A musical tour through the land of the past/Chapter I

by Romain Rolland

 

 

I

A HUMOROUS NOVEL BY AN EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY MUSICIAN

Two centuries ago the Germans were already filling Naples, Rome and Venice with their princes, their merchants, their pilgrims, their artists and their tourists. But Italy was not then passive, as she afterwards became. She exported fourfold what was imported across her frontiers; and she did not fail to repay to Germany the visits which she received. She profited by the exhaustion caused by the Thirty Years' War to flood Bavaria, Hesse, Saxony, Thuringia and Austria with her works of art and her artists. Music, above all, and the theatre were left to her. Cavalli, Bernabei, Steffani and Torri reigned in Munich; Bontempi and Pallavicino in Dresden; Cesti, Draghi, Ziani, Bononcini, Caldara and G. Porta in Vienna; Vivaldi was Kappelmeister in Hesse-Darmstadt and Torelli in Brandenburg-Anspach. Multitudes of libretto-writers and scene-painters, of sopranos, contraltos and castrati, of violinists and harpsichord players, of players on the lute, the flute, the guitar and instruments of every kind, followed these leaders. Their great engine of war was the Opera, the supreme creation of the Renaissance in its decline; and their centre of propaganda was Dresden, whose Italian theatre, founded in 1662, enjoyed a European celebrity for a whole century, until the departure of Hasse. Leipzig, the old Saxon city, by no means escaped the plague. In 1693, the Opera proceeded to plant itself in the town, in the very stronghold of German art; its founders made no secret of the fact that they meant to make it a branch of the Dresden Opera, and in a few years they had carried their point. Opera music was no longer content with the theatre; it made its way into the Church, the last refuge of German thought. Its brilliant pathos soon superseded the seriousness of the old masters; the crowd thronged to these dramatic recitals; the singers and pupils of the Thomaskirche, deserting their posts, went over to the other camp, and a void proceeded to form about the last defenders of the national tradition.

*⁠*⁠*

There was in the Thomaskirche in those days a Cantor (Kappelmeister) whose name was Johann Kuhnau. This man, a most attractive type of a broadly developed genius, such as that heroic age of art produced, was, says Mattheson, "very learned in theology, jurisprudence, rhetoric, poetry, mathematics, foreign languages and music." He had defended theses in law, one of which was in Greek; he was an advocate; he cultivated Greek and Hebraic philosophy, translated works from the French and Italian, and himself wrote original works, both scientific and imaginative. Jacob Adlung says "that he did not know whether Kuhnau did greater honour to music or to science." As a musician he is quite incontestably one of the pillars of the old German art. Scheibe regarded him, with Keiser, Telemann and Händel, as one of the four greatest German composers of the century. He did indeed possess a depth of feeling, and at the same time a beauty of form, a grace compounded of strength and lucidity, which even to-day would make his name a household word—if society were capable of taking a genuine interest in music without being urged to do so by fashion. Kuhnau was one of the creators of the modern sonata; he wrote "suites" for the clavier which are models of spirited grace, occasionally tinged with reverie. He composed some descriptive poems—"programme music"—under the title of Biblical Sonatas; cantatas, sacred and profane; and a Passion, which makes him, if we are to tell the truth, not only the immediate predecessor of Bach at the Thomaskirche in Leipzig, but also, in a great many respects, his indisputable model.

Here are the terms in which he presents to the public one of his principal musical works. They will give some idea of his quiet, benign graciousness and his generous nature. He begs indulgence for the fantastic spirit in which his charming sonatas were written (Clavier-Früchte aus 7 Sonaten); he says that he has employed "the same liberty as that employed by Nature, when, hanging the fruits on the trees, she gives one branch less or more than another … It did not take me long to produce them: it was with me just as it is in certain countries where, thanks to the unusual heat, everything grows with such rapidity that the harvest may be reaped a month after sowing. While writing these seven sonatas I experienced such eagerness that without neglecting my other occupations I wrote one every day, so that this work, which I began on a Monday, was completed by the Monday of the following week. I mention this circumstance merely so that no one shall expect to find in them rare and exceptional qualities. It is true that we are not always craving for extraordinary things; we often eat the simplest fruits of our fields with as much pleasure as the rarest and most exquisite foreign fruits, although the latter may be very costly and come from a great distance. I know there are gourmets among the amateurs of music who will accept nothing save that which comes from France or Italy—above all when fortune has permitted them to breathe the air of those countries. My fruits are at the disposal of all; those who do not find them to their taste have only to seek elsewhere. As for the critics, they will not spare them; but the venom of the ignorant is powerless to injure them more than a cool dew will harm ripened fruit."

That same year (1700) Kuhnau published his noble and expressive Biblische Historien, and a novel which we shall consider at greater length. He was thirty-three years of age. He stood alone in the midst of Italians and "Italianisers." His friends and pupils had deserted him. He witnessed the decline of German music and made unavailing efforts to check its fall. In vain did he appeal to the City Council to protect public education, jeopardised not only by the spell of foreign art but also by the bait of cheap pleasures and easy profits, which debauched the youth of the Leipzig schools, drawing them in flocks to the Opera. The Council decided against Kuhnau and in favour of success. On Kuhnau's death in 1722 Italian opera was supreme in Germany. It would seem that such injustice on the part of Fate must have filled the old master's heart with bitterness. But the artists of those days did not cultivate their melancholy; and Kuhnau seems never to have lost his bantering geniality in respect of hostile men and things. He knew the world, and was not in the least surprised that charlatans should have precedence over honest men. "People behave, as regards the artists who have newly arrived in a town, as they do in respect of fresh herring; everybody wants to eat them, and spends on them much more money than on the better and choicer dishes which he is accustomed to see on his table." But as he was a believer, not only in religion, but in art, he had no misgivings as to the eventual triumph of his cause; and in the meantime he cheerfully avenged himself upon stupidity and ignorance by exhibiting them in a satirical novel entitled Der Musicalische Quack-Salber (The Musical Charlatan).^[1]

This curious book, published in Dresden in the year 1700, and very well known in the eighteenth century, was preserved for us by only two examples, one in the Royal Library of Berlin and the other in the City Library of Leipzig, when Herr Kurt Benndorf conceived the idea of republishing it in Herr Sauer's collections of Deutsche Literaturdenkmaeler.^[2]

Written before its time, in lively, lucid German, under French influence, full of short, vigorous phrases, intermingled with French and Italian words, this little volume can still be read with pleasure. It is full of good nature and sparkling with intelligence. Only a few touches of pedantry, the malady of the period, now and again slightly mar this endearing countenance. There is much to be learned from these many-coloured pictures of seventeenth century life in Saxony. They shed a light on one of the most interesting periods of German history—the rapid convalescence of the country after the Thirty Years' War, and the formation of the great classic century of music.

*⁠*⁠*

The hero of the novel is a Suabian adventurer, from the neighbourhood of Ulm, who, profiting by Germany's infatuation for Italy, passed himself off as an Italian in his own country. He had spent scarcely a year in Italy, and had filled a very humble situation there, as copyist or famulus to a few celebrated musicians; but no more than this was needed to persuade him that the genius of his masters had descended upon him. He was very careful, however, to avoid putting the matter to the test in Italy, knowing that he would find it difficult to get his pretensions accepted in Rome or Venice; he crossed the Alps, relying upon the ingenuous simplicity of his compatriots and their servile respect for all that was foreign.

He makes straight for Dresden, the centre of Italianism, the home of the Opera. He begins by travestying his name; from an insulting nickname applied to his father (Theuer Affe—precious monkey) he evolves the name of a respectable Neapolitan family: Caraffa. One of the eccentricities of the age was to give German names a French or Latin disguise. Kuhnau castigates this absurdity with the sturdy commonsense of a Molière. "We may excuse those on whose backs these foreign appellations have been fastened by ridiculous parents; they may be forgiven for retaining them. But those who of their own initiative falsify their names and create a new race for themselves deserve the fate which befell the gentleman whose name was Riebener but who called himself Rapparius: when he sought as heir to claim his brother's estate, the judge rejected his claim, saying that in the petition which he had addressed to him he had admitted himself to be 'incontinent' (Rapparius), and therefore could not lay claim to the inheritance. Many other madmen have disguised themselves in French names. I used to know one whose name was Hans Jelme. As his clothes and his manners and so forth were all in the French fashion, he wished to ensure that his name should match them. As a matter of fact his knowledge of French was confined to these words: 'Monsieur, je suis votre très humble serviteur.' But it was absolutely essential that his name should become French. And farther, as he had a great desire to be a gentleman, he thought that while he was changing his name there would be no additional difficulty in adorning it a little by the addition of the particle. He therefore called himself Jean de Jelme. But he had not reflected that the German pronounciation would turn this into Schand-Schelm (infamous scoundrel, dirty rascal) so that he was despised and derided by all. I wish it were so with all those who blush at their German names and commit forgeries to change them; they deserve that Germany should blush for them in return and hurl them across her frontiers with other forgers."^[3]

Kuhnau was as one crying in the wilderness. It was enough for a Theuer Affe to baptize himself Caraffa and to murder a few words of Italian, and the musical world of Dresden hastened to welcome him. "They were all of that absurd species which believes that a composer is a simpleton if he has not been to Italy, and that the air of foreign countries endows an artist with every perfection, after the fashion of the Lusitanian winds, which, according to Pliny, fecundate mares."^[4] Caraffa, moreover, employs ingenious expedients to arouse and stimulate the curiosity of the public. He has letters posted to him from various quarters of Europe with sonorous addresses: All' Illustrissimo Signore, il Signor Pietro Caraffa, maestro incomparabile di musica; or in German: Dem Wohl-Edlen, Besten und Sinnreichen Herrn Pietro Caraffa, Hochberühmten Italiaenischen Musico, und unvergleichlichen Virtuosen. The address of his lodging is almost always forgotten, as though by an oversight; so that the postman has to run from house to house, inquiring whether anyone knows "the Orpheus of this age," "the incomparable virtuoso." Thus in a few days no one is ignorant of his name and he is popular before he has appeared.^[4] The Collegium Musicum of Dresden sends him a deputation, invites him to attend its sessions, addresses him in speeches of emphatic welcome, such as are made on the entry of a prince. Concerts are given in his honour. Those responsible for them beg him to take part in them. Caraffa allows them to entreat him; despite some technical skill on the theorbo and the guitar his talent is more than indifferent. But he is careful not to squander it and discovers pretexts to postpone the moment of performing in public. He has, he says, a marvellous voice, but he can sing only Italian words; and the Collegium has only German scores. His powers as a violinist are unique, but a jealous rival, attempting to assassinate him, has crippled his hand by the stab of a dagger; and he must wait some months before he can use it. He agrees, however, to accompany a concerto on the harpsichord, having remarked that the score was of the simplest. But in order to do him honour he is given a difficult piece. Immediately he begins to criticise the harpsichord; it is to the incomparable art of composition that he has applied all his genius. If he amuses himself on occasion by strumming on the clavier it is only because he is obliged to accompany himself when he sings one of his compositions. But this is one of his minor pastimes. Besides, Italian music for the clavier is simple and has none of those fantastic complications in which German taste delights. After all this ado he sits at the harpsichord, plays a few insipidly correct chords as a prelude, and on the pretext that he has a cold he sets out a couple of snuff-boxes, one on either hand. "When he saw difficult passages for the right hand ahead of of him he quietly took snuff from the right-hand snuff-box. When the rapid passages were in the bass he took snuff from the left-hand box; In this way the difficulties were always evaded!"^[5]

Kuhnau has given us a very good description of the Saxon character, its admixture of candour and shrewdness, its heavy, bantering geniality. These worthy folk who go to hear Caraffa with a touching and absurd desire to respect and admire him are too good musicians not to be aware of the harpsichord-player's lack of talent; but their indulgence endeavours to find excuses for it. It is difficult to shake their confidence; but as soon as a suspicion finds its way into their worthy minds nothing can get it out again. They inspect the bogus Italian, all unknown to him, with conscientious deliberation; and then, when they are at last convinced, instead of becoming indignant with the charlatan and expelling him from their midst, they enact a little comedy at his expense.

They encourage him to lie, to boast, to exhibit his foolish pretensions, and laugh in their sleeves while feigning to admire him, until the moment when Caraffa, in consternation, realises that they have been laughing at him for weeks. In this way they induce him, despite his prudence, to betray his insignificance, by showing them some of his works; and to ensure that he shall not have recourse to his usual method of composition, which is one of shameless copying, they succeed in shutting him into a dressing-room and watching him from outside. "Caraffa is working with all his might. He hums, he drums with his hands, he raps on the table, he sings, he beats time with his head and feet. No working-man occupied in the most laborious trade toils as he does. After an hour and a half of this the sweat is pouring over his face and back, and he has not yet thought of a melody. Now he tries to set pen to paper; he dips it in the ink; he writes, but always erases what he has written; he spoils paper, tears it up and begins again. He tries another method; he rises and marches furiously across the room as though he intended to break down the doors and the walls; this continues for a good quarter of an hour. Finally he resorts to the superstition of unlucky gamblers, who believe that in order to recapture their luck they must change their place and take another chair. He leaves the table and the benches and sits on the plank floor. He had brought to his labours all the energies of his body, and never noticed that it was nearly mid-day and that his lamp was still burning. At last the melodies of four well-known songs occurred to him: Bonsoir jardinière, Damon vint en profonde pensée, Une belle dame habite en ce pays, Elle repose. Having once suffered from his poverty he now suffers from abundance; he does not know which of these beautiful airs will best adapt itself to the given text, and, above all, which would be the least recognisable. He is on the point of settling the matter by casting dice; then he decides to blend them together, or rather to juxtapose them."^[6]—We can imagine how the musicians of Dresden delighted in this absurdity. At Leipzig, whither Caraffa goes next, the citizens and students make sport of him in a crueller fashion; they set him and another ridiculous musician by the ears, exciting them to burlesque fury, and finally subjecting both to the judgment of a grotesque tribunal, a mythological and facetious masquerade, by which the two simpletons are duped, and which recalls the "Ceremony" scene in the Bourgeois gentilhomme.^[7]

Defeated, derided, scoffed at, Caraffa is not greatly perturbed. "Any other man in his position would have had a thousand reasons for being miserable on reflecting upon his precarious situation and his shame. Caraffa, forced to escape hurriedly from Dresden, is as little concerned as a charlatan who, being unmasked in one country, reflects: "Bah! there are other countries in the world; if one is lost there are ten to discover! You have only to push on, and it will be some little while before other towns discover your ignorance! Thus one is sure of never going to bed supperless and of always having a coat to one's back."^[8] Everywhere, as he journeys on, he makes free with the table, the cellar and the bed of the Cantors, organists and musicians of the petty States, whom he dazzles by his boasting. He exploits in wholesale fashion the absurd amateurs, the ignorant tradesmen who entertain artists in their desire to pass for connoisseurs. He instals himself in the country houses of rustic squires who, suffering from tedium, are anything but exacting as regards the quality of his music and his jests; he fills his purse and his belly until the moment when he becomes aware that he is beginning to weary his hosts; then he decamps, promptly, without demanding his wages, but not without occasionally carrying off a a few silver spoons and forks. He despoils the poor village schoolmasters of their savings, with the promise of enabling them, in a year's time, to become kapellmeister at some princely Court; and he laughs in the faces of his dupes when they come to him afterwards, weeping and cursing, to demand the return of their money. If one of them takes the jest ill and lodges a complaint, that is his affair: Caraffa is acquainted with the delays of the German law-courts.

Lastly, the rascal has one support which never fails him and consoles him for his mortifications: the women. They are not always seductive, but they are always seduced. Long before the Kreutzer Sonata, Kuhnau had noted the ravages which music, and above all the performer, commits in the feminine heart; and he gives some amusing instances. The most mirth-provoking and the completest of these is that of the châtelaine of Riemelin (Hörnitz), which I should like to relate, if this story, more Gallic than Teutonic, were not a little too undraped. Its hero, moreover, is not Caraffa but another lute-picker, the former playing but a secondary part in it.^[9] But Caraffa is himself a Don Juan. He conquers the hearts of the Roman ladies with a sonata of his own composition. "They raved over it; it rained kisses and meaning glances. Never was my phiz thus fêted.^[10] Hardly has he arrived in Leipzig but he turns the head of the prettiest girl in the town—beautiful, impressionable, wealthy and a good musician; she loses all judgment and all discretion so soon as Caraffa begins to strum on the clavier and sing with his raucous voice. When the father, a substantial merchant, by name Pluto, learns of the intrigue, he is ready to burst with rage; he reviles his daughter and turns the rascal out of his house. None the less, the lovers continue to meet, by night, in his garden; there Caraffa sings scenes from Orfeo,^[11] comparing himself with its hero; the girl is quite ready to play Eurydice and to escape from the house of Pluto; but at the last moment there appears, most seasonably, a strapping wench of a jailor's daughter whom Caraffa got with child during a certain sojourn of his in a Zittau prison to which he was sentenced for swindling. She takes the seducer by the throat, shouting at the top of her voice that he must marry her. In the midst of the uproar the young "Plutonian" makes her escape, never to return.

*⁠*⁠*

These extravaganzas are enacted against a real background, accurately observed; there are scenes from the law-courts and the fair, with quacks in the market place, peasants in the tavern, squires in their country houses, burgesses at table or engaged in business; and the language and manners of each class are always humorously recorded. In the foreground is the crowd of musicians and students. In each of these Saxon cities a Collegium Musicum is established. This is a society of all the musicians in the town, who meet regularly once or twice a week in a special hall. Thither each repairs with his instrument; and two of the members, by turns, make it their business to provide the Collegium with musical compositions: concertos, sonatas, madrigals and arias. At these meetings there are long discussions on the art of music. They set given words to music; they indulge in friendly conversation. Sometimes the Collegium gives banquets, at the close of which various compositions are played, serious or humorous. It is the exception if these musicians are unable both to play an instrument and to sing. They are, however, by no means professional performers; they are burgesses who have other occupations. He in whose house they meet in Dresden is the collector of taxes.^[12]

Music has likewise its place in the Universities and the Collegia oratoria. At that of Leipzig we hear of an Actus oratorius upon music, which is concluded by an instrumental concert. Two students deliver orations, one in celebration and the other in condemnation of music.^[13] It is not astonishing to hear music worthily praised by a great musician, but it is remarkable to find him making accusations which strike home and give evidence of a penetrating purview of his age.—"Music," he says, "diverts us from serious studies; it deprives the country of many minds which have might been busied in its service. It is not without reason that the politicians favour music; they do so for reasons of State. It diverts the people's thoughts; it prevents them from examining the government's cards. Italy is an example of this: her princes and ministers have allowed her to become infected by quacks and musicians so that they may carry on their business without being disturbed."^[14]—And the example of Italy is assuredly well chosen; for if it is true that by music she prolonged her glory and extended her influence over Europe, it was also by music and in music that she finally destroyed her moral and political abilities. Of the Italy of the eighteenth century we might say, with a little modification, what Ammienus Marcellinus said as long ago as the period of the great invasions: "It is a pleasure resort. One hears there nothing but music, and in every corner is the tinkling of strings. Instead of thinkers one meets only singers, and virtue has made way for the virtuosi."

As to what an Italian virtuoso might be about the year 1700, and the mental vacuity of which he was capable, Caraffa provides us with a striking example, even though a trifle exaggerated. Nothing interests him apart from music, and all that interests him in music is virtuosity. He is not acquainted with the famous composers of this time; he takes Rosenmüller for an Italian. He is an ignoramus in respect of harmony; he does not know what a contrapunto semplice o doppio is.^[12] He can talk only of his lute, his violin, his guitar, and above all of himself, himself, always himself. Whatever the subject of discussion, whether war, or trade, or a fine sermon, or a cold in the head, he always finds a means of leading the conversation to himself, and always refers to himself in the third person: "What does my Caraffa do?" "Poor Caraffa!"^[15] Apart from his concerts the rest of the world is a void. "He scarcely knew whether London and Stockholm were in Holland or in France, whether the north were ruled by the Turks and the Sublime Porte were Spanish. His brain was like a cupboard, one shelf of which contains a few articles and the others none at all."^[16] In him music had produced a monster. They abounded in the Italy of the eighteenth century. They are not unknown even to-day; and no country is without them.

In the Germany of those days music had not quite the same disadvantages. It found a counterweight in the philosophical or literary studies to which it was often a supplement. It was by no means practised as an empty amusement. The greater composers of the eighteenth century—Schütz, Kuhnau, Händel—received a solid education; they seriously studied jurisprudence, and it is a noteworthy fact that they seem to have hesitated for some time before becoming musicians by profession. An Italian virtuoso of the eighteenth century is merely a tinkling cymbal. In a German musician reason retains its rights, even over music. But this virile intelligence was beginning to allow itself to be impaired by the seductions of Italy.

In Dresden and Leipzig, as in Florence and Rome, Kuhnau saw princes becoming the patrons of the sensuous and demoralising art which was the natural ally of despotism. His novel affords us a proof of the irresistible attraction which the Italian virtuoso exercised upon all classes of society. When Caraffa puts up at a country inn he is confident of meeting with the same welcome as in the homes of the wealthy city merchants.^[17] The public taste was sick.

But Kuhnau was too conscious of his strength to be seriously alarmed. He sees the evil but laughs at it, confident that it will run its course. His unembittered optimism goes so far as to foresee the conversion of the offenders. Caraffa, at the end of the novel, is touched by the remonstrances of a worthy priest, and amends his life; and if this repentance is not very probable in such a character we owe to it, at all events, some noble pages in which the author writes of the true virtuoso and the happy musician: "Der wahre Virtuose und glückselige Musicus."^[18]

Of him he requires much. With regard to music, he expects the composer to familiarise himself with all instruments and the singer or the instrumentalist (and above all the harpsichord-player) to be a trained composer. But this professional education is not enough. Kuhnau expects the composer to have some general scientific knowledge, above all of mathematics and physics, which are the basis of music, "welche gleichwohl der Music fundament ist;"^[16] and he requires that he shall have meditated upon his art, and shall be acquainted with the theorists of music, not only of his own time but of the past and especially of antiquity; he will not hear of his following Caraffa's example, and taking no interest in history and politics and the life of his own time.

But these intellectual qualities would be nothing without moral qualities. A virtuoso will not fully deserve the noble name of Virtú unless the virtue of his art is embellished by the virtue of his life. As St. Augustin says: "Cantet vox, cantet vita, cantent facta." Let his work be consecrated, not to success, but to the glory of God. He must not think of the public, the public taste and public applause. "If you sing in such wise that you please the people rather than God, or if you seek the commendation of another human being rather than that of God, you are selling your voice, and you make it no longer yours but his."^[19] Let the artist, then, be modest before the face of God; but let him at the same time be conscious of his worth. A skilled musician who is conscious of his skill should not be too humble or live in a state of eclipse. It is not permissible for him to seek obscurity and retirement if he has something to say to the world. A man who has gifts and keeps them concealed gives proof of a poor character which does not trust the mighty wings that God has given him wherewith to soar aloft. It is the action of a craven, who dreads effort; and perhaps there is in it likewise a certain amount of ill-feeling, an unconfessed jealousy which is not willing to share its treasures with others, "as dying stags," according to Pliny, "conceal and bury their antlers that they may not serve as medicine for human beings." Musical folk are only too often constituted thus. Some of them, when they possess a fine composition, will part with the very shirts on their backs rather than divulge a note of it. Let the artist beware of this sordid economy in respect of his goods, his ideas, his energies! Let him scatter them generously about him, without being vain because of them, referring all glory to its Divine source. Let him do all the good of which he is capable. If he receives no thanks (which is the rule in this world) his clear conscience will be his reward; it will give him a foretaste of the celestial pleasure which awaits him after this life, when he will be summoned to the chapel of the Almighty's castle (Schlosscapelle) "where the angels and the seraphim play music of a perfect sweetness."^[20]

*⁠*⁠*

There is in these ideas, as in the whole book, a balanced judgment, a self-confidence, a hidden strength which explain the tranquillity with which the old German masters of the eighteenth century—such men as Schütz, Johann Christian Bach, Johann Michaël Bach, Pachelbel and Buxtehude regarded the future. They had measured the rest of the world, and their own powers. They awaited their time.

For Germany the hour has struck; it is already a thing of the past. What a contrast between the feverish excitement displayed by the German artists of the close of the nineteenth century and the calm plenitude of bygone ages! Victories that are too complete consume the spirit of the victors; when their first intoxication has abated they break the mainspring of the will, depriving it of its motive power. The triumphant genius of a Wagner laid waste the future of German music. The quiet strength of a Kuhnau embraced the idea of the future destinies of German art, and the presentiment, as it were, of his great successor: Johann Sebastian Bach.

 

1. Der Musicalische Quack-Salber, nicht alleine denen vorstaendigen Liebhabern der Music, sondern auch allen andern welche in dieser Kunst keine sonderbahre Wissenschaft haben, in einen kurtzweiligen und angenehmen Historie zur Lust und Ergetzligkeit beschrieben, von Johann Kuhnau.—Dresden, Anno 1700.
2. Berlin, Behr, 1900.
3. Der Musicalische Quack-Salber, Ch. vii.
4. Op. cit., Ch. viii.
5. Op. cit., Ch. ii.
6. Op. cit., Ch. xvii.
7. Op. cit., Ch. xlv.–xlviii.
8. Op. cit., Ch. xxv.
9. Op. cit., p. 28.
10. Op. cit., p. 11.
11. Op. cit., Ch. xxxix., xlv., l.
12. Op. cit., Ch. xix.
13. Op. cit., p.p 43–44.
14. Op. cit., Ch. xliii.
15. Op. cit., Ch. xxvi.
16. Op. cit., Ch. xlii.
17. Op. cit., Ch. xxxviii.
18. Op. cit., Ch. liii., lxiv.
19. "Si sic cantas, ut placeas Populo, magis quam Deo, vel ut ab alio laudem quaeras, vocem tuam vendis, et facis eam non tuam, sed suam."
20. Op. cit., Ch. liii.