sang a melodic line, many had difficulty carrying a harmony part in a
trio or quartet. Two generations later, Hector Berlioz commented on this fact
from time to time in his reviews.
Fasch had no better success with the Berlin choirs. We can speculate that
the upper parts were sung by a combination of boys and women, but mostly
boys. These may have had better music reading skills than the opera soloists
in Potsdam, but the coarse vocal forcing for which boys were known would
produce poor intonation and tone quality. It also hinders the singers from
hearing the other parts, making ensemble all the more difficult. Keeping a large
number of independent parts together requires a great deal of training and
experience, even today. How did Benevoli (1605-72) manage this feat? Most
70
likely by using portable organs (see chapter 4) or instruments such as trombones

and cornetts to double each vocal part. Each choir would have had its own
leader who followed the direction of the principal leader. It is unlikely that
the results ever approached modern standards. In the resonant spaces of large
stone churches, precision was not necessary, especially to ears that had never
been trained by hearing high quality music every day.
According to Gerber’s account, several years passed before a combination
of circumstances led to the formation of a choral group. When Fasch was giving
instruction in 1789 at the home of Demoiselle Charlotte Dietrich, others who
loved the vocal art would often drop in. Soon a small vocal group assembled.
Fasch accompanied them on the harpsichord, and also wrote pieces in four,
five and six parts for them. Meeting at a regular time each week, their numbers
grew to 20, so that they had to move to a larger space offered by the widow
of a surgeon-general. This Madame Voitus and her sister Dem. Papritz [whom
Zelter later married] were both fine singers. For this group, Fasch composed
his masterful eight-part Miserere. You had to hear them, adds Gerber, to have
any idea of the grace and gentle charm they conveyed. The accompaniment
consisted of a single large harpsichord that Fasch played while Zelter helped
the singers. Besides other professional singers, the bass Johann Ignaz Ludwig
Fischer [who sang the first performances of some of Mozart’s works] and his
wife, the contralto Barbara Strasser, often joined in, adding immeasurably to the
whole sound. By now, the society had doubled in size to over forty members,
so that larger quarters were again necessary. In the winter of 1794, with a
membership of more than sixty, the Singakademie began to hold open rehearsals
every four weeks and twice gave an open dress rehearsal of Fasch’s Miserere,
accompanied by organ at the Marienkirche. In general, concludes Gerber, the
society remained constant to its initial principles: a private establishment for
Liebhaber [those from the upper classes] of singing, where only church music,
choruses and chorales would be performed.30
For accompaniment, Fasch used simply a harpsichord or organ. Gerber’s
term for the former is Flügel, a term which had long designated the harpsichord.
In 1801, however, Johann Joseph Klein mentions that the term Flügel can define
any wing-shaped keyboard instrument; thus the possibility exists that a fortepiano
was meant. But because Flügel more often designates the harpsichord until later
in the nineteenth century, Gerber likely intended this meaning. Moreover, the
harpsichord had a more reliable mechanism than the developing fortepiano.
While it was an extremely loud, coarse and percussive instrument capable of
cutting through a large orchestra (see chapter 8), it had the advantage of being
clearly heard by even a large number of singers, thus providing needed support.
As Klein writes: “Among the stringed keyboard instruments, the Clavicimbel has
71
the most powerful and brilliant tone because the strings are plucked. Thus it is
usually used in large halls for concerts, opera, etc. But in small rooms, its effect
is lost.”31 That is, the harpsichord needs a large room in which to resound,
for in a small room it is only clamorous. From his description, it is clearly
more powerful than the fortepiano. Another gauge of its power is Mattheson’s
statement (1739) that in a church seating three thousand every chord played on
the harpsichord to accompany a chorus of more than 50 voices can be heard.32
To his embarrassment, Gerber experienced firsthand in 1793 how much
the singers’ ears had already been sharpened by their training. Invited by a
member to attend a rehearsal, he was required to sing along, for they did not
permit onlookers. He asked for a part with many rests and managed to sing
until 30 bars of rest appeared. In giving himself over to the bliss of hearing
this “heavenly” music, he forgot not only to count the rests but the part itself
he was holding. Suddenly a small neighbor turned her black eyes toward him.
As if having fallen from the clouds, he joined in again on the neglected notes.
After the piece was finished, he did not forget to ask pardon for his inattention
and was pleased to be absolved with a friendly glance.33 From Gerber’s ecstatic
reaction to the wonderful sound these voices produced, it is apparent that he
had never before heard choral singing of such quality.
As Fasch’s health declined, Zelter had to assume more of the direction.
With a chorus of 84 members, Zelter in 1797 directed an open rehearsal of
a work that Johann Gottlieb Naumann had written for them, as well as a
portion of Fasch’s four-chorus mass. “A heavenly evening,” says Gerber, “that
I shall remember the rest of my life.” During the same year, the Singakademie
participated in a benefit concert at the Opera House, where Karl Heinrich
Graun’s Tod Jesus (1755) was performed. As a friend wrote to Gerber: “Never
have Graun’s choruses been more impressively, beautifully and gloriously sung
than on this occasion.” 34
According to Zelter’s biography of Fasch, the Singakademie also studied
works by Sebastian Bach, Durante, Leo, Handel, Benevoli, Hasse, Marcello,
Mozart, J.A.P. Schulz, J. P. Kirnberger, Allegri, etc. Fasch alone directed the
entire chorus by playing the accompaniment on a harpsichord, “without audible
time beating or any other disturbing device.” When learning a work for four
choirs, each choir was positioned apart from the others, with the harpsichord
in the center. In the initial stages of learning the work, each choir had a sub-
director with a small score, but this person also sang. When the piece had been
thoroughly studied, adds Zelter, the harpsichord accompaniment could lead all
four choirs by itself.35
That Fasch could accomplish this without the audible time beating, foot
stamping, and other distracting devices that leaders of orchestras and choruses
72
used to hold their forces together was considered by many to be astonishing. As

Zelter writes: “Many experienced music directors may be surprised that such a
chorus can be kept in time without any other external means than a single good
harpsichord.” At this point, he adds a footnote:
When the late Kapellmeister Johann Abraham Peter Schulz from Co-
penhagen heard them sing one of his motets in 1797, he was surprised
not so much by the in-tune and secure execution as by the quiet and
completely unnoticeable directing, which up to then had seemed to him
impossible. He acknowledged this publicly.36
To succeed in this unnoticeable directing, Fasch had to have had an
unusually fine inborn sense of rhythm—an ability that was shared by only a few
orchestral or choral leaders of the period. This explains Schulz’s awe at what
Fasch had accomplished in holding together a large group of singers without
the usual distracting methods. Schulz had long been a remarkable and respected
figure in Berlin. Not only did he write many of the music articles in Johann
Georg Sulzer’s dictionary of the fine arts, but he was also highly regarded by his
peers for his composition skills.
By his example, Fasch was able to develop and instill in his singers a
good sense of rhythm, the key to a successful ensemble. According to Zelter,
the director’s most important task is to make the chorus so accustomed to the
directing and steady beats of the harpsichord that another director who knows his
craft can take his own tempo and alter it as he wishes, always confidently expecting
the entire chorus to follow. Kapellmeister Reichardt, Abt Vogler and several now-
living masters who have directed their own compositions in this society, he adds,
must always have found it as easy as leading a group of skilled artists.37
But even the Singakademie must have had to labor far more than modern
non-professional choruses for its attainments. In 1817, the Allgemeine musikalische
Zeitung (AmZ) observes the difficulty involved in singing a four-part simple
chorale properly. According to the writer, even the noted Berlin Singakademie,
which executes the chorale with a virtuosity unknown in most places, rehearses
the chorales of Graun’s Tod Jesus repeatedly before every performance, even
though they perform it every year. They also sing two chorales regularly at
weekly rehearsals.38 Ex. 1 shows a typical chorale from Graun’s oratorio. It
makes none of the demands that are commonplace in Sebastian Bach’s four-
part settings of chorale melodies.
73
Ex. 1. Graun, Der Tod Jesus, chorale setting (A-R Editions, p.108).
Other choral singing

The scope of Fasch’s accomplishment can be judged from an 1800 report
in the AmZ about the state of music in Berlin. We know church music really
only by name, says the writer. Graun’s and Ramler’s excellent oratorio, Der Tod
Jesus, which we get to hear once a year, is the only music of this type. The other
church music on great festival days is usually performed by such thin forces and
executed so poorly that it is not worth mentioning. If one wants to find true
artistic pleasure in this area in Berlin, it is at the Singakademie established by
the worthy Fasch. It is truly the most captivating experience to hear a nearly
hundred-voice choir execute the most difficult multi-part literature with good
intonation and precision that is beyond belief. Also of interest is the fact that
by far the greatest number of singers are Dilettanten.39
Seven years later, the AmZ remarked briefly: “As is well known, one can
say only a little, or rather, nothing at all, about church music in Berlin. If it
were not for the occasional concerts given in the churches, one would hear
there nothing that could be classified under the name of music than the often
disharmonious sounds of the singers and organ.”40
Germany was scarcely alone in this respect. We have already seen the
quality of singing that Burney found in Italian churches. For England, there
is Reichardt’s eyewitness report of two concerts in London in 1785. The first
was a performance of Handel’s Samson at London’s Drury Lane Theater, with
the king and queen present: “Because of the many participants, the choruses
made more effect than the masterly Handelian choruses usually do with us, but
they nevertheless came far from fulfilling my expectations. Often the singing
was filled with screaming from the most wretched voices.” The second, called
“Concert of Ancient Music” and limited to an audience from London’s highest
society, was more promising. One of the pieces performed was the chorus
from Handel’s oratorio Saul: “How excellent thy Name, O Lord!” Reichardt
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found more good voices in this choir than in the one at the Drury Lane Theater,
particularly since several of the Royal Chapel choirboys, among whom some
had very beautiful voices, participated, but: “Unfortunately, the lower voices
were again just as harsh and screaming as before; for the most part, they were
the same ones.” The chorus also gained from having the soloists (male and
female), some of whom had better voices, join in.41 The legendary Mad. Mara,
however, sang only her arias. Since these concerts preceded the formation of
Fasch’s choral society, the standard of comparison is what Reichardt had heard
in German churches and elsewhere in his travels. Even so, the London choruses
were notably deficient, particularly because of the lower voices’ poor vocal
method. One positive observation in this report is that the English choirboys
did not use excessive force.
Implications for Bach’s music

What do the above findings imply for the performance of choral music in
Leipzig during Bach’s tenure from 1723 to 1750? Vocal tone quality was most
likely forced and strained there too, although perhaps to a lesser degree because
Leipzig had a tradition of good cantors. However, this type of tone quality
was such an ingrained part of German culture that any pronounced change
to a more refined style of singing would take generations to accomplish. If
the singing under Bach’s direction had been notably different from that of his
contemporaries, it is strange that his former student Agricola never cited it as
an exception when he criticized German singing. Nor did Sorge, like Bach a
member of Mizler’s select, Leipzig-based Societät der musikalischen Wissenschaften,
make any exception for Bach when he lamented the “screaming” in German
choirs; yet he mentions Bach favorably in other matters. With Mattheson finding
boys’ voices of “little use” in church music, how could Bach have produced the
results we expect? His music was many times more difficult than that used
elsewhere. And if he had succeeded, would not someone have called attention
to this remarkable achievement? In short, no evidence suggests that conditions
in Leipzig differed significantly from those elsewhere. When Burney visited
Leipzig in 1772, he was disappointed in the singing for one of Hiller’s operettas:
To say the truth, the singing here is as vulgar and ordinary as our com-
mon singing in England, among those who have neither had the advan-
tage of being taught, nor of hearing good singing. . . . I endeavoured
to account for the bad manner of singing which prevails so generally
among the performers on the Leipsic stage, and I could suggest noth-
ing that was so likely to explain it, as the distance which this town is at
present from an Italian opera, which being usually supplied by Italians,
is an excellent school for singing, to the inhabitants of places where op-
75
eras are constantly performed: as at Manheim, Ludwigsbourg, Munich,

Vienna, and Dresden, where I found the common singing very pleasing,
the expression natural, and the carriage of the voice far from vicious;
in all these places, Italian operas have long been established, which have
certainly had an effect on the public taste, and manner of singing.42
This substantiates what Hiller himself implied above about the quality of
singing in Leipzig when citing the great need for good role models. When he
proposed that women have as much right to participate in church music as the
“screaming and falsetto soprano or alto voices of bearded or unbearded boys,”
is there any reason to believe that Leipzig, his home base, was excluded from
this indictment? Since Burney does not mention any church music in Leipzig,
he either did not hear it or did not wish to offend. Reichardt’s account of his
journeys through Germany, too, is silent about Leipzig’s church music, but does
express his displeasure with the state of German singing in general. The only
Leipzig singer he found worthy of mention was a Mademoiselle E. Schröter, who
sang in the Grossen Concerte.43 If there had been anything that distinguished
Leipzig’s church music from that elsewhere, these inquisitive travelers would
surely have made a point of hearing it. Hiller must have felt keenly the loss
of Gertrud Elisabeth Schmeling (later Mara), who came to Leipzig in 1766 to
study with him and left in 1771 to pursue a career as one of Europe’s foremost
singers. In 1802, Friedrich Rochlitz notes that she rarely had a truly excellent
singer to emulate in Leipzig, but did benefit from working with some fine
instrumentalists, such as the flutist Johann George Tromlitz.44
According to Burney, the level of professional singing in Leipzig was
greatly below that in German courts having Italian singers. Matters could
not have been any better twenty years earlier when Bach was still alive. Recall
our time line and how increasing literacy paralleled improved instruments and
execution skills during the period from 1700 to 1900. There has never been
an “ice age” in which literacy and music execution skills regressed dramatically.
The movement has always been forward. Under mediocre leadership, standards
might decline in a certain locality, but it is temporary and does not affect all
the musicians; nor does it affect progress as a whole. Nothing can account for
the massive difference between what Burney says (and Hiller implies) about
Leipzig’s singing and what we have imagined as taking place in the two major
Leipzig churches during Bach’s tenure.
The refinement we envision for Bach’s music comes only with a high
education level. A major reason for Fasch’s success with the Singakademie
was the fact that his singers were members of the well-educated upper classes.
Another is that he used women for the upper parts, instead of boys. A third was
his unusual aptitude for leadership and communicating good musicianship. The
76
choral society with women’s voices for the upper parts was an idea whose time
had come, and in 1827 Häser reports that the last twenty or thirty years have
seen the establishment of such societies in many localities.45
The difficulty that Sebastian Bach’s choral works still posed for even a
chorus of such talent and dedication as the Singakademie is underscored
by remarks that Fasch made near the end of his life, as reported by Gerber.
Individually, each part of a Bach work is singable, says Fasch, but putting
them together effectively remains unattainable—that is, each part is certainly
beautiful, but they do not fit together to make a beautiful whole. This explains
not only the experts’ admiration for these works, because their ear is practiced
enough to follow the composition in its intricate detail, but also the Dilettanten’s
indifference to them, because they appreciate only the beauty of the whole,
without being able to fathom the inner weavings and connections.46 The most
likely reason that Bach’s choral music was admired only by the experts in theory
and composition is that a strong rhythmic consciousness, which is essential for
fitting the parts together, was rare among musicians, except when performing
simple homophonic dance music and the like. It can be developed relatively
easily with the metronome, but this device would not be available until 1816; its
wide acceptance among musicians, however, still lay far in the future. Before
universal metronome training, it took someone with a phenomenal inborn sense
of rhythm to lead a chorus in the independent parts and intricate counterpoint
of a Bach work. This is a major reason why his church music was so seldom
performed by others outside the Bach family until the Bach Revival of the
nineteenth century. In the title of his 1987 article, Hans-Joachim Schulze
quoted the phrase “gelehrtes Chaos” (“learned chaos”), which Bach’s former
pupil Johann Christian Kittel had used to describe how non-experts viewed
some of Bach’s works.47 This phrase is no reflection on Bach’s composition
ability, but does indicate that his work did not have the benefit of an adequate
performance. Those who were not experts in theory and composition could
make no sense of it.
While rhythm did improve gradually as education, training, and musical
standards rose, Bach’s music had to wait for the genius of a Felix Mendelssohn-
Bartholdy to bring it to life in 1829 and inspire others to do the same. But
could he have accomplished this if Fasch had not first laid the groundwork for a
much improved form of choral singing through his Singakademie? Considering
the difficulty that Bach’s complex style posed at this time, it really was intrepid
of the twenty-year-old Felix to undertake performing a portion of the St.
Matthew Passion with the Singakademie. Its leader Zelter, now thirty years
older than when we left him, was at first strongly opposed to the project that his
pupil Felix and the bass Eduard Devrient presented him, even though he had
77
occasionally performed some of Bach’s smaller works with the Singakademie

and had been instrumental in arousing Felix’s interest in Bach’s music. He
cited all the difficulties, such as the need for a double orchestra and the fact
that their violinists had no idea how to execute it. All the obstacles had long
been considered and discussed, he added; if the difficulties could so readily
be removed, all four of Bach’s passions would have been performed long ago.
Undoubtedly he feared, and with good reason, that the Singakademie would
not be shown in its best light with the St. Matthew Passion. While Zelter had
earlier told his friend Johann Wolfgang Goethe that the poor quality of the
poetry in Bach’s church music was a drawback to its performance, this seems
like a minor matter when compared to the unprecedented technical difficulty
that Bach’s music posed to musicians for scores of years after his death. “How
can I listen patiently!” thundered Zelter. “All sorts of other people have had
to give up undertaking this work, and now a couple of young whippersnappers
come along who think it’s only child’s play.”48 But Devrient’s persuasiveness
eventually won him over and he aided the project.
Hans Georg Nageli, a strong supporter of Bach’s music, felt that his vocal
music was not the best medium for introducing his music to the public: “His
melodies for the human voice are not easily singable. He was never fully able
to sense how to write well for voices.”49 Even today, highly skilled soloists find
most of Bach’s arias a challenge, because he wrote for voice in the same way
as for keyboard. Nageli’s comment is fully consistent with the state of music
performance at this time. Neither soloists nor choruses had the fluent technique
we take for granted. They lacked not only our advanced system of music
training, but also the opportunity to hear role models of the quality we hear
every day. That the young Mendelssohn was able to convey the strengths of
Bach’s music to others testifies to a strong natural instinct for leadership—all
the more amazing since it was his first directing experience and he had had no
instruction aside from what he had absorbed from singing under Zelter. But
Mendelssohn’s achievement had been made possible by Fasch’s groundbreaking
choral efforts with the Singakademie forty years earlier. Both Fasch and Zelter
had constantly studied, if not performed, Bach’s works with these singers during
this period. For the milieu in which he worked, Fasch’s accomplishments must
be seen as truly extraordinary and worthy of the approbation that Gerber grants
them.
78
(Endnotes)
1
This chapter appeared originally in BACH, Journal of the Riemenschneider Bach Institute 35/1 (2004):
61-86.
2
Johann Mattheson, Das forschende Orchestre (Hamburg, 1721), 426, 438.
3
Écrits imprimés concernant la musique, ed. François Lesure (Munich: Henle, 1971), II.
4
See Walter Horace Bruford, Germany in the Eighteenth Century (Cambridge, 1968), 233.
5
See Beverly Jerold, The Complexities of Early Instrumentation: Winds and Brass (Turnhout: Brepols,
2015).
6
Quantz/Versuch, XVII/vii/50, 263.
7
WNAM [4] (1770): 49.
8
Heinrich Christoph Koch, Versuch einer Anleitung zur Composition (Leipzig, 1793), 2:36.
9
Gerber/1812, 1:x-xi.
10
Quantz/Versuch, XVIII/80, 326.
11
Georg Sorge, Anweisung zur Stimmung und Temperatur (Hamburg, 1744), 55f.
12
Agricola/1757.
13
HKB 1 (1754): 327, 329.
14
Hiller/1774, Vorrede, unnumbered [3].
15
Ibid., unnumbered [4]: “. . . zu der sie gewiss eben so viel Recht haben, als jene überschriene und
fistulirende Sopran- oder Altstimmen bärtiger oder unbärtiger Knaben.”
16
Hiller/1780, xii-xiii.
17
Johann Mattheson, Critica musica 2 (Hamburg, 1723): 320.
18
Mattheson/1739, 482.
19
G. C. F. Schlimbach, in BmZ 1 (1805): 363ff.
20
Hiller/1780, vii-viii.
21
Ibid., viii-xi.
22
Ibid., xii.
23
Ibid., xiii.
24
Reichardt/Briefe, 1:44-46.
25
Koch/1802, “Choral,” 322f.
26
August Ferdinand Häser, “Ueber Chorgesang und eine neue Chorgesangschule,” AmZ 29
(1827): 837: “Es scheint daher, dass nur ein Vorurtheil gegen Musik überhaupt, oder die Mey-
nung, Singen sey wegen zu grosser Anstrengung der Brust ungesund . . .”
27
Quoted from Schindler’s Tagebuch aus den Jahren 1841-43 (Frankfurt, 1939), 106 by Hans-Joachim
Schulze, “‘Unbequemes Geräusche’ und ‘gelehrtes Chaos’,” in Alte Musik als ästhetische Gegenwart:
Bach, Händel, Schütz: Bericht über der internationalen musikwissenschaftlichen Kongress Stuttgart
1985, ed. D. Berke and D. Hanemann (Kassel, Bärenreiter, 1987), 1:141.
28
Quoted by H.-J. Schulze, “Bach-Leipzig-Mendelssohn,” in Felix Mendelssohn—Mitwelt und Nach-
welt: Bericht zum 1. Leipziger Mendelssohn-Kolloquium (Wiesbaden: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1996), 81:
“Die Jungens treffen trefflich, die Noten sind das erste Mal da, aber es ist mehr Geschrei als
Gesang, wenn man’s vor den Ohren hat.”
29
Gerber/1812, “Fasch,” 80f.
30
Ibid., 81ff.
31
Johann Joseph Klein, Lehrbuch der theoretischen Musick (Offenbach, [1801]), 142, 144. See also
chapter 8 below.
79
32
33
Gerber/1812, 82f.
34
Ibid., 84.
35
Karl Friedrich Zelter, Karl Friedrich Christian Fasch (Berlin, 1801), 30ff.
36
Ibid., 32.
37
Ibid.
38
G. E. Fischer, “Ueber die Einführung des vierstimmigen Choralgesanges in den evangelischen
Gottesdienst,” AmZ 19 (1817): 5.
39
Anon., “Ueber den Zustand der Musik in Berlin,” AmZ 2 (1800): 587.
40
AmZ 9 (1807): 650.
41
Reichardt/1785, 130, 138.
42
Burney/TourCE, 154f.
43
Reichardt/Briefe, 1:44ff., 2:105.
44
Friedrich Rochlitz, AmZ 4 (1802): 470f.
45
Häser, “Ueber Chorgesang,” 837.
46
Gerber/1812, 86.
47
Schulze, “‘Unbequemes Geräusche’.”
48
Quoted from Eduard Devrient by Wilhelm A. Lampadius, Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy (Leipzig,
1886), 53f.
49
Quoted from the Berliner Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung (1829, VI, 233) by Eric Werner, Mendels-
sohn. A New Image of the Composer and his Age, trans. Dika Newlin (London: Free Press of Glencoe,
1963), 101f.
80
CHAPTER 6
What Handel’s Casting Reveals About

Singers of the Time 1

An inventory of George Frideric Handel’s singers in opera and oratorio can
tell us much about eighteenth-century singers and the conditions under which
he worked. Table 1 comprises the soloists in the first London performances
of the operas and oratorios under his direction.2 An asterisk marks singers he
seems to have favored, either because of talent or because there were no better
to be found. Since Italians often had short sojourns in London, the absence of
an asterisk does not necessarily imply less talent. Mezzo-sopranos are generally
included in the alto category, and some singers appear in multiple voice clas-
sifications. Female sopranos greatly outnumber all other vocal types. Together
with the soprano castrati, they comprise the largest pool of singers from which
to draw the leading roles. The next largest group includes the alto castrati and
female altos. Male countertenors rarely sang a major role and none made more
than a few appearances. As this table implies, leading roles for tenors or basses
were often difficult to fill adequately..
In his operas, Handel almost always avoided countertenors, using instead
female altos for male roles when castrati were not available. Table 2 (pages 84-
6) depicts the casting of the lower parts in the first London performances of
his operas.3 While soprano castrati were much more plentiful than alto castrati,
Handel preferred the latter for his major roles, whether because of English taste
or his own..
It is in the oratorios that countertenors make occasional appearances, but
female altos and alto castrati continue to dominate the major roles in the first
London performances (Table 3, page 87-8).
Most Europeans recognized that the quality of Italian singing far exceeded
their own. As James Ralph writes in 1731 from London:
We cannot have native Performers for our Mother Tongue, but what
will fall far short of the excellent Voices and Taste of those we are sup-
plied with from Abroad: Some Women we boast of, and Boys; but the
first generally lose their Voices before they begin to learn, and are then
ill taught; as the latter are obliged by Nature to part with theirs, by the
time they know any thing of the Matter: A tolerable Bass Voice we may
meet with by Chance in an Age: But as we are denied the Liberty of
81
Table 1. Soloists in Handel’s operas and oratorios
82
What Handel’s Casting Reveals About Singers of the Time
83
Table 2. Casting of the lower voices for Handel’s operas.
84
85
86
Table 3. Casting of the lower voices for Handel’s oratorios and other works.
87
88
artificially tuning the Pipes of those Performers who are neither Men
nor Women, and who are the Foundation of the Italian OPERAS, I do
aver, that I think it impossible to form a perfect and compleat Musical
Entertainment of our own People, or in our own Language.4
After commenting on the wretched singing at the Lincoln’s Inn Fields
theater, Ralph contrasts it with the fine singing at Handel’s Haymarket (King’s
Theatre) operas. The latter had reached “that Height, (both as to Composition
and Performance) which no ancient Theatre could ever have an Idea of, nay, it is
almost unknown to Italy it self.” But when Handel later had to rely more heavily
on English singers, the quality declined; for example, his supporter Elizabeth
Carter remarked about the performance of Belshazzar: “The music, in spite of all
that very bad performers could do to spoil it, equal to any thing I ever heard.”5
For this oratorio, Mrs. Cibber’s illness had necessitated major role changes: aside
from Elisabeth Duparc, whose role remained unchanged, John Beard had to
sing both Belshazzar and Gobrias; and Thomas Reinhold took the role of Cyrus
to enable Miss Robinson to sing Daniel. This underscores the lack of available
understudies, and the inability of singers to learn a new role on short notice.
For the oratorio Saul (and later ones as well), Handel compensated for a weak
cast by using artillery in the form of military kettle drums pitched an octave
lower than usual. Three days before the first performance, the young Lord
Wentworth wrote to his father that Handel had borrowed “a pair of the largest
kettle-drums in the Tower, so to be sure it will be most excessive noisy with a
bad set of singers.”6
We do not know if the English countertenors listed above were
unusually high tenors or falsettists. The pitch level would have been well below
ours. What do Handel’s own performances indicate about the casting of alto
roles? If engaging a singer to appear in subsequent works is a gauge of his
views, he favored women and castrati by a wide margin. Terminology variants
of the day indicate that the term “countertenor” could also apply to a female
voice. According to Charles Burney (1789), the Daily Courant for 2 July 1729
reported: “Mr. Handel, who is just returned from Italy, has contracted with
the following persons to perform in the Italian operas.” Second on the list
of six singers, after Signor Bernacchi, is “signora Merighi, a woman of a very
fine presence, an excellent actress, and a very good singer, with a counter-tenor
voice.” Thus a reference to a countertenor does not necessarily imply gender.
Another two women on this list were engaged to sing male roles: Annibal Pio
Fabri’s wife, “who performs a man’s part exceeding well,” and Signora Bertoldi
[Bertolli], “who has a very fine treble voice; she is also a very genteel actress,
both in men and women’s part.” Highlighting the lack of qualified male singers
is this entry: “A base voice from Hamburgh, there being none worth engaging in
Italy.” Burney identifies this bass as John Godfrid Riemschneider.7
89
. he abundance of soprano and alto voices is why Handel assigned most

T
of his heroic and important roles to these ranges. A comparably strong tenor or
bass was a rare bird. The reason can be traced to Italy’s training of singers and
her opera that prevailed in most of Europe. With the castrati dominating vocal
music, Italian operas were written primarily for high voices. Tenor roles were
of minor importance and bass ones rare, except in comic opera. The Naples
conservatories, where many male singers trained, admitted pupils from the age
of 10 or 11 and concentrated on the castrato voice. Elsewhere in Italy, singing
was taught through church music or by private teachers. Abroad, there would be
no conservatory until the very end of the eighteenth century. With this under-
utilization of tenor and bass voices, there was little opportunity for singers in
these registers to hear good role models. Why the Italians neglected masculine
voices in their serious opera is one of history’s mysteries, unless it can be tied
to viewers’ fascination with the castrati – or a new finding cited below. On the
other hand, commentators from every nation, including Italy, often criticized
the incongruity of an art form that used high voices to represent the mighty
men of history. In 1745 the German critic Johann Adolph Scheibe describes a
typical scenario: “We hear a womanlike yet brilliant voice issuing from a form
wearing the garb of a hero. We consult our program to determine whether
this is a cross-dressing woman, an Amazon, or someone from an upside-down
world. No, none of these: it is the great Alexander.” After describing two
similar castrato characters from the same opera, Scheibe cites the chorus of
heros [all soloists] at the end: “What? It is nothing but soprano and alto voices.
Did Alexander therefore conquer the world with a bunch of women? These
are the merits of the Italian opera that we in Germany have taken up; we spend
great sums to import Italian female singers and castrati.. . .We have proceeded
so far down this path of folly that in most places one seldom hears good tenors
and basses in serenades, songs, and even church oratorios, but only sopranos and
altos.” He believes this to be the result of imitating the Italians, who themselves
have no tenors and basses. Yet “German men are more inclined than those
of other countries to sing tenor and bass parts. They comprise the strongest
singers and are the envy of even Italy.” German women too, adds Scheibe,
would be strong singers if given proper training and support.8
.The bass Handel employed in all his oratorios from 1743 onward was the
German Thomas Reinhold. After his death in 1751, the composer was unable
to find a suitable replacement. Before obtaining Reinhold, Handel several times
employed Gustavus Waltz, about whom Burney writes: “. . .a German, with a
coarse figure and a still coarser voice . . . He frequently sang in choruses and
comic entertainments at Drury Lane, in my own memory; and, as an actor, had
a great deal of humour.”9 On the other hand, two of the basses in Table 1 were,
90
according to Burney, outstanding: “Handel’s genius and fire never shine brighter
than in the base songs which he composed for Boschi and Montagnana: as
their voices were sufficiently powerful to penetrate through a multiplicity of
instrumental parts, he set every engine at work in the orchestra, to enrich the
harmony and enliven the movement.”10 Burney never mentions Champness
or Wass – two basses Handel employed more frequently than some others. As
for Burney’s estimation of tenors, Fabri appears to rank highest, with Borosini
“never been possessed of the powers of pleasing.”11 In contrast to the many
women and castrati whom Burney praises at length, tenors and basses in general
appear to have ranked well below their treble counterparts.
Harm to the changing voice

Why were there so few outstanding tenor and bass voices? One possible
explanation is that voices were often damaged from lack of knowledge about
vocal physiology. Most males singing alto solos seem to have stopped doing so
by or before the age of 20. This is substantiated by two early German sources
stating that boys could no longer sing alto by age 18, which we have taken to
mean that boys’ voices broke very late at that time. In 1706, for example, Martin
Heinrich Fuhrmann mentions that male altos turn into tenors after age 18.12 An
explanation is found in Gustav Schilling’s article (1838), which defines alto as a
low-treble part sung by, besides women and castrati, “pubescent boys (who in
adolescence usually exchange it back and forth with the bass voice).”13
Boys continued their customary manner of loud singing right through
adolescence, to the voice’s detriment. Writing from Halle in 1782, Johann Samuel
Petri observes that boys’ voices break toward their fourteenth year or at the latest
toward their sixteenth year. To make a good tenor or bass of them, he advises,
it is essential to protect the voice at the first sign of roughness or rigidity in the
upper register. If at that point they still force high notes strongly, they will damage
their lungs and voice so irreparably that they can never again have a normal voice:
“They become neither tenors nor basses.” Therefore, high sopranos should move
immediately to second soprano, then to first alto, again to second alto, and finally
to tenor.14 Thus boys were kept singing right through adolescence—and most
likely at a high volume level, to judge from descriptions of German singing (see
chapter 5). But this is considered to be “protecting” the voice. What about
the infinitely greater damage done through forcing a broken voice to continue
singing high notes? If this is typical of practice in other countries, it explains why
good tenor and bass voices were so rare until the later eighteenth century. Thus
Fuhrmann’s comment probably means that after the voice break, boys exchanged
back and forth their low voice with a falsetto one until they no longer could sing
alto because of the damage incurred from forcing.
91
We might wonder if Franz Benda, an outstanding violinist who attained

a high position at the Berlin court, was a victim of the period’s vocal practice.
Born in 1709, he studied singing from the age of 7 with the village cantor; two
years later, he went to Prague to sing at the Benedictine church. He was about
10 when recruited to sing at the Dresden court chapel. A year and a half later,
he lost his high voice during a trip home when he caught cold. Luckily, he
soon was able to sing alto and took a position at the Jesuit seminary in Prague.
While there in 1723, he participated in Johann Joseph Fux’s Costanza e fortezza,
which was sung at the coronation of Emperor Charles VI as King of Bohemia.
Afterwards and in the Emperor’s presence, he sang arias in J. D. Zelenka’s music
for a Latin comedy. At some point after this, he lost his alto voice from heavy
work requirements. Now there was no opportunity to support himself with
singing, so he turned to playing dance music with a Jewish band for a while.
Then an aristocrat in his hometown gave him the means to study violin in
Prague and subsequently recommended him to an official with the Emperor
in Vienna. In this way, he was able to go to Vienna before he had turned 18.15
Thus he must have lost his alto voice at the age of 15 or 16, and never again
sang professionally, which suggests that his voice had been damaged.
A more enlightened practice began to emerge at the end of the eighteenth
century, for the Austrian composer Johann Baptist Lasser’s vocal method advises
that boys should stop singing when signs of the voice change appear, around
their fourteenth year (thus indicating that voices changed at the same age as
today). Much less should they be forced to sing high notes, he adds, for they
will either lose their voice entirely or subsequently become intolerable falsettists.
According to Lasser, this point cannot be too urgently made to many choral
directors and vocal teachers, particularly in religious institutions and seminaries,
who, because they lack ready replacements, force changing voices to continue
singing so long that the whole voice is lost.16 A similar “Reminder” is found in
Vienna’s Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung (7 April 1819).
The male countertenor in Handel’s works

Handel seems to have respected the work of William Savage (1720-89), but
he sang alto only a few times before moving to tenor and bass parts. According
to the record, he sang all four voice parts between 1735 and 1743:
Operas
1735, Oberto in Alcina, soprano
1736, La Fortuna in Giustino, soprano
1737, Fabio in Berenice, tenor
92
1738, Childerico in Faramondo, soprano

1740, Imeneo in Imeneo, bass
1741, Fenice in Deidamia, bass
Oratorios
1736, Silvio in Acis and Galatea, tenor
1736, Mordecai in Esther, tenor
1737, Sisera in Deborah, alto
1739, Israel in Egypt, alto
1740, new role of Silvio (adapted from Acis) added to Il Parnasso, tenor17
1740, Moderato in L’Allegro, bass
1741, Saul, bass
1741, Ode for St. Cecilia’s Day, probably bass
1743, Abner in Athalia, bass
1743, Manoa in Samson, bass
In Faramondo, his role has no arias and his name appears by the tenor octave
in a choral movement. The 1739 autograph for Israel in Egypt lists “William
Savage and a boy” as altos; here Savage would have sung the airs in Nos. 16 and
36, whose top note is c" and c \ " respectively. Voice-part designations are often
misleading. For example, Savage’s role as Moderato in L’Allegro, il Penseroso ed il
Moderato comprises three movements specified to be sung by Basso (o Contratenore).
Yet the range (principally e-e' ) is neither bass nor countertenor, but second
tenor or baritone. An explanation for this strange voice-part terminology might
lie in Schilling’s above-cited article, whose definition of alto would make the
1740 Savage a countertenor and a bass (or low) voice simultaneously. Shortly
afterward, he becomes simply a bass. According to the above table, Savage was
switching back and forth between his falsetto and natural voices for about four
years. In a notable departure from conventional casting, Handel selected him
for the title role (bass) in the opera Imeneo. In 1744, he became a Gentleman of
the Chapel Royal, giving up performance in opera and oratorio, and turning to
composition and teaching.
Handel employed male countertenors only occasionally, usually for minor
roles, except Daniel Sullivan who sang the title role in Joseph and his Brethren
(1744). He may have been a natural countertenor, for his range is said to have
been g or a to c", and Handel seems to have transposed the part of Joseph down
for him.18 Also in 1744, he sang Athamas in Semele and Micah in Samson. Thought
to have been a boy singer in Dublin in 1737, he may have been in his late teens
93
when he sang for Handel. After years of singing elsewhere, he appeared during
the 1750s in unknown roles in Judas Maccabaeus and Acis and Galatea (which has
no alto role). Apart from Walter Powell, who sang four countertenor roles in
performances of Handel’s works in Oxford, the remaining countertenors in
Table 1 are obscure and each is listed only once or twice in the Händel-Handbuch.
Considering the many performances and revivals of his works, the composer
appears to have had little interest in this voice type.19
While Thomas Barrow, a singer with the Chapel Royal, has today been
called an important countertenor, his contribution was primarily choral.
Aside from a minor role in a performance of Esther led by Bernard Gates, he
participated in performances of Messiah in the 1750s; the small stipends suggest
that he provided choral leadership instead of singing a solo role. According to
biographical notes from Edward Rimbault (Cathedral Music, 1847), “his voice
was a high, loud counter-tenor. He was leader of the altos in the Oratorios,
while under the management of Handel; this great composer admiring him for
the strength of his voice and his steadiness.”20
The countertenor Sullivan figures in a clue to the limitations of the singers
for whom Handel wrote. On 25 February 1744, the composer’s supporter
Mary Delany told her sister: “Joseph, I believe will be next Friday, but Handel
is mightily out of humour about it, for Sullivan, who is to sing Joseph, is a
block with a very fine voice, and [John] Beard has no voice at all.”21 In general,
singers had either a voice or the ability to convey expression—seldom were
both qualities combined in one person. This explains why Handel continued to
use Beard for so many roles, despite his weak vocal ability. As Burney observes
when comparing the tenors Beard and Lowe:
Lowe had sometimes a subordinate part given him; but with the finest
tenor voice I ever heard in my life, for want of diligence and cultiva-
tion he never could be safely trusted with anything better than a ballad,
which he constantly learned by his ear; whereas Mr. Beard, with an infe-
rior voice, constantly possessed the favour of the public by his superior
conduct, knowledge of Music, and intelligence as an actor.22
Lowe’s learning his part by rote was typical of many singers, even some with
star status, until well into the nineteenth century. That tenors in general were not
expected to have much vocal quality is substantiated by John Hawkins (1776):
[Handel] hoped to please by songs . . . namely, such as were adapted to
a tenor voice, from the natural firmness and inflexibility whereof little
more is ever expected than an articulate utterance of the words, and
a just expression of the melody; and he was happy in the assistance
of a singer—Mr. Beard—possessed of these and many other valuable
qualities.23
94
Falsettists’ vocal quality

While our falsettists sing with complete control and refinement, these
qualities were rare in the eighteenth century. According to the lexicographer
Heinrich Christoph Koch (1802):
The alto part is most suitably taken by low female voices, for seldom
can a male voice beyond puberty sing this part without harshness and
forcing the voice. Nothing is more inappropriate than letting the so-
prano part be drowned out by the inner voices.24
Since the soprano part’s high range gives it a substantial advantage in being
heard, Koch’s last comment indicates that the falsettists’ forcing and volume
was considerable (recall that Barrow’s voice was described as “loud”).
Harshness was prominent also in the French haute-contre (male alto) voice,
said by some writers of the time to be a forced natural voice. According to
Jean-Jacques Rousseau (1768), the Italians permitted only castrati and women
to sing the alto part in secular music, but in France, men sang alto by utilizing
unsound vocal technique:
In Italian music, this part (which they call Contr’alto and which corre-
sponds to the Haute-contre) is nearly always sung by low treble voices,
whether women or castrati. Indeed, the male Haute-contre is certainly
not natural. One has to force the voice to reach this register; whatever
is done, it is always harsh and rarely in tune.25
In another article, Rousseau praises the tone quality of women’s voices,
calling falsetto “the most irritating of all human vocal timbres.”26 The verb
canarder – to produce sounds resembling a duck’s – was often employed to
describe the effect of the haute-contre voice and also the oboe. J. J. O. de Meude-
Monpas’s Dictionnaire de musique (Paris, 1787) even includes an entry for this
term. Under “Haute-Contre,” he too calls this voice type “always harsh and
rarely in tune.”
The Italians utilized falsettists only in church music. According to Florido
Tomeoni, a singer born and trained in Italy but subsequently a long-time resident
of Paris, the haute-contre voice ascends to b’. Its partisans claim that the highest
notes are always formed in the chest, but in reality they are formed in the throat
and are always more or less nasal. In Italy, he adds, such voices are excluded
from the theaters and concerts, and admitted only to the cathedrals, where good
taste and musical principles about naturalness have relegated them. In France,
however, they are the cherished voices.27 Cherished by audiences, that is. On the
whole, the educated elite found most of these singers disagreeable. Combined
with their nasal tone quality and poor intonation was an unbelievably high
95
decibel level. The Swiss writer François-Louis d’Escherny provides a graphic

eyewitness account of a 1768 performance of Jean-Philippe Rameau’s opera
Dardanus in which the haute-contre Joseph Legros “screamed like a devil” to satisfy
audience insistence on greater and greater volume. D’Escherny compares the
audience demands, which had the flavor of a sporting event, to the cruelties of
ancient Rome.28 After visiting Paris in 1770, Burney remarked: “M. Le Gros
with a very fine counter tenor voice becomes by his constant performance in the
French serious opera more and more intolerable every day.”29 The over-exertion
required at the Opéra was ruining his voice. Burney never had an opportunity
to hear the famed haute-contre Pierre Jélyotte (1713-97), who had retired in the
1750s after garnering praise from all writers, and who made a point of singing
“half voice” in relation to other haute-contres.
Tomeoni placed the upper limit of the haute-contre voice at b’, but the pitch
level at the Paris Opéra was more than a whole tone below ours. Discussing in
1861 the work of the Paris commission that established the pitch standard of a'
435 (diapason normal), the composer Fromental Halévy writes:
If studying Gluck’s scores is not enough to demonstrate, by the way
the voices are arranged, that these masterworks were written under the
influence of a pitch standard much lower than ours, the witness of
organs built during this epoch, and which still exist, furnish unimpeach-
able proof for it. . . . The organs of which we have spoken reveal a
difference of a whole tone below the present pitch standard. But this
so moderate pitch was not sufficient for the Opéra’s prudence in this
epoch. In his Dictionnaire de musique (“Ton”), Rousseau says that the
pitch of the Paris Opéra was lower than church pitch. Consequently, at the
time of Rousseau the pitch standard, or rather the Opéra’s pitch, was
more than a whole tone lower than today’s pitch standard. However,
according to many writers, the singers at this time forced their voices.
Whether from lack of training, defective taste, or a wish to please the
public, they screamed. These singers, who found the means to scream
so loudly with such a low pitch standard, had nothing to gain from a
higher pitch standard, which would have required greater effort.30
With pitch at such a low level, falsetto would not have been needed for the
haute-contre parts; nor could the extreme volume described by d’Escherny have
been achieved with falsetto.
.Because women were barred from singing in Italian churches, the soprano
part had to be sung by boys or falsettists. In the preface to his Cento concerti
ecclesiastici (Venice, 1602), Lodovico Viadana finds boys unequal to the task:
“In these concertos, falsettists will have a better effect than natural sopranos
because boys, for the most part, sing carelessly, and with little grace.” Soprano
96
castrati soon became much more plentiful, making them favored over falsettists.
In 1640, Pietro della Valle calls the castrato voice “natural” when citing its
advantages over the voices of falsettists and boys:
Your Lordship wants to compare the falsettists of those times with the
natural sopranos of the castrati that today we have in such abundance.
At that time, who could sing like a Guidobaldo, a Cavalier Loreto, a
Gregorio, an Angeluccio, a Marc’ Antonio and so many others that I
could name? The best that could be done then was to have a good boy
[soprano]; but just when he began to understand a few things, he lost his
voice. And while he had it, he, like those lacking judgment because of
their age, sang without taste and style—the way things learned by rote
are done. Sometimes it grated on my nerves unbearably. The sopranos
[castrati] of today, persons of judgment and some age, with feelings and
expertise in their exquisite art, sing with grace, taste, and true refine-
ment. . . . Today there are plenty in all the courts and chapels.31
That acceptable tone quality in the falsetto register was largely unknown
is indicated by Giulio Caccini’s “useful warning” about the solo secular pieces
in his Nuove musiche (Florence, 1601). Since the pieces need only a chitarrone
or other stringed instrument for accompaniment, he says, the performer should
select a key in which he can sing in a “full and natural voice to avoid falsetto,”
for this feigning or forcing requires using the breath in a way to make it not too
noticeable—“because for the most part these tones offend the ear.”32
Female altos
In Italian opera, the castrati played roles of heros and conquerors.
Handel usually followed the same practice in his operas and, when possible,
oratorios, but he also did not hesitate to cast women such as Francesca Bertolli
and Maria Caterina Negri in masculine roles when a castrato was unavailable.
In the following list of their representative roles, those without a date denote a
first performance:
Francesca Bertolli
Argante in Rinaldo (first performance of later version)
Tolomeo in Giulio Cesare (1730)
Eduige in Rodelinda (1731)
Lelio in Publio Cornelio Scipione
Idelberto in Lotario
Armindo in Partenope
97
Gandarte in Poro, Re dell’ Indie

Melo in Sosarme, Re di Media
Ramise in Arminio
Mordecai in Esther
Maria Caterina Negri

Bradamante in Alcina
Tullio in Arminio
Amanzio in Giustino
Arsace in Berenice, Regina d’Egitto
Ormonte in Partenope (1737)
Sisera in Deborah (1734)
Mordecai in Esther (1735)
According to Burney, Caterina Galli frequently played male roles with

remarkable style during Handel’s oratorio years: “There was something spirited
and interesting in her manner; however, she was little noticed by the public
till she sung in Handel’s oratorio of Judas Maccabaeus, when she acquired such
favour in the air ‘Tis liberty alone’, that she was not only encored in it every
night, but became an important personage, among singers, for a considerable
time.”33 The following partial list of her appearances includes the title roles of
Alexander Balus, Solomon, and Joseph, two of which were first performances:
Joseph in Joseph and his Brethren (?1747)

Phanor in Joseph and his Brethren (?1751)
Israelite Man, Priest in Judas Maccabaeus
Alexander Balus in Alexander Balus
Othniel in Joshua
Solomon in Solomon
Joacim in Susanna
Israelite in Esther (1751)
Storgè in Jephtha
Among her other roles, Galli was the principal alto in 1749 and 1754
performances of Messiah.
In his operas, Handel customarily assigned the primo uomo role to a
castrato. But one exception seems to illustrate his preference for talent over
98
other matters, for he gave the title role of Radamisto to the soprano Margherita
Durastanti, while confining the soprano castrato Benedetto Baldassari to the
role of Fraarte. Another soprano, Caterina Galerati, said to have performed
male roles exclusively, sang Tigrane. In addition to a role in Table 2, Durastanti
sang Vitige in Flavio and Sextus in Giulio Cesare. Women figure so prominently
in male roles in Handel’s works because, apart from castrati, few male singers of
comparable ability existed.
When Handel prepared a program of various works for a benefit in 1738,
the singers comprised the Italian soprano Elisabeth Duparc (La Francesina),
the famed castrato Caffarelli, the altos Margherita Chimenti and Antonia
Merighi, the tenor John Beard and the bass Antonio Montagna. It is said that
he composed several new songs for the Italian singers.34
Messiah
The first performance of Messiah, which took place in Dublin, was cast as
follows:
Christina Maria Avoglio and Mrs. Maclaine, soprano

Susanna Maria Cibber, mezzo soprano
William Lamb and Joseph Ward, countertenor or alto
James Bailey, tenor
John Hill and John Mason, bass
Since the male altos, as well as the tenor and bass soloists, were drawn
from the cathedral choirs, Handel may have had to do a good deal of last-
minute role reassigning. According to an eyewitness report Burney received
from an Irish gentleman, Signora Avoglio and Mrs. Cibber, who had come with
Handel from London, were the principal soloists. Elsewhere, Burney mentions
that Handel later [1750] gave the castrato Guadagni the parts in Messiah and
Samson originally composed for Mrs. Cibber.35 Thus she likely sang the alto
parts of substance and perhaps other parts as well. According to anonymous
annotations in a word-book for the first performance, she sang a version of the
“rage” air for bass, “Why do the nations.”36 Its vocal demands may well have
been too much for the Dublin bass. The tenor aria (No. 43) was replaced by
the preceding recitative, said to have been sung by the countertenor Lamb; the
same is probable for No. 36. As Jens Peter Larsen observes (1957): “It is clear
that certain soloist considerations were the reason: the singers were not good
enough for the music, and the music had to be simplified.” A soloist listed for
the first performance in Dublin might have been dropped after a rehearsal, he
99
adds, “for Handel knew nothing about them beforehand.”37 Thus the cast list
above is probably misleading.
In considering why Handel made an extraordinary number of changes for
various performances of Messiah (mostly with the arias), Larson notes that he
had the problem of “securing soloists capable of complying with reasonable
demands. In addition to highly-qualified soloists who, in voice or delivery, must
have been excellent—e.g. Guadagni, Beard, Mrs. Cibber—others are mentioned
who hardly attained the standard he desired. It would seem that the differences
between soloists’ qualifications, rather than their traditional capriciousness,
occasioned the changes of artists and the consequent transpositions and
amendments of the arias.”38
On occasion, Handel assigned an aria to a different register than that for
which it was written. According to an annotation on the autograph score of
Messiah, for example, the soprano Avoglio sang the tenor recitative “Thy rebuke.”
At another time, the soprano Giulia Frasi sang the tenor arioso “Comfort ye.”39
When Johann Adam Hiller led a performance of Messiah in Berlin (1786),
a woman shared the alto solos with two castrati, while two professional alto
falsettists sang only the choral portions.40 By far the largest production yet
attempted in Germany, it included a chorus of 119, drawn mostly from the
Berlin and Potsdam schools. They were led by professional singers (many from
the Berlin court), each of whom Hiller lists by name:
Soprano: 11 women and 3 castrati

Alto: 1 woman, 2 Italians (castrati) and 2 Germans (falsettists)
Tenor: 3 Italians and 3 Germans
Bass: 1 Italian and 7 Germans
This group includes the soloists, who, according to Hiller, also sang the
choruses. Besides the alto solos already mentioned, the soprano solos were
taken by two women and two castrati; one tenor was a soloist, as were two
basses. The venture was so successful that it spawned a number of other large
performances.
****
The difference between performing conditions then and today is apparent

from remarks in John Mainwaring’s biography of Handel (1760). Observing
that the recitative and air must always be considered the principal parts in
operas and oratorios, he adds: “Yet in some of HANDEL’s, the Symphonies
and Accompaniments, instead of shewing those [vocal] parts to advantage,
100
have absorbed them, as it were, in their own superior splendor.” Mainwaring

speculates that Handel’s “uncommon strength in the instrumental way” may
have been one reason for this fault, but “another perhaps was the badness of
some of his Singers; for there never was an Opera in which all of them were
good. A judicious Composer will always take care that the worst shall have
little to do.” Mainwaring could not have been aware of a further reason why
instrumentalists overpowered the singers: they and their instruments lacked
the ability to play with today’s refinement. He also suggests that bravura arias
were not sung with the skill we expect: “It was not to be dissembled that the
manly cast of HANDEL’s mind often led him into a kind of melody ill suited
to the voice; that he was apt to depart from the style which the species of
composition demanded, and run into passages purely instrumental.”41 Whether
Handel had to write such passages in order to retain his Italian singers, who
wanted to show off their voices, cannot be ascertained. When he translated
Mainwaring’s work into German (1761), Johann Mattheson added a footnote to
the above text: “Handel was no singer, no actor. In the five to six years when
we worked together on a daily basis, I never heard a note of music come from
his mouth.” In Mattheson’s opinion, a background in singing and acting is a
great asset for the dramatic composer, as exemplified by the melodic lines in the
works of Johann Adolph Hasse and Reinhard Keiser.42 Before his deafness,
Mattheson was a professional singer, and thus a good judge of what singers of
the period could accomplish. A vocal line filled with sixteenth notes may look
impressive, but it tells us little about how well the music was sung. Mattheson
implies that such arias were not performed successfully by his standards. They
were, however, cheered by the undiscriminating crowd.
Vocal ability was the reason that Handel assigned most of his important
roles to castrati and women, for few countertenors, tenors, and basses could
match them. While he probably would have preferred an alto or mezzo-soprano
castrato for his heroic male roles, they were in short supply, so female voices were
vital to his ability to mount large-scale productions. The above documentation
suggests that the countertenor voice, which resembles the castrato’s only in
range, has little claim on Handel’s practice when used in a solo capacity in opera
or oratorio. It was widely employed, however, in choral music and church music
intended for a worship service, for women were usually excluded. While today’s
falsettists have superb musicianship, their timbre cannot match that of a natural
voice and the vocal instrument is not equal to the demands of a large hall. Had
there been a ready supply of capable tenors and basses, would these have been
the voices that Handel chose for heroic roles, as he did in the opera Imeneo and
some of the oratorios? His own re-assigning of vocal ranges when the need
arose suggests that transposing a male role down an octave is not out of the
101
question. But this requires adjusting the orchestral parts, such as when the vocal
part descends below the bass line. And when the vocal part is florid, it is often
ineffective sung an octave lower, for rapid passages do not project well in a low
range and are easily covered by the orchestra. It may be possible to utilize a
tenor in those few parts written for a soprano castrato. In the Italian tradition,
coloratura passages were intended for high voices – sopranos and the upper part
of the mezzo-soprano range – and tenor roles were insignificant. (Handel did,
however, write some bravura passages for the bass Montagnana.) When casting
castrato roles today, perhaps the most workable solution is to follow Handel’s
practice of engaging a female voice.43
Endnotes
1
This chapter appeared originally in the Göttinger Händel-Beiträge 13 (2010): 141-63.
2
Role assignments and descriptions of singers appear in the Händel-Handbuch, ed. S. Flesch, B.
Baselt, and O. E. Deutsch, 4 vols. (Kassel: Bärenreiter, ca.1978-85); Hans Joachim Marx, Hän-
dels Oratorien, Oden und Serenaten (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1998); Jens Peter Larsen,
Handel’s Messiah (New York: Norton, 1957); Winton Dean, Handel’s Dramatic Oratorios and Masques
(London and New York: Oxford University Press, 1959), 651-61; and Winton Dean and John
Merrill Knapp, Handel’s Operas, 1704-1726 (Oxford: Clarendon, 1987), 666-70. Singers’ biogra-
phies are included in Händel und seine Zeitgenossen in Das Händel-Handbuch, ed. Hans Joachim Marx
(Laaber: Laaber-Verlag, 2008), vol. 1, parts 1 and 2.
3
Not included are those works for which the cast is uncertain. This table contains primarily the
cast lists found in the calendar of Handel’s life in the Händel-Handbuch, 1:16-35.
4
James Ralph [under the name of A. Primcock], The Taste of the Town (London, 1731), 14.
5
Cited in Händel-Handbuch, 4:388.
6
Dean, Handel’s Dramatic Oratorios, 275.
7
Burney/GH, 2:760. The same report appeared in the London Evening Post of 3 July and the
London Journal of 5 July.
8
Scheibe/1745, 153ff.
9
Burney/GH, 2:785 and n.
10
Ibid., 702f.
11
Ibid., 761, 846.
12
Martin Heinrich Fuhrmann, Musicalischer-Trichter . . . (Franckfurt an der Spree, 1706), 36.
13
Encyclopädie der gesammelten musikalischen Wissenschaften, ed. Gustav Schilling (Stuttgart, 1838),
“Alt:” “Die Alt- . . . findet sich im Allgemeinen bei heranwachsenden Knaben (die sie in der Mu-
tationsperiode gewöhnlich mit der Bassstimme vertauschen).”
14
Petri/1782, 213.
15
“Lebenslauf des Herrn Franz Benda,” WNAM 1 (1766), 176-78, 187-89. Benda’s loss of voice
is recounted also by Burney/TourCE, 173ff.
16
Lasser/1798, 13: “Wenn man an denen Knaben ohngefähr um das 14te Lebensjahr bemerkt,
dass selbe nicht ohne Zwang mehr die höhern Töne nehmen können, und also ihre Stimme nach
den gewöhnlichen musikalischen Ausdruck zu mutiren beginne, so lasse man sie nicht mehr sin-
gen, vielweniger, zwinge man sie zu hohen Tönen, sonst würden sie entweder gar keine Stimme
mehr bekommen, oder in der Folge blosse unausstehliche Falsettisten werden; manchem Chor-
102
direktor und Singmeister vorzüglich in Stiftern und Seminarien kann dieser Punkt nicht dringen
genug ans Herz gelegt werden, vorzüglich jenen, die sich nicht zeitlich genug andere Knaben
abrichten, und also aus Mangel die mutirenden zwingen, zu ihrem Schaden so lange Dienste zu
thun, bis Alles verlohren ist.”
17
Marx, Händels Oratorien, 180.
18
Winton Dean, “Sullivan, Daniel,” in NG2. 24:703.
19
A misconception about Handel’s views has arisen from an article by John Hough, “The his-
torical significance of the counter-tenor,” Proceedings of the Royal Musical Association 64 (1937):14:
“On many occasions Handel employed English alto singers as soloists, and thought them equal
to the parts written for the Italians.” Hough’s first statement cannot be substantiated, and the
only evidence for the second is an Oxford performance (1733) when the Oxford countertenor
Walter Powell sang a part in Athalia originally written for the castrato Senesino. Peter Giles, His-
tory and Technique of the Counter-Tenor (Aldershot, Hants, England: Scolar Press, ca. 1994), 74, then
increased the scope of Hough’s sentence: “When using English counter-tenor singers as soloists,
Handel wrote that he thought them ‘equal to the Italians’ (the castrati).”
20
Quoted by Giles, History and Technique, 74.
21
Quoted in Händel-Handbuch, 4:373.
22
Burney/GH, 2:1010.
22
John Hawkins, A General History of the Science and Practice of Music, “A New Ed.” (London, 1875),
2:889. Quoted by Larsen, Handel’s Messiah, 34
24
. Koch/1802, “Alt:” “Die Altstimme wird am schicklichsten mit tiefen Frauenzimmerstimmen
besetzt, denn selten kann eine erwachsene Mannsperson diese Stimme ohne Härte, und ohne die
Stimme zu überschreyen, singen; und nichts ist unschicklicher, als wenn die Oberstimme von den
Mittelstimmen überschreien wird.”
25
Rousseau/1768, “Haute-contre :” “En effet, la Haute-contre en Voix d’homme n’est point na-
turelle; il faut la forcer pour la porter a ce Diapason: quoi qu’on fasse, elle a toujours de l’aigreur,
& rarement de la justesse.”
26
Ibid., “Voix:” “Mais de toutes les Voix aiguës, il faut convenir . . . qu’il n’y en a point d’espèce
comparable à celle des femmes, ni pour l’étendue ni pour la beauté du Tymbre. . . . pour le Faucet,
c’est le plus désagréable de tous les Tymbres de la Voix humaine.”
27
Florido Tomeoni, Théorie de la musique vocale (Paris, 1799), 56: “La voix de haute-contre n’a point
d’étendue dans les sons bas; mais en revanche elle monte jusqu’au quatrième si du clavier: ses
partisans prétendent que les sons les plus élevés se forment toujours de la poitrine; mais ils sor-
tent, ou, pour mieux dire, ils se forment réellement dans le gosier, et sont toujours plus ou moins
nasillards. En Italie ces sortes de voix sont exclues des théâtres et bannies des concerts: elles ne
sont admises que dans les cathédrals, où les ont reléguées le bon goût et les principes naturels de
la musique. Mais en France . . . ce sont au contraire les voix chéries. On les admet sur les théâtres,
on les recherche dans les concerts; elles y occupent enfin le premier rang, que l’on accorderait avec
plus de justice à la voix de ténor.”
28
François-Louis d’Escherny, Mélanges de littérature, d’histoire, de morale et de philosophie (Paris, 1811),
2:318f.
29
Charles Burney, Music, Men, and Manners in France and Italy 1770, ed. H. Edmund Poole (London:
Eulenburg, 1974), 220.
30
Fromental Halévy, Souvenirs et portraits (Paris, 1861), 340ff.
31
Adapted from Source Readings in Music History, ed. Oliver Strunk; rev. edn. Leo Treitler (New
York: Norton, 1998), 621, 549. This passage and the next seem to contradict the undocumented
statement in NG2, “Falsetto:” “To avoid confusion with eunuchs, falsettists were often described
as ‘voci naturali’.”
32
Giulio Caccini, Le nuove musiche (Florence, 1601; rpt. 1987), preface: “. . . sarà perciò utile au-
uertimento, che il professore di quest’ arte poiche egli deue cantar solo sopra Chitarrone, ò altro
103
strumento di corde senza essere forzato accomodarsi ad altri, che à se stesso si ellega un tuono,
nel quale possa cantare in voce piena, e naturale per isfuggire le voci finte; nelle quali per fingerle,
ò almeno nelle forzate, occorendo valersi della respirazione per non discoprirle molto (poiche per
lo più sogliono offendere l’udito).”
33
Burney/GH, 2:841.
34
Marx, Händels Oratorien, 176.
35
Burney/GH, 2:1006, 875.
36
Cited by John Tobin, Handel’s Messiah (London: Cassell, 1969), 35f.
37
Larsen, Handel’s Messiah, 154, 188.
38
Ibid., 199.
39
Messiah, Krit. Bericht, Hallische Händel-Ausgabe I/17, ed. John Tobin (Kassel: Bärenreiter, 1965),
10.
40
Johann Adam Hiller, Nachricht von der Aufführung des Händelschen Messias . . . (Berlin, 1786), ch. 3.
41
John Mainwaring, Memoirs of the Life of the Late George Frederic Handel (London, 1760; rpt. 1980),
177f., 197.
42
John Mainwaring, Georg Friedrich Händels Lebensbeschreibung, trans. Johann Mattheson (Hamburg,
1761; rpt. 1976), 134n.
43
See Donald Burrow’s discussion of this topic: “Kastratenrollen in Händels Londoner Opern,”
Händels Opern, in Das Händel-Handbuch, ed. Marx, vol. 2, part 1, 134-43.
104
CHAPTER 7
Intonation Standards and Equal

Temperament1
Is it possible to draw accurate conclusions about the practical usage of tempera-
ments in bygone centuries without first establishing the quality of the intona-
tion commonly heard? Could complex unequal temperaments have been widely
used unless intonation standards were close to our own? Consider wind and
brass instruments, which did not begin to achieve modern standards until the
mid-nineteenth century and later. Before Theobald Boehm’s groundbreaking
efforts in the 1830s, makers of woodwind instruments had always positioned
toneholes in an idiosyncratic, unscientific manner. François-Joseph Fétis’s jury
report for the Great Exposition in Paris (1867) includes the favorable estimation
of Boehm’s mathematical scheme by the organ builder Aristide Cavaillé-Coll,
who mentions the haphazard manner in which other makers calculated tonehole
location:
. . . by the confession of even the best makers whom we have consulted,
the pitches [for each note] of their instruments have always been made
experimentally and gropingly.2
This explains why good intonation had always been difficult to achieve,
especially in ensembles. According to Fétis, Boehm’s complete intonation
reform of the flute was “one of the most important improvements for wind
instruments.” The latter part of the nineteenth century saw considerable
progress in achieving more uniformly even intonation within each instrument.
Compounding the problem in ensembles was the widely varying pitch
level among instruments. Since a large adjustment was sometimes required
for individual instruments to attain a uniform pitch level in an orchestra, the
expedients for adjusting their pitch were not always successful. Not until 1859
was a’ recommended as 435 vibrations per second by a Paris government
commission; it was adopted as the international pitch standard by the 1885
Stimmton Konferenz in Vienna (without the participation of the United
Kingdom or the United States). Until instruments attained uniform tonehole
positioning and pitch level, intonation problems were inevitable. Writers such
as the virtuoso flutist Johann George Tromlitz (1783) frequently lament this
fact:
105
It is usually said that two flutes are seldom in tune and three, never. . . .
Since generally no flute is built according to determined principles, they
all turn out haphazardly. . . The first flutist plays according to what his
flute and ear are accustomed; the second and third do the same. How
can these therefore play together in tune? One would think that the
player must himself hear that he is playing out of tune, but no! When
he first got this flute, he did indeed hear it, but believed it would pass.
It passed all right, but not the flute, only his ear. He became used to it
and finally believed that everything would be in tune. . . . I have heard
people who called themselves virtuosos and had precisely this error.
They knew it not, believed it not, and improved it not; the ear readily
spoiled itself.3
Thus it seems unlikely that players could have achieved 1/6-comma
intonation (with sharps lower than flats) which today is thought typical for
eighteenth-century woodwinds. The quality of intonation in past ages can be
judged by their tuning procedures.
Tuning procedures
Our ears, including those of the general public, have been trained by
hearing in-tune music every day. Even though a good sense of pitch can be
developed in many not born with an outstanding ear, early musicians had none
of our resources for training the ear automatically. Their low standards are
apparent from the advice that the composer and violinist Francesco Maria
Veracini offers to mid-eighteenth century directors of professional orchestras:
Tuning the orchestra should be done quickly, softly and correctly before
beginning the opera overture. We should abandon our predecessors’
perfidious custom of beginning untuned and then making a continu-
ous buzzing while a recitative is being sung. This confounded gun
gan gun gan of loud string tuning throughout up until the last chorus
(without ever being in tune) disturbs the singers and tortures the lis-
teners terribly.4
Clearly these players were not tuning to a common pitch. A contemporary of
Johann Sebastian Bach, Veracini worked in locations such as Florence, Venice,
London, Düsseldorf, and Dresden, becoming well acquainted with the state of
music throughout Europe.
Johann Mattheson’s praise (1739) of Giovanni Battista Farinelli’s innovative
tuning procedure at the Hanover court, too, reveals much about their practice.5
First, says Mattheson, Farinelli would tune a violin in pure fifths with bow
strokes, not finger plucking. Next, he bowed one string after the other to the
106
Intonation Standards and Equal Temperament
first violinist until both were completely in tune together. Then the first violinist
went to each player separately, doing the same. After tuning, each player had to
lay his violin down immediately until all the others had tuned G, D, A and E in
just the same way [as he implies, “noodling” was commonplace during tuning].
And that made a fine effect, declares Mattheson: “With us, everyone tunes at
the same time and holds the instrument under his arm, which never produces
correct tuning.” As reported by Fétis in 1837, tuning each individual separately
was still recommended.6
According to the flutist Johann Joachim Quantz (1752), many professional
players were unable to tune pure fifths:
Nothing would appear easier than to tune an instrument with four
strings in fifths, since the fifth is an interval that the ear naturally learns
to distinguish more readily than others. Nevertheless, experience teach-
es that although some experienced violin players or other instrumental-
ists fulfil their duties in this regard, the majority do not, either because
of ignorance or negligence; if each instrument in a large accompanying
body were tested separately, it not only would be found that almost ev-
ery instrument is untrue in itself, but also that frequently not even two
or three would be in tune with one another.7
While tuning procedures had improved by the late eighteenth century,
the Philosophische Fragmente attributed to Amand W. Schmith (Vienna, 1787) calls
defective tuning the most common and conspicuous error of public performers,
particularly when the musician’s ear is so defective that the error can be up to
a quarter tone. Its magnitude grates on the ear of even unmusical people. In
various places, poor intonation is so ingrained that good tuning is regarded as a
minor matter, even though it is one of the most essential requirements. Citing
the axiom that calls good tuning half of the playing, he nevertheless knows
Gritzköpfe who feel insulted when asked to tune, for they are Virtuosos and
should not be bound by such trivialities.8 Schmith’s passage is all the more
striking because it concerns not lowly ripienists, but soloists in a major musical
center.
It was customary for German organists to “prelude” to assist the tuning
of instruments. In 1787, for example, Daniel Gottlob Türk advises playing in a
key easy for string tuning (D, A, and G major, or D and A minor).9 For horns,
trumpets, etc., the organist should modulate to the key in which they are made.
When all is complete, he proceeds to the key in which the music begins. That
some organists played only in this key is evident from Türk’s warning: “If this
key happens to be F minor or E[ major for the instruments, how can the violins,
violas and basses be tuned?” In a not particularly small town, he had heard
music in E[ major for which the violins had tuned a semitone too high, but
the horns a semitone too low. Only the organ and oboes played in the correct
107
key. Then someone noticed the blunder and one after the other retuned. The
modern reader may wonder how one tunes while music is being played—or
perhaps the music came to a halt.
That tuning standards at the end of the nineteenth century were still far
from our own can be judged by remarks from the violinist Carl Flesch, who
in the 1890s joined the orchestra founded in Paris by Charles Lamoureux. He
recalled that Lamoureux “did not mind taking the trouble of hearing each of his
120 orchestra members pass by him one by one before each concert, in order to
check, with a violin in his hand, the tuning of every instrument most carefully.”10
Probably the greatest catalyst in the transition to modern intonation standards
was the advent of recordings, which made it more essential to sing and play in
tune. These recordings then served to train the ears of musicians not blessed
with a keen sense of pitch.
Eyewitness accounts of tuning and intonation

Closely related to the problem of poor intonation was temperament,
which is necessary because performing a circle of mathematically pure (beatless)
fifths leads to a pitch that is about 24 cents (a ditonic comma) beyond a pure
octave. In equal temperament, this excess is removed by subtracting a barely
perceptible 2 cents from each fifth, so that every semitone equals 100 cents,
and all keys can be used without offending the ear. In all other temperaments,
however, the excess is removed unequally, so that some semitones and whole
tones are much larger than others. Mathematically-pure intervals were prized
by those theorists promoting unequal temperaments—hence the frequent
usage of the term “purity”—and attaining this goal took on the aura of a
mathematical challenge. Certain theorists held equal temperament’s lack of
any pure interval but the octave to be a grave shortcoming. Was this premise
based on the actual sound of equal temperament or was it a paper argument
by those committed to the belief that mathematically pure intervals are
superior? For example, Georg Friedrich Tempelhof stated in 1775 that equal
temperament is the worst possible one because no interval but the octave is
completely pure.11
Since the unequal temperaments utilize whole tones and semitones of
variable size (the larger ones are called “major” and the smaller, “minor”),
transpositions for ensembles will be out of tune. For example, when an
instrument is pitched a whole tone above the others, its part has to be transposed
down a whole tone. Therefore, the major and minor semitones fall at different
locations than they do for the other instruments. Equal temperament, of
course, removes this barrier.
108
Tuning procedures as revealed by Bottrigari and Mattheson
Ercole Bottrigari’s Desiderio (1594) treats intonation at length. A
mathematician, architect, music theorist, composer, and poet who lived in
Bologna and Ferrara, he was personally acquainted with the theorist Gioseffo
Zarlino and the poet Torquato Tasso. Taking the form of a conversation
between the master Alemanno Benelli and the learner Gratioso Desiderio,
Bottrigari’s book begins with the latter’s disappointment about a large concert
of some forty participants he has just heard. In all such concerts, he has
never experienced the expected pleasure.12 Picture them playing not with
the refinement we expect, but with tremendous clamor. According to the
virtuoso cornettist Luigi Zenobi (1601), instrumentalists restrain their volume
in chamber music for princes; but in church music and large concerts, everyone
plays as loudly as possible, which creates a great din and hides all the blunders
and poor intonation.13 Having worked at the Ferrara court from 1589-1597,
Zenobi probably knew Bottrigari.
The concert that Gratioso describes included a large harpsichord, a large
spinet, three lutes, many viols, many trombones, two rebecs, large flutes, a large
double harp and a lyre accompanying many good voices. But instead of celestial
harmony, he heard offensive confusion and discord and wonders if something
is wrong with his ear. The answer, responds Alemanno, is that very often the
instruments are not tuned together properly. Gratioso finds this hard to believe
because all the musicians are excellent artists whom he knows well, and each
one has the ability to be himself a director. Noting that discord can also arise
from unstable gut strings and differences in individual perceptions of pitch,
even among virtuosi, Alemanno declares: “It frequently happens that a string
seems low to one player and high to another, resulting in confusion. Thus just
one person should tune all the instruments.”14 Discord is also produced, he
continues, by trying to combine instruments that are tempered differently by
their structure or custom:
Keyboards and harps, which have unequal semitones and are tempered
according to the individual practice of their builders and tuners, are
called stable instruments because they cannot be changed after tuning.
The stable but alterable instruments include wind instruments
such as flutes and cornetts, whose holes are bored by ear, producing
considerable variation in the size of semitones. Accomplished players
can alter pitch somewhat by the manner of blowing. Also classed as
“stable but alterable” are viols and lutes, whose players can press their
frets (which produce equal temperament) a little higher or lower to alter
pitch somewhat.
The completely alterable instruments include trombones and string
instruments, which can adjust pitch to conform to instruments of the first
two groups.
109
Alemanno cites an advantage of the fretted instruments: their equal

semitones enable transposing up or down a semitone or wholetone without
offending the ear, but this is unfeasible with the unequal semitones of a “stable”
instrument.15
Although the stable but alterable instruments could alter pitch to a degree,
this alteration had to be quite limited. Alemanno stresses that lutes and viols
cannot combine perfectly with the stable instruments because of the latter’s
variable semitones. According to Vincenzo Galilei (1581), the lute’s tuning
is much closer to perfection than that of the keyboard instruments,16—an
observation suggesting that equal temperament was highly regarded by leading
thinkers. Around 1580, Giovanni de’ Bardi was amused by musicians struggling
to tune a lute or viol with a keyboard instrument. In recommending that
consorts not combine fretted and keyboard instruments, he adds: “Until now
this highly important matter has gone unnoticed or, if noticed, unremedied.”17
Thus Bardi is another witness to the fact that most musicians were unaware of
serious discordance.
In Alemanno’s experience, those responsible for arranging the concerts do
not understand the differences among the instruments; otherwise, they would
not make such disharmony by combining unsuitable instruments. Noting
Aristotle’s advice about accompanying the voice with just a lyre or tibia because
adding more instruments obscures and almost entirely destroys the melody, he
declares that instruments from all three groups should never be combined, for
it produces the greatest discordance. Gratioso is astonished that so many men
of sound judgment have never been aware of this fact.18
Turning to keyboard tuning, Alemanno calls it a trial and error approach.
If two different keyboards of the same size and quality were to be tuned by
two equally skilled masters in separate locations, and if the tuning started from
a note perfectly in unison between the two, he greatly doubts that after tuning
any other unisons would be found. If the same master tuned both instruments
in separate locations, he adds, again only the first unison would be in tune on
both.19
From Bottrigari’s account, we can conclude: 1) musicians disagreed
about what sounded in tune and few were capable of tuning properly; 2)
prominent musicians were unaware of major intonation defects; 3) keyboard
tuning produced inconsistent results; and 4) wind instruments were tempered
by ear without uniformity. In his day, in-tune execution was likely achieved
mainly by a few soloists with exceptional ears, accompanied preferably by a
single instrument. Very slowly, over the next three hundred years intonation
standards gradually improved, with the bulk of the improvement taking place in
the nineteenth century.
110
Other writers tell us that even violinists, with completely alterable pitch,
found it difficult to play in tune with keyboard instruments,20 probably because
flats are higher than sharps in the unequal keyboard temperaments; thus E[ is
higher than D\. Because this runs counter to the ear’s expectation that sharps
be higher than flats in most cases, it requires particular skill and determined
effort to execute. Early musicians’ ears were no different than ours. According
to a Lettre (1773) published under the name of Anton Bemetzrieder, but actually
by the encyclopedist Denis Diderot, string teachers tell students to “raise the
sharps and lower the flats as much as they can. Skilled violinists put C\ nearer
D; the distance they put between C and D[ is no more than a shadow.”21
Johann Mattheson’s Forschende Orchestre (1721) criticizes the poor intonation
resulting from the fact that the pitch level of German organs (called Chorton) was
usually a whole tone above the one at which most instruments played (Cammerton).
Thus the organ part had to be transposed down for playing with instruments,
so that when the latter play in the key of G, the organ plays in F. When these
organs were tuned with the variable semitones of an unequal temperament, the
organ might be playing a major semitone while the instruments play a minor
one. This produced cacophony of grand proportions, as Mattheson indicates:
Consider the abomination when instruments at Cammerton pitch, such
as horns, flutes, bassoons, etc., sometimes have to play with others at
Chorton pitch, so that one group or the other must be transposed. Is
that sound any different than the composer or cantor portraying the
quarrel of the dogs over Jezebel’s fallen body?22
This unavoidable discord is why Mattheson favored universal equal tempering
of instruments. Think what happens, he continues, when a horn at Cammerton
pitch plays G A [a minor tone of 182 cents] in unison with an organ at Chorton
pitch playing F G [a major tone of 204 cents]: “And that should be in tune? . . .
But many have ears and hear not”23—an indication of the extent to which false
intonation was tolerated. The difference between 182 and 204 cents constitutes
an entire syntonic comma. (These cents values are theoretical; in practice, they
could vary widely according to the temperament scheme utilized and the tuner’s
skill. Thus the divergence might be even greater than a comma.) Yet Mattheson
had to struggle against theorists and instrument builders who did not hear any-
thing amiss with their unequal temperaments under these circumstances. They
relied on their calculations, which told them that equal temperament had no pure
interval except the octave. Ergo, they reasoned, it had to be defective, for the goal
was to obtain mathematically pure intervals. They did not realize that the tiny
amount each fifth is narrowed is scarcely perceptible to the human ear. In citing
Johann Georg Neidhardt’s 1706 calculation for equal temperament, Mattheson
111
laments that instruments continue to torment the ear with discrepancies between
major and minor tones and semitones. “If, as is to be wished,” he continues, “this
equal temperament were used on all the instruments, and particularly the organ,
the ear would no longer be so greatly assaulted.”24 In his later writings, Andreas
Werckmeister was a still earlier advocate of equal temperament.25
Equal temperament
Because of its ability to solve problems cited above, leading musicians
favored equal temperament long before the time generally accepted today.26 In
recommending a method for improving the defective intervals to make them all
fully consonant, Johann Joseph Fux’s Gradus ad Parnassum (1725) says that “an
almost imperceptible portion is taken away from one part [the fifth of each octave]
and applied to the other part [the fourth], thus abolishing the need for extra keys.
Therefore, our music is freed from defective intervals, as from a prison, and has
extraordinarily free rein to go now here, now there.”27 Fux has thus prescribed
equal temperament, in which all the fifths are flattened ever so slightly, while the
fourths become correspondingly enlarged. In 1742, Bach’s close acquaintance
Lorenz Christoph Mizler von Kolof translated Fux’s treatise from the Latin, but
abstained from adding any commentary in this location, because, he says, the work
is written primarily for practicing musicians, who are not served by discussions of
a theoretical nature.28 If equal temperament had not been the norm, Mizler surely
would have had to comment. Bach owned a copy of this work, and his music
implies liberation from the prison Fux describes, for it nearly always modulates into
keys requiring equal temperament. According to the German theorist Friedrich
Wilhelm Marpurg, Johann Philipp Kirnberger [whose position on temperament
fluctuated back and forth between equal and unequal29] repeatedly told him and
others about the equal-temperament tuning he did for Sebastian Bach:
This master expressly required him to make all major thirds sharp. In
a temperament where all major thirds are somewhat sharp (i.e., where
they all should beat above pure), it is impossible to have a pure major
third; and as soon as there is no pure major third, so also is no raised
major third of about 81:80 [a comma sharp—a paper calculation by
some theorists] possible. Hr. Capellmeister Joh. Seb. Bach, who did not
have an ear spoiled by a bad calculation, must consequently have felt
that a major third raised about 81:80 is an execrable interval. Indeed,
why did he call his Preludes and Fugues in all 24 keys the Art of Tem-
perament?30
With all major thirds tuned somewhat sharp, Bach’s temperament had to be
equal. The key word is “all,” for then there can be no major and minor tones
and semitones.
112
When information enters a musical dictionary, it has usually attained a

degree of general acceptance. According to tuning directions in the anonymous
Kurtzgefasstes musicalisches Lexicon (Chemnitz, 1737), all fifths are tuned ever
so slightly flat, while all major thirds are tuned a little sharp—which is the
prescription for equal temperament.31 Equal temperament is required for the
transposing keyboards that Diderot (alias Bemetzrieder) describes in an earlier
Lettre (1771):
An entire nation [probably Germany], which certainly cannot be said to
lack an ear, divides the octave into twelve equal intervals. Consequently,
it builds harpsichords in which, by pushing the keyboard a notch to-
ward the right or left, the same key can strike B or C\ in order to raise
or lower the instrument a semitone and instantly put it in tune with the
wind instruments. . . . Write the same piece of music in the keys of F\
and G[. Give one of them to a virtuoso violinist and the other to a vir-
tuoso harpsichordist, and you will find them in tune, if the harpsichord
is tuned with equal semitones.32
Georg Andreas Sorge intended his 1748 temperament book to raise
awareness about the inadequate tuning of many organ builders, including
the noted Gottfried Silbermann, whose ear, said Sorge and others, was no
match for his construction skill.33 According to Sorge (who promoted equal
temperament), they persist in their faulty practice because they cannot play a
keyboard themselves and do not understand key relationships. They even tell
organists not to play in the less common keys. As a witness to the fact that
“today’s practice requires all twenty-four keys to be equally usable and in good
tune,” he names Johann Sebastian Bach. In his Zuverlässige Anweisung [1758], he
describes the progress made by equal temperament:
Not only most practicing musicians, but also various organ and instru-
ment builders acknowledge that no tuning is better than when one can
have equal purity in all keys.34
In this context, “purity” means “in tune.” Despite favoring equal temperament
themselves, theorists like Sorge, Neidhardt and Werckmeister presented also un-
equal temperaments for those who believed that a temperament required some
mathematically pure intervals besides the octave.
In dedicating his 1756 book for tuning equal temperament to Carl Philipp
Emanuel Bach (Fig. 1), the keyboard builder Barthold Fritz confirmed Bach’s
preference for equal temperament.35 Perhaps Bach lent his name and reputation
to this project in order to support efforts for improving the tuning of keyboard
instruments. “Only that tuning is best,” says Fritz, “in which all the major and
minor keys can be played with equal purity, and the ear can detect no difference
113
in the key’s purity, whether playing in the keys of C or C\, in F or F\, in G or

G\.” Sorge finds Fritz much more skilled in tuning equal temperament by ear
than in describing its properties accurately in writing.36 His tuning instructions,
however, were influential; for example, Friedrich Wilhelm Marpurg’s keyboard
method (1762) recommends them to teachers, for he regards equal temperament
as essential.37
Fig. 1. Dedication of Barthold Fritz’s tuning manual to C. P. E. Bach.

The importance of equal temperament in certain areas of Germany can
be judged from Jakob Adlung’s Musica mechanica Organoedi (1768)—Germany’s
most significant eighteenth-century work about organ building—which assumes
that tuning will be in equal temperament and includes instructions.38 Published
posthumously, and thought to have been written in the 1720s, it was prepared
for publication by Johann Friedrich Agricola, who had studied with Sebastian
Bach.
114
The numbers or the ear as judge?

While intricate temperament schemes have been advocated today as
correct for eighteenth-century music, the only tuning aid at that time was the
monochord. Its limitations were shown in a contest to find who could tune equal
temperament better—Johann Nicolaus Bach (Sebastian Bach’s uncle) by ear or
Neidhardt with a monochord. Bach’s ear won the day and enabled a chorale to
be played in the key of B[ minor. According to Adlung, Neidhardt’s calculations
were correct, but the monochord was inadequate because it is difficult to tune
a pipe to a vibrating string. Moreover, the monochord’s string is unstable and
needs constant checking with the reference pitch. When the string is struck, the
pitch is somewhat higher than when it is almost at rest, so it can never have even
beating.39 With the intonation standards documented above, it is unlikely that
elaborate unequal temperaments could have been implemented.
Whereas those early theorists who favored unequal temperaments seem
to have assumed that an interval that sounds in tune is mathematically pure or
nearly so, modern studies demonstrate that the human ear has no predilection
for pure intervals (except the octave) and that the size of an interval can vary
dramatically while still sounding in tune.40 The false correlation between in-
tune intervals and mathematical purity is the crux of the matter. Later in the
eighteenth century, it began to dawn on some theorists that their calculations
were not what was being performed. In 1791, the violinist and orchestra leader
Francesco Galeazzi observes with some surprise that violinists were playing a
small semitone between leading note and tonic, rather than a large one.41 What
had changed was not practice, but perception. With even virtuosos having
poor intonation, as reported above, and instrument toneholes still being bored
haphazardly in 1867, it is implausible that anyone sang or played a non-keyboard
instrument accurately according to an unequal temperament or just intonation.
According to Adlung, the various temperament calculations gave rise to the
question: “Whether the ear or the numbers should judge if music sounds in or
out of tune.”42 A supporter of equal temperament, he favored the ear.
The other argument brought against equal temperament was that it made
all keys sound the same, thereby removing their “key character.” Among non-
believers in this theory was Sebastian Bach’s colleague Johann David Heinichen
(at the Dresden court), whose Generalbass (1728) observes that even if these
imaginary properties had any validity, the slightest change of temperament
would destroy them, not to mention the changes caused by having to combine
instruments at Chorton, Cammerton, French and Venetian pitch levels.43 The
tuners are “never accurate,” he declares—an assertion of some importance, for
we have assumed standards close to our own.
115
In temperament, actual practice differed greatly from what some theorists

propounded. According to Domenico Scorpione (1701), the tuning of keyboard
instruments does not correspond to the theory in force. In theory, the semitones
are unequal, but in practice they are always equal; any difference which may be
found between semitones is so small that it can scarcely be detected by the
ear.44 Since early theorists had no equipment for testing the accuracy of their
suppositions, Scorpione’s observation is more than plausible.
****
Before the twentieth century, intonation was often problematical. From

the above documentation, there seems little reason to doubt the accuracy of
Robert Philip’s findings: “Early recordings make it clear that standards of
accuracy, tuning, clarity and precision were generally lower in the early twentieth
century than they are today, and there is no reason to suppose that they were
higher through the nineteenth century.”45 The further back in history we go,
the worse the intonation standards are likely to have been. A formidable task
awaited those musicians working to improve them. This is the background
against which to measure the assertions of early theorists and mathematicians
who promoted unequal temperaments.
Equal temperament is the best solution not only for Sebastian Bach’s
harmonically complex music, but also for the situations in which he worked,
where he almost always had to transpose orchestral parts because of differing
pitch levels. Individuals close to him—his son Emanuel, Mizler, and Sorge
(like Bach, a member of Mizler’s society)—supported equal temperament
either explicitly or implicitly. Just as Adlung and many others who preferred
equal temperament thought that the ear, not numbers, should decide whether
a temperament was in tune, so too did Emanuel Bach. After Fritz’s equal-
temperament tuning manual was published, Bach wrote to him, observing that
it provides everything necessary for tuning and is incomparably more useful
than the many calculations with which some have racked their brains, because
this type of instruction is only for a very few, but Fritz’s is for everyone, not
excepting even the theorists, because theirs, too, depends on the ear’s verdict.46
From Adlung’s and Bach’s remarks, it is clear that unequal temperaments
were presented not for artistic reasons involving the actual sound produced,
but from the faulty assumption that some mathematically pure intervals were
essential, regardless of the harm this caused the other intervals. Theorists such
as Werckmeister, Neidhardt and Sorge favored equal temperament themselves,
116
yet provided circulating temperaments for those holding this belief, hoping to
encourage them to abandon the old quarter-comma meantone for an improved
temperament that satisfied the desire for some pure intervals.
Endnotes
1
This chapter appeared originally in the Dutch Journal of Music Theory 12/2 (May 2007): 215-27.
2
Quoted by François-Joseph Fétis in Rapports du Jury international, Exposition universelle de 1867 à
Paris, ed. Michel Chevalier (Paris, 1868), vol. 2, 281: “de l’aveu même des meilleurs facteurs que
nous avons consultés, les diapasons de leurs instruments ont toujours été faits expérimentalement
et par tâtonnements.”
3
Johann George Tromlitz, “Nachricht von Tromlitzischen Flöten,” MM 1.2 (1783), 1013-19 at
1015f.
4
Veracini, 58f.: “L’accordio dell’ Orchestra debba essere fatto presto piano e giusto, avanti di
cominciare l’Overtura dell’ Opera, per lasciar il perfido Fidecommisso lasciatoci dagli Antichi
Sonatori, qual è il cominciare scordati, e poi fare un continuo Vespaio nel tempo che gli Interlo-
cutori cantano i Recitativi: e credasi pure quel malidettisimo gun gan gun gan che fanno i Violini e
i Violoni accordando forte infino all’ ultimo Coro (senza mai essere accordati), disturba chi canta,
strapazza orribilmento chi ascolta.”
5
6
François-Joseph Fétis, Manuel des compositeurs, directeurs de musique, chefs d’orchestre et de musique mili-
taire, ou Traité méthodique de l’harmonie (Paris, [1837]), 116-20.
7
Quantz/Reilly, XVII/vii/2, 266. Quantz/Versuch, 239.
8
[Amand W. Schmith], Philosophische Fragmente über die praktische Musik (Vienna, 1787), 86f.: “Der
gemeinste aber auch die auffallendste [error] ist die unreine Stimmung, besonders wenn das Ohr
des Stimmenden so ungeübt in dem vergeblichen ist, dass es auch bis auf einen Vierthelton sich
verfehlt. . . .”
9
Daniel Gottlob Türk, Von den wichtigsten Pflichten eines Organisten (Halle, 1787), 136-38.
10
Quoted by Robert Philip, Performing Music in the Age of Recording (New Haven: Yale University
Press, 2004), 18, from Carl Flesch, Memoirs, trans. Hans Keller (London: Rockliff, 1957), 72, 76.
11
Georg Friedrich Tempelhof, Gedanken über die Temperatur des Herrn Kirnberger (Berlin and Leipzig,
1775), 10.
12
Ercole Bottrigari, Il Desiderio; overo, De’ concerti di varii strumenti musicali (Venice, 1594), 3-12.
13
Zenobi’s letter to N. N. is translated by Bonnie J. Blackburn and Leofranc Holford-Stevens in
The perfect musician (Cracow: Musica Iagellonica, 1995), 36-39.
14
Bottrigari, Desiderio, 4.
15
Ibid., 8.
16
Vincenzo Galilei, Dialogo della musica antica et moderna (Florence, 1581; rpt. 1934), 47: “essendo
l’accordatura del Liuto tanto piu vicina alla perfettione di quella dello Strumento di tasti.”
117
17
Giovanni de’ Bardi, “Discourse on Ancient Music and Good Singing,” in Source Readings in Music
History, ed. Oliver Strunk (New York: Norton, 1950), 297.
18
Bottrigari, Desiderio, 11f.
19
Ibid., 38f.
20
Hubert Le Blanc, Défense de la basse de viole (Amsterdam, 1740; rpt. 1975), 53f.
21
Anton Bemetzrieder, Lettre . . . à M. le baron de S***, concernant les dièzes et les bémols (Paris, 1773),
3. For authorship, see Beverly Jerold, “Diderot (Part I)—Authorship and Illusion” and “Diderot
(Part II) —Temperament and Expressive Intonation,” Music Theory & Analysis 1/1&2 (2014): 38-
60 and 2/1 (2015): 69-93.
22
Johann Mattheson, Das forschende Orchestre (Hamburg, 1721), 426.
23
Ibid., 426f.
24
Ibid., 438.
25
See Rudolf Rasch, “Does ‘Well-Tempered’ Mean ‘Equal-Tempered’?” in Bach, Handel, Scarlatti
Tercentenary Essays, ed. Peter Williams (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985), 293-310.
26
See Part II of the Diderot article cited in note 21.
27
Johann Joseph Fux, Gradus ad Parnassum (Vienna, 1725), 34f. Cited by Hellmut Federhofer,
“Johann Joseph Fux und die gleichschwebende Temperatur,” Die Musikforschung 41 (1988): 9-15
at 10-12.
28
Johann Joseph Fux, Gradus ad Parnassum oder Anführung zur Regelmässigen musikalischen Composition,
trans. Lorenz Christoph Mizler von Kolof (Leipzig, 1742; rpt. 1974), 52 and 53n.
29
See Beverly Jerold, “Johann Philipp Kirnberger versus Friedrich Wilhelm Marpurg: A Reap-
praisal,” Dutch Journal of Music Theory 17/2 (2012): 91-108.
30
Friedrich Wilhelm Marpurg, Versuch über die musicalischer Temperatur (Breslau, 1776), 213: “Der
Hr. Kirnberger selbst hat mir und andern mehrmahl erzählet, wie der berühmte Joh. Seb. Bach
ihm, währender Zeit seines von demselben genossnen musikalischen Unterrichts, die Stimmung
seines Claviers übertragen, und wie dieser Meister ausdrücklich von ihm verlanget, alle grosse
Terzen scharf zu machen. In einer Temperatur, wo alle grosse Terzen etwas scharf, d.i. wo sie alle
über sich schweben sollen, kann unmöglich eine reine grosse Terz statt finden, und sobald keine
reine grosse Terz statt findet, so ist auch keine um 81:80 erhöhte grosse Terz möglich. Der Hr.
Capellmeister Joh. Seb. Bach, welcher nicht ein durch einen bösen Calcul verdorbnes Ohr hatte,
musste also empfunden haben, dass eine um 81:80 erhöhte grosse Terz ein abscheuliches Intervall
ist. Warum hatte derselbe wohl seine aus allen 24 Tönen gesetzte Präludien und Fugen die Kunst
der Temperatur betitelt?”
31
Kurtzgefasstes musicalisches Lexicon (Chemnitz, 1737), “Stimmen der Instrumenten,” 358.
32
Anton Bemetzrieder, Lettre . . . à MM.*** ., musiciens de profession, ou Réponse à quelques objections
(Paris, 1771), 46. For authorship see the first Diderot article cited in note 21.
33
Georg Andreas Sorge, Gespräch zwischen einem musico theoretico und einem studioso musices von der Prä-
torianischen, Printzischen, Werckmeisterischen, Neidhartischen und Silbermannischen Temperatur (Lobenstein,
1748), 21. Cited by Peter Williams, The Organ Music of J. S. Bach (Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 1984), 3:188. See also Sorge, pp.23f., 28, 34f., 57f. On p.34, Sorge specifies his preference
for equal temperament: “Ergo ist die gleichschwebende Temperatur, in welcher dergleichen Ver-
theilung geschiehet . . . die beste, und billig und recht.”
34
G. A. Sorge, Zuverlässige Anweisung Claviere und Orgeln behörig zu temperiren und zu stimmen (Leipzig
and Lobenstein, [1758]), 1f.
118
35
Barthold Fritz, Anweisung, wie man Claviere, Clavecins, und Orgeln nach einer mechanischen Art, in allen
zwölf Tönen gleich rein stimmen könne, 2nd edn. (Leipzig, 1757), 2: “. . . nur diejenige Stimmung eines
Claviers die beste sey, nach welcher man in allen zwölf Tönen moll und dur gleich rein spielen
könne, und keinen Unterschied, so viel die Reinigkeit der Töne betrift, im Gehöre vermerket, ob
man aus c, oder cis, aus f, oder fis, aus g, oder gis spielet.”
36
Sorge, Zuverlässige Anweisung, 2ff.
37
Friedrich Wilhelm Marpurg, Die Kunst das Clavier zu spielen (Berlin, 1762), 3.
38
Adlung/1768, vol. 2, Kap.XIV, 57.
38
Ibid., 54f.
40
See Charles Shackford, “Some Aspects of Perception—I. Sizes of Harmonic Intervals in Per-
formance,” Journal of Music Theory 5 (1961): 162-202.
41
Cited by Patrizio Barbieri, “Violin Intonation: A Historical Survey,” Early Music 19/1 (1991):
69-88 at 82, from Francesco Galeazzi, Elementi teorico-pratici di musica (Rome, 1791), 122.
42
Adlung/1768, 52: “. . . von diesen Proportionen oder Zahlen der Streit entstanden über die
Frage: Ob die Ohren, oder die Zahlen in der Musik den Wohl- oder Uebelklang beurtheilen sol-
len?”
43
Heinichen/1728, 84: “Ja, wenn auch diese proprietates Imaginariae an sich selbst ihre Richtigkeit
hätten, so würden doch selbige bey dem geringsten Unterscheid der gebräuchlichen temperaturen,
(worinnen die Instrument-Stimmer niemahls accurat eintreffen) noch mehr aber bey Veränderung
des Chor- Cammer- und Französischen, item des extravaganten Venetianischen ton alle Augenblick
Schiffbruch leiden.” According to Athansius Kircher’s Musurgia universalis (1650), Venice pitch
was a major third lower than that of Naples, while Florence and Rome were in between. Cited
by Franz Joseph Ratte, Die Temperatur der Clavierinstrumente, ed. Winfried Schlepphorst (Kassel:
Bärenreiter, 1991), 332.
44
Cited by Luigi F. Tagliavini, “Riflessioni sull’arte tastieristica napoletana del cinque e seicento,”
in Musica e cultura a Napoli dal XV al XIX secolo, ed. L. Bianconi and R. Bossa (Florence: L. S.
Olschki, 1983), 144.
45
Philip, Performing Music, 13.
46
Fritz, Anweisung, 2nd edition, Vorbericht: “. . . und dass insbesondere meine Anweisung zum
Stimmen bey dem berühmten Hrn. Bach zu Berlin Beyfall gefunden, als welcher in seinem an
mich erlassenen Schreiben sich darüber dergestalt geäussert hat, dass in meinen wenigen Bogen
alles gesagt sey, was nöthig und möglich gewesen, und dass solche ungleich mehrern Nutzen
stifften würden, als die vielen Ausrechnungen, womit sich mancher den Kopf zerbrochen hätte,
indem diese Art von Anweisung nur für sehr wenige, die meinige aber für jedermann sey, selbst
die Berechner nicht ausgenommen, weil diese von dem Ausspruche des Gehörs so gut als andere
abhiengen.”
119
CHAPTER 8
Eighteenth-Century Stringed Keyboard

Instruments from a Performance
Perspective 1
If it were possible to step back in time to the eras of Bach, Handel, Haydn,
Mozart, and Beethoven, we would find an impediment in keyboard instruments’
mechanism. Early writers describe how the deficiencies of the harpsichord
and clavichord led to adopting the fortepiano/pianoforte.2 Not until the late
nineteenth century, however, did the piano attain a mechanism that would be
acceptable to modern pianists. Although we know when various improvements
were made to keyboard instruments during the eighteenth century, little has
been said about their capability for the advanced performance technique we ap-
ply to music from this period. Has our technology—the improved mechanism
in period instruments, recordings from which to learn, metronome training,
and so forth— given us a great advantage over what they could have achieved?
Investigating this subject will lead to new insights about the clavichord and
harpsichord in particular.
Keyboard instruments served in both solo and accompaniment capacities.
As a frame of reference for the latter, let us first determine an approximate
volume level for the ensembles and soloists that keyboard instruments
accompanied. For larger orchestras, consider the Berlin Capellmeister Johann
Friedrich Reichardt’s remarks about the Concert of Ancient Music in London,
whose program he had attended in 1785:
I very much like having the instruments at a distance, for when they are
close, particularly the string instruments whose every separate, strong
stroke is always a powerful shock, it makes an extremely adverse, and
often painful and long-lasting impression on my nerves.3
Like other writers of the period, Reichardt, who spent many years leading
a major orchestra with his violin, confirms that eighteenth-century string playing
was not delicate and thin-toned, but extremely loud and powerful.
How delicately did soloists play? After the English musician John Marsh
heard some of Ignaz Joseph Pleyel’s quartettos led by the noted violinist Wilhelm
Cramer, he observed that the room was “small & low pitch’d & Cramer being
used to play in very large rooms, his tone was so powerful that the effect was by
121
no means so pleasant as I had expected.”4 And the lexicographer Ernst Ludwig

Gerber, a playing colleague of the flute virtuoso Johann George Tromlitz,
described his tone as “strong and cutting” and “more the ringing tone of a
trumpet than the soft sound of a flute.”5 Many more such examples can be
cited.6
The clavichord
Germany had always preferred the clavichord for training keyboard
players. Although a gentle instrument, its ability to produce varying levels of
volume, sustain a tone, and apply vibrato made it much more expressive than the
harpsichord, and its usefulness extended into the nineteenth century. It became
so associated with the Bach family that in 1783 a musical almanac remarked:
“On the whole, the clavichord is the Bachs’ instrument.”7 According to the
German writer on music Christian Friedrich Michaelis (1807), Carl Philipp
Emanuel Bach had intended the sonatas and fantasias in his various collections
for Kenner und Liebhaber, published in the last decade of his life, to be played on
the clavichord. Only the rondos in these sets were written for the fortepiano.
Michaelis notes that the clavichord allows “a certain refinement, tenderness and
intimacy in the execution, almost a gentle glistening or even melting expression,
a finely defined playing, to which the fortepiano is not susceptible.”8 In 1787,
Georg Friedrich Wolf recommended Bach’s Versuch über die wahre Art das Clavier
zu spielen (1753) as the best instruction method for playing the clavichord, which
is “the most suitable and beautiful instrument for good execution, without an
equal for its well-focused, caressing, and supple tone.”9 As late as 1799, Wolf ’s
own keyboard method recommends the clavichord:
Whoever wants to learn to play the clavier (clavichord), will use a good
clavier at the beginning, not a fortepiano or harpsichord, for the latter
require more strength and agility from the fingers. To attain refinement
and expression in playing, to learn to express gentleness and a vocal
quality, one must absolutely begin with a good clavier.10
Their clavichord had more power than our reproductions, which can
scarcely be heard in a drawing room. For example, when citing the “most
customary keyboard instruments for accompaniment,” Emanuel Bach includes it
with the organ, harpsichord, and fortepiano. Observing that the clavichord and
fortepiano provide the best accompaniment for refined execution, he adds that
“certain singers prefer being accompanied by the clavichord or harpsichord,”
instead of the fortepiano (which at this time was a very limited instrument).11
He considers both the clavichord and harpsichord necessary for developing
proper technique. The former provides training in expressivity, while the latter
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Stringed Keyboard Instruments from a Performance Perspective
develops finger strength. One who plays the clavichord exclusively will have
great difficulty playing a harpsichord, as is necessary in an ensemble, because
of lacking the strength needed for activating the jacks [a clue about the stiffness
of harpsichord key action]. On the other hand, Bach adds, those who play only
the harpsichord lack the varied touch and nuances gained from the clavichord.12
Forty years earlier, Johann Mattheson advised that pieces such as
overtures, sonatas, toccatas, suites, etc. are best performed on a good clavichord,
for it permits a vocal quality by prolonging the tone and sweetening it [with
vibrato and dynamic shading]. In contrast, the tone of the harpsichord and
spinet is always the same volume and dies away quickly. If one wants to hear a
delicate hand and a pure touch, continues Mattheson, he will lead his player to
a clavichord, for on large harpsichords with three to four registers, much clatter
will greet the ear and the ornaments are unclear.13
In 1776, Reichardt described his visit to Emanuel Bach, now residing
in Hamburg, noting that he had played a songlike Adagio on the clavichord
with the most moving expression, to the shame of many musicians whose
instruments permit imitating the human voice much more easily. In this very
slow piece, Bach held out a note having the value of six eighth notes with all
the various degrees of loud and soft. But this was possible only on his beautiful
Silbermann clavichord, which allowed “the most extraordinary loudness . . . it is
the greatest fortissime” and also the “finest pianissime.” Another clavichord does
not respond at all in this manner. Reichardt laments that so few instruments of
such excellence exist, for their present makers cannot equal the late Silbermann’s
accomplishments. If he had been able “to make the clavichord louder, so that
it could be used in large ensembles or at least to accompany a soloist [probably
meaning in a larger room], no objection to it could be made at all.”14
Jakob Adlung’s large posthumous book about organ building (1768), edited
by Johann Sebastian Bach’s former student Johann Friedrich Agricola, devotes
a large chapter to clavichord construction, observing that “some clavichords
have a loud tone, others a soft one. The former is praiseworthy, the latter
not.” If someone wants a softer clavichord, he adds, all that is necessary is to
lay something on the bridge, as is done with the violin. If the volume seems
to harm the singing quality, one can cover the entire instrument except the
keyboard, and it will sound far softer. “A clavichord should have a loud tone;
not a hard one, however, but sweet, in a harp-like style.”15 That anyone could call
the clavichord too loud implies that the volume Adlung advocated was much
more substantial than that employed today.
A further gauge to clavichord volume appears in Karl Friedrich Zelter’s
commentary (1803) on Johann Nikolaus Forkel’s biography of J. S. Bach.
Finding Forkel in error for writing that Bach never composed a Lied, Zelter
123
notes that Bach did indeed write Lieder [BWV 439-507], which can be sung
“only with clavichord or weaker organ accompaniment.”16
Daniel Gottlob Türk’s large keyboard method (1789) focuses on the
clavichord because no other instrument is as useful for attaining refined
execution. If one can later have a harpsichord or a good fortepiano, he says, it
will be possible to play with greater velocity. But using only a harpsichord may
be detrimental to good execution. Those who cannot have both instruments
should choose the clavichord. The pupil will learn to play with more expression
on a good clavichord than if he “has to rattle on a miserable old box, as is
often the case.” According to Türk, the clavichord has advantages: it stays
in tune longer than the other stringed keyboard instruments; it requires less
physical strength; and women can play it pleasingly and also sing with it. He
acknowledges that it does not have enough power for playing in a trio with a
violin or other instrument [recall how loudly instrumentalists played].17
A clavichord of greater dynamic capability seems implied also by C. F.
Daniel Schubart’s lengthy panegyric in his Musikalischen Rhapsodien (1786):
It is true that you cannot play heavy-fisted concertos, for it [the clavi-
chord] cannot hail and thunder like the fortepiano . . . But if your in-
strument . . . was created by Stein or Fritz, Silbermann or Späth, tender
and responsive to your soul’s every inspiration, it is here that you will
find your heart’s soundboard. He who . . . still hankers after the harp-
sichord, has no heart . . . Sweet melancholy, languishing love, parting
grief, the soul’s communing with God, uneasy forebodings, glimpses
of Paradise through suddenly rent clouds, sweetly purling tears – and
furthermore the embellishment of the art with double trills, dying away
beneath the fingers, melting appoggiaturas in voluptuously languishing
phrasing . . . Behold player, all this lies in your clavichord. Therefore,
pine not . . . for the strident harpsichord. See, your clavichord breathes
as gently as your heart.18
While early sources describe the clavichord as having considerably less
volume than the harpsichord, it is unlikely to have been as soft as the barely
audible tone of today’s reproductions. The following documentation can serve
as a further basis for judging the matter.
The harpsichord
A little-noticed sentence in Emanuel Bach’s treatise (1753) clarifies
the function of keyboard instruments in German practice: “The former [a
harpsichord] is usually used in music ensembles, and the latter [a clavichord]
when playing alone.”19 In contrast to our finely voiced harpsichords utilizing
124
modern materials, their plectra were usually made of crow or raven quills voiced
to produce an extraordinarily loud, strident, penetrating tone, which provided
leadership for ensembles. Because musicians had no metronome for acquiring
rhythmic steadiness, it was necessary to find a means to hold an ensemble
together. The modern form of conducting was unknown before a few attempts
late in the century, so leadership was provided by either the penetrating tone
of the first violinist playing loudly or the equally penetrating tone of a strongly
quilled harpsichord, and sometimes both working in concert. A violinist himself,
Reichardt advised orchestra leaders to select a violin more for its strength than
beauty of tone.20 To overcome players’ erratic rhythm, the leader’s instrument
had to have a piercing tone that they could follow. An example is found in
a report (1789) about Cristoforo Babbi, concertmaster of the Dresden court
orchestra, who is said to be indefatigable. However exhausted he himself
may be, “since he has to play twice as loudly to keep the orchestra together
properly,” he nevertheless continues tirelessly with the same vigor. According
to the writer, it is well known how greatly the orchestra has gained in accuracy
and execution with Babbi’s leadership.21 Since the Dresden court had one of the
period’s strongest orchestras, this type of high-volume leadership was necessary
virtually everywhere, as other sources confirm.
Some preferred a harpsichord for this purpose, or a combination of
harpsichord and violin. As the French writer Ami de Rochemont observes
(1754), the time-beater at the Paris Opéra sounds each downbeat with a stout
rod, but Italian orchestras, too, have to handle rhythmic obstacles in a similarly
offensive manner. Italian instrumentalists and singers, he agrees, are very good
musicians. At the head of the orchestra is always a violinist, an excellent man
and a great connoisseur of sallies [the extraordinary liberties that singers took
with the beat], who has the talent for divining them from afar and the patience
to follow them with perfect resignation; his inspirations serve to guide the other
instrumentalists. But despite these advantages, the composer at the harpsichord
is sometimes in such despair at the irregular beat that he jumps up hundreds of
times with astonishing energy to bring them back together. So violently does he
strike the keyboards that before the opera ends he breaks a good many jacks and
snaps half of the strings. Some harpsichords played by Niccolò Jommelli and
others have been so ruined after a single performance that they required a repair
of three or four days, making it necessary to substitute another harpsichord.
“Our baton is a completely simple baton,” concludes Rochemont, “while the
Italian baton is the thundering fall of two hands on the keyboard.”22
Emanuel Bach considered the harpsichord to be the instrument best
equipped for keeping the entire ensemble at a steady pace. Placed in the center
of the group, he says, it can be heard clearly by all. If the first violinist stands
125
near the harpsichord, disruption of the beat cannot easily spread. The simpler
the bass line, the easier it is to maintain a steady beat; the more complex it is, the
more frequent is the spectacle of pieces finishing more slowly than they began.
When the harpsichord part is too complex, the instrument’s clatter makes the beat
unclear to the instrumentalists, but when it is simple, necessary tempo changes
can be easily implemented. [The harpsichord’s stiff key action produced by
its strong voicing is why he subsequently offers special instructions for playing
orchestral accompaniments—whose basses were largely repeated notes.] When
a bass instrument is playing along, says Bach, the harpsichordist can omit one,
three or five notes per measure of the bass line, and play the others in octaves
(adding the right hand in double octaves for a fortissimo), using a strong attack.
But in the absence of a bass instrument, he has to play all the notes, using
alternating fingers or alternating hands. Bach finds a literal execution of such
bass lines to be hazardous and impossible on the harpsichord. The hand grows
stiff when playing repeated octaves, and the whole arm becomes so fatigued and
taut from thumping away at a drum bass that it cannot play anything more active
afterwards. Moreover, the harpsichord’s jacks seldom speak quickly enough [emphasis
added].23
For keeping an ensemble together, a loud harpsichord and a simple
part were required to make the beats clear to the musicians. On these stiff
keyboards, playing the bass line in octaves for more volume demanded physical
strength and endurance. Our harpsichords could never perform the leadership
role Bach has described, nor do they need to, thanks to our metronome training.
Their harpsichord’s power is conveyed by Mattheson’s remark (in chapter 5)
that in a church seating three thousand every chord played on the harpsichord
to accompany a chorus of more than fifty voices can be heard. Likewise, Georg
Friedrich Wolf says in 1787 that the harpsichord, in contrast to the clavichord,
cannot convey a gentle and singing quality. Since the keys must be struck sharply
and abruptly, it is therefore useful only for accompanying large ensembles.24
According to Friedrich Rochlitz, editor of Leipzig’s Allgemeine musikalische
Zeitung (AmZ), some orchestras in 1799 were replacing the harpsichord with
the pianoforte, a change he endorses. In so doing, he says, we are removing an
instrument whose sharp, biting, strident and cutting tone does not blend with
any of the other instruments and replacing it with one whose mellow tone fits
so well with them. Not only does the pianoforte offer dynamic expression,
adds Rochlitz, but it holds its tune much better than the harpsichord, which is
so susceptible to temperature changes during the course of a performance. 25
In 1802, however, Heinrich Christoph Koch indicates that most large
orchestras still use the harpsichord for filling out the harmony in general and
supporting singers in their recitatives. Because its tone cannot be sustained,
126
he says, it is not suitable for passages in a cantabile and refined style. However,
its strong, penetrating tone enables it to fill out the full ensemble. Thus it will
probably retain its position as a very useful orchestral instrument in large opera
houses and large ensembles until another equally strong instrument capable of
executing the figured bass, but in a gentler and suppler way, is invented. In a
concert hall and with smaller ensembles, the harpsichord’s penetrating tone is
too piercing and choppy, particularly in passages requiring refined expression.
Because of this drawback, concludes Koch, some are exchanging the harpsichord
for the weaker but smoother fortepiano.26 His article reflects the quest for
greater refinement in music performance that becomes apparent from about
the last quarter of the eighteenth century onward. Their harpsichord was a
vigorous, powerful instrument able to cut through a large orchestra. In all these
instances, its loud volume is viewed as an attribute of the instrument. For
holding an ensemble together, this undoubtedly was an advantage, but for other
applications, it was a handicap.
To achieve the harpsichord’s great volume, the key action had to be very
stiff. In 1797, Johann Peter Milchmeyer describes how it could reach the point
of deforming the fingers. When one lets a young man use his slender fingers
on three registers of a poorly quilled harpsichord, he says, the fingers are
scarcely strong enough to engage all three at once. At the least, he has to use
all his strength to make the tones speak. In the long run, this forcing makes
the playing stiff and harsh, and the fingers take on an unnatural shape; most
of them, particularly the little finger, move as though they had only a single
joint. Such bad habits then remain for life. Thirty years ago when nothing
better was available, he adds, the clavichord was the best option, but now when
all the great composers are writing for the pianoforte and making demands
heretofore unknown, it is the instrument of choice. If the reader cannot afford
a pianoforte, the clavichord is the next best instrument for expression. The
harpsichord is the only instrument he can under no circumstances recommend.27
When reviewing Milchmeyer’s book, the AmZ agrees that the harpsichord spoils
the hands and fingers, adding that there are still many other reasons for putting
it away.28
The harpsichord’s coarse tone is doubtless why soloists did not like
its accompaniment. When describing various instrument combinations to
be used for a trio, Johann Samuel Petri (1782) advises against including the
harpsichord and does not even believe that it has a place in a concerto with full
accompaniment, except in a tutti, because it obscures the softer notes of the
solo instrument (such as a violin or flute). A quartet likewise should have no
keyboard part. But the harpsichord is useful for accompanying a violin solo
which has no other instruments to fill out the harmony.29
127
In 1781 Georg Simon Löhlein calls a dominant seventh chord played on the
harpsichord with four voices in the right hand plus the bass in the left hand much
too full [loud] for accompanying simple melodies, but suitable for symphonies.
He cites this volume and the lack of good accompanists as the reasons why
soloists do not like to be accompanied by a harpsichord. Moreover, one seldom
finds an instrument that is well quilled and in tune. Indeed, it is said that nowhere
are worse keyboard instruments to be found than in Italy, the fatherland of music.
But he stresses that a good harpsichord well played (without thick chords) is far
superior to accompaniment by a viola or violin playing a bass line that clambers
above the melody, a situation he has heard only too often.30
In other words, both a fine instrument and a sensitive player were essential,
which is probably what Emanuel Bach at the Berlin court envisioned a generation
earlier when he spoke about accompanying recitatives and arias in church,
chamber and theater style with the harpsichord. For church music utilizing
more musicians, he found that organ accompaniment “provides splendor and
keeps order.”31 But times have changed since Bach’s treatise, observes the
Berlin composer and music publisher Johann Carl Friedrich Rellstab in 1789,
and they have rightly abolished the harpsichord from their present music,
for “it would be intolerable to be still hearing monotonous cacophony on a
monotonous instrument.” They use it occasionally only in vocal music to help
weak singers.32 In another publication, Rellstab mentions that the deeper key
dip causes unplayed neighboring notes to sound on the harpsichord—which
may account for his reference to the instrument’s “cacophony.”33
Matters were somewhat different in France. Until rather late in the
eighteenth century, French ensembles were led by a batteur de mesure who
pounded the first beat of each measure with a stout rod on a hard surface (as
Rochemont mentions above). Since the harpsichord performed no leadership
role, it did not need power. This correlates with Charles Burney’s observation
that French harpsichords were easier to play than those elsewhere. During
his visit to Paris (1770), the composer Claude Balbastre showed him a fine
rebuilt Ruckers harpsichord: “The tone of this instrument is more delicate
than powerful; one of the unisons is of buff [buffalo leather], but very sweet
and agreeable; the touch very light [compared to that elsewhere], owing to
the quilling, which in France is always weak.”34 The lighter quilling of French
harpsichords would have been advantageous for the player, but it is unlikely to
have been commensurate with our modern technology. This is apparent from
an article in a French encyclopedia (1785) that calls the clavichord (which was
not used in France) a better instrument for a beginner than the harpsichord
because it is much easier to play (“plus aisé à toucher”), meaning that its key
action is not so stiff. 35
128
Despite the lighter French quilling, the tone was not refined in our sense
of the word. In 1791, the Alsatian pianist Nicolas-Joseph Hüllmandel mentions
the many attempts to soften and vary the harpsichord’s true tone, “which
has always seemed harsh to delicate ears.” As he observes, the harpsichord’s
mechanism was defective: “So many impediments symbolize the harpsichord’s
imperfection. It requires too much skill from builders and patience from those
who play. The springs in the jacks are too troublesome and repairs too often
necessary.” Each jack had a spring made of wild-boar bristle, whose function
was to return the tongue of the jack back to its original position. Recommending
the pianoforte, Hüllmandel adds: “An instrument where the uniformity, purity
of sound, and all the desirable degrees of strength and sweetness speak to the
heart without wounding the ear is much better for fulfilling music’s goal.”36
Harpsichord quills, too, were fragile. In 1773, the Journal de musique
published a letter from a M. Trouflaut, who describes the benefits that accrued
after Pascal Taskin added a register of peau de buffle (buffalo hide) plectra to the
harpsichord. Noting that the first such instrument is now five years old and,
despite frequent use, has retained its original strength and elasticity, he concludes
that the buffalo hide lasts at least five years and probably much more, a fact very
interesting for the Amateurs [members of the upper classes], who are displeased
by the frequent quill breakage.37 The fragility of the springs and quills may have
been what led Sébastien Érard to abandon harpsichord building and turn to the
fortepiano. According to a history of the Érard piano firm (1887), he quickly
understood that the complexity of the harpsichord’s mechanism diminished its
solidity, for it required repair too frequently.38
Recapping the eighteenth century, Burney cites the attempts made to
improve the harpsichord’s strident tone and lengthen the quills’ life: “Besides
arming the tongues of the jacks with crow or raven quills, several other means
were tried by which to produce a softer tone, and to be more durable; . . . leather,
ivory, and other elastic substances were tried, but what they gained in sweetness,
was lost in spirit.” Now, with the improved mechanism and tone of large piano-
fortes, “the harsh scratching of the quills of a harpsichord can no longer be
borne.”39 Nevertheless, the harpsichord’s volume and penetrating tone made it
a valued instrument for orchestral leadership well into the nineteenth century.
Writing from Vienna in 1796, Johann Ferdinand von Schönfeld contrasts
the harpsichord and fortepiano. The harpsichord, he says, “serves primarily
to accompany singing, hold together and lead full-scored music, particularly
operas, and set the correct tempo.” Formerly, he adds, it had other applications,
but since the invention of the fortepiano, it is now limited to these functions.
It is no longer heard in concerts, and its removal has produced a type of
revolution in keyboard music. On the other hand, with the fortepiano, the heart
129
can speak, the soul pour out and convey feelings. One can ascertain whether a
player has soul or Mechanismus. “One used to say: ‘keyboard-striking.’ Now it is
called ‘fortepiano-playing’.”40 As Schönfeld declares, the harpsichord had to be
struck to make it speak, but the gentle Viennese fortepiano permitted expressive
playing. He praises also the clavichord for the qualities cited above, noting that
it appears to have been supplanted (in Vienna) by the fortepiano. “But it is still
used by some composers who bring forth their soul’s work in nocturnal quiet.”
The fortepiano/pianoforte
By the time that Schönfeld wrote, the piano had undergone considerable
improvement, but its mechanism still left much to be desired. In 1768, Agricola
recalled that around 1740 Gottfried Silbermann showed Sebastian Bach one
of his fortepianos. Although Bach very much liked the tone, he criticized the
weakness of the upper register and the much too stiff action. Silbermann was
disappointed but set about remedying these defects. After many years of effort,
he was able to show Bach, who was visiting at the Berlin court, a fortepiano that
demonstrated to those who had seen the original instrument (including Agricola)
how diligently he had striven to improve it. Bach then gave Silbermann his full
approbation.41 This was near the end of Bach’s life and there does not seem
to be evidence that he himself used a fortepiano. His “full approbation” does
not mean that the fortepiano was now a perfect instrument, but simply that it
was considerably better than the one that Bach had first seen. Many years of
improvements lay ahead.
Some of the fortepiano’s deficiencies are listed in Rellstab’s introduction
to his edition (ca.1790) of Emanuel Bach’s Anfangsstücke:
A durable, well-built fortepiano belongs among the rarities of life, and
almost among the impossibilities, for, without any fault of the builder,
the instrument’s mechanism is very susceptible to every type of weather.
. . . How can a student hope to make progress on an instrument whose
keys sometimes stick, sometimes don’t speak at all, sometimes have a
light touch, sometimes a heavy one, and most of the time sink very
low? The pupil should train on only two instruments—the first is the
clavichord and the second, the harpsichord. The clavichord offers an
opportunity to learn good execution as preparation for the harpsichord.
The harpsichord offers volume—and what seems to be a paradox: neat-
ness, polish, security and precision. . . . After achieving expression on
the clavichord and security on the harpsichord, we can then go to the
pianoforte. Only then can we hope to make good use of this instru-
ment, whose appealing tone makes it superior to all other keyboard
instruments. It is so difficult to handle that even C. Ph. E. Bach had
130
to spend a long time before he could play some ornaments previously

considered impossible for it.42
As Rellstab observes, some pianos (in the Viennese style) had a very light
key action and others (of English style), a very heavy one. Fig. 1 illustrates the
contrasting key actions of Viennese and English grand pianos around 1800.
In the English action, the hammer mounted on an intermediate lever strikes
the string with more force and produces more volume and a fuller tone than
does the Viennese-action hammer, which is mounted directly on the key.43 The
Viennese action was said to be playable by the weakest hand, but the English
action required considerable finger strength.
Fig. 1. a) Viennese grand piano action, c.1800. A. Escapement spring; B.

Escapement lever; C. Kapsel; D. Hammer; E. Check rail.
Fig. 1 b) English grand piano action, 1798. A. Check; B. Hammer; C.

Hammer rest rail; D. Escapement lever; E. Escapement spring; F.
Hammer pivot rail; G. Escapement adjustment.
After Gottfried Christoph Härtel (of Breitkopf & Härtel) had been
visited by Muzio Clementi in 1804, he discussed these two forms of key action
in a letter to Andreas Streicher of the Viennese piano firm:
Many Liebhaber [members of the upper classes], especially those who
often perform in concert or otherwise play with stronger accompani-
ment, insist on a stronger and fuller tone than that of your instruments,
and they keep to the English and French instruments, or the instru-
ments of Schanz-Müller and those of some other German masters.
Among them are, for instance, all the pianists from the school of Clem-
enti and Dussek, and especially the Russians and North-Germans. Mr.
131
Clementi, who has just now traveled through Germany, Russia, etc., has
reinforced this taste. He lived with us for two months and chose for
his own use the strongest and, as far as touch is concerned, the heaviest
instrument in our stock, as did his pupil Klengel.44
In his response, Streicher says that the heavier touch and greater key dip
of the English piano would make the instrument largely unplayable. It is certain
that the fortepiano would no longer be the universal instrument in Vienna,
since at least nine-tenths of the keyboard Liebhaber would have to give up their
playing.45 These remarks indicate that the English grand piano required more
than substantial finger strength to produce the volume and fuller tone desired in
many applications. For English pianists lacking this strength, the square piano
with light tone was the alternative.
Härtel cites the Russians and North Germans as favoring the English
action. This is apparent from an account by an anonymous critic who visited
Berlin in 1788 and reviewed concerts, including some from an orchestra of
twenty-eight strings plus winds and brass led by Rellstab at a fortepiano, “which
in loudness certainly has few equals and can restrain the orchestra in the largest
choruses, but which has such an extremely harsh tone that it spoils everything
and is unsuitable for arias and recitatives.”46 The piano criticized would have
been the one Rellstab describes above as having a heavy touch, for the one
with a light touch could not have had sufficient volume to hold the ensemble
together. In responding to this critic, Rellstab observes that the qualities most
essential for an instrument leading an ensemble are loudness and a penetrating
quality. While the harpsichord has the latter too (but is not as loud as his piano),
it does not have the tonal shading needed, for it permits only a Forte or a Piano.
With his piano, he can bring out individual notes to help a singer. He calls the
harpsichord’s strident tone quality intolerable to every accompanist of taste.
Whereas an English pianoforte costs 200 Rthlr, his piano cost only 80 Rthlr.
Moreover, it is never used for solo playing, and the soloist chooses between
an English pianoforte or a harpsichord.47 Rellstab’s piano had one function
only—leadership—which was accomplished by its overwhelming volume and
penetrating tone. It appears to have had an English action modified to permit
this volume. The finger strength required would likewise have been still greater.
Other reports substantiate Härtel’s statement about the North German
preference for English key action. Writing from Halle in 1787, G. F. Wolf
observes that the fortepiano requires more strength and agility from the fingers
than does the clavichord.48 Leipzig’s Musikalischer Almanach (1782) cites the
high volume level of both harpsichords and pianos, noting that they overpower
violin soloists, who therefore prefer to have only a violoncello or second violin
play the bass line. But the first method often leaves a wide gap between the
132
two instruments, while the second sometimes makes the accompaniment higher
than the solo part.49 A piano of considerable volume is also implied in passages
above from Schubart and Forkel.
Besides its very heavy touch, the English grand piano had limited damping
ability.50 According to Schubart, the harpsichord requires only a good touch,
but the fortepiano needs a jerking-off or glancing-off [“Abschnellung oder
Abstreifung”] from the keys.51 The damping problem is evident in Carl
Friedrich Cramer’s review of Emanuel Bach’s collection of sonatas, fantasias
and rondos (1783). Calling the fortepiano a “defective” instrument, Cramer
says that adjacent notes make a poor effect if the player does not have a spring
in each finger. Thus composers need to make melodic intervals farther apart to
lessen the adverse effect of their sounding with the already played notes. 52 In a
letter written around 1796 to J. A. Streicher, Beethoven finds that many pianos
convey the same effect as a harp :
There is no doubt that so far as the manner of playing it is concerned,
the pianoforte is still the least studied and developed of all instruments;
often one thinks that one is merely listening to a harp. And I am de-
lighted . . . that you are one of the few who realize and perceive that,
provided one can feel the music, one can also make the pianoforte sing.
I hope that the time will come when the harp and the pianoforte will be
treated as two entirely different instruments.53
The Viennese-style piano, on the other hand, developed a more efficient
damping system, as noted in Mozart’s letter of 17 October 1777, which praises
the unusually fine fortepianos made by Johann Andreas Stein:
. . . they have a much better damper than the Regensburg instruments.
If I strike the key hard, I may keep my finger down on it, or lift it up,
the sound stops the instant I produced it. . . . There is no jangling noise,
the sound will not get louder, or softer, or stop altogether . . . What
distinguishes his instruments from all others is that they are built with
an escapement. Not one in a hundred will bother about this, but with-
out escapement action you cannot possibly have a Piano forte that will
not have a clangy and vibrating after-effect. When you press down on
the keys, the little hammers fall back the moment they have struck the
strings, no matter whether you keep the keys down or release them.54
Stein’s escapement enabled the hammer to return to a rest position
immediately after hitting the string, whether the key is released or not. But
according to Pierre Érard (1821), the advantage gained with the single
escapement subjects the performer “to a very great inconvenience; namely, that
133
of being always obliged to raise up the finger so that the key may rise to the level
of the other keys before it will speak or repeat its note again, for without such
elevation of the key, the sticker cannot get under the hammer again to repeat
its action.”55 This was a restricting requirement for note repetition, one which
affects both tempo and articulation. For a consistent playing manner in terms
of the physical action involved, it would have been necessary to play many notes
the way repeated notes had to be played—that is, by lifting the finger. Perhaps
this is why Mozart’s technique was said to be generally somewhat detached.
With this limitation on note repetition, works like his Sonata in A minor (KV
310/1; ex. 1) had to have been played much more slowly than today.
Ex. 1. W. A. Mozart, Sonata in A minor, KV 310/1.
According to Edwin M. Good (2004), Mozart’s letter reveals shortcomings

of the period’s pianos:
. . . the hammers might block, that is, jam up against the strings in-
stead of falling away; they bounced back to the strings after falling away;
dampers did not damp but instead allowed audible vibration to contin-
ue; damper stops did not bring the dampers back fully to the string with
the same effect; soundboards cracked and warped, inhibiting the even
resonation of the tone; actions were uneven, so that the same pressure
on different notes produced too loud or too soft a tone, or even no tone
at all. Mozart did not mention another problem, probably assuming
that it could not be remedied: strings broke.56
Consider the composer Anton Reicha’s engaging account of his duties at
one of Beethoven’s recitals, which probably took place in Bonn before 1792:
One evening when Beethoven was playing a Mozart piano concerto at
the Court, he asked me to turn the pages for him. But I was mostly oc-
cupied in wrenching out the strings of the piano which snapped, while
the hammers stuck among the broken strings. Beethoven insisted on
finishing the concerto, so back and forth I leaped, jerking out a string,
disentangling a hammer, turning a page, and I worked harder than did
Beethoven.57
134
While the Stein piano had an escapement, it lacked a necessary check

mechanism. According to Michael Latcham (1993): “Without a check, the player
has less control, especially when repeating notes, and the hammer can bounce
up and hit the string again, distorting the sound and inhibiting the freedom
of the player to play loudly.”58 But the escapement and check were not perfect
solutions. Pierre Érard’s summary of the piano’s mechanical improvements
(1834) indicates that it was difficult to adjust to an escapement, for players
found it heavy, sticky, slow and difficult for note repetition. The check, likewise,
made the keyboard unreliable and note repetition difficult.59
Looking back at the earlier (Viennese) piano, the Belgian musical
instrument authority François-Joseph Fétis writes in 1840:
The successive changes introduced in the piano’s construction have had
no less an influence on finger technique. For more than fifty years, the
hammers striking the strings were short, lightweight levers suspended
by leather hinges activated by the slightest effort. The strings were thin
and fragile, and care had to be taken to avoid breaking them.60
“It is for such instruments,” continues Fétis, “that all the music of Haydn,
Mozart, Schobert, most of Clementi’s, and many works by Dussek, Cramer, and
Steibelt have been composed. The qualities necessary for their execution were
delicacy of touch, expression, and lightness.” Since the player needs a certain
degree of resistance from the keys for control, a too-light touch inhibits the
velocity that can be obtained, as does the fragility of the strings. A comparison
of Fétis’s report with Härtel’s letter (1804) above indicates that Clementi and
Dussek came to prefer the English action later in their careers.
****
According to the above writers, the clavichord and harpsichord had
considerably more volume than today’s reproductions. Unaware that the
harpsichord (particularly outside of France) had to be sufficiently powerful
and penetrating to lead a large ensemble, we have utilized delicate voicing to
obtain a refined tone. To make some distinction between the harpsichord
and clavichord, the latter has been voiced still more delicately. But to produce
the effects described by early writers, the clavichord had to have had a wider
dynamic range. Only when the piano attained a certain level of finesse in tone
quality and mechanism did it finally triumph over the gentle clavichord. Today’s
clavichord would be a more interesting instrument if its volume were similar
to a softer organ stop (as in Zelter’s comparison) and if it were capable of
accompanying a voice.
The harpsichord was destined to succumb because the lack of adequate
135
materials for quilling and springs rendered its tone harsh, its key action stiff, and
its fragility burdensome. Today’s refined harpsichord, too, might benefit from
stronger voicing than generally used.
As Emanuel Bach stated, the clavichord usually served when playing alone,
and the harpsichord was used for ensemble playing. This raises the question
of whether much of his father’s composition for solo keyboard, like that of
many other composers, was intended for the clavichord.61 In his biography of
Sebastian Bach (1802), Forkel observes:
He liked best to play upon the clavichord; the harpsichord, though cer-
tainly susceptible of a very great variety of expression, had not soul
enough for him; and the piano was in his lifetime too much in its in-
fancy and still much too coarse to satisfy him. . . . He . . . did not believe
it possible to produce from any harpsichord or pianoforte such a variety
in the gradations of tone as on this instrument.62
From the above accounts, no keyboard instrument could have achieved
our conception of an Allegro tempo. The unwieldy key action of the clavichord,
harpsichord and some pianos prevented it, as did the English piano’s inadequate
damping. Also impeding a rapid tempo was the overly light action and faulty
note repetition of the Viennese piano. Fragile strings presented another barrier.
While the clavichord permitted little velocity, Emanuel Bach wrote much of his
keyboard music, including Prestissimo movements, for it. Nevertheless, trying to
imitate their tempos would prove both impossible to determine and probably
unacceptable to modern ears. Musical expression would, however, benefit from
tempos that allow the fine nuances of interpretation—in an Allegro as well as
in an Adagio—that Schubart, Schönfeld, and many others desired. Not without
reason was Schönfeld pleased that the Viennese piano could be “played,”
whereas the harpsichord had to be “struck.” Virtuosity as an end in itself is
why Reichardt made a point of avoiding large concerts unless he was certain of
finding judicious virtuosos who combined understanding and taste with their
skillfulness, or if he wanted to hear a new virtuoso: “But if his art is merely in
his fingers, I will hear him only once, for difficulties arouse just amazement.”63
136
Endnotes
1
This chapter appeared originally in Ad Parnassum 9 (April 2011): 75-100.
2
Both terms were used, but “piano” will serve in this article, unless quoting from a source.
3
Reichardt/1785, 137.
4
Marsh/Journals, 438.
5
Cited by Ardal Powell, The Flute (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2002), 125, from Ger-
ber/1790, “Tromlitz.”
6
Some examples are provided by Willem Kroesbergen and Jed Wentz, “Sonority in the 18th Cen-
tury, un poco più forte?” Early Music 22/3 (1994): 482-95.
7
[Carl Ludwig Junker?], Musikalischer und Künstler-Almanach auf das Jahr 1783 (Kosmopolis,
[1783?]), 26.
8
C. F. M. [Christian Friedrich Michaelis], “Einige Bemerkungen über den ästhetischen Charakter,
etc.,” AmZ 9 (21 January 1807): 259.
9
Wolf/1787, 34.
10
Georg Friedrich Wolf, Unterricht im Klavierspielen, Erster Theil, 4th edn. (Halle, 1799), 5.
11
Bach/Versuch, 2:1, 2.
12
Ibid., 1:10f.
13
Mattheson/1713, 264f.
14
Reichardt/Briefe, 2:16-18.
15
Adlung/1768, 2:146, 152.
16
“Entwurf eines Briefes an Forkel nach 28 April 1803,” in Bach/Dok, 7:168.
17
Türk/1789, 11f., 7, 8.
18
Quoted by Hanns Neupert, The Clavichord, trans. Ann P. P. Feldberg (Kassel: Bärenreiter, 1965),
48.
19
Bach/Versuch, 1:8.
20
Reichardt/Briefe, 1:39f.
21
Quoted from the Sächsisches Hauptstaatsarchiv, Loc. 911/X, Bl. 52f. by Ortrun Landmann,
“Die Entwicklung der Dresdener Hofkapelle zum ‘klassischen’ Orchester,” in Basler Jahrbuch 17
(1993), 188: “. . . so abmüdend er auch an sich ist, da er, um das Orchestre gehörig zusammen zu
halten, mit doppelter Stärke spielen muss.”
22
Ami de Rochemont, Réflexions d’un patriote sur l’opéra françois, et sur l’opéra italien (Lausanne, 1754),
54f. note.
23
Bach/Versuch, 1:5ff., note: “. . . der Tangente von den Flügeln spricht selten geschwinde genug
an.”
24
Wolf/1787, “Flügel,” 62.
25
Friedrich Rochlitz, “Bruchstücke aus Briefen an einen jungen Tonsetzer,” AmZ 2 (9 October
1799): 17-20 at 19.
26
Koch/1802, “Flügel.”
27
Johann Peter Milchmeyer, Die wahre Art, das Pianoforte zu spielen (Dresden, 1797), 2, 57f.
28
K. . . . , “Recension,” AmZ 1 (1798): 118. The writer does not, however, agree that the clavi-
chord, too, could spoil the fingers.
20
Petri/1782, 185.
30
Georg Simon Löhlein, Der Clavier-Schule, Zweyter Band, Erste Abtheilung (Leipzig and Zül-
lichau, 1781), 114.
31.
Bach/Versuch, 2:1f.
32
Johann Carl Friedrich Rellstab, Ueber die Bemerkungen eines Reisenden (Berlin, [1789]), 38.
137
33
C. P. E. Bachs Anfangsstücke mit einer Anleitung den Gebrauch dieser Stücke . . . , op. 61, ed. J. C. F.
Rellstab (Berlin, ca.1790), Einleitung (by Rellstab), ii.
34
Burney/TourFI, 24.
35
Art du faiseur d’instruments de musique et lutherie. Extrait de l’Encyclopédie méthodique. Arts et
métiers mécaniques (Paris, 1785; rpt. 1972), 11f.
36
Nicolas-Joseph Hüllmandel, “Clavecin” in EMM, 1:287f.
37
M. Trouflaut, “Lettre aux auteurs du Journal de musique, sur les clavecins en peu de
buffle” (20 December 1773), reprinted in Textes sur les instruments de musique au XVIIIe
siècle (Geneva: Minkoff, 1972), 8f.
38
Pianos, harpes et orgues; manufacture Érard & Cie [Paris: Librairie des dictionnaires, 1887],
20.
39
[Charles Burney], “Harpsichord” in The Cyclopaedia; or, Universal Dictionary of Arts, Sci-
ences, and Literature, ed. Abraham Rees (Philadelphia: S. F. Bradford [et al.], 1810-24),
18:HAR [n.p.].
40
Schönfeld/1796, 184.
41
Quoted in Bach/Dok, 3:194, from Adlung/1768, 2:116f.
42
C. P. E. Bachs Anfangsstücke, ed. Rellstab, Einleitung, ii.
43
Diagrams from David Rowland, “Pianos and pianists c.1770-c.1825” in The Cambridge
Companion to the Piano, ed. D. Rowland (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998),
24f.
44
W. Lütge, “Andreas and Nanette Streicher,” in Der Bär, Jahrbuch von Breitkopf & Härtel auf das Jahr
1927 (Leipzig, 1927), 53-69 at 65. Quoted by Bart van Oort, “Haydn and the English Classical
Piano Style,” Early Music 28/1 (2000): 73-89 at 75.
45
Lütge, “Andreas and Nanette Streicher,” 65.
46
Anon., Bemerkungen eines Reisenden über die zu Berlin vom September 1787 bis Ende Januar
1788 gegebene öffentliche Musiken, Kirchenmusik, Oper, Concerte und Königliche Kammermusik
betreffend (Halle, 1788), 32.
47
Rellstab, Ueber die Bemerkungen, 21f.
48
Wolf/1787, “Fortepiano,” 63.
49
[Johann Nikolaus Forkel], Musikalischer Almanach für Deutschland auf das Jahr 1782
(Leipzig, 1782), 34f.
50
See van Oort, “Haydn,” 75f.
51
Schubart/1806, 288.
52
“Recensionen, Ankündigungen,” MM 1.2 (7 December 1783): 1246.
53
The Letters of Beethoven, trans. Emily Anderson (London: Macmillan, 1961), 1:25f.
54
55
Quoted from Érard’s Improvements in Pianofortes and other Keyed Musical Instruments (1821) by
Rosamond E. M. Harding, The Piano-forte, 2nd edn. (Surrey: Gresham Books, 1978), 172.
56
Edwin M. Good, Giraffes, Black Dragons, and Other Pianos: A Technological History from
Cristofori to the Modern Concert Grand, 2nd edn. (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2001),
84. See also Michael Cole, The Pianoforte in the Classical Era (Oxford: Clarendon, 1998).
57
Jacques-Gabriel Prod’homme, “From the Unpublished Autobiography of Antoine
Reicha,” The Musical Quarterly 22 (1936): 351.
58
Michael Latcham, “The Check in Some Early Pianos and the Development of Piano
Technique Around the Turn of the 18th century,” Early Music 21 (1993): 29-42 at 30.
59
Pierre Érard, Perfectionnemens apportés dans le mécanisme du piano par les Érard (London &
Paris, 1834). Reprinted in Dossier Érard: The Harp, in its present improved state compared with
the original Pedal Harp, intro. Anik Devriès (Geneva: Minkoff, 1980), 8, 12.
138
60
François-Joseph Fétis, Méthode des méthodes de piano (Paris: M. Schlesinger, 1840; rpt.
1973), 1f.
61
A partial list of composers who wrote specifically for clavichord is supplied by Neu-
pert, Clavichord, 53.
62
NBR, 436.
63
Reichardt/Briefe, 1:183f.: “Hat er seine Kunst aber blos in den Fingern, so höre ich
auch ihn nur einmal gerne: denn durch Schwierigkeiten erregt man nur Bewunderung.”
139
CHAPTER 9
The Tromba and Corno in Bach’s Time1
Limitations of valveless instruments

Because Johann Sebastian Bach, among others, often wrote notes for the trum-
pet and horn that are unavailable in the harmonic series to which valveless
instruments were restricted, the question of how these notes were produced
has been discussed for more than a century. As shown in ex. 1a, the harmonic
series (based on a C fundamental) does not include all the diatonic notes below
c’’, and four of the partials (shown as blackened notes) are significantly out of
tune. Ex. 1b illustrates the pitch nomenclature utilized here. While the trum-
pet and horn have the same limitations imposed by a lack of valves, these were
most acute on the trumpet, whose upper register, according to early writers,
was difficult to manage. This chapter will present new documentation indicat-
ing that Bach and his contemporaries did not share our predilection for precise
nomenclature. A further factor is that composers lacked substantive guidance
for observing these instruments’ limitations until the late eighteenth century
and beyond. Thus many wrote for them as for their own instrument, which
was most often keyboard or violin.2
Ex. 1a. Harmonic series of the trumpet;
Ex. 1b. System of musical notation.
141
142
Table 1. Notes obtainable on the trumpet.

The Tromba and Corno in Bach’s Time
With one exception (Girolamo Fantini), the early sources listed in Table
1, which comprise all or nearly all of those known before 1800 plus a few
representative nineteenth-century ones, are remarkably uniform in restricting
the trumpet’s compass to the notes of the harmonic series.3 Pitches marked with
an “x” constitute its normal range, which usually ends at c"'. An (x) represents
notes either implied or presented with qualification. The inconsistency in listing
f" and f\" indicates that these pitches are indeterminate. Several writers omit
one or both B[s. Many call attention to the false partials (see ex. 1), which
composers should omit as much as possible or place on a weak beat; players
need to force them up or down, as the case may be.
In Table 1, Johann Georg Hillen, a cantor near Halle, is of particular
interest, for his article appeared in the Neu eröffnete musikalische Bibliothek (Leipzig,
1743) edited by Lorenz Christoph Mizler von Kolof, who knew Bach well. Thus
the harmonic series can be taken as normal practice for the trumpet during
Bach’s tenure there.
Further evidence from Leipzig for restricting the trumpet to the harmonic
series concerns the satire from Bach’s predecessor Johann Kuhnau entitled Der
musicalische Quack-Salber (1700), in which the Quack-Salber boasts to the town
musicians about his playing the trumpet so well in Italy with the most outstanding
castrati — sopranos and altos — that many would have taken his trumpet and
the voice to be one and the same. At this, adds Kuhnau, the town musicians
looked at each other, for they knew that this could not be, especially with respect
to altos, for the trumpet is very limited in this range unless it is made like a
trombone, according to today’s invention [see Zugtrompete below].4 In 1700,
both Kuhnau and the trumpeter Gottfried Reiche (with whom Bach worked
from 1723 to 1734) were employed by Leipzig’s Thomaskirche, so Reiche would
have been among the town musicians who dismissed the charlatan’s claims.
Providing more detail is the French writer Louis-Joseph Francoeur
(1772), who calls the trumpet the most thankless and limited of all the blown
instruments. If it is closely related to the horn, it does not have all its facility.
The out-of-tune fourth and sixth scale degrees can be corrected to a degree by
sparing the wind for the one and forcing it for the other. But whatever is done,
it will never make these notes perfectly in tune, so they should be omitted as
much as possible or used only as passing notes. High notes (c’’’ is “rarely” used)
should be approached only by simple, diatonic melodic lines, and trills avoided
on f ’’, a’’, and c’’’, as well as below c’’.5 Much earlier (1697), Daniel Speer advises
composers to avoid a’’ and to write parts that are not overly active. A too-
high range, slow notes of half a measure’s duration, or many continuous notes
without rests make the trumpet still more difficult.6
143
A problem of terminology
Nomencature in early sources is ambiguous at best and varies among
geographical regions. For example, Clarino often refers to the trumpet’s upper
register, but both editions of the Kurtzgefasstes musicalisches Lexicon, published in
Saxony, Bach’s region in Germany, call it a trombone (Posaune).7
The “sackbut” term for trombone is sometimes associated with the
trumpet, as when Jacques Ozanam (1691) reports that a type of sweet Trompete
is called a Trompete Harmonique or Saquebute. It has more sections and is longer
than the ordinary Trompete, whose tone it imitates.8 Jean-Benjamin de Laborde
(1780) defines the Saquebute as a “type of Trompete.”9
In a publication (1709) devoted to the trumpet and kettle drums, F. Friese
first lists the German, French, English, and coiled Italian trumpets, but includes
also the Waldhorn under the category of trumpet.10 Late in the century, J. H. von
Oroll repeats most of this text, except for a significant change at the end: “also
the trombones belong here.”11 Now, instead of the Waldhorn, it is the trombone
that is categorized as a trumpet. The ambiguous lines of demarcation among the
brass instruments are apparent in a portion of J. H. Zedler’s article (1745) on the
Trompete: “There is also a type of coiled trumpet, like the Italian, which is wound
around several times. Finally, here belong also the trombones, the posthorns
and Waldhorns, all of which are best made in Nürnberg by those called Trompeten
makers.”12 Under the French word Trompe, this Lexicon directs the reader not only
to Trompete, but also to Waldhorn, Posaune, Sprach-Rohr, and Maul-Trommel.
In Johann Gottfried Walther’s Musicalisches Lexicon, the Tromba (Italian)
is a trumpet. The Trompe (French) likewise is a trumpet, but it can also be a
Wald-Horn or a Maul-Trummel. The Trompette harmonieuse, on the other hand, is
a trombone. There is no listing for Waldhorn; and Corno [what we call a French
horn] is defined simply as a Waldhorn.13
Flexible terminology is seen also in Sébastien de Brossard’s article (1703)
about the Trombone, which, he says, is made nearly like the Trompette militaire.
In playing, one lengthens and shortens the length of this Trompette as much as
wanted, according to the different notes.14
Therefore, Tromba or Trompete could be used either in our sense to refer
specifically to the trumpet, or it could be a generic term for a member of the
brass family. Any belief in composers’ use of precise nomenclature is dispelled
by Hector Berlioz’s comment (1843) that Christoph Willibald Gluck wrote
for soprano trombone under the name of Cornetto in his Italian opera Orfeo ed
Euridice (1762). Observing that the soprano trombone is still used in Germany,
but not France, Berlioz is uncertain whether the highest valve trumpets can
replace it advantageously.15
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The trumpet and its players

Chapter 2 above describes the limited skills of the players available to
Bach during his long tenure in Leipzig. In the modern literature, however,
the Leipzig trumpeter Reiche has been accorded a technique enabling him to
obtain the missing partials. But Kuhnau’s account above of the town musicians’
disbelief in the charlatan’s claims verifies that no one had this ability. As noted in
chapter 2, Bach’s memorandum of 1730 to the Leipzig Town Council attributed
no special skill to Reiche, who is listed as first trumpet. At his death in 1734,
Reiche’s effects included a Zugtrompete, a horn, and an old trumpet.16 In his
portrait, he holds a coiled trumpet and a trumpet part (ex. 2) that does not
utilize any notes outside the harmonic series and has no note of any length on
a false partial.17 Its thirty-second notes are not as difficult as they appear, for
Johann Joachim Quantz asserts that tempos formerly were almost twice as slow
as those at mid-century; thus: “In the instrumental pieces of the earlier German
composers, the many rapid notes all looked much more difficult and risky than
they sounded.”18
Ex. 2. Trumpet music from Reiche’s portrait.
Johann Ernst Altenburg’s brochure, which presents the most complete

information on the eighteenth-century trumpet and its use, was probably
written long before the publication date of 1795, for it is announced, with
subject headings, in Johann Adam Hiller’s Leipzig journal (1770) as about to be
published. Altenburg’s 1767 letter (below), too, mentions this work. He studied
organ and composition with Bach’s son-in-law Johann Christoph Altnickol and
worked in Weissenfels, where Bach had had close associations. When discussing
non-conventional trumpets, Altenburg accords the coiled trumpet, whose length
and chiefly cylindrical tubing correspond to the straight trumpet’s, the highest
rank for its commodious form. It is very common in Italy, has the same tone
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quality as the conventional trumpet, and comes in many sizes.19 Since it resembles
the hunting horn visually, it was sometimes called a Jägertrompete or a tromba da
caccia. According to Don L. Smithers (1977): “The sound of these instruments, in
modern reconstructions, is more easily controlled and less subject to the kind of
unreliable effects associated in my experience with the straight trumpet.”20
Since early sources define the trumpet’s volume level in its upper register
(above c’’) as extraordinarily loud, its use with arias or when the text does not
suggest a blaring tone is questionable. Our concept of trumpet playing does
not correspond to Roger North’s description (ca.1700): “The tuggs of air at the
lipps are so hard and severe, that sounding long together is not to be borne;
therefore they usually take it by intervalls [periods of rest], and with all that, the
stoutest trumpetter with much use disables his lips so that he cannot performe,
which was the case of the excellent Mr Shoar.” It is said that John Shore, for
whom Henry Purcell wrote trumpet parts, split his lip and was “ever after unable
to perform on that instrument.”21
The trumpet’s high volume can be attributed not only to the difficulty in
controlling the instrument, but also to the fact that players had to cultivate a
very loud tone to be heard outdoors at great distances. Only the larger courts
could afford to let trumpeters specialize on their instrument; only here might
one have found a more refined tone than North implies above, or a contrast
between field music and art music. As Altenburg observes, high ranking court
trumpeters were spared certain duties to avoid spoiling their embouchure.22 In
contrast, no town musician enjoyed such a privilege, for they all had to play
a wide variety of instruments, and spend most of their time in high-volume
playing from the town tower.
Johann Adam Hiller, one of Bach’s successors in Leipzig, disliked
trumpets in church music: “We candidly admit that we would gladly like to see
the trumpets, together with their compatriots, the kettle drums, banished from
all church music; they always spoil more than they help.” A composer who
wants them, he adds, will do well to use them only for filling out here and
there.23 As noted in chapter 2, Johann Adolph Scheibe recommended greatly
increasing the forces when trumpets and kettle drums are used; for example, the
violins need to have at least four to five times as many players as usual. In 1713,
Johann Mattheson writes about the “lovely and stately” Waldhorn, which he calls
very popular for all types of music, partly because it is not so coarse by nature
as the trumpet and partly because it can be played more easily. The tone is fuller
and more satisfying than the “deafening and screaming Clarinen” [trumpets in
the upper register] because it is pitched a whole fifth lower.24
In 1806 Ignaz Ferdinand Kajetan Arnold advises against using trumpets
and kettle drums: “Because they rattle the rafters too much and are intended
146
only for the wide spaces of the open field, they should absolutely be banished
from all church music.” He criticizes Joseph Haydn and Wolfgang Amadeus
Mozart for the “war-like instruments in their masses, especially when they have
the Kirie eleison thunder with trumpets and kettle drums.”25 According to a writer
in the Musikalisches Wochenblatt (1791), earlier composers had almost never used
trumpets and kettle drums except for war-like music.26 This is apparent, too,
in Joseph Friedrich Bernhard Caspar Majer’s books (1732 and 1741), which
associate trumpets and kettle drums with military endeavors.27 From these
descriptions, the tone produced by most trumpeters had to have been much
coarser and louder than thought today.
Intonation
As chapter 7 indicates, intonation standards were well below our own.
According to Georg Andreas Sorge, a colleague and neighbor of Sebastian
Bach: “More than too often, alas! one hears even the best composition so
bungled by poor execution that it is deplorable. How many a violinist begins
to play his part without once having tuned his violin properly? How then can
the playing be in tune?”28 In 1744, Sorge cites the adjustments that trumpeters
should make when playing with a tempered keyboard instrument, emphasizing
that their C must be in tune with the keyboard: “But concern for this is often
greatly lacking.” When playing without a keyboard, he says, trumpeters only
have to watch f", f\", a", and b[", so that they are not too painful to the ear. He
finds the horn much easier to play in tune than the trumpet.29
Another clue to their intonation standards is the fact that instrumentalists
tuned to the organ while the organist was “preluding” with considerable volume.
Since noodling invariably followed tuning, Johann Samuel Petri offers this
remedy: “In church music, the organist can very easily break them of it by not
playing very loudly all the time, but interrupting it here and there, making small
general pauses. When the organ is suddenly silent, the trumpeters, violinists
and all the other musicians become alarmed; they stop and leave the preluding
to the organist. . . . The director should check the tuning and preparation of
all the musicians, man by man, and as soon as all are ready, inform the organist
that his prelude should soon end, so that the violins do not again go out of
tune [because of unstable strings] from the waiting.30 This and similar accounts
indicate that they were satisfied with a level of tuning that would never pass
muster today. Few of us, it seems, are born with an acute sense of pitch; it is
instead developed by our continuous exposure to in-tune music on recordings
and the mass media. Earlier musicians enjoyed no such advantage. Without
good intonation, performance standards would necessarily have suffered
because musicians could not have judged their own tonal and rhythmic accuracy.
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Low intonation standards would have made the successful use of “lipping”
to obtain the missing notes improbable. Lipping is described today as “a
combination of altering the back resonance in the mouth and throat of the player
by adjustment of the tongue and glottis, accompanied by a slight alteration in the
vibrating surface of the lips, generally achieved by a feeling of some protrusion
of the lower lip into the mouthpiece.” A proper mouthpiece is essential, as is “a
great deal of patience and tireless effort.”31 A degree of lipping was necessary
to force the out-of-tune partials in the harmonic series into passable tune, but
what is advocated by some today is a much more intense form to obtain pitches
completely outside the harmonic series.32 The only early source cited for it is
Fantini’s Modo per imparare a sonare di Tromba (1638), which, after supplying the
trumpet’s normal range, includes pieces utilizing notes outside the harmonic
series (d', f', a', c \" and g\") plus the false partials f \ " and b [ ’’, which are not
included in his chart of the trumpet’s notes. As he explains: “Certain notes will
be found which have not been listed at the beginning of [this method], [notes]
which would be imperfect if you were to hold them, but can be accepted since
they go by rapidly.”33 Observing that these notes [found mostly as passing eighth,
sixteenth, and thirty-second notes] cannot be produced on the natural trumpet
with pleasing intonation, Detlef Altenburg (1973) believes that Fantini either
used a particular trumpet facilitating their production (such as the Italian coiled
trumpet in combination with hand-stopping) or was satisfied with the inferior
intonation obtained through a lipping technique. Although the French theorist
Marin Mersenne recorded an eyewitness report about Fantini’s trumpet technique,
it does not offer much clarification, except for indicating that a slide trumpet was
not used. It does include the judgment from a high ranking court trumpeter who
characterized Fantini’s notes outside the harmonic series as “spurios, confusos, &
penitus inordinatos” (artificial, muddled, and completely irregular).34
Today, the use of unconventional notes has been inferred from Johann
Philipp Eisel (1738), who reiterates Speer’s above advice to composers,
emphasizing the trumpet’s difficulty. He advises avoiding the semitones
[accidentals] because of their intonation problems, even though a few
outstanding artists have with great pains produced a better execution.35 This
vague instruction could refer to nothing more than the notes b[", f \" and
possibly g\" and a[", which a few writers considered to be difficult but possible
because the false partial a" was so flat. While Eisel’s chart of available notes
for trumpet shows no accidentals, his text specifies that the trumpet has fifteen
notes altogether, which include the two B[s (but not b").
Treating the trumpet’s false partials at some length, J. E. Altenburg
finds a" and b[" too flat, and the tone between e" and g" a “musical mongrel.”
Furthermore: “If some venture to make semitones other than F\ and B[ in
148
the clarino octave, that is carrying an art too far and descends to the absurd
and tasteless, particularly with long notes.” He finds it absurd because these
notes could not be produced reliably with passable intonation, a matter that did
not bother some players of the time, as Sorge implies. As for their execution,
Altenburg exclaims: “But with what trouble! No one can hold such an artificial
sound on a long note of several beats. It can possibly be done with passing and
short notes; however, it is not a natural, but only an artificially forced sound.”36
Since his book concerns the art of the court trumpeter, he is speaking about
Germany’s very best players.
From all accounts, playing technique on all the instruments improved
considerably over the course of the eighteenth century. Yet, almost a century
after Bach began his work in Leipzig, an article in that town’s Allgemeine
musikalische Zeitung (1815) discusses recent attempts to obtain the trumpet’s and
horn’s missing notes. If one thought about what would be won for composition
if these instruments could be used without their limitations, declares the writer,
it would remove any question about whether obtaining a complete scale over
their compass would be worthwhile.37
Haydn and Mozart rarely wrote for orchestral trumpet above g’’ and observed
its limited notes and capability. In Table 1, the composer Anton Reicha, too, limits
the trumpet to g’’, which was probably the highest note that orchestra players could
achieve. Thus we have an anomaly. A possible explanation is that they wrote for
the natural trumpet, with its limitations, while earlier composers used Tromba or
Trompete to designate not only the natural trumpet, but also, in a generic sense,
other instruments of the brass family, or even instruments just having a brass-like
flavor (see below). Another explanation, documented in a recent book, concerns
the fact that many composers were unaware of these instruments’ limitations.38
The modern supposition that trumpeters lost their ability to obtain notes outside
the harmonic series by the end of the century has no basis in fact, for they
never had this capability in our sense of the term. Fantini and the anonymous
trumpeters making such a claim undoubtedly produced intonation that would be
unacceptable to us, as it was to keener ears of the time.
Jeremy Montagu notes the difficulty confronting modern players when
trying to produce f" or f \ " by a lipping technique: “It’s professional suicide to
do that today because no player can be 100% certain that it’s going to succeed
every time. I know one or two trumpet players who can do it 90% of the time,
but most conductors won’t let them just in case it doesn’t work, so they use those
bogus fingerholes, and the horn players hand stop.”39 If lipping had really been
able to supply the missing notes in earlier times, there would have been substantial
documentation about such an achievement and writers would not continually have
cautioned composers to avoid the missing and out-of-tune notes.
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What instruments could have played the missing notes?

TROMBA DA TIRARSI (ZUGTROMPETE). According to Smithers,
the Zugtrompete (fig. 1) had an overall appearance nearly identical to the normal
fixed-pitch trumpet: “The only important difference was the long, extendable
mouthpiece pipe that fitted telescopically within the first yard. By holding the
instrument in nearly the same manner as a natural trumpet, and maintaining a
firm grip on the upper end of the mouthpiece pipe, a performer could vary the
length of the instrument sufficiently to produce an almost complete chromatic
scale from the middle to the upper registers. Unlike a trombone, however, a
player could not move the slide but had to move the whole instrument to and
fro, while the slide and mouthpiece remained stationary.”40 Above, Kuhnau
referred to a trumpet of new invention that is pulled like a type of trombone.
His cantata “Gott der Vater, Jesus Christus” calls for an “Oboe, ov[ero] Tromba
da tirarsi”41 — indicating that a woodwind instrument could be interchangeable
with the trumpet. The Zugtrompete, a workhorse of town musicians, was passed
down until it became unplayable. In contrast, many natural trumpets from
courts have survived because they were richly ornamented and valuable objects
in themselves.
Fig. 1. Zugtrompete, fully extended.

Altenburg’s letter (1767) to a Mons. Hübsch, who was trying to improve

the natural trumpet, describes the widespread use of the Zugtrompete — the
trombone-like trumpet that almost all the Thürmer and Stadt-Pfeifer (town
musicians) have:
All the missing semitones, as well as the remaining ones in the lower
register, can be produced completely in tune by the back and forth slid-
ing, so that such an instrument very closely resembles a small alto trom-
bone. Thus the town musicians are able to play all the church songs on
it, which they could never do on the ordinary trumpet [emphasis added]. What
would they do if they didn’t have this? They would have to be content
with playing some general tunes, or use a trombone, or even a cornett.
On the other hand, these could not be heard very far, particularly from
high towers or in large towns. But, as you know, a trumpeter has to play
more than a church song, especially since today’s style of composition
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requires playing all kinds of lively, running and springing figures . . . so

that this instrument would not be practicable for us trumpeters because
of the troublesome pulling out and in. Otherwise, one would certainly
have tried to have it, particularly since such-like instruments have long
been in use almost everywhere.42
Thus Altenburg confirms once more that the natural trumpet was unable
to produce notes outside the harmonic series, and also that trumpet tone was a
great deal more powerful than cornett or trombone tone.
In Johann Joseph Klein’s list (1801) of the trombones, a high trombone is
also referred to as a Zugtrompete: “Discant and alto trombones, which one also
calls the Zugtrompete; tenor trombone, which is the easiest to blow . . . and then
the bass trombone, which is either a Quint- or a Quart- trombone.”43
TROMBONE. Like others, Majer refers to the trombone as a “type of
trumpet,” so it would not be unusual to find the alto and discant trombones
used for trumpet parts.44 According to Michael Praetorius (1619), Trombetta
is another name for the trombone, and in 1758 Adlung defines the Trombetta
as a “little trumpet.” Adding that some were able to play the ordinary tenor
trombone up to e" without difficulty, Praetorius recalls hearing a player in
Dresden who could reach almost as high as a cornett — that is, g" . 4 5 Klein
defines the alto trombone’s conventional range as g-a".46 Besides a chromatic
range, the trombone offered greater agility; for example, an article (1760) cites
the discant trombone as joining with the first violins in doubling the soprano
entrance in a fugue.47 In the 1780s, Christian Friedrich Daniel Schubart calls the
trombone “really a trumpet,” except that it can obtain all the trumpet’s missing
notes. The true natural trumpet, which requires “nearly steel-like lungs,” can be
used only for large, splendid and majestic occasions. Interestingly, he says that
little music has been published for trumpet, because only trumpeters can write
for the instrument.48 In other words, one must understand the instrument’s
limitations thoroughly to write successfully for it.
CLARINETTO. Among the non-conventional trumpets, J. E. Altenburg
includes also the Clarinette, which, “properly speaking, is called a little trumpet”
and was invented at the beginning of the century by a Nürnberg artist [Johann
Christoph Denner]. It comes in various sizes, is chromatic and resembles an
oboe. Its range is usually from f to d"', although some can reach f"', or three
complete octaves. Noting that this may have induced composers to write
concertos and sonatas for it, he adds: “The sharp and penetrating tone of this
instrument is especially useful for the infantry’s war music.”49 Here, Altenburg
describes the early clarinet with two or three keys, which differs from the more
agile four-to-six key clarinet of the classic period (fig. 2).
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Walther’s dictionary compares the

Clarinetto to a long oboe, except for having
a wide mouthpiece: “From a distance, it
sounds rather like a trumpet.”51 A trumpet
function for the clarinet is made explicit by
Eisel when indicating that the clef defines
the style being employed. Most often,
he says, the G clef is used, in which case
it is treated in the Clarinen [high trumpet
register] style. The soprano and alto clefs
are used when the clarinet is handled like
a chalumeau.52 Majer discusses the clarinet
immediately before the trumpet, seemingly
not because of any similarity in playing
technique, but because of its ability to
imitate trumpet tone.53 The clarinet was a
useful substitute when trumpet tone quality
was desired, but at a more reasonable
volume level, as Johann Chr. Weigel explains
(1722): “When the trumpet will be too loud,
the Clarinet serves in a pleasing manner.”54
Georg Philipp Telemann, who was
godfather to Sebastian Bach’s son Carl
Philipp Emanuel, wrote for the Clarinetto
several times (including three autographs).
In the final bass solo with chorus from
his “Serenata zum Convivio des Hn.
Bürgercapitains” (“Mit innigsten Ergötzen;”
1728; ex. 3), the Clarinetto dialogues with
Fig. 2. Contrasting clarinets. 50 the Tromba. The two parts are stylistically
indistinguishable and even share a staff at
places in the autograph score.55 In view
of its technical demands, the use of concert pitch, and the need for balanced
volume, perhaps the Tromba is not a trumpet, but a trombone, or even another
instrument.
OBOE. In 1823, the virtuoso Wilhelm Braun calls the oboe “loud and
trumpet-like” when played with a thick reed.56 And a century earlier North
describes the “noble clangor and loudness” of the hautboy’s pipe, “little inferior
to the Trumpet” which “hath made it to be imployed on the most solemne
occasions, as for triumphs in warr, and in church services, as well as civill
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Ex. 3. Telemann, “Serenata” (1728), final bass solo with chorus.
rejoycings.”57 That the oboe and other instruments could substitute for the
trumpet is confirmed by Brossard (1703).58
CORNETTO (ZINK, CORNETT). The Cornetto had a chromatic range
from g to d"', while the Cornettino or Quartzink could ascend to a"'. The first
of the several types of Cornetto which Majer describes is said to be extremely
difficult to play and to sound from a distance rather like a coarse human voice.
Another type of Cornetto, however, is softer and pleasing.59 Together with the
trombone, the Cornetto was associated with German church music into the
nineteenth century. It also offered greater agility for passagework. According to
Schubart, Gluck used the Zink in his opera choruses, with the greatest success.
Nowadays, he adds, one must look to Germany for players with sufficient lung
capacity to handle this difficult instrument.60
CHALUMEAU (SCHALMEY, SHAWM). Like the recorder, this
single-reed instrument had four sizes (from f', c', f, and c) and a similar playing
manner, but was very hard to blow. The soprano chalumeau could ascend to c'".
Most early accounts describe the tone as harsh and disagreeable, but one writer
indicates that a skilled player could improve it.61 In England, the chalumeau was
known as the Mock Trumpet, and John Walsh’s catalogue (ca.1721) lists four
books of music (one with playing directions) for this instrument.62 A trumpet
function for the chalumeau is indicated also by Jacques Philippe Dreux’s works
listed in the Amsterdam publisher Étienne Roger’s catalogue (1706):63
Fanfares pour les Chalumeaux & les Trompettes

Fanfares et autres airs de Chalumeau
Bach’s usage
TROMBA OR CORNO DA TIRARSI. In six cantatas dating from about
his first year in Leipzig, Bach specified an instrument with a slide mechanism
when he appended “da tirarsi” to parts for Tromba (BWV 5, 20, 77), Corno (BWV
67, 162), and Tromba. ô Corno (BWV 46). No evidence confirms a horn with a
slide mechanism. The more important element in Corno da tirarsi is not Corno
but da tirarsi, which specifies a slide. Bach’s da tirarsi term was probably not
153
limited to the Zugtrompete, but could also include the trombone (as in Klein’s
listing). Leipzig’s Thomaskirche owned a soprano trombone, for on 10 January
1703 four trombones (quart [bass], tenor, alto, and discant) were purchased from
the maker Heinrich Pfeifer.64
When Bach specifies a da tirarsi instrument, it usually plays only slowly
moving notes, as in the outer movements of “Schauet doch und sehet” (BWV
46), written at concert pitch. But for the bass aria in No. 3 (ex. 4), the same part
includes an obbligato accompaniment (transposed into C) with many eighth and
sixteenth notes on false partials and notes outside the harmonic series. Thus two
instruments are required for this part. A number of Bach’s works include within
a part designated for a single instrument either two different transpositions
or both transposed and untransposed movements.65 Thus convenience was a
greater factor than exact nomenclature. When a part requires two instruments
for its performance, the instrument named is only a general clue to what
instruments were used.
Ex. 4. Bach, BWV 46/3, mm.5-8.
The Tromba da tirarsi is prescribed for the opening movement of “Du

sollst Gott” (BWV 77), whose trumpet part is missing, but the score specifies
only Tromba for the aria in no. 5. Yet the latter, with pitches such as e[ " and
c\", lies outside the trumpet’s available notes. Therefore, this aria, too, requires
an instrument with chromatic capability.66 Since the text expresses man’s
inadequacy, instead of the jubilation with which the “screaming” of trumpets is
associated, a chromatic instrument would have a more appropriate tone quality.
Many other works include similar parts that are marked simply for Tromba, Corno
or Corno da caccia, but which are playable only on a chromatic instrument.67
UNUSUAL REQUIREMENTS. While Bach sometimes observes the
limited notes of the trumpet and horn (most evident in horn parts in F or G, or
trumpet parts in D for Leipzig cantatas), the number of Tromba or Corno parts
having notes unavailable on these instruments, or otherwise unsuitable for their
context, is noteworthy.
Orchestral parts for natural trumpet should follow the restrictions
supplied by early writers. Aside from avoiding false partials and notes not in the
harmonic series, these parts will take into account the great difficulty involved
in producing and controlling the trumpet’s upper octave by embouchure and
wind alone. They will use repeated notes, short fanfare figures, and single-note
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accents, with many rests interspersed. Bach’s Sinfonia from “Wir danken dir”
(BWV 29; ex. 5) illustrates idiomatic writing. Other cantatas with parts of this
nature can include BWV 34/1, 50, 145, and 149, written for jubilant occasions
when the trumpet’s blaring tone will not detract.
Ex. 5. Bach, BWV 29/1, mm.1-5.
On the other hand, many of Bach’s Tromba parts seemingly violate all the
precepts for the instrument, as in “Erfreut euch” (BWV 66/1; ex. 6), which also
uses b' outside the harmonic series. As Smithers comments: “I, for one, do not
know of any music with trumpet as severe and physically demanding.”68 Ex. 6
is better suited to an instrument such as the Cornetto, which was used for playing
divisions. The fact that, apart from “O Jesu Christ” (BWV 118), Bach specified
this instrument only when reinforcing the choral trebles should not be reason
to believe that it was never used on other occasions.
When Othon Vandenbrock (ca.1793) advises composers about the blown
instruments most suitable for accompanying various vocal ranges, he declares
that the trumpet cannot accompany any voice whatever, but is appropriate only
in warlike music.69 Yet Bach’s cantata for solo soprano, strings and Tromba,
“Jauchzet Gott in allen Landen” (BWV 51/5; ex . 7) requires the trumpeter to
distinguish f \ " from f", correct all the sour f"s and a"s, play continuously for
long stretches, and produce b ]', outside the harmonic series, on a strong beat.
Thus this cantata, too, requires a chromatic instrument.
155
Ex. 6. Bach, BWV 66/1, Tromba, mm.1-16
Ex. 7. Bach, BWV 51/5, mm.8-15.
In Bach’s second Brandenburg Concerto, the Tromba shares solo duties

with a recorder, oboe, and violin. Since it plays almost continuously (which early
writers proscribe), and very often in its highest, most difficult and deafening
register, the other soloists would be lost to the listener if a natural trumpet like
those described above were used. The F transposition also is atypical in Bach’s
composition.
In his Leipzig composition, Bach most often treats the Tromba as a
transposing instrument in D. Like the organ, it was at high Chorton pitch and had
to be transposed down a tone to play at the Cammerton pitch of the woodwinds
and strings. About eleven cantatas contain Tromba parts with notes outside the
harmonic series, most often, b'. Some cantatas observe the trumpet’s limited
compass, but not its limited agility. Moreover, the false partials are not avoided
or treated cautiously, but are used boldly in repeated chords by three Trombe;
for example, “Gelobet sei der Herr” (BWV 129/1) and “Gott, man lobet dich”
(BWV 120/2).
CLARINO AND CLARINETTO. While we have taken Clarino to refer
to the upper range of the trumpet, Bach rarely, if ever, employs it this way.
Clarino . . . Clarinetto . . . the possibility seems great that one could be confused
for the other, especially in manuscripts where there was usually no need to
write out the full name because players knew the terminology. Clarinetto is
the diminutive of Clarino; hence its designation as a little trumpet. While the
latter term may occur with reference to the high range of the trumpet, it is not
commonly used in scores to designate the trumpet. In the 1737 dictionary cited
above, it even represents the trombone.
156
For an example of murky terminology, consider four Bach cantatas with

Clarino designations: BWV 24, 48, 167, and 185 (a reworking of a Weimar
cantata), all of which date from his first months in Leipzig in 1723. None
can be played on the natural trumpet, for they require many notes outside the
harmonic series. Nor are they particularly high: of the eight pieces in which the
instrument is used, three require only d" as the highest note; one, e ["; two, f \ " ;
one, g" and one, b [". In fact, the tessitura of “Ein ungefärbt Gemüte” (BWV
24/6) is extraordinarily low, and most of its notes range between f and c' (ex. 8
in which only the G’s, C’s, and B[ are playable on the trumpet).
Ex. 8. Bach, BWV 24/6, Clarino, mm.23-26.
This group of cantatas invites another observation about the

interchangeability of instruments (or their nomenclature). In the Leipzig
reworking of the vocal duet in “Barmherziges Herze” (BWV 185/1), Clarino
is specified in place of the original oboe.70 For “Ich elender Mensch” (BWV
48), the title page of the autograph lists a Corno, while the beginning of the first
movement in the score itself specifies Tromba. The original instrumental part,
however, is labeled Clarino.71
“Clar 1, 2” appears in the original parts for the Weimar version of
“Erschallet, ihr Lieder” (BWV 172), while the title of the original parts for its
second Leipzig version specifies “3 Trombe.” Its third movement uses c \"
outside the harmonic series, and requires a flexible instrument to master the
continuous thirty-second notes.
In the Weimar cantata “Christen; ätzet diesen Tag” (BWV 63), scored for
four trumpets and tympani, the two highest trumpets in the original set of parts
are called “1 Clarin” and “Clarino 2.” While nearly all the notes lie within the
natural trumpet’s range, the second Clarino has b' outside the harmonic series,
and the first “Clarin” part places the out-of-tune partials a" and f "in prominent
positions. The writing is not idiomatic for the trumpet, but is as active as the
first violin (which it sometimes doubles) and includes a few thirty-second notes.
Since Bach does not use Clar or Clarino in our sense of the term, it is possible
that these instances refer instead to the Clarinetto.
CORNO, CORNETTO AND TROMBONE. Sometimes Bach designates
a presumed horn part as Corno and sometimes as Corno da caccia (or variant
thereof). While some today have taken these to be separate instruments, others
find them to be simply terminological variants. After describing the difficulties
157
that many presumed horn parts pose for modern players, Reine Dahlquist
concludes: “Some of the most difficult parts written in the 18th and 19th centuries
have been played by modern hornists, but only after long preparation.”72 But
were these parts actually played on the horn? According to Hiller’s journal
(1770), it was a very limited instrument:
It is well known that the Waldhorn, despite its favorable service to music,
still remains very imperfect, however much virtuosos in Germany and
Bohemia have distinguished themselves with it in recent times. They
play only in certain keys appropriate for the horn; it is impossible to play
in all of them, least of all in the tender and subdued keys of F minor,
E major, C minor, etc. As is always said: “These don’t work on the
horn; they are not for the horn” [boldface original].73
If an outstanding composer were to write an aria in one of these keys or
modulate to one of them, continues the writer, he could not use the horn because
some of the notes cannot be produced. With such a categorical statement about
the horn’s limitations coming twenty years after Bach’s death and from Leipzig,
where he spent so many years, we must wonder how some of his horn parts
could have been played on this instrument. Some movements are written in the
very keys that Hiller’s journal says are impossible for the horn. Cantata ‘Liebster
Gott’ (BWV 8) in E major requires the Corno to produce D\, A\ and B\. Unlike
most genuine horn parts, it is not transposed, but written at concert pitch. The
same is true of the Corno da caccia part Bach later added to “Was soll ich aus dir
machen” (BWV 89) in the “impossible” key of C minor.
Eleven of Bach’s cantatas containing Corno parts with notes outside the
natural horn’s compass are identified as an autograph,74 while there are many
more from copyists.75 In this category, too, abbreviation seems to be a factor.
Although it includes notes unsuitable for horn, an instrumental part for “Herr
Christ, der ein’ge Gottessohn” (BWV 96) specifies Corno. Observing that this
designation includes the final period [.], Matthias Wendt asks if Corno. is instead
an abbreviation for Cornetto.76 The part is written for a D instrument, which
points to the Cornetto but not the Corno in Bach’s usage. His Cornetto parts appear
both at concert pitch and in D. Perhaps a Cornetto was intended for the opening
chorus of “Herr, gehe nicht ins Gericht” (BWV 105; ex. 9), where the Corno
must traverse a chromatic line far outside its domain and do it in unison with the
oboe.77 It seems strange that, with one later exception, Bach should after 1725
suddenly stop using the Cornetto, a useful chromatic instrument having both the
notes and flexibility lacking in the trumpet and horn. A staple of town-musician
life, it was widely used in German compositions. For example, the Sinfonia of
Dieterich Buxtehude’s cantata, “Ihr lieben Christen,” includes a choir of three
cornetts playing trumpet-like parts, accompanied by three trombones. Two
158
Trombette (“little trumpets”) have independent parts in another movement from

this cantata, and are accompanied by cornetts and trombones.78
Ex. 9. Bach, BWV 105/1, mm.1-9.
Also unusual in Bach’s cantatas after 1725 is the lack of trombone parts.
Because of its slide, the trombone could provide the best intonation of all the
brass instruments, and on all the notes. Yet he seems to have used it only once
more in his composition (BWV 118, ca.1737). Perhaps the versatile Trombone
performed some of these Tromba parts having notes outside their customary
compass. When the Leipzig test candidate cited in chapter 2 could not perform
the concertirenden chorale on the Zugtrompete, he was asked to play it on the alto
trombone. Why would Bach discard such a useful instrument?
****
In unraveling the mystery of how Bach’s Tromba and Corno parts were
performed, various factors are relevant. His players could not specialize on one
instrument beyond a limited degree, which excludes the development of any
extraordinary embouchure. Terminology varied widely and other instruments
could be trumpet substitutes. With trombone and horn both classified under
the category of “trumpet” in sources of the period, it is probable that Tromba
and Corno were used in a generic sense to designate a brass-like instrument that
could best perform the part. Even woodwind instruments like the oboe and
chalumeau could substitute for the trumpet.
Aside from Fantini, all early writers restrict the trumpet’s compass to the
harmonic series and most advise composers to use the false partials with caution.
None of the latter mentions lipping as a means to obtain the missing notes,
and J. E. Altenburg criticizes such attempts as futile. Thus Fantini’s claim for
obtaining them is not substantiated by others. Most likely, he was a product of
his age’s low intonation standards, for much of the public and many musicians
could not hear the discord.
159
Leipzig-area sources which treat the trumpet and horn can be summarized
as follows:
1700. The Leipzig cantor Kuhnau’s satire involving the town musicians’
repudiation of the charlatan’s boast about playing notes in the alto
range on the trumpet.
1743. Hillen’s list of the trumpet’s limited notes, as published in the
Neu eröffnete musikalische Bibliothek, edited by Bach’s acquaintance
Mizler.
1760s. J. E. Altenburg’s dismissal of claims for obtaining notes outside
the harmonic series.
1770. J. A. Hiller’s Leipzig journal, which declares that many notes
cannot be obtained on the horn.
1799. F. Rochlitz, editor of Leipzig’s Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung, who
writes that their forefathers used trumpets and kettle drums just
for musical exultation — “only crashing.”79
1815. The Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung, which cites the benefits that
would accrue if the trumpet and horn could obtain the missing
notes.
Unlike today, when trumpeters have every reason to cultivate a refined

tone, eighteenth-century town musicians spent most of their time producing
the greatest possible volume in order to be heard outdoors at a distance, and
could have had no capability for switching to a refined tone for art music.
Trumpets and kettle drums were associated principally with war-like music and
secondarily with that of great jubilation. Since these instruments required a
four- to five-fold increase in strings, this demanding effort would have been
reserved for those festive occasions when Bach did write idiomatic trumpet
parts. Instead of rationing the Tromba, as contemporary commentators advise,
Bach included it in almost a third of his cantatas, often without the kettledrums
that customarily accompanied them, and in an unsuitable context for such a
strident tone. Its missing notes appear frequently, the false partials are not
treated cautiously, and the writing does not observe the limitations of this
“thankless” instrument.
Bach always utilized Italian nomenclature, and instances above suggest
that abbreviation may have been a factor in some cases, such as Clar or Clarino
for Clarinetto, or Corno for Cornetto. Similarly, Tromba could at times have been
an abbreviation of Trombone (spelled Trombona in BWV 2 and 38). The period
after Tromba. in the above-mentioned Tromba. ô Corno part from BWV 46 might
signify an abbreviation for Trombona.
160
It seems possible that Bach did not abandon the trombone, the most tractable
and useful brass instrument, early in his Leipzig career, but wrote solo parts for it
under the name of Tromba. The Cornetto and Trombona had long been a staple of
German church music and continued to be so well after Bach’s death. They have
the compass and agility lacking in the trumpet and horn, and their tone blends well
in an ensemble. Other instruments, too, might be effective for these Tromba parts.
In cantatas BWV 70/9 and 127/4, Bach uses the Tromba to accompany
solo arias for bass whose texts specify a trombone (“Posaune”).80
“Ach, soll nicht dieser grosse Tag, der Welt Verfall, und der Posaunen Schall”
“Wenn einstens die Posaunen schallen”
Not only would a trombone balance the voice better than a trumpet, but it
would reflect the text.
When dealing with the informal terminology in manuscripts, categorical
judgments are risky at best. Viewing Tromba and Corno as simply generic
classifications enables us to choose the instrument best suited technically to
handle the part in question, as well as the one having a tone color and volume
most appropriate to the text and vocal forces.
Endnotes
1
This abridged chapter appeared originally in Ad Parnassum 6 (October 2008): 7-39.
2
See Beverly Jerold, The Complexities of Early Instrumentation: Winds and Brass (Turnhout: Brepols,
2015).
3
Praetorius/1619, 2:19f. Mersenne/1636, 3:248f., “Liure Cinquiesme des Instruments à vent.”
Girolamo Fantini, Modo per imparare a sonare di tromba (Frankfort, 1638; rpt. 1978), [p. 6]; and Method
for Learning to Play the Trumpet, trans. Edward H. Tarr (Nashville: Brass Press, 1975), p. 3. Francis
Roberts, “A Discourse concerning the Musical Notes of the Trumpet, and Trumpet-Marine, and
of the defects of the same,” in: Philosophical Transactions (1683-1775), XVI (London, 1686), 559-63.
Daniel Speer, Grund-richtiger . . . Unterricht der musicalischen Kunst, 2nd edn. (Ulm, 1697), 209. Christoph
Weigel, Abbildung der gemein-nützlichen Haupt-Stände . . . (Regensburg, 1698), 234f. Mattheson/1713,
265f. Johann Philipp Eisel, Musicus autodidaktos . . . (Erfurt, 1738), 87f. Joseph Friedrich Bernhard
Caspar Majer, Neu-eröffneter theoretisch- und pracktischer Music-Saal, 2nd edn. (Nürnberg, 1741), 53. Jo-
hann Georg Hillen, “Die uralte . . . Octaven und Quintenlast erleichert . . . ,” Neu eröffnete musika-
lische Bibliothek, ed. Lorenz Christoph Mizler von Kolof, 2/4 (Leipzig, 1743; rpt. 1966): 43-58 at 49
plus commentary by “Aristobulus,” 59. Adlung/1758, 597f. Francoeur/1772, 61. Laborde/1780,
1: 277. Johann Georg Albrechtsburger, Gründliche Anweisung zur Composition (Leipzig, 1790), 429,
440. Johann Ernst Altenburg, Versuch einer Anleitung . . . Trompeter- und Pauker-Kunst (Halle, 1795;
rpt. 1966), 69-71. Anton Reicha, Cours de composition musicale (Paris, [1818]), 258. Gottfried Weber,
“Ventilhorn und Ventiltrompete,” Cäcilia 17 (Mainz, 1835): 73-105 at 77. Hector Berlioz, Grand
traité d’instrumentation et d’orchestration, 2nd edn. (Paris, [188-]),186. Several of these sources, such as
Praetorius, Mersenne, Roberts and Weigel, are cited by Detlef Altenburg, Untersuchungen zur Ge-
schichte der Trompete im Zeitalter der Clarinblaskunst (1500-1800), 3 vols. (Regensburg, Gustav Bosse,
1973), 1:320. In a few cases, I have used different editions than did Altenburg.
4
Quoted from p. 82 of Kuhnau’s book by Hermann Eichborn, “Girolamo Fantini, ein Virtuos
161
des 17. Jahrhunderts und seine Trompeten-Schule,” Monatshefte für Musikgeschichte 22 (1890): 120.
5
Francoeur/1772, 61, 64, 67.
6
Speer, Unterricht, 218f.
7
Kurtzgefasstes musicalisches Lexicon (Chemnitz, 1737), 89: “Clarino, ist so viel als eine Trombone,
oder Posaune.”
8
Jacques Ozanam, Dictionaire mathématique (Amsterdam, 1691), 668: “Mais on apelle Trompete
Harmonique, ou Saquebute une espece de Trompete harmonieuse, qui a plus de Branches, & qui est
plus longue que la Trompete ordinaire, dont elle imite le son.”
9
Laborde/1780, 1:272. Other instances are cited by John Webb, “The Flat Trumpet in Perspec-
tive,” Galpin Society Journal 46 (1993): 154-60 at 154.
10
Friedrich Friese, Ceremoniel und Privilegia derer Trompeter und Paucker (Dresden, 1709), 8. Quoted
by Matthew Cron, “In Defense of Altenburg: The Pitch and Form of Foreign Trumpets,” Historic
Brass Society Journal 8 (1996): 6-41 at 13.
11
Johann Heinrich von Oroll, Vollständige theoretische und praktische Geschichte der Erfindungen (Basel,
1789-95), 1:217. Quoted by Cron, “Defense,” 22.
12
Johann Heinrich Zedler, Grosses vollständiges Universal-Lexicon aller Wissenschafften und Künste (Halle,
1745), 45:1105: “man findet auch eine Gattung von gewundenen Trompeten, dergleichen die
Italiänischen sind, welche etliche mal rund herum gewunden sind. Hieher gehören endlich auch
die Posaunen, die Post- und Waldhörner, welche alle in Nürnberg von den so genannten Trompe-
tenmachern am besten gemachet werden.”
13
Walther/1732, “Tromba.”
14
Sébastien de Brossard, Dictionaire de musique (Paris, 1703): “TROMBONE. C’est un espece
d’Instrument à vent . . . qui est fait à peu prés comme la Trompette militaire. . . . on allonge & l’on
racourcit l’étenduë de cette Trompette autant que l’on veut, selon les différens Sons.”
15
Berlioz, Traité, 199.
16
Arnold Schering, “Die Leipziger Ratsmusik von 1650 bis 1775,” Archiv für Musikwissenschaft 3
(1921): 34.
17
Arnold Schering, Der Musikgeschichte Leipzigs von 1650-1723 (Leipzig: Kistner & Siegel, 1926),
2:270. Reiche’s portrait is included in the article cited in note 1 above, p.14.
18
Quantz/Versuch, 263 (XVII/vii/50n.).
19
J. E. Altenburg, Versuch, 12.
20
Don L. Smithers, “The Baroque Trumpet after 1721,” Early Music, 5/2 (1977): 177-83 at 181
and 6/3 (1978): 356-61. Also Detlef Altenburg, Untersuchungen, 1:275ff.
21
Roger North on Music: Being a Selection from his Essays Written during the Years c.1695-1728, ed. John
Wilson (London, Novello, 1959), 229 and note 25.
22
23
“Von der Kirchenmusik,” WNAM 1 (15 June 1767): 396.
24
25
Ignaz Ferdinand Kajetan Arnold, Der angehende Musikdirektor (Erfurt: Hennigs, 1806), 271f.
26
Musikalisches Wochenblatt, ed. J. F. Reichardt and F. L. A. Kunzen (Berlin, 1791): 78.
27
Majer, Music-Saal, preface.
28
Georg Andreas Sorge, Gespräch zwischen einem Musico theoretico und einem Studioso musices (Loben-
stein, 1748), 58.
29
G. A. Sorge, Anweisung zur Stimmung (Hamburg, 1744), 52.
30
Petri/1782, 178f.
31
Smithers, “Baroque trumpet,” 181f.
32
Don L. Smithers, Klaus Wogram, and John Bowsher, “Playing the Baroque Trumpet,” Scientific
162
American, 254/4 (1986): 108-15.

33
Fantini, Modo, p. 3 of E. Tarr’s translation.
34
Fantini’s technique is discussed by Detlef Altenburg, Untersuchungen, 316-18, where the passage
from Mersenne (Harmonicorum libri XII, 109) is quoted in full. Listing the relatively few times that
Fantini uses a note outside the harmonic series in one of his compositions, Altenburg observes
that he never uses the more easily obtained b [’.
35
Eisel, Musicus, 92.
36
37
Anon., “Ueber die neuerlichen Verbesserungen der Trompete,” AmZ 17 (September 1815),
634.
38
See Jerold, Instrumentation.
39
Jeremy Montagu, “More on Beethoven . . . ,” FoMRHI Quarterly (Fellowship of Makers and
Researchers of Historical Instruments), no. 71 (1993): 22.
40
Don L. Smithers, The Music and History of the Baroque Trumpet before 1721 (Buren, Frits Knuf,
1988), 27.
41
Cited by Don L. Smithers, “Die Verwendung der Blechblasinstrumente bei J. S. Bach unter
besonderer Berücksichtigung der Tromba da tirarsi . . . ,” Bach-Jahrbuch 76 (1990): 37-51 at 39.
42
Quoted by Detlef Altenburg, Untersuchungen, 1:259-61.
43
Johann Joseph Klein, Lehrbuch der theoretischen Musick (Offenbach, [1801]), 104.
44
Majer, Music-Saal, 54.
45
Praetorius/1619, 1:31. Adlung/1758, 597.
46
Klein, Lehrbuch, diagram inserted at p.104.
47
Anon., “Brief an die Verfasser der kritischen Briefe,” KBT 1 (12 April 1760): 337.
48
Schubart/1806, 315, 311.
49
50
Adam Carse, The History of Orchestration (London, 1925), 177.
51
Walther/1732, 168.
52
Eisel, Musicus,78. Cited by Albert R. Rice, The Baroque Clarinet (Oxford, Clarendon Press, 1992),
93.
53
Noted by Heinz Becker in the Nachwort to the 1954 Kassel reprint of Majer’s first edition
entitled Museum musicum (Schwäbisch Hall, 1732).
54
Johann Christoph Weigel, Musicalisches theatrum (Nürnberg, ca.1722; rpt. 1961), leaf 14: “Wann der
Trompeten-Schall will allzulaut erthönen, so dient das Clarinet auf angenehme weiss.”
55
Cited by Colin Lawson, “Telemann and the Chalumeau,” Early Music 9/3 (1981): 312-29 at 318f.
56
Wilhelm Braun, “Bemerkungen über die richtige Behandlung und Blasart der Oboe,” AmZ 25
(March 1823): 165-72 at 166.
57
Roger North on Music, 230.
58
Brossard, Dictionaire, “TROMBA: . . . Ce qu’on peut supléer par des Haut-bois, &c.”
59
Majer, Music-Saal, 49.
60
Schubart/1806, 318.
61
Quoted by Colin Lawson, The Chalumeau in Eighteenth-Century Music (Ann Arbor, UMI Research
Press, 1981), 20.
62
See Thurston Dart, “The Mock Trumpet,” Galpin Society Journal 6 (1953): 35-40.
63
Cited by Lawson, Chalumeau, 33.
64
Cited by Herbert Heyde, “Instrumentenkundliches über Horn und Trompete bei Johann Sebas-
tian Bach,” in Bach-Studien (Wiesbaden, Breitkopf & Härtel, 1991), 10:250f.
65
For examples, see note 1, pp.35f.
163
66
Cited by Detlef Altenburg, Untersuchungen, 1:258.
67
A list of cantata movements requiring the diatonic and chromatic capability of the Zugtrompete is
included in Charles Sanford Terry, Bach’s Orchestra (London, Oxford University Press, 1932), 191ff.
A check of cantatas considered appropriate for the natural trumpet reveals some with notes ou\side
the harmonic series, such as the Weimar cantata BWV 31 — b’, c \’’, g\’’. In reviewing Terry’s table,
Thomas G. MacCracken, “Die Verwendung der Blechblasinstrumente bei J. S. Bach,” Bach Jahrbuch
70 (1984): 82, offers a few corrections and additions. [BWV 12/6, with its use of a’ and the out-of-
tune partial b [’ on long notes, does not seem feasible for the natural trumpet.] Smithers responded
to MacCracken in “Die Verwendung der Blechblasinstrumente,” (see note 41).
68
Smithers, “Baroque trumpet,” 359.
69
Othon Vandenbrock, Traité général de tous les instrumens à vent à l’usage des compositeurs (Paris, ca.1794;
rpt. 1973), 63.
70
Cited by Kirsten Beisswenger and Uwe Wolf, “Tromba, Tromba da tirarsi oder Corno? Zur
Clarinostimme . . . BWV 24,” Bach-Jahrbuch 79 (1993): 91-101 at 100.
71
Matthias Wendt, Krit. Bericht, Kantaten zum 18. Und 19. Sonntag nach Trinitatis, NBA I/24 (1991),
114.
72
Reine Dahlquist, “Corno and Corno da Caccia: Horn Terminology, Horn Pitches, and High
Horn Parts,” in Basler Jahrbuch 15 (1991), 35-80 at 38 and 80. In BWV 14 the cover of the parts
(and the score) designates “1 Corne da Caccia,” but the main title states “1 Corne;” the movement
designation is “Corne” and the instrumental part itself is called “Corne per force.”
73
Anon., WNAM [4] (1770): 217, § 70: “. . . die stehen nicht auf dem Horn, die sind nicht
für das Horn.” Also 229ff.
74
MacCracken,”Verwendung,” 81f.
75
Terry, Bach’s Orchestra, 191-93.
76
Wendt, Kritischer Bericht, 41.
77
Cited by MacCracken, “Verwendung,” 71.
78
Dietrich Buxtehude, Abendmusiken und Kirchenkantaten, ed. Max Seiffert, rev. Hans Joachim Mos-
er (Wiesbaden, Breitkopf & Härtel and Graz, Akademische Druck, 1957), (Denkmäler deutscher
Tonkunst, 1/14), 111, 121.
79
Friedrich Rochlitz, “Bruchstücke aus Briefen an einen jungen Tonsetzer,” AmZ 2 (23 October
1799), 57-63 at 59.
80
Cited by Bernd Heyder, “Colla parte und Concertato,” Concerto 11 (April 1994): 20-23, note 23.
164
CHAPTER 10
Mälzel’s Role in Beethoven’s Symphonic

Metronome Marks1
A recent recording of Beethoven’s symphonies that utilizes his metronome
marks invites further discussion of this topic, but from a new perspective.2
Marks for his first eight symphonies, “determined by the composer himself
according to Maelzel’s metronome,” appeared in Leipzig’s Allgemeine musikalische
Zeitung on 17 December 1817.3 In all probability, this was at the instigation of
Johann Nepomuk Mälzel, based in Vienna, who had appropriated the metro-
nome’s invention from Dietrich Nikolaus Winkel in Amsterdam, patented it,
and undertaken major publicity efforts. Although a court of arbitration later
decided in Winkel’s favor, in 1817 Mälzel was believed to be the inventor, and he
traveled to European cities to promote the device. In Paris, he published a No-
tice sur le métronome (1816) in which some forty composers (including Beethoven)
from Germany, Austria, France and England endorse the metronome.4 These
endorsements were vital to Mälzel’s marketing success. For composers’ conve-
nience in selecting a tempo, he then published in 1818 a scale of metronome
numbers that he thought suitable for replacing the principal Italian terms of
tempo (fig. 2 below).5 This scale, however, can be highly misleading. Might it
be implicated in the many implausible metronome marks in composers’ scores?6
The questions raised by some of Beethoven’s numbers have been the subject of
discussion for over a century, and this material need not be covered again. In-
stead, after considering the historical context, this chapter will focus on Mälzel’s
role in these and other tempo marks.
Historical context
Beethoven’s hearing loss is a major factor when considering his tempo
marks. By 1799 its magnitude was sufficient to make him avoid society. In 1814,
three years before preparing his first tempo numbers, Louis Spohr heard him
conduct his Seventh Symphony. Unable to hear the piano sections, Beethoven
was ahead of the orchestra by as much as ten or twelve measures. By 1816, all
tones were lost to him. Any use that Beethoven made of the metronome would
have had to be either with another person or gauged according to the pendulum’s
visual movement. Even for us, who have grown up with the metronome ticking
in our ears and are accustomed to music with little deviation from a steady
beat, the latter would be unlikely to produce an accurate reading. Following a
165
metronome precisely can be a particular challenge for one who never had an
opportunity to learn its discipline when he still had his hearing.
A second matter is the period’s unstable rhythm. To find an accurate
metronome number for a specific piece, one must play or sing with exactly even
beats, a skill that cannot be claimed by every musician. Selecting an appropriate
tempo with a metronome has been thought a simple matter. For today’s
performers who regularly practice with it, that is true. For others, however, it
may not be so simple. Probably everyone who teaches applied music to non-
performance music majors has had some students who have difficulty following
the metronome, despite being surrounded by rhythmically sound music. Now
imagine ourselves in the early nineteenth century, never having worked with
such a machine and accustomed to the resulting rhythmic inaccuracy. Early
sources frequently cite the great difficulty encountered in holding ensembles
together rhythmically. Even highly skilled musicians found the rigor of a loud
metronomic device (Zeitmesser) a challenge, as recalled by the former Berlin
Capellmeister Johann Friedrich Reichardt, who was present at a gathering in
Paris (1803) where individuals tried unsuccessfully to keep time with it:
The opportunity of a musical Zeitmesser prompted the men and women
of musical talent to all sorts of experiments at the fortepiano. None of
us succeeded completely in attempting to sing or play anything exactly
in time according to such a very artificial and precise Zeitmesser. Playing
or even singing any piece throughout in such a way that each beat of
each single measure is completely exact would be possible only by to-
tally eliminating all feeling and interpretation; and since it is the teacher’s
duty to show the difficulty, or rather impossibility, of it, he calls out at
the first note that does not exactly coincide with the device: “Stop!”
Mr. Charles made us feel better by saying that it was just as impossible
for great virtuosos such as Duport, Viotti and others to play even eight
measures with the Zeitmesser’s loud strokes completely accurately.7
If anyone were abreast of the latest developments, it was the inveterate
traveler Reichardt. His account (one among others) indicates how very difficult
it was for even the best musicians to keep time with a metronomic device.
This is corroborated by later writers as well, such as Gustav Nottebohm, who
in1872 quotes from Beethoven’s letter [November 1817] to Ignaz von Mosel
about the possibility of substituting metronome numbers for tempo words
such as Allegro and Andante.8 “What can be said against the metronome,” says
Nottebohm in commenting on Beethoven’s letter, “is the incompatibility of its
equal beats with genuine musical rhythm, and the ensuing difficulty of defining
a composition’s tempo according to the machine’s equal beats. It is a well-
known phenomenon that it is difficult to play a piece throughout in accord with
a ticking metronome, and also that metronome tempo marks made at different
166
Mälzel’s Role in Beethoven’s Symphonic Metronome Marks
times for a piece seldom are completely the same.”9 More than half a century
after the metronome’s invention, musicians were unable to keep exact time with
it, which makes their tempo numbers suspect.
Both Reichardt and Nottebohm indicate the incompatibility of
mathematically precise beats with musical interpretation, a view frequently
expressed. In 1806, Friedrich Guthmann, author of teaching methods, writes
about the recent invention of a time-measuring device (Taktmesser), which has been
suggested as also useful for keeping players in time, an idea he finds unsettling:
Whoever can and wants to keep time precisely according to the Takt-
messer throughout a whole piece must at the least be no very sensitive
and expressive player. Such control of the expression must also lead to
an inevitable stiffness in performance; in most cases, it is even contrary
to the spirit of true music. Therefore, the Taktmesser’s true function
should be more to indicate the initial tempo than to require following
it strictly throughout the piece during the increasing fire of execution
and dense profusion of ideas. The greatest artists have also shown that
they cannot play in harmony with such a mechanical instrument, for
it is contrary to their sensitivity, and they instinctively depart from it.10
In 1841, the composer Ignaz Moscheles, who had arranged the piano
score of Fidelio under Beethoven’s direction, notes the necessity of frequent
tempo fluctuations in music performance:
The musical world knows that marking the time by a metronome is but
a slight guide for performers and conductors. Its object is to show the
general time of a movement, particularly at its commencement; but it is
not to be followed strictly throughout; for no piece, except a march or
a dance, would have any real life and expression, or light and shade, if
the Solo performer, or the orchestra under its conductor, were strictly
to adhere to one and the same tempo, without regard to the many marks
which command its variations. . . . The player or conductor, who enters
into the time and spirit of the piece must feel when and where he has to
introduce the necessary changes: and these are often of so delicate a na-
ture, that the marks of the metronome would become superabundant,
not to say impossible.11
When urging the metronome’s adoption (1817), Mosel cites its advantage
for even the most skilled composers. In the course of writing a longer work, he
says, they may introduce middle sections incompatible with the original tempo
because they have forgotten it. Vocal compositions are especially susceptible
to this error, for in the middle or end of a longer piece the composer may
set the text more densely than can be sung comprehensibly at the original
tempo. “If the composer puts the metronome in motion while he writes, he
will always have his tempo present without having to look up from the paper,
167
and he is spared the danger of having to revise an excellent composition or

even put it aside completely because he no longer recalls the original tempo
accurately when continuing his work.”12 Mosel thus indicates what life was like
before the metronome’s wide adoption, for even the best composers could not
always remember the tempo with which they had begun a piece. This clarifies
the interpretation of many pieces that require a faster tempo at the beginning
than is suitable later. With our advanced technique and mechanically fluent
instruments, our performers can retain the original tempo, but at the expense
of clarity. Only those listeners who are fully conversant with the work can grasp
the details that fly by with lightning rapidity.
The rhythmic regularity applied to early music today was never a part of it.
The admonition to “strict rhythm” in early sources has to be read in the context
of great rhythmic irregularity. They had never experienced what we consider
to be strict rhythm. Tempo was constantly fluctuating to a considerable extent,
partly for expressive purposes and partly because players had never been
disciplined by metronome practice. Under these circumstances, selecting an
accurate metronome mark would have posed a greater challenge than thought
today. Unless the tempo being measured is completely steady, one cannot get
an accurate reading.
A further question is whether the instruments of Beethoven’s time had
the capability to manage some of his faster tempo marks. As documented in
my Complexities of Early Instrumentation: Winds and Brass, these instruments were
severely deficient in terms of even speaking ability, mechanical responsiveness,
and intonation. For example, according to Johann Heinrich Walch (music
director for the Duke of Saxony), great progress had been made in improving the
woodwinds by1841, but many difficulties nevertheless remain insurmountable.
With the increasing technical demands of new music, players have a right to
expect better instruments. He admires the innovations in reliable and manageable
key location, but finds that the main issue is frequently overlooked: purity of
intonation. If an instrument does happen to have this, he adds, a facile speaking
ability eludes it.13 Without the fluency of today’s improved period instruments,
Beethoven’s faster tempo markings could not have been achieved. And without
good intonation, ensemble precision is impossible, making very rapid tempos
unattainable. Even by 1865, the lexicographer Arrey von Dommer finds that
the oboe’s low c, c \ , d and d \ and the high d, d \ , e and f do not speak well when
approached by leap. The instrument’s high notes are too loud, while the low
ones are coarse. Many trills are difficult and others are unplayable. Otherwise,
he says, it has considerable facility in major and minor keys having up to two
sharps and three flats [a limiting requirement, considering composers’ frequent
modulations to more distant keys].14
168
Faulty instruments and the lack of metronome training explain why

Friedrich Rochlitz, former editor of the Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung, said in
1828 that it was difficult for the critic to judge Beethoven’s works accurately
when they first appeared. He credits the composer as largely responsible for
raising instrumental execution to a level that just fifty years earlier would have
been declared absolutely impossible. Even though their present-day orchestra,
in terms of skill and expression, ranks far above that of earlier times, “how
many are able to perform Beethoven’s last symphonies as they should be
played?”15 The state of affairs was later expressed by the poet and dramatist
Ignaz F. Castelli (1781-1862): “The giant Beethoven appeared with his gigantic
creations. But the instrumentalists were unable to play them and the public did
not understand them. . . . Beethoven even had to withdraw that superb, greatest
of masterpieces, the overture to the opera Leonore because it was declared to be
unplayable. Now instrumentalists have studied all these masterpieces through
and through. Yes, they know every last note by heart and they perform these
compositions with all possible precision. And so the public, too, has learned to
understand and admire them.”16
Beethoven’s interest in the metronome stemmed from the faulty tempos
in which others performed his works. One result of the period’s rhythmic
instability was a marked tendency for performers and orchestras to rush the
faster tempos. After an exasperating experience with metronome numbers,
Beethoven is reported to have said (despite his obvious hope for the metronome
as a solution): “Anyone who can feel the music right does not need it [the
metronome], and for anyone who can’t, nothing is of any use; he runs away
with the whole orchestra anyway!”17 At this point in time, there is much truth in
these words—and the matter must have been a great trial for composers. When
urging the metronome’s adoption, The Quarterly Musical Magazine and Review (1821)
observes: “. . . the English instrumentalists are said to have accelerated the time
of every thing they play, beyond the usage of other nations. Mr. Keisewetter
[sic] leading Beethoven’s and Haydn’s symphonies at the Philharmonic Concert,
we understand, insisted strongly upon their being played slower than that
orchestra had been accustomed to perform them, and we have heard very old
and very able musicians mention, that the rage for rapidity is of late become so
great as sometimes to perplex even first-rate violinists, if they happen not to be
thoroughly acquainted with the passage.”18
Sometimes the leader was at fault, but in other cases he simply could not
keep the orchestra under control. In a letter to Lea Mendelssohn-Bartholdy
(April 6, 1825), Felix Mendelssohn relates his impression of the Paris Opéra
orchestra playing Beethoven’s Second Symphony:
169
The performance was nothing special at all. The tempi were altogether
too fast, and Habeneck, who conducted from the violin and would have
liked to hold them back, made himself quite miserable, stamping his
feet, hitting the stand with his bow so hard that it wobbled, and moving
his whole body, but none of it was of any avail, they simply wouldn’t
slow down, rushing and rushing until at the end they were almost tum-
bling over one another.19
In 1825, the Paris orchestras were reckoned among the best in Europe,
and François-Antoine Habeneck was considered an outstanding leader. But
without the metronome training for every orchestra member, which we take for
granted, it was a formidable task to hold the ensemble together in more rapid
tempos. The orchestra of the Paris Conservatoire (also under Habeneck) was
widely credited as being the first anywhere to capture the essence of Beethoven’s
symphonies. This, however, had required herculean work. When quoting
Beethoven’s lament to Rochlitz about the inadequate rehearsal time in Vienna,
Anton Schindler adds a footnote: “Will it be believed in Vienna that Beethoven’s
Symphonies were assiduously practised from twelve to sixteen months, and the
Ninth Symphony . . . full two years, in the Conservatoire of Paris, before they
were performed in public?”20
In 1843, Mosel regrets that the metronome is still not used as much
as it should be; thus the composer’s work is spoiled by rushing. Citing how
Beethoven had long ago recommended this device, he adds: “Whoever knows
how much a piece’s effect depends on observing the composer’s tempo and
hears how older works, namely Mozart’s operas, are now dashed over so that all
clarity vanishes and all enjoyment of the countless beautiful details is lost, can
only regret that this invention did not come along a hundred years earlier to give
us a true understanding of a Händel, a Bach, a Graun and others.”21
Instruments and players’ technique had both improved by 1854, but
orchestras could not play accurately at a fast tempo, as indicated by the critic
Otto Jahn when discussing “The Leipzig Concert Series” (which had included
works by Beethoven):
A fundamental flaw in all the performances of the orchestra is the ex-
aggerated speed of most of the tempi which, following Mendelssohn’s
unfortunate example, has become more and more prevalent here. This
is all the more deplorable since the orchestra cannot keep up the pace,
so that the tempo finally lags perceptibly. It is obvious that such a fast
tempo, which no one would confuse with fire and passion, bespeaks a
lack of clear feeling, and completely obliterates the character and mean-
ing of the composition, just as it is obvious that the tone and the sound,
suffering from this speed, can never come into their own. If this ra-
pidity indicated at least a virtuosity on the part of the orchestra, one
170
would marvel at it, but here it is quite another matter. The orchestra
is not capable of playing difficult works at this speed; they make only
half a pretence, neglecting all detail, and this style of slipping and slid-
ing, of doing nothing quite correctly, takes over. There is never any
more a question of fine nuances and shadings, and for these the gross,
vulgar shock-effects are no substitute. This haste and hurry spreads to
the whole concept and performance of music, and we can no longer
find loving care and perceptive treatment, either in the strict observance
of rhythmic divisions or in the distribution between light and shade in
polyphonic forms.22
In his metronome marks, Beethoven clearly meant to avoid, instead of
encourage, such ill-advised tempos. Unfortunately, his disability prevented him
from perceiving that he had accomplished the opposite of his intention. He
expressed his reservations about technically brilliant pieces in a letter of July 16,
1823 to his former pupil Ferdinand Ries, who must have mentioned his own
pieces (Klavierstücke, op. 99): “I’ll have to look at your allegri di bravura. To be
frank, I’m no friend of such, since they only further mechanical execution much
too much; at least those I know.”23
A final consideration is the unreliability of the metronome itself. As late
as 1886, Camille Saint-Saëns had to request the Académie des Sciences in Paris
to establish standards: “This instrument is employed universally. Unfortunately,
it can be useful only under the condition that it is an instrument of precision,
which is scarcely ever the case. The musical world is filled with metronomes
that are poorly constructed and poorly regulated [for accuracy], which mislead
musicians instead of guiding them.”24 In 1903, Frédéric Hellouin declares:
“Nearly all the ordinary metronomes are unsound. Also, certain composers,
with the best of intentions and a very meticulous bent, often provide inaccurate
tempos for their works.”25 Robert Schumann, he says, is a well-known example.
Timings compared
Beethoven’s metronome marks, which often produce uncommonly rapid
tempos, seem to differ from verbal descriptions of performances at the time.
For example, after Reichardt attended a concert in which Beethoven directed
his own works, he reported that it was four hours in length and the Pastoral
Symphony alone lasted longer than a whole concert at the Berlin court [a modern
recording using Beethoven’s tempo marks is slightly over thirty-eight minutes
in length]. Not unusual for the period is his observation that “several faulty
executions greatly tested our patience.” These included a complete breakdown,
necessitating a restart.26 The program comprised:
171
Pastoral Symphony
Aria sung by Miss Killitzky.
A Gloria with chorus and soloists.
Fortepiano concerto [Op. 58, which Beethoven played].
Symphony No. 5 in C minor.
A “Heilig” in Latin with chorus and soloists.
“Fantaisie” (piano) played by Beethoven
Choral Fantasia [Op. 80].
In 1847, The Musical Gazette reported that the Boston Philharmonic

Society’s performance of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony “occupies three quarters
of an hour in performance.”27 In modern recordings utilizing Beethoven’s
tempo marks, the entire symphony is around thirty-one minutes. A length
of forty-five minutes seems more realistic for an orchestra of musicians who
lacked our many advantages for attaining rapid tempos.
In a letter to Georg Friedrich Treitschke (24 September 1815), Beethoven
writes: “. . . for an oratorio like Christ on the Mount of Olives, which takes only half an
evening or should last only one hour and 9 minutes, I am paid 200 gold ducats.”28
A modern performance of this work has been clocked at fifty minutes.29
Mälzel the businessman

During a visit to Amsterdam in 1814, Mälzel had observed Winkel’s
ingenious compound pendulum for musical time-marking, and tried
unsuccessfully to purchase the invention from him. Proceeding to London,
Mälzel made a copy of the instrument he had seen, adding simply his scale
showing the gradations of tempo, and in 1815 applied for patents in various
countries. In Paris the following year, he set up a workshop for production, and
offered it for sale under the name “metronome.” After seeing Mälzel’s machine,
Winkel affirmed in a letter of June 1818 to the Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung
(hereafter: AmZ) that the invention of this device belonged to him. A court
of arbitration comprising members of the Amsterdam Royal Institute for the
Arts and Sciences determined that the device proper was invented by Winkel,
while Mälzel’s part consisted only of determining the scale of tempo gradations
as they correspond to the machine’s different degrees of speed.30 According
to the account of the Institute’s meeting (October 20, 1820) with Winkel and
Mälzel, Mälzel described his many trips to Vienna, Paris, London and other
cities; and the trouble he had had in convincing composers of the necessity
for a generally recognized time-measurement system, and persuading them to
accept his classification or numbering, which he called the only correct one. He
172
was finally successful and says that he is famous for this classification.31 The
commission’s decision in favor of Winkel had no binding legal effect, however,
for Mälzel already held patents and had swiftly marketed his machine in Europe
and America, calling it “Mälzel’s metronome.”
An example of Mälzel’s marketing endeavors is found in his twenty-four
letters (1816-21) to Breitkopf & Härtel (B&H), publisher of the AmZ :32
April 8, 1817, London: says that nearly all new publications of music in
France and England include metronome marks.
April 11, 1817, London: asks B&H to publish J. B. Cramer’s metronome
marks.
July 17, 1817, London: has found a way to make the metronome audible.
September 27, 1817, Munich: provides a table of tempo numbers for the
Italian terms (fig. 1 below), together with the request that they be
published in the AmZ.
October 9, 1817, Munich: asks B&H to publish his article, which cites
the advantage of his audible metronome over other machines
lacking such.
November 19, 1817, Vienna: expresses satisfaction with his efforts
to inform the Viennese composers about the metronome’s use.
Adds that “Beethoven has already numbered all his old and new
compositions, of which a catalog has appeared here, which I can
send you if you wish.” As a result of this, he is certain that all
major composers will supply metronome numbers.33 Requests the
AmZ to publish the article about the metronome, which is soon to
appear in the Wiener musikalischen Zeitung.34
January 18, 1818, Munich: claims that all composers in Vienna and
Munich are agreed about the plan of “Herrn von Pethofen,”
whereby the usual tempo terms like Andante, Allegro, Presto, etc.
will be abolished and the tempo indicated solely by the metronome
number, to which terms for expression should be added.35
Requests publication in the AmZ.
June 16, 1821, Paris: “Since I know from experience that German
musicians have absolutely no knowledge about using this instrument,
much less understand its advantage, I have wanted to request the
favor of having an Explication inserted in your Musikal. Zeitung.”36
Of Mälzel’s various requests, the AmZ published the following notices

and articles:
173
May 7, 1817: a notice that mentions the approval the metronome has
received in London, Paris, Vienna, etc. and promises a fuller report .
June 18, 1817: a substantial article, “Mälzels Metronom,” praising the
invention and offering composers and musicians instructions for its
use, quoted from an unnamed Viennese publication.37 Composers
are advised to inscribe their pieces with a phrase including the
inventor’s name; for example, “Mälzels Metronom, %, 60.” A
footnote mentions that the metronome is available for sale at the
B&H shop in Leipzig.
December 17, 1817: a chart of tempo marks for Beethoven’s first eight
symphonies.
February 25, 1818: a notice that the Kaiser had granted Mälzel a
Privilegium for his metronome.
In 1818, the AmZ took cognizance of reports that Mälzel was not the true
inventor of the metronome:
January 14, 1818: a brief report from an Amsterdam correspondent

indicating that Hr. Winkel had invented the metronome three years
earlier.
July 1, 1818: a substantial article, “Zur Geschichte des musikal.
Metronom,” in which Winkel’s claim is examined and held valid. It
is followed by Winkel’s brief letter, which refers to documentation
he had sent the AmZ on March 14, 1818.
But this revelation had little effect, especially outside of Germany and
Austria, and Mälzel continued to market the metronome as his own invention.
After an endorsement signed by Beethoven and Salieri in the issue of February
14, 1818, the Viennese AmZ (a different periodical) seems to have ceased
publishing material about Mälzel’s metronome.
Mälzel’s tempo charts

The instructions included in the AmZ’s article of June 18, 1817 appear
to have been insufficient for arousing interest in the metronome or using it
correctly, for Mälzel set to work preparing a chart of tempo classifications to
assist composers in finding numbers for their works. The first endeavor (fig.
1), which includes no provision for compound meter or the varieties of simple
meter, was submitted on September 27, 1817 to B&H, but not published.38
Tempos were not limited to the numbers in this table, for Mälzel appends the
following instruction:
174
80 eighth note is Adagio. If it is over 80, e.g. 88, 92, it is a somewhat

faster Adagio. If it is under 80, e.g., 69, 60, it is a slower Adagio.
80 quarter note is Andante. If it is over 80, e.g. 88, 92, it is a somewhat
faster Andante. If it is under 80, e.g. 69, 60, it is a slower one. Such
is the case with Allegro in the same manner.
In the December between the table in fig. 1 and the improved one published
in 1818 (fig. 2), the AmZ published the tempo numbers for Beethoven’s first
eight symphonies.39 No autograph of the list exists, however, and Mälzel may
have played a significant role in its preparation and publication. Having the
endorsement of the period’s most famous composer, whose handicap prevented
him from hearing the tempos chosen, was a major triumph. On April 19, 1818,
Mälzel wrote an ingratiating letter to Beethoven, enclosing two copies of the
just-printed table in fig. 2 and promising to send the Explication as soon as it
is printed. He describes the table as designed to place at composers’ disposal,
for all time signatures, the numbers they should choose, according to whether
the piece has a slow, moderate, or fast tempo. “It goes without saying,” he
continues, “that I will give you no instruction. You know the matter as well as
anyone else. But there are stupid and lazy people, whom one must spoonfeed .
. . And there are only too many in Paris.”40 Mälzel, who was resident in Vienna
between the end of October 1817 and the beginning of January 1818, thus
implies that he had worked with Beethoven in this regard, perhaps in connection
with the tempos for his symphonies and septet, published a few months earlier.
This letter also reveals that Mälzel had circulated Beethoven’s above-mentioned
letter, which in effect endorsed the metronome, to Mosel and that it had made
a “colossal sensation among the composers.” Furthermore, Mälzel says that his
table of composers’ tempos (fig. 3 below) proves the “absurdity” of the Italian
tempo words, for it shows that no composer agrees with another about their
meaning. Beethoven’s copy of these tables (see note 5) suggests that he had it
close at hand, for the reverse side was used by his nephew Karl to write down
part of a conversation concerning Karl’s mother, who wishes Beethoven to lend
her his maid servant.41
The significant improvement between Mälzel’s first and second tables
suggests that some musician had offered advice. Excerpts from the AmZ’s reprint
(1821) of Mälzel’s text accompanying the second table are as follows:42 “Since
experience daily teaches me how little musicians understand how to use the
divisions on my metronome suitably, and what erroneous usage . . . has thereby
crept in, I believe it necessary to recommend taking the following words to heart.”
Arbitrarily selecting 80 as a middle point, he observes that it produces
these tempos when applied to various time values:
175
80 eighth notes/minute = slow

80 quarter notes/minute = moderate
80 half notes/minute = fast
In choosing 60, the following tempos result:
60 quarter notes/minute = borders on Adagio

60 half notes/minute = moderate or Andante
120 half notes/minute = very fast
This concept is illustrated in fig.2, where C, (, and all are gauged in the
+
same manner, despite their great differences. Mälzel claims that this table enables
one to find a piece’s tempo more clearly by the number on the metronome
(whose scale ran from 50 to 160; see fig. 4 below) than by tempo words at the
head of a piece.43 While his tempo scheme seems plausible in theory, in practice
it breaks down because the actual beat unit in many pieces will differ.
Mälzel’s chart is a likely explanation for the implausible metronome marks
in nineteenth-century music, for some would simply have followed his advice
to select a number from the tempo classification they desired. This can be
verified by his table in fig. 3, which represents published tempos chosen by
Fig. 1. Mälzel, unpublished tempo classification (September 27, 1817)

reproduced from p.133 of Günther Haupt’s 1927 essay “J. N. Mälzels Briefe
an Breitkopf & Härtel”
176
177
Fig. 2. Mälzel’s Table 1 (May 1818): “Division of Musical Time according to the Metronome of J. Mälzel,” from the
pamphlet Notice sur le Métronome de J. Maelzel (from the collection of the Ira F. Brilliant Center for Beethoven Studies)
the composers named.44 Since some of these numbers extend far beyond the
metronome’s upper limits, as shown, they had not used the machine in finding
them, but had simply chosen them from Mälzel’s chart in fig. 2; for example,
Beethoven’s Prestos marked as # = 176 and 224. According to Mälzel, the chart
in fig. 3 proves the uselessness of tempo words:
What contradiction is there not in the concepts of various musicians.
During my sojourn in London, J. B. Cramer protested to me that no one
played his exercises in his desired tempo. In my presence, he numbered
both of his works, and one can see in the following table how far the
numeration is from his prescribed Italian tempo words. In his Exercices,
$ $
Mr. Cramer marked one Moderato as = 63, but another as = 116—
therefore, almost twice as fast. While he marked a Moderato in as +
% %
= 100, he marked another as = 252. Without a metronome, who
could guess the musician’s intent? For an Andantino in :, Mr. Nicolo
F
designated a tempo of = 52, while for an Andantino in the same me-
F
ter Catel chose a = 126.45
%
The = 252 reveals that Cramer used Mälzel’s table, not the metronome,
for determining his tempo. Ever the tireless salesman, Mälzel adds that his
metronome has spread not only in Germany, not only throughout Europe, but
also in Baltimore, Philadelphia, Boston, and Calcutta, and is daily being sent out.
Mälzel and others did not understand that tempo cannot be reduced
to such a pat formula. The fact that composers, too, were influenced by his
tempo chart indicates that they had not yet developed the skills for using the
metronome properly. Accustomed to great rhythmic freedom, they would have
been, without laborious retraining, unable to keep a steady enough tempo to
determine where the ticks were falling. And tempo necessarily has to differ
according to the musical genre and the hall in which it is performed. The only
way to find a reasonably accurate one is to measure the composition performed
in an appropriate room by the forces for which it is written.
Another clue to Mälzel’s character may be gathered from the end of
his article, where he lists eminent musicians who have endorsed his machine,
beginning with “Salieri, Eybler, Beethoven, Weigl etc. in Vienna—already in
October 1813.” He simply omitted the small detail that the mechanism of
the 1813 machine—a chronometer—bore no resemblance to the metronome
(which Mälzel promoted only after having visited Winkel). This earlier device
was described by the AmZ as follows: “The external parts of this chronometer
. . . consist of a small lever which is set in motion by a toothed wheel, the only
one in the whole apparatus, by means of which and the resultant blows on a
little wooden anvil, the measures are divided into equal intervals of time.”46
178
179
Fig. 3. Mälzel’s 1818 table showing the discrepancies between Italian

tempo markings and composers’ metronome markings (from his Notice sur
le Métronome de J. Maelzel in the collection of the Ira F. Brilliant Center for
Beethoven Studies)
Fig. 4. “Tableau No. 2. Gradations of the Metronome” from the

1818 folded plate to Notice sur le Métronome de J. Maelzel (from the
collection of the Ira F. Brilliant Center for Beethoven Studies).
Besides rhythmic instability, other factors, too, can impede

finding an accurate tempo, as Johannes Brahms wrote (April 25,
1861) in advising Clara Schumann about her husband’s works:
To provide metronome markings to some dozens of works now,
as you wish, does not seem possible to me. In any case you will
naturally set the work aside for at least a year and scrutinize it
from time to time. Then you will mark them with fresh numbers
each time and finally will have the best selection. Consider care-
fully, too, that one cannot arrange performances of choral and
orchestra works for oneself just for this purpose—and on the
piano, because of the lighter sound, everything is played decid-
edly livelier, faster, also is much more forgiving in tempo. I advise
you to steer clear of it, for intelligent people will pay little atten-
tion to your painstaking labour and will not use it.47
In his letter to George Henschel (February 1880), Brahms
finds the metronome not “worth much; at least, so far as I know,
many a composer has withdrawn his metronome markings sooner
or later. Those which are found in the Requiem are there because
good friends talked me into them.”
Beethoven was concerned whether a metronome number can
sufficiently designate the true tempo, for he wrote on the holograph
of his song “Nord oder Süd:”
100 according to Mälzel, but this can apply only to the first mea-
sures, because feeling also has its tempo; this is, however, not
completely expressed in this number (namely, 100).48
With “Nord oder Süd!” (titled “So oder so,” WoO 148, ex. 1), a
metronome mark of F= 100 is strangely out of character for a piece marked
“Ziemlich lebhaft und entschlossen” (rather animated and resolute). The
song is transformed into a rapid instrumental dance, and leaves no room for
expression. What Beethoven did (as he indicates by the words “nach Mälzel”)
was to select a number from the top end of Mälzel’s Moderato category. To
arrive at a tempo more in keeping with his intention, one would ignore the
number and sing with animation, but not as fast as an Allegro. In his letter to
Mosel (cited above), Beethoven says that Allegro always means lustig (“merry”or
“playful”), and complains that the tempo chosen is often the opposite of this
designation.49 Thus his concept of Allegro seems to differ from that often
180
heard today, in which the overly fast tempo produces a feeling of pressure
instead of light-heartedness.
Ex. 1. Beethoven, “So oder so.” 50
For his Ninth Symphony, Beethoven complied with the publisher Schott’s
request for metronome numbers and they appear in its periodical Cäcilia (fig.
5).51 From a remark in one of Beethoven’s conversation books (September 27,
1826), it has been inferred that the composer’s nephew Karl, barely twenty years
old, had measured the tempos with a metronome while Beethoven played.52
The combination of a disabled composer playing with the period’s characteristic
rhythmic freedom and an inexperienced young man trying to adjust the
metronome to what he was hearing does not seem very promising for accurate
tempos. But perhaps Beethoven’s session with Karl was purely experimental. A
comparison of his metronome marks with Mälzel’s table reveals that they all fit
within the appropriate category, even the ones widely accepted as erroneous. For
the time signatures of _ and K, which do not appear in Mälzel’s table, one would
double the note values for I and : respectively. Excluding the widely accepted
note-value misprints for the Presto in the finale of the Eroica and the Adagio in
the second movement of the Fourth Symphony, the metronome numbers for
Beethoven’s first eight symphonies (fig. 6; a tabulation of the facsimile in my
original article), too, fit within the appropriate categories in fig. 2 with only two
exceptions: the Alla breve of the Eroica and the Presto of the finale of the Fifth
Symphony. These are, however, found in Mälzel’s original table (fig. 1). Perhaps
Beethoven began working with this more primitive table and overlooked these
two movements when changing numbers to conform to those in fig. 2. Thus,
as with the song “Nord oder Sud,” it is more fruitful to see where the number
lies in Mälzel’s scale than to use the metronome. In essence, it indicates that, for
a well-trained musician, the traditional terms for tempo are more informative
than numbers derived from Mälzel’s table of prescribed metronome marks.
181
Fig. 5. Beethoven’s metronome marks for the Ninth Symphony (reproduced

from Cäcilia, vol. 6, 1827, 158).
No one seems to have challenged Mälzel’s concept of tempo, at least

in print, probably because of what he states above: musicians found the
metronome a confusing invention, as well it would be to individuals who had
never been trained to follow its relentless beats. Beethoven’s endorsement of
the metronome almost certainly had an effect in silencing any opposition, as
well as influencing composers to use the machine, which is probably why Mälzel
cultivated his friendship so carefully (after a near disastrous misstep in 1814).53
He took advantage of Beethoven’s handicap by promising him improved
hearing via his ear trumpets (an example appears in his letter to the composer,
cited above). With normal ear function, Beethoven most likely would have
been more cautious about endorsing the metronome publicly, and would have
had suspicions about Mälzel’s tempo classifications. His disability left him
vulnerable to Mälzel’s manipulation. Perhaps because some composers sensed
the pitfalls to which Mälzel was blind, they avoided metronomizing their works,
while others later withdrew their marks. If nineteenth-century performance
standards had approached today’s, which presupposes both a long acquaintance
with the metronome and instruments of today’s quality, Beethoven’s hopes for
182
Die Tempo’s sämmtlicher Sätze aller Symphonien des Hrn L. v.

Beethoven von Verf. selbst nach Maelzels Metronom bestimmt.
Symph. I. Op. 21. Symph. V. Op. 67.
Adagio molto, C, 88 = % Allegro con brio, + , 108 = #
*Allegro con brio, C , 112 = # Andante con moto, L , 92 = %
Cantabile, Andante con moto, L , 120 = % Più moto 116 = %
Menuetto, Allegro molto vivace, I , 108 = D Allegro, I , 96 = D
Finale, Adagio, + , 63 = % Allegro, C , 84 = #
Allegro molto vivace, + , 88 = # Tempo 1mo, I , 96 = D
Allegro, C , 84 = #
Symph. II. Op. 36. Presto, C , 112 = @
Adagio, I , 84 = %
Allegro con brio, C , 100 = # Symph. VI. Op. 68.
Larghetto, L, 92 = % Pastorale, Allegro, ma non troppo, + , 66 = #
Scherzo, Allegro, I , 100 = D Andante con moto, > , 50 = F
Allegro molto, ( , 152 = # Allegretto, I , 108 = D
A tempo, All o , + , 132 = $
Symph. III. Op. 55. Allegro, C , 80 = #
Allegro con brio, I , 60 = D Allegretto, : , 60 = F
Marcia funebre, Adagio assai, + , 80 = %
Scherzo, Allegro vivace, I , 116 = D Symph. VII. Op. 92.
Allabreve, ( , 116 = @ Poco sostenuto, C , 69 = $
Finale, Allegro molto, + , 76 = # Vivace, : , 104 = F
Poco Andante, + , 108 = % Allegretto, + , 76 = $
Presto, 116 = % Presto, I , 132 = D
Presto meno assai, I , 84 = D
Symph. IV. Op. 60. Allegro, + , 72 = #
*Adagio, C, 66 = $
*Allegro vivace, C , 80 = @ Symph. VIII. Op. 93.
Adagio, Cantabile, I , 84 = % Allegro vivace, I , 69 = D
Menuetto, Allegro vivace, I , 100 = D Allegretto, + , 88 = %
Trio, Un poco meno Allegro, I , 88 = D Tempo di Menuetto, I , 126 = $
Tempo 1mo, I , 100 = D Allegro vivace, ( , 84 = @
Allegro, ma non troppo, + , 80 = #
Figure 6. Metronome marks for Beethoven’s first eight symphonies, from the Allgemeine
musikalische Zeitung, December 1817, 873-74. Tempo terms are as given in this source.
*Indicates movements whose time signature in other sources is (.
183
this device might have been realized. But even the most accurate metronome
mark cannot convey the many internal tempo variations that Moscheles and
others cited as essential. In the final analysis, it is sound musicianship that will
capture and convey the composer’s intended expression.
Hummel’s metronome marks for Mozart and Beethoven

The following material, which appeared as a brief sequel to the above,
demonstrates how closely some composers followed Mälzel’s table in determining
their tempo recommendations.54 In 1828, Johann Nepomuk Hummel included
in his piano method a chart of recommended metronome marks for slow,
moderate and fast tempos. Ex. 2 derives from Hummel’s second edition, and its
last note in the “slow” category of the first line lacks a flag; it is correct in both
his 1828 edition and his French edition.55 Hummel’s chart differs from Mälzel’s
in only the following respects:
%
1) Mälzel’s beat subdivisions, which extend to = 840, are removed.
I D
2) Marks for end at = 110, instead of 140.
L
3) is not divided into categories of slow, moderate, and fast, but has
only one: “for moderate and fast.”
Besides Beethoven’s marks, the other major source cited today in support
Ex. 2. Hummel’s chart of metronome marks.
184
Table 1
Metronome marks by Hummel and Czerny for Mozart’s Symphonies.
Time Hummel’s Czerny’s

Signature Beat Unit Mark Mark
Symphony K. 385 (“Haffner”)

1. Allegro con spirito ( Half note 88 88
2. Andante 2/4 Eighth note 100 100
3. Menuetto 3/4 Dotted half note 66 66
4. Presto C1 Quarter note None 152
Symphony K. 425 (“Linz”)

1. Adagio 3/4 Eighth note 84 84
Allegro spiritoso C Half note 96 96
2. Andante 2 6/8 Eighth note 116 116
3. Menuetto 3/4 Dotted half note 72 73
4. Presto 2/4 Half note 92 92
Symphony K. 504 (“Prague”)

1. Adagio C Quarter note 56 56
Allegro C Half note 88 88
3. Presto 2/4 Half note 100 100
Symphony K. 543
1. Adagio C Quarter note 60 60
Allegro 3/4 Dotted half note 58 58
2. Andante con moto 2/4 Eighth note 108 108
3. Menuetto. Allegretto 3/4 Dotted half note 80 72
4. Allegro 2/4 Quarter note 152 152
Symphony K. 550
1. Molto allegro ( Half note 108 108
3. Menuetto. Allegretto 3/4 Dotted half note 76 72
4. Allegro assai ( Half note 152 152
Symphony K. 551 (“Jupiter”)

1. Allegro vivace C Half note 96 96
2. Andante cantabile 3/4 Eighth note None 108
3. Menuetto. Allegretto 3/4 Dotted half note 88 ` 88
4. Molto allegro ( Half note 144 144
1
Discrepancies between the C and ( signatures exist in sources for this movement and for
K. 425/1b, K. 543/1a, and K. 550/1, but this does not affect the interpretation of Hummel’s
metronome marks.
2
Hummel’s designation: “Poco Adagio.”
Table 1. Metronome marks by Hummel and Czerny for Mozart’s Symphonies
185
Ex. 3. Mozart, Symphony in D major, no. 38 (“Prague”), K. 504/1, mm.12-17.57
of rapid tempos for music of this period is Hummel’s arrangement (1823/24)

for flute, violin, violoncello and piano of Mozart’s last six symphonies, for
which he added metronome marks (Table 1, p. 185) that correspond closely
to the categories in his chart. In 1839, Carl Czerny published four-hand piano
arrangements of the same symphonies, with metronome marks nearly identical
to Hummel’s.56 As Brahms noted above, metronome marks taken on separate
occasions by the same individual will always vary. Thus Czerny appears to
have copied Hummel’s marks, making a small change (or misprint) in three
instances.
With two exceptions—the Adagios in K. 504 and K. 543—Hummel’s
marks fit into the appropriate categories in his chart. Since all the metronome
marks in his “slow” category have an eighth-note beat unit, the correct beat unit
for these Adagios should be an eighth note also. Moreover, both movements
have extensive figuration (ex. 3), which is obscured by a quarter-note beat unit;
the character, too, changes from Adagio to Allegretto. With a metronome mark
of 56 or 60, neither a quarter- nor an eighth-note beat unit is appropriate. Most
modern conductors adopt an eighth-note beat unit in the 80s, which seems
effective. Using his chart as his guide, Hummel probably intended to convey a
tempo at the slower end of his “slow” category.
By using Mälzel’s chart instead of the metronome itself, Hummel
186
instruments. According to Mark Kroll’s edition of two Mozart symphonies as

arranged by Hummel: “performers who follow these markings will find some
tempi unreasonably fast, and at times almost unplayable (particularly for the
pianist!).”58
For his keyboard arrangement of Beethoven’s Eroica, Hummel includes the
composer’s metronome marks published in 1817. In 1844, the German writer
on music Eduard Krüger seems to have been unaware of their origin when
finding them overly rapid. He had heard this symphony conducted in Berlin
in 1830 by Karl Möser, who championed Beethoven’s works, and in Hamburg
in 1841 by Karl August Krebs. Citing their tempos as completely satisfactory,
Krüger lists the approximate metronome number for each movement and
questions Hummel’s marks:
$
1) Allegro = 150. [Hummel: = 60]. D
%
2) Adagio (marcia funebre) = 66. [Hummel: 80].
D
3) Scherzo = 100. Hummel’s keyboard edition specifies = 116, D
which to me appears too fast to the point of unintelligibility; is
Hummel supposed to have had authentic tempos?
$ # $
4) Finale = 126. Hummel says: = 76, thus = 152, which to me
seems terrible and incomprehensible.59
Many composers seem to have followed Mälzel’s advice to provide their
music with metronome marks that could be selected from his chart, as implied in
G. W. Fink’s review (1839) of Henri Bertini’s Sextuors. It is well known, says Fink,
that the metronome extends only to 160. One would think this sufficient, but the
new usage contradicts this and we see numbers that extend far beyond 160. “How
did this happen? Has a metronome with larger numbers been introduced in France?
Everyone we have asked knows nothing about it.” Fink then advises composers
to reduce the metronome number by half and double the beat unit; for example,
$ # $ #
= 168 should be written as = 84; or = 192 as = 96, etc. Moreover, he
continues, every composer should make the accuracy of his metronome numbers
a commandment; likewise, the editor. Frequently enough, the latter receives the
blame that another should bear. In doubtful cases, he should take the trouble
of consulting the composer. An example is the first Allegro in Bertini’s third
D I
Sextuor, where the metronome mark is = 168 in . “But such speed destroys
the essence of the piece. We have taken the tempo as D = 84, which is still fast
enough.”60 Thus composers’ numbers often exceeded the machine’s upper limit.
Was Fink writing tongue-in-cheek in his first section, knowing that composers
were using not the metronome itself, but Mälzel’s chart?
Many of these metronome numbers were beyond musicians’ capabilities,
as confirmed by the conductor Hans von Bülow, who is credited with developing
187
orchestral precision to a degree previously unknown. When he visited London

in 1875, The Musical World reported that he had conveyed “the information and
exact tempo” for several pieces from Giacomo Meyerbeer’s Huguenots, “stating
that he conducted the opera in Berlin many times under the auspices of the
composer, remarking that the metronome marks in the printed scores were not
to be relied on; in fact, in many cases they could not be carried out.”61
Indeed, they could not have been carried out, for that requires both
advanced modern technique and instruments with extremely fine intonation and
a highly responsive mechanism. As late as 1894, George Bernard Shaw criticized
the drawbacks of various wind and brass instruments, adding: “naturally I do
not want the old defects back—the primitive mechanism and the faulty, weak,
or missing notes. The intonation of the wind is quite bad enough still, without
our turning back to the methods of the old days when it was worse.”62 Faulty
intonation obscures the texture, so that players cannot judge their own pitch
and rhythmic accuracy. To perform extraordinary tempos, great precision in
tuning and intonation is essential. Not only have our instruments been greatly
improved, but our ears, too, have been sharpened by constant exposure to in-
tune music in daily life.
Even if a metronome mark happened to be accurate, it was not intended
to be restrictive, as The Musical World reports:
Dr Von Bülow agreed with Beethoven and Weber, who have left it on
record, that the metronome was useless after the two first bars of any
subject. Weber, on the first production of his Euryanthe, declared that
after the tempo was given, leading off the subject, he could not be
trammelled in his expression of the music, and the various effects to be
given—in all of which remarks Dr Von Bülow agreed.63
Thirteen years later, The Musical World published an exchange of letters
about the metronome, which involved Sir George Grove, the conductor George
Henschel, and an anonymous “C.A.B.” According to the latter:
In Beethoven’s day the metronome was in its infancy and had not been
brought to perfection, if indeed it can be said to have ever attained
perfection, seeing, that even at the present day it is by no means easy
to obtain two metronomes which beat exactly alike. That Beethoven
placed implicit reliance upon this machine, I cannot think; for though
he did metronomise [sic] the Ninth Symphony for the Philharmonic
Society of London (as Mr. Henschel says) “in his great anxiety to lessen
the difficulties of studying and performing that gigantic work,” I find
him writing to his nephew in 1824, “You can bring the metronome with
you, but there is nothing to be done with it (er ist nicht zu machen).”64
188
That even gifted composers could succumb to the lure of an easy method
for determining a metronome mark will not surprise performers who have seen
many improbable marks added to music of all periods by modern editors. Some
of these may have been taken from Mälzel’s chart, which still exists in abbreviated
form on modern metronomes. Removing it from future metronomes would be
beneficial, for it is not a sound method. Since Hummel’s marks for Mozart’s
symphonies derive not from actual measurement with the metronome, but from
Mälzel’s chart, they are not an accurate reflection of tempos from the period.
Endnotes
1
This chapter appeared originally in The Beethoven Journal 24/1 (Summer 2009): 14-27.
2
A recording conducted by Jos van Immerseel is reviewed by Clive Brown, Early Music 36/4
(2008): 667-70.
3
AmZ 19 (17 December 1817): 873-74.
4
Twenty of these composers are listed by Clemens von Gleich, “Das Metronom und seine Deu-
tung,” Neue Zeitschrift für Musik 147 (1986): 19-23 at 19. A similar list of endorsing compos-
ers is included in Fr. S. Kandler, “Rückblicke auf die Chronometer und Herrn Mälzels neueste
Chronometerfabrik in London,” Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung mit besonderer Rücksicht auf den öster-
reichischen Kaiserstaat 1 (Vienna, 6 February 1817): 42-43 (hereafter: Viennese AmZ).
5
Mälzel’s table was accompanied by text dated May 1818 and reprinted in the AmZ 23 Intelligenz-
Blatt VIII (September, 1821). A copy of this table, together with those in figs. 3 and 4, is in the
Beethoven-Nachlass, Berlin, Staatsbibliothek, aut. 37, 18, but no text accompanies them. Fritz
Rothschild, Musical Performance in the Times of Mozart and Beethoven (London and New York: Oxford
University Press, 1961), 102ff., reprints these tables, said to derive from a pamphlet published
by Mälzel, one copy of which is at the Gesellschaft der Musikfreunde, Vienna. Another copy is
found in the Ira F. Brilliant Center for Beethoven Studies; the Center copy has been used for the
three figures given here. Rothschild provides two paragraphs of the pamphlet’s text in English
translation, but includes no title or publication information. As can be seen in the Beethoven
Center copy, the pamphlet is titled “Notice sur le Métronome de J. Maelzel.” No author or date is
printed on the eight-page pamphlet. The publisher of the Center copy is “Carpentier-Méricourt,
Rue Trainée-Saint Eustache, No. 15” (p. 8). The three tables are printed on a folded plate that is
sewn into the pamphlet. Rothschild reproduces Mälzel’s Table 1 on p. 104 and Table 2 on p. 103.
For Table 3, he substituted a version by Hummel from 1829 (Part 3 of Art of Playing the Piano
Forte, pp. 67f.). The table is also reproduced (but with two numerical typos) in Hummel’s Méthode
complète théorique et pratique pour le piano-forte (Paris: Farrenc, 1838, pp.463ff.), which was reprinted
in 1982. See note 44 below.
6
For unlikely tempo numbers, see, for example, Grete Wehmeyer, Prestississimo. Die Wiederentdeck-
ung der Langsamkeit in der Musik (Hamburg: Kellner, 1989) and Herbert Schneider, “Die Metrono-
misierung von Opernpartituren im 19. Jahrhundert und ihre Problematik,” in Aspekte der Zeit in
der Musik, ed. H. Schneider (Hildesheim: G. Olms, 1997), 255-301.
7
Johann Friedrich Reichardt, Vertraute Briefe aus Paris geschrieben in den Jahren 1802 und 1803, 2nd edn.,
3 vols. (Hamburg: B. G. Hoffmann, 1805), 3:311. Letter of 4 April 1803.
8
Ludwig van Beethoven: Briefwechsel Gesamtausgabe, ed. S. Brandenburg, 7 vols. (Munich: Henle, 1996),
4:130f., 133, letter no. 1196 (November, 1817).
9
Gustav Nottebohm, “Metronomische Bezeichnungen,” Beethoveniana (Leipzig: Peters, 1872),
129f.: “. . . Was man gegen den Metronom geltend machen kann, das ist die Unverträglichkeit
seiner gleichen Schläge mit eigentlich musikalischem Takt, und die daraus erwachsende Schwi-
189
erigkeit, das Tempo einer Composition nach einer gleichmässig fortschlagenden Maschine zu
bestimmen. Es sind bekannte Erscheinungen, dass es schwer ist, ein Stück durchweg nach ei-
nem schlagenden Metronom im Takte zu spielen, und dass wiederholt und zu verschiedener Zeit
vorgenommene Metronomisirungen eines Stückes selten ganz übereinstimmen.”
10
Friedrich Guthmann, “Ein neuer Taktmesser, welcher aber erst erfunden werden soll,” AmZ
9 (1806): 117-18: “Wer das Tempo nach dem Taktmesser punktlich durch ganze Sätze befolgen
kann und will, der muss wenigstens kein sehr reizbarer und gefühlvoller Spieler seyn; eine solche
Beherrschung der Empfindung muss auch unvermeidlich Steifheit in den Vortrag bringen, und
ist in den meisten Fallen, selbst dem Geiste der wahren Musik zuwider. Ich glaube daher, dass
Taktmesser, ihrer eigentlichen Bestimmung nach, mehr Anfangs das Tempo zeigen sollen, als
dass man ihnen in der Folge des Satzes bey zunehmendem Feuer des Vortrags und gedrängterer
Fülle der Ideen strenge zu folgen brauchte.—Die grössten Künstler haben auch bewiesen, dass sie
nicht nach einem solchen mechanischen Instrumente spielen konnten, dass es ihrer Empfindung
zuwider war, und sie unwillkürlich davon abwichen.”
11
Anton Schindler, The Life of Beethoven, trans. and ed. Ignaz Moscheles, 2 vols. (London: Henry
Colburn, 1841), 2:111, note. (Schindler’s name was not printed on the title page.)
12
I. F. Mosel, “Herrn Johann Mälzels Metronome,” Viennese AmZ 1 (27 November 1817): 407-08.
13
Johann Heinrich Walch, AmZ 43 (1841): 85.
14
Arrey von Dommer, Musikalisches Lexicon auf Grundlage des Lexicons von H. Ch. Koch (Heidelberg:
J. C. B. Mohr, 1865), “Oboe,” 624.
15
Friedrich Rochlitz, “Auf Veranlassung von: Grand Quatuor . . . par Louis van Beethoven,”
AmZ 30 (1828): 490.
16
I. F. Castelli, Memoiren meines Lebens, 2 vols. (Munich: G. Müller, 1913), 1:241, quoted by H. C.
Robbins Landon, Beethoven. His Life, Work and World (London: Thames & Hudson, 1993), 134f.
17
Anton Felix Schindler, Beethoven as I Knew Him, ed. D. W. MacArdle, trans. C. S. Jolly (New York:
Norton, 1972), 425f. “Wer richtiges Gefühl hat, der braucht ihn nicht, und wer das nicht hat, dem
nützt er doch nichts, der läuft doch mit dem ganzen Orchester davon.”
18
The Quarterly Musical Magazine and Review 3 (London, 1821): 302. Mr. Kiesewetter is probably
Raphael Georg (1773-1850), associated with the Gesellschaft der Musikfreunde in Vienna.
19
Felix Mendelssohn, a Life in Letters, ed. R. Elvers; trans. C. Tomlinson (New York: Fromm, ca.1986),
36f. From Mendelssohn Bartholdy Briefe, ed. R. Elvers (Frankfurt am Main: Fischer, 1984), 44.
20
Schindler/Moscheles, Life of Beethoven, 2:153f., note.
21
Ignaz von Mosel, “Die Tonkunst in Wien,” Allgemeine Wiener Musik-Zeitung 3 (Nov. 4, 1843):
557: “Wer da weiss, wie sehr die Wirkung eines Tonstücks von der genauen Beobachtung des
Zeitmasses abhängt, in welchem der Autor es sich gedacht hat, und wer da hört, wie ältere Werke,
namentlich Mozart’s Opern, jetzt dermassen überstürzt werden, dass alle Klarheit verschwindet,
und aller Genuss der zahllosen Detail-Schönheiten verloren geht, kann nur bedauern, dass diese
Erfindung nicht um hundert Jahre früher kam.”
22
Otto Jahn, “Die Leipziger Abonnementconcerte . . . ,” Die Grenzboten 13/1, no. 19 (Leipzig,
1854): 213; quoted by Schindler, Beethoven as I Knew Him, 439.
23
Beethoven, Briefwechsel, 5:185, no. 1703: “Mit den allegri di bravura muss ich die Ihrigen nach-
sehen.—Aufrichtig zu sagen, ich bin kein Freund von dergleichen, da sie den Mechanism nur gar
zu sehr befördern, wenigstens die, welche ich kenne.”
24
Comptes rendus des séances de l’Académie des Sciences (Paris, June 28, 1886), 1531.
25
Frédéric Héllouin, Feuillets d’histoire musicale française (Paris: A. Charles, 1903), 24ff.
26
J. F. Reichardt, Vertraute Briefe: geschrieben auf einer Reise nach Wien, 2 vols. (Munich: Georg Müller,
1915), 1:205-08 (letter no. 16, Dec. 25, 1808). This concert was reviewed in the AmZ 11 (1809):
267-69. For an English translation of the review, see The Critical Reception of Beethoven’s Composi-
tions by His German Contemporaries, ed. William Meredith, Wayne Senner, and Robin Wallace, trans.
Robin Wallace, 2 vols. to date (Lincoln, NE: University of Nebraska Press, 2001), 2:48-50.
190
27
“Symphony No. Five—Beethoven,” The Musical Gazette 2/7 (Boston, April 26, 1847): 52.
28
Beethoven, Briefwechsel, 3:162, letter no.828: “. . . man bezahlte mir z. B. für ein oratorium wie
christus am Oelberg, welches nur einen halben Abend einnimmt oder nur eine Stunde 9 Minuten
dauern darf, 200# in Gold.”
29
Cited by Walter Nater, “Viell zu geschwinde!” Anleitung zur richtigen Umsetzung der Metronomzahlen
(Zürich: Musikverlag Pan, ca.1993), 115.
30
F. A. Drechsel, “Zur Geschichte des Taktmessers,” Zeitschrift für Instrumentenbau 46 (1926):
949-50: “Der geniale Gedanke, den Schwerpunkt auf ein kurzes Pendel zu legen, wodurch das
lange Pendel auf die glücklichste Weise ersetzt wird, sei Winkel’s Eigentum. Der Anteil Mälzel’s
bestehe in der Bestimmung der Grade der Stufenleiter von Bewegungen, die den verschiedenen
Graden der Schnelligkeit der Maschine entsprechen.”
31
Proceedings of the meeting quoted by Philippe John Van Tiggelen, “Über die Priorität der
Erfindung des Metronoms,” in Aspekte der Zeit in der Musik, ed. Herbert Schneider (Hildesheim:
G. Olms, 1997), 115: “. . . begann er [Mälzel] zu renommieren mit seinen zahlreichen Reisen
nach Wien, Paris, London und anderen wichtigen Städten Europas, mit der Mühe, die er hatte,
die Komponisten von Notwendigkeit und Nutzen einer allgemein anerkannten Zeitmessung zu
überzeugen und sie dann dazu zu bringen, seine Einteilung bzw. Numerierung, die er die einzig
richtige nannte, zu übernehmen. Dass ihm dies endlich gelungen sei und dass er für diese Ein-
teilung berühmt sei.”
32
Günther Haupt, “J. N. Mälzel’s Briefe an Breitkopf & Härtel,” Der Bär (Jahrbuch von Breitkopf &
Härtel) 4 (1927): 122-45.
33
Ibid., 135.
34
See note 12.
35
Haupt, “Mälzel’s Briefe,” 136 (Haupt’s synopsis).
36
Ibid., 141.
37
Kandler, “Rückblicke . . . ,” Viennese AmZ 1 (February 13 and 20, 1817): 49-52, 57f.
38
Quoted by Haupt, “Mälzel’s Briefe,” 133.
39
According to Nottebohm (Beethoveniana, 130f.), these tempo numbers appear also in a pam-
phlet “Bestimmung des musikalischen Zeitmasses nach Mälzel’s Metronom. Erste Lieferung.
Beethoven. Sinfonien Nr. 1-8 und Septett von dem Autor selbst bezeichnet,” published in 1817
by S. A. Steiner & Co. in Vienna (now lost). From other factors, Peter Stadlen dates this publica-
tion as likely 1818: “Beethoven und das Metronom” in Beethoven. Das Problem der Interpretation, ed.
H. K. Metzger and R. Riehn (Munich: Edition Text u. Kritik, 1979), 12.
40
Mälzel’s letter in Beethoven, Briefwechsel, 4:183f., letter no. 1253: “. . . so sende ich Ihnen bei die-
ser Gelegenheit hier zwei Exemplare von einem Tableau, das dazu bestimmt ist, den Compositeurs an
die Hand zu geben, welche Bezeichnungsarten sie in allen Taktarten zu wählen haben, jenachdem
das Musikstück ein langsames mässiges oder geschwindes Tempo hat.. . . Es versteht sich, dass
ich Ihnen damit keine Belehrung geben will. Sie kennen die Sache so gut als irgend einer. Aber
es giebt dumme und faule Leute, denen man die Wahrheit mit dem Kochlöffel im Mund streichen
muss . . . Und deren sind nur zu viele in Paris.”
41
Courtesy of Clemens Brenneis, Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin—Preussischer Kulturbesitz.
42
J. N. Mälzel, “Anzeige,” AmZ 23, Intelligenz-Blatt VIII (Sep. 1821).
43
Ibid.: “Diese Darstellung beweist, dass man auf der Zahl des Metronoms deutlicher die Bewe-
gung eines Tonstückes bemerken kann als durch vorgeschriebene Worte.”
44
Mälzel’s chart was reorganized and reprinted by J. N. Hummel in his Méthode complète (1838;
see note 5). Hummel mistranscribed the Cramer example discussed below: Mälzel’s 1818 chart
has “Cramer: Moderato, % = 252,” while Hummel has the eighth note at 258. The other error
is “164” for “104” in the Cherubini entry on the second line of part 2 of Hummel’s 1838 chart.
45
Mälzel, AmZ 23 (1821): “Während er ein Moderato im 2/4tel Takt mit % = 100 bezeichnet,
merkt er ein anderes mit % = 252 an.”
191
46
Quoted from the AmZ 15 (Dec. 1, 1813): 785 by Alexander W. Thayer, The Life of Ludwig van
Beethoven, ed. H. E. Krehbiel, 3 vols. (New York: The Beethoven Association, 1921), 2:233. Per-
haps this is the “second” metronome to which Schindler refers (Beethoven as I Knew Him, 425); he
may have confused the chronology and name of this 1813 machine.
47
Johannes Brahms. Life and Letters, ed. Styra Avins (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997), 232.
48
“100 nach Mälzel, doch kann diess nur von den ersten Takten gelten, denn die Empfindung hat
auch ihren Takt, dieses ist aber doch nicht ganz in diesem Grade (100 nämlich) auszudrücken.”
Quoted in Ludwig van Beethovens Leben von Alexander Wheelock Thayer, ed. H. Deiters and H. Rie-
mann, 5 vols. (Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1907), 4:66, from Joseph Fischhoff, “Einige Gedank-
en über die Auffassung von Instrumentalcompositionen in Hinsicht des Zeitmaasses, namentlich
bei Beethoven’schen Werken,” Cäcilia 26 (Mainz, 1847), 94.
49
Beethoven, Briefwechsel, 4:130, no. 1196: “. . . was kann widersinniger seyn als Allegro welches ein
für allemal Lustig heisst, u. wie weit entfernt sind wir oft von diesem Begriffe dieses Zeitmaasses,
so dass das Stück selbst das Gegentheil der Bezeichnung sagt.”
50
Beethoven Werke, XII/1 (Munich: Henle, 1990), 168.
51
Cäcilia 6 (1827): 158.
52
Peter Stadlen, “Beethoven and the Metronome,” Music and Letters 48 (1967): 330-49 at 332f.
53
Schindler, Life of Beethoven, 1:151ff. with corroboration added by Moscheles.
54
This material appeared originally in The Beethoven Journal 26/2 (2011): 14-17.
55
Johann Nepomuk Hummel, Ausführliche theoretisch-practische Anweisung zum Piano-forte-Spiel (Vien-
na: Tobias Haslinger, 1828), 439-41; 2nd edn. (Vienna: Tobias Haslinger, [1838]; rpt. [?Frankfurt]:
Zimmerman, 1989), 455-57. Hummel, Méthode complète (1838), 463-65.
56
Metronome marks are supplied in Mozart’s Six Grand Symphonies, Arranged for the Pianoforte, with
Accompaniments of Flute, Violin & Violoncello by J. N. Hummel (London: Chappell, 1823/24). Ap-
pearing in the same time frame was a German edition with a complex publication history dis-
cussed by Robert Münster, “Authentische Tempi zu den sechs letzten Sinfonien W. A. Mozarts?”
Mozart Jahrbuch (1962/63), 185-99 at 189f. Hummel’s metronome marks are included in Mün-
ster’s article, and also in Clemens von Gleich, Mozart, Takt und Tempo: neue Anregungen zum Mu-
sizieren (Munich: E. Katzbichler, 1993), 127f.; and William Malloch, “Carl Czerny’s Metronome
Marks for Haydn and Mozart Symphonies,” Early Music 16 (1988): 72-82. The latter provides also
the metronome marks in Six grandes sinfonies de Mozart, arr. for piano by Carl Czerny (Leipzig: F.
Kistner, 1839). The time signatures for K. 543/4 and K. 550/2 are incorrect in Münster’s article.
Unable to examine the Mozart editions by Hummel and Czerny, I have relied on the numbers
provided in the three secondary sources.
57
Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1880.
58
J. N. Hummel, Mozart’s Haffner and Linz Symphonies Arranged for Pianoforte, Flute, Violin and Vio-
loncello, ed. Mark Kroll (Madison: A-R Editions, 2000), xiv.
59
Eduard Krüger, “Metronomische Fragen,” Neue Zeitschrift für Musik 20 (Leipzig, April 15, 1844):
D
122: “3) . . . In Hummel’s Clavierauszug steht 116, was mir zu schnell scheint bis zur Undeu-
#
tlichkeit; sollte Hummel authentische Tempi gehabt haben? 4) . . . Hummel sagt: 76, also wäre
$
dies = 152, was mir entsetzlich und unverständlich vorkommt.”
60
G. W. Fink, “Henri Bertini jeune,” AmZ 41 (November 1839): 867-68.
61
“Dr Von Bülow on the Value of the Metronome,” The Musical World 53 (London, Jan. 23,
1875): 61.
62
Shaw’s Music, ed. Dan H. Laurence (New York: Dodd, Mead, 1981), 3:153. From The Musical
World (March 7, 1894).
63
“Dr Von Bülow . . .,” 61.
64
Musical World 68 (November 17, 1888): 884.
192
CHAPTER 11
The French Time Devices Revisited1

For a glimpse of the obstacles facing musicians three hundred years ago, con-
sider text in an anonymous English translation (1709) of François Raguenet’s
comparison of French and Italian music (1702).
How many times must we practice an opera before it’s fit to be per-
formed; this man begins too soon, that too slow; one sings out of tune,
another out of time; in the meanwhile the composer labors with hand
and voice and screws his body into a thousand contortions and finds all
little enough to his purpose.
In a footnote, the translator observes:
Some years since, the master of the music in the opera at Paris had an
elbow chair and desk placed on the stage, where, with the score in one
hand and a stick in the other, he beat time on a table put there for that
purpose so loud that he made a greater noise than the whole band, on
purpose to be heard by the performer. By degrees they removed this
abuse from the stage to the music room [probably the orchestra pit],
where the composer beats the time in the same manner and as loud as
ever.2
An accident while beating time with a rod led to Jean-Baptiste Lully’s
premature demise in 1687 when a blow to his toe became infected. Nevertheless,
to the chagrin of critics, distracting time-beating continued at the Paris Opéra for
much of the eighteenth century. According to Jean-Jacques Rousseau (1768), the
French used a large baton of hard wood, which was struck forcefully to be heard
from afar.3
The Feuillet chronomètre

The principal purpose of various time-measuring devices proposed in
the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries was to establish a proper tempo for
beginning a piece. The conflicting material in the well-known sources can now
be resolved via a recently discovered text, which illustrates and describes the
pendulum designed by the Paris dancing master Raoul Auger Feuillet (d.1710).
His numbers for various dance forms provide the most accurate and plausible
large body of information to date about tempo of the period.
193
After visiting Paris in 1715-16, the German architect and librettist Johann
Friedrich Armand von Uffenbach returned to Frankfurt with a Feuillet chronomètre
(fig. 1), which had tempo numbers for seventeen French dances and Entrées (fig.
2) affixed to the bottom of its post. As the journal of his travel experiences
states: “A machine to give the beat in music, invented by Mr. Feuillet in Paris.”4
In 1728, Uffenbach gave
a presentation about this
device (included in his
papers) to a learned society
in Frankfurt.5 According
to his text, Feuillet
invented the chronomètre at
the behest of King Louis
XIV who could not hear
any harmony [“Stimmen”]
among the instruments
in music performances,
particularly in operas, and
could not bear disharmony
or disorder. Since there was
perpetual strife between
the dancers and the opera
orchestra concerning
whether a ballet entrée or
other song was played
quickly or slowly enough,
the inventor constructed a
small device by which the
beat or tempo could always
be the same, and thus guide
both the orchestra and the
dancers on stage. It consists
of a 2-inch square post that
is 5½ feet long and marked
with a scale of unevenly
spaced sections. When the
bob moves in front of the
circular mirror on the post,
Fig. 1. Uffenbach’s drawing Fig. 2. Feuillet’s tempo

of Feuillet’s chronomètre. numbers
194
T he F rench T ime D evices R evisited
Table 1. Metronome marks from Feuillet’s pendulum.
it casts a shadow that enables the eye to grasp the beat more precisely. Uffenbach’s
drawing in fig. 1 shows front and side views of a simple pendulum with graduated
scaling.
Quoting from the French text included with the chronomètre, Uffenbach’s
commentary explains the crescents surrounding the number for each musical
form in fig. 2. Except for one omission, the beat unit corresponds to the system
described by Michel L’Affilard (1705):6
No crescents = one beat/bar

A crescent above = two beats/bar
A crescent on the left = three beats/bar
Crescents above and below = four beats/bar
Crescents on both sides = six beats/bar (in L’Affilard only)
The numbers in fig. 2, with a conversion formula of 360/number of

pouces½, produce reasonable metronome derivations (Table 1). Corresponding
almost exactly to Feuillet’s numbers in Table 1 are the six in a manuscript of
195
Table 2. Metronome marks from Feuillet’s numbers in scores.
choreographies in Feuillet notation, which likewise utilize crescents to indicate

the beat unit (Table 2).7
Since the highest number of the chronomètre described by Uffenbach is
60, it cannot be an exact replica of Feuillet’s, for his numbers extend to 90.
Nevertheless, its form had to be similar. Uffenbach probably purchased it from
the Atelier “chez Feuillet” (continued by Jacques Dezais after Feuillet’s death),
which would have found a more ready market for a device of less imposing
dimensions than the one Feuillet needed for his own use with dancers. Since
it is difficult to gauge tempo visually by a rapidly moving pendulum lacking an
audible signal, it was advantageous to have one of sufficient size to measure
a slow compound meter, as in the “Chique lente” in Table 1. The French text
quoted by Uffenbach advises the user to subdivide the beat when the number
extends beyond the device’s range, as with 74 for the Entrée lente. While workable
for this form because it is in duple meter, this approach cannot be used with
the compound-meter forms. Uffenbach obtained his chronomètre some five years
after Feuillet’s death, so the French writer probably overlooked the difference
between duple and compound meters.
In closing his presentation, Uffenbach observes that this machine not
only enables conformity between dancers and musicians, but also lessens the
arguments about correct tempo. Moreover, it helps those who are not yet strong
in keeping a steady beat, thereby removing the loudly audible time beating
[“Geklopfe”] during the music.
No basis exists for the modern belief that Feuillet’s pendulum numbers
represent tierces (sixtieths of a second). In Uffenbach’s drawing of Feuillet’s
pendulum (fig. 1), the hook attached to the brass ring around the post catches
the cord at the setting of 38 pouces (French inches), very close to a second of
time (39.1 modern English inches). Thus only the portion of the cord below
196
the hook will be in motion. Sliding the ring and its hook up to the number 60
puts the entire cord (about 5 feet in length) into motion, producing not a second
of time, but one much slower.
Other time-measuring devices

Turning now to the tempo numbers derived from other time-measuring
devices, presented principally in a few French writings from 1696 to 1762, we can
compare them with Feuillet’s.8 When converted into metronome marks, many
of these numbers are significantly inconsistent. Although the very rapid tempos
have often been considered valid, the conflict between these and the other much
slower tempos for the same forms has not been explained adequately. Why
are the numbers attributed to Joseph Sauveur’s clockwork measurement system
(1701) by Michel L’Affilard (1705) and Louis-Léon Pajot, comte d’Onzembray
(1732) completely out of range from the one tempo number that Sauveur
himself supplied and also from those of Étienne Loulié (1696)? Why are the
numbers given by Jacques-Alexandre de La Chapelle (1737) and Henri-Louis
Choquel (1762) dramatically different within each set? Since these writers’
numbers are readily available in the modern literature (see note 8), they will not
be repeated again, except when relevant to Feuillet. At this time, two forms of
measurement existed: one based on pendulum length in inches (pouces) and the
other on sixtieths of a second (tierces).The latter, however, requires a clockwork
mechanism. It was the confusion between these two measurement forms that
produced unusually rapid tempos in two sources. The disparities in the other
two sets of numbers can be attributed to other factors. Throughout this chapter,
the term “metronome,” identified by an “M,” refers only to the modern device,
whose mechanism bears no relation to its forerunners.
Measurement by pendulum length

Loulié’s chronomètre (fig. 3), a simple pendulum, stood over six feet high.
His measurement is according to the pied universel—33.12 cm. with a pouce of
27.6 mm. (at this time, other small variants in measurement existed). Thus the
pendulum length for one second of time is just slightly over 36 pouces. Despite
the device’s lack of graduated scaling, three of his numbers for four incipits
of pieces from sonatas by an unknown composer (ex. 1) produce plausible
metronome derivations.9 An exception is b), whose pendulum length of 8” has
vibrations too rapid for the eye to measure accurately with ease, and may be a
misprint. The shortest length in Feuillet’s pendulum is 15”.
In 1701, Sauveur noted the flaws of Loulié’s pendulum, and presented his
measurement system based on a second of time:
197
M. Loulié’s chronometre is the most simple in construction, since it is

divided into equal parts, but the duration of notes is not marked by any
exact time, since they are for the most part incommensurate with the
length of a second.10
The lack of graduated scaling was certainly a flaw of Loulié’s device.
Earlier, the Dutch physicist Christiaan Huygens had
discovered that a pendulum’s period of oscillation is
proportional to the square root of its length. Thus
the length has to be quadrupled to double the period.
Whereas a half second requires a pendulum length of
9.78 English inches, a full second needs one of 39.1
inches. Therefore, the height of Feuillet’s pendulum is
correct as given by Uffenbach.
The “musicien inconnu” La Chapelle, too, used
pendulum measurement for many incipits of unknown
pieces in his primer, but the metronome marks derived
from his numbers are widely disparate.11 While some
are plausible, others are so extremely fast as to have
no relation to the others. La Chapelle provides no beat
unit for any of his numbers, and it is likely that the
extreme tempos should have a smaller beat unit than
has been calculated today. Since he applies the time
signature 2 indiscriminately for all forms of duple
movement (even the allemande, to which early sources
nearly always assign four slow beats and a signature of
C), the beat unit is uncertain.
Moreover, beats were often subdivided.
According to writers such as Jacques Hotteterre (1719),
the C-barré [(] signature, for example, can have either
two slow or four faster beats [depending on the piece’s
texture and predominating note values].12 In 1767, the
critic Pascal Boyer observed that time signatures were
never intended to tell the musician what to do with his
body: “When beating the measure of two beats, several
music masters make four hand movements, while
others make eight motions for the measure of four
beats, etc., without anyone ever accusing them of not
knowing how to beat time.”13 A further factor is that
Fig. 3. Loulié, some composers (such as Jean-Philippe Rameau) did
chronomètre not apply the signatures in the conventional manner.
198
Ex. 1. Loulié, sonata incipits.
Using an incorrect beat unit with La Chapelle’s numbers is what has

produced untoward tempos. For his triple-meter dance forms, on the other
hand, a quarter-note beat unit is often satisfactory. Incipits of two voices from
La Chapelle’s third book illustrate moderate tempos of half note = M 54 for a
_ signature comprising quarter and half notes; and dotted quarter note = M 66
:
for a Rondeau in composed of quarter and eighth notes.14 Thus the extreme
tempos occur principally with duple meter, indicating that the probable beat
unit for most of these pieces should be smaller than assumed today.
Another writer using pendulum-length measurement was the attorney
Choquel, whose book includes numbers for five dance forms and eleven pieces
from sacred and secular vocal works.15 While the dances have extreme tempos,
most of the vocal pieces are moderate. For example, “Si des Galants de la ville”
(signature of 2) from Jean-Jacques Rousseau’s Le Devin du village is assigned a
pendulum length of 24”, or half note = M 73. The vocal line moves in quarter
notes, accompanied by eighth notes in the upper strings, and the piece’s marking
of Gai is the fastest one in Choquel’s examples.16
One of Choquel’s vocal pieces with a questionable tempo—an excerpt in
duple meter from an unnamed motet by Michel-Richard de Lalande—lacks a
beat-unit indication.17 Two other vocal pieces with unusually rapid tempos are
based on dance forms: an “Air en Rondeau” from Jean-Baptiste Lully’s opera
Thésée, specified to be a gigue; and a duet having a Mouvement du Menuet.18 In sum,
199
Choquel’s numbers are reasonable for eight vocal pieces, questionable for three
vocal pieces, and extreme for five dance forms. We may find an explanation below.
Measurement by time
The other writers offering many tempo numbers are the court singer
L’Affilard and the scientist Pajot. Unlike those of La Chapelle and Choquel,
their numbers seem fairly consistent within each set, but are much more
rapid than contemporary verbal descriptions imply. They purport to follow a
scaling based on tierces, as presented by the mathematician Sauveur (1701) for
his échomètre. Sauveur furnished no diagram of his device, but it had to have
included a clockwork mechanism to measure fractions of seconds. During
this time frame, the Paris instrument maker Chapotot built échomètres, and one
survives in the collection of the Paris Conservatoire des Arts et des Métiers.
Since Sauveur’s pendulum cord was “environ de 8 pieds” (106 English inches)
in length, the massive device could not have been widely used. He provides a
tempo number for just one piece – “Allons, allons, accourez tous” from Lully’s
Atys (ex. 2).19 With a conversion formula of M = 3600/number of tierces, his
number of 70 translates to a plausible half note = M 51.To achieve this tempo
with Loulié’s chronomètre, he specifies a pendulum length of 42”, which produces
M = 55.5.20 But Sauveur’s device was not adopted. According to La Chapelle,
the extreme precision and exactitude that Sauveur wanted to give his device was
more delicate than necessary, making it so complex that its “usage became nearly
unintelligible and consequently useless.”21 And as Rudolph Rasch observes
(1984): “Sauveur’s description of his echomètre . . . is rather abstract and does
not make directly clear what the equipment looked like.”22 Sauveur’s only tempo
number is perfectly plausible, but perhaps he was the only one who could use
his device successfully.
Ex. 2. Lully, Atys, “Allons, allons, accourez tous, ” Act 1, Scene 2.
Four years later, L’Affilard attributed tempo numbers for various pieces
in his Principes très-faciles pour bien apprendre la musique to Sauveur’s system.23 These
astonishingly rapid tempos, which differ greatly from Sauveur’s own tempo
number, appear in a primer for beginning vocal pupils. Since vocal agility takes
many years to develop and never attains the speed of which instruments are
capable, this requires further investigation; for example:
200
a.
b.
Ex. 3. L’Affilard, a. Gigue; b. Passacaille, bb. 25-27.
L
— The text of a Gigue in (ex. 3a), whose tempo number of 31 per
bar is translated as M 116, cannot be enunciated at this tempo.
— For slow forms such as sarabande and courante, L’Affilard’s
numbers do not permit an expressive performance. A tempo of quarter
note = M 106 is assigned to his Passacaille (ex. 3b), but it contains successive
sixteenth notes with separate syllables; his previous edition marks it as Fort
gravement. The text is a lament of spurned love: “How many tears have I
shed without moving you?”
—For the four pieces that L’Affilard identifies as “la mesure à six
tems graves,” the metronome marks derived range from 120 to 150 per
quarter note, and do not qualify as “very slow.” When each quarter note
= M 150, the correct beat unit has to be two beats of compound meter.
Yet he specifies six very slow beats per bar, as spelled out by his system of
enclosing the tempo number with a crescent on both sides.24
L’Affilard calls his pieces appropriate for [social] dancing, which implies
moderate tempos. The abundant ornamentation, too, requires adequate time
for its execution.
In 1974 Erich Schwandt proposed that the scaling of L’Affilard’s pendulum
differed from Sauveur’s, thus making modern translations of L’Affilard’s numbers
“twice too fast.”25 With some exceptions, Schwandt’s numbers correspond more
closely to contemporary descriptions of the dance forms.26 Yet there may be a
way to bring nearly all of L’Affilard’s numbers within a plausible range. While he
believed that he was using Sauveur’s system, he was not a mathematician. The
numbers supplied are more consistent with Loulié’s scaling for pendulum lengths
201
in pouces. Table 3 provides metronome marks for L’Affilard’s pieces as derived

from measurement in both tierces and pouces.
Table 3. L’Affilard’s Numbers Measured in Tierces and Pouces

With one possible exception, none of the tempos derived from pendulum
lengths is unusual. They are, in fact, quite similar to Feuillet’s. One of L’Affilard’s
numbers is out of range from the rest: the 74 for an “Air, fort grave” (ex. 4), which
is a reasonable tierce number for this piece.27 Perhaps the tempo measurement was
first undertaken with Sauveur’s system, and then converted to pendulum-length
measurement, for Sauveur’s device must have been too large and expensive to
find a market. In the changeover, the number 74 was overlooked. Since practicing
musicians rarely had access to more than the most rudimentary general education,
202
Ex. 4. L’Affilard, “Air, fort grave. ”
it is unlikely that L’Affilard prepared the purported tierce numbers himself. More
probably, he enlisted the aid of a mathematician, who then failed to communicate
the change to him. Loulié, who may have been the only musician capable of
catching the error, had died three years earlier.
L’Affilard’s misattribution of his numbers to Sauveur’s tierce measurement
might explain why most of Choquel’s numbers for vocal pieces are reasonable,
while those for dance forms (which include two other vocal pieces) are
excessively fast. For the dance forms (Gavotte, Rigaudon, Menuet, Passepied,
and Gigue), he simply converted L’Affilard’s numbers from the assumed tierces
into pendulum pouces, making slight adjustments.
The last set of numbers is found in Pajot’s “Description et usage d’un
métromètre,” where he calls his machine an improvement of Loulié’s chronomètre
because it is measured in parts of a second instead of pendulum pouces, uses an
aural signal to identify the beginning and last part of each pendulum swing, and
has a graduated scale.28 Pajot’s “Table of pendulum lengths” (fig. 4) comprises
those for “the different durations of vibrations from demi-tierce to demi-tierce up
to 180 demi-tierces, or a second and a half,” using these values:29
Pied [foot – 331 mm.].
Pouce [inch], the twelfth part of a pied.
Ligne, the twelfth part of a pouce.
Point, presumably the twelfth part of a ligne.
Pajot cites the fundamental measurements:

Everyone knows that an hour is divided into 60 minutes ['], 1 minute
into 60 seconds [''], and 1 second into 60 tierces ['''] or 120 half-tierces; this
will give us a sufficiently small division for what we propose. It is also
known that a pendulum must have a length of 3 pieds, 8-1/2 lignes, for
each vibration to last a second or 60 tierces.30
His full chart of pendulum lengths runs from ½ to 90 tierces, and its
unprecedented mathematical exactitude is the most probable reason that his
work was accepted by the Académie Royale des Sciences. The column headed
203
204
Fig. 4. Pajot, table for pendulum lengths, partial.

“Nombre des demi-tierces” contains tierces, with the demi-tierces inserted between
each tierce. Thus the number 60 in this column requires a pendulum length of 3
pieds, 8-1/2 lignes, the correct length for a second.
Pajot describes his machine (fig. 5, which includes a simple pendulum in
between front and side views of his own device) as follows:
Fig. 5. Pajot, métromètre.
The two vertical pieces A, B, and C, D are each about five feet in length
. . . On top of these two pieces is a pendulum E, whose beats of the
bob are heard distinctly; thus one hears the beginning and end [part]
of each vibration. . . . There are holes to mark 76 demi-tierces; in other
words, from 30 to 68 tierces.31
205
In his chart of tempo numbers for pieces from Lully, Pascal Collasse,
André Campra, André-Cardinal Destouches, and Jean-Baptiste Matho (fig. 6),
the first column supplies the time signature; the second, the number of beats
per bar; the third, the number of tierces per bar; and the fourth, the number of
tierces per beat. As with the tierce interpretation of L’Affilard’s numbers, Pajot’s
numbers are amazingly rapid.
Fig. 6. Pajot, Chart of tempos.
206
According to his text, his machine has an aural signal to mark both
the beginning of each pendulum swing and its return (a period). A period
lasting one second (60’’’) would therefore have audible signals spaced a half
second apart (or M 120). For the fastest tempo on his machine (30’’’), these
signals would be at quarter-second intervals (or M 240). But it is doubtful that
technology existed for attaining an audible signal at such speed. Moreover, the
ear cannot distinguish individual components moving so rapidly, making the
machine useless for determining tempo. Thus Pajot’s tierce numbers for pieces
in fig. 6 do not appear to correlate with his machine’s description.
After Loulié’s death in 1702, Pajot acquired his chronomètre. In 1696,
Loulié noted that he had consulted with musicians who had performed under
Lully, after which he calculated tempo numbers for various pieces.32 These
numbers may have been inserted into Loulié’s personal copies of scores in
his extensive library, which was apparently dispersed after his death, or they
may have existed in a master list. No trace of them has come to light. When
obtaining Loulié’s chronomètre, the collector Pajot may also have acquired some
of his library or a list of his tempo numbers. All of the pieces for which Pajot
provided tierce numbers in fig. 6 were composed during Loulié’s lifetime. As has
been proposed, these pieces may have derived from Loulié’s missing numbers.33
Just as L’Affilard was not a mathematician, Pajot had no music
credentials, as can be verified by certain items in his chart. For instance, the
second “Air des songes funestes” from Lully’s Atys (Act 3, Scene 4) has a time
_ K
signature of .34 Yet Pajot divides the bar into two parts (thus ) instead of
three.
Even though Pajot’s chart specifies that “Les Démons” (actually “Feste
Infernale;” Act 4, Scene 3) from Lully’s Alceste has “4 temps,” he divides the C
signature into two parts, instead of four. Therefore, he did not himself provide
the 4-beat description. This signature conveyed four beats, normally slow unless
indicated otherwise. The designation “à 4 temps” likely derives from a notation
in a list that Loulié compiled, for it would be unnecessary in the edition itself.
Since the other pieces in this scene have different time signatures, it served to
identify the one intended.
An incipit for the Loure from Collasse’s Thetis & Pelée in Pajot’s chart
is included in Hotteterre’s description (1719) of the K signature. Calling its
#$
tempo grave, he recommends four unequal beats (two / units).35 Since Pajot
implausibly assigns the Loure the same tempo as the rapid Gigue, the tempo
number itself is probably incorrect. Further errors or questionable aspects of
Pajot’s table include:
207
— A Gigue from Lully’s Amadis is misattributed to Collasse.

— The Menuet from Campra’s l’Europe galante has an incorrect time
signature of 2.
— Lully’s Fêtes de l’amour et de Bacchus has no “Chaconne des Arlequins.”
Its purported number 68 for a full bar measured in tierces would produce
a tempo almost twice as fast as Feuillet’s chaconne.
— Although Pajot lists a “Divinités de la terre” from Lully’s
Persée, none exists in this opera. Scholars have inferred that it must be
the “Entrée de divinitez infernales,” but this is speculative. Perhaps Pajot
listed the wrong piece or opera.
— Multiple possibilities exist for “Les Démons” from Lully’s Psyché:
the Prélude in Act 4, Scene 1, where the demons enter and begin to
terrify Psyché; the next piece (Scene 2) with the three Furies and Psyché;
the “Air des Démons” that follows; and the Prélude to Act 4, Scene 3,
which involves the three Furies, two Nymphes of Acheron, and Psyché
(writers today have chosen the latter).
— For the first “Air des Songes funestes” from Lully’s Atys, different
possibilities have been presented today.36
— The Courante nearly always had a time signature of 3/2, so the
beat unit of Matho’s unidentified Courante is probably a half note.
These discrepancies indicate that the chart was not completely Pajot’s
own work. It is more likely that he compiled it from Loulié’s numbers in a list
incorporating abbreviations and notations. This list may have comprised nothing
more than a title for each piece and its pendulum length. Using this thesis, the last
column in Pajot’s chart (fig. 6) contains Loulié’s numbers. When this column is
blank, Loulié’s number includes an entire bar in triple meter and is found in the
preceding column. The one exception—“Le Printemps de Phaëton”—may have
an incorrect time signature (several possibilities fit this title), for duple meter could
be halved to obtain a number for the last column. Pajot then misread Loulié’s
numbers as tierces, instead of pendulum pouces. He calculated the number of beats
in each bar and the resulting number of tierces. But in some instances he may have
misinterpreted the beat unit. Like us, he sometimes had to guess which piece
Loulié meant. Moreover, handwriting can easily be misread. Table 4 provides
Pajot’s original number for a beat (or bar when indicated), and the metronome
marks derived from both tierce and pouce measurement.
208
Table 4. Pajot’s numbers measured in tierces and pouces.
Pajot’s chart appears to have been prepared independently of his own

machine, which, if its description is accurate, would have produced audible
signals too rapid to be useful in most cases. While he clearly intended to achieve
tierce measurement, his machine may actually have been based on pendulum
length. He presents himself as building on Loulié’s work, and the highest
number on his machine is nearly the same as on Loulié’s chronomètre.
209
In contrast to the questionable identity of some free forms in Pajot’s

chart, that of the dance forms is more certain. When the numbers from
L’Affilard, Pajot, and Feuillet are all interpreted as pendulum lengths,
as Feuillet’s must be, the metronome derivations for each dance form
are remarkably similar (Table 5). Besides providing reasonable tempos,
pouce measurement removes the disparity found among some of the
dances when measured in tierces. For example, the pace of L’Affilard’s
K
Sarabande in measured in pouces is not greatly faster than the other
Sarabandes; with tierce measurement, on the other hand, the metronome
marks are 72, 86, and 133. While early sources define the Chaconne as
just somewhat faster than the Passacaille, tierce measurement produces
M 157 for the former and 106 for the latter.
Table 5. A comparison of metronome marks derived from numbers interpreted as

pouces instead of tierces.
210
None of the numbers in Table 5 should be regarded as a fixed tempo, but

as an approximation to be adjusted up or down according to the piece’s texture.
Some dances existed in multiple forms: for example, Jean-Jacques Rousseau
describes the Gavotte as “ordinarily graceful, often gai; also sometimes tender
and slow.”37 Choquel makes an interesting point when observing that it would
be better to write the Menuet in K instead of 3, because the Pas de Menuet
comprises two bars of 3, each of which has one step. Thus the Maîtres à Danser
beat the Menuet in two—one beat for each bar of 3, which moves too quickly
for the hand to beat it comfortably in three.38 His remarks fit with Table 5’s
Menuet metronome mark of 50 or 52 for one bar of 3; if the hand had to make
three motions per bar at this speed, it would shortly become fatiguing.
From the similar tempos for each dance form in Table 5, it can be seen
that L’Affilard’s and Pajot’s numbers were based not on Sauveur’s system of
tierce measurement, but on the same pendulum-length measurement that was
required for Feuillet’s device. The many discrepancies in Pajot’s chart indicate
that he constructed it from Loulié’s missing pendulum numbers.
Views from contemporaries

According to Rousseau, Pajot’s machine succeeded in neither one
tempo, nor another.39 Nicolas Framery’s comment on Rousseau’s article reveals
that none of these time-measuring devices made an impact:
Several have built and proposed different machines, which were
aimed at marking and, in particular, conserving the true tempo of
each piece as conceived by the composer; but, too complicated in
their means and too limited [for achieving] their object, none has
been adopted.40
According to Jean-Philippe Rameau, Loulié’s chronomètre was neglected
because of its “difficulty,” although it was in other respects an ingenious
invention.41 Writing from the Berlin court in 1752, the flutist Johann Joachim
Quantz had never known anyone who used it.42 The one device that seems to
have had practical application (for use with dancing) was Feuillet’s. Perhaps
more scores with tempo numbers for the dances await discovery. After Feuillet’s
death, his successors may have lacked the skill to use his pendulum correctly, for
excessively loud time-beating continued for many years.
As an alternative, the encyclopedist Denis Diderot suggested in 1748
that composers indicate the amount of time needed to play their piece in its
entirety.43 This method was employed in an autograph manuscript of Michel de
Lalande’s Te Deum (between 1715 and 1726). At the end of most versets is an
annotation with the performance length, which totals 29½ minutes—or “une
211
bonne demi-heure,” written on the last page. The Te Deum had to fit within the
time frame specified by the king. While the tempo for some movements cannot
be established exactly because of different versions, cuts, optional repeats, or
internal meter changes, that for eight movements with a single time signature
and no complicating factors is obtainable.44 All are moderate, and in keeping
with the tempos above from Loulié, Sauveur, Feuillet, most of Choquel’s vocal
pieces, and L’Affilard’s and Pajot’s numbers when interpreted as pendulum
pouces instead of tierces. Choquel’s few extreme numbers for dance forms appear
to derive from his assuming that L’Affilard’s numbers were tierces. For lack of a
beat unit, La Chapelle’s numbers are unreliable for scientific inquiry.
Because their standards were not our standards, and their equipment not
ours, all of their numbers must be construed as approximations with a greater or
lesser degree of accuracy. They also are subject to the same errors of misprints,
mechanical malfunction, and human judgment we see today. Moreover, their
lack of metronome training for musicians led to what we would term rhythmic
inaccuracy, which was not entirely undesirable. As Diderot comments:
Connoisseurs will object to the chronomètre because there are perhaps
not four bars in an air that have the same duration . . . A musician who
knows his art . . . sings or plays more slowly or less slowly from one bar
to another, and even from one beat or quarter-beat to the following.45
Rhythmic freedom was acceptable for soloists, but created havoc in
ensembles. This explains why leaders had to beat time audibly and why tempos
therefore had to be very moderate in comparison to ours.46 If we had never
undergone metronome training from childhood, we, too, would perform as
erratically as Diderot describes. As for the numbers themselves, it is impossible
to obtain an accurate tempo measurement without first acquiring the ability to
maintain a perfectly steady tempo. The dancing master Feuillet probably had
as sound a rhythmic sense as anyone of the period—a further reason for the
importance of his numbers. Together with the visual evidence of the pendulum
for which they were intended, these numbers provide the key to interpreting the
questionable or ambiguous numbers of others. With few exceptions, the various
sources now present greater uniformity and plausibility of tempo.
Endnotes
1
With somewhat different organization, this chapter appeared originally in the Dutch Journal of
Music Theory 15/3 (Nov. 2010): 169-89.
2
François Raguenet, Parallèle des Italiens et des Français en ce que regarde la musique et les opéras (Paris,
1702; rpt. 1976), 96f. English translation in A Comparison between the French and Italian Musick and
Operas (London, 1709), 42f. Reprinted in The Musical Quarterly 32/3 (1946): 428f.
3
Rousseau/1768, “Baton de mesure.”
212
4
Jürgen Kroemer, “‘Le Cronomètre de Monsieur Feuillet’: Absolute Tempoangaben eines barock-
en Tanzmeisters,” Österreichische Musikzeitung 56 (2001/7): 23-28. Uffenbach’s notation: “Eine
Maschine den Tact in der Musik anzugeben, von der Erfindung des Hr Feuillets zu Paris.”
5
D-Gs, Cod. Ms. Uffenbach 13/II, 249-254. Figures 2 and 3 from this manuscript are reproduced
with the kind permission of the Niedersächsische Staats- und Universitätsbibliothek Göttingen.
Uffenbach’s handwriting is in old German script, a transcription of which by Dr. Paul Peucker is
in the appendix of my original article.
6
Michel L’Affilard, Principes très-faciles pour bien apprendre la musique, fifth edn. (Paris, 1705; rpt.
1971). Directions for interpreting the beat units are on folding plate II (inserted by p.55). His
instructions are also reprinted in Rosamond E. M. Harding, Origins of Musical Time and Expression
(London: Oxford University Press, 1938), plate 10.
7
F-Po ms. 817. See Rebecca Harris-Warrick, “Interpreting pendulum markings for French
Baroque dance,” Historical Performance 6 (Spring 1993), 9-22 at 21f. For Feuillet’s Sarabande, she
finds the number uncertain. Of the four possibilities, 38 is specified in Fig. 3 for this dance.
8
These have been discussed by, among others, Eugène Borrel, “Les indications métronomiques
laisées par les auteurs français du XVIIIe siècle,” Revue de musicologie 9 (1928): 149-53; Ralph
Kirkpatrick, “Eighteenth-Century Metronomic Indications,” Papers of the American Musicological
Society (1938): 30-50; Hellmuth Christian Wolff, “Das Metronom des Louis-Léon Pajot 1735,” in
Festskrift Jens Peter Larsen, ed. Nils Schiørring, Henrik Glahn, and Carsten E. Hafling (Copenhagen:
Wilhelm Hansen, 1972), 205-17; Willem Retze Talsma, Wiedergeburt der Klassiker: Anleitung zur
Entmechanisierung der Musik (Innsbruck: Wort und Welt Verlag, 1980); and Klaus Miehling, Das
Tempo in der Musik von Barock und Vorklassik, second edn., (Wilhelmshaven: F. Noetzel, 2003).
9
Loulié/1696, 86ff. The note value placed above the pendulum length in pouces designates the
beat unit.
10
Sauveur/1701, 50: “Le chronometre de M. Loulié est le plus simple pour sa construction,
puisqu’il est divisé en parties égales, mais les durées des notes ne sont marquées par aucun temps
exact, puisqu’elles sont la plus-part incommensurables avec le temps d’une seconde.”
11
Jacques-Alexandre de La Chapelle, Les vrais principes de la musique (Paris,1736-1752), 2:41-56. His
examples are supplied in Miehling, Das Tempo, 85-91.
12
Hotteterre/1719, 57.
13
Boyer/1767, 52-54, note.
14
La Chapelle, Les vrais principes, “Leçons à deux parties, voix egalles,” 3:1-3. For examples, see
Miehling, Das Tempo, 90, nos. 43, 45.
15
Henri-Louis Choquel, La musique rendue sensible par la méchanique, 2nd edn., (Paris, 1762; rpt. 1972),
115-213.
16
Ibid., 180ff.
17
Ibid., 201f.
18
Ibid., 186ff., 207ff.
19
From Jean-Baptiste Lully, The tragedies lyriques in facsimile (New York: Broude International, 1998-
2007). Reproduced with kind permission.
20
Sauveur/1701,49f. The 1984 reprint (p.40) includes a photograph of the Chapotot échomètre at
the Paris Conservatoire des Arts et des Métiers. Sauveur measures Lully’s piece also in twelfths of
a second (14); the conversion formula is M = 720/n.
21
La Chapelle, Les vrais principes (1737), 2:42: “. . . il la fit si composée que l’usage en devint
presque inintelligible et par consequent inutile.”
22
Sauveur, Collected Writings, 39.
23
L’Affilard, Principes, 52-151.
24
L’Affilard, Principes, 105, 89, 125-38. Talsma, Wiedergeburt, 154-69 and Miehling, Das Tempo,
Anhang 2, present L’Affilard’s pieces in modern notation.
213
25
Erich Schwandt, “L’Affilard on the French Court Dances,” The Musical Quarterly 63 (1974): 395.
26
Erich Schwandt, “L’Affilard,” in NG2, 14:109.
27
L’Affilard, Principes, 77ff.
28
Louis-Léon Pajot, comte d’Onzembray, “Description et usage d’un métromètre, ou machine
pour battre les mesures & les temps de toutes sortes d’airs,” in: Histoire de l’Académie Royale des
Sciences, 1732 (Paris, 1735), “Mémoires,” 182-96.
29
Ibid., 183: “& nous y joindrons une Table de toutes les longueurs du Pendule, en pieds, pouces,
lignes & points, pour les différents durées des vibrations de demi-tierce en demi-tierce jusqu’à 180
demi-tierces, ou une seconde & demie.”
30
Ibid., 187f.: “Tout le monde sçait qu’une heure se divise en 60 minutes, 1 minute en 60 secondes,
et 1 seconde en 60 tierces ou 120 demi-tierces; cela nous donnera une division suffisamment
petite pour ce que nous proposons. On sçait aussi que la longueur que doit avoir un Pendule, pour
que chaque vibration soit d’une seconde ou de 60 tierces, doit être de 3 pieds 8 lignes et demi.”
31
Ibid., 184ff.: “Les deux montants verticaux A, B, & C, D, ont chacun environ 5 pieds de hau-
teur; . . . Sur ces deux montant est une Pendule E, dont les battements du rocher se sont entendre
distinctement, ainsi on connoit par l’oreille le commencement & la fin de chaque vibration. . . .
l’on a fait des trous pour marquer 76 demi-tierces, sçavoir depuis 30 jusqu’à 68 tierces.”
32
Loulié/1696, 88.
33
See Patricia M. Ranum, “‘Mr de Lully en trio’, Etienne Loulié, the Foucaults, and the
Transcription of the Works of Jean-Baptiste Lully (1673-1702),” in Jean-Baptiste Lully: Actes du col-
loque = Kongressbericht: Saint-Germain-en-Laye, Heidelberg 1987, ed. Jérome de La Gorce and Herbert
Schneider (Laaber: Laaber-Verlag, ca.1990), 314.
34
For this piece, Wolff, “Das Metronom,” 216, and Miehling, Das Tempo, 80, select the preceding
chorus, also in _.
35
Hotteterre/1719, 59. Until corrected in Miehling’s second edition of Das Tempo (81), writers
have cited a different piece from this opera, which, however, is not a Loure, but carries the ex-
pression mark Louré.
36
See Miehling, Das Tempo, 79; and Wolff, “Das Metronom,” 216.
37
Rousseau/1768, “Gavotte.”
38
Choquel, La Musique, 127.
39
Rousseau/1768, “Chronometre,” 99: “Il y a une trentaine d’années qu’on vit paroître le projet
d’un Instrument semblable, sous le nom de Métromètre, qui battoit la Mesure tout seul; mais il
n’a réussi ni dans un tems, ni dans l’autre.”
40
Nicolas Framery, “Chonometre” in EMM, 1:280.
41
Jean-Philippe Rameau, Traité de l’harmonie (Paris, 1722), 158.
42
43
Denis Diderot, Mémoires sur différens sujets de mathématique (Paris, 1748), 195f.
44
See Lionel Sawkins, “Doucement and légèrement: Tempo in French Baroque Music,” Early
Music 21 (1993): 365-74. The manuscript (F-Pn H400D) is described by Geneviève Thibault, “Le
‘Te Deum’ de Lalande. Minutage de l’époque,” Fontes artis musicae 12 (1965) : 162-65.
45
Diderot, Mémoires, 193f.: “Ils objecteront contre tout Chronométre en général, qu’il n’y a peut-
être pas dans un air quatre mesures qui soient exactement de la même durée . . . Un Musicien qui
sçait son art . . . chante ou jouë plus ou moins lentement d’une mesure à un autre & même d’un
tems & d’un quart de tems à celui qui le suit. Le seul bon Chronométre que l’on puisse avoir, c’est
un habile Musicien qui ait du goût, qui ait bien lû la Musique qu’il doit faire exécuter, & qui sache
en battre la mesure.”
46
See, for example, Rousseau/1768, “Battre la mesure,” 51.
214
CHAPTER 12
The Notable Significance of * and ( in

Bach’s Era1
In today’s practice of early eighteenth-century music, the * time signature has
an extremely wide range of tempo, and the ( signature is often treated as an
alla breve whose tempo should not be so slow as to require subdividing the two
beats, despite the fact that the texture may be quite complex. Writers close to
Johann Sebastian Bach do provide some clarification about these signs. Ac-
cording to Friederich Erhardt Niedt, who studied with Johann Nicolaus Bach
(J. S. Bach’s cousin), * signifies “a slow, gravitaetischen [weighty, solemn, digni-
fied] tempo.” If a piece is to be played quickly, then “the composer expressly
writes underneath: allegro or presto; if it is to be played very slowly, this is in-
dicated by writing adagio or lento underneath.” This definition is included in a
manuscript (1738) attributed to Sebastian Bach as his teaching material.2 In
early sources, beat subdivision is commonplace, and ( is utilized in two distinct
manners. These signs hold clues for both tempo and expression.
The genuine alla breve

When defining alla breve in his Lexikon, Johann Gottfried Walther (who
worked in Weimar at the same time as his distant relative Sebastian Bach) uses
the past tense. Associating it with the Italian practice of beating a measure in
two, he says that it was performed very fast [for such large note values], and
used only for motets, which were full of syncopations, ligatures, and successive
fugues; they had no notes smaller than quarter notes, and very few of them.3
Whether termed alla capella or alla breve, the smallest prevailing note value
originally permitted was the half note, with a few quarter notes allowed.
Bach’s trips to Dresden included visits with his colleague Johann David
Heinichen, whose book on thoroughbass accompaniment (1728) links one form
of alla breve with a strict compositional style, noteworthy for syncopations and
suspensions. The smallest note value normally permitted is the quarter note;
if a few eighth notes appear, they are beamed together in twos.4 In contrast to
the old alla breve that Walther described, more quarter notes can now appear.
In Johann Georg Sulzer’s encyclopedia of the fine arts (1771), alla breve
is defined in our sense; it contains half notes throughout, and is said to make
the expression more serious than would notes of half value at the same tempo.
When written in (, a piece has more strong accents than it would in *, giving
it a different character.5
215
The “Confiteor” in ( from Bach’s Mass in B minor (BWV 232; ex. 1a)
is a genuine alla breve, for it contains few eighth notes. A closing section of
26 bars is marked “Adagio,” implying four beats per measure. Then, without a
pause or change of signature, the next section, “Et expecto” (ex. 2b), is headed
“Vivace e Allegro,” a reminder to return to a more rapid tempo after the Adagio
section. Its many eighth notes remove it from the category of the genuine alla
breve. According to Walther, an allegro can be either animated or of moderate
tempo.6 While he does not have an entry for “Vivace,” a later music dictionary
defines it as “joyful, vigorous, and with fuller voice”— which is more a mark of
expression than tempo.7
a.
b.
Ex. 1. J. S. Bach, a. “Confiteor,” bb.1-5; b. “Et expecto,” bb.1-5, 88-91.
Like other composers, Bach reserved the true alla breve almost exclusively
for works having a serious, strict, and contrapuntal nature, such as the second
movement from Cantata 28, “Gottlob! nun geht das Jahr zu Ende,” in which the
quarter note is the smallest value. The Mass in B minor furnishes other examples
that are barred in ƒ. According to Bach’s former student Johann Adolph Scheibe,
216
The Notable Significance of C and ( in Bach’s Era
ƒ is used mostly for contrapuntal, vigorous choruses. It proceeds seriously,

slowly, and magnificently—thus in strong and lofty solemn steps. He applies this
description also to ( ())in its genuine form.8 In 1802, Heinrich Christoph Koch,
like others, still associates alla breve with a serious expression, used particularly in
fugal works and church music of a contrapuntal nature.9
The slowness of the genuine alla breve is apparent also when Scheibe
says that _ is to the triple-meter signatures what ) is to the duple — that is,
it denotes the slowest and most weighty execution.10 The Berlin court flutist
Johann Joachim Quantz offers a similar comparison:
A slow piece in + or : is played a little more quickly, and one in alla breve
or _ more slowly, than one in * or I.11
In both _ and the genuine alla breve, the large values of half and quarter notes, which
connote a restrained pace and serious expression, form the prevailing motion. Un-
like the varied usages of the ( signature (below), _ almost always designates
the slowest tempo for triple meter, unless modified by a tempo mark. This is
seemingly unknown today, for many pieces in _ are performed with extraordi-
nary rapidity — for example, George Frideric Handel’s “Alla Hornpipe” in D
major from the Water Music (HWV 349; ex. 2). A clue for tempo comes from
Handel’s friend Johann Mattheson, who in 1739 associates the Hornpipe with
Scottish bagpipes and supplies a four-bar example in _.12 Its structure closely
resembles Handel’s piece.
Ex. 2. G. F. Handel, “Alla Hornpipe,” bb.1-7.
(’s other usage

According to Walther’s dictionary, the * signature denotes four beats per
measure, which are either quick or slow, according to whether allegro or adagio
is indicated. If no tempo mark is included, “adagio and a slow tempo is always
understood. The Italians call it Tempo ordinario and Tempo alla semibreve.” (, on the
other hand, is used for alla breve or da Capella in church music, as well as fugues,
bourrées, gavottes, and the like; “but, here, a piece is always performed faster than
if written in the other signature.”13 Implied for the latter is a somewhat faster
217
measure of four beats. Two important points from Walther’s description of *:

— It has four beats (the conventional description throughout the sourc-
es; these need to be comfortable for beating with the hand to avoid
conversion to a two-beat measure).
— The beats are slow, unless designated otherwise.
On the other hand, ( served a dual function: in its second usage it connotes
simply a more rapid tempo than does *, a distinction made in many writings
over a long period of time. For example, Johann Rudolf Ahle advises in 1673
that the * signature designates a “grand and slow measure,” and (, a “somewhat
faster” one.14 The dual nature of ( applied also to Italian music. According
to the composer Giovanni Maria Bononcini (1673), notes in a ( signature are
performed with half the value of those in *, but their modern composers treat
both * and ( alike (with four beats), except that ( is beat “somewhat faster
to make it easier in practice for singers.”15 Bach’s acquaintances and students
describe the two signatures similarly:
— In 1739, Lorenz Christoph Mizler von Kolof calls * the customary

measure of four quarter notes; ( means to play the notes faster than in
*. He defines 2 in a cut-time sense, but adds that it allows few quarter
notes.16
— According to a singing manual by Johann Friedrich Doles, who suc-
ceeded Bach in the Leipzig position: “) is also designated by a large (
or a The stroke means that it is performed like a faster O [*] and is
used primarily for fugal pieces. It is also called Allabreve or Allacapella.”17
He does not include our conventional definition of ( as “cut-time.”
The aria “In Jesu Demuth kann ich Trost” (ex. 3) from Bach’s Cantata 151,
“Süsser Trost, mein Jesus kommt,” exemplifies these writers’ definition of (.
Since it moves predominantly in eighth notes with a few ornamental sixteenth
notes, and is marked “Andante,” it can have the four slow beats of *, but at a
somewhat faster pace.
218
Ex. 3. J. S. Bach, “In Jesu Demuth kann ich Trost,” (BWV 151/3), bb.1-3,
9-14.
The alla breve spurium

In true alla breve style, the chord cannot change more frequently than at
the interval of a half note. But, observes Heinichen, some composers use this
sign even when each measure is divided into four parts, so that each quarter
note has its own chord. They also take the liberty of utilizing eighth notes in
various bass figurations and unusual leaps, as done in slow common time with
sixteenth notes. This style is usually called an Alla breve spurium because it has
nothing of the true alla breve but the notes and borrowed alla breve sign. It is
only a translation of ordinary duple time.18 Heinichen’s description correlates
with those above. Where the confusion lies is in calling this type an alla breve
and assigning it the same signature.
Bach’s Fugue in E minor (BWV 879; ex. 4) from the Well-Tempered Clavier
II illustrates an alla breve spurium, in which each quarter note has its own chord.
It features complex rhythm and interweaving parts, with contrasting binary and
ternary figures. Although triplet motion predominates throughout, Bach utilized
(, instead of >, to indicate that the dotted figures are not to be assimilated
with the triplets. As his former student Johann Friedrich Agricola wrote when
reviewing Georg Simon Löhlein’s keyboard method (which recommends
assimilation):
219
Such synchronization takes place only with extreme rapidity. Barring

this, the note after the dot must be played not with, but after the last
note of the triplet. Otherwise the difference between the binary mea-
sure of such notes and L, :, <, or > would be removed. This is what
Johann Sebastian Bach taught all his students and this is what Quantz,
too, teaches in his treatise.19
With its intricate structure and frequent chord changes, Bach’s Fugue requires
four slow beats per measure.
Ex. 4. J. S. Bach, Fugue in E minor (BWV 879), bb.12-14.
Beat subdivision
Early musicians kept time with the hand or foot. According to Agricola,
leaders commonly subdivided the beats:
More frequent hand motions serve only to make the beat clearer to the
unpracticed. . . . great composers, too, when they find it necessary to
give the beat, mark the quarter notes, and even the eighth notes in a faster
tempo [emphasis added], by particular small up-and-down hand move-
ments.20
Therefore, the time signature’s numerator does not preclude beat subdivision. In-
stead, as Agricola clarifies, the different signatures indicate where a caesura may
occur: on beats one and three in *, but only on beat one in (, +, and triple meter.
To gain rhythmic accuracy, Quantz advises note subdivision. He uses notes of
various denominations in the signature of * as an example; for instance, an eighth
note receives one beat, and a dotted half note six beats.21 Others who refer to beat
subdivision include Johann Adam Hiller, who later succeeded Bach in the Leipzig
position, Daniel Gottlob Türk in Halle, and Friedrich Wilhelm Marpurg, the Ber-
lin theorist who knew the Bach family well.22
Quantz’s “Duetto VI” for two flutes (1759) illustrates the varied character
of ( as applied to both sections in a French overture form. The opening is
marked “Grave” (ex. 5a), which he defines as the very slowest tempo. That
the alla breve designation did not by itself convey a rapid tempo is implied by
220
the Duetto’s second section (ex. 5b), where Quantz specifies “Alla breve, but
quickly.” This might suggest that the term alla breve served to denote strong
expression more than tempo. According to his book, tempo in an alla breve (()
can be either slow or rapid.23
Ex. 5. Quantz, Duetto VI (Sei duetti a due flauti traversi), a. bb.1-3; b. bb.21-24.
Later thoughts on (
In 1749, Agricola cites inconsistent practice: “It is true that the stroke
through the * in certain circumstances always means a quick tempo, but it is
also used in pieces that move very slowly — conversely, some fast pieces have
no stroke. It would be more correct to adopt this rule: the stroke through the
* signifies the Italian Tempo maggiore or alla breve, in which the notes, whether in
slow or fast tempos, are always held only half as long as in common time (Tempo
minore), in which the * has no stroke.”24 His recommendation, however, does
not appear to have been widely adopted.
According to an anonymous writer in Berlin’s Kritische Briefe über die Tonkunst
(1761), notes in ) are performed either with their customary values or half again
faster: “The first case is a Grave ) and the second, a lighter ). In the sphere of
the Grave or serious ) belong chaconnes, and overtures in French style . . . To
the light ) belong the alla breve, gavotte, rigaudon, bourrée, tambourin, and march.”25
The Grave ), in which the notes retain their usual value, corresponds to French
descriptions of a four-beat *-barré, as in the beginning of the overture. The
221
discrepancy among writers concerning the degree of tempo increase with the
second form of ( probably results from the semantic problem of stating what
must in practice be a variable amount of increase.
An earlier writer in this journal observes that it had long been customary
to use ( for varied pieces in ), whether fugues, overtures, or gavottes, etc., and
* for pieces in O, whose tempo likewise is slow or quick. Often even great
composers exchange the two signatures, either from haste or error, and copyists
frequently err in notating the * and ( signatures. With the latter sign, a standard
strongbeat caesura can occur only on the first beat. If there is one in the middle
of a measure, the signature should be *. Thus he advises replacing these signs
with numbers. He also calls it incorrect to use the alla breve designation with a
piece written in common time, because it requires four beats, not two.26
This brings to mind the opening chorus of Bach’s Cantata 4, “Christ
lag in Todes Banden,” whose signature is *, “Allegro.” Its contrasting closing
section has no change of signature, but is marked “alla breve” (ex. 6). Yet
the texture becomes more complex and filled with syncopation (a feature of
the original alla breve style). Moreover, the harmony continues to change at
the quarter-note level, an unsuitable setting for the genuine alla breve. Today’s
conductors sometimes beat the first section in a rapid four per measure, and
double the rapidity at the alla breve. Then Bach’s intricate contrapuntal texture
and syncopation are lost to the listener, and the serious, weighty character
associated with alla breve disappears. All indications point to considerably slower
tempos in the eighteenth century. If the opening section of this chorus were
taken at a more moderate tempo, the alla breve’s tempo could increase slightly
(but still in four beats per measure), thereby retaining the serious, vigorous style
associated with alla breve, and highlighting the syncopation. Or perhaps alla breve
simply refers to adopting the “strong and lofty solemn steps” of this form.

222
Ex. 6. J. S. Bach, Cantata 4/2, “Christ lag in Todes Banden,” bb.68-73.
An alla breve in I appears in the middle of the “Molto Adagio” aria in *,

“Es ist vollbracht,” from Bach’s St. John Passion, where it accompanies a passage
with sixteenth notes. In 1763, Marpurg observes that alla breve formerly was
found also in triple meter. In the word’s true meaning, he says, note values are
cut in half, but it also designates a fugal piece written in an alla breve tempo.27
A recent edition of this work has substituted “Vivace” (from the string parts)
for the score’s “Alla breve.” As noted above, vivace is not necessarily a tempo
indication, but an expression mark indicating a stronger execution.
A further explanation for ( in a slow piece is offered by the Allgemeine
musikalische Zeitung (1875), which says that it used to refer more to the rhythmic
stresses than tempo. The writer objects to leaders who frequently conduct
a four-beat measure in earlier music as though it were an alla breve.28 Today’s
performers and conductors, unaware of the time signature’s significance, do the
same. For example, the first Air in Georg Philipp Telemann’s Ouverture in D
major, with a signature of *, “Tempo giusto” (TWV 55: D1; ex. 7a), is often
converted from four beats per measure to two.29 According to Marpurg, Tempo
giusto means “in the right tempo, not too fast or slow.”30 Some performances of
this work’s third Air, with a signature of *, “Presto” (ex. 7b), depart still further
from four beats per measure by condensing the notes into one beat per measure.
Telemann’s “Presto” does not mean to play as fast as possible, but denotes a
rapid tempo that permits comfortable hand-beating four times per measure.
If he had wanted a faster tempo, he would have written the quarter notes as
sixteenth notes, and changed the time signature to +. These pieces are entitled
“Air,” which implies a song-like expression.
223
a.
b.
Ex. 7. G. P. Telemann, Ouverture in D major; a. Air I; b. Air III.
Other instances of well-known pieces performed today at a tempo greatly

exceeding the bounds of the * and ( signatures include additional movements
from Handel’s Water Music in D major: the four beats of its majestic opening
movement in * (ex. 8a), which should retain this sign’s serious character, are
compressed to two beats, and the ( signature of its Bourrée (ex. 8b) is reduced
to one beat per measure.
a.
224
b.
Ex. 8. G. F. Handel, Water Music in D major: a. First Movement; b. Bourrée.
***
Our conception of an allegro tempo for this period differs markedly

from the sources. In 1752, Quantz compares their allegretto to the presto of
their forefathers.31 And in 1813, the theorist and composer Gottfried Weber
compares their andante to the Bach-era allegro. His article takes the form of a
dialogue between a composer who wants to use a pendulum device to indicate
the desired tempo and a music director who is skeptical. After the composer
observes that the words allegro, andante, adagio, etc. are vague, the music director
responds:
Unfortunately, all too true! This is particularly noticeable with the older
music. As everyone knows, musicians of the first half of the preced-
ing century understood the term allegro to be only approximately what
we now call andante, and all the remaining tempo marks were thus un-
derstood to be slower than those of more recent composers. When
performing works of the older masters now, how difficult it is to guess
the correct tempo as the composer wanted it!
The music director, finally convinced by the composer’s arguments, exclaims:

“If the Handels, Bachs and Grauns had put one or two such [pendulum] num-
bers at the head of their works, these would not now be performed by so many
of my colleagues in mistaken, incorrect tempos, and be desecrated and disfig-
ured!”32
In contrast to the multiple uses of (, * without a qualifying tempo mark
appears to have retained in most cases its original signification of four really
slow beats and serious expression. (As the century wore on, it was used also
for other types of expression.) To have a viable contrast between * and (,
we may often need to adopt a slower tempo for * than is customary today.
Many of Bach’s works for keyboard or instruments are written in *, with no
225
tempo indication. When sixteenth notes form the prevailing motion, four slow
beats will produce a moderate tempo. In some cases, beat subdivision will be
appropriate.
Without metronomes, establishing tempo or writing about it was no easy
matter for eighteenth-century musicians. Undoubtedly some of the discrepancies
between various accounts (concerning the degree of tempo increase with ()
result from individual perception and the difficulty of expressing in words a
concept that has to be adjusted on an individual basis. According to Marpurg,
the ordinary value of notes in * has to be learned through experience, for the
pulse beat is as little an infallible rule as a man’s walking pace.33 For us, hand-
beating may provide a more reliable guide. Thus a piece written in * should
allow four comfortable beats per measure with the hand, and eight in a slow
tempo or intricate texture. Consider ex. 9 from Bach’s Fugue in A[ major,
Well-Tempered Clavier II (BWV 886), in which the harmony changes with each
eighth note, implying eight beats per measure. Since much of his music is
characterized by similar complexity, it benefits from a performance that enables
the ear to grasp the extraordinarily inventive harmony and counterpoint.
Ex. 9. J. S. Bach, Fugue in A [ major (BWV 886), bb.44-45.
Thus the harmonic, rhythmic, and melodic structures can determine

whether beat subdivision is appropriate. The true alla breve, which is is limited
to large note values and two changes of harmony per bar, persisted through the
century and should be distinguished from other uses of (. Its strong, weighty
expression is most apt to be found in sacred music and fugal composition.
While eighth notes may appear, they should not form the prevailing motion.
Only this type conforms to our conception of the ( signature in two beats. The
alla breve spurium, on the other hand, is used in a wide variety of composition
(sometimes erroneously), and implies a somewhat more rapid tempo than would
the same notes in *. If a piece’s harmony changes more frequently than twice
per measure, the ( signature needs four (and occasionally even eight) beats
per bar, with the tempo adjusted to the musical content and the composer’s
indications.
226
Endnotes
1
This chapter appeared originally in The Musical Times 155/1927 (Summer 2014): 85-96.
2
Friedrich Erhardt Niedt, The Musical Guide, trans. Pamela L. Poulin (Oxford: Clarendon, 1989):
xii-xiii, 31. From Niedt’s Musicalische Handleitung oder Gründlicher Unterricht . . . erster Theil (Hamburg,
1700/1710), unpaginated, Cap. IV: * denotes “einen langsamen gravitaetischen Tact: soll es ge-
schwinde gehen / so setzet der Componist ausdrücklich darunter: allegro, oder presto.”
3
Walther/1732, 27.
4
George J. Buelow, ThoroughBass Accompaniment according to Johann David Heinichen (Berkeley: Uni-
versity of California Press, 1966), 135.
5
ATSK, “Alla breve”, 1:72.
6
Walther/1732, 27: “Allegro . . . bedeutet: fröhlich, lustig, wohl belebt oder erweckt; sehr offt
auch: geschwinde und flüchtig: manchmal aber auch, einen gemässigten, obschon frölichen und
belebten Tact.”
7
Kurtzgefasstes musicalisches Lexicon, 2nd edn. (Chemnitz, 1749), 418: “Vivace . . . bedeutet so viel als
freudig, frisch, und mit heller Stimme.”
8
Johann Adolph Scheibe, Ueber die musikalische Composition (Leipzig, 1773), 199: “Er [ƒ] . . . tritt
ernsthaft, langsam und prächtig, und also in starken und hohen pathetischen Schritten einher.”
Also 202f.
9
Koch/1802, “Alla breve,” 129.
10
Scheibe, Ueber . . . Composition, 206.
11
Quantz/Versuch, XIV/7, 139: “Ein langsames Stück im Zweyviertheil- oder Sechsachtheiltacte,
spielet man etwas geschwinder, und eines im Allabreve- oder Dreyzweytheiltacte, langsamer, als
im schlechten oder Dreyviertheiltacte.”
12
13
Walther/1732, 123: “* . . . bedeutet einen entweder aus vier gechwinden oder langsamen
Theilen bestehenden Tact, nachdem nemlich allegro oder adagio dabey stehet; ist aber nichts dabey
notirt, so wird allezeit adagio drunter verstanden, und eine langsame Mensur gegeben.” “( . . .
zeiget einen geschwinden und gleichen Tact an, und wird sowohl beym Allabreve oder da Capella in
Kirchen-Sachen, als ausser diesen bey Fugen, Bourréen, Gavotten, u.d.g. gebraucht; da aber immer
eine Gattung geschwinder als die andere tractirt wird.”
14
Johann Rudolf Ahle, Brevis & perspicua introductio in artem musicam (Mühlhausen, 1673), unpagi-
nated: “Diese [*] bedeuten den grossen und langsamen Tact. Diss [(] bedeutet dass der Tact
etwas geschwinder fortgehen soll.” Also offering the same definitions (with little or no addi-
tional elaboration) are: Wolfgang Mylius, Rudimenta musices (Mühlhausen,1685), unnumbered p.31;
Georg Falck, Idea boni cantoris (Nürnberg, 1688), 52; Wolfgang Caspar Printz, Compendium musicae
signatoriae & modulatoriae vocalis (Dresden, 1689), 21; Martin Heinrich Fuhrmann, MusicalischerTri-
chter (Franckfurt an der Spree, 1706), 60; and Joseph Friedrich Bernhardt Caspar Majer, Museum
musicum (Schwäbisch Hall, 1732), 16.
15
Giovanni Maria Bononcini, Musico prattico (Bologna, 1673), 11: “tempo alla breue, sotto del quale
si cantano tutte le figure per metà del loro primo valore, da i moderni viene però usato come il
primo [*], battendo solo alquanto più presto, per renderlo più facile alli Cantori nel pratticarlo.”
16
Lorenz Christoph Mizler von Kolof, Anfangs-Gründe des General Basses (Leipzig, 1739), 42.: “a)
der gewöhnliche Vierviertel-Tackt, welcher mit einem gross * bemerket wird. Gehet ein Strich
durch das * . . . so bedeutet es, dass man die Noten hurtiger als wo nur ein bloses * . . . spielen
solle. b) Tackt von zwey halben Schlägen, da nemlich die Noten lauter halbe Schläge sind, und
selten Viertel mit vorkommen; sein Zeichen ist eine gross 2.”
227
17
Johann Friedrich Doles, “Anfangsgründe zum Singen,” undated manuscript, ed. Armin Schnei-
derheinze, Beiträge zur Bach-Forschung 7 (Leipzig, 1989): 43.
18
Heinichen/1728, 343f. “Nun finden sich auch andere Arthen Alla breve. Denn an statt dass
das bissherige Allabreve die Harmonie iedweden Tactes nur in 2. Teile getheilet, und folgbar we-
niger nicht als 2 4tel auff einen Accord gehen kunten: so theilen hingegen einige die Harmonie
iedweden Tactes in 4. Theile, und geben iedweden 4tel einen eigenen Accord, brauchen auch die
Freyheit, mit vielen Variationibus und bizarren Sprüngem gedachter 4te; zu verfahren, wieder
die Natur des Antiquen Allabreve, ob sie gleich dieses dabey in gewöhnlichen Rückungen und
Syncopationibus der Con und Dissonantien zu imitiren suchen. . . . dahero man dieses Allabreve
mit Recht ein Allabreve spurium zu nennen pfleget, weil es von dem wahren Allabreve nichts als
die euserliche Kleidung, ich meine die Noten, und den erborgten Allabreve Tact aufweiset, an sich
selbst aber nichts anders ist, als ein übersetzter ordinairer egaler Tact.”
19
Johann Friedrich Agricola in Bach/Dok, 3:206.
20
[Agricola]/1749, 45: “die öfftern Wendungen mit der Hand nur dienen den Ungeübten den Tact
deutlicher zu machen; . . . auch grosse Componisten, wenn sie sich genöthiget sehen, den Tact zu
geben, die Viertheile, auch öffters bey geschwinder Bewegung, ja wohl gar die Achttheile, durch
besondere kleine Rückungen der Hand, im auf- und nieder-schlagen anzumercken.’
21
Quantz/Versuch, V/17, 20.
22
Hiller/1774, 124. Türk/1789, 107. Friedrich Wilhelm Marpurg, Anleitung zur Musik überhaupt,
und zur Singkunst besonders (Berlin, 1763), 80.
23
24
[Agricola]/1749, 45.
25
Anon., “LXVII. Brief,” KBT 2 (1761): 23.
26
“XIV. Brief,” KBT 1 (1759): 108f.
27
Marpurg, Anleitung, 74f.
28
Anon., “Wider die feurigen Kapellmeister,” AmZ 10 (1875): 102f.
29
Georg Philipp Telemann, Musique de Table (Hamburg, 1733).
30
Marpurg, Anleitung, 73.
31
Quantz/Versuch, XVII/vii/50n.
32
Gottfried Weber, “Noch einmal ein Wort über den musikalischen Chronometre oder Takt-
messer,” AmZ 15 (1813): 443f., 447.
33
Marpurg, Anleitung, 74. His statement concerns Quantz’s pulsebeat system and Saint-Lambert’s
pace of a walking man (see chapter 13).
228
CHAPTER 13
Numbers and Tempo: 1630-18001

Ever since antiquity, the human species has been drawn to numbers. In music,
for example, numbers seem to be tangible when compared to the language in
early musical texts, which may have a different meaning for us than it did for
them. But numbers, too, may be misleading. For measuring time, we have ac-
curate metronomes and scientific instruments of great precision, but in the
time frame 1630-1800 a few scientists had pendulums, while the wealthy owned
watches and clocks of varying accuracy. Without the advantages of our tech-
nology, how could they have achieved the extremely rapid tempos that many
today have attributed to them? The extreme tempo numbers associated with
Beethoven’s metronome marks and the French time devices have been treated
in chapters 10 and 11, so now we can examine the remaining principal sources
that have been cited in support of extremely demanding tempos. In some of
the following passages, an early writer uses numbers unscientifically, but in oth-
er instances, the modern literature has drawn conclusions not intended by the
writer.
The mathematical possibilities of “half”

A major clue to the seventeenth century’s casual attitude about numbers
comes from the Dutch musician Jan Albert Ban (1642/43), who reported that
in music “one calls half everything that is less than whole.”2 This philosophy is
evident in the numbers supplied in Marin Mersenne’s Harmonie universelle (1636)
for the length of a pendulum cord. To produce the duration of one second,
for example, requires a length of 3½ pieds.3 In 1701, however, Joseph Sauveur
offered a much more precise cord length of “3 pieds 8½ lignes de Paris” as
the measurement for one second, adding that a length of just 3 pieds would not
produce a perceptible error.4 The French measurements are as follows:
Pied [foot = 331 mm.].

Pouce [inch], the 12th part of a pied
Ligne, the 12th part of a pouce
Since Sauveur’s essay was included in the Mémoires de l’Académie des Sciences,
the most nearly official measurement for a foot in 1700 may have been the pied
universel—33.12 cm. with a pouce of 27.6 mm. Thus the pendulum length for
229
one second of time is just slightly over 36½ pouces, equivalent to the English
39.1 inches. Most likely, Mersenne’s cord of 3½ feet for a second was simply
a rough rule of thumb. Since this is the basis for his other durations of time,
they all are inaccurate. To obtain one-half second, he advises dividing this cord-
length by four; for a measurement of two seconds, he prescribes a length of
fourteen pieds, well over the actual length needed.5 Clearly his numbers came
from mathematical calculations instead of empirical observation.
Mersenne’s large treatise contains direct contradictions between passages
in different locations. Here, the reference is to playing a great many notes in the
space of one second:
I use 32nd and 64th notes to indicate the great speed of the hand that
often plays 32 or 64 notes or keys of the clavier in the time of one
beat [“mesure”], as I have often experimented. This is why I give here
the time of this beat as lasting a little less than one second; that is, the
3600th part of one hour. Thus the composer of this tablature often
plays 32 notes and sometimes 64 in the time of one heartbeat or pulse,
which is very remarkable.6
But in another location, he sets the maximum number of notes performed
in a second as sixteen:
It should be noted that they [musicians] make a beat’s duration
[“mesure”] more or less as they wish, but it is necessary to establish
a certain and determined time for the beat if one wants to know how
. . . to sing notes in the time of one beat. Because the astronomers
have divided each minute of time into 60 parts . . . which they call a
“second,” equivalent to an ordinary pulsebeat . . . , I now suppose that
a beat lasts one second, and say that there is certainly no hand so swift
that it can play the same note or several notes more than 16 times, nor
voice that can sing more than 16 notes or sixteenth notes in the time of
a second. Consequently, those performing 32 notes to the mesure make
it 2 seconds long, and those performing 64 make it 4 seconds long, or 4
pulsebeats. I have observed this with the best viol and spinet players . . .
It follows that no one can play one or several notes more than 960 times
in the space of one minute, or 17,600 times in one hour.7
While 16 notes to the second is seemingly more credible than 32 or 64, it
still represents a guess more than scientific fact. According to the Berlin court
flutist Johann Joachim Quantz in 1752 (below), no more than eight notes can
be performed in a pulsebeat. With the help of today’s loud metronome, eight
notes per second can readily be measured by ear. Beyond that number, one’s
perception may not be accurate. Instead of the number 16 representing solid
scientific inquiry, it is probable that the writer said to himself: “32 or 64 notes
230
to the second can’t be right—it must be about half of 32—that is, 16.” More
useful is Mersenne’s following observation:
But because they change tempo several times . . . in singing the same
piece of music, by hurrying or slowing the beats according to the text or
the subject’s different sentiments, it is difficult to establish any definite
principle, if they do not use as many different cord lengths as needed
for the different tempos.8
Not only were Mersenne’s pendulum measurements inaccurate
approximations, but he had no reliable equipment to test the validity of his
conclusions. When dealing with actual performers, he found the tempo
fluctuating constantly. The discrepancies above suggest that either Mersenne
wrote them at different times and changed his views, or that another person was
involved. His evaluation of musicianship is of some interest:
Some praise those who can make three or four hundred beats of good
figured counterpoint against a pedalpoint; others laud those having
great speed and lightness of hand, as in playing 32 notes in a binary
mesure lasting only one second; and others, lastly, praise those who make
a very large number of passages, diminutions, and variations on what-
ever subject given them. It can be added that those who play with good
movement, fine grace, and in time are the most perfect of all, particu-
larly if they have everything noted above, and if they know how to use
the chromatic degrees as perfectly as the diatonic ones.9
What level of technique is implied by the last clause, which indicates that
some musicians were unable to handle accidentals as easily as other notes? How
does this fit with his claims for extraordinary speed? What is more likely is that
the speed of certain players seemed extraordinarily fast, so that he supposed them
to be playing 32 notes to the second. When discussing musical instruments,
Mersenne claims that certain cornett players ration their wind so dexterously
that they can play a chanson of 80 beats [“mesures”] without taking a breath.
In an experiment, one player performed 100 mesures without taking a breath.10
While the duration of a mesure is not defined here, above it is in the vicinity of
one second. Perhaps his subject knew the secret of circular breathing: inhaling
through the nose at the same time as blowing air into the instrument with
pressure from the cheeks. Mersenne’s inaccurate pendulum measurements and
his conflicting statements offer little guidance for tempo in the seventeenth
century. His most informative observation may be that performers were
constantly changing tempo within a piece, as would be expected when there was
no metronome for instilling rhythmic accuracy.
231
The time signatures and Saint-Lambert

From some point in the seventeenth century and through the eighteenth
century, time signatures could connote valuable information about tempo, as
Jean Rousseau’s vocal method (1683) explains:11
* Four beats graves (very slow)

*-barré ( Two beats lents (slow)
2 Two beats vîtes (quick)
_ Three beats lents
3 Three beats légers (moderate)
I Three beats plus vîtes (more quickly) than 3
L Three beats beaucoup plus vîtes (much
more quickly) than I
K Six beats légers
: Six beats plus vîtes than K
In 1719, Jacques Hotteterre supplied tempo designations for the following

time signatures:12
* Four beats ordinarily très lentement

*-barré Four beats Iégers or two beats lents
2 Two beats ordinarily vives (animated)
+ Two beats légers
_ Three beats lents
3 Three beats sometimes very lente and
sometimes very vive
L One beat in its true movement, which is vif,
but sometimes three beats very lents, as
in 3 or even _
K Sometimes six beats graves, but more often
two beats vif or léger
: Two beats; examples include two gigues and
a vocal air marked Gracieusement
Each signature can be qualified by an accompanying term of tempo or

expression. While Hotteterre found varied usage for some of the signatures,
the basic concept remains the same as in Rousseau’s listing. The slowest tempos
232
_
are represented by * in duple meter and in triple meter, with each successive
signature usually conveying a somewhat faster tempo. According to Saint-
Lambert’s harpsichord method (1702):
_
The signature of contains three half-notes; one or its value is placed
on each beat, which must be grave, that is, lent, and just like those [quar-
ter-notes] in the signature of four beats [*]. 13
In pieces having internal changes of meter between binary and ternary,

_
the quarter-note of * is often equivalent to the half-note of , as in Dieterich
Buxtehude’s Präludium in G minor (WV 149, ex. 1), in which the subject matter
continues unbroken into the new signature. This equivalence, however, should
not be considered a rule, for composers did not always apply the signatures
consistently. The main point is that the quarter note of * and the half note of
_ generally represent the slowest beat unit for duple and triple time signatures,
respectively.
Ex. 1. Buxtehude, Präludium in G minor, mm.153-155.
In this system of time signatures, note durations are relative. Consider

the language in Rousseau’s vocal method: “Every barred signature should be
beat half again as fast as usual, as seen in the minor sign [*-barré], which is none
other than the major sign [*] in diminished form.”14 Without metronomes for
accurate measurement, “half again as fast” has to be interpreted in the sense
given above by Ban—an undefined increment that is something less than a
whole.
When discussing the tempo relationship between these same two signatures
(as well as others), Saint-Lambert uses an idiomatic “once again as fast” (“une
fois plus vite”): “In pieces with a minor sign [*-barré], the notes are une fois plus
vîte than those marked with a major sign [*], since in the same duration of a
beat one puts two quarter notes instead of one.”15 While the modern mind
might be inclined to interpret the latter clause as “twice as fast,” the beat had a
wide latitude, as Saint-Lambert notes below. His phraseology is simply another
means of expressing the same concept as Rousseau’s “half again as fast.” In
233
other publications of this period, writers will state clearly “deux fois” to mean
“twice as,” just as in modern usage. When une fois plus vîte is translated as “twice
as fast,” it produces implausible and impossible metronome marks such as 252
for Saint-Lambert’s dotted quarter note in : . 16 Tempo is subject to so much
variation (as Saint-Lambert observes) that pat formulas will rarely work in
practice. Une fois plus vite means only a general increase that will vary according
to conditions. Thus the beats of the 3 signature will be somewhat faster than
if the piece had been written in , while the beats of L will be somewhat faster
_
than those of 3, unless marked otherwise. This is the only solution that is both
musical and practical under conditions at the time.
In teaching concepts of tempo and rhythm to rank beginners in music,
Saint-Lambert uses another number (from which the number 252 cited above
derived) quoted today. He compares quarter notes in the signatures of *-barré,
3, and one form of K to the steps of a man walking five quarters of a league in
an hour (about three miles), but cautions:17
This is not a rule that should be applied to all sorts of pieces, for if it
were, they would have too uniform a tempo because the notes would all
be played at the same speed. But there are several kinds of tempo; thus
quarter notes (and the other notes in proportion) have to be played in
certain pieces with one tempo and in other pieces with another tempo.18
As he observes, the pace of a walking man is only an estimate, for the steps
of a tall man will be slower than those of a short man to cover the same distance
in an hour. Nevertheless, his analogy, which probably derived from a topical
allusion for a moderate pace, has today been calculated to indicate that a quarter
note = M 125 in the time signature of *-barré.19 Saint-Lambert, however, cites
the necessity for a steady pulse as the chief reason for his analogy:
I have not so much claimed by this comparison to give the true
measure of the quarter note’s duration as I have hoped to give an idea
of the equality they must have. This is the most essential aspect of
movement.20
The pursuit of sound rhythm is why Saint-Lambert keeps returning to the
subject of beat equality, for this is what gives music its “soul” and “what it can
least do without.”21 In contrast to quarter notes in the above signatures, Saint-
Lambert has his man walk quite slowly for quarter notes in the fort grave signature
of *: “I always compare the beats of music to the steps of a man because
[these], being equal among themselves, are very appropriate for giving a correct
idea of the beats and their equality.”22 Saint-Lambert specifically disclaims any
intention of indicating the quarter note’s exact duration.When summing up his
lengthy discussion of tempo and the time signatures, he advises that one “can
234
use the privilege of musicians, and give pieces whatever tempo is pleasing . . .
provided that it is not directly opposite to that required by the signature.”23 An
example of the latter can be found in modern performances that treat the slow
_ signature as a modern Presto.
Whereas modern time-beating rarely subdivides beats, so that the notes
in beats comprised of small note values have to be performed very quickly,
subdivision was recommended by eighteenth-century writers. Observing that
the “celebrated Tartini” used beat subdivision with his pupils, the French critic
Pascal Boyer (1767) adds that the signatures were never intended to tell the
musician what to do with his body: “When beating the measure of two beats,
several music masters make four hand movements, while others make eight
motions for the measure of four beats, etc., without anyone ever accusing
them of not knowing how to beat time.” He also explains that the varied time
signatures served as much to indicate the form of periods and construction of
musical phrases, as to designate the degree of lightness given the notes.24
Figurative vs. literal interpretation

Sometimes an early writer uses a number in a figurative or pedagogical
sense; for example, Quantz’s pulsebeat of 80, discussed in his book about
practical music (1752).25 According to his full text on this subject, which
mentions the pulse’s variability, 80 was simply a round figure convenient for
teaching tempo relationships (recall that Mersenne placed the pulsebeat at 60).
Quantz complains that the same piece is played moderately on one occasion,
faster at another, and still faster at yet another; a Presto is frequently made into
an Allegretto and an Adagio into an Andante, doing the composer the greatest
injustice. Because the metronome was still far in the future, Quantz had to
devise an analogy for teaching tempo relationships. Observing that there are so
many tempo categories that it would be impossible to define them all, he selects
four Italian terms to serve as the basis for determining the others, and applies a
pulsebeat as follows (in the signature of *):
Allegro assai, a pulsebeat per half note;

Allegretto, a pulsebeat per quarter note;
Adagio cantabile, a pulsebeat per eighth note;
Adagio assai, two pulsebeats per eighth note.26
He modifies these categories in certain respects; for example, by inserting

a moderate Allegro (usually indicated by terms such as Poco Allegro, Vivace,
235
or simply Allegro) between Allegro assai and Allegretto. As he observes, the

number 80 was just an expedient to teach gradations of tempo:
I do not claim that a whole piece should be measured off accord-
ing to the pulsebeat; this would be pointless and impossible. I simply
want to show how any tempo desired can be established in at least two,
four, six, or eight pulse beats, and how you can become acquainted with
the various tempo categories by yourself, which will lead to further in-
quiry.27
Today, Quantz’s rough formula has been granted an aura of scientific

authority that he never intended. Some have translated his pulsebeat into
metronome numbers, promoting the astonishingly rapid tempos produced by
his first category without observing that the last category is implausibly slow,
for it produces sixteen beats per measure. None of these tempos can be taken
literally. For example, the pulse rate is not a stable indicator. According to
Black’s Medical Dictionary (Lanham, MD, 1992): “The pulse rate is usually about
70 per minute, but it may vary in health from 50 to 100, and is quicker in
childhood and slower in old age than in middle life; it increases in all feverish
states.” A pulse measurement which can be neither seen nor heard cannot be
verified accurately without a modern scientific instrument. Pendulums were
known by a few individuals in Europe, but not by Quantz, for he had not seen
Étienne Loulié’s pendulum (1696) and doubted its efficacy because it had fallen
into oblivion.28 Thus Quantz’s pulsebeat theory was unworkable in the sense in
which we have applied it, for musicians had no means with which to check their
own pulse rate, unless it coincided with a second of time. His goal was not to
set a defined tempo, but to establish the relationship among the various tempo
categories.
From Quantz’s pulsebeat formula, a tempo of M 160 has been deduced for
various dance forms (including the dotted quarter note of a Gigue).29 Quantz,
however, states that one must consider both the tempo word at the beginning
of the piece and its fastest notes, because a pulsebeat allows executing no more
than eight very fast notes, whether double-tongued or bowed.30
In his keyboard method book (1789), Daniel Gottlob Türk interprets
Quantz’s tempo categories figuratively. While some musicians divide tempo
into four main classifications, he says, others divide it into three, six, or even only
two categories: “Quantz’s principles define tempo only in general; particular
cases belong to the exceptions which, even in the most detailed treatise, a music
teacher would have great difficulty specifying. Moreover, composers themselves
are not without exception agreed about tempo definitions and the customary
descriptive words. By ‘Allegro’, one individual understands a much greater
236
degree of speed than does another.” Noting that there can be many objections
to using a human pulse for measurement and that the distance between Quantz’s
fastest and slowest categories is too great, Türk nevertheless would recommend
his formula to beginners for gaining at least some concept of differing tempos.31
Experienced musicians, too, were not exempt from faulty tempos: “Many
dilettantes [members of the upper classes who retained their amateur status
for social reasons], and to some extent even professional musicians, play most
pieces in a moderately fast tempo—thus the Presto is much too slow, the Adagio,
however, too fast.” According to Türk, many variables affect tempo:
How fast is the tempo in an Allegro assai . . .? This question cannot
be answered because of varying factors. For example, an Allegro with
intermixed thirty-second notes must not be played as quickly as one
whose fastest passages consist only of eighth notes. An Allegro for
the church or in sacred cantatas, a complex trio or quartet, etc. should
have a much more moderate tempo than an Allegro for the theater or
in chamber style; for example, symphonies, divertimentos, etc. An Al-
legro filled with lofty, solemn, grand thoughts requires a slower, more
emphatic pace than one in which leaping joy is the dominant character.32
To these we can add such factors as the number of voices in the

composition, the complexity of the texture and rhythms, and the acoustics of
the performing space.
When observing the variability to which the human pulse is subject, the
flutist Johann George Tromlitz (1791) doubts its adequacy for determining
tempo, and poses some questions. If a young, passionate musician whose
blood impels him to ever faster tempos were to choose a tempo based on his
pulse, what would happen to his rapid passages? How would this tempo fit
with the accompaniment? And where does this leave the main point—the true
substance of the piece and the composer’s wishes? The same issue arises with
the Adagio, particularly an intricate one: “Because from time immemorial it
has been difficult, if not completely impossible, for such a fiery and excitable
temperament to perform a melody that is touching, I believe that today’s
fashionable composers have completely abandoned it, for this type of Adagio
is nearly extinct. Whether that is right and good, I will not say, but it seems to
me a very great shame. To be sure, the Adagio is not only difficult to play, but
also difficult to compose.” There must be a way, continues Tromlitz, to find
the tempo of the words at the beginning of a piece: “I know of none other
than the musical feeling. But if we are to find the right tempo this way, we
must know the piece’s substance beforehand. To be guided solely by the tempo
words is in my view an error, or at least a very weak means.” For example,
237
“when the performer is guided [in an Allegro] only by the meaning of ‘quickly,’
as very often happens, he will certainly, or at least for the most part, miss the
composer’s intention, for he does not grasp the substance, the essence to which
his attention should be completely directed and on which everything depends.”33
To solve the problem of setting tempo, inventors tried to perfect a time-
measuring device, but their efforts, aside from accuracy, proved too large and
expensive for practical use. In 1800, one of these inventors, G. E. Stockel,
referred to the “many difficulties” of Quantz’s pulsebeat system, for it cannot
compare with devices utilizing the senses of sight and hearing. Stockel also
mentions that Allegros are now about a third faster than fifty years ago.34 As
instruments and performance standards improved, tempo increased. According
to Ignaz Ferdinand Kajetan Arnold’s book (1806) about orchestras and their
leaders:
I am saying nothing new in bringing up the assorted Allegro tempos
used by different orchestras and at various times. In some court or-
chestras, it borders on Andante, in others, on Presto or Prestissimo. All
pieces of older composers must usually be taken at a slower tempo, for
they would become completely unintelligible if the tempo were pushed
in the same way as with modern works that count on more skill from
the player. The music director of an orchestra practiced in new pieces
can with good reason prescribe to his players an Andante where the
older composer wrote Allegro or Allegretto. Whoever wants a vivid
confirmation of this can take the first piece from J. A. Hiller’s Jagd [a
“Sinfonie,” which begins Allegro con Spirito] and perform its tempo mark
at the same speed with which we take this tempo at present. He will
be amazed to feel all the charm, which is so abundant in every part of
Hiller’s masterwork, vanish.35
Since Hiller’s Jagd was written in 1770, tempo in general had increased
in just thirty-six years, a period short enough to have many eyewitnesses still
present. The word Arnold used to describe what is lost by a tempo too fast—
Anmuth [charm, grace]—is apt. A notable exception to tempo inflation occurred
in mid-eighteenth-century French opera. More song-like than Italian simple
recitative, French recitative became the location for singers to display crowd-
pleasing devices, as the philosophe Jean Le Rond d’Alembert describes (1759):
This recitative to which we cling so strongly in our operas . . . is today
more deadly than ever. To make their voices stand out, singers think
only of screaming and dragging their notes. They absolutely ignore the
vitality of the declamation, so necessary to the recitative . . . We are cer-
tain that in the time of Lulli the recitative was sung much more quickly,
and was less tedious. Lulli, who was a man of taste and even of genius,
238
felt . . . that the recitative was not made to be executed with effort and
slowness . . . Since then, our recitative, without gaining anything in other
respects, has even lost the declamation that this artist had given it . . .
The trills and ports de voix which we use in such abundance will always be
an insurmountable stumbling block to the declamation.36
On the other hand, some French instrumentalists were heading in the

other direction, for the violinist Jean-Marie Leclair had to caution those who
played his compositions:
By the term Allegro I certainly do not mean a tempo too fast; it is
a cheerful tempo. Those who rush too much, especially in character
pieces (like most fugues in four beats) make the music trivial, instead of
conserving its nobility.37
****
In early texts, some numbers will be inaccurate, partly from a lack of

scientific expertise and equipment, and partly from standards of the times. On
the other hand, the pace of Saint-Lambert’s walking man was not intended to be
taken literally, but to teach the concept of beat equality to beginners. Likewise,
Quantz’s pulsebeat formula, with its unintended extremes of fast and slow,
was a figurative substitute for the lack of an accurate time-measuring device to
distinguish the various degrees of tempo. (We, too, sometimes fail to make the
tempo distinctions that Quantz wanted, for celebrated artists have been known
to perform an Allegretto at the highest speed the fingers and instrument can
muster.) Upon examination, none of the sources cited in support of overly
rapid tempos can withstand scrutiny.
In selecting a tempo, clarity is a major consideration. When the notes
rush by so quickly that the listener cannot focus on anything and the music
never breathes, the composer’s intention is lost. While the lack of technology
in earlier centuries would have produced tempos considerably slower than
those today, the goal is not necessarily to replicate them, but to engage the
listener meaningfully. Not long ago, Lorin Maazel led the Vienna Philharmonic
orchestra in a performance of Mozart’s Symphony no. 40, using more moderate
tempos for the faster movements than often heard. The result was captivating,
for it conveyed warmth and enabled details from the composer’s genius to be
perceived and savored.
Few rules or principles can be established for tempo. Although Feuillet’s
reasonable pendulum numbers in chapter 11 are a valuable guide to tempo and
239
the most accurate information we have, they apply to music of simple texture
that is to be danced. In the case of a dance form set for keyboard by a composer
like François Couperin or Johann Sebastian Bach, the more complex texture
usually requires a slower tempo. Because of its many variables, tempo cannot
be quantified, but should, as Türk and Tromlitz said, convey the composition’s
musical substance.
Endnotes
1
This abridged chapter appeared originally in Performance Practice Review: Vol. 17: No. 1, Article 4
(2012). Available at : http://scholarship.claremont.edu/ppr/vol17/iss1/4.
2
Cited by Frits Noske in his introduction to Jan Albert Ban, Zangh-Bloemzel & Kort Sangh-Bericht
(Amsterdam, 1642/43; rpt. 1969), unnumbered page 6 under “Performance Practice.” The state-
ment is found in the Onderrechtingh om deze Zanghen wel te zinghen, which Ban added to his Zangh-
Bloemzel (fol. * 3 vo).
3
Mersenne/1636, “Liure troisiesme des Instrumens à chordes,” 1:149: “. . . s’il [the composer]
veut que chaque mesure dure seulement vne seconde, il marquera 3½ qui signifie que la chorde
penduë à vn clou, & qui tient vn poids attaché à l’autre bout, fait chacune de ses allées, ou chaque
retour dans vne secóde minute.”
4
Sauveur/1701, 19: “prenez AC de 3 pieds 8½ lignes de Paris, qui est la longueur du Pendule
simple à secondes (l’on pourroit prendre 3 pieds justes sans erreur sensible).”
5
Mersenne/1636, “Liure troisiesme des Instrumens à chordes,” 1:149: “Si l’on veut haster
la mesure, & qu’elle ne dure qu’vne demie seconde, il faut accourcir la chorde en raison souz-
doublée des temps ou des mesures, c’est à dire qu’il faut la faire 4 fois plus courte; & si l’on veut
qu’elle dure 2 secondes, il la faut faire de quatorze pieds . . . car les longueurs des chordes sont en
raison doublée des temps.”
6
Ibid., 1:163: “. . . i’vse de triples & quadruples crochuës pour marquer la grande vistesse de
la main qui touche souuent 32, ou 64 notes ou touches du clauier dans le temps d’vne mesure,
comme i’ay souuent experimenté, c’est pourquoy ie donne icy le temps de cette mesure qui dure
vn peu moins qu’vne seconde minute, c’est à dire que la 3600. partie d’vne heure, de sorte que
l’autheur de cette tablature touche souuent 32 notes, & quelquefois 64 dans le temps d’vn batte-
ment de coeur, ou de poux: ce qui est tres-remarquable.”
7
Ibid., 1:137f.: “If faut encore remarquer qu’ils font durer vne mesure plus ou moins comme ils
veulent: mais il est necessaire d’establir vn temps certain & déterminé pour la mesure, si l’on veut
sçauoir combien l’on peut faire de sons, c’est à dire combien l’on peut chanter de notes dans le
temps d’vne mesure: & parce que les Astronomes ont diuisé chaque minute de temps en 60 parties,
& que chaque 60 partie de minute, qu’ils nomment seconde, est esgale à vn battement ordinaire du
poux, comme i’ay desia dit ailleurs, ie suppose maintenant qu’vne mesure dure vne seconde min-
ute, & dis qu’il n’y a point de main si viste qui puisse toucher plus de 16 fois vne mesme chorde,
ou plusieurs, ny voix qui puisse chanter plus de 16 notes ou doubles crochuës dans le temps d’vne
seconde minute, & consequemment que ceux qui font 32 notes à la mesure employent 2 secondes
dans la mesure, & que ceux qui en font 64 font la mesure de 4 secondes ou de 4 battemens de
poux: ce que i’ay obserué dans l’experience des meilleurs ioueurs de Viole & d’Epinette . . . D’où
il s’ensuit que nul ne peut toucher plus de 960 fois vne, ou plusieurs chordes dans l’espace d’vne
minute d’heure, ou 17600 dans vne heure.”
8
Ibid., “Liure cinquiesme de la Composition,” unnumbered page between 2:324 and 2:325: “Mais
parce qu’ils changent plusieurs fois de mesure, soit binaire ou ternaire, en faisant chanter vne
mesme piece de Musique, en hastant ou retardant le baisser & le leuer, suiuant la lettre & les
240
paroles, ou les passions differentes du sujet dont ils traitent, il est difficile d’y apporter nulle regle
certain, s’ils n’vsent d’autant de filets differents comme ils veulent faire de mesures differentes.”
9
Ibid., “Liure sixiesme des Orgues,” 1:392: “Quelques-vns font grand estat de ceux qui peuuent
faire trois ou quatre cent mesures de bon contrepoint figuré contre vn point d’Orgue; les autres
de ceux qui ont vne grande vitesse & legereté de main, comme il arriue lors qu’ils font trente-deux
notes dans la mesure binaire, qui dure seulement vne seconde minute; & les autres enfin de ceux
qui font vn tres-grand nombre de passages, de diminutions, & de varietez contre tel suiet qu’on
leur puisse donner: à quoy l’on peut adiouster que ceux qui ioüent d’vn beau mouuement & d’vne
bonne grace, & quie sont iustes à la mesure, sont les plus parfaits de tous, particulierement s’ils
ont tout ce qui a esté remarqué cy-dessus, & s’ils sçauent vser des degrez Chromatiques aussi
parfaitement que des Diatoniques.”
10
Ibid., “Liure cinquiesme des Instrumens à vent,” 1:276: “l’autre consiste en la dispensation du
vent, qu’ils poussent si doucement, & qu’ils mesnagent si dextrement qu’ils sonnent vne chanson
de 80 mesures sans reprendre leur vent ou leur haleine . . . l’on a encore experimenté que le sieur
Sourin d’Auignon faisoit cent mesures sans respirer, ou reprendre vent.”
11
Jean Rousseau, Méthode claire, certaine et facile pour apprendre à chanter la musique (Paris, 1683), 34-36.
His 1678 edition is lost.
12
Hotteterre/1719, 57-60.
13
Saint-Lambert/1702, 19: “La Mesure de trois pour deux contient trois Blanches, & l’on en met
une, ou sa valeur, sur chaque temps lesquels doivent être graves, c’est-à-dire lents, & tout pareils à
ceux de la Mesure à quatre temps.”
14
Jean Rousseau, Méthode claire, certaine et facile pour apprendre à chanter la musique, 5th edn. (Amster-
dam, ca.1710; rpt. 1976), 40: “. . . tout signe qui est barré se doit battre la moitié plus legérement
qu’à l’ordinaire, comme on le voit au signe mineur qui n’est autre chose que le majeur diminué.”
15
Saint-Lambert/1702, 18: “. . . dans les Piéces marquées du Signe mineur, les Notes vont une
fois plus vîte que dans celles qui sont marquées du Signe majeur; puisque dans la même durée d’un
temps, on met deux Noires au lieu d’une.”
16
Klaus Miehling, Das Tempo in der Musik von Barock und Vorklassik, 2nd edn. (Wilhelmshaven: F.
Noetzel, 2003), 51f. Calculated as M 240 by Rebecca Harris-Warrick in Principles of the Harpsichord
by Monsieur de Saint Lambert (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984), 43n.
17
For the conversion of leagues to miles, see Harris-Warrick, Principles, xv.
18
Saint-Lambert/1702, 17.
19
Miehling, Das Tempo, 50f. Harris-Warrick, Principles, 43n., places the quarter note at M 120. In
real life, it is unlikely that a beginning pupil would walk three miles many times to find the right
speed. And the unpaved, rough terrain would have required a varying pace.
20
Saint-Lambert/1702, 24: “. . . n’ay-je pas tant prétendu par cette comparaison, donner la vraye
mesure de la durée des Noires, que j’ay songé à donner l’idée de l’égalité qu’elles doivent avoir; ce
qui est le plus essentiel du mouvement.”
21
Ibid., 25.
22
Ibid., 18: “La Mesure à quatre temps est fort grave; les temps s’en doivent mesurer sur les pas
d’un Homme qui se promene, & même assez lentement. Je compare toûjours les temps de la
Musique aux pas d’un Homme, parce que les pas d’un Homme étant égaux entre eux, sont fort
propres à donner une juste idée des temps & de leur égalité.”
23
Ibid, 25: “il peut user du privilege des Musiciens, & donner aux Piéces tel mouvement qu’il luy
plaira . . . pourvû qu’il ne choisisse pas pour une Piéce un mouvement directement opposé à celuy
que demande le Signe.”
24
Boyer/1767, 52-54, 49.
25
Quantz/Versuch, XVII/vii/47-55, 261-68.
26
Ibid., XVII/vii/51, 264.
241
27
Ibid., XVII/vii/48, 261f.: “Ich verlange nicht, dass man ein ganzes Stück nach dem Pulsschlage
abmessen solle; denn dieses wäre ungereimt und unmöglich: sondern meine Absicht geht nur
dahin, zu zeigen, wie man zum wenigsten durch zween oder vier, sechs oder acht Pulsschläge, ein
jedes Zeitmaass, so man verlanget, fassen, und vor sich, eine Erkenntniss der verschiedenen Arten
desselben, erlangen, und daher zu weiterm Nachforschen Anlass nehmen.”
28
Ibid., § 46.
298
Based on Quantz/Versuch, XVII/vii/58, 270f., many writers, including Miehling, Das Tempo,
199; Curt Sachs, Rhythm and Tempo (New York: Norton, 1953), 318; and Ralph Kirkpatrick, “Eigh-
teenth-Century Metronomic Indications,” Papers Read by Members of the American Musicological Society
(1938): 45f., propose M = 160 for the following dance forms: Gavotte, Bourrée, Rigaudon (two
beats/bar); Passacaille, Chaconne, Menuet (three beats/bar); Gigue, Canarie (two beats/bar of :).
For a table of metronome speeds for five tempo categories deduced from Quantz’s pulsebeat, see
NG2, “Performing practice,” 19:369.
30
Quantz/Versuch, XVII/vii/51, 263f.: “. . . so ist zu merken: dass man vor allen Dingen, so-
wohl das zu Anfange des Stücks geschriebene, das Zeitmaass andeutende, Wort; als auch die
geschwindesten Noten, woraus die Passagien bestehen, betrachten müsse. Weil man nun mehr
als acht ganz geschwinde Noten, nicht wohl, es sey mit der Doppelzunge, oder mit dem Bogen-
striche, in der Zeit eines Pulsschlages aus üben kann.”’
31`
Türk/1789; 110-12.
32
Ibid., 111, 112.
33
Tromlitz/1791, 92f.
34
G. E. Stockel, “Ueber die Wichtigkeit der richtigen Zeitbewegung eines Tonstucks, nebst einer
Beschreibung meines musikalischen Chronometers . . . ,” AmZ 2 (1800): 657-78 at 661f.
35
Ignaz Ferdinand Kajetan Arnold, Der angehende Musikdirektor oder Die Kunst ein Orchester zu bilden,
in Ordnung zu erhalten, und überhaupt allen Forderungen eines guten Musikdirector Genüge zu leisten (Erfurt,
1806), 58ff.
36
Jean Le Rond d’Alembert, “De la liberté de la musique,” in Mélanges de litterature, d’histoire, et de
philosophie (Amsterdam, 1766), 4:425f.
37
Jean-Marie Leclair, Ouvertures et Sonates en Trio, Op. 13 (Paris, [1753]; rpt. 1991), Avertissement:
“. . . je n’entend point par le terme d’Allegro, un mouvement trop vite; c’est un mouvement Guay.
ceux qui le pressent trop, sur tout dans les morceaux de caractaire comme dans la plus part des
Fugues a quatre Temps, rendent le chant Trivial, au lieu d’en conserver la Noblesse.”
242
CHAPTER 14
Overdotting in Handel’s Overtures

Reconsidered1
Unnotated overdotting—lengthening the dot’s value, thereby shortening the
subsequent note(s)—has been the subject of remarkable controversy in mod-
ern times. By 2001, The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians had come
to the conclusion: “20th –century claims of a universal ‘French overture’ or
‘splendid’ style have been considerably overstated (e.g. Dolmetsch, Dart and
Donington), and there are no simple rules of thumb.”2 Yet overdotting in
the first section of the French overture—the form used frequently by George
Frideric Handel —seems to remain an accepted fact in many performances,
an observation that can also include related forms in which dotted notes pre-
dominate. Before presenting examples from Handel’s overtures, this essay will
demonstrate that overdotting instructions,3 which derive from certain German
texts after 1750, had a pedagogical, not aesthetic, purpose.
French sources provide no evidence for overdotting. While an example
from a children’s primer by Michel-Pignolet de Montéclair (ca. 1730) is thought to
advocate overdotting by using the phrase “à l’extremité du frapé” (ex. 1a, next page),
this simply means “at the end of the downbeat.” Lacking metronomes, pupils
were taught to beat time with the hand or foot. The direction Frapez indicates a
downward motion, and Levez, upward. A clarification of ex. 1a is found earlier in
Montéclair’s manual, where he says that 16th notes are rare in the time signature of
2; each measure requires16, consequently 8 for each beat (ex. 1b).4 Thus the three
16th notes at the beginning of ex. 1a fall, as he says, at the end of the frapé.
Composers had ample means for indicating any degree of dotting desired.
Tied notes served this purpose, as did the double dot, which was familiar back in
the seventeenth century; André Raison’s Livre d’orgue (1688) contains examples,
as do harpsichord pieces by Jacques Champion de Chambonnières and Jean-
Henry D’Anglebert. When the notes following a dotted note do not add up
correctly, the dot has a variable value, a principle explained in the unpublished
supplement to Étienne Loulié’s method book (1696; ex. 2):
Ordinarily, a dot after a note augments its value by half. Sometimes,
[however,] it augments the note by 1/8, 1/4, 3/8, 1/2, 5/8, 3/4, or
7/8. That is to say, the dot of a quarter note sometimes has the value
of a 32nd note [A], a 16th note [B], three 32nd notes [C], an 8th note [D],
five 32nd notes [E], three 16th notes [F], or seven 32nd notes [G]. In any
[given] place, the dot’s time value is regulated by the notes that follow.5
243
a.
b.
a.
b.
Ex. 1. Montéclair: a. Entrée de ballet; b. Frapez and Levez.
Ex. 2. Loulié, differing values of the dot.
While claims have been made for altering note values in François
Couperin’s works,6 this overlooks the fact that his pieces were engraved with the
accurate vertical alignment for performance: “I have observed perpendicularly
[vertically] the exact value of the beats and notes.”7 According to the meticulous
engraving of Couperin’s notation:
— The vertical alignment mandates contrasting dotting (i.e., not

synchronized) in many locations;
— Written overdotting occurs often, indicated by tied notes;
— Upbeats are consistently shortened to match a dotted pattern, except
in the first part of the overture and related forms.
Couperin’s “L’Audacieuse” (Ordre 23) provides a splendid example of

complex, contrasting dotted figures, all correctly aligned. In ex. 3, Couperin
juxtaposes 32nd-note upbeats in the upper two voices with 16th-note upbeats in
the tenor voice. Had he intended the inner voices to synchronize at the end
of the first beat in m.17, he would have written the tenor voice as a tied note.
Moreover, the alignment spells out that the alto voice enters after the tenor.
244
Overdotting in Handel’s Overtures Reconsidered
*
Ex. 3. Couperin, ’Audacieuse,” m.17.
Couperin’s extraordinary attention to notation indicates that unwritten

overdotting was not applied in French music. Had it been, one might reasonably
expect him to have included an instruction to play his music exactly as it stands
(similar to the warning about ornamentation prefacing his third book of
harpsichord pieces), for tampering with his notated time values detracts from
their aesthetic value.
What we call notes inégales—the mild dotting of equal paired notes—is not a
factor in the overture or other work of rhythmic complexity because unwritten
inequality is cancelled when notes of smaller value than those eligible for it
are present (see chapter 15). Since notes inégales apply to only one note-value
denomination in a piece, as determined by the time signature, they are ineffective
in a work of rhythmic complexity. Eighth notes represent the value eligible
for inequality in the overture’s signatures of 2 or *-barré, so the presence of
smaller note values automatically cancels notes inégales. This important concept
clarifies the many questions that arise in practical application.
In Germany, too, Handel’s close associate Johann Mattheson required
notational exactitude for dotted notes. After specifying the dot’s value as one-
half of the preceding note, he continues: “If a note with a value of five quarter
notes, nine 8th notes, or seventeen 16th notes is desired, however, one must use
tied notes” (ex. 4a).8 Ex. 4b shows his notation for seven 16th notes, while ex. 4c
depicts the notation for five 8th notes, nine 16th notes, and seventeen 32nd notes.
245
a.
b.
c.
Ex. 4. Mattheson, Tied notes; a., b. and c.
Rhythmic instability
Evidence for overdotting has been cited from a few German sources after
1750, but their instruction was designed to remedy a fault in performance. With
no metronomes for training musicians, rhythmic steadiness was a perpetual
problem, particularly in ensembles. The following examples are representative
of many others from all over Europe:
— Writing from the Berlin court, Johann Joachim Quantz (1752)
frequently cites this problem, observing, for example, that rests “cause
a great deal of trouble,” particularly those having the value of an 8th
note, 16th note, or 32nd note. In another passage, he advises taking pains
to play each note with its proper value, and avoid rushing or dragging.
The player should keep the time value in mind at each quarter note and
“not think it is enough to be together with the other parts only at the
beginning and end of the bar.”9
— According to a letter from Thomas Harris, Lincoln’s Inn
(London; 24 October 1745) to James Harris, Salisbury, the famed vio-
linist Francesco Geminiani had to foot-stamp in the orchestral portions
of his concerto to hold the band together: “I last night at the Castle
heard Geminiani play 2 of his last solo’s turnd into concerto’s; he per-
formed finely; but not without loud stamping to the repieno’s.”10
246
— While writers nearly always oppose audible time beating, Fran-

cesco Galeazzi, leader of the Teatro Valle orchestra in Rome, advises it
in 1791 as a duty of the first violinist when leading the orchestra: “If
the need arises, he should from time to time strike some blows with his
foot to support the whole group, keep equilibrium, impede disunity, or
induce cohesion if it is vacillating.”11
— Handel, too, may have needed to take unusual measures to con-
quer problems of rhythmic unsteadiness, as suggested in a letter from
Joseph Fowke to his daughter, in which he welcomes the Handel Jubilee
and hopes that sensible music may revive: “What a pity he is so seldom
executed with any tolerable degree of correctness. In his own lifetime
he was continually mortified by the want of steadiness & firmness in the
performers, who were even then prone to run riot in the time.”12
Without an aid for acquiring a sound rhythmic sense, the hurdles were
immense. As noted in chapter 2, the general level of playing can be gauged by
the very elementary string technique prescribed in Johann Friedrich Reichardt’s
manual for ripienists (1776), written for those already holding a professional
position.13
Overdotting as a remedial device

As Quantz declares, orchestral music requires precise note values.
Professional musicians “are duty bound to understand time measure [note
values] thoroughly and observe it with the greatest strictness. Otherwise,
execution will always be faulty, especially in a large accompanying body.” Despite
its importance, continues Quantz, many musicians are still not secure in keeping
time. Perhaps they are unaware of their errors when they follow others and play
haphazardly. Not only young people, but also experienced musicians often drag
or rush, which causes considerable disorder in an orchestra, especially if they are
playing the principal parts and leading others. “Arriving at the bar’s downbeat
at the right time does not mean that you have produced the note values entirely
accurately. Every note of the harmony must coincide with the bass. Therefore,
do not subtract anything from the correct time of the principal notes, whether
quarter notes, 8th notes, or 16th notes, by rushing, so that they are instead heard
as passing notes, thus obscuring or maiming both melody and harmony.”14
Quantz offers the same advice to an orchestra leader: “He has to pay the
closest attention to note values, and particularly to short 16th- and 32nd-note
rests, so that he neither rushes nor drags.”15
Quantz’s book is the earliest and principal source for the overdotting
advocated today, but his instruction was intended to correct the underdotting
of small note values, for these posed a particularly vexing problem in orchestral
247
music. The smaller the dotted note’s value, the more difficult is a correct
execution, because one ceases to feel a pulse on the sub-beat. Thus it becomes
underdotted, which leads to rushing and rhythmic instability. Quantz’s material
was probably the inspiration for Leopold Mozart’s mention of overdotting four
years later. Since Mozart’s presentation is more concise and explicit, it provides
a useful introduction to Quantz’s passages. He repeatedly defines overdotting
as a means to avoid having the note(s) after the dot enter too early:
— In general, the dot should always be held somewhat longer.
Thereby, not only will the execution have more vitality, but rushing,
that almost universal error caused by holding the dots insufficiently, and
which very easily ruins the music, is circumvented. It would be very
good if this lengthening of the dot were correctly defined and notated.
I have often done so [he illustrates a double-dotted 8th note, so the
double dot in this case is not literal, but remedial].16
— We can very easily err in keeping time. Dotted notes are
where we are most apt to rush if the time of the dot is not held out.
Therefore, it is always better if the note after the dot is performed
somewhat later.17
— We must always hold the dot rather too long than too short.
Thereby, rushing is prevented and good taste furthered.18
Elsewhere, Mozart illustrates various numbers of 32nd-note upbeats that

follow rests of small denomination, cautioning players against starting them too
early.19
Likewise, passages from Quantz thought to specify overdotting for
orchestral players are instead remedial. In one, he directs violinists to play 32nd
notes quickly at the very end of the beat when they follow a long note and a short
rest, as at the end of ex. 5. His explanation—“in order not to disturb the regularity
of the beats” [emphasis added]—confirms the purpose of this alteration.20 Since
these 32nd notes are usually begun too early, players should aim instead for the
end of the beat. It is a teaching device, and not to be taken in our sense. As
Quantz specifies, this instruction does not apply to the first half of his example;
its 32nd notes begin exactly in the middle of a beat and so present no problem.
Ex. 5. Quantz, executing 32 nd notes.
Similar advice appears when Quantz discusses the articulation of dotted

notes in French dance forms:
248
When three or more 32nd notes follow a dot or rest, they are not al-
ways played according to their value, especially in slow pieces, but very
quickly at the very end of their allotted time; this often happens in
overtures, entrées, and furies. But each of these quick notes must have its
own bow stroke.21
The speed of the 32nd notes is limited by the requirement of separate
bowstrokes for each; as noted below, each note is to be sharply detached. This
excerpt from Quantz, the only one to mention the overture, has perhaps been
the most influential for applying overdotting to French overtures written up
to eighty years earlier. But a comparison with other passages from his book
nullifies its surface meaning, for orchestral players had to execute their parts
as written. Thus a pedagogical device is again being recommended to avoid
having the 32nd notes enter too early; this is confirmed by his advice to orchestra
leaders: “After short rests, it would be less harmful if he [the leader] began later
and hurried the following short notes somewhat than if he anticipated them.”22
If players were capable of performing these note values in time, there would be
no need for such a recommendation.
Also seeking to correct the problem of a too-early entrance is Quantz’s
instruction to wait “half again as long as the rest” when performing the three
32nd notes after a 16th rest (and the same for 32nd rests).23 In 1787, Carl Philipp
Emanuel Bach commented on this passage, noting that Quantz takes the lesser
of two evils; this “goes to prove that a correct entrance is almost impossible.”24
Quantz’s clearest passage about overdotting is directed to individuals,
and follows immediately after he recommends 8th notes for counting, thus
subdividing the beats. The dotted half note and quarter note each receive the
conventional values, but the dotted 8th note and dotted 16th note are overdotted
to obtain more energy.25 This device countermands the natural tendency to
underdot notes of small denomination. Unless the tempo were extremely slow,
it is unlikely that these were actually overdotted, because standard dotting itself
is a sharp ratio in such cases. Dotted half notes and quarter notes, on the other
hand, do not present a problem. Nearly a hundred pages later, Quantz offers
soloists directions for performing a Grave composed of dotted notes, but does
not mention altering note values. The dotted note is swelled to the dot. If the
interval is not too large, the note following is connected smoothly to it and
then detached. But with wide leaps, each note is detached.26 This articulation
instruction for dotted notes will be repeated by writers below.
Other writers, too, restrict overdotting to small note values and imply that
it is remedial. When another Berlin figure, Johann Friedrich Agricola, in1757
advises singers to overdot the dotted 8th notes followed by one, two or three
notes in ornamental figures, it is a corrective for underdotting.27 Johann George
249
Tromlitz’s flute method (1791) speaks of overdotting in connection with the

same type of figure, and urges composers to indicate overdotting with two
dots.28 For a piece marked Maestoso in his violin method (1774), Georg Simon
Löhlein recommends overdotting. Otherwise, he adds, “all the solemnity is
lost and one hears a sterile, weak and wretched sing-song delivery.”29 Since this
description could not apply if the dotted notes were executed correctly in their
3:1 ratio, he is prescribing overdotting to remedy the error of underdotting.
While one example in his Clavier-Schule (1765) overdots 8th notes and another
shortens 8th-note upbeats after a rest, his 1782 edition adds: “Nevertheless, it
is better for the composer to write as it should be performed to avoid having
his work spoiled by incorrect execution.”30 Living in Leipzig, far from Berlin
where overdotting had originated, Löhlein appears to have copied the concept
without recognizing its limitations. By 1791, he called this “not a rule . . .
[there are] often exceptions.”31 His text perhaps led another Leipzig resident,
A. F. Petschke (about whom little is known), to make the simple observation
in his harpsichord tutor that dotted notes are generally held longer than their
value requires.32 Another obscure figure, Franz Anton Schlegel (1788), draws his
discussion of overdotting entirely from Quantz.33
Two articles in Johann Georg Sulzer’s encyclopedia of the fine arts (1774)
refer briefly to holding a dotted note longer than its notated value. While
overdotting is vague in the “Ouverture” article, the one entitled “Punkt” (dot)
mentions that the dot at times has a somewhat longer value, such as has already
been noted in their article about the overture. 34
Late keyboard methods by Daniel Gottlob Türk (1789) and Johann Carl
Friedrich Rellstab (ca.1790) have been cited as specifically recommending the
overdotting of overtures. In both, the reference is to dotted 8th notes and the brief
text concerns an individual playing an overture arrangement, which may likely omit
many of the interweaving voices of the original, or be a more homophonic later
variety.35 This instruction is the same pedagogical tool advised for correcting the
almost universal problem of underdotting. The overture is singled out because
it is a form in which the dotting really must be precise, whereas dotted notes in
many other forms can tolerate a degree of underdotting by a soloist.
A remedial purpose is implied when Georg Friedrich Wolf ’s vocal method
(1784) finds it better to hold the dot too long than too short; this is why the
more modern composers use two dots.36 In such cases (recall Leopold Mozart’s
advice above), the double dot is an expedient to obtain a standard 3:1 dotting.
This probably explains certain instances of written double-dotting in keyboard
arrangements of Handel’s overtures published after his death; for example,
William Crotch’s uniform (with a few exceptions) double-dotting, which ensured
that the player did not underdot.37
250
On the other hand, some objected to deviating from an accepted

measurement. When the note after a dot should have less than its conventional
value, declares Friedrich Wilhelm Marpurg (1756), “two dots one after the other
must be used, with the following note’s value reduced by half. . . . Otherwise, we
are not obliged to read the composer’s mind. Since he can use either the tie or
the double dot to make himself clear to the performer, I do not understand why
one wants to write and have something performed differently [from the standard
measurement]; that is, why only one dot should be understood as adding another
half to the dot’s value.”38 As the most prominent theorist of his generation,
Marpurg correctly foresaw the confusion that could result. G. F. Wolf ’s keyboard
method cites Marpurg’s remarks with approval, contrasting them with Löhlein’s
belief that the dot after short note values should be held as if there were two.39
Since the above remarks in Wolf ’s vocal method are pedagogical, there is no
contradiction with his position here.
The major performance treatises by Johann Samuel Petri (1767/1782) and
Johann Adam Hiller (1774) specify that overdotting is conveyed by two dots.
Neither mentions unnotated overdotting, but Hiller employs large boldface type:
“A dot after a note is always worth half the note’s value.” 40 Most writers—
approximately twenty-four—are completely silent about overdotting.41
Independent voices nullify overdotting

The type of remedial overdotting described above is not applied when the
lower voices have melodic and/or rhythmic interest. According to Emanuel
Bach (1762), people have wanted to establish a certain rule [about overdotting],
which, however, “allows many exceptions.” While it is often correct to play the
notes after dots very quickly, “sometimes notes in other parts, with which these
must enter, are distributed in such a way that the rule cannot be applied.”42 When
presenting examples of overdotting in the first part of his keyboard treatise
(1753), Bach advises retaining the note values in ex. 6a.43 In 1789, Türk, too,
specifies that the written values are observed in cases like ex. 6b.44 In view of the
independent voices in most overtures, overdotting cannot be applied. Türk, too,
prefers that overdotting be indicated by two dots.45
251
a.
b.
Ex. 6. No overdotting: a. C. P. E. Bach; b. Türk.
Articulation
As Quantz recommends with respect to a Grave (above), dotted notes,
particularly in strong expression, require special articulation. Since the term
“short” can apply to either staccato or to note length, the context determines
which is intended. Whereas “short” used in a staccato sense was a widely
accepted principle, an overdotted sense for it was not, and had to be specified.
Some sources thought today to teach overdotting refer instead to staccato
articulation. For example, Quantz advises orchestra members to play the G
and ^ figure in slow pieces with a weighted bowstroke and the following note
staccato:
The dots should be held to the very end of their value . . . 16th notes
after dots should always be played very short and sharply, in slow as well
as rapid tempos. Since dotted notes generally express brilliance and
grandeur, each unslurred note requires a separate bowstroke.46
Thus dotted 8th notes retain their notated value, and the note after the dot
is sharply detached. Similarly, Quantz advises the same articulation for longer
dotted notes in the Loure, Sarabande, Courante, und Chaconne:
Eighth notes after dotted quarter notes must be played not according
to their true value, but very short and sharply. The note with the dot is
stressed, and the bow detached during the dot.47
As with the dotted 8th note, the dotted quarter note retains its notated
value. Further confirmation that the subject is articulation is found in Quantz’s
reference to this paragraph for instruction in bowing articulation of French
dance music.48 He prescribes the same articulation for dotted notes in yet
252
another location: “Dotted notes are played schwer [defined by Türk as “held
out”49], but the following ones very short and sharply.”50
Articulation is the subject when Reichardt discusses bowing techniques
for orchestral players (1776). After observing that dotted notes require “an
accurate and precise execution,” he says that the short notes in a series of
dotted notes (ex. 7a) are played “as short as possible to give more importance
to the longer notes. Giving the longer one special pressure with the bow is
unnecessary, because the bow already falls on it with weight after the previous
short note.” He then considers ex. 7b: “This figure, however, requires that the
bowstrokes be very similar.” Like others, Reichardt advises holding out a dotted
note: “The note with the dot must be held to the very end of its value, and
differs thereby from the note that is followed by a rest (ex. 7c), where everything
is sharply detached.”51 He says nothing about altering the value of the dotted
notes; indeed, it would be difficult to overdot the dotted 16th notes, except in
a very slow tempo. And Reichardt, too, tells ripienists to execute their parts
exactly as written.52
a.
b.
c.
Ex. 7. Reichardt, bowing; a., b., c.
Likewise, Robert Falkener’s harpsichord tutor (1774) does not lengthen

the dotted note when describing its articulation for a series of dotted 8th notes
and 16th notes: “You must make the dotted Quaver as long as the time will
permit and the Semiquaver as short.”53
According to Sulzer’s encyclopedia, the first section of the overture
requires “the greatest gravity; its short notes should be detached and snapped
in the very sharpest manner.”54 Its article about the dance-form “Loure” says
253
nothing about lengthening the dotted note (ex. 8); the shortened note value
refers instead to staccato: “To make the division after the first dotted quarter
note in each measure perceptible in performance, the violin plays the [following]
8th note like a 16th-note upbow . . . In particular, the dotted quarter note must
be firmly sustained.”55
%$ F %$
Ex. 8. Sulzer, rhythmic pattern of the “Loure.”
In 1802, Heinrich Christoph Koch describes the “Ouverture” as slow, with

a serious but noble and vigorous character. He recommends holding dotted
notes for their full value and detaching notes of small value (ex. 9): “After long
notes, usually several quick passing ones follow; these must be played as staccato
as possible.”56 He does not mention any alteration of note values. Often the
four 32nd notes of Koch’s example begin in the middle of the beat, making
compression impossible. And he observes that ripienists must always execute
their parts as written.57
Ex. 9. Koch, articulation in the overture.
John Mainwaring’s Memoirs of . . . Handel (1760) describes the strength

of bow required for the overture’s introductory portion: “CORELLI himself
complained of the difficulty he found in playing his [Handel’s] Overtures.
Indeed there was in the whole cast of these compositions, but especially in the
opening of them, such a degree of fire and force, as never could consort with
the mild graces, and placid elegancies of a genius so totally dissimilar.” After
several fruitless attempts to change Corelli’s “tame” playing, Handel snatched
his violin and played the passages himself.58
254
Tempo in the overture

A too-rapid tempo for the overture’s first part has played a role in the
overdotting question, for then the imaginative rhythmic counterpoint in the
overtures of a composer like Handel is not effective. Early writers uniformly
refer to the opening of the overture as very slow. For example, when the
Dresden Capellmeister Johann David Heinichen observes (1728) that the
signature 2 is commonly used in the overture, he describes it as “slow and
pathetisch” [solemn, lofty, dramatic]. “Therefore,” continues Heinichen, “not
only quarter notes have their own chords, but also 8th notes standing alone after
a dotted quarter note.”59 When 8th notes are accompanied with full chords, a
slow tempo is necessary, for chords are not added to rapid bass notes within a
beat. It also confirms that the 8th note’s value is not shortened.
In France, the standard “French overture” form opens with a time
signature of either *-barré (() or 2, which has led some to assume a tempo
with two beats per measure. Nevertheless, it has four beats, as Michel Corrette
specifies (1735): “A piece hardly ever has internal changes of tempo, except the
overture, whose beginning is in four beats, and whose second section is in one
of the signatures above [one with a more lively tempo].”60
In 1745, Johann Adolph Scheibe (who studied with Sebastian Bach), too,
assigns the opening of the overture four beats. It should be “made solemn”
by a lofty brilliance, a serious, manly and magnificent character, and in general
a steadfast vigor.61
As quoted in chapter 12, the former Bach student Agricola observes that
the best composers and musicians often subdivide the beat when conducting.
The number of beats in the time signature merely designates matters of formal
construction, such as where a caesura may occur.62 Thus the beginning of the
overture is assumed to be written in four beats, but may be subdivided into
eight beats when the intricacy of the musical texture suggests a slower tempo.
The range of tempo for the first part of various French overtures will be fairly
wide, depending upon the complexity of the rhythmic figures and the interplay
among the voices. Those by Handel and Bach, for example, are much more
elaborate than Jean-Baptiste Lully’s, and would benefit from being beat in eight.
To avoid a “hiccup” effect, the sharp staccato articulation prescribed for the
short notes after a dotted note requires a very slow tempo.
255
Handel’s overtures
The Overture to Handel’s Alessandro Severo (HWV A13; ex. 10) often
utilizes the three-note upbeat pattern thought to require compression . Yet
Handel himself indicates this compression in several instances by notating the
pattern as 32nd notes, while in other cases it appears as 16th notes.
a.
* *
b.
Ex. 10. Handel, Alessandro Severo, Overture, a. mm.1-2; b. mm.13-14.
256
Above, Heinichen said that the overture’s slow tempo enables an 8th note
after a dotted quarter note to have its own chord. But Handel goes further in
his Overture to Admetus (HWV 22; ex. 11) by supplying figured-bass numbers
also for 16th notes, which implies a very slow tempo because continuo players
do not add chords to rapid bass notes.
Ex. 11. Handel, Admetus, Overture, m.14.
Handel’s overtures include many instances of 7:1 overdotting contrasting

standard 3:1 dotting, as in the Overture to Orlando (HWV 31; ex. 12). Most,
but not all, upbeats are carefully shortened. But in the upbeat to m.12 and the
subsequent entries in mm.12-13, all voices begin with an 8th note, as do the
three lower voices in m.16 (a signature of the French overture form). If ex. 12
were simply careless notation, there would be no consistency among successive
entries and simultaneous voices. Like composers before and after him, Handel
wrote many overdotted figures, but almost never continuously.
257
* *
* *
Ex. 12. Handel, Orlando, Overture, mm.12-16.
A reverse pattern, where upbeats are shortened, but not the subsequent
8 notes, appears in the second Andante of Handel’s Organ Concerto, Op. 7,
th
No. 1 (HWV 306; ex. 13). This distinctive rhythmic pattern, which is repeated
consistently, is as intrinsic and essential a part of his conception as the opposite
figure above. Also of interest is the conventional dotting of quarter notes in
mm.102-03, in contrast to m.104, where both the quarter note and half note are
carefully overdotted.
* * *
In summary:
— As passages from Leopold Mozart, Quantz, and Emanuel
Bach specify, the purpose of holding the dot longer than notated was
remedial—to avoid underdotting and the resulting rhythmic problems.
Thanks to our metronome training, we do not need the crutch of over-
dotting to play dotted notes in their proper ratio.
— Overdotting was limited to small note values, where the natu-

ral tendency is to underdot. Quantz specifically excluded dotted quarter
notes. When the lower voices have independent parts, overdotting is
unsuitable.
— For dotted notes of small value, 3:1 is a very sharp ratio
and what early authors hoped to achieve by overdotting. According
to Emanuel Bach, an accurate entrance was “almost impossible” when
258
259
Ex. 13. Handel, Organ Concerto, op. 7, no. 1/2, mm.97-104.
three 16th or 32nd notes follow a rest. A late entrance was a lesser evil
because it existed in perception only and enabled the note on the fol-
lowing beat to be placed correctly, instead of early.
— Another remedial device—written double dotting—was
sometimes recommended to avoid underdotting, but Marpurg rightly
objected to such usage.
— Dotted notes require proper articulation, particularly in forms
like the overture. After the dotted note is held out for its value, the
following note(s) is sharply detached. This instruction has sometimes
been misinterpreted as a reference to overdotting .
— Support for overdotting the “French overture” form is not
present in French sources, and the mild dotting of 8th notes in the “notes
inégales” tradition is cancelled when notes of smaller denomination are
present.
When a composer’s contrasting rhythmic figures, which form an inventive

rhythmic counterpoint, are removed, leaving nothing but a skeletal chordal
structure with very rapid notes interspersed, the tempo must be considerably
faster than described in early sources. In turn, this tempo then becomes the
justification for altering the time values, because contrasting rhythmic figures
are now ineffective. According to the sources, however, the beginning of the
overture is very slow to convey pomp and solemnity. Notes following a dot are
well detached and played with separate bows. Contrasting dotting and rhythmic
figures then can sound with clarity and convey their imaginative textures to the
listener.
An irony of our overdotting is that we often apply it to dotted quarter
notes (which sources exclude from overdotting), but underdot notes of small
value, for which it was intended. This results from selecting a tempo too fast
to execute the dotted notes in their proper ratio. A texture of predominantly
dotted notes is almost always intended for a slow to very slow tempo, often
subdividing the beats. In view of the significant role that note values play in
the art of musical composition, it is implausible that composers casually tossed
aside this important prerogative. As Terence Best reports in commenting on
Handel’s notation:
Anyone who has studied the meticulously detailed penmanship of these
autographs—sometimes untidy but always bold and clear—is likely to
remain unconvinced about Handel’s “casual notation”. . . When we
prepare a piece for performance, then, we should surely allow the pos-
sibility that Handel’s notation means what it says. If we can avoid the
automatic adoption of regularization and consider what the notation is
telling us, we may be more faithful to the composer’s intentions.65
260
Most of the eleven writers advocating unwritten overdotting were from

North Germany and most used vague language, which suggests that they were
merely copying a concept from a famed individual. In contrast, at least twenty-
seven German writers either opposed it or were silent on the matter. Therefore,
it could not have been widely practiced. Which of Quantz’s conflicting passages
are we to believe: his several admonitions to observe the written note values
exactly or his advice to overdot dotted notes of small value? This discrepancy
can be resolved only by considering the latter as a means to avoid underdotting.
Recall the notational accuracy for dotted notes that Handel’s colleague Mattheson
required in ex. 4 above. In all probability, Handel followed the same practice,
instead of leaving so much to the judgment of players. His alleged “careless”
notation is remarkably effective at an appropriate tempo. When played with
the prescribed articulation at a suitably slow tempo, the overture’s believed
“rhythmic clashes” vanish and the “fire and force” of Mainwaring’s description
emerges.
Endnotes
1
This chapter appeared originally in the Göttinger Händel-Beiträge 14 (2011): 229-52.
2
Stephen E. Hefling, “Dotted rhythms” in NG2, 7:515-18 at 516.
3
Besides the bibliography in NG2, “Dotted Rhythms,” see Stephen E. Hefling, Rhythmic Altera-
tion in Seventeenth- and Eighteenth-Century Music (New York: Schirmer Books, 1993) and Frederick
Neumann, Essays in Performance Practice (Ann Arbor: UMI Research Press, 1982). Sources treated
in the present essay, which derive from “The Comparative Table of Source Material on Overdot-
ting” in Hefling’s book (84-88), represent those considered to have validity after his examination.
4
Michel-Pignolet de Montéclair, Petite méthode pour apprendre la musique aux enfans (Paris, ca.1730),
56, 35. Cited in NG2, 7:516.
5
Adapted from Étienne Loulié, Elements or Principles of Music, trans. Albert Cohen (Brooklyn: In-
stitute of Mediaeval Music, 1965), 67 (F-Pn MS fonds Fr. nouv. acq. 6355, f.141).
6
John Byrt, “Alteration in Handel: A Fresh Approach,” The Musical Quarterly 85/1 (2001): 194-
219 at 196-99.
7
François Couperin, Pièces de clavecin . . . premier livre (Paris, 1713; rpt. 1973), preface: “J’y ay observé
perpendiculairement la juste valeur des tems, et des notes.”
8
Johann Mattheson, Kleine General-Bass-Schule (Hamburg, 1735), 110f.
9
Quantz/Versuch, 255 (XVII/vii/34): “Die Pausen erfodern ihr Zeitmaass in eben solcher Rich-
tigkeit, als die Noten selbst. Weil man aber hierbey keinen Klang höret, sondern die Zeit davon
nur in Gedanken abmessen muss, so machen dieselben, besonders die kurzen, als Achttheil-
Sechzehntheil- und Zwey und dreyssigtheil-Pausen, manchem viel zu schaffen.” P.112 (XII/5):
“Man muss sich bemühen jede Note nach ihrer gehörigen Geltung zu spielen; und sich sorgfältig
hüten, weder zu eilen noch zu zögern. Man muss, zu dem Ende, bey jedem Viertheile auf das
Zeitmaass gedenken; und nicht glauben, es sey schon genug, wenn man nur beym Anfange und
der Endigung des Tactes mit den übrigen Stimmen zutreffe.”
10
Donald Burrows and Rosemary Dunhill, Music and Theatre in Handel’s World (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 2002), 219.
11
Francesco Galeazzi, Elementi teorico-pratici di musica (Rome, 1791), 1:224: “Deve avere un’ orec-
261
chio purgatissimo, sensibile al sommo, ed esercitatissimo per accorgersi di ogni menomo disor-
dine, avvisare ancora talvolta colla voce i principali caratteri dell’ espressione, che più degli altri
deve intendere, e dare di quando in quando, qualora ne conoice la necessità, qualche colpo di
piede, onde il tutto si regga, si mantenga l’equilibrio, s’impedisca la disunione, o s’induca l’unione
s’ella è vacillante.” Cited by Milton Sutter, “Franceso Galeazzi on the Duties of the Leader or
Concertmaster,” The Consort 32 (1976): 191. Galeazzi discusses this subject also on p.58.
12
From Fowke’s collection of letters in the India Office Library, London. Fowke MS vol. 26,
Eur E. 5. 53; vol. 24 Eur E. 5. 66. Quoted by Christopher Hogwood, Handel (London: Thames
& Hudson, ca.1984), 242f.
13
Reichardt/1776.
14
Quantz/Versuch, 254f. (XVII/vii/31, 33).
15
Ibid., 179 (XVII/i/5): “Er muss die Geltung der Noten, insbesondere auch der kurzen Pausen,
so aus Sechzehntheilen, und Zwey und dreyssigtheilen bestehen, auf das genaueste in Acht zu
nehmen verstehen, um weder zu eilen, noch zu zögern.”
16
Mozart/Versuch, 39f. (I/iii/11): “Der Punct soll überhaupt allezeit etwas länger gehalten werden.
Denn nicht nur wird dadurch der Vortrag lebhafter; sondern es wird auch dem Eilen, jenem fast
allgemeinen Fehler, Einhalt gethan; da hingegen durch das wenige Aushalten des Puncts die
Musik gar leicht in das Geschwinde verfällt. Es wäre sehr gut, wenn diese längere Aushaltung
des Puncts recht bestimmet und hingesetzet würde. Ich wenigstens habe es schon oft gethan.”
17
Ibid., 145 (VII/ii/2): “Man kann gar bald im Tempo irren: und man eilet nicht leichter, als bey
den punctirten Noten, wenn man die Zeit des Puncts nicht aushält. Man thut demnach allezeit
besser, wenn man die nach dem Puncte folgende Note etwas später ergreift.”
18
Ibid., 145f. (VII/ii/3): “Man muss allemal den Punct eher zu lang als zu kurz halten. Dadurch
wird dem Eilen vorgebogen: und der gute Geschmack wird befördert.”
19
Ibid., 267f.: “Da müssen die Zusammenspielenden besonders einander beobachten, und nicht
zu frühe anfangen.”
10
Quantz/Versuch, 195 (XVII/ii/16): “Wenn, nach einer langen Note und kurzen Pause, drey-
geschwänzte Noten folgen . . . so müssen die letztern allezeit sehr geschwind gespielet werden;
es sey im Adagio oder Allegro. Deswegen muss man mit den geschwinden Noten, bis zum
äussersten Ende des Zeitmaasses warten, um das Gleichgewicht des Tactes nicht zu verrücken.”
21
Ibid., 270 (XVII/vii/58): “. . . und soferne nach einem Puncte oder einer Pause drey oder mehr
dreygeschwänzte Noten folgen; so werden solche, besonders in langsamen Stücken, nicht allemal
nach ihrer Geltung, sondern am äussersten Ende der ihnen bestimmten Zeit, und in der grössten
Geschwindigkeit gespielet; wie solches in Ouvertüren, Entreen, und Furien öfters vorkömmt. Es
muss aber jede von diesen geschwinden Noten ihren besondern Bogenstrich bekommen.”
22
Ibid., 179 (XVII/i/5): “Nach den kurzen Pausen würde es weniger schaden, wenn er später
anfienge, und die folgenden kurzen Noten etwas übereilete, als wenn er sie voraus nähme.”
23
Ibid., 113f. (XII/12): “Bey den kurzen Pausen, welche anstatt der Hauptnoten im Nieder-
schlage vorkommen, muss man sich wohl in Acht nehmen, dass man die Noten nach ihnen nicht
vor der Zeit anfange. Z. E. Wenn von vier Sechzehntheilen das erste zu pausiren ist; so muss man
noch halb so lange als die Pause dem Gesichte nach gilt, warten: weil die folgende Note kürzer
seyn muss, als die erste. Eben so verhält es sich mit den Zwey und dreyssigtheilen.”
24
Bach/Versuch1994, (Zusätze, p.5*), 3, §8: “Quantz lehrt so gar in seiner Anweisung zur Flöte
das oben erwehnte zu spät kommen S. 113, zum Zeichen, dass das rechte Eintreffen in diesem Falle
fast unmöglich ist, und wählt also aus zweyen Uebeln das kleinste.”
25
Quantz/Versuch, 58 (V/20,21): “Die weisse Note mit dem Puncte, Fig. 7.(a), bekömmt sechs
Schläge mit dem Fusse; und die darauf folgende schwarze Note, zweene Schläge. Die schwarze
Note mit dem Puncte, (b), bekömmt drey Schläge; und die folgende nur einen Schlag. . . . Bey
den Achttheilen, Sechzehntheilen, und Zwey und dreyssigtheilen, mit Puncten, s. (c) (d) (e), geht
man, wegen des Lebhaftigkeit, so diese Noten ausdrücken müssen, von der allgemeinen Regel ab.
262
Es ist hierbey insonderheit zu merken: dass die Note nach dem Puncte, bey (c) und (d) eben so
kurz gespielet werden muss, als die bey (e); es sey im langsamen oder geschwinden Zeitmaase.”
Also §23.
26
Ibid.,142 (XIV/17): “Die Noten mit den Punkten, muss man bis an den Punkt immer ver-
stärken; und die darauf folgenden, wenn das Intervall nicht allzugross ist, an die vorhergehende
lange Note, kurz und schwach anschleifen; bey sehr weiten Sprüngen aber, muss eine jede Note
besonders angestossen werden.”
27
Agricola/1757, 133f.: “Die kurzen Noten, welche hinter einem Puncte stehen, absonderlich
Sechzehntheile oder Zwey und dreyssigtheile, auch im Allabreve die Achttheile, werden allezeit,
es sey in langsamer oder geschwinder Tactbewegung, es mag ihrer eine oder mehrere seyn, sehr
kurz, und ganz am äussersten Ende ihrer Geltung ausgeführet: die vor dem Puncte stehende wird
dagegen desto länger gehalten.”
28
Tromlitz/1791, 172f.
29
Löhlein/1774, 84.
30
Georg Simon Löhlein, Clavier-Schule. . . (Leipzig, 1765), 69. Löhlein, Clavier-Schule, 4th edn.
(Leipzig, 1782), 1:67: “Jedoch ist es besser, der Componist schreibt so, wie es ausgeführt werden
soll; um seine Sachen nicht durch einen ungeschickten Vortrag verderben zu lassen.”
31
Cited by Hefling, Rhythmic Alteration, 86, 195, n.16.
32
A. F. Petschke, Versuch eines Unterrichts zum Klavierspielen (Leipzig, 1785), 44. Cited by Hefling,
Rhythmic Alteration, 119.
33
Franz Anton Schlegel, Gründliche Anleitung die Flöte zu spielen: nach Quanzens Anweisung (Graz,
1788). See Hefling, Rhythmic Alteration, 128f.
34
ATSK, “Ouverture,” 3:644: “Die Hauptnoten sind meistentheils punktirt, und im Vortrag
werden die Punkte über ihre Geltung ausgehalten.” “Punkt; Punktirte Note,” 3:745. Articles in
this portion of Sulzer’s dictionary have been attributed to J. P. Kirnberger in collaboration with
J. A. P. Schulz.
35
Türk/1789, 362. Johann Carl Friedrich Rellstab, Anleitung für Clavierspieler (Berlin, ca.1790), xii.
For texts, see Hefling, Rhythmic Alteration, 122f., 117f.
36
Georg Friedrich Wolf, Unterricht in der Singe Kunst (Halle, 1784), 41: “die Note die einen Punkt
neben sich hat, muss mit einiger Verstärkung ausgehalten, werden, und lieber zu lang als zu kurz,
daher komt es, dass neuere Componisten zwei Punkte neben die Noten setzen, wo denn die Note
mit den Punkten so lange als möglich ausgehalten und die drauf folgende ganz kurz abgefertiget
werden muss.” Cited by Hefling, Rhythmic Alteration, 120f.
37
Graham Pont, “French Overtures at the Keyboard: the Handel Tradition,” Early Music 35/2
(May 2007), 271-88 at 276.
38
Marpurg/1755, 13.
39
Georg Friedrich Wolf, Unterricht im Klavierspielen, 3rd edn. (Halle, 1789). 26. Cited by Neumann,
Essays, 128. This position is expressed also in Wolf ’s second edition (quoted by Hefling, Rhythmic
Alteration, 121), published in the same year as his vocal method.
40
Johann Samuel Petri, Anleitung zur practische Musik (Lauban, 1767), 21; and Petri/1782, 142.
Hiller/1774, 111.
41
Such a list would include, besides the large manuals by Hiller and Petri mentioned above : Al-
brecht (1761); Christmann (1782); Deysinger (1763); Eisel (1762); Hensel (ca.1796); Klein (1783);
Koch (1802); Kobrich (1782); Kürzinger (1763); Laag (1774); Lasser (1798); Lederer (1763); Mer-
bach (1782); Nopitsch (1784); Portmann (1785); Reichardt (1776); Rigler (1798); Rohleder (1792);
Schuster (1799); Thielo [1753]; Thommen (1768); Töpfer (1773); and Wiedeburg (1767).
42
Bach/Versuch, 2: 250.
43
Bach, Versuch, 1:127 (III/23): “Zu weilen erfordert die Eintheilung, dass man der Schreib-Art
gemäss verfährt.”
263
44
Türk/1789, 362.
45
Ibid., 361n.
46
Quantz/Versuch, 194f. (XVII/ii/13).
47
Ibid., 270 (XVII/vii/58).
48
Ibid., 200 (XVII/ii/26).
49
Türk/1789, 362: “Man trägt in diesem Falle die punktirten Noten schwer, folglich ausgehalten,
vor.”
50
Quantz/Versuch, 269 (XVII/vii/56). Another passage from Quantz (XVII/iv/10), too, con-
cerns articulation instead of dotting.
51
Reichardt/1776, 20f.
52
Ibid., 79f.
53
Robert Falkener, Instructions for Playing the Harpsichord, 2nd edn. (London, 1774), 17, 19. Cited by
Hefling, Rhythmic Alteration, 138.
54
ATSK, “Vortrag,” 4:711: “ . . . denn so wie man heut zu Tage, hin und wieder auch von grossen
Capellen, eine Ouvertüre, oder die Tanzstüke eines Ballets vortragen hört, erkennt man die Pracht
der Ouvertüre nicht, die daraus entsteht, dass der erste Satz derselben aufs schwerste vorgetragen,
und die kurzen Noten, die darin vorkommen, aufs schärfste gerissen und abgestossen werden.”
55
ATSK, “Loure,” 3:292f.: “Um den Einschnitt nach dem ersten punktirten Viertel jedes Takts
im Vortrag fühlbar zu machen, muss auf der Violin die Achtelnote wie ein Sechszehntheil hinauf,
die darauf folgenden zwey Viertel aber stark herunter gestrichen, und besonders das punktirte
Viertel schwer angehalten werden.”
56
Koch/1802, “Ouverture,” 1126-32: “. . . sie bestehet aus einem kurzen ernsthaften Satze von
langsamer Bewegung im 4/4 Takte, in welchem gemeiniglich nach den langen Noten viele ge-
schwind durchgehende folgen, die im Vortrage so viel möglich abgestossen werden müssen.”
57
Ibid., “Ripienspieler,” 1267.
58
John Mainwaring, Memoirs of the Life of the Late George Frederic Handel (London, 1760; rpt. 1964),
6f.
59
Heinichen/1728, 348.
60
Michel Corrette, Méthode pour apprendre aisément à joüer de la flûte traversière, (Paris, ca.1735; rpt.
1995), 6: “Toutes les Pieces ne changent guere de mouvement, excepté L’Ouverture dont le Com-
mencement est en quatre tems, et la Reprise d’un des mouvemens cy dessus.”
61
Scheibe/1745, 669.
62
Agricola/1749, 45.
63
On the relationship between dotted figures and the king’s entry, see Patricia Howard, “The
Operas of J.-B. Lully,” Doctoral dissertation, University of Surrey, 1974, 143f., as cited by Manuel
Couvreur, Jean-Baptiste Lully, Musique et dramaturgie au service du Prince ([Paris]: Marc Vokar, 1992),
333ff. When the King did not attend Lully’s last work, Achille et Polixène (completed by Collasse),
the overture was replaced by a simple prelude.
64
Overdotting in a 7:1 ratio occurs many times in Handel’s Overture to Serse (HWV 40), where
upbeats are shortened repeatedly. Several times, these shortened upbeats contrast with 8th-note
upbeats, providing rhythmic interest.
65
Terence Best, “Interpreting Handel’s Rhythmic Notation: Some Reflections on Modern Prac-
tice,” in Handel Tercentenary Collection, ed. Stanley Sadie and Anthony Hicks (Ann Arbor: UMI
Research Press, 1987), 286, 290.
264
CHAPTER 15
Notes inégales: A Definitive New

Parameter1
While some have proposed that the practice of notes inégales existed outside of
France,2 new documentation now clarifies its purpose, usage and limitations.
Before taking up this matter, consider the conditions that existed three hundred
years ago. Most of the nearly seventy French sources mentioning notes inégales
(our term, for the French had no name for it) are method books principally for
beginners.3 Usually their authors merely list the note value eligible for inequality
in each time signature, and some include an exception or two where inequality
should not be applied. No source offers more than scraps of information about
the practice, which was part of the most rudimentary music instruction; thus
the complexity with which we have cloaked this subject could not have been
part of it. While we have advanced degrees, the practicing musicians who wrote
tutors sometimes had a general education consisting of little more than the
fundamentals of reading, writing and arithmetic. To rise above their peers to
the stage of being able to write an instruction book required uncommon intel-
ligence and perseverance. Not all succeeded to an equal degree. Many authors
would have had to employ an editor to correct their errors of syntax, spelling,
grammar, etc., and some editors may inadvertently have changed a sentence’s
meaning as well.4 Moreover, unintentionally omitting vital material is a classic
error that even experienced writers today commit.
The basic structure

When considering the subject of notes inégales outside of France, it is
necessary to establish their essential parameters. In France, their application
was routinely taught to beginners in music, and Étienne Loulié’s tutor (1696)
supplies one of the most complete instructions:
In any signature whatever, particularly the one of three beats, the
half-beats are executed in two different ways, although written in the
same manner (ex. 1).
1° Sometimes they are performed equally. This is called détachez les
Nottes, and is used for melodies with notes in disjunct motion.
2° The first half-beats are sometimes made a little longer. This is
called Lourer [connecting the notes], and is used for melodies with notes
in conjunct motion.
265
There is yet a third manner [for executing two notes comprising a

beat], in which the first half-beat is made much longer than the second,
but the first half-beat must have a dot. This is called Piquer or Pointer. 5
Ex. 1. Loulié’s example of Détachez and Lourer.
Loulié’s brief description in paragraph 2° encapsulates the basic structure

of notes inégales: the dotting is slight, long-short, and applied to paired notes
written with equal values in a generally conjunct musical line Twenty pages
earlier, Loulié had defined written dotting as augmenting a note’s value by
one-half6 — the standard definition throughout the sources. In contrast, the
unwritten dotting described in his paragraph 2° is intended to make the first note
of eligible equal-note pairs just “a little longer.” As French sources indicate,
notated dotting and notes inégales are two separate entities. When treating notes
inégales, most tutors either avoid notation or illustrate it with equal notes. A
very few use dotted notes as a pedagogical tool to communicate their unequal
nature, but accompany them with instructions to make the first of two notes just
a “little” longer than the second, or to dot them “lightly,” thus differentiating
between this mild dotting and standard dotting in a 3:1 ratio, which they treat in
a separate location.7 With respect to equal-note pairs eligible for slight inequality,
French writers indicate that the note value made unequal depends on the time
signature:
2, 3, and , 8th notes.

K
_, quarter notes.
*, 16th notes.
*-barré, 8th notes (but sources disagree about applying inequality with this signature).
+IL: <
Signatures such as , , , , and , 16th notes.
Thus the French system had codified guidelines for its application. While
one may occasionally find an exception, these are the note values most commonly
assigned as eligible for unwritten inequality. The respective values represent the
smallest note value forming the prevailing motion in each signature, and do not
266
Notes inégales: A Definitive New Parameter
affect how inequality was applied. An important distinction was made between
the traditional French signatures (2, 3, and K), and the “foreign” ones in the last
category, which were used much less frequently in France.
In reality, this form of unwritten mild dotting was employed in large part to
teach beginners the rhythmic organization of beats in the various time signatures.
Without the modern metronome to assist their pupils in reading music, teachers
needed a substitute. Elsewhere in Europe, this was accomplished by defining
beats as “good” and “inferior” or “strong” and “weak,” but without altering
note values. The Paris violinist J.-B. Labadens’s unusually detailed method book
(1772), which is dedicated to Pierre Gaviniés, successor to Jean-Marie Leclair
as leader of the French violin school, refers to mild inequality as only a study
process that is not to be made apparent to the listener:
Since the principle of making one feel the strong and weak notes and
the long and short ones is against the rules of good taste, it should
be used only to decipher the music and determine the essential notes
of the passages; for the nuance of the sound should be varied only as
much as the music’s expression and effect require.8
This adds a new dimension to the question of unwritten inequality.
Instead of being an arcane artistic device, it was for the most part a means
for helping beginners and less accomplished musicians learn the music. As
standards improved over the course of the eighteenth century, it was less
necessary and finally abandoned. This is not to deny that it was used to lend
interest to a long series of equal conjunct notes, but such passages were fewer
as composition became more complex. An example of the degree to which
performance had improved by the mid-eighteenth century is found in the
Encyclopédie ou Dictionnaire raisonné, where Jean Louis de Cahusac relates that
Jean-Baptiste Lully’s orchestra, although as good as then possible, was still only
in an early stage of development:
Everyone knows that in his lifetime the violins had to use mutes to tone
down on certain occasions. They needed thirty rehearsals and painful
study to play passably well some pieces that today seem to be of no dif-
ficulty to the weakest student.9
Cahusac’s first sentence implies great volume, instead of the delicate
refinement we expect.
267
Canceling inequality
For the unwritten inequality in Loulié’s paragraph 2° to be viable, there
had to be a mechanism for canceling it when necessary, such as including in the
score a term like notes égales, détachées, piquées, martelées, or marquées. Moreover, the
presence of note values smaller than those eligible for inequality in a given time
signature automatically canceled inequality. For example, when discussing Lully’s
“Passacaille d’Armide” (ex. 2) in 1719, Jacques Hotteterre supplies two reasons
for performing 8th notes equally: 1) disjunct motion, and 2) the presence of 16th
notes.10
Ex. 2. Hotteterre, where inequality should not be applied.
Among other writers making the same observation are:

— Michel Corrette (1741): “In French music, the second 8th note of
each beat is performed faster [shorter], as in the Chaconne from Mr. de
Lully’s Phaëton, but also sometimes one plays them equally when there
are some 16th notes.”11
— Louis-Charles Bordier (ca.1760): “When there are some 16th notes
in this signature [3], the 8th notes are usually performed equally; likewise
in the other signatures when this occurs.”12
— Joseph Lacassagne (1766): “The 8th notes are also equal and de-
tached when mixed with 16th notes or syncopated notes.”13
— Jean-Baptiste Mercadier de Belesta (1776): “Although unequal in
certain signatures, the 8th notes are, however, ordinarily equal when
mixed with 16th notes. It is the same with 16th notes [in signatures where
they are unequal], when mixed with 32nd notes.”14
— Toussaint Bordet (ca.1755): inequality is applied “as long as the
same note values are not interrupted.” 15 Larger note values never af-
fect the use of inequality, so he is referring to smaller note values, which
cancel inequality.
This restriction is necessary to have a viable system. Otherwise the

distinction between equal notes and those written as dotted becomes blurred,
creating great problems for interpretation.
268
Unwritten inequality a French practice

When François Couperin speaks of unwritten inequality as a “defect”
having “enslaved” the French, it implies that he would not have assigned it so
much importance:
In my opinion, there are some defects in our manner of writing music,
which are related to the way we write our language. We write differ-
ently from the way we perform, which makes foreigners play our music
less well than we play theirs. On the other hand, the Italians write their
music in the true values they have conceived. For example, we dot sev-
eral successive conjunct 8th notes , but write them as equal notes. Our
custom has enslaved us, and we continue in it.16
Couperin’s disapproval of unwritten inequality may be related to the fact
that it is often unsuitable for the rhythmic complexity of his music. When
speaking of foreigners’ need to know the French system to play their music well,
perhaps he had in mind visitors who attempted to perform French music with
unwritten inequality and applied it in the wrong places, or without the proper
finesse. Couperin’s L’Art de toucher le clavecin — today the best known method
book of all — does not teach unwritten inequality. If he had misgivings about
this system, it is probable that other musicians of high standing did also. In his
published pieces, Couperin left a precise record of the rhythms he expected,
as indicated by the engraving’s accurate vertical alignment of notes: “I have
observed perpendicularly [vertically] the exact value of the beats and notes.”17
This meticulous alignment, which has not always been reproduced correctly in
modern editions, shows overdotting indicated by means of tied notes or rests
(see ex. 3 in chapter 14). His rhythms and interweaving voices are so imaginative
and often complex that adding notes inégales would be more a distraction than an
enhancement. They have more validity in the works of lesser composers who
wrote long strings of equal 8th notes. On those few occasions when Couperin
did want a mild inequality, he added an instruction at the beginning of a piece;
for example, the “Allemande La Laborieuse” from Ordre 2: “les doubles croches
un tant-soit-peu pointé” (“the 16th notes dotted ever so slightly”).
Couperin’s “Courante a L’italiéne” (Troisiéme livre [1722], Suplement, Concerts
royeaux, 24), marked Pointé-coulé, has been cited as evidence that he did expect
notes inégales, even in the Italian style. Pointé, however, denoted either dotting or
articulation, according to context. Under “STACCATO,” for example, Sébastian
de Brossard’s Dictionaire (1703) states: “In particular, string instruments must
make their bow strokes very short without lingering, and detach or separate
one note from another distinctly. This is nearly what we in France call Picqué
ou pointé.”18 In the case of Couperin’s Courante, it is probable that Pointé-coulé
designated a semi-detached articulation, for coulé means “slurred.”
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Besides Couperin, several major French writers restrict unwritten inequality

to French music:
— In the Amsterdam edition (1698) of Étienne Loulié’s vocal
tutor, an added note declares: “In all types of foreign music, one never
applies dotting unless it is marked [with dots].”19
— Brossard specifies an Italian interpretation for one of his mo-
tets: “Andante, or with notes égalles. The word Andante indicates that
this music is in a non-dotted Italian style.”20
— For the signature of 3, Hotteterre states: “The 8th notes are
nearly always lengthened in French music.” In contrast, his examples
for the foreign signature I are of Italian music “with equal 8th notes”
(ex. 3).21
Ex. 3. Hotteterre, equal 8 th notes for Italian music.
— In 1768, Jean-Jacques Rousseau affirms: “In Italian music, 8th

notes are always equal, unless marked with dots.”22
— After prescribing unequal 8th notes for French pieces in sig-
natures of two or three beats, Michel Corrette’s Méthode . . . pardessus de
viole (1738) adds: “But in Italian music the 8th notes are played equally.” 3
— When comparing the French and Italian signatures for three
beats (3 and I respectively) in his violoncello method (1741), Corrette
takes the application of inequality for granted in French music when he
says only: “the 8th notes are played equally in Italian music.” 24
Nevertheless, Corrette’s violin tutor (1738) has been cited today as

reporting the use of notes inégales in foreign music. Misconstruing his tabular
system has led to the claim for inequality in foreign music. When describing
each time signature, he first gives its use in French music and then its use, if
any, in foreign music. At the close of each signature’s description, he usually
supplies the note value eligible for inequality. For the foreign signature of L,
for example, he first observes that it is used in French music for Passepieds and
sometimes for the reprise of an overture. He then states that the Italians use
L in allegros, adagios, affetuosos, vivaces and ariettas, as in the Italian operas
of Handel, Bononcini, Pepusch, Scarlatti, Porpora. After some further text, he
270
adds the instruction to play the 8th notes equal and make the second of each
pair of 16th notes faster.25 See ex. 4, which provides the first part of this section
from his violin tutor (beginning at the bottom of his p.3 and continuing on p.4).
My five asterisks to the left indicate the sentences about note inequality. The fact
that foreign usage of certain signatures appears before his closing remark about
the note value eligible for inequality does not imply inequality in foreign music;
it simply results from his concise description for each signature. We cannot
expect people having a fraction of our education, living in a society that was
largely illiterate, to have our standards for literary precision.
Ex. 4. Corrette, tabulation of time signatures (partial).
271
Back in 1719, Hotteterre, too, had employed a tabular structure similar to

Corrette’s for explaining the time signatures, their use abroad if pertinent, and
the respective note values made unequal. But he more accurately placed the note
value eligible for inequality before (instead of after) the time signature’s usage, if
any, in foreign music. As quoted above for the signatures of 2 and 3, the most
commonly used signatures in France, Hotteterre limited inequality to French
music. His contemporaries would not have expected him to keep repeating this
restriction for every signature. With his reverse form of tabulation, Corrette
was not disputing Hotteterre’s injunction against inequality in foreign music, but
demonstrating a lower level of literary accuracy or, more probably, avoiding a
copy of Hotteterre’s format.
Also reflecting a lack of the exactitude expected today are the many
omissions in Corrette’s various tutors. For example, his violin and violoncello
methods do not mention inequality for :, <, or >, but his flute tutor says that
16th notes are unequal in the latter two signatures (omitting any mention of
:). Likewise, his violoncello method does not thmention inequality for *-barré26
and K, but his flute tutor assigns inequality to 8 notes in the latter signature.
In some cases, a common signature is omitted entirely. On the other hand,
Corrette’s two instructions (above) citing equality for 8th notes in Italian music
are unambiguous. Also clear is his treatment of duple meter in his violoncello
tutor: after discussing Italian usage of the + signature without mentioning any
inequality, he turns in a new paragraph to the French signature of 2, citing the
forms appropriate for it, and adding that the second 8th note [of equal-note
pairs] is played more quickly.27
The principal subject of Hotteterre’s and Corrette’s presentations is a
comparison of French and Italian time signatures; unwritten inequality is merely
a side matter for the French signatures. That Hotteterre includes examples of
Italian music does not mean that unwritten inequality applies. An attribution
of French inequality to the Italian gavotte28 has resulted from mistranslating one
of his sentences about the time signature of *-barré:
Mr. Lully used it in his operas indifferently with that of 2. We find
much inconsistency [“inégalité”] in his usage, as well as in that of sev-
eral others. To me, this signature is in its element in the Italian Tempo
di Gavotta and in the following two examples [from operas by Lully].29
In this context, “inégalité” does not concern dotting, but Lully’s
inconsistent usage of the *-barré and 2 signatures. Moreover, Hotteterre has
just specified that inequality is not to be applied with the *-barré signature.30
During the latter part of the eighteenth century, unwritten inequality was
waning in France. Thus the Encyclopédie méthodique. Musique could declare in
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1818 that the Italian manner had prevailed and 8th notes are no longer dotted in
France, unless written with dots augmenting their value by half.31
Shorthand
Since unwritten inequality had no name, early writers used a phrase such
as “executing the 8th notes unequally” when referring to it in another context.
Even though 16th notes and quarter notes were sometimes made unequal,
depending on the time signature, the 8th note was the note value most often
eligible for inequality in the traditional French signatures — hence its use when
referring to the practice in general terms. For example, Hotteterre’s tabulation
of time signatures cites the 16th note as eligible in several cases, but his preface
mentions only 8th notes with reference to this portion of his book “about the
different types of signatures and the manner of executing the 8th notes [passer
les croches] in each.”32 Passer les croches was a form of shorthand to avoid having
to say “executing 8th notes unequally in 2, 3, and K, quarter notes unequally in
_, and 16th notes unequally in *, +, I, L, :, and <.” Whenth introducing his small
preludes in this collection, Hotteterre advises that the 8 notes will be “inégales
in all of them, unless marked to the contrary.”33 He specifies 8th notes because
most of the pieces have a time signature of 2 or 3. While the signature in a few
preludes requires inequality at the 16th-note level (according to his tabulation),
it would nearly always be canceled for one of the reasons cited above. His
preludes demonstrate how closely the French associated unwritten inequality
with 8th notes.
Part of the argument for notes inégales outside of France is based on the fact
that some French writers refer only to 8th notes when prohibiting inequality
outside of France; thus it is believed that the 16th note is not bound by the same
restriction against inequality in foreign music.34 But no evidence supports
this inference; furthermore, Couperin, Brossard, and Loulié explicitly exclude
French inequality from all Italian music. Because unwritten inequality had
no name, writers cited the 8th note when referring to it, for this was the value
most often subject to inequality in the traditional French signatures. It was
primarily in the less frequently used signatures — those of foreign origin —
that inequality occurred at the 16th-note level. The eligible note value in the
various signatures did not alter the parameters for inequality. As Mercadier de
Belesta stated above when excluding inequality for 8th notes when 16th notes
are present, the same principle applies in signatures where the 16th note is
eligible for inequality.
273
Essential parameters
As practiced in France, unwritten inequality had clearly defined and
consistent parameters:
It was a customary part of elementary music instruction.
It was restricted to a certain class of note value governed by the
time signature.
It applied to pairs of equal notes written in mainly conjunct motion.
Multiple means were available to composers for canceling it when
unwanted.
It was not applied when notes smaller than those eligible for inequality
are present.
For the rhythmic alteration occasionally prescribed in a foreign source to
be considered part of the French tradition, it must satisfy all of these parameters.
But it is rare for a foreign source to fulfill even one of them. Because he states
that he is presenting the French manner, Georg Muffat cannot be included
among foreign sources, except to the degree that he recommended it for some
of his own music.35 The few scattered foreign sources cited as evidence for
inequality outside of France are not part of the codified system the French
employed, for they refer only to specific pieces or specific types of passages or
notes, none of which is governed by the time signature.
The German “good” and “inferior” notes

It is widely believed that a passage from Johann Joachim Quantz (1752)
describes a system of note execution for Germany that parallels the French
practice of notes inégales. Yet it contains parameters never encountered in French
sources treating this form of note inequality. A comparison of Quantz’s passage
with similar ones from German contemporaries reveals that the subject under
discussion is instead a system of note weighting within the measure: notes
on strong beats are called “good” and those on weak beats, “inferior.” This
principle also applies to beat subdivisions. Before considering his passage, let
us examine this system.
Early writers sometimes use the adjectives “long” and “short” differently
than we would. When discussing triple meter, for example, the theorist Johann
Philipp Kirnberger says that the first beat is “long” and the third beat “short.”
The second beat is variable; it is usually long in serious pieces, as in chaconnes
and many sarabandes, but “light” in signatures utilizing smaller note values.36
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This usage of “long” does not concern extending the note’s written length,
but corresponds to what we would call “strong.” In contrast, Johann Samuel
Petri (who studied organ with Wilhelm Friedemann Bach in 1763-64) calls it
misleading to use the words “long” and “short” with reference to “good” and
“inferior” notes:
Pay careful attention to the good and inferior portions of the beat,
which some musicians like to call the long and the short, although with-
out reason. The time values are not changed; the difference lies only in
the strength of the execution. The notes executed more strongly are
called “good.” On the other hand, those which should be performed
somewhat more weakly are called “inferior.” The good notes occur in
the following parts of the measure:
A) The first and third beats in all binary or four-part measures, such
as +, O, ƒ. But when smaller notes of equal value occur, they affect
likewise the first, third, fifth, and seventh notes . . .
B) In triple meter, or signatures divided naturally into three’s, the

first beat is good, the second inferior, and the third moderate, or even
also sometimes good [in an exceptional context]. But when the beats
are divided into smaller equal notes, it is as above: namely, the first,
third, fifth, etc. 16th, 32nd, or 8th notes are good, and the second, fourth,
sixth, etc. are inferior. When the notes are not of equal value, the be-
ginning of each beat is good . . . [In ex. 5, g. stands for “gut” (good), ƒ
for “schlecht” (inferior), and m. for “mittelmässig” (moderate)] How
wretched would this melody, which itself is very simple, be if every-
thing were droned with the same strength! Good performance, how-
ever, raises it out of inertness by alternating strong, weak, and moderate
tones, thereby giving it life.37
Ex. 5. Petri, good, inferior, and moderate notes in I.
275
According to Daniel Gottlob Türk (1789), too, one of the terms commonly
used to define “good” notes is “long.” He observes that each time signature in
ex. 6 has good and inferior beats, so that more stress falls on some quarter notes
than on others, even though all are of equal value:
Everyone feels that the first of two quarter notes in a) and three quarter
notes in b) is more important than the second, etc. For this reason,
good beats are also called intrinsically long [“lange”], stressed [“an-
schlagende”], accented [“accentuirte”], etc.38
Ex. 6. Türk, good and inferior beats.
This system of note weighting was useful not only for artistic reasons, but
also for teaching the rhythmic organization of beats and averting the danger
of a rushed tempo. With no metronomes for training musicians, rhythmic
steadiness was a problem, as Quantz observes:
We need to take pains to play each note with its proper value, and care-
fully avoid either rushing or dragging. The player should keep the
tempo in mind at each quarter note, and not think it sufficient to be
together with the other parts only at the beginning and end of the bar.
Rushed passage-work may occur, especially with ascending notes, if
the fingers are raised too quickly. To avoid this, the first note of rapid
figures should be stressed a little and held . . . for the principal notes
should always be heard a little longer than the passing ones. . . . As
for which notes should be played dissimilarly, see §12 of the previous
chapter [the passage we have taken to be a description of notes inégales].39
Thus Quantz indicates that his §12 concerns a means for obtaining
rhythmic stability. To us, it is self-evident that players need to be together
throughout the duration of every beat, but in 1752 it had to be stated because
rhythm was so erratic. The system of “good” and “inferior” notes deterred the
player from rushing ahead. Keeping in mind the instructions from Kirnberger,
Petri, and Türk, particularly Petri’s statement that “long” does not mean
lengthening the notated value, we can turn to Quantz’s familiar passage, reading
it in conjunction with his preceding paragraph (§11), which again deals with
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faulty rhythm:
§11 Each note should have its true value and correct duration. . . . Many
players do not heed this. From ignorance or poor taste, they often give
the following note some of the time belonging to the preceding [note].40
If each note is to have “its true value and correct duration,” it erases the
inequality thought to be prescribed in Quantz’s next paragraph, where he treats
the “good” and “inferior” notes (boldface type original):
§12 Here I must make a necessary observation about the length of time
each note should be held. In execution, one should differentiate be-
tween the principal notes, which are also called stressed notes (as
the Italians say, good notes), and those that are passing notes, which
some foreigners call inferior notes. Wherever possible, the principal
notes should always be emphasized more than the passing ones. By this
rule, the quickest notes in every piece of moderate tempo, or also in
the Adagio, despite having the same value, should be played a little dis-
similarly, so that the stressed notes of each figure, namely the first, third,
fifth, and seventh, are slightly longer than the passing ones, namely the
second, fourth, sixth, and eighth. But this holding must not be as much
as if the notes were dotted. By these quickest notes I mean the quarter
note in _, the 8th note in I, the 16th note in L, the 8th note in Allabreve,
and the 16th or 32nd note in + or common time: but only as long as no
figures of notes still more rapid or twice as short are intermixed in each
signature, for then the latter would have to be executed in the above
manner. For example, if the eight 16th notes beneath the letters (k), (m),
and (n) in Tab. IX, Fig. 1 [ex. 7] are played slowly with the same value,
they will be less pleasing than if the first and third of four are heard a
little longer, and with a stronger tone, than the second and fourth.41
In his second sentence (§12), Quantz specifies that the subject concerns
the “good” and “inferior” notes — the same system of note weighting as the
above writers present. He uses the same terminology as Kirnberger and Türk, in
Ex. 7. Quantz, Table IX, Fig. 1.
277
which “good” notes are described as “lange” and ”anschlagende.” Rhythmically

strong notes (“good” notes) are stressed more than those on a weak beat or
portion of the beat (“inferior” notes), which lightens the latter. Throughout
the literature, good and inferior notes are never tied to the notes inégales practice.
Quantz’s exceptions to §12 include rapid passages in a fast tempo, where length
and strength are applied only to the first of every four notes. Also excepted
are certain passages in vocal music; notes with strokes or dots above; several
repeated notes; notes slurred in more than pairs; and 8th notes in gigues. All of
these notes should be executed one as “long” as the other.42 While portions of
Quantz’s instructions seem to coincide with notes inégales, others do not:
— Applying “length and strength . . . only to the first of every four
notes” in faster tempos is not pertinent to notes inégales, which are always
paired notes.
— Unlike French sources, there is no restriction to passages primarily
in conjunct motion.
— A composer has no means with which to cancel this alteration.
— While the French exclude inequality when notes of smaller value
than those eligible for it are present, Quantz transfers the alteration to
the smaller notes.
— Notes inégales in French sources are not described in terms of “good”
and “inferior,” but simply as the first note of equal-note pairs being a
little longer than the second.
Later in his book, Quantz includes another passage similar to §12 (large
boldface type original):
If the type of 16th notes in [ex. 8] is to be performed pleasingly in a slow
tempo, the first of each two should always be heavier than the second,
both in duration and volume; and here the B in the third beat should be
played almost as though it had a dot after it.43
Ex. 8. Quantz, Tab.XXII, Fig. 21

.
That none of these passages from German writers refers to altering the
written note values is confirmed by the Berlin court Capellmeister Johann
278
Friedrich Reichardt (1776), who recommends Quantz’s book for further

information about bowing, but cautions:
It would also be very faulty if one always wanted to observe the stress-
ing of notes — about which Mr. Quantz speaks so much — with a
particular pressure on the bow. This stress is nothing but a slight weight
that everyone with a good feeling for the beat naturally gives the longer
notes without thinking about it.44
A series of notes played with exact equality will sound wooden and lifeless
unless softened by the subtle nuances that Reichardt describes. By trying to put
into words what the fine musician does by instinct, Quantz made the subject
more complex for us. Instead, his primary goal was rhythmic stability.
Teaching annotations in a manuscript of Quantz’s Solfeggi for flute45 have
been thought to represent instructions for altering the written note values.
Originally believed to be an autograph, this was subsequently disproved and
the author of the annotations remains unknown.46 The terms found in these
brief annotations — gleich, ungleich, egal, and unegal — simply mean “alike” or
“unalike,” as the case may be. None can with confidence be construed as advice
for altering note values. The closest example, “unegal aber nicht als Puncte’”
(unequal, but not as if dotted), resembles Quantz’s remark in his §12. Thus
these annotations relate to the same weighting of good and inferior notes.
Notes inégales and dotted notes

To a large extent, the modern literature has conflated notes inégales and
dotted notes, creating extraordinary complexity for performance. As David Fuller
observes: “It is rare that one comes across a piece of French music in which
one can say with confidence that this passage would have been dotted, that one
not, these dots are written notes inégales meant perhaps to be underdotted, those
were meant to be strict or exaggerated.”47 This results from not observing the
distinction that French sources make between dotted notes and the equal ones
eligible for mild inequality. Pierre Marcou’s text (1782) makes this distinction clear
when observing that some musicians shorten a note only when it is preceded by a
dot; that is, they do not alter notes written as equal. First, he offers a conventional
definition of French inequality: “In simple duple and triple meter, it is customary
to dot the 8th notes two by two; that is to say, the second of two 8th notes is made
a little shorter than the first, although they are of equal [written] value. In the
signature of four beats, the 16th notes are dotted.”48 Marcou then cites differing
opinion on whether equal notes can be dotted this way:
Among those in the art, some claim that this principle [of inequality] can
be applied only when each of these notes is preceded by a dot. Then
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there are others who recognize an obvious difference among giving an

equal value to these notes, dotting them lightly by pairs, or dotting them
in a more pronounced fashion when it is indicated by dots preceding
the short notes. As there is not perfect agreement on this principle, one
will choose from the three ways the one most appropriate for the type
of music being performed.49
Therefore Marcou distinguishes 1) equal notes performed equally; 2) equal
notes dotted lightly (which some do not practice); and 3) standard dotted notes
in a 3:1 ratio. The differing usage he observes reflects the ebbing use of notes
inégales.
Aside from the fact that the presence of notes smaller than those eligible
for inequality would cancel any notes inégales in examples cited today from foreign
music, other reasons, too, argue against it. For example, Handel’s chorus “Glory
to God” from Joshua has been cited in support of the belief that dotting is
required throughout a movement when it contains some dotted notes.50 An
Allegro in triple meter, it has the following structure:
bb. 1-56 equal 8th notes
57-61 equal 8th notes for chorus; dotted 8th
notes for orchestra
62-72 equal 8th notes
73-79 mostly dotted 8th notes for both chorus
and orchestra
80-108 equal 8th notes
109-119 equal 8th notes for chorus; dotted 8th
notes for orchestra
120-122 cadential figure
The bars with equal 8th notes greatly outnumber those with dotted 8th
notes. Since perpetual perceptible dotting for an extended period is tiresome
to the ear, Handel’s contrasting sections offer considerably greater interest. In
the two sections with dotted 8th notes in the orchestra and equal ones for the
chorus, there is no rhythmic clash when a reasonable tempo is adopted.
Handel’s “As with rosy steps” from Theodora has similar contrasting
sections of equal and dotted 16th notes, for which a “definite contrast between
lilting and vigorous inequality” is recommended.51 In an ensemble, the only
way to achieve uniform “lilting” inequality for the equal notes is by using a 2
to 1 ratio, which produces a sing-song effect in a passage of any length, and
has always been avoided by composers. Also, recall the rhythmic insecurity of
280
eighteenth-century musicians, as discussed by Quantz above and many others.

It was difficult for individuals who had never been trained with metronome
practice to execute standard 3:1 dotting of small note values correctly (see
chapter 14).52 Distinguishing between 3:1 dotting and unnotated 2:1 dotting in
the same composition would have presented an insuperable obstacle to most
musicians.
Dotting was still more a challenge for singers, whose training was usually
much more limited than that of instrumentalists. Consider the critic Pascal
Boyer’s implied reference (1767) to those at the Paris Opéra: “The number
of notes comprising the beats poses no problem for them, for they proceed
to the next beat only after finishing comfortably what they want to say in
the present beat.”53 Singers everywhere took extraordinary liberties, and it is
impossible to say with what accuracy rhythms were executed. Even later when
performance standards had improved, Gioacchino Rossini estimated that 80
percent of Italian singers could not read music, but sang by ear.54 And in 1856,
Hector Berlioz, who probably heard every major singer of the period, wrote:
A singer who is able to sing even sixteen measures of good music in a
natural and engaging way, effortlessly and in tune, without distending
the phrase, without exaggerating accents to the point of caricature .
. . without sour notes, without crippling the rhythm, without absurd
ornaments and nauseating appoggiaturas — in short, a singer able to
sing these measures simply and exactly as the composer wrote them
— is a rare, very rare, exceedingly rare bird.55
Executing a series of small dotted-note values is more difficult for the
voice than for instruments. This, together with many singers’ limited musical
ability, helps to explain why “dots for the band, not for the singer” can be
found. But this was not a liability. On the contrary, it produces a more
interesting texture.
Quoting Fuller’s remark that “three of the greatest composers (J. S. Bach,
Handel and Domenico Scarlatti, of course) occasionally took the considerable
trouble to write hundreds of extra dots and flags,” John Byrt observes that
“such dotting is certainly tedious to write and composers must have hoped
that all this effort would bring a rich reward.”56 Why would a composer write
intricate rhythms, only to have them erased in performance? The argument
appears to center around the belief that dotting should be uniform to avoid
rhythmic clashes. Does this perchance stem from the rapid tempos applied
today? The presence of more than a few dotted notes of short value implies
that the tempo should be slow enough to make the texture clear to the listener.
281
As Johann Friedrich Agricola wrote in 1749 (see chapter 12), great composers
sub-divided beats, “frequently, too, in faster tempos.”
At the proper tempo, rhythmic clashes disappear.57 Our technology has
given us ears and expectations much different from those of the eighteenth
century, and it is acceptable to perform certain portions of their music
somewhat faster than they could have done. On the other hand, the tempo for
the dotted notes under consideration here must be adjusted in accordance with
the rhythmic texture.
Summation
The finding that notes inégales are canceled when notes smaller than those
eligible for inequality are present not only clarifies performance, but also serves
to highlight the difference between notes inégales and dotted notes. It resolves
the many perplexing situations encountered in musical scores, as when dotted
notes appear in close proximity to conjunct equal notes. Also important is
Labadens’s definition of unwritten inequality as a means for deciphering the
rhythmic structure; thus it was more a pedagogical tool than an artistic one. As
teaching standards improved and music composition became more complex,
with fewer passages suitable for inequality, it gradually lost its usefulness and
was finally abandoned toward the end of the century.
Perhaps some foreigners knew about French inequality, but this does not
imply adoption or indicate that composers (aside from Muffat) expected their
works to be performed in the French manner. Missing from foreign sources
are the parameters essential for French inequality. The often-cited passage from
Quantz, which has seemed to present the strongest case for performing non-
French music with notes inégales, concerns instead the weight assigned individual
notes within a phrase in slow and moderate tempos, and thus correlates with
several other contemporaneous German sources. Stephen Hefling’s exhaustive
study accepts Muffat, Quantz, and Peter Prelleur (author of an unacknowledged
English translation of Hotteterre’s flute method) as the three foreign sources
for notes inégales, but nevertheless observes: “By comparison [with the imposing
evidence in France], documentary evidence of the custom outside France
appears meager.”58
No inequality has been found in the non-French pieces pinned on the
cylinders of mechanical instruments from this period, and Terence Best believes
the late Thurston Dart to have been right when saying: “In a whole lifetime
devoted to this subject, I have never found a shred of evidence that notes inégales
are applicable to Handel.” In 1973, Best examined and recorded an organ-clock
made by the noted Charles Clay (d.1740). When this instrument plays Handel’s
282
pieces, “there is no trace of notes inégales, apart from a few fleeting moments
of unevenness which are so random that they are more likely to be due to
instability of the mechanism than to deliberate intention.”59
With good reason, Couperin preferred the Italian method of performing
notes with their written values, for the French practice must often have been
misapplied. The meticulous alignment in his published works depicts the exact
rhythmic placement of notes. Despite the ambiguity in a few French sources,
we find no disputations of the type encountered with other subjects, which
suggests that it was either a laissez-faire matter of little consequence, or the
French reader knew what the author intended.
Endnotes
1
This abridged chapter appeared originally in Early Music 42/2 (2014): 273-89. Subsequent “Cor-
respondence” is in Early Music 42/4 (2014): 674-76; 43/2 (2015): 369; 43/3 (2015): 553-55; and
43/4 (2015) : 723-25.
2
Prominent among these is John Byrt, “Some New Interpretations of the notes inégales Evi-
dence,” Early Music, 28 (2000): 99-117. “Elements of Rhythmic Inequality in the Arias of Ales-
sandro Scarlatti and Handel,” Early Music, 35 (2007): 609-26. “Inequality in Alessandro Scarlatti
and Handel: A Sequel,” Early Music, 40 (2012): 91-110. See also David Fuller, “Notes inégales,” in
The New Grove Dictionary, 1st edn. (London, 1980), 13:420 (also in NG2).
3
See David Fuller’s bibliography for “Notes inégales” in NG2.
4
This setting may explain the few random examples in French tutors that seem to recommend
inequality for foreign music. See Hefling/1993, 38, 40.
5
Loulié/1696, 34f.: 2° “On fait quelquefois les premiers demy-temps un peu plus longs. Cette
maniere s’appelle Lourer. On s’en sert dans les chants dont les sons se suivent par Degrez non
interrompus.”
6
Ibid., 14: “Le Point aprés la Notte en augmente la valleur de la moitié.”
7
Hefling/1993, 17-19, correctly finds that dotted notes in these settings have a lesser ratio than
standard dotted notes.
8
J.-B. Labadens, Nouvelle method pour apprendre à jouer du violon et à lire la musique (Paris, [1772]; rpt.
2003), 29: “Le principe de faire sentir les fortes et les foibles, ainsi que les longues et les breves
étant contre les regles du bon gout, ne doit être employé que comme moyen pour déchifrer la
musique, et distinguer les notes éssentielles des divers passages; car la nuance du son ne doit être
variée qu’autant que l’expression et l’éffet de la musique l’éxigent.”
9
Jean-Louis de Cahusac, “Exécution” in EDR, 6:234: “. . tout le monde sait que du vivant de
Lulli, les violons avoient besoin de recourir à des sourdines pour adoucir dans certaines occasions;
il leur falloit trente répétitions, & une étude pénible, pour jouer passablement des moreaux qui
paroissent aujourd’hui aux plus foibles écoliers sans aucune difficulté.”
10
Hotteterre/1719, 58: “Ce qui fait que les croches sont égales dans cette occasion, c’est pre-
mieremt de ce qu’elles sautent par intervals, et par dessus cela de ce qu’elles sont mellées avec des
doubles croches.”
11
Michel Corrette, Méthode théorique et pratique pour apprendre en peu de tems le violoncelle dans sa perfec-
tion (Paris, 1741; rpt. 1972), 5: “Et dans la Musique françoise on passe la deuxieme Croche de
chaque tems plus vite, comme dans la Chaconne de Phaëton de Mr. de Lully, mais on les joüe aussi
quelque fois également quand il y a des doubles Croches.”
12
Louis-Charles Bordier, Nouvelle méthode de musique (Paris, ca.1760), 39: “Ordinairement quand il
283
y a des doubles croches dans cette mesure [3], on fait les croches égales; aussi bien que dans les
autres mesures quand cela arrive.”
13
Joseph Lacassagne, Traité général des éléments du chant (Paris, 1766; rpt. 1972), 51: “Les Croches
se passent aussi égales et détachées, lorsqu’elles sont mêlées de Doubles-Croches ou de Notes
syncopées.”
14
Jean-Baptiste Mercadier de Belesta, Nouveau système de musique théorique et pratique (Paris, 1776),
69: “Remarquez que les croches, quoiqu’inégales dans certaines mesures, sont cependant égales
pour l’ordinaire, lorsqu’elles sont entremèlées de doubles-croches. Il en est de même des doubles-
croches, lorsqu’elles sont entremêlées de triples-croches.”
15
Toussaint Bordet, Méthode raisonnée pour apprendre la musique (Paris, ca.1755), 7: “Les differens
Signes de Mesures, servent non seulement à donner le mouvement aux Airs, mais encore à rendre
inégales de deux en deux des notes d’une même espece, sçavoir, la premiere longue & la seconde
plus bréve & précipitée sur la 3e. qui est longue ainsi que la premiere, & la 4e. bréve toujours ainsi
de deux en deux, tant que la même espece de notes n’est point interrompue.”
16
François Couperin, L’Art de toucher le clavecin (Paris, 1717), 39f. : “Il y a selon moy dans notre
facon d’ecrire la musique, des deffauts qui se raportent à la manière d’écrire notre langue. C’est
que nous écrivons diffèremment de ce que nous éxécutons; ce qui fait que les étrangers joüent
notre musique moins bien que nous ne fesons la leur. Au contraire les Italiens écrivent leur mu-
sique dans les vrayes valeurs qu’ils L’ont pensée. Par exemple, nous pointons plusieurs croches de
suites par degrés-conjoints; Et cependant nous les marquons égales; notre usage nous a asservis;
Et nous continüons.”
17
François Couperin, Pièces de clavecin . . . premier livre (Paris, 1713; rpt. 1973), preface: “J’y ay ob-
servé perpendiculairement la juste valeur des tems, et des notes.”
18
Sébastien de Brossard, Dictionaire de musique (Paris, 1703; rpt. 1964), “Staccato.”
19
Loulié, Éléments ou principes de la musique, 2nd edn. (Amsterdam, 1698), 39: “dans toute sorte de
Musique étrangère ou l’on ne pointe, jamais qu’il ne soit marqué.” Cited by Frederick Neumann,
Essays in Performance Practice (Ann Arbor: UMI Research Press, ca.1982), 29.
20
Cited by Ernest Borrel, L’Interprétation de la musique française (Paris, 1934), 157: “Andante, ou à
notes égalles. Le mot andante indique que c’est de la musique à l’italienne non pointée.”
21
Ibid., 58f.: “avec les croches egales.”
22
Rousseau/1768, “Pointer:” “Dans la Musique Italienne toutes les Croches sont toujours égales,
à moins qu’elles ne soient marquées pointées.”
23
Michel Corrette, Méthode pour apprendre facilement à jouer du pardessus de viole à 5 et à 6 cordes (Paris,
1738; rpt. 1983), 13f.: “Mais dans la Musique Italienne les croches se joüent également.”
24
Corrette, Méthode . . . violoncello, 4f.: “les Croches se joüent également dans la Musique Italienne.”
25
Michel Corrette, L’école d’Orphée (Paris, 1738; rpt. 1973), 5. Cited by Byrt, “Elements of rhyth-
mic inequality,” 610. See also Byrt, “Some New Interpretations,” 104-07.
26
Michel Corrette, Méthode raisonné pour apprendre aisément à jouer de la flute traversière (Paris, 1773; rpt.
1978), 4-6. Corrette’s violin and violoncello tutors as cited above.
27
Corrette, Méthode . . . violoncello, 4.
28
Byrt, “Some New Interpretations,” 103.
29
Hotteterre/1719, 57: “Mr. de Lulli l’a employée dans ses Opera assez indifferemt. avec celle du
2 simple. On y trouve beaucoup d’inegalité ainsi que dans plusieurs autres. Elle me paroît assez
dans son vray dans les Tempo di Gavotta des Italiens, et dans ces 2. Ex. Suivans.”
30
Ibid.: “les croches y doivent estre egales dans la regularité a moins que le Compositeur n’y mette
des point.”
31
EMM, “Pointe:” “La manière des Italiens ayant prévalu, on ne pointe les croches actuellement,
en France, qu’autant qu’elles sont écrites avec des points qui en augmentent la valeur de moitié.”
32
Hotteterre/1719, 1.
284
33
Ibid., 6.
34
Byrt, “Some New Interpretations,” 99.
35
Georg Muffat, Florilegium secundum für Streichinstrumente (1698), ed. H. Rietsch in Denkmäler der
Tonkunst in Ősterreich, ii/2 (Vienna, 1895), 24. Byrt, “Some New Interpretations,” 99, infers in-
equality in Italian music because “Muffat doesn’t tell us that the Italians did not use inequality.”
Muffat’s material, however, concerns “the style of playing airs de ballet in the French manner
according to the late Monsieur Lully’s method.” The Italians are mentioned only a few times in
passing, and not at all in the entire section on tempo, which contains the material about French
unwritten inequality.
36
Johann Philipp Kirnberger, Die Kunst des reinen Satzes in der Musik (Berlin, 1771/76/79; rpt.
1968), ii/1, 131.
37
Petri/1782, 160-62: “. . . Denn das Zeitmaass wird nicht verändert, sondern der Unterschied
liegt nur in der Stärke des Vortrags.” Petri’s first edition (1767, 37), too, treats this matter.
38
Türk/1789, 91.
39
Quantz/Versuch, XII/5, 112.
40
Ibid., XI/11, 105f.: “Jede Note muss in ihrer wahren Geltung, und in ihrem rechten Zeitmaasse
ausgedrücket werden. . . . Nicht alle Ausführer kehren sich hieran. Sie geben öfters, aus Unwis-
senheit, oder aus einem verdorbenen Geschmacke, der folgenden Note etwas von der Zeit, so
der vorhergehenden gehöret.”
41
Ibid., XI/12, 105f.: “Ich muss hierbey eine nothwendige Anmerkung machen, welche die Zeit,
wie lange jede Note gehalten werden muss, betrifft. Man muss unter den Hauptnoten, welche
man auch: anschlagende, oder, nach Art der Italiäner, gute Noten zu nennen pfleget, und unter
den durchgehenden, welche bey einigen Ausländern schlimme heissen, einen Unterschied im
Vortrage zu machen wissen. Die Hauptnoten müssen allezeit, wo es sich thun lässt, mehr erho-
ben werden als die durchgehenden. Dieser Regel zu Folge müssen die geschwindesten Noten, in
einem jeden Stücke von mässigem Tempo, oder auch im Adagio, ungeachtet sie dem Gesichte
nach einerley Geltung haben, dennoch ein wenig ungleich gespielet werden; so dass man die an-
schlagenden Noten einer jeden Figur, nämlich die erste, dritte, fünfte, und siebente, etwas länger
anhält, als die durchgehenden, nämlich, die zweyte, vierte, sechste, und achte: doch muss dieses
Anhalten nicht soviel ausmachen, als wenn Puncte dabey stünden. Unter diesen geschwindesten
Noten verstehe ich: die Viertheile im Dreyzweytheiltacte; die Achttheile im Dreyviertheil- und
die Sechzehntheile im Dreyachttheiltacte; die Achttheile im Allabreve; die Sechzehntheile oder
Zwey und dreyssigtheile im Zweyviertheil- oder im gemeinen geraden Tacte: doch nur so lange
als keine Figuren von noch geschwindern oder noch einmal so kurzen Noten, in ieder [sic] Tactart
mit untermischet sind; denn alsdenn müssten diese letztern auf die oben beschriebene Art vor-
getragen werden. Z. E. Wollte man Tab. IX. Fig 1. die acht Sechzehntheile unter den Buchstaben
(k) (m) (n) langsam in einerley Geltung spielen; so würden sie nicht so gefällig klingen, als wenn
man von vieren die erste und dritte etwas länger, und stärker im Tone, als die zweyte und vierte,
hören lässt.” The example (m) is counter to his statement below that this principle does not apply
when a slur covers more than two notes.
42
Ibid., XI/12, 105f. In MGG, “Notes inégales,” Manfred H. Harras expands this subject to include
not only Quantz’s passage but also other German texts, which in reality discuss the same subject
of note weighting as Petri does above; for example, Johann Gottfried Walther (1708 and 1732,
“Quantitas notarum”) and Georg Simon Löhlein (1765, 9.Kap., §1). None of the foreign sources
cited for notes inégales restrict it to a certain note value governed by the time signature. Leonard
Frischmuth (1758), for example, refers only to lengthening 16th notes in the Allemande and 8th
notes in the Courante.
43
Quantz/Versuch, XVII/ii/12, 194: “Wenn diese Art von Sechzehntheilen: s. Tab.XXII. Fig. 21.
im langsamen Zeitmaasse schön vorgetragen werden sollen; so muss allezeit das erste von zw-
eyen, sowohl im Zeitmaasse, als in der Stärke, schwerer seyn, als das folgende: und hier muss das
285
H im dritten Tactgliede bey nahe so gespielet werden, als wenn hinter dem H ein Punct stünde.”
44
Reichardt/1776, 28f.: “Auch wäre es höchst fehlerhaft, wenn man das Marquiren der Noten —
wovon Herr Quanz so viel sagt — jederzeit mit einem besonderen Druck des Bogens bemerken
wollte. Es ist dieses weiter nichts, als das kleine Gewicht, was ein jeder der mit aufrichtigem
Gefühl für den Takt spielt, schon von selbsten, ohne daran zu denken, der längeren Note giebt.”
Cited in Quantz/Reilly, 223n.
45
Copenhagen Royal Library, Giedde Collection, Nr. CI45 (Gieddes Samling, I,16), 41.
46
C. A. Fontijn, “Quantz’s unegal: Implications for the Performance of 18th-Century Music,”
Early Music 23 (1995): 55-62. Byrt, “Some New Interpretations,” 112, n.31.
47
David Fuller, “Notes and inégales Unjoined: Defending a Definition,” The Journal of Musicology
7 (1989): 27.
48
Pierre Marcou, Élémens théoriques et pratiques de musique (London/Paris, 1782), 35: “l’on passe
la seconde des deux croches un peu plus bréve quoiqu’étant d’une valeur égale.”
49
Ibid., 35f.: “Parmi les gens de l’art, il en est qui prétendent que ce principe ne doit avoir lieu
que lorsque ces notes sont précédées chacunes d’un point; il en est d’autres qui reconnoissent une
différence sensible entre la maniere de donner une valeur égale à ces notes, de les pointer légére-
ment de deux en deux, ou de les pointer d’une maniere plus marquée, lorsqu’elle est indiquée
par les points qui précedent les notes breves. Comme on n’est pas parfaitement d’accord sur
ce principe, on choisira dans les trois manieres celle qui sera la plus propre au genre de musique
qu’on exécutera.”
50
Byrt, “Inequality . . . A Sequel,” 103.
51
Ibid., 107f.
52
See chapter 14 above about overdotting.
53
Boyer/1767, 56n.
54
Quoted from Ferdinand Hiller, Aus dem Tonleben (Leipzig, 1868) by Henry Pleasants, “Excerpts
from Ferdinand Hiller’s ‘Chatting with Rossini’ (1856),” Opera Quarterly 9 (1993): 46.
55
Hector Berlioz, A travers chants, ed. L. Guichard (Paris, 1971). Trans. Elizabeth Csicsery-Rónay,
The Art of Music and Other Essays (À travers chants) (Bloomington, 1994), 69, from Journal des Débats
(Paris, 2 June 1856).
56
Byrt, “Inequality . . . A Sequel,” 108.
57
Regarding tempo, see chapters 10-13 above.
58
Hefling/1993, 37.
59
Terence Best, “Interpreting Handel’s Rhythmic Notation” in Handel Tercentenary Collection, ed. S.
Sadie and A. Hicks (Ann Arbor, 1987), 280.
286
CHAPTER 16
Distinguishing Between Artificial and

Natural Vibrato in Premodern Music 1

Today, specialists in early music sing with a light, flutey tone in which the singer’s
natural vibrato is suppressed to a degree. The basis for this may be summarized
by a passage from The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians:
One of the distinct changes resulting from the cultivation of the heavi-
er voice [in the nineteenth century] was the increase in vibrato. At first
considered an ornament in the expression of passion, vibrato was not
generally considered acceptable as a constant part of vocal production
before the end of the 19th century. A particularly clear early injunction
against it was given by Christoph Bernhard (Von der Singe-Kunst, oder
Maniera, ca.1649):
Fermo, or the maintenance of a steady voice, is required on all notes,
except where a trillo or ardire [a form of tremolo] is applied. It is re-
garded as a refinement mainly because the tremulo is a defect . . . Elderly
singers feature the tremulo, but not as an artifice. Rather it creeps in by
itself, as they no longer are able to hold their voices steady. If anyone
would demand further evidence of the undesirability of the tremulo, let
him listen to such an old man employing it while singing alone. Then
he will be able to judge why the tremulo is not used by the most polished
singers, except in ardire.2
Bernhard, however, is not describing normal singing, for he calls the

tremulo form of vibrato an “artifice,” comparing it to the tremulous voice of an
elderly person. It is not the natural vibrato found in every singing voice, but an
exaggeration of it. Therefore it had to be restricted to occasional ornamental
usage. Today, no one would consider such a sound acceptable, but values in
earlier centuries sometimes differed from ours. Let us consider some further
early writers who confirm that this ornamental vibrato was indeed different
from natural vocal vibrato.
Artificially-produced vibrato
The modern disaffection with vibrato, whether vocal or instrumental,
seems to stem principally from a passage written by Robert Bremner, who in
1777 explained that the term “tremolo” refers to “that quivering sound made by
287
the trembling of the instrument-hand, the finger at the same time not departing
from the string:”
Many gentlemen players on bow instruments are so exceeding fond of
the tremolo, that they apply it wherever they possibly can. This grace has
a resemblance to that wavering found given by two of the unisons of an
organ, a little out of tune; or to the voice of one who is paralytic; a song
from whom would be one continued tremolo from beginning to end.3
What degree of tremolo is Bremner arguing against? One that sounds out
of tune and resembles the unsteady voice of a paralytic. In 1783, Carl Friedrich
Cramer published a German translation of Bremner’s passage, together with his
own reaction, which indicates that this tremolo [Bebung] is an artificial device:
The author of these remarks appears to me to be certainly much too
opposed to the Bebung. At least, the instance he relates about the singer
is not suitable. To be sure, a generally tremulous and unsteady voice is
counted as the first among errors . . . There is a world of difference be-
tween the beginning singer, who cannot keep to a pitch but always wa-
vers to and fro on the edges of the neighboring ones, and the discerning
singer, who applies the Bebung sparingly in the right places. Arias and
recitative often have sections of powerful emotion, where, if declama-
tion and imitation of each emotion’s specific expression is an essential
requirement in singing, the Bebung is even obligatory for the singer; I
boldly maintain that he has sung poorly and missed truth and beauty if
he does not use it.4
Now Cramer quotes from Johann Adam Hiller’s vocal manual (1780):
[With the Bebung] one does not hold a long sustained tone completely
steady, but lets it waver and float, without its becoming thereby higher
or lower [in pitch]. On string instruments, it is most easily made by
rocking the fingers back and forth on the string. For the singer who
wants to produce it simply with the larynx, it is more difficult; some
facilitate it by moving the lower jaw. [The castrato Giovanni] Carestini
did it often and always with very good results.5
Thus Hiller describes not a natural vibrato, but a synthetic one. A reference
to this type of jaw movement is found in Georg Nikolaus von Nissen’s biography
of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, written with assistance from his wife Constanze
(the composer’s widow): “To touch the heart, arias such as ‘Voi che sapete’ need
neither trills nor leaps, neither jaw contortions nor even those chromatic so-
called runs up and down.”6 The jaw contortions that earlier had been viewed as
acceptable in moderation came to be seen as offensive—and Mozart may have
played a role in changing taste.
288
Distinguishing Between Artificial and Natural Vibrato in Premodern Music
Since this ornamental Bebung requires effort, J. S. Bach’s former student

Johann Friedrich Agricola (1757) compares it to string vibrato, which likewise
must be produced artificially by rocking the fingertip back and forth on one
note without making it higher or lower in pitch. He calls the vocal Bebung most
effective when done near the end of a long sustained note, adding: “Not all
voices are capable of executing it.”7 This statement excludes any connection
with the normal vibrato found in every singing voice.
While evidence for the artificial form of vocal vibrato is widespread, it
was not necessarily practiced everywhere. In the 1750s, for example, Giuseppe
Tartini declares that the ornamental tremolo is generally not associated with the
voice: “This kind of ornament is by its very nature more suitable for instruments
than for voices. If we meet it sometimes in a voice, it is because of the nature of
that particular voice.” Noting that the sound produced by harpsichord strings,
large bells, etc. leaves behind a wave motion in the air, he says that this effect
can be imitated on string instruments by using wrist movement to make a finger
pressed on the string vibrate. It can be done slowly or quickly, or can increase
gradually in speed, and is suited to the long final note of a phrase.8 For this
ornament, the violinist imitates not the natural vibrato of the human voice, but
the wave motion of a vibrating object.
The contrast between normal and artificial vibrato is made vivid in a letter
that Mozart wrote to his father in 1778:
Meissner, as you know, has the bad habit of making his voice tremble
at times, turning a note that should be sustained into distinct quarter
notes or even eighth notes—and this I never could endure in him. And
really it is a detestable habit and quite contrary to nature. The human
voice trembles naturally—but in its own way—and only to such a de-
gree that the effect is beautiful. Such is the nature of the voice; and
people imitate it not only on wind instruments, but also on stringed in-
struments and even the clavichord. But the moment the proper limit is
overstepped, it is no longer beautiful—because it is contrary to nature.
It reminds me of jolting the organ bellows.9
By turning a long note into distinct divisions, Meissner was trying to
imitate the artificial vocal Bebung described above by Hiller. We, too, would
share Mozart’s opinion of this device. But it is unrelated to the natural vibrato
of the singing voice, which Mozart admires and cites as worthy of emulation by
instrumentalists. Thus this passage does not support today’s view that it arises
from a “conservative position” on normal vocal vibrato.10
In France, artificially-produced vibrato was called balancement or flaté. For
the latter, Michel Pignolet de Montéclair (1736) says that the voice makes several
289
small, delicate aspirations on a note of long duration without raising or lowering

the pitch; he compares it to the vibration made on a taut string shaken with the
finger. If used on all the longer notes, he warns, “it would become intolerable,
for the singing would be tremulous.”11 His illustration (ex. 1) shows that the flaté
can be applied acceptably on the final note, but should not be used in the five
previous instances. As here, some composers indicated artificial vibrato with a
long wavy line.
Ex. 1. Montéclair, poor and acceptable usage of the flaté.
Normal vibrato as highly desirable

Nothing in the early sources suggests that singers should suppress their
normal vibrato unless it is a defective wobble.12 In fact, as Mozart has just
indicated, the human voice is always the model for the instrumentalist. For
example, the writer in Johann Georg Sulzer’s encyclopedia of the fine arts (1771)
considers a light vibrato essential for instrumentalists—“Each somewhat longer
note becomes rigid and hard if not given a gentler nature by vibrato”—and
recommends that instruments imitate the voice:
Because of the gentle vibrato it gives all sustained notes, the human
voice has an obvious advantage over all other instruments. A funda-
mental part of good singing and playing requires holding out every note
with such vibrato. It is easiest in singing, because Nature herself has
constructed the vocal instrument so that it does not remain on any sus-
tained tone with the same rigid tension.13
But on instruments, he adds, vibrato requires more effort, such as the
finger vibrato that violinists practice. Brief remarks scattered throughout early
writings, too, indicate the value placed on a beautiful natural vocal vibrato:14
— Michael Praetorius (1619): “. . . those who are endowed by God and
nature with an especially lovely quivering, wavering or trembling voice .”
— M. Daniel Friderici (1649): “From the beginning, the boys should
form the voice in a naturally beautiful manner and, where possible, with
a delicate trembling, wavering or quivering in the throat.”
When considering the question of why the singing voice carries a vibrato
while the speaking voice does not, Denis Dodart, medical adviser to King Louis
290
XIV, observes the difference between the natural vibrato of the fine singing
voice, of which the listener is unaware, and the offensive one of the poor singer:
The trembling caused by an involuntary weakness in the tremulous-by-
nature singing voice is the very same thing as the intentional and sup-
ported waver in the singing of those with a lovely voice. In tremulous
singing it is a cumbersome and frequent downfall, but in lovely singing
it is like a type of flight—comfortable, restrained, and supported.15
Neither Dodart nor anyone else would have wanted to suppress the latter
form of beneficial vibrato. Describing the action of the larynx in producing this
effect, Dodart adds: “Something similar is seen in the organ tremulant, which
changes nothing in the pitch of each note, and can only have been invented
to imitate the singing voice—which, however, it does only very imperfectly.”16
The organ tremulant is an imperfect imitation because it contains no microtonal
nuances. All singing voices vibrate, but the listener is aware of it only with
displeasing voices. From this it follows that the vocal tone so many early writers
advise instrumentalists to imitate is the unnoticeable vibrato of the fine singer.
Commenting on Dodart’s views in 1768, Jean-Jacques Rousseau finds the
voice’s natural vibrato to be highly desirable as long as it does not exceed the
boundary beyond which it becomes a wobble. The violin and other instruments,
says Rousseau, imitate the voice’s undulation not by any wavering similar to the
larynx’s supposed movement, but by vibrating the finger on the string, which, in
being alternately shortened and lengthened nearly imperceptibly, produces two
tones alternating as the finger draws back or advances. Thus, he concludes, the
undulation of which M. Dodart speaks does not consist of a very light wavering
of the same tone, but the more-or-less frequent alternation of two tones that are
very close together. When the tones are too far apart and the alternating blows
are too coarse, the undulation then becomes tremulous [“chevrottement”—like
a billy goat].17
A powerful tone
The idea that eighteenth-century singing was pure, light, and nearly
vibrato-free is a myth that seems to derive from our belief that natural vibrato
was an ornament. On the contrary, singers had to have powerful voices to
compete with orchestral tone that was loud and coarse. Our period instruments
have utilized modern technology to overcome the defects of the original
instruments. The vocal and instrumental volume employed may be gauged
from Florido Tomeoni’s vocal method (1799):
The extraordinary physical effort required by the French method uses up
their voice even before they can appear in the theater. Then the continual
291
orchestral noise makes them sing so strongly and loudly that often the
vocal instrument is altered perceptibly in a few years, and they are vulner-
able to serious accidents, such as blood vessels bursting in the chest. This
is one of the reasons why good singers are so rare in this country.18
Trained in Naples, Tomeoni in 1783 settled in Paris, where he spent the
remainder of his life teaching singing and accompaniment. While the Italians
sang with less forcing than did the French, they still needed a strong voice to
fill immense theaters such as the San Carlo in Naples (seating capacity 2400,
mostly in loges).
Spitting blood from strenuous singing was a serious problem also in
Germany, according to Dr. Friedrich August Weber (1800):
Singing practice that lasts too long and is done with all-too-much exer-
tion produces a screeching voice, leads to singing out of tune, and not
seldom is an eventual cause of bleeding and lung disease.19
Like other writers, Weber indicates that most vocal teachers knew little
about the voice. Not only do they consider blood-spitting an insignificant
trifle, he says, but they even believe that it is beneficial for forming the voice.
Some think that they are communicating gratifying news when telling him that
a pupil has coughed up blood: “Now the pupil will learn to sing correctly,
his lungs will expand, the blood circulation in the blood vessels of the vocal
organ will become freer, and the voice will also execute difficult passages with
less exertion.”20 As Weber warns, this abuse often led to the inability to sing
at all. It must be added that the Italians seem to have had the most success in
training the voice, which is why their singers were in demand all over Europe
during the eighteenth century (except the Paris Opéra, where foreigners were
not permitted to perform).
Singers in the theater often had to put up with a distracting amount of
noise emanating from an audience inclined to pay little attention to what was
happening on stage. Moreover, as noted in chapter 7 above, the well-traveled
composer and violinist Francesco Maria Veracini strongly objected (ca.1760)
to the din created by orchestra members who tuned during singing, instead of
before the opera’s overture. “This confounded gun gan gun gan of loud string
tuning throughout up until the last chorus (without ever being in tune) disturbs
the singers and tortures the listeners terribly.”21
To make themselves heard under conditions that are unimaginable to the
modern mind, singers needed large voices. When the emphasis is on training
large, powerful voices, there can be no suppression of natural vibrato. Today’s
performances of early music are so delicate because it is impossible to repress
normal vibrato when singing loudly.
292
Artificial vibrato in the nineteenth century

That performers continued to use the exaggerated, artificial form of
vibrato well into the nineteenth century is indicated by Frédéric Chopin’s
assessment of the famed tenor Giovanni Battista Rubini: “he embroiders too
long and makes his voice vibrate intentionally.”22 Since large voices like Rubini’s
cannot escape having a significant vibrato, what Chopin observed had to have
been an artificial intensification. Moreover, he calls it intentional. The difference
between intentional and natural vibrato is verified by a definition in Gustavo
Carulli’s vocal method (ca.1838; dedicated to the acclaimed tenor Gilbert-Louis
Duprez): “Vibrato: making the voice vibrate on a sustained note.”23 Because
all singing voices vibrate naturally, it is not necessary to “make” them vibrate.
Composers such as Gaetano Donizetti, Fromental Halévy, and Giacomo
Meyerbeer specified this artificial vibrato at certain points in their scores.
In Manuel Garcia’s vocal method (1847), it is clear that the trémolo is an
artificial trembling. Calling it appropriate only in the most extreme situations of
emotion, he adds that it must be carefully regulated: “As soon as one exaggerates
the expression or duration, it becomes tiresome and disagreeable.” He further
cautions that its overuse will cause the voice to become tremulous:
The artist who has contracted this intolerable defect becomes incapable
of singing any type of sustained line. In this way, beautiful voices have
been lost to the art. . . . Some singers wrongly believe that trembling
makes the voice more resonant, and seek . . . to augment the strength
of their instrument by undulating the tone. The voice is able to vibrate
[correctly] only by the luster of the timbre and the force of the air emis-
sion, not by the effect of trembling.24
Garcia indicates that singers used artificial vibrato to enhance their
voice’s power. While we value high refinement, their audiences (except the
connoisseurs) loved effects of overwhelming volume. To their ears, artificial
vibrato intensified the volume.
By overlooking a historical setting that was completely different from
our technological society, we seem to have started from the wrong premise.
Postulating that early singers had very light, nearly vibrato-free voices (because
to us it sounds so right for this music), we then equated today’s natural vocal
vibrato with what has now been shown to be artificially-produced vibrato. In
a sense, singing almost continually with a “straight” tone is just as artificial as
the exaggerated vibrato they applied as an ornament. Today, large voices with
normal vibrato have every reason to perform this repertoire with confidence.
293
Addendum: instrumental vibrato
Leopold Mozart’s violin method (1756/1789) presents two forms of string

vibrato, the first of which is unnamed, has no limitations, and is simply part of
good string technique:
The left-hand finger should make a small, slow movement, which, how-
ever, must not go toward the side, but forward and backward. That is,
the finger should bend forward toward the bridge and backward toward
the violin’s scroll, quite slowly for soft tones, but somewhat faster for
loud ones.25
In contrast, the Tremolo (borrowed from Giuseppe Tartini) has rhythmically-
accented pulsations, unlike standard finger vibrato, where no pulsations are
evident. Observing that some players tremble on every note as if they had
the palsy, Mozart limits it to final notes and certain other locations. In ex. 2a,
which presents the Tremolo’s execution in slow, accelerating, and fast tempos,
the larger characters above each staff represent eighth notes and the smaller
ones, sixteenth notes. The hand creates a pulsation for each character, creating
a relatively slow, measured vibrato. In ex. 2b, Mozart illustrates the Tremolo
as applied in two different melodic settings: no. 1 requires a rhythmic stress
and pulsation on each note marked “2,” while no. 2 requires this on each note
marked “1.”26 That the Tremolo differs from standard string vibrato is confirmed
by Mozart’s index, in which the Tremolo is treated only in chapter 11. Light
vibrato, on the other hand, is indexed as “Movement of the hand when holding
out a long note” (“Bewegung der Hand beym Aushalten einer langen Note”)
and included in chapter 5’s bowing techniques for achieving good tone.
a.
294
b..
.
Ex. 2. Mozart, Tremolo. a. Pulsations in different tempos; b. Pulsations
applied to melodic lines.
The following passages include a selection of other instructions for

instrumental vibrato , arranged chronologically:
— In Johann Peter Gabriel Sperling’s method book (1705), the term
“tremolo” refers to pitch vibrato. Some musicians err, he says, in not
observing the very great difference between the tremolo (or tremolante)
and the trillo. When a violinist plays a trillo, the upper note is as strong
as the main note. For the tremolante, on the other hand, the upper note
is either completely absent or barely touched with the finger.27
— According to Johann Mattheson (1739), the player executes the

Tremolo on lutes, strings and clavichords by merely bending the finger-
tip, without moving from the spot. No one can describe the delicate
pitch variation it produces, he says, nor measure it, much less represent
it with ordinary signs. One can indicate where such vibrating or waver-
ing should occur, but how it is done cannot be put into words [which
helps explain its absence in string tutors]. The ear has to teach it. 28
(Mattheson offers no restrictions for its use.)
— Ignaz Xaver Kürzinger’s string/vocal tutor (1763) treats vibrato as

commonplace: “Tremolo . . . the gentlest wavering on a single note,
which must at most be a very delicate movement of the breath, as on
the violin, the mere bending of the fingertips without moving from the
spot.” He recommends applying it to most non-staccato notes, particu-
larly those of a certain duration.29
295
— According to Johann Samuel Petri (1782), the Tremolo does good

service for both clavichord and string players. The latter execute it not
merely by alternating weaker or stronger pressure on the fingerboard,
but also by making the finger quiver a little back and forth at the same
time, whereby the tone, which the bow sustains, not only vibrates, but
also appears to oscillate.30
— Hector Berlioz observes that Christoph Willibald Gluck did not use
the word tremolo (tremblé) for a rapid repetition of the same note with
small bowstrokes, but to designate “this trembling of the left-hand fin-
ger on the string, which gives a type of undulation to the tone; Gluck
indicates it by this sign, placed over sustained notes: [long wavy line] and
sometimes also by the word appoggiato (appuyé).”31
Thus the word tremolo had two very different applications: one was
standard vibrato, and the other consisted of rhythmically-accented pulsations.
Later, tremolo could refer to rapid bowstroke repetition of the same note.
Believing that ordinary vibrato was an ornament to be restricted, some
today have recommended the use of many open strings for the music of Mozart
and other composers. Early writers, however, say the reverse. For example,
Friedrich Wilhelm Marpurg (1750) advises violinists to tune in pure fifths and
take care to play in tune, adding that this “frequently requires avoiding the open
strings and taking their pitches with the fourth finger.” [Even if tuned properly,
instruments and strings often suffered from pitch instability.] Marpurg also
recommends that the strongest, fullest tone possible be drawn from the violin,
without scratching or scraping.32 Such a prescription would not be possible
without vibrato.
For further information about string vibrato, see the article cited below.33
Endnotes
1
The vocal portion of this chapter appeared originally in the Journal of Singing 63/2 (Nov./Dec.
2006): 161-67.
2
Owen Jander and Ellen T. Harris, “Singing,” in NG2, 23:432.
3
Bremner’s remarks were published as a preface to J. G. C. Schetky, Six Quartettos for Two Violins,
a Tenor, & Violoncello, Op. 6 (London, 1777). Reprinted in Gwilym Beechey, “Robert Bremner
and his Thoughts on the Performance of Concert Music,” The Musical Quarterly 69/2 (Spring 1983): 245f.
4
MM 1.2 (1 December 1783), 1216f.
5
Hiller/1780, 75f.: “Nun noch ein Wort von der Bebung, die darinne besteht, dass man einen
296
lange aushaltenden Ton nicht ganz fest stehen, sondern etwas schwanken und schweben lässt,
ohne dass er dadurch höher oder tiefer wird. Auf besaiteten Instrumenten ist es am leichtesten
durch das Hin- und Herwanken des Fingers, der auf der Saite steht, zu machen. Für den Sänger,
wenn er es blos mit der Kehle hervorbringen will, hat es mehr Schwierigkeit; einige erleichtern
sich dasselbe mit der Bewegung des untern Kinnbackens. Carestini that es oft, und immer mit
sehr gutem Erfolge.”
6
Georg Nikolaus von Nissen, Biographie W. A. Mozarts, ed. Constanze Wittwe von Nissen (Leipzig,
1828; rpt. 1964), 640: “Arien, wie Voi che sapete, bedürfen, um an das Herz zu dringen, weder Trill-
er, noch Tonsprünge, weder Verdrehung des Kiefers, noch auch jene sogenannten chromatischen
auf- und absteigenden Leitern.”
7
Agricola/1757, 121f.: “Die Bebung auf einem und eben demselben Tone, welche man auf
Bogeninstrumenten durch das Hin- und Herwanken eines Fingers, dessen Spitze aber doch auf
dem gegebenen Tone liegen bleibt, und die den Ton weder höher noch tiefer, sondern nur etwas
schwebend machet, ist auch eine Manier, die im Singen, besonders auf Haltung langer Noten,
zumal wenn man sie erst gegen das Ende dieser Noten anbringt, ihre gute Wirkung thut. . . . Doch
sind nicht alle Hälse zu Ausführung derselben geschickt.”
8
Tartini/Traité, 84-87.
9
Mozart’s letter of 12 June 1778 adapted from The Letters of Mozart and his Family, trans. Emily
Anderson (New York: Norton, 1985), vol. 2.
10
The misreading of Mozart’s text is discussed by Frederick Neumann, “The Vibrato Contro-
versy,” Performance Practice Review 4/1 (Spring 1991): 19.
11
Michel-Pignolet de Montéclair, Principes de musique (Paris, 1736; rpt. 1972), 85: “Le flaté est une
espece de balancement que la voix fait par plusieurs petittes aspirations douces, sur une note de
longue durée, ou sur une note de repos, sans en hausser ni baisser le son. Cet agrément produit
le même effet que la vibration d’une corde tendüe qu’on ebranle avec le doigt. . . . Si l’on prati-
quoit le flatté sur touttes les notes fortes, il deviendroit insupportable, en ce qu’il rendroit le chant
tremblant.”
12
Like Bernhard above, early writers such as Pier Francesco Tosi (Opinioni de cantori . . . sopra il canto
figurato (Bologna, 1723), 16f.) do not argue against natural vocal vibrato, but against the artificial
form that creates intonation problems (discussed in Neumann, “Vibrato Controversy.”
13
ATSK, “Bebung:” “Jeder etwas anhaltende Ton wird stief und hart, wenn ihm nicht die Bebung
ein sanfteres Wesen giebt. . . . Die menschliche Stimme hat den Vorzug, den sie so offenbar vor al-
len andern Instrumenten hat, grösstentheils den sanften Bebungen zu danken, die sie allen anhal-
tenden Tönen giebt. Es ist ein wesentliches Stük des guten Singens und Spielens, dass man lerne
jeden Ton mit solcher Bebung aushalten. Im Singen ist es am leichtesten, weil die Natur selbst die
Werkzeuge der Stimme so gebildet hat, dass sie bey keinem anhaltenden Ton in derselben stiefen
Spannung bleiben.” The term Bebung serves a double purpose in eighteenth-century German
sources—besides defining the artificially-produced vibrato, it can also, as here, refer to the light
vibrato of the normal singing voice.
14
Praetorius/1619, 3:229. M. Daniel Friderici, Musica figuralis oder Neue / . . . Unterweisung der Sing-
kunst (Rostock, 1649), unnumbered p.39. The largest compilation of early source material is by
Greta Moens-Haenen, Das Vibrato in der Musik des Barock: ein Handbuch zur Aufführungspraxis für Vo-
kalisten und Instrumentalisten (Graz: Akademische Druck, ca.1988). See also Ulrich Bartels, Vokale
und instrumentale Aspekte im musiktheoretischen Schrifttum der 1. Hälfte des 17. Jahrhunderts (Regensburg:
Gustav Bosse, 1989), 54ff.; and Frederick Neumann, Performance Practices of the Seventeenth and Eigh-
teenth Centuries (New York: Schirmer Books, 1993), 498ff.
15
Denis Dodart, Supplément au Mémoire sur la voix et sur les tons, in Histoire et mémoires de l’Académie
Royale des Sciences, Année 1706 (Paris, 1731), 144-46. Cited by Moens-Haenen, Das Vibrato, 19-21.
16
Ibid.
17
Rousseau/1768, “Voix,” 542: “. . . sur le Violon & sur d’autres Instrumens, on imite cette
297
ondulation . . . par un balancement du doigt sur la Corde, laquelle, ainsi racourcie & ralongée
alternativement & presque imperceptiblement, rend deux Sons alternatifs à mesure que le doigt
se recule ou s’avance.”
18
Florido Tomeoni, Théorie de la musique vocale (Paris, ca.1799), 39.
19
Friedrich August Weber, AmZ 2 (23 July 1800): 741: “Zu lange daurende und mit allzuviel
Anstrengung verbundene Singübungen machen die Stimme kreischend, geben Gelegenheit zum
Distoniren, und sind nicht selten eine entfernte Ursache des Bluthusten und der Lungensucht.”
20
Ibid., (20 Aug. 1800): 809f.
21
Veracini, 58.
22
Correspondance de Frédéric Chopin, ed. B. E. Sydow (Saint-Herblain, France: Editions Richard
Masse, 1993), 2:45.
23
Gustavo Carulli, Méthode de chant (Paris, [ca.1838]), 6: “Vibrato, faire vibrer la voix sur une tenue
. . .”
24
Manuel Garcia, Traité complet de l’art du chant (Paris, 1847; rpt. 1985), 54.
25
Mozart/Versuch, ch.V, §5.
26
Ibid., ch.XI, §1-7.
27
Johann Peter Gabriel Sperling, Principia musicae, das ist: Gründliche Anweisung zur Music (Budis-
sen, 1705), 84: “Zwischen tremolo oder tremolante, und trillo machen etliche keinen Unterschied:
Welches aber unrecht; und ist der Unterschied hierinnen sehr gross. . . . Wann man auf denen
Violinen z.E. einen trillo macht/ muss man den obigen Clavim so wohl als denselben/ welchen man
aushaltet oder spielet/ starck anschlagen: Hingegen ein tremolante erfordert/ dass der obige Clavis
entweder gantz und nicht/ oder fast nur halb berühret werde.”
28
29
Kürzinger/1763, 35: “. . . die allergelindeste Schwebung auf einem einzigen Ton, dabey eine gar
sanfte Bewegung des Athems das Meiste thun muss, so, wie auf der Violin die blosse Lenkung der
Fingerspitzen, ohne von der Stelle zu weichen.” Also 46. Cited by Moens-Haenen, 68.
30
Petri/1782, 412: “Endlich der Tremolo thut auch auf der Geige, wie auf dem Klaviere, gute
Dienste, welche einige nicht blos durch den sanfteren oder stärkeren wechselsweisen Eindruck
auf dem Grifbrete verrichten, sondern zugleich den drückkenden und diese Schwebung auf der
langen Note veranlassenden Finger so aufsezzen, dass er beim Eindrükken und Zittern um ein
weniges vor und zurück drückt; wodurch der Ton, den der Bogen aushält, nicht nur tremulirt,
sondern auch selbst zu schwanken scheint.”
31
Hector Berlioz, A travers chants (Paris: Gründ, 1971), 188.
32
Friedrich Wilhelm Marpurg, Der Critische Musicus an der Spree, (Berlin, 1750; rpt. 1970): 208:
“Diese Nettigkeit erfodert, dass man die blossen Saiten oftmahls nicht hören lasse, sondern ihre
Thöne mit dem vierten Finger greiffe . . . dass man immer den stärcksten, vollesten, und nach
Gelegenheit feinesten Thon aus der Violin ziehe, ohne jedoch zu kratzen, oder zu schrapen.”
33
Beverly Jerold, “Good Vibrations,” The Strad 116 (March 2005): 44-49.
298
CHAPTER 17
A Solution for Simple (secco) Theater

Recitative1

In productions of early operas such as Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart’s, the por-
tion most difficult to make interesting is the narration/discourse set as simple
recitative, which is accompanied only by bass instruments and keyboard.2 De-
spite the singers’ great skill, it often sounds tedious. Characterized by skeletal,
mostly triadic harmony and an absence of melodic and rhythmic interest, this
gaunt creation is bound to thwart any attempt to treat it as a thing of beauty.
Its purpose is quite different. Even though we are aware that early writers com-
pare simple recitative to speech, our performances usually convey instead the
impression of song.
An almost spoken recitative

The melodic and harmonic dullness of simple recitative in the Italian
style, which was used everywhere except France, is intentional because it is
constructed to mirror speech patterns. In contrast, eighteenth-century critics
faulted French recitative for being scarcely distinguishable from song. In the
preface to his tragic opera Ernelinde (1768), François-André Danican Philidor
observes that everything in a French opera is sung, but that “in Rome, London,
and Vienna, the scenes [recitatives] are recited.”3 He prefers the latter style.
When the Swiss writer Jean-Jacques Rousseau composed his intermède, Le
Devin du village, for Paris in 1752, he chose the Italian form of recitative. Shortly
after his death in 1778, the Paris Opéra revived this work, but an unnamed writer
found that certain elements had been incompatible with Rousseau’s wishes.
One of these criticisms describes how simple recitative should be executed:
Since he regarded it as the best part of Devin du Village, the composer
did not revise the old recitative. But he wanted this recitative to be
not sung, but spoken; that is, delivering it almost as readily as ordinary
discourse, without raising or forcing the voice more than precisely nec-
essary to support the vocal inflection and enunciate the words clearly.4
An article on the same subject in the Journal de Paris (1779) makes two
additional points:
299
— The voice should not be sustained.
— The singer should “use many more inflections than tones—that is,
more feeling than voice.”5
When the emphasis is on inflections and nuances, the singer does not
linger on any note long enough to let vibrato or any aspect of song become
apparent. Upon hearing simple recitative performed by Italian singers in Paris
in the 1750s, the philosophe Jean Le Rond d’Alembert marveled at the illusion of
actual speech created.
Similarly, an anonymous Paris writer (1756) describes Italian-style simple
recitative as “performed with dry, cut-off tones made on the wing by skipping, like
striking a harpsichord without letting it produce the full sound by staying a little
longer on the keys. Thus this recitative is neither speech nor song. Composed
of both, it does not express sentiment or the character of the passions.”6 The
writer then draws a contrast between simple recitative and a different type in
monologue form, which does express sentiment, is accompanied by orchestra,
and is indeed sung.
The pace of delivery

The simple recitative in some productions today does approach the non-
sustained manner, but could be improved. Taking this notation literally, some
reproduce it almost as written and at a rapid tempo, perhaps because early writers
say that it is performed more quickly than church recitative, which, however,
moved at a ponderous pace. An idea of recitative tempo can be gained from
Johann Friedrich Agricola’s review (1769) of Johann Adolph Scheibe’s Tragische
Kantaten. Quoting the writer and singer Johann Mattheson, who said that no
more than eleven recitative syllables can be executed in one breath, Agricola
faults Scheibe for writing thirteen and even fifteen syllables in a phrase, thus
requiring the singer to breathe inappropriately.7
The pace of discourse within a simple recitative can vary considerably
and becomes rapid only when it would be so in ordinary speech. To achieve
the proper effect, inflections and the timing of pauses are vitally important.
Because it is impossible to mirror conversation exactly with notes, a very simple
notation was used to give the singer the same freedom of interpretation as the
actor in a play. Indeed, simple recitative is more about acting than singing. In his
Devin du village, Rousseau supplied the Italian-style recitatives with performance
directions implying widely varying tempos from one phrase to another (ex. 1).8
300
A Solution for Simple (secco) Theater Recitative
ferme firmly
ironie et dépit irony and resentment
animé spirited
douleur sadness
menace threatening
douleur tendre tender sadness
Ex. 1. Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Le Devin du village, recitative, scene 1.
Appoggiaturas
With respect to adding an appoggiatura at the end of a phrase, it is
essential to distinguish between this semi-spoken simple recitative and the sung
form accompanied by orchestra, as the Austrian composer and singer Johann
Baptist Lasser remarks (1798):
301
Theater recitative, insofar as it is merely narrative, permits no small em-

bellishments at all. But if there are some sections composed in cham-
ber style and accompanied by various instruments, the singer may use
ornaments, but even then only such as are appropriate for enhancing
the prevailing feeling and expression.9
The Berlin composer Johann Carl Friedrich Rellstab (1786), too, affirms
the difference between theater and other recitative: “In the theater, the singer,
if he knows what action is, should make few or no appoggiaturas.”10 The
restriction against ornaments in theater recitative is found much earlier as well
in the castrato Pier Francesco Tosi’s vocal manual (1723).11
Stefano (Esteban) Arteaga’s influential history of the Italian theater (1785)
specifies that ornaments were not to be applied to simple theater recitative:
Just as the exposition of a discourse . . . is not decorated with
tinsel in rhetoric, embellishment must not be added to the instrumental
or vocal parts of simple recitative because . . . the spectator cannot
be moved if ornaments distract his attention from the thread of the
action.12
Arteaga takes a stricter position than some by extending this exclusion to
accompanied theater recitative.
D’Alembert’s essay (1759), which favors the Italian form of theater
recitative against the ornament-laden French one, confirms that the former
was customarily sung without appoggiaturas. Experimenting to see if he could
transform Italian recitative into the French style, he made it slower and added
trills, appoggiaturas and tenues [notes sustained well beyond their value, probably
for special effects]: “It became a French recitative, but incomparably less natural
and pleasing than in its original state.” Then he tried turning French recitative
into the Italian form: “I sang the recitative à l’Italienne by first removing the
trills, appoggiaturas, and tenues. Then I applied the faster pace and recitation
necessary to a good declamation.”13 He found this method immeasurably better
for text having the nature of discourse, but not for that involving sentiment [the
type that the Italians accompanied with orchestra].
Many writers of the period criticize the excessive ornamentation in French
recitative, a fashion that seems to have developed toward the mid-eighteenth
century, and which slackened the pace considerably. That Jean-Baptiste Lully
had strong views on this subject is suggested by Le Cerf de La Viéville (1705),
who reports Michel Lambert’s coaching of Lully’s singers. After Lambert
advised them to slip in a little ornament from time to time in the recitative, they
dared perform them in rehearsal: “‘The devil, Mesdemoiselles,’ said Lully rising
impetuously from his seat (and sometimes using a term less polite), ‘there is
302
nothing like that in your score, and, Zounds, no embellishment. My recitative is

meant only for speaking; I want it plain and simple.’”14 According to the Journal
de Paris (1779) when reviewing the revival of Lully’s Thésée, his recitative was not
originally performed with the short trills, cadential trills, and appoggiaturas used
in this revival, but much more quickly and in a natural way. The writer suggests
omitting these ornaments, which are a misinterpretation and tire people of
taste.15
As in Lully’s recitative, ornaments were excluded from simple recitative in
Italian style because they change the focus from speech imitation to song. In this
matter, we have generally treated all recitative alike, and modern critical editions
have added a great many appoggiatura cues to simple recitatives for the theater.
But early writers confine the addition of appoggiaturas to recitative that is either
accompanied by both bass and treble instruments or written for the church
or chamber. Even here, there was considerable difference of opinion: some
preferred none but what the composer had written; others permitted the singer
to add an appoggiatura “now and then,” and one writer seemingly advocates
adding an appoggiatura at every line ending.16 Composers, too, differed in their
expectations: master composers usually notated nearly every detail to be sung,
while secondary ones often wrote only a bare outline to give the singer freedom
to embellish (for obvious reasons, most of this composition has vanished).
According to the violinist Giuseppe Tartini (writing around 1750) and
others, the long appoggiatura which takes time from its main note was intended
only for certain types of pieces having a cantabile expression:
The effect of this type of appoggiatura is to give nobility and a singing
quality to the expression. Thus they suit all slow and melancholy tem-
pos. If used in cheerful and quick tempos, we weaken the brilliance and
enervate the vivacity that these tempos must convey.17
Thus the appoggiatura’s singing quality is not well suited to the narrative/
conversational nature of simple recitative in the theater. In those few instances
where the dramatic action does express emotion, a composer might add an
appoggiatura himself, as Joseph Haydn did in his opera L’Anima del Filosofo,
ossia Orfeo ed Euridice. Since most simple recitatives have no appoggiaturas, it
is unusual to find two in close proximity: one when Euridice asks where her
husband is, and the other when Orfeo implores the gods (ex. 2a and b). This
suggests a more song-like execution and also that first-rank composers preferred
to specify the placement of appoggiaturas.
303
*
a.
*
b.
Ex. 2. Haydn, L’Anima del Filosofo, No. 40, “Sovengati la legge,” a. m.6; b.
mm.11-12. 18
Tartini describes another type of appoggiatura that does not affect its
main note, and is what we call a grace note: “The effect of short, passing
appoggiaturas is to make the expression sprightly and brilliant. It is much
different from that of the long appoggiatura, which only makes the expression
song-like.”19 Grace notes can, of course, also provide accentuation on important
notes. In the 1780s, Domenico Corri (an Italian music publisher and singer
living in London) differentiates them from the long appoggiatura:
They are not to be considered as forming any part of the air; but are
only intended to give to certain notes a particular emphasis or expres-
sion. The execution of them, Therefore, ought to be so rapid, that,
while the effect is felt, the ear shall yet be unable to determine the char-
acter of the sounds or to distinguish them from the predominant note .
. . the more imperceptible they are, the more happy is the execution, the
more perfect the union, and the more delicate the effect[;] whereas, by
an execution which renders them distinctly perceptible, they would lose
their nature and instead of the adventitious graces now under consider-
ation, become part of the melody itself.20
While a full discussion of this subject is beyond the scope of this chapter,
it could be wagered that the small notes in Rousseau’s recitative above are grace
notes.21 Apart from harmonic reasons, his specification against sustaining notes
indicates that a small note has no measurable value, but simply blends with the
following note. Differentiating between the accented and unaccented forms of
small notes caused as much confusion in the eighteenth century as it has today.
Generally speaking, major composers tended to write out long appoggiaturas
304
in conventional notation for the sake of clarity; thus their small notes (except
small quarter and half notes) are unaccented grace notes. But, particularly in
vocal arias that were not published during the composer’s lifetime, exceptions
do exist. The harmonic and rhythmic context is a clue in determining which is
intended. For example, the small note in the accompanied recitative “Et ego,
o Sorroros!” from Haydn’s cantata Applausus (ex. 3) is simply the octave of the
bass. If it displaced the main note, the important dissonant seventh would lose
its position on a strong beat.

*
Ex. 3. Haydn, Applausus, No. 4a, mm.21-23. 22
Many early writers stress that added ornaments must not damage the
harmonic structure; for example, Johann Joachim Quantz (1752) criticizes those
who “pay little attention to the rules of composition, which require not only
that each dissonance must be well prepared, but also must receive its proper
resolution, if it is to preserve its agreeable character; for otherwise it would
become and remain a most disagreeable sound.”23 A good rule of thumb for
the long appoggiatura is that it should form a dissonance in consonant harmony
on a long note on a strong beat, and be preceded by a note of short value. It
requires a preparation and there should be little motion in the other voices. Ex.
4 from Antoine Mahaut’s flute tutor (1759) illustrates small notes at A, B that
are intended to displace their main notes, as shown in the lower staff— a usage
that he calls Italian.24 Thus the main notes change their character completely by
becoming weak tones instead of strong ones on the downbeat. The example is
meant to show this ornament’s application (most often at the end of a phrase),
not its frequency; it is assumed that the underlying harmony in each instance is
consonant.
In recitatives accompanying Mozart’s chamber arias, the harmonic
vocabulary is more extensive and often cannot tolerate a long appoggiatura.
Consider ex. 5 from the recitative for “Alcandro, lo confesso” (KV 294),
where the appoggiatura recommended in a modern edition occurs in dissonant
harmony, thereby forming a false relation with the bass (f-natural’’ against f-sharp)
resolving incorrectly to a seventh.
305
Ex. 4. Mahaut, accented small notes.
Ex. 5. Mozart, “Alcandro, lo confesso,” m.15. 25
Also needing re-examination is the convention of changing the first

note of a tone-repetition ending to the upper fourth when preceded by this
upper fourth. While documentation does exist for this practice under certain
conditions, Agricola observes that some composers write this line ending the
way it is to be sung.26 Johann Friedrich Schubert’s vocal method (1797/1804)
describes a useful approach:
The two-syllable caesura or descending termination is written out in vari-
ous ways by composers; for example:

a.
b.
306
A singer has the freedom to perform (a) as shown in (b) only if a more
declamatory emphasis is achieved, as is the case here.27
The bass line in Schubert’s example indicates a final cadence, where form
(b) is appropriate. But when all such instances in a recitative are sung this
way, many words of negligible or no declamatory value will be accented, which
lessens the effect of the important words and slows the delivery, making it more
song-like. Major composers wrote this line ending both ways— undoubtedly
deliberately, because form (b) is best when rationed as Schubert specifies. For
example, George Frideric Handel wrote many line endings in form (b), but he
also wrote many like (a), as in the middle of m.2 in the simple recitative “M’hai
vinto al fin” from his opera Orlando (ex. 6). Since more than two measures of
short phrases follow before a quarter rest is reached, changing the note repetition
of “Nume!” would impede the forward motion. And adding the recommended
appoggiatura at the beginning of m.2 would produce an unintelligible sonority
in a diminished triad over a tonic pedal.
Ex. 6. Handel, “M’hai vinto al fin,” Orlando I/5, mm.1-2. 28
***
In a letter to his father of November 12, 1778, Mozart indicates that
most opera recitative would be better spoken: “You know what I think?—One
should do most operatic recitatives in this manner [recited]—and only once in
a while, when the words can be easily expressed through music, one should actually sing
the recitatives.”29 Performing simple recitative in the non-sustained, speech-
like manner described by his contemporaries would be a step in this direction.
According to early authorities, this speech emphasis also requires avoiding
all form of ornament not specified by the composer. The many instances in
modern editions where a recommended appoggiatura in simple recitative creates
a harmonic error further indicates that major composers expected their notation
to be performed as written. Even when harmonically sound, long appoggiaturas
307
quickly become a cloying mannerism if overused. Giovanni Battista Mancini’s

vocal method (1774/77) criticizes those who, in singing an aria of invective
with great fervor, use an appoggiatura on such words as “tyrant” and “cruel,”
thereby ruining the exclamation’s intent. Appropriate usage, he says, differs in
serious and comic styles: “The pupil is advised not to use these [appoggiaturas,
trills, mordents] except in lyrical pieces and suitable expressions, for they do not
belong everywhere. And far too many ignore these precepts and abuse them. . .
. The rule about not overdoing the appoggiatura applies only to serious singing.
When it is used often in the buffo style, not only does the singer not commit
an error, but he earns applause. The same overuse which produces laughter in
serious song wins cheers in buffo style.”30 Therefore, simple recitative is best
performed without added appoggiaturas, but accompanied recitative may accept
an occasional one, more commonly in the scores of secondary composers who
wrote in a skeletal manner.
Endnotes
1
This chapter appeared originally in the Journal of Singing 65/4 (March/April 2009): 421-30.
2
For useful background material on recitative in general, see Laurel E. Zeiss, “How to Sing Recita-
tive: Some Advice from the 1700s,” Journal of Singing 61/2 (Nov./Dec. 2004): 143-53.
3
François-André Danican Philidor, Ernelinde (Paris, 1768; rpt. ca.1992), Avertissement, 7: “A Paris
tout se chante; à Rome, à Londres, à Vienne, les scênes se débitent.”
4
Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Les six nouveaux airs du Devin du village (Paris, 1779), Avis: “mais il desiroit
que ce Récitatif ne fût pas chanté, mais parlé, c’est-à-dire, qu’il fût débité presqu’aussi couramment
que le discours ordinaire; sans hausser ni forcer la voix qu’autant qu’il falloit précisément pour
soutenir la modulation & bien exprimer les paroles.”
5
Journal de Paris (25 April 1779), 462: “C’est à le débiter presque aussi couremment que le discours
ordinaire, sans hausser ni soutenir la voix qu’autant qu’il faut précisément pour conserver la
modulation & bien prononcer les paroles que l’Acteur doit essentiellement s’attacher & y mettre
bien plus d’accens que de sons; c’est-à-dire, plus de sentiment que de voix.”
6
Anon., Lettre sur le méchanisme de l’opéra italien (Naples, 1756), 27: “Pour vous donner une idée du
Récitatif Italien . . . il faut vous dire que la langue Italienne . . . exige dans le Récitatif des accens
coupés, secs, des coups de gosier, des sons qui aillent par sauts & par bonds, semblables à ceux
que rend un clavessin dont on presse les mouvemens en frappant brusquement sur le clavier, sans
lui laisser rendre le son entier qu’il donneroit en restant un peu plus sur les touches. On peut donc
dire que ce Récitatif, d’ailleurs très-propre à l’idiome auquel il est joint, n’est ni parler, ni chanter:
c’est une articulation composée de tous les deux, qui semble n’exprimer ni la nature du sentiment,
ni le caractere des passions.” In Haydn, Mozart and the Viennese School 1740-1780 (New York: Nor-
ton, 1995), 158ff., Daniel Heartz presents evidence for the poet Ranieri Calzabigi’s authorship of
this Lettre, formerly attributed to Josse de Villeneuve.
7
[J. F. Agricola] in Allgemeine deutsche Bibliothek, ed. F. Nicolai, X.1 (Berlin, 1769): 164f.: “Mattheson
. . . hat irgendwo angemerkt, dass man nicht mehr als aufs höchste elf Recitativsylben in einem
Athem vortragen könne. Hier schreibt uns Hr. Scheibe im dritten und vierten Systeme dieser 14
Seite, deren einmal 13. und einmal gar 15. vor. Wozu hilft nun die vermeynte grosse Pünktlichkeit
im Schreiben, wenn sie der Sänger im Ausführung nicht beobachten kann, sondern, vielleicht sehr
zur Unzeit, Einschnitte des Athems wegen machen muss.”
308
8
Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Le Devin du village, ed. Charlotte Kaufman (Madison: A-R Editions,
1998), 20.
9
Lasser/1798, 160: “Das Theatralische Recitativ, sofern es bloss erzählend ist, leidet gar keine
Ausschmückung; kommen aber darinn einige Stellen vor, die nach Art des Kammerstyls in Be-
gleitung mehrerer Instrumente gesetzt sind, so mag der Sänger Verzierungen gebrauchen, aber
auch dann nur solche, welche geeignet sind, die so eben herrschende Empfindung und Ausdruck
zu erheben.”
10
Johann Carl Friedrich Rellstab, Versuch über die Vereinigung der musikalischen und oratorischen Dec-
lamation (Berlin, 1786). 48: “Auf dem Theater muss der Sänger, wenn er weiss was Action ist,
überdem wenig oder gar keine Vorschläge machen.”
11
Pier Francesco Tosi, Opinioni de’ cantori (Bologna, 1723), 41f.: “Il Teatrale toglie ogni arbitrio all’
artificio per non offendere ne suoi diritti la narrattiva naturale, quando però non fosse composto
in qualche Solliloquio all’uso di Camera.”
12
Stefano Arteaga, Le Rivoluzioni del teatro musicale italiano (Bologna, 1785; rpt. 1969), 2:118: “Non
si dee aggiugnere alcun abbellimento nè dalla parte del suonatore, nè dalla parte del cantante ai
semplici recitativi, come non s’inorpellano nella retorica l’esposizione d’una ragione o la narrativa
d’un fatto; perocchè . . . lo spettatore non potrebbe commuoversi in seguito se gli ornamenti gli
impedissero di prestar al filo dell’ azione la dovuta attenzione. . . . .Molto meno nei recitativi ob-
bligati, dove rappresentandosi la dubbiezza dello spirito nata dal contrasto dei motivi che gli si
fanno innanzi, l’anima concentrata nella sua irresolutezza non ha tempo di badare alle frascherie.”
13
Jean Le Rond d’Alembert, “De la liberté de la musique,” in Mélanges de littérature, d’histoire, et de
philosophie (Amsterdam, 1759), 4:428f.: “je chantai le récitatif à l’Italienne, en retranchant les ca-
dences, les ports de voix, les tenues, & en y mettant la rapidité & le débit nécessaires à une bonne
déclamation. . . . Dans les endroits où le récitatif imitoit le mieux le discours, il n’y avoit pas de
comparaison entre le plaisir que me faisoit ce récitatif débité à l’Italienne, & le dégoût qu’il me
causoit, crié & trainé à la Françoise.”
14
Le Cerf de La Viéville, Comparaison de la musique italienne et de la musique française (Brussels, 1705-
06; rpt. 1972). 2:204: “. . . les Actrices hazardoient de faire passer ces embellissemens aux ré-
petitions. Morbleu, Mesdemoiselles, disoit Lulli, se servant quelquefois d’un terme moins poli que
celui-là, & se levant fougueux de sa chaise: Il n’y a pas comme cela dans vôtre papier, & ventrebleu, point
de broderie; mon Récitatif n’est fait que pour parler, je veux qu’il soit tout uni.”
15
Journal de Paris (24 Feb. 1779): 219: “. . . on a perdu les traces de l’exécution; ils assurent que dans
les anciennes partitions, on ne rencontre dans le récitatif ni trilles, ni cadences, ni port de voix. . .
.Il y auroit un moyen de s’en assurer, ce seroit de tenter de supprimer ces agrémens qui forment
contre sens & fatiguent les gens de goût.”
16
See opposing views about the appoggiatura in recitative: Frederick Neumann, “A New Look at
Mozart’s Prosodic Appoggiatura,” in Perspectives on Mozart Performance, ed. R. Larry Todd and Peter
Williams (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991), 92-116; and Will Crutchfield, “The
Prosodic Appoggiatura in the Music of Mozart and his Contemporaries,” Journal of the American
Musicological Society 42/2 (1989): 229-74.
17
Tartini/Traité, 68: “L’effet de cette sorte de petites notes est de donner à l’expression, du chant
et de la noblesse. Ainsi elles conviennent à tous les mouvemens graves et melancoliques. Si l’on
s’en servoit dans des mouvemens gays et vifs . . . on affoibliroit ce brillant, et l’on énerveroit la
vivacité que ces sortes de mouvemens doivent produire.”
1
L’Anima del Filosofo in Joseph Haydn Werke, 25/13, ed. Helmut Wirth (Munich: Henle, 1974), 222.
10
Tartini/Traité, 70: “L’éffet de petites notes breves et de passage est de rendre l’expression
vive et brillante. Il est bien different de celui des petites notes longues, qui la rendent seulement
chantante.”
20
Domenico Corri, A Select Collection of the Most Admired Songs . . . from Operas (Edinburgh, ca.1785),
reprinted in Domenico Corri’s Treatises on Singing, ed. R. Maunder (New York: Garland, 1993), 1:8.
309
21
The grace notes in works by Handel and Haydn, as pinned in eighteenth-century music ma-
chines, are discussed in my review of Royal music machines: the music, ed. Marieke Morsman and
Bob van Wely (Utrecht: Nationaal Museum van Speelklok tot Pierement, n.d.), Early Music 35/1
(2007): 128f.
22
Applausus, in Joseph Haydn Werke, 27/2, ed. Heinrich Wiens (Munich, 1969), 96.
23
Quantz/Reilly, 120.
24
Antoine Mahaut, Nouvelle méthode pour apprendre . . . à jouer de la flûte, (Paris, 1759; rpt. 1972), 22.
25
In Neue Mozart Ausgabe, II/7/ii, ed. Stefan Kunze (Kassel: Bärenreiter, 1968).
26
Agricola/1757, 154: “Einige Componisten pflegen sie auch so zu schreiben wie man sie singt.”
27
Johann Friedrich Schubert, Neue Singe-Schule oder gründliche und vollständige Anweisung zur Singkunst,
2nd edn. (Leipzig, [1804]), 142: “Die zweisylbigen Einschnitte oder Schluss-Fälle werden von den
Componisten verschieden vorgeschrieben. Z. E. Ein Sänger hat die Freiheit die Stelle bei (a) wie
bei (b) vorzutragen, wenn nur dadurch, so wie hier, mehr deklamatorischer Nachdruck bewirkt
wird.”
28
Orlando, in Hallische Händel Ausgabe, II/28, ed. Siegfried Flesch (Kassel: Bärenreiter, 1969), 37.
29
30
Mancini/1777, 143f.: “Contuttociò avverta bene lo scolare di non servirsene che nelle cantilene,
e nelle espressioni convenevoli, giacchè anche questi abbellimenti non ânno luogo dappertutto,
che che [sic] taluni, che ignorano questa regola, ne facciano grande uso . . . La regola, che ho data
di non doversi caricare l’appoggiatura, non è generale, ma si ristringe solo al canto serio; ma se il
buffo la carica, non solamente non commette errore, ma ne ricava applauso; poichè quell’ istessa
caricatura, che fatta da un serio ne ricaverebbe le risa, fatta da un buffo ne riporta le approvazioni.”
310
CHAPTER 18
How Composers Viewed Performers’

Additions1
In early music, ornamentation comprises two main strands: 1) the small orna-
ments of preset form, which can be indicated by symbol, and 2) decoration
with no set form — called here “free embellishment.” Various terms served
to identify the latter, the most common being passaggi in Italian, Passagen in
German, and roulades in French. This article will treat its eighteenth-century
usage in vocal music. Early writers seldom objected to singers’ reasonable
usage of the small ornaments, but a great many did to free-embellishment
abuses: clashes with the harmonic structure, use with already embellished
music, and extravagant excesses.
The difference between skeletal notation and embellished music

Originating in Italy, free embellishment in vocal music was in theory
restricted to a certain type of aria, as the French observer Laurent Garcin explains
(1772): “In arias of a cantabile genre, the Italians have granted their singers great
liberties. These types of aria are composed with few notes, sufficient only to
maintain the melody. The singer may fill them up as he pleases, and sprinkle
there all the ornaments of his art.”2 Bravura arias, on the other hand, were
usually composed in full and intended to be sung as written.3
Just how skeletal were these slow arias? In the seventeenth century, this style
of writing was common not only in those many operas that have not survived
the test of time, but also in certain works from well-known composers, such as
Giovanni Legrenzi’s “Io che cinsi il crin d’alloro” from Il Giustino (1683; ex. 1),
which is free of any instrumental accompaniment that might clash with a singer’s
additions. Here, embellishment by the singer is not only acceptable, but required.
Ex. 1. Legrenzi, “Io che cinsi il crin d’alloro,” Il Giustino, III/1/1. 4
311
In 1771, the Paris teacher Anton Bemetzrieder illustrates bare Italian

skeletal notation (ex. 2a) and how an Italian performer might ornament it (ex.
2b).5
Ex. 2. Bemetzrieder, a. Skeletal melody; b. With Italian embellishment.
Despite the widespread seventeenth-century usage of skeletal notation

for slow arias, some composers preferred to write out all the embellishment
themselves. According to an article attributed to the Berlin composer Johann
Abraham Peter Schulz in Johann Georg Sulzer’s encyclopedia of the fine arts
(1774), the Italian composer Agostino Steffani (1654-1728) refused to let singers
alter his work: “As for the Passagen that singers devise, every Capellmeister
should adopt the maxim of the famed late Hanover Capellmeister Stephani,
who absolutely would not permit a singer to add a note to his own.”6 Thus two
styles of composition — one skeletal and the other fully embellished — existed
side by side and continued to do so during the eighteenth century. When early
commentators speak of skeletal writing or a simple musical outline, they mean
that of exx. 1 and 2, not the lightly embellished writing of eighteenth-century
master composers, who seldom wrote skeletally.
In his influential Saggio sopra l’opera in musica (1763), the Italian writer
Francesco Algarotti expresses strong reservations about the “great liberty” for
embellishment granted singers in the cantabile arias, which are composed with
exceedingly few notes for this purpose: “In considering the good and evil that
may result from this, the French usage may appear preferable; it never allows
their singers those fancies that ours too often abuse. The French restrict them
to being the mere performers, and not more, of others’ ideas.”7 Few singers,
says Algarotti, have the proper judgment and qualifications for embellishing
these Italian musical outlines:
For a hundred common-place rhapsodists . . . there is scarcely one who
combines knowledge with taste, elegance with naturalness, and whose
own discretion restrains whim. Let these few on whom Apollo smiles
be permitted their own supplemental touches . . . But, for all the others,
let the composer write down everything they are to do.8
312
How Composers Viewed Performers’ Additions
In his 1798 vocal method, the Austrian composer and singer Johann
Baptist Lasser draws a distinction between skeletal and finished composition
when observing the completely different performance manner required for
many pieces of the native Italian type [skeletal] in comparison with the masterful,
incomparable scene, “Ah se perdo,” from the Dresden Capellmeister Johann
Gottlieb Naumann’s Medea: “With the former, what great scope for varying,
and often how necessary if the piece is to have some effect. With the latter,
on the other hand, how limited [is any varying], because what this master has
written certainly fulfills our inmost needs by itself when performed with the
appropriate expression.”9
The trend away from skeletal writing

Another article attributed to Schulz presents the original rationale for
skeletal writing, the problems that developed, and how singers wrongly applied
their ornaments to finished music:
In general, composers of old set their melodies in simple or rather long
notes, thus supplying only those most essential. This gave skilled play-
ers and singers an opportunity to ornament these simple notes with
taste and feeling, especially in slower pieces. But because many singers
and players could not do this without harming the harmony or expres-
sion, composers gradually began to include the most suitable ornaments
as embellishments intrinsic to the melody. Now these ornaments are
decorated again with new ornaments by arrogant singers.10
Schulz believes that vocal teachers should tell students that true merit lies
not in artificial variations, but in interpreting the composer’s score correctly.
Gradually more commentators urged composers to abandon skeletal writing;
for example, Antonio Planelli’s treatise on the Italian opera (1772):
To enable a composition in theater style to be sung in the same style
throughout, the composer must include all the notes in full and leave
nothing to the singer’s caprice or permit him to add the least appoggia-
tura. Today there is an intolerable abuse among our virtuosi, for they
fear being taken as novices in their profession if in performing a sonata
or vocal piece they do not expel as many [passaggi] as they know, good or
bad. And since each one has his own style, the same song performed by
ten virtuosi always produces ten different versions, and may no longer
resemble what came from the composer’s pen.11
313
Embellished music to be sung as written

Francesco Milizia’s 1773 treatise on the theater counsels singers to submit
to what the composer has written, and “take not the slightest liberty of adding,
removing, or altering anything in the arias.” In a cantabile aria, he adds, it is the
composer’s task to include everything to be sung, and the singer should perform
it as written.12 Schulz, too, cites composers who notate every detail:
There are melodies already so beautiful in themselves that the slight-
est addition of extraneous beauty spoils all their characteristic beauty.
Indeed, some composers are so exacting in their notation that they in-
dicate each and every ornament themselves, and express them in notes.
If here ornaments were piled on ornaments, variations on variations, a
grotesque beauty would result, festooned with little bells and a thousand
bright colors.13
Where certain small variants of the written melody and added ornaments
are necessary for the sake of good singing, adds Schulz, the composer has the
affectation of a careless writing style.
Exacting notation is apparent in Niccolò Jommelli’s “Fiamma ignota” (ex.
3) from L’Olimpiade; instruments contrast and support the vocal line throughout
this Andante aria. In skeletal writing, says the Italian writer Saverio Mattei in
1785, it does not greatly matter if the instruments play or not, or if they enter
on time or not, but this would be fatal in Jommelli’s work: “A dot omitted, a
tiny error disturbs all the beautiful structure; the singer and the player must be
attentive to adding nothing and removing nothing.”14
According to the German writer Johann Karl Friedrich Triest (1801), the
performer’s highest calling lies in correctly interpreting the composer’s intentions
and portraying them accurately. “He should not invent anything new” unless the
composer’s work is faulty or intended as a simple skeleton to be filled out by the
performer. To attempt this, he adds, the performer must be proficient in the
rules of composition and have good taste.15
Stefano (Esteban) Arteaga’s history of the Italian theater (1785) devotes
large chapters to “the present decadence of Italian opera,” one of whose
causes is the “vanity and ignorance of singers.” While he allows that added
embellishment may occasionally be necessary to correct a composition’s defects,
he cites many situations where it should be avoided, one of which applies to
embellished music. When an aria’s musical thought is adorned with a certain
class of ornaments, he declares, it must not be dressed in different ones in
the repetition. Because the goal has been reached in the first hearing, added
“affectations” will necessarily be out of place in the second hearing.16 This calls
into question our belief that the repetition of the da capo aria requires additional
314
Ex. 3. Jommelli, “Fiamma ignota,” L’Olimpiade, Act III, p.44. 17
embellishment — which derives from Pier Francesco Tosi’s often-quoted

Opinioni de’cantori antichi e moderni (1723). Tosi was undoubtedly thinking of
the skeletal aria, which was common during his vocal career in the seventeenth
century.
As Algarotti observed above, the French did not practice free
embellishment. Only later, perhaps toward the end of the eighteenth century,
did it make an entry. In 1811, the Countess de Genlis’s harp method advises
that great composers are owed the respect of having their compositions
played faithfully, or at least with few embellishments: “In general, the talent for
embellishment should be applied only to mediocre compositions.” In this case,
it is very appropriate, she adds, and a good harpist can easily improve the pieces
of composers who are not highly regarded:
When the embroideries do not distort the melody so that they are nei-
ther mediocre nor bizarrre, they are excellent, but in general, they are all
alike. With only a little experience in music, one can easily foresee and
predict them. There is a compilation of tradition that all the teachers
315
give their pupils. Rarely do singers and instrumentalists depart from

this tradition, which is so well known. From this results the great defect
of mixing many mediocre phrases in with good music, often removing
the originality from new compositions. To embellish well, one must
have taste and imagination, and consequently a talent for composition.18
Re-embellishment
Decorating embellished music was characteristic mainly of certain Italian
singers and became fashionable in the later eighteenth century. As Johann
Adolph Hasse will observe below, this arose from the demands of an audience
much different from our own. Among writers indicating that excesses became
rife after the mid-century is Charles Burney (1789):
It seems to be with musical effects as with medicinal, which are enfee-
bled and diminished by frequent use. Indeed, such execution as many
of Farinelli’s songs contain, and which excited such astonishment in
1734, would be hardly thought sufficiently brilliant in 1788 for a third-
rate singer at the opera. The dose of difficulties to produce the same
effects as fifty years ago, must be more than doubled.19
Re-embellishment is seen in the large collection of well-known arias for
which the Italian Domenico Corri, a music publisher in London, composed
variations. When Corri prefaces an aria with, for example, “Sung by Sigr Carestini
in Alcina,” it seems to imply that the embellishments are the singer’s, but he
stops short of saying “As sung by.” His preface clarifies that the embellishments
are his own: “The Author has introduced into this work such [ornaments] as he
judged proper, (and has distinguished them by notes of a smaller size than those
which constitute the original melody). . . . he hopes none of his readers have
so much misunderstood him, as to conceive, he means these ornaments which
he offers to the Public, as those only which can or ought to be made use of.”20
Ex. 4b illustrates Corri’s figuration in the B section of “Dové sei” from George
Frideric Handel’s Rodelinda (HWV 19). The asterisks mark pauses for breathing.
Corri’s liberties directly counter the wishes of major composers. For
example, the dedication in Christoph Willibald Gluck’s opera Paride ed Elena
emphasizes fidelity to the score, noting that a slight change in his aria from
Orfeo, “Che farò senza Euridice,” can turn it into a dance for marionettes. “An
appoggiatura out of place, a trill, a roulade, a rapid run [volata] can destroy a whole
scene in an opera of this genre.”22 But Corri added further embellishments
to this aria (ex. 5b), changed two of its principal melodic notes, and had the
voice enter on the second, instead of the first beat. The asterisk with a T above
designates a short breath.
316
Ex. 4. Handel, “Dové sei,” mm.45-49. a. Handel’s score; 21 b. Corri’s

embellishments.
Re-embellishment seems to have been practiced by enough singers to
have had an impact. It was popular with audiences, but decidedly less so with
commentators. Later, Corri himself acknowledged that it was a fashion of the
times:
. . . this new style of singing these captivating ornaments, when ex-
ecuted with neatness and precision, had great influence on the ear, but
not on the heart: — hence arose a kind of contest amongst professors
[performers] in the vocal art, and those who could quaver most thought
themselves the best singers. — The public taste being seduced by this
decorated style, expression, the true perfection of music, was destroyed
by the excessive and improper introduction of ornaments, incompatible
with energy or pathos. Ornaments should ever be in subordination to
the character and design of the composition, and introduced only on
words which will admit of decoration, without destroying the senti-
ment; . . . at present, no one thinks of singing a song without flourish-
ing on every note, as is now the general practice and manner of our
first performers, whereas, would they content themselves with singing
according to their ability, observing the character and meaning of the
composition, to give to each its true expression, though their perfor-
mance be not ornamented, they may be entitled to as much admiration,
as sometimes is excited by a display of superfluous decoration.23
317
Ex. 5. Gluck, “Che farò senza Euridice,” mm.47-48; a. Gluck’s score; b.

Corri’s arrangement.
Thus Corri moved from being an influential proponent of elaborate

additions to recognizing that singing the composer’s notes as written is worthy
of admiration. In this later collection of arias, his additions are greatly reduced.
Composers’ response to re-embellishment

According to Schulz, the fashion for varying led to a vicious circle. Viewing
with dismay singers’ slipshod variations and harmonic errors, composers wrote
out the figuration in full: “Now the singers began anew to add ornamental
notes; the composers, too, yielded and wrote out still more notes until the now
customary and yet ever increasing trimmings were reached, whereby the syllables
and whole words become unintelligible and the melody is transformed into an
instrumental part.” Schulz wants singing to convey more simplicity, and seek its
principal strength in expressing the feeling genuinely.24
Composers’ need to overembellish to prevent their works being disfigured
by the performer is corroborated in 1779 by an anonymous well-informed
German critic (calling himself a “Biedermann”):
318
Where it [performer embellishment] has become too widespread, com-

posers are always in a great dilemma. If they want a suitable perfor-
mance, they can write nothing that is not trimmed with thousands of
little notes between the main notes, because these Speedplayers are un-
able to perform anything noble, serious and songlike. This may well be
the reason why so many serious operas are gaily decorated throughout,
something that is appropriate only in those of low comedy.25
“For the church and serious opera,” continues the Biedermann, “we
should have reasonably serious virtuosos, and keep musical tricksters only for
the operas of low comedy. Then all pieces could be performed in their suitable
character, and music would attain its goal. Nothing is worse than a song-like
piece performed by those who have removed song from their playing style.”
This over-embellishment on the part of both singers and composers led
to calls for reform, the best known of which is Gluck’s 1769 dedication in his
opera Alceste (written by his librettist Ranieri Calzabigi):26
When I undertook to write the music for Alceste, I proposed to divest
the music entirely of all those abuses with which the vanity of singers,
or the too great desire of composers to please, has so long disfigured
Italian opera, and turned the most beautiful and magnificent of all stage
works into the most tiresome and ridiculous. I intended to confine
music to its true dramatic role of serving the poetry through expression
according to the story’s circumstances, without interrupting the action
or chilling it with useless and unnecessary ornaments . . . I therefore
did not wish to . . . stop in the middle of a word on a favorable vowel
to display the agility of his beautiful voice on a long passaggio, or expect
the orchestra to give him time to recover his breath for a cadenza. I
did not believe it necessary to hurry through the second part of an aria,
perhaps the most impassioned and important, to have a place to repeat
the words of the first part in customary fashion four times, and to finish
the aria where the sense may be unfinished, just so the singer can show
his skill in capriciously varying a passage many ways. In sum, I sought
to banish all those abuses against which good sense and reason have
exclaimed in vain for so long.27
Where added embellishment is necessary

When discussing free embellishment, it is essential to differentiate between
two very different styles of composition. That written in a truly skeletal style
(like exx. 1 and 2) can and must be embellished by the performer, but, with the
principal exception of Corri, most early writers advise against altering music
that the composer has already embellished. After the seventeenth and early
319
eighteenth centuries, major composers rarely wrote in a skeletal manner for two
good reasons: their music would not survive and it would brand them as an
inferior secondary composer, for these were the ones who continued to write
bare melodic outlines. Nevertheless, it still might be possible to find a skeletal
aria in a good opera if the composer had had to write for a demanding singer
(“tyrants of temper,” the Italian writer Vincenzo Martinelli called them in 1758).
To accommodate singers who wanted to embellish, some composers left
occasional measures in a skeletal state for this purpose. According to Burney’s
account of Matteo Berselli’s singing of “Come, se ti vedrò” from Handel’s Muzio
Scevola: “This singer must have been high in the composer’s favour for taste, as
he is left to himself in no less than six ad libitums and adagios, which he had to
embellish.”28 Handel thus regulated the freedom of his singers to embellish.
In this aria, a very brief Adagio in long notes is placed in the middle of the A
section and another at the beginning of the B section, providing three occasions
for figuration (including the repeat). Then the close of each section (as in ex. 6)
consists of a relatively bare vocal line accompanied only by continuo, suggesting
the possibility of ornamental variation. This presents another three instances
for the singer’s invention, making the six to which Burney refers. Interestingly,
his following sentence indicates that Handel withheld embellishment liberty
from singers less highly regarded: “The next air for Mrs. Robinson is another
proof to me that she was not in favour with Handel as a singer. There are few
opportunities in it for the display of a fine voice, taste [meaning embellishment,
as defined below], or expression.”
Ex. 6. Handel, Muzio Scevola, “Come, se ti vedrò,” mm.16-17.
Another instance in which Handel granted the singer liberty to insert a

small embellishment occurs in the above “Dové sei” aria, as indicated by the
fermata in m.33 (ex. 7).
An addition is also justified if a composer simply left room for a cadenza
without providing it.
320
Ex. 7. Handel, “Dové sei,” mm.32-34.
Composers’ wishes
Many indignant writers complain that performers’ additions maimed the
composer’s work. While the Italian castrati as a whole constituted Europe’s best-
trained singers, and also comprised most of the singers who had any training
in harmony and could read music, they were not immune from serious errors
against the composer’s harmony.
Kuhnau. In 1700, Johann Kuhnau, Johann Sebastian Bach’s predecessor
in Leipzig, noted that the castrati garner the honor of being the most outstanding
singers. But when they lack knowledge of composition, he adds, they often
tack on embellishment that fits with their part and the harmony as little as a fist
fits in the eye.29
Fux and Manfredini. In 1797, the composer Vincenzo Manfredini calls
it “truly unforgivable” for singers to spoil the beautiful melody the composer
worked so hard to make expressive and meaningful. When quoting the
following passage from Johann Joseph Fux (1725), he observes that singers
have long indulged in trinkets and a false singing method to win applause:
Would to God that this greed to vary had remained within the limits
of humility, whereby musicians might vary acceptably, but not alter the
essence. How happy would the composers be! But this excessive de-
sire and audacity to vary has gone so far that not only is the harmonic
substance overturned . . . but also the composer is hard pressed to
recognize his own composition.30
Handel. According to Burney, Handel much preferred the dignity of
Senesino’s singing to the dazzling technique of later singers:
None of the great singers . . . ever gave such exquisite pleasure and
heart-felt satisfaction as Senesino; who without high notes or rapid ex-
ecution, by the majesty and dignity of his person, gestures, voice, and
expression, captivated more, though he surprised less, than Farinelli,
Caffarelli, Conti detto Gizziello, Carestini, or any of their immediate
successors . . . The singers engaged and employed by HANDEL, after
the schism of Senesino, brought over a new style of singing, and were
possessed of vocal feats of activity to which he was never partial.31
321
Citing an instance in which Handel furnished opportunities for the famed

castrato Caffarelli to embellish in “Rival ti sono” from Faramondo, Burney is
explicit that Handel did not permit routine alteration of his work, and that when
he did allow it, it was restricted to places intentionally made for this purpose:
“In the course of the song, he is left ad libitum several times, a compliment which
Handel never paid to an ordinary singer.”32 This aria occasionally leaves the
singer totally free without accompaniment on long notes; the sudden halting of
8th- and 16th-note motion implies either improvisation by the singer or a messa
di voce effect.
Forming a stark contrast to all the arias that Handel himself embellished is
a truly skeletal one he wrote expressly for Caffarelli in Faramondo (ex. 8). Marked
Larghetto, it has no ornamentation of any kind except one short trill. According
to Burney, “Sì tornerò” is “a fine out-line for a great singer.”33 Perhaps this
skeletal aria was the price that Handel had to pay to obtain Caffarelli’s services.
Here, additions by the singer are required. But (except for the occasional
measures discussed above) it is unsuitable for the remainder of his arias, which
are embellished in the most appropriate manner.
Ex. 8. Handel, “Si tornerò,” Faramondo, mm.1-17.
Long after Handel’s death, two well-known performers took liberties with
his Acis and Galatea. In 1830, the oboist William Parke recounted performing its
“Consider fond shepherd” with the soprano Gertrud Mara in 1801; she altered
the composer’s figuration and he imitated her variations by ear.34 Manfredini’s
1797 vocal method, however, advises against such a practice, for a competition
can arise between singer and instrumentalist in showing off roulades, trills, runs,
cadenzas, etc., thus interrupting and weakening the action:
322
Therefore, instrumentalists, excellent as they may be, should never take

any license to change or add even one note, one trill, or other ornament
when accompanying the singer; in such a case, their greatest merit con-
sists in performing the written notes exactly and with expression, not in
creating and making an inappropriate show of cleverness.35
In contrast, Mara’s invention was entirely appropriate in Venice (1790)
when she was obliged to supply passagework for a bravura aria that the composer
Gazzaniga had left “open for variations.”36
Hasse. Capellmeister at the Dresden court for many years and as
celebrated as Handel in the eighteenth century for his writing of Italian opera,
Hasse left a record of his views on singers’ additions. In responding to his
friend Giammaria Ortes’s letter reporting that Hasse’s former pupil Elisabeth
Teyber had not done as well in her second season in Venice and had added
notes, the composer wrote from Vienna on13 January 1770:
With respect to Teyber, I have always feared that she would not be so
successful the second time as she was in her first year. . . . in imitating
many singers, even good ones (who do what is false and capricious to
attract applause from the more common part of the audience, which
usually likes only what astonishes), she is separating herself consider-
ably from what is natural and true. But she knows music; therefore I
hope that when she becomes aware that the more reasonable part of an
audience wants from her something completely different from caprice,
she will easily succeed in putting herself again on the right path.37
Hasse has summarized the problem well: singers added flourishes to
capture audience acclaim. While the educated elite, which constituted a small
minority, could not compete with the noisy majority, they registered their
objections many times in print.
Gluck and Grétry. In one of his essays, the Belgian composer André-
Ernest-Modeste Grétry calls over-embellishment an “absurdity” in the
pathétique genre, noting that a lack of simple, true feeling is why singers overdo
the embellishment in the most noble genre of all. The more genuine [well-
composed] an air is, he adds, the less is embellishment permitted: “Haven’t
we observed that Garat does not dare embellish Gluck’s dramatic scenes,
not even in concerts, where this musical extravagance is more tolerable than
in the theater?”38 Perhaps because Grétry lacked Christoph Willibald Gluck’s
formidable temper, Dominique Pierre Garat took liberties with his work, to
the composer’s consternation: “One day in a concert, I heard him sing and
decorate the duet from Céphale — ‘Donne-la-moi dans nos adieux’— and I was
not surprised that an Englishman who was present asked me for what comic
opera I had written this duet.”
323
Mozart. In a letter to his father of 19 February 1778, Wolfgang Amadeus

Mozart preferred Aloysia Weber’s genuine singing to the technical skill of
Italians such as Caterina Gabrielli:
Everything you say about Mlle Weber is true, except one thing — that
“she sings like a Gabrielli;” for I should not at all like her to sing in that
style. Those who have heard Gabrielli are forced to admit that she was
adept only at runs and roulades . . . In the long run she could not please,
for people soon get tired of coloratura passages. Moreover she had the
misfortune of not being able to sing. She was not capable of sustaining
a breve properly, and, as she had no messa di voce, she could not hold out
her notes; in short, she sang with skill but without understanding. Mlle
Weber’s singing, on the other hand, goes to the heart, and she prefers
to sing cantabile.39
Franz Niemetschek, Mozart’s friend who witnessed the Prague
performances of Die Entführung aus dem Serail and Le nozze di Figaro, reports
that the composer resisted additions to his music and led singing back to
natural sentiment: “He dared to oppose the Italian singers and banish all those
useless, nondescript warblings, flourishes, and Passagen!”40 Mozart’s opposition
to their additions was one reason that Italian singers disliked his works, adds
Niemetschek; a more significant one was the trouble that their musical ignorance
caused when learning his music.
Georg Nikolaus von Nissen’s biography of Mozart, written with assistance
from the composer’s widow, observes that Mozart’s song and accompaniment
are so closely intertwined that they cannot be separated without spoiling the
whole. The singer is compelled to keep in perfect step with the orchestra,
for the smallest fancy [of added notes], or the slightest rhythmic divergence
produces an inevitable error:
By the essence of his style, therefore, Mozart is an irreconcilable foe
of warblings and trimmings — in short, all the lavishness of embellish-
ment disfiguring the musical phrase and crippling the expression. . . .
To touch the heart, arias such as “Voi che sapete” need neither trills nor
leaps, neither jaw contortions nor even those chromatic so-called runs
up and down.41
According to the Viennese conductor Ignaz Franz von Mosel (1813),
Mozart was insulted by performers who meddled with his notes: “One could
not more severely offend the magnificent Mozart than by applying self-
produced embellishments when performing his compositions. Then he always
said heatedly: ‘I would certainly have written it this way if I had wanted it’.”42
324
Haydn. When the town of Laibach’s Philharmonic Society wanted to

perform Joseph Haydn’s Mass in C, two emissaries asked his advice about
performing it. Haydn demonstrated the tempos and expression on the keyboard,
and wanted the musicians, both soloists and those in ensembles, “above all to
refrain from all manner of ornamentation, which contributes to nothing more
than disfiguring such an extremely delicate composition, since the music already
includes all the possible expression as it stands. As you well know, the greatest
beauty depends only on the right tempo, suitable dynamic shading and accurate
execution.”43
Giuseppi Carpani’s biography (1812) relates a lesson that Haydn gave the
famed Antonia Campi, who customarily added a profusion of ornaments. The
rehearsal for a benefit concert in Vienna had reached an important passage in
the first finale when Haydn burst out in a shout. Interrupting everything, he
turned abruptly to the singer, asking: “What are these notes? I didn’t write them.
Who told you to use them?” (For a sustained whole note, clarifies Carpani, she
had substituted her own whim, which, hiding the passage with incongruous
notes, spoiled it.) The dismayed singer replied: “Pardon me, sig. Maestro. I put
those notes in because it seemed to me that they would be good.” “And if they
would be good,” rejoined Haydn, “I would have put them there before you did.
They make it poor, and because I don’t want them, sing it as written, and both
of us will gain.”44
The basis for today’s position on re-embellishment

Since almost all of the eighteenth-century skeletal music has vanished
or remains unknown, we assumed that the more lightly embellished music of
master composers must have been intended for performer embellishment. This
in turn led to believing that rather heavy ornamentation was the norm. The
above documentation from composers and commentators indicates that this
thesis is flawed.45 The Italian vocal teacher Giovanni Battista Mancini (1777)
provides an informative commentary on embellishment when discussing a
skeletal aria comprising only:
a simple cantilena indicating a simple passage, appropriate for leaving
the great singer full liberty in embellishing the composition according to
his talent. However, if the student wants to take this as a model, he sees
just a framework. Nor can it reveal by what method, with what energy,
and with what manner of treatment it was and should be executed.46
Adding ornamental notes to a skeletal aria is only part of the story.
Observing that the visual arts and music composition leave lasting monuments
from which the student can learn, Mancini rues that “a great singer cannot
325
leave posterity a record of that inspiration, method, grace, and manner of

treatment [‘condotta’] with which he alone embellishes his singing.” We associate
embellishment almost exclusively with extra notes, but these are incidental to his
main point. Embellishment comprises instead the whole range of interpretive
devices, as indicated by his description of the castrato Farinelli’s singing: even if
we had the notes with which this great singer varied an aria, he says, “we cannot
divine the precise method that made his execution so perfect and amazing, for
this cannot be expressed with notation.” By this, he means all the nuances
of tempo, timing, articulation, and dynamic shading. Since this embellishment
cannot be notated, Mancini is not referring to ornamental notes.
Variants in master composers’ own work have been cited as evidence for
ornamenting their music. A composer, however, might alter his work for any
number of reasons. For example, Mozart wrote variants for a few arias whose
originals were already well-embellished. Instead of representing how the original
was to be performed, these were just tailor-made for another singer. According
to his letter of 28 February 1778, the aria “Non so d’onde viene” (KV 294)
was originally conceived for the tenor Anton Raaff, but subsequently for the
soprano Aloysia Weber. Both versions are well composed, so the later one does
not represent a preferred setting. In other cases of increased embellishment,
Mozart may have wished to remove any opportunity for a performer to make
additions (as discussed above).
Not to be confused with a singer’s variations are those many instances in
which a composer varied another’s work. Having one’s composition emulated
by another composer might be considered an honor, and it also granted the
original composer recognition by a wider audience. But it was no honor for the
composer when singers attempted the same and produced what the Biedermann
describes so vividly:
How must one not laugh when singers who fancy themselves great ask
for the score to study their arias, and subsequently, to the astonishment
of connoisseurs, create such ugly sounds that we know they do not
understand the score! We can of course treat this as a joke. But it is
intolerable that such ignorance is rewarded with applause and cries of
Bravissimo from all sides, as often happens.47
Performer embellishment and variations by a professional composer are
two separate genres.
****
As Hasse indicated, audience demands for vocal displays played a major

role in producing elaborate embellishment, so there was little aesthetic basis for
326
its usage. Scarcely one singer out of a hundred, said Algarotti, could embellish
a skeletal melody acceptably. One can only imagine what happened when these
singers applied their ornaments to already embellished music. The revelation
from Schulz and the Biedermann that composers felt compelled to over-
embellish to discourage singers from adding more explains much about this
style, the pressures under which composers worked, and why reform became
necessary.
Apart from the singer’s liberty to embellish the genuine skeletal aria or
the occasional measure left bare in a finished aria, no uniform practice existed.
On one end of the spectrum, many commentators expected composers to
abandon skeletal writing and furnish every detail to be sung, and on the other
end, certain singers and the young Corri re-embellished finished arias (but he
later moderated his position considerably). On the whole, these two groups
were polarized. From all the complaints about singers’ additions, we can judge
that a substantial number did alter the composer’s work, but there were also
singers who felt differently. In his vocal method (ca.1829), the famed Italian
bass Luigi Lablache observes:
The use of ornaments, which for the past 60 years has been carried
to an extreme, even to abuse, appears in our days disposed to return
within more suitable limits. Composers seem disposed to give their
ideas a turn which by having more precision, puts a check to the rage for
decoration which has possessed common singers. They deserve praise
for this courage which tends to free melody from the insipid vulgarities
with which it is overloaded.48
The sixty years that Lablache attributes to this over-decoration fits well
with the existing documentation, for the complaints begin to multiply toward
the 1770s.
We have tended to believe that fidelity to the composer’s finished work
was a nineteenth-century concept. The above eighteenth-century composers,
however, would not concur in this view, nor would the commentators Planelli,
Milizia, Schulz, Mattei, Arteaga, Triest, Genlis, and Mosel, among many others.
Missing to our eyes has been the genuine skeletal aria, once so prevalent and
now largely invisible because so many of these operas have vanished.
If we encounter the type of skeletal writing in examples 1, 2, 6 and 8
above, it certainly requires embellishment. But when the composer has done a
creditable piece of work, even though it is more lightly ornamented than other
examples, one can follow Burney’s wise advice in his definition of the term
“taste:”
327
Taste, the adding, diminishing, or changing a melody, or passage, with

judgment and propriety, and in such a manner as to improve it; if this were
rendered an invariable rule in what is commonly called gracing, the passages, in
compositions of the first class, would seldom be changed.49
Endnotes
1
This chapter appeared originally in Early Music 36/1 (Feb. 2008): 95-109.
2
[Laurent Garcin], Traité du mélo-drame (Paris, 1772), 356f.: “Les Italiens, dans les Airs du genre
cantabile, ont accordé de grandes libertés à leurs Chanteurs. Ces sortes d’airs sont composés de
peu de notes, suffisantes seulement pour maintenir la mélodie: permis au Chanteur de les remplir
comme il lui plaît, d’y semer tous les agrémens de son Art.”
3
References to varying an Allegro are rare, one being Hiller/1780, 130. Most commentators as-
sociate variation only with slow, cantabile arias.
4
Rpt.: Milan: Casa editrice Nazionalmusic, ca.1980.
5
Anton Bemetzrieder, Leçons de clavecin (Paris, 1771; rpt. 1966), 355. Modern consensus associates
this work with Denis Diderot, who wrote the preface and whose style is apparent throughout.
6
ATSK, “Passagen,” 3: 654: “Was die Passagen, die die Sänger für sich machen, betrifft, sollte jed-
er Capellmeister sich die Maxime des berühmten ehemaligen Churfürstl. Hannoverischen Capell-
meisters Stephani zueignen, der durchaus nicht leiden wollte, dass ein Sänger eine Note, die ihm
nicht vorgeschrieben war, hinzusetzte.” Corroborating information is found in [John Hawkins?],
Memoirs of the life of Sig. Agostino Steffani [London, ca.1750], ii-iii.
7
Francesco Algarotti, Saggio sopra l’opera in musica, 2nd edn. (Livorno, 1763), 47f.: “Una grande
libertà si suole tra noi concedere al Musico massimamente nelle arie cantabili. Le si compongono
larghe assai, e con pochissime note, le guide soltanto della melodia; ond’ egli vi possa dipoi sup-
plire a suo talento, e metterci quanto gli aggrada del suo. A considerare il bene, ed il male che da
ciò ne risulta, sembra, che sia da preferirsi il costume dei Francesi, che non permettono a’ loro
cantori quegli arbitrj, de’ quali troppo sovente sogliono abusare i nostri, riducendogli ad essere
meri, esecutori, e non più de’ pensamenti altrui.”
8
Ibid., 48f.: “Per cento rapsodisti di luoghi comuni . . . ne riesce a mala pena uno, che con la
dottrina accoppi il gusto, con l’eleganza la naturalezza, e in cui la propria discrezione imbrigli la
fantasia. A quei pochi che amò singolarmente Apollo, sieno permessi i supplementi del loro . . .
A tutti gli altri provegga il maestro, scrivendo per loro ogni cosa.”
8
Lasser/1798, 168.
10
ATSK, “Veränderungen,” 4:636: “Die ältern Tonsetzer pflegten insgemein ihre Melodien in
einfachen, oder etwas langen Noten zu setzen, und also nur das Wesentliche auszudrüken. Die-
ses gab denn, besonders in Stüken von langsamer Bewegung, geschikten Spielern und Sängern
Gelegenheit, diese einfachen Töne mit Geschmak und Empfindung etwas zu verzieren. Weil
aber viel Sänger und Spieler dieses nicht ohne Verletzung der Harmonie, oder des Ausdruks zu
thun vermochten: so gewöhnten sich die Setzer nach und nach an, die schiklichsten Verzierungen,
schon als wesentlich zur Melodie gehörige Verschönerungen, selbst zu setzen. Nun werden diese
Verzierungen von üppigen Sängern wieder mit neuen Verzierungen . . . verbrämt.” Also 637.
11
Antonio Planelli, Dell’ Opera in musica (Naples, 1772), 133f.: “Affinchè però una composizione di
questo Stile sia nello Stil medesimo cantata, il Compositore dee in quella esprimer tutto, e nulla ab-
bandonare all’ arbitrio del Cantante, nè permettere, che costui vi aggiunga di suo capo la menoma
appoggiatura. Conciosiachè corre oggi tra’ nostri Virtuosi un intollerabile abuso, ch’ essi temereb-
328
bero di passar per novizi nella profession loro, se nell’ esecuzione d’una sonata, o d’una cantata,
non vi cacciassero, bene, o male, quanto sanno. E siccome ognun d’essi à il proprio Stile; avviene
costantemente, che un canto medesimo eseguito da dieci Virtuosi in dieci diverse sembianze ap-
parisca, nè più sia quello, che uscì della penna dell’ autor suo.”
12
[Francesco Milizia], Del teatro (Venice, 1773), 52f.: “l’esecuzione dipende da’ nostri Signori Virtu-
osi, la prima virtù de’ quali deve essere un’ esatta e docile rassegnazione a quanto dal Poeta è stato
espresso in versi, e dal Maestro di Cappella in note. Non dovrebbero eglino dunque prendersi il
minimo arbitrio d’aggiungere, togliere, e alterare niente nell’ Arie . . . Al Maestro ancora appartiene
mettere nelle Arie Cantabili tutto quello che vi deve essere cantato, secondo il sentimento della
Poesia: il Musico eseguisca.”
13
ATSK, “Vortrag,” 4:713: “Dann giebt es Melodien, die schon an und für sich so schön sind,
dass der geringste Zusatz von fremder Schönheit ihnen alle eigenthümliche Schönheit benimmt.
Ja einige Tonsetzer sind in ihrer Schreibart so exact, dass sie alle und jede Verzierungen selbst an-
zeigen, und in Noten aussetzen: werden hier Manieren auf Manieren, Veränderungen auf Verän-
derungen gehäuft, so kommt eine baroke Schönheit zum Vorschein, die mit Schellen und tausend
bunten Farben behangen ist. . . . es sey denn, dass der Tonsetzer eine nachlässige Schreibart
affectirt, wo gewisse kleine Veränderungen der vorgeschriebenen Melodie, und hinzugefügte
Manieren, des guten Gesanges wegen, nothwendig werden.”
14
Saverio Mattei, Memorie per servire alla vita del Metastasio (Colle, 1785), 129: “Nelle carte . . . del
Jommelli un punto, che si lascia, un picciolo sbaglio disturba tutta la bella macchina; ed il cantante,
ed il suonatore dee star attento, niente aggiungere, niente togliere.”
15
Triest/1801, 247-48, note: “Dagegen besteht der grösste Werth des ausübenden Musikers darin,
dass er den Sinn des Komponisten richtig gefasst hat und darzustellen weis. Er soll also eigentlich
nicht neues erfinden . . . Nur im Fall diese matt gerathen wäre oder der Komponist . . . seine Ideen
nur skizzirt hätte, nur dann kann der Darsteller Verbesserungen oder Ergänzungen anbringen,
die aber ohne Einsicht in die Regeln der Komposition und ohne geläuterten Geschmack nicht
statt finden.”
16
Stefano Arteaga, Le rivoluzioni del teatro musicale italiano (Bologna, 1785; rpt. [1969]), 2:117-23 at
121: “Quando il pensier musicale d’un aria si è presentato adorno di certa classe di ornamenti, non
si dee replicarlo di nuovo vestito in soggia diversa; perchè s’hai colpito nel segno la prima volta,
saranno necessariamente fuori di luogo i vezzi che le aggiugni nella seconda.”
17
Rpt.: New York: Garland, 1978.
18
Comtesse de Genlis (Stéphanie-Félicité du Crest), Nouvelle méthode pour apprendre à jouer de la harpe
(Paris, 1811; rpt. 1974), 5: “ il faut en général n’appliquer le talent de broder qu’aux productions
médiocres; il est alors très bien placé, et c’est ainsi qu’un bon joueur de Harpe peut facilement
donner de l’agrément à des pièces de compositeurs peu estimés.” P.6: “. . . il en existe un recueil
de tradition que tous les maîtres apprennent à leurs écoliers, il est bien rare que les chanteurs et les
joueurs d’instrumens sortent de ce cercle si connu; il résulte de ceci un grave inconvénient, celui
de mêler à de bonne musique une grande quantité de phrases communes, qui ôtent souvent aux
productions nouvelles l’air d’originalité.”
19
Burney/GH, 2:813f.
20
Domenico Corri, A Select Collection of the Most Admired Songs . . . from Operas (Edinburgh, ca.1779),
1:4.
21
Kassel: Bärenreiter, 2002.
22
Reprinted in Gluck’s Paride ed Elena, in Sämtliche Werke, I/4, ed. Rudolf Gerber (Kassel: Bären-
reiter, 1954), xii. Signed by Gluck, the dedication was written by his librettist Ranieri Calzabigi.
23
Domenico Corri, The Singer’s Preceptor (London, 1810), 2f.
24
ATSK, “Opera,” 3:581: “Die Tonsetzer mögen bemerkt haben, dass dieses nicht allemal ges-
chikt, noch mit der Harmonie passend geschehe. Dieses brachte sie vermuthlich auf den Gedan-
ken, die auszierenden Töne und Manieren dem Sänger vorzuschreiben; und dadurch vermehrte
329
sich die Anzahl der auf einen Takt gehenden Töne. Nun fiengen die Sänger aufs neue an, willküh-
rliche Auszierungstöne hinzuzuthun; und auch darin gaben die Tonsetzer nach, und schrieben
ihnen noch mehr vor, bis die itzt gewöhnliche und noch immer mehr zunehmende Verbrämung
daraus entstund, wodurch die Sylben und ganze Worte unverständlich, der Gesang selbst aber in
eine Instrumentalstimme verwandelt worden.”
25
Anon., Wahrheiten die Musik betreffend, gerade herausgesagt von einem teutschen Biedermann (Frankfurt
am Main, 1779), 71-74 at 72: “Da, wo sie zu sehr eingerissen sind, stehen die Komponisten allemal
in grosser Verlegenheit; sie können kein Stück komponiren, welches nicht, wenn es gehörig aus-
geübt werden soll, mit tausendfachen kleinern Nötchen zwischen den Hauptnoten verbrämt seyn
muss, weil diese Geschwindspieler nichts Edles, Ernsthaftes, und nichts Gesangmässiges vor-
zutragen im Stande sind. Dies mag auch wol mit Ursache seyn, warum so viele ernsthafte Opern
durchgehends so buntschäckigt aussehen, welches doch nur bey niedrigen komischen seyn sollte.”
26
This dedication was written by the librettist Ranieri Calzabigi. See Calzabigi’s letter to Antonio
Greppi (12 December 1768) in Mariangela Donà, “Dagli Archivi Milanesi: Lettere di Ranieri de
Calzabigi e di Antonia Bernasconi,” Analecta musicologica 14 (1974): 268-300 at 280.
27
The original Italian text is reprinted by Alfred Einstein, Gluck. Sein Leben — seine Werke, rev. edn.
(Kassel: Bärenreiter, 1987), 115f.
28
Burney/GH, 714.
29
A portion of Kuhnau’s Musicalische Quack-Salber (Dresden, 1700) is reprinted in Andreae Werck-
meisters Cribrum musicum oder Musicalisches Sieb (Quedlinburg and Leipzig, 1700; rpt. 1970), 45: “.
. . die Castrati, die doch sonsten den Titul der vortreffligsten Sänger affectiren/ wenn sie von der
Composition keine Wissenschafft haben/ öffters mit solchen Maniren angestochen kommen/ die
sich so wenig zu ihrer Parthey/ und dem darunter gesetzten Basso continuo räumen/ also eine Faust
auf ein Auge.”
30
Vincenzo Manfredini, Regole armoniche o sieno precetti ragionati per apprender la musica, 2nd edn. (Ven-
ice, 1797), 71-73: “ Ma cambiar le Arie quasi intieramente, e guastar le più belle melodie, che il
Compositore ha tanto sudato per inventarle, e formarle espressive, e significanti . . . egli è un
errore veramente imperdonabile. . . . Questo male, pur troppo egli è un gran tempo che sussiste,
poichè il Fux . . . ancor esso se ne lagna fortemente, e come di un male già inveterato. ‘Piacesse a
Dio, (egli dice) che questa cupidigia di variare fosse rimasa entro i limiti della modestia, onde i mu-
sici variassero bensì, ma non mutassero la sostanza. Quanto felici sarebbono i Compositori! Ma
inoltrossi a tanto questa strenata voglia, ed audacia di variare, che non solo viene messa sossopra
la sostanza dell’ armonia . . . ma ancora duri fatica il compositore a conoscere il suo concento.’
(Salita al Parnasso, ovvero, Trattato di Contrappunto del Fux, tradotto dal latino in italiano. Carpi
1761. p.193.).”
31
Charles Burney, An Account of the Musical Performances . . . in Commemoration of Handel (London,
1785; rpt. 1964), 23.
32
Burney/GH, 819.
33
Ibid., 820.
34
Cited by John Spitzer, “Improvized Ornamentation in a Handel Aria with Obbligato Wind Ac-
companiment,” Early Music 16 (1988): 514-21.
35
Manfredini, Regole armoniche, 124f.: “Quindi egli è ancora necessario che i Sonatori, per bravi
che siano, non si prendano mai veruna licenza di cambiare, o di aggiugnere neppure una nota, un
trillo, o altr’ ornamento quando accompagnano il Cantante; consistendo in tal caso il merito loro
maggiore nell’ eseguir con esattezza ed espressione le note scritte e non nel creare, e far pompa
di bravura fuori di luogo.”
36
O. Von Riesemann, “Eine Selbstbiographie der Sängerin Gertrud Elizabeth Mara,” AmZ 10
(1875): 612. Cited by Spitzer, “Improvized Ornamentation,” 516.
38
Johann Adolf Hasse e Giammaria Ortes: Lettere, 1760-1783, ed. Livia Pancino (Turnhout: Brepols,
1998), 204: “Quanto alla Teiber . . . son tuttavia con lei, cioè persuasissimo, che nell’imitare molti
330
musici anche buoni, che studiano quello che è falso, e stravagante per attirarsi gli applausi del
pubblico più comune, il quale ordinariamente non ama che le cose sorprendenti, si sia alquanto
slontanata da quello ch’è natura, e verità. Ma sa di musica, onde spero, che quando si sarà accorta
che la più sana parte d’un’udienza vuol tutt’altro da lei che stravaganze, le riuscirà facile di rimet-
tersi nel primo sentiero.”
38
Grétry/1789, 3:369: “N’avons-nous pas observé que Garat n’ose pas broder les scènes drama-
tiques de Gluck, pas même dans les concerts, où ce luxe musical est plus tolérable qu’au théâtre?”
39
The Letters of Mozart and his Family, trans. Emily Anderson (London: Macmillan, 1938), 2:718f.
40
Franz Xaver Niemetschek, Leben des K. K. Kapellmeisters Wolfgang Gottlieb Mozart (Prague, 1798),
49f.: “Er wagte es den italienischen Sängern zu trotzen, alle unnützen charakterlosen Gurgeleyen,
Schnörkel und Passagen zu verbannen!”
41
Georg Nikolaus von Nissen, Biographie W. A. Mozarts, ed. Constanze Wittwe von Nissen
(Leipzig, 1828; rpt. 1964), 639f.: “Mozart ist daher durch das Wesen seines Styls ein unversöhnli-
cher Feind der Gurgeleyen und der Verbrämungen, kurz aller der Verschwendung von Zierrathen,
welche die musikalische Phrase entstellen und den Ausdruck lähmen. . . . Arien, wie Voi che sapete,
bedürfen, um an das Herz zu dringen, weder Triller, noch Tonsprünge, weder Verdrehung des
Kiefers, noch auch jene sogenannten chromatischen auf- und absteigenden Leitern.”
42
Ignaz Franz von Mosel, Versuch einer Aesthetik des dramatischen Tonsatzes (Vienna, 1813), ed. Eugen
Schmitz (München: Heinrich Lewy, 1910), 63: “Man konnte den verklärten Mozart nicht ärger
beleidigen, als wenn man sich beim Vortrag seiner Kompositionen selbstgeschaffene Verzierun-
gen erlaubte. Zürnend sprach er dann immer: ‘Ich würde es schon so gesetzt haben, wenn ich es
so gewollt hätte’.” Cited by Frederick Neumann, Ornamentation and Improvisation in Mozart (Princ-
eton: Princeton University Press, 1986), 238.
43
Quoted by Dragotin Cvetko, “Instruktion für das Orchester der Philharmonischen Gesellschaft
in Laibach (1805),” in Symbolae historiae musicae. Hellmut Federhofer z. 60. Geburtstag, ed. F. W. Riedel
and H. Unverricht (Mainz: Schott, [ca.1971]), 207: “. . . die ausübende Musiker, sowol einzeln,
als auch zusammen unterrichten und hauptsächlich von aller Art Verzierungen abhalten, welche
zu weiter nichts, als zu Verunstaltung so einer äusserst delicaten Composition beitragen, da diese
ohnehin schon allen möglichen Ausdruck, so wie es steht, in sich enthält und die grösste Schön-
heit, wie Sie selbst wol wissen, nur vom richtigen Tempo, gehörigen Schatten und Licht und
genauer Production abhängt.” From P. v. Radics, “Die Geschichte der Philharmonischen Ge-
sellschaft in Laibach . . .” Ms., Laibach, National- und Universitätsbibliothek, Handschriftenabt.
(Archiv der Philharm. Gesellschaft), 74f.
44
Giuseppe Carpani, Le Haydine (Milan, 1812), 185-87: “Giunta era la prova ad un passo rimarchev-
ole del primo finale, quando l’Haydn prorompe in un grido, e, sospesa ogni cosa, volgesi brusca-
mente alla cantante, e le dice: ‘Cosa sono queste note? Io non le ho scritte. Chi gliele ha consigli-
ate?’ (La saputella aveva sostituito ad una semi-breve tenuta un suo ghiribizzo di volatine, che
infrascando d’incongrue note il passo, lo stravisavano.) La sbigottita cantante rispose: ‘Perdoni,
sig. Maestro. Quelle note ce le ho poste io, perchè mi parea che facessero bene.’ E se facessero
bene, soggiunse l’Haydn, le avrei poste io prima di lei. Fanno male, e perciò non le voglio; canti
come sta, e ci guadagneremo ambidue.”
45
Mistranslation is another factor. See note 45 of my original article.
46
Mancini/1777, 50f.: “. . . ma in un tal monumento non trovasi che concepita una semplice can-
tilena, che accennato un semplice passaggio, giust’ appunto per lasciare al bravo esecutore la piena
libertà d’abbellire la composizione a suo talento, e però, se uno scolare vuol prendere questa per
modello, non la vede che in ossatura, nè può da quella rilevare con qual metodo, con qual brio, e
con qual condotta sia stata, e debba essere eseguita.” For another mistranslation, see note 46 of
my original article.
47
Wahrheiten die Musik betreffend, 120: “Wie muss man nicht lachen, wenn sich Sänger oder Sän-
gerinnen, die sich gross dünken, die Partitur ausbitten, um ihre Arien daraus zu studieren, und
hernach dennoch, zur Verwunderung des Kenners, solchen Uebelklang hervorbringen, der da
331
verräth, dass sie die Partitur nicht verstehen! — Dies kann man zum Spas doch noch so hingehen
lassen. Aber das ist nicht zum Ausstehen, wenn solche Ignoranz noch darzu mit Händeklatschen
und Bravissimoschreyen von allen Seiten her belohnt wird, wie es oft geschieht.”
48
Luigi Lablache, Complete Method of Singing, trans. from the ca.1829 Paris edn. of Méthode de chant
(Boston: Ditson, n.d.), 94. Born in Naples, Lablache sang leading roles for many years in Paris.
49
Burney/TourFI, xxxiv.
332
CHAPTER 19
The Varied Reprise in Eighteenth-Century

Instrumental Music: A Reappraisal1
If repeated frequently enough, can a supposition be transformed into estab-
lished fact? In his Interpretation of Music (1954), Thurston Dart wrote that Carl
Philipp Emanuel Bach “was the greatest keyboard extemporizer of his time, and
his . . . ‘sonatas with varied repeats’ were intended . . . as models of how to do
the same sort of thing extempore.” From this casual, undocumented statement
have flowed many similar assertions, leading to the conclusion that varying a
repeated section with the performer’s improvised embellishment was “a practice
which became universal during the Baroque period . . . For C. P. E. Bach the
variation of repeats was mandatory, and he showed how this should be done in
his Sonaten . . . mit veränderten Reprisen (1760).”2 According to another writer: “In
fast movements, virtually all in binary form, the varied reprise of each section
was considered essential.”3 While this view seems widespread today, evidence
supporting it is both slender and equivocal. As opposed to merely adding or
subtracting the small ornaments of set form (such as trills and mordents), varia-
tion alters a composer’s notes, and requires knowledge of harmony and compo-
sition. Investigating this matter will yield some unexpected insights.
In instrumental music, evidence for performer embellishment is most
prominent for the short skeletal Adagio with no repeats. As noted in chapter
19, an article attributed to the composer Johann Abraham Peter Schulz (1774)
describes how composers of old generally set their melodies for an Adagio or
a slow aria with only the most essential notes, which gave skilled players and
singers an opportunity to embellish, but also led many others to damage the
harmony or expression. Thus composers turned to writing out the most suitable
ornaments themselves. Then overbearing singers added still more decoration to
these ornaments. According to Schulz, many instrumentalists believe that “the
art consists merely of playing ten times as many notes as written, or regard the
composer’s work as only a sketch over which they should play.” Schulz advises
them to heed what Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach’s Versuch über die wahre Art das
Clavier zu spielen (1753) says about varying [treated below].4 Thus, to protect
their work, composers living in certain regions had to over-embellish.
According to another article by Schulz, variation can be used in certain
pieces of tender and pleasant character, but only where the composer has left a
suitable place for it. Because it requires skill, taste, and knowledge of harmony,
333
whoever does not possess these in high degree should never even think of
making variations. Instead of beautifying the expression, he will much more
disfigure it. As quoted in chapter 19, Schulz cites the exacting notation of some
composers who indicate each and every ornament themselves. In general, he
continues, all pieces of dramatic, grand, and serious character, which need to be
performed strongly, permit no ornaments at all. Their beauty lies in performing
them exactly as written. 5
The Adagio
As Schulz indicates, there was a long tradition of instrumentalists
embellishing a skeletal Adagio. We are more likely to encounter such pieces in
seventeenth-century music. By the eighteenth century, more composers were
supplying embellishment for the Adagio themselves. Generally speaking, it was
the weaker composers who continued this tradition, and few of their works
have survived. A distinction can be made between truly skeletal music, where
performer decoration is essential, and lightly but adequately ornamented music,
where it is not. Unless pressured by a performer or circumstances, master
composers usually avoided skeletal notation not only for artistic reasons, but
also because they realized that their music would not outlive them. To accede
to a performer’s wish, they might leave an occasional measure bare or permit
a cadenza, but they expected their already-ornamented music to be performed
as written. These composers, together with commentators, contended against
the abuses inherent in permitting performers to alter a composer’s notes. For
centuries some composers had resisted performers’ alterations, one being
Josquin Desprez (d. 1521) as reported by Johannes Manlius (1562):
When Josquin lived in Cambrai and someone chose to use foreign em-
bellishment with one of his songs, he went up to the choir and de-
manded furiously, in front of all the listeners: “You ass, why do you add
an ornament? If I had wanted it, I would have used it myself. If you
want to improve finished compositions, compose one for yourself, but
leave mine unimproved!”6
In Italy, where performer additions originated and were more prevalent,
some composers designated their music to be executed “come sta” (as it is); for
example, Girolamo Frescobaldi, Primo libro delle canzoni (1628).7 Thus fidelity
to a composer’s notes existed long before 1800, the approximate date generally
thought today. No other subject aroused so much indignation from writers. In
his Violinschule (1756), Mozart’s father Leopold warns:
334
The Varied Reprise in Eighteenth-Century Instrumental Music
Many imagine themselves to have brought something wonderfully

beautiful into the world if they befrill the notes of an Adagio cantabile
thoroughly, and make out of one note at least a dozen. Such note-mur-
derers expose their bad judgment to the light, and tremble when they
have to sustain a long note or only play a few notes singingly, without
inserting their usual preposterous and laughable frippery.8
While today’s opinion holds that “improvisation was certainly a customary
skill among competent, less renowned musicians,”9 the record suggests
otherwise. The Austrian composer and violinist Karl Ditters von Dittersdorf
(1739-99) left a vivid description when noting the “new fashion, which I could
endure only with the fortepiano and men like Mozart, Clementi and other
great creative geniuses.” To show their facile powers, they would fantasize
and vary a simple theme several times in accord with all the rules of the art.
“Then very soon a crowd of small-minded men began to imitate all this like
apes, and now the craze to vary and fantasize is so common that whenever
a fortepiano is heard in a concert, one can be certain of being tortured with
twisted curlicues.”10 Accounts suggest that acceptable variations came almost
exclusively from performers who were themselves composers. Nor was this
improvisation usually extemporaneous in our sense of the word, for Ditters von
Dittersdorf acknowledges preparing the improvised virtuosity in the finale of
a violin concerto in advance (but only in an encore, which he had anticipated).
Not every cadenza or improvised embellishment is a matter of extempore
invention, he writes, for the best performers prepare them with care. He also
observes that many musicians ruined an otherwise good performance by adding
a cadenza they had invented.11 A description of performers’ faulty composition
ability appears in Johann Joachim Quantz’s book (1752):
Almost no one who pursues musical study, particularly outside France,
is content with performing only the essential ornaments; most feel an
eager desire impelling them to invent variations or optional embellish-
ments. In itself this urge is not to be condemned, but it cannot be
done without understanding composition, or at least thorough-bass.
But since most musicians lack the necessary instruction . . . so many
incorrect and bungled ideas appear that it would often be better to play
the melody as the composer has written it, instead of spoiling it for the
most part with such wretched variations.12
Since they lacked the necessary knowledge of harmony, most performers
“noodled” and their auditors applauded whatever gave the appearance of
difficulty. Only the few knowledgeable Kenner were offended.
According to the lexicographer Heinrich Christoph Koch (1802),
performers’ additions often made it impossible to recognize the composer’s
335
melody. Heavy embellishment usually covers a weak performance of the

Adagio, he says, for the soloist who is known for his strength in the Adagio
customarily ornaments the least. The question sometimes arises of whether the
composer purposely left the melody plain to permit decoration by the soloist, or
whether he left these places in the shadows, as it were, so that the illumination of
neighboring areas is made more prominent. A picture in which bright lights and
sharp impressions are applied everywhere and in which nothing is shadowed is
glaring and has no harmony. And should the composer not write the melody
as he conceives it in its developed state, just to give the performer opportunity
to ornament? “It is really an important question whether a musical thought
expressed in a noble simplicity needs embellishment, and whether it would not
be better to present it in its sublime simplicity than to obscure it with a great
deal of tinsel. But if one nevertheless insists on varying a melody, he should not
disfigure it and make harmonic errors.”13
Because this tradition of varying an Adagio was so entrenched, authors of
method books tried to make the best of a bad situation by criticizing the abuses
and offering advice for improvement. They had no intention of encouraging it
for well-composed music. In his Klavierschule (1789), Daniel Gottlob Türk warns
against too much embellishment, for keyboard music usually has all the essential
ornaments written by the composer. A passage is now and then varied at the
repetition of an Allegro, he says, but longer elaborations are most frequently
used in an Adagio [written in skeletal form]. Türk specifies that his example is
overloaded with ornaments for the sake of illustration and that using all of them
would require multiple pieces of varying character; an artistic player would not
apply so many to a melody of some worth.14 Yet this important qualification
has been omitted in at least one modern essay, which reproduces his example as
a model for extemporaneous embellishment.15 Türk’s own views are as follows:
Despite repeated complaints about untimely variation, the mania for
varying has perhaps never been greater than at present. Many a merely
mechanically dexterous player, who moreover has no knowledge nor
even the necessary inventiveness, lets his fingers run freely, so that every
listener of taste and sensibility is extremely annoyed by his completely
inappropriate variations and additions. Composers whose works fall
under the fingers of such players are truly to be pitied.16
Türk limits variation to passages too uninteresting to repeat. It should not
be applied to those already beautiful and vivid in themselves, or to compositions
having a character of sadness, seriousness, noble simplicity, solemnity, etc.
“Certain compositions speak so powerfully to the listener’s heart, without using
any false glitter, that the only way to improve them is through a beautiful tone
and dynamic shading.”17
336
The varied reprise

Varying a reprise is discussed in just two sources, both from Berlin in the
same time frame. The first is from Quantz: “Few optional variations are allowed
in the Allegro, since it is usually composed with melodies and passages leaving
little room for improvement. But if you still want to make some variations, you
must not do so before the repetition; this is most conveniently practicable in a
solo where the Allegro consists of two reprises.” This passage also warns that
only defective passages of little character should be varied:
Beautiful singing ideas, which are not likely to become tiresome, and
brilliant passages which contain sufficiently agreeable melodies must
not be varied. Only ideas that leave but a slight impression require vari-
ations. For the listener is moved not so much by the performer’s skill
as by the beauty his skill enables him to express. If, however, through
the composer’s oversight, too-frequent repetitions, which could easily
be displeasing, do occur, the performer is justified in improving them.
I say improve, not disfigure. Many believe that to remedy something
they need do no more than vary it, although they often spoil more than
they improve.18
The other author discussing this subject was also in Frederick the Great’s
service: Emanuel Bach, whose keyboard manual calls it a current fashion for
varying Allegros. When speaking of embellishment in general, Bach indicates
that fine composers supply everything themselves:
It is unfortunate that there are also poor embellishments and that good
ones are sometimes used too frequently and ineptly. Thus it has always
been better for composers to specify the proper embellishments un-
mistakably, instead of leaving their selection to the discretion of per-
formers who are less competent [than the composer]. In justice to the
French it must be said that they notate their ornaments with painstak-
ing accuracy. And so do the masters of the keyboard in Germany, but
without embellishing to excess [which suggests that the French use too
much].19
In contrast to his extensive treatment of the small ornaments having a
prescribed form, Bach supplies little information about the indeterminate
ornaments consisting of “many short notes” because they are “usually written
out” in keyboard music, and can be dispensed with, for the small ornaments
are sufficient. He hopes to remove the false assumption that profuse keyboard
ornamentation is necessary. Nevertheless, skilled players may utilize the
more elaborate embellishments, provided that they are used sparingly, at the
correct places, and without disturbing the piece’s character.20 Bach confines his
337
discussion of embellished repeated sections to the last paragraph of his 1753

book. While today it has been interpreted as encouraging added embellishment,
in actuality it issues a warning (as Schulz noted above) and spells out where
changes are unsuitable:
The Probe-Stücke in F major is an illustration of how one nowadays varies
the repetition of Allegros having two reprises. [“Nowadays” indicates a
practice of recent origin and the specification “Allegros” limits it to this
form.] Commendable as this device is, it is much abused. My feelings
are: not everything should be varied, for the reprise would become a
new piece. Many locations, particularly affettuoso or prominent sections
of a piece, do not readily lend themselves to change. Also, because of
certain new expressions and changes in the writing style in galant pieces,
one seldom understands it perfectly the first time [implying that a literal
repetition is necessary]. All variations should retain the piece’s Affekt,
and always be, if not better, at least as good as the original. Sometimes
simple melodies can be imaginatively varied and vice versa.21
Bach advises players to pay constant attention to the preceding and
succeeding parts, keeping in mind the whole piece’s design in order to retain
the proportionate mixture of the brilliant and simple, the fiery and subdued, the
sad and joyful. To conclude, he cautions: “Despite the variations that are indeed
very fashionable, one must always preserve the piece’s fundamental lines, which
communicate the Affekt.”22 Implied is that performers were bent on making a
showpiece, thereby altering the composer’s intent.
There is no mandate for performer embellishment in Bach’s passage. He
calls it a fashion, lists where it is inappropriate (which likely includes all music
of quality), and sets very high standards for any variation attempted. His 1787
edition of this work (p. 103) reminds the reader not to make inferior variations:
“Many variants of melodies introduced by executants in the belief that they
honor a piece, actually occurred to the composer, who, however, selected and
wrote down the original because he considered it the best of its kind.”23 In 1753,
Bach was cautious, but uncomfortable about the concept of others varying a
composer’s work.
The abuse of improvisation led Bach’s colleague at court, the writer and
flutist Friedrich Wilhelm Riedt, to publish an article (1756) on the question:
“How can a good maker of variations be distinguished from a poor one?” Riedt
states unambiguously what Bach, because of his position, could only allude
to. Observing that some composers purposely leave passages bare to oblige
the performer, he poses four questions, discusses each and offers a conclusion,
summarized as follows:
338
— Whether a melody can have the highest degree of beauty if all its
ideas are not properly and completely developed, and whether therefore
a melody does not actually lose its beauty, the more undeveloped ideas
it has? [Answer:] The best melody is that in which all the composer’s
ideas are properly developed; the more it deviates from this, the worse
the melody becomes.
— Which ideas really need variation, the completely or the incompletely
developed ones? [Answer:] Of all ideas in a melody, only those that are
not yet completely developed need variation . . . in a beautiful melody,
only the smallest ideas can be varied.
— Whether the main ideas of a piece can rightly be varied? [Answer:]
Because variation can make them unrecognizable and obscure their
clarity, they should never be varied.
— Whether a performer is obliged to observe the composer’s inten-
tion meticulously and make certain that the melody’s character remains
uniform. [Answer:] Yes. 24
If these basic rules are compared with what most performers nowadays
do in “bungling” their variations, continues Riedt, one will perceive a very great
conflict.25 He then presents four rules by which performers justify themselves,
and refutes each at length. In reality, Riedt’s essay criticizes both the poor quality
of these variations and the mediocre compositions that needed “improvement.”
Like other commentators, he advises that only musical thoughts the composer
purposely or ineptly left bare are eligible for variation.
In 1760, Bach published Sechs Sonaten für Clavier mit veränderten Reprisen whose
preface first defines the varied reprise as a current fashion and then describes
the resulting problems:
Today varied reprises are indispensable, being expected of every per-
former. A friend of mine takes every last pain to play pieces as writ-
ten, purely and in accord with the rules of good performance. Can
applause rightfully be denied him? Another, often driven by necessity,
hides under bold variations his inability to express the notes as written.
Nevertheless, the public holds him above the former. Performers want
to vary every detail without stopping to ask whether their ability and the
piece’s construction permit it. Often it is simply the varying, especially
when combined with long and much too strangely decorated cadenzas,
which elicits the loudest audience acclaim. And what abuses of these
two refinements arise! No longer is one patient enough to play the
first part of the piece as written; waiting for the Bravos would be unen-
durable. Often these inappropriate variations are contrary to the con-
struction, affect, and inner relationship of the ideas — and displease
339
many composers. Assuming that the performer is capable of varying

properly, is he always in the proper mood? Don’t many new problems
arise with unfamiliar works? Is doing honor to the piece not the most
important consideration in varying? Don’t the ideas introduced into
the repetition have to be as good as the original ones? Yet, regardless
of these difficulties and abuses, good variation always retains its value.26
In this revealing passage, Bach indicates that varying reprises has become
the way to win audience acclaim, so much so that it is considered indispensable.
But, as his following material clarifies, Bach did not consider it indispensable.
Now there is no doubt that he was unhappy about the abuses. Performers were
even so bold as to vary the first statement, so that the listener could not hear the
composer’s work. Particularly informative is his observation that performers
used variation to hide their inability to execute the written notes properly. (This
corroborates Leopold Mozart’s complaint that such performers were unable to
sustain a long note or play lyrically.) Yet Bach did not want to offend everyone
who was varying, so he ended his paragraph with a more positive sentence. A
desire for diplomacy also seems implicit when he subsequently says that his
variations were intended principally for students and those without time to
prepare their own.
Altogether, Bach’s keyboard sonatas contain thirty-seven varied reprise
movements. The fact that he varied so many movements himself suggests an
attempt to protect his work from those who would decorate it. (Variations in
manuscript form exist for many of his other sonatas and may have served as
master copies for distribution among his pupils and acquaintances.27) Ex. 1
shows a portion of Bach’s first sonata from the 1760 collection, in which the
variation appears beneath the original statement (the left-hand part contains
only minor differences). 28 Instead of adding many notes, Bach simply varied
the original ones using a technique that few performers could expect to attain,
unless they too were gifted with superior composition skills and native creativity.
Circumstances at the Berlin court may have played a role. Perhaps a few
of Bach’s colleagues could perform this variation acceptably and were said to
represent progressive thought. Until the shortcomings and abuses of a fashion
become apparent to all, one runs the risk of being labelled a reactionary for
opposing it. Or perhaps Frederick the Great, a mercurial monarch, favored
variations. His ornate embellishments for an aria from Johann Adolph Hasse’s
opera Cleofide conceal the original melody. The extract in ex. 2 first provides the
opening two bars of Hasse’s aria, and then cuts to bars 11-12, whose texted
portion shows Hasse’s original aria in the top line, his wife Faustina’s modest
embellishments in the second line, and Frederick’s elaborate decoration in the
third line.29
340
Ex. 1. C. P. E. Bach, Sechs Sonaten mit veränderten Reprisen, no. 1/1, mm.1-5, 12-16.
341
Ex. 2. Embellishments for J. A. Hasse’s aria from Cleofide, mm. 1-2, 11-12.
Sometime later Frederick’s convictions changed. After Charles Burney

visited Berlin in 1772, he wrote that the king demanded strict adherence to
the score: “If any of his Italian troops dare to deviate from strict discipline
by adding, altering, or diminishing a single passage in the parts they have to
perform, an order is sent, de par le Roi, for them to adhere strictly to the notes
written by the composer, at their peril.”30 During the same trip, Burney visited
Emanuel Bach, now in Hamburg, and observed: “Though M. Bach continued
near thirty years at Berlin, it cannot be supposed that he was perfectly contented
342
with his situation. A style of music prevailed, totally different from that which
he wished to establish; his salary was inconsiderable, and he ranked below several
that were greatly inferior to him in merit. Frequent opportunities offered, during
this period, for his establishing himself very advantageously elsewhere, some of
which he wished to accept; but he could not obtain his dismission: however,
his salary, after many years services, was augmented. Indeed as M. Bach was
not a subject of Prussia, it seems as if he might have quitted Berlin whenever
he pleased; but as he had married during his residence there, and had issue by
that marriage, it is supposed that his wife and children, being all subjects of his
[Frederick] could not retire out of his dominions without his permission. But
in 1767, being invited to succeed Telemann, as music-director at Hamburg, after
repeated solicitations and petitions, he was allowed to go thither with his family,
where he has continued ever since.”31 Was Bach’s discontent with the style of
music at the Berlin court related to performers who disfigured good music?
According to Eugene Helm (1983), Frederick seems to have made a point
of keeping Bach in an inferior position: “Emanuel’s salary was among the
lowest paid to the musicians: a budget-list of 1744-45 in Frederick’s hand shows
it to be 300 thalers, as against 2000 each for Quantz and C. H. Graun, 1200
for J. G. Graun and 800 for Franz Benda. In the same season, the leading
castrato received 3000 thalers . . . Emanuel’s works were seldom heard; his true
importance was never understood by the king; and his independence of mind
offended a monarch who was accustomed to obedience in artistic matters as in
civil and political ones . . . Emanuel’s application for a Kantorate in Zittau in
1753 attests to his dissatisfaction with his Berlin position. In 1755 his salary
was still 300 thalers . . . only after he threatened to resign was his pay increased
to 500 thalers. In the same year he applied unsuccessfully for the post of
Thomaskantor in Leipzig.”32
Humiliation thus may have been Frederick’s means for keeping Emanuel in
his place. Few things could be more upsetting to a fine composer than having
his work maimed by inept performers. Perhaps the reason the evidence for
varying a reprise is centered around Berlin is because Frederick found it useful
to encourage it. Bach was finally able to leave in 1768. Does this fact have any
connection with Burney’s 1772 observation about Frederick’s reversed position
on performer embellishment? The circumstantial evidence suggests that Bach
was caught in a web of external pressures over which he had no control.
According to Johann Karl Friedrich Triest (1801), Bach’s discussion of
embellishment was an attempt to safeguard his own music from the dangers
of a dull, stiff execution on the one hand and disfigurement from overdone
ornamental flourishes on the other. But only a very few true artists followed
him faithfully in this regard. With the overelaborate roulades of theater singing
343
and the mania to astonish the listener, most were misled into using ornaments
poorly and excessively. Their superficial musical knowledge completely spoiled
what Bach had intended. Despite the detrimental effect on the art, this did
make Bach stand out all the more. Indeed, where pure music was concerned,
adds Triest, he and his father seemed to be “cloud-high mountains towering
over some little hills.”33
Above, Bach said that a literal repeat was often necessary to grasp the
composer’s intent. In 1777, the composer and writer on music Carl Ludwig
Junker affirms that every musical impression is more enjoyable at the repetition,
for it rushes by much too quickly to be completely understood and felt with
just one hearing.34 According to the Belgian composer André-Ernest-Modeste
Grétry (1789), the repetition of whole sections could have been advantageous
in past times when the listener began to comprehend the material only at the
second hearing. Perhaps this is one reason why repeated sections originated;
a literal repeat would have been helpful to both performers and listeners.
Moreover, most early compositions were very short and a repeat was necessary
to fill the allotted time. Also, repeated sections saved a good deal of rehearsal
time. But forms with repeats had grown much longer by century’s end and
Grétry questions the repetition of long sections, stressing that they are not
to be confused with the validity of a beautiful phrase repeated three or four
times within a section.35 In 1791, Johann Friedrich Reichardt writes about the
“absolutely unnatural and meaningless” practice of constantly going back to
repeat whole sections, although he believes that a complete da capo repeat could
be of value in the right place. Nevertheless, he acknowledges both the pleasing
quality of repeated material and its necessity.36 Grétry, too, makes an exception
for an example such as sonata form, where the original material returns after a
digression to the dominant; there the repeat is natural and desirable. Nothing in
these texts suggests that performers embellished the repeated sections.
The French were known for using only the small ornaments on a single
note. In François Bédos de Celles’s L’Art du facteur d’orgues (1778), the plates
illustrating the cylinder pinning of a mechanical organ include a keyboard piece
composed by Claude Balbastre. The repeats of both this full-length binary
“Romance” and a brief, rapid “Barcelonnette” are fully written out, but show
no change except a few minor substitutions of small ornaments.37
Composers’ own occasional embellished versions of binary repeats (such
as Johann Sebastian Bach’s Sarabandes for his English Suites nos. 2 and 3) have
been cited as evidence that performers were expected to do the same in other
works, but no documentation supports this view. Moreover, both the original
and embellished versions usually include repeat marks. Selective variation has
always been a composer’s prerogative. Likewise, the variations that composers
made of another’s work (and wrote out) do not imply that performers should
344
alter well-composed music. This is a different genre in which one composer

honored another. One further observation: recent findings suggest flexibility in
repeats for pieces in binary form.38
****
In contrast to the long tradition in many countries of varying an Adagio

purposely left skeletal by some composers, Quantz and Emanuel Bach indicate
that varying repeats in Allegros was a fashion in mid-century Berlin. Source
material is notably absent elsewhere. Quantz treats it only in passing, observing
its limited and optional nature, which suggests that it was a recent development
in 1752. By 1760, Bach, the only writer to discuss it in any depth, was clearly
concerned. Neither recommends varying repeats; on the contrary, they warn
against its abuses, limit it to mediocre Allegros, and declare that most composers
themselves write out the more elaborate ornaments. When discussing variation
in general, Riedt was adamantly opposed to both performers’ variations and
composers whose second-rate work encouraged variation. Bach, Koch and
others hoped to remove the “false assumption” that profuse ornamentation is
necessary. Comments from the above writers can be summarized as follows:
— Variation was limited to passages deliberately or ineptly left unfin-

ished by the composer. If we could view the large quantity of music
that did not survive, we would have a different perspective. With few
exceptions, master composers indicated every detail of variation embel-
lishment themselves; it was thought advisable for all composers to do so.
— In general, performers lacked the necessary taste and knowledge of
harmony to produce acceptable variations, and used masses of notes to
cover their inability to express the written notes properly. Quality variations
were produced principally by performers who were themselves composers.
— The object of most variation by performers was not artistic, but
designed to show off supposed technique in order to win, as Bach said,
“Bravos,” and to “astonish the listener,” according to Triest.
— Literal repetition can be both necessary and beautiful in itself.
It was not easy to be a composer of genius in the eighteenth century.

Besides a shortage of players with the proper training and taste to perform
their music acceptably, they had to contend with those who, as Schulz said,
regarded their work as only a sketch for improvisation. When observing that
the more elaborate ornaments are “usually written out” in keyboard music,
Bach expressed the preference of master composers and leading commentators.
Thus no evidence except the dubious example of some performers supports
today’s view that varying a well-composed reprise is mandatory.
345
Endnotes
1
This chapter appeared originally in The Musical Times 153/1921 (Winter 2012): 45-61.
2
Michael Tilmouth, “Repeat” in NG2, 21:193.
3
Ibid., Michael Collins and Robert E. Seletsky, “Improvisation,” 12:108. Other examples include:
Ryszard Daniel Golianek, “In Search of a Perfect Performance of the 18th Century Opera: Jo-
hann Georg Sulzer’s Lexicon as an Aesthetic Guide,” in Early Music: Context and Ideas (Cracow:
Institute of Musicology, Jagiellonian University, 2003), 151: “Non-ornamented repetition of a
phrase . . . turns out to be insufficient and would not be called a proper performance.”
4
[Johann Abraham Peter Schulz], “Veränderungen,” in ATSK, 4:636: “Instrumentisten schweifen
insgemeine in Veränderungen eben so aus, wie die Sänger. Mancher glaubt, die Kunst des Spiel-
ens bestehe blos darin, dass zehnmal mehr Töne gespielt werden, als auf dem Papier ausgedruckt
sind, oder dass er die Arbeit des Tonsetzers als einen Text anzusehen habe, über er eine Zeitlang
spielen soll.”
5
Ibid., “Vortrag,” 4:713. For the original text, see chapter 19, note 13.
6
Quoted by Helmuth Osthoff, Josquin Desprez (Tutzing: Hans Schneider, 1962), 1:82, from Jo-
hannes Manlius, Locorum communium collectonea (Basel, 1562), 542 (complete Latin text quoted by
Osthoff, 222).
7
Additional restrictions of this nature are listed by Uwe Wolf, Notation und Aufführungspraxis: Stu-
dien zum Wandel von Notenschrift und Notenbild in italienischen Musikdrucken der Jahre 1571-1630, 2 vol.
(Kassel: Merseburger, 1992), 1:255f.
8
Mozart/Versuch (1756), 50n. Trans. Eva Badura-Skoda, “Improvisation,” in The New Grove Dic-
tionary of Music and Musicians, 1st edn., ed. S. Sadie (London: Macmillan, 1980), 9:44.
9
Collins and Seletsky, “Improvisation,” NG2, 12:112.
10
Karl Ditters von Dittersdorf, Lebensbeschreibung, ed. Norbert Miller (Munich: Kösel [1967]), 57f.
11
Cited by Badura-Skoda, “Improvisation,” 9:43.
12
Quantz/Versuch, XIII/2, 118: “Fast niemand der, zumal ausserhalb Frankreichs, die Musik
zu erlernen sich befleissiget, begnüget sich mit Ausführung der wesentlichen Manieren allein;
sondern der grösste Theil empfindet bey sich eine Begierde, die ihn Veränderungen oder willküh-
rliche Auszierungen zu machen antreibt. Diese Begierde ist nun zwar an sich selbst nicht zu
tadeln: doch kann sie, ohne die Composition oder wenigstens den Generalbass zu verstehen,
nicht erfüllet werden. Weil es aber den meisten an der dazu gehörigen Anweisung fehlet: so geht
folglich die Sache sehr langsam zu; und es kommen dadurch viele unrichtige und ungeschikte
Gedanken zum Vorscheine: so dass es öfters besser seyn würde, die Melodie so, wie sie der Com-
ponist gesetzet hat, zu spielen, als sie mehrentheils durch dergleichen schlechte Veränderungen
zu verderben.”
13
Koch/1802, 928f. : “Gemeiniglich sollen die häufigen Verzierungen die Schwäche des Vortrags
der Adagio decken; denn der Solospieler, der sich eines edeln Vortrages und seiner Stärke im Ada-
gio bewusst ist, verziert gemeiniglich am wenigsten. . . . Um diese willkührlichen Verzierungen
gehörig zu würdigen, käme es ohne Zweifel auf die Frage an, ob der Tonsetzer diejenigen Stellen
seines Tongemäldes, die er, um das Gleichniss zu behalten, nicht völlig ausgemalt hat, deswegen
nicht bis zum letzten Drucker vollendet habe, um nur dem Ausführer Gelegenheit zu verschaffen,
Verzierungen seiner Art anzubringen, oder ob es deswegen geschehen sey, damit gleichsam durch
den Schatten, in welchem er diese Stellen gelassen hat, die Lichter der daneben stehenden Stellen
um so mehr gehoben werden sollen? — Ein Bild, bey welchem helle Lichter und sharfe Drucker
in allen Nebenstellen angebracht sind, bey welchem nichts in Schatten stehet, ist grell, hat keine
Haltung, und das Auge findet gleichsam keinen festen Ruhepunkt zu dessen Betrachtung. — Und
sollte wohl der Tonsetzer geneigt seyn, bloss deswegen die Melodie nicht so zu schreiben, wie er
sie sich denkt, oder sollte er sie sich nicht in ihrer (seinem Ideale entsprechenden) Ausbildung
denken, um nur dem Ausführer Gelegenheit zu Manieren zu geben? Es ist überhaupt eine wich-
tige Frage, ob ein musikalischer Gedanke, der in einer edeln Einfalt ausgedrückt ist, Verzierungen
346
bedürfe, und ob es nicht vortheilhafter sey, sich zu bemühen, ihn in seiner hohen Simplicität vor-
zustellen, als ihn mit vielem Flittergolde zu bekleren? Wenn jedoch maniert und variirt werden
soll und muss, so hüte man sich wenigstens dabey, den Sinn der Melodie ganz zu entstellen, und
harmonische Fehler zu machen.”
14
Türk/1789, 326: “Alle [of these ornaments] konnten sie hierbey nicht angewandt werden; denn
dazu würde mehr als Ein Tonstück von verschiedenem Charakter erfordert. Ein geschmackvoller
Klavierspieler wird ohnedies Melodien von einigem Werthe nicht mit so vielen Zusätzen über-
laden, wie ich es hier aus Gründen gethan habe.”
15
Robert D. Levin, “Instrumental Ornamentation, Improvisation and Cadenzas” in Performance
Practice. Music after 1600, ed. Howard Mayer Brown and Stanley Sadie (New York: Norton, 1990),
267-91 at 270f.
16
Türk/1789, 323: “Ueber das unzeitige Verändern ist schon verschiedentlich geklagt worden,
und doch war die Veränderungssucht vielleicht nie grösser, als gegenwärtig. Denn so mancher
blos mechanisch fertige Spieler, der übrigens gar keine Kenntnisse, ja nicht einmal die nöthige Er-
findungskraft besitzt, lässt seinen Fingern freyen Lauf, und wird jedem Zuhörer von Geschmack
und richtigem Gefühle durch seine ganz zweckwidrigen Veränderungen und Zusätze äusserst
lästig. Die Komponisten, deren Arbeiten unter die Finger solcher Spieler gerathen, sind in der
That zu bedauern.”
17
Ibid., 323, 325: “Es giebt gewisse Tonstücke oder einzelne Stellen, die so sprechend sind, die
ohne allen erborgten Schmuck so mächtig auf das Herz des Zuhörers wirken, dass ein schöner,
dem Charakter entsprechender Ton, das leise oder stärkere Anschlagen desselben u. dgl. die einzi-
gen Mittel sind, wodurch in solchen Fällen der Ausdruck erhöhet werden kann.”
18
Quantz/Versuch, XII/27, 117. Trans. adapted from Quantz/Reilly, 134f.
19
Adapted from Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach, Essay on the True Art of Playing Keyboard Instruments,
trans. William J. Mitchell (New York: Norton, 1949), II/i/2-4, 79.
20
Bach/Versuch1994), II/i/7-8, 53f.: “. . . man sie [the more elaborate ornaments] bey den Cla-
vier-Sachen mehrentheils angedeutet antrifft . . . und [ich] hoffe durch alles dieses das hier und
da eingewurtzelte falsche Vorurtheil, von der Nothwendigkeit der überhäuften bunten Noten bey
dem Clavier-Spielen, ziemlich aus dem Wege zu räumen.”
21
Ibid., III/31, 132f.: “Das Probe-Stücke aus dem F dur ist ein Abriss, wie man heute zu Tage die
Allegros mit 2 Reprisen das andere mahl zu verändern pflegt. So löblich diese Erfindung ist, so
sehr wird sie gemissbrauchet. Meine Gedancken hiervon sind diese: Man muss nicht alles verän-
dern, weil es sonst ein neu Stück seyn würde. Viele, besonders die affecktuösen oder sprechenden
Stellen eines Stückes lassen sich nicht wohl verändern. Hieher gehört auch dieienige Schreib-Art
in galanten Stücken, welche so beschaffen ist, dass man sie wegen gewisser neuen Ausdrücke
und Wendungen selten das erste mahl vollkommen einsieht. Alle Veränderungen müssen dem
Affeckt des Stückes gemäss seyn. Sie müssen allezeit, wo nicht besser, doch wenigstens eben so
gut, als das Original seyn. Simple Gedancken werden zuweilen sehr wohl bunt verändert und
umgekehrt.”
22
Ibid.: “Ueberhaupt muss man, ohngeacht der vielen Veränderungen, welche gar sehr Mode
sind, es allezeit so einrichten, dass die Grundliniamenten des Stückes, welche den Affect desselben
zu erkennen geben, dennoch hervor leuchten.”
23
Ibid., 14*: ‘Denn man wählt bey der Verfertigung eines Stückes, unter andern Gedanken, oft
mit Fleiss denjenigen, welchen man hingeschrieben hat und deswegen für den besten in dieser
Art hält, ohngeacht einem die Veränderungen dieses Gedanken, welche mancher Ausführer an-
bringt und dadurch dem Stück viele Ehre anzuthun glaubt, zugleich der Erfindung desselben mit
beygefallen sind.” Trans. adapted from Mitchell in Bach, Essay, 165.
24
Friedrich Wilhelm Riedt, “Betrachtungen über die willkührlichen Veränderungen,” HKB 2
(1756): 95-118. Questions on 97; answers on 98-101: “. . . diejenige Melodie die beste sey, in
welcher alle Gedanken vom Componisten gehörig ausgebildet sind . . . je mehr hiervon abge-
wichen wird, auch desto schlechter die Melodie werde.” “. . . von allen Gedanken in einer Melo-
347
die, nur diejenigen einer Veränderung bedürfen, welche darinn noch nicht vollkommen ausgebil-
det sind . . . in einer schönen Melodie nur die wenigsten Gedanken verändert werden können.”
“. . . wenn derselbe durch etwa dabey angebrachte Veränderungen unkenntlich gemachet, und
dadurch zugleich, so zu sagen, aus seiner Klarheit in einen unvermeidlichen Grad der Dunkelheit
gesetzt würde: Also siehet man hieraus leicht ein, dass die Beantwortung . . . ganz natürlich dahin
ausfalle: Dass der Hauptgedanke eines Stückes mit Recht niemals verändert werden dürfe.” “.
. . ein Ausführer . . . nothwendig die Einheit der Melodie, und folglich auch den Sinn des Com-
ponisten, jederzeit genau beobachten müsse.”
25
Ibid., 102: “Vergleicht man nun diese Grundregeln mit denenjenigen, nach welchen die meh-
resten Ausführer heut zu Tage in ihren Veränderungen verfahren, so wird man gewahr werden,
dass selbige mit einander in einem gar grossen Widerspruch stehen.”
26
C. P. E. Bach, Sechs Sonaten für Clavier mit veränderten Reprisen (Berlin, 1760; rpt. ca.1992), preface.
Trans. adapted from Bach, Essay, 166n.
27
Darrell M. Berg, “C. P. E. Bach’s ‘Variations’ and ‘Embellishments’ for his Keyboard Sonatas,”
Journal of Musicology 2 (1983): 151-73 at 170. One of the manuscripts discussed (B-Bc: 5885) is
entitled “Variations and Ornamentation regarding some Sonatas for Pupils of C.P.E. Bach.” The
profuse decoration in a few of these manuscripts may have stemmed from a need to overem-
bellish, leaving no opportunity for a performer to add more, as noted above, or perhaps it was
a teaching example showing what not to do, or even the result of something that would never
occur to us.
28
Ex. 1 is reprinted from “Improvisation,” NG2, 12:110.
29
Hellmuth Christian Wolff, Original Vocal Improvisations from the 16th-18th Centuries, trans. A. C.
Howie (Cologne: Arno Volk Verlag, 1972), 143ff.
30
Burney/TourCE, 207.
31
Ibid., 218f.
32
Eugene Helm, “C. P. E. Bach,” in The New Grove Bach Family (New York: Norton, 1983), 257,
259f.
33
Triest/1801, 307-08: “Der Wunsch [of Bach], die feine Nüanzirung seines Ausdrucks nicht
durch einen matten, steifen, oder umgekehrt, durch einen verschnörkelten Vortrag verwischen
zu lassen, erzeugte die schönen Bemerkungen über den Vortrag und die Manieren . . . Auch
hierdurch (durch das Kapitel über die Manieren) wollte er einen sprechenden Vortrag überhaupt be-
fördern. Doch blieb es nur ein sehr kleines Häuflein ächter Künstler, die ihm hierin treu folgten.
Die meisten wurden durch die gurgelnde und laufende Manier des Theatergesanges, durch die
Sucht zu brilliren d. h. mit ihrer nichts sagenden Geläufigkeit den grossen Haufen in Erstaunen
zu setzen, zu einer schlechten Anwendung und Uebertreibung dieser Auszierungen verleitet und
die nachmalige Oberflächlichkeit beym Erlernen der Musik verdarb vollends das Gute, was Bach
beabsichtigte.”
34
Carl Ludwig Junker, Tonkunst (Bern, 1777), 107f. Cited by Fred. Ritzel, Die Entwicklung der
‘Sonatenform’ im musiktheoretischen Schrifttum des 18. und 19. Jahrhunderts (Wiesbaden: Breitkopf &
Härtel, 1968), 157.
35
Grétry/1789, 3:356f.
36
Johann Friedrich Reichardt, “Űber das deutsche Singeschauspiel,” in Geist des musikalischen Kun-
stmagazins (Berlin, 1791), 111. Cited by Ritzel, Entwicklung, 157.
237
François Bédos de Celles, L’Art du facteur d’orgues (Paris, 1778; rpt. 1963-66, 4 vol. in 3), vol.3,
Plates 114 and 119.
38
Paul Cienniwa, “Repeat Signs and Binary Form in François Couperin’s Pièces de clavecin,” Early
Music 30/1 (Feb. 2002): 94-102.
348
vv
Music Performance
Jerold
W
ith some justification, a commen-
tator has described today’s typi-
cal early-music performance style
as the most modern thing around, despite
Issues: 1600-1900
its claim for historical accuracy. Early ac-
counts reveal this to be a valid assessment,
for today’s technology and high education standards give Beverly Jerold

us a massive advantage. In contrast to music composi-
tion, which needs no technology, music execution requires
skills that can be greatly enhanced through technology.
For example, the metronome (invented in 1816) is an ex-
cellent training tool for rhythmic steadiness, but this usage
did not become universal until some point in the twentieth
century. Countless reports from preceding centuries doc-
ument the rhythmic instability that posed a major obstacle
for even the best ensembles. Leaders had to resort to audi-
ble time beating, whether by stamping the foot, pounding
with a stout rod, or playing the first violin part at deafen-
ing volume. For us, the metronome also enables rapid tem-
pos: one simply begins slowly, and gradually increases the
tempo in small increments. Another great advance was the
invention of recording technology, which provided mod-
els for imitation, thereby improving intonation, tone qual-
ity, expression, and rhythmic stability. Today, it continues
to provide automatic ear training and many other benefits.
The articles in the present compilation not only offer in-
sight into early performance standards, but also treat sub-
jects that have proved controversial in modern thought,
such as tempo, do�ing, embellishment, and vibrato.
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Music Performance Issues: 1600-1900

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Title: Music performance issues : 1600-1900 / Beverly Jerold.

Description: Hillsdale, NY : Pendragon Press, 2016. | Includes

bibliographical references and index.

Identifiers: LCCN 2016017941 | ISBN 9781576472750

Subjects: LCSH: Performance practice (Music) | Style, Musical.

Classification: LCC ML457 .J47 2016 | DDC 781.4/309--dc23 LC record available

Copyright 2016 Pendragon Press

Chapter 1 Dilettante and Amateur: Our Evolving Language 1

Burney/TourFI ———, An Eighteenth-Century Musical Tour in France and

Koch/1802 Heinrich Christoph Koch, Musikalisches Lexikon

NBA Johann Sebastian Bach, Neue Ausgabe sämtlicher Werke,

Scheibe/1745 Johann Adolph Scheibe, Critischer Musikus, 2nd edition

Dilettante and Amateur:

Effects of the class system

Considering the often inferior execution among professional musicians,

Several months later, a reader responded, citing opportunities for musicians in

The average professional musician bore no resemblance to his counterpart

The elegant art of music, when consider’d as an occupation, is by some

The terms amateur, dilettante, and Liebhaber

On the other hand, Bernd Sponheuer’s article in the German music

The terms as indicators of social class

Dividing the amateurs into active or passive participants, Halévy places

J. U. König writing to the literary critic Johann Christoph Gottsched

To be a dilettante was a mark of respect, as when the Italian composer

In citing Francesco Antonio Bonporti and Henrico Albicastro as composers

professional level of achievement]: “There are few concerts by invitation in

The high status and accomplishment of many amateur musicians is evident,

The Liebhaber’s capability is the subject of a response in the Berlin Allgemeine

Violoncello: Hr. Hauschka

We already know that Hauschka was a Dilettant; so perhaps others with

Musicologica 34 (Laaber: Laaber-Verlag, 2004), 123.

Bach’s Lament about Leipzig’s Professional

instruments. The remaining vacancies, he says, have to be filled by university

This is what constituted “formal” training for most professional

Compare Quantz’s situation to what Sebastian Bach experienced as cantor

A later account of town musicians

Whoever would maintain this in all seriousness has very little or no

The state of instruments

According to Pottgiesser’s commentary, the technology for a reliable key

Example 1. Roeser, unrealistic writing for horn.

trained principally in playing dance and tower music. A further possibility is

Choral Singing Before the Era of

The Common singing-men in Cathedral Churches are a bad Society,

Exertion in choral singing

The trend toward accepting women’s voices

Toward modern refinement

Burney was correct in asserting that their eighteenth-century music

Why Most a cappella Music Could Not

Volume and tone production

Rhythm and other matters

an incalculable advantage. Moreover, aside from those early singers with an

The need for intonation support

Ex. 1. Fux, a. diatonic genus; b. chromatic genus.

Ex. 2. Fux, Tab. 45, f.12.

unaccompanied with the intonation we expect. This is corroborated by Johann

Ex. 3. Positive and Regal organs (Praetorius, Plate IV).

Perhaps these portable organs were similar in appearance to a positive

The meaning of a capella

An unaccompanied performing tradition seems to have originated more

Fasch and the Beginning of True Choral

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