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Grundgebiete der Elektrotechnik Band 2 Wechselströme

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Ludwig Brabetz, Horst Clausert, Oliver Haas, Gunther
Wiesemann, Christian Koppe
Wechselströme, Drehstrom, Leitungen, Anwendungen der
Fourier-, der Laplace- und der Z-Transformation
De Gruyter Studium
Ludwig Brabetz, Horst Clausert, Oliver Haas, Gunther
Wiesemann, Christian Koppe
Wechselströme, Drehstrom,
Leitungen, Anwendungen der
Fourier-, der Laplace- und der Z-
Transformation
ISBN 9783110631609
e-ISBN (PDF) 9783110631647
e-ISBN (EPUB) 9783110631807
Bibliographic information published by the Deutsche
Nationalbibliothek
The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the
Deutsche Nationalbibliografie; detailed bibliographic data are
available on the Internet at [Link]
© 2023 Walter de Gruyter GmbH, Berlin/Boston
Contents
Weitere Titel der Autoren
Weitere empfehlenswerte Titel
Vorwort zur 13. Auflage
7 Wechselstromlehre
7.1 Zeitabhängige Ströme und Spannungen
7.1.1 Entstehung von Sinusströmen und -spannungen
7.1.2 Periodische und nichtperiodische Vorgänge
7.1.3 Überlagerung zweier Sinusschwingungen gleicher
Frequenz
7.1.4 Darstellung von Schwingungen mit Hilfe komplexer
Größen
7.1.5 Oberschwingungen
7.1.6 Gleichrichtung
7.1.7 Mittelwerte periodischer Funktionen
7.1.8 Messung von Wechselgrößen
7.2 Eingeschwungene Sinusströme und -spannungen in
linearen RLC-Netzen
7.2.1 Komplexe Zeitfunktion, komplexe Amplitude
7.2.2 Eingeschwungene Vorgänge in linearen
Bauelementen
7.2.3 Die Kirchhoff’schen Gleichungen für die komplexen
Amplituden
7.2.4 Komplexe Effektivwerte
 7.2.5 Parallel- und Reihenschaltung von Impedanzen
7.2.6 Berechnung der reellen Zeitfunktionen mit Hilfe der
komplexen Größen
7.2.7 Graphische Lösungen mit Hilfe des
Zeigerdiagramms
7.2.8 Allgemeine Analyse linearer RLC-Schaltungen
7.2.9 Ortskurven komplexer Widerstände und Leitwerte
7.2.10 Äquivalente Zweipole
7.2.11 Dualität
7.2.12 Einfache RC-Kettenschaltungen
7.2.13 Lineare Schaltungen mit Quellen unterschiedlicher
Frequenz
7.3 Resonanz in RLC-Schaltungen
7.3.1 Freie und erzwungene Schwingungen
7.3.2 Einfache Parallel- und Reihenschwingkreise
7.3.3 Gruppenschaltungen aus den drei Elementen R, L
und C
7.3.4 Kombinationen von Reihen- und
Parallelschwingkreisen
7.4 Die Leistung eingeschwungener Wechselströme und -
spannungen
7.4.1 Leistung in Widerstand, Kondensator und Spule
7.4.2 Wirk-, Blind- und Scheinleistung; Leistungsfaktor
7.4.3 Blindleistungskompensation
7.4.4 Leistungsanpassung
7.5 Der Transformator im eingeschwungenen Zustand
7.5.1 Die Transformatorgleichungen
 7.5.2 Der verlustlose Transformator
7.5.3 Der verlust- und streuungsfreie Transformator;
Impedanzwandlung
7.5.4 Der ideale Transformator
7.5.5 Vierpolersatzschaltungen des eisenfreien
Transformators
7.5.6 Zweipolersatzschaltungen des eisenfreien
Transformators
7.5.7 Hysterese- und Wirbelstromverluste im
Eisentransformator
7.5.8 Induktive Kopplung zweier Schwingkreise
7.5.9 Dimensionierung von Transformatoren
7.6 Vierpole
7.6.1 Einführung
7.6.2 Die Vierpol-Gleichungen in der Leitwertform
7.6.3 Die Vierpol-Gleichungen in der Widerstandsform
7.6.4 Weitere Formen der Vierpol-Gleichungen
7.6.5 Zusammenschalten von Vierpolen
8 Mehrphasensysteme
8.1 Konstante Leistung im symmetrischen
Zweiphasensystem
8.2 Das Drehstromsystem
8.2.1 Spannungen am symmetrischen
Drehstromgenerator
8.2.2 Die Spannung zwischen Generator-und
Verbraucher-Sternpunkt
 8.2.3 Symmetrische und asymmetrische Belastung
symmetrischer Drehstromgeneratoren
8.2.4 Zusammenfassender Vergleich symmetrischer
Drehstromsysteme
8.2.5 Wirkleistungsmessung im Drehstromsystem mit der
Aronschaltung
8.3 Systeme mit mehr als drei Phasen
9 Leitungen
9.1 Die Differenzialgleichungen der Leitung und ihre
Lösung
9.2 Veranschaulichung der Lösung
9.3 Die Leitungsgleichungen
9.4 Die charakteristischen Größen der Leitung
9.5 Der Eingangswiderstand
9.6 Der Reflexionsfaktor
9.7 Die ebene Welle
10 Zeitlich veränderliche elektromagnetische Felder
10.1 Das System der Maxwell’schen Gleichungen in
Integralform
10.2 Die Maxwell’schen Gleichungen bei harmonischer
Zeitabhängigkeit
10.3 Wirbelströme
 10.4 Die Maxwell’schen Gleichungen in Differenzialform
11 Nichtsinusförmige Vorgänge
11.1 Einführung
11.2 Fourier-Reihe
11.2.1 Reelle Darstellung zeitperiodischer Funktionen
11.2.2 Komplexe Darstellung zeitperiodischer Funktionen
11.3 Die Leistung bei nichtsinusförmigen Strömen und
Spannungen
11.4 Die Fourier-Transformation
11.4.1 Der Übergang von der Fourier-Reihe zum Fourier-
Integral
11.4.2 Eine Anwendung der Fourier-Transformation
11.4.3 Ausblick auf die Systemtheorie
11.4.4 Einige Eigenschaften der Fourier-Transformation
11.4.5 Die Fourier-Transformierten häufig auftretender
Funktionen
11.4.6 Beschreibung der Systemreaktion mit Hilfe der
Impulsantwort
12 Die Laplace-Transformation
12.1 Der Übergang von der Fourier- zur Laplace-
Transformation
12.2 Einige Eigenschaften der Laplace-Transformation
12.2.1 Linearität
12.2.2 Variablenverschiebung im Zeitbereich
 12.2.3 Variablenverschiebung im Frequenzbereich
12.2.4 Differenziation im Zeitbereich
12.2.5 Integration im Zeitbereich
12.2.6 Der Ähnlichkeitssatz
12.2.7 Der Faltungssatz
12.2.8 Die Grenzwertsätze
12.3 Die Laplace-Transformierten häufig auftretender
Funktionen
12.4 Die Bestimmung der Originalfunktion aus der
Bildfunktion (Rücktransformation)
12.5 Die Behandlung von Ausgleichsvorgängen
12.5.1 Übersicht über den Lösungsweg
12.5.2 Schaltvorgänge bei Gleichstrom
12.5.3 Schaltvorgänge bei Wechselstrom
13 Die z-Transformation
13.1 Allgemeine Zusammenhänge
13.1.1 Einführung und Definition
13.1.2 Der Übergang von der Laplace- zur z-
Transformation
13.1.3 Die Umkehrformel
13.2 Einige Eigenschaften der z-Transformation
13.3 Die z-Transformierten häufig auftretender Folgen
13.4 Die Bestimmung der Originalfolge aus der
Bildfunktion (Rücktransformation)
 13.5 Einige weitere Anwendungen
13.6 Beschreibung der Systemreaktion mit Hilfe der
Impulsantwort
14 Systemtheorie
14.1 Zusammenfassender Vergleich zwischen
zeitkontinuierlichen und zeitdiskreten Systemen
14.2 Abtastung und Signalrekonstruktion
14.2.1 Zum Abtasttheorem
14.2.2 Zur Signalrekonstruktion
14.3 Ein- und zweiseitige Transformation
14.3.1 Einführung
14.3.2 Die zweiseitige Laplace-Transformation
14.3.3 Ergänzungen zur einseitigen Laplace-
Transformation
14.3.4 Die zweiseitige z-Transformation
Weiterführende Literatur
Lehrbücher
Aufgabensammlungen und Arbeitsbücher
Handbücher, Normen, Allgemeines
Stichwortverzeichnis
Oliver Haas, Ludwig Brabetz, Christian Koppe
Grundgebiete der Elektrotechnik
De Gruyter Studium
Weitere Titel der Autoren

Grundgebiete der Elektrotechnik

Ludwig Brabetz, Christian Koppe, Oliver →Haas, 2022
Begründet von: Horst Clausert, Gunther Wiesemann
Band 1: Gleichstromnetze, Operationsverstärkerschaltungen,
elektrische und magnetische Felder ISBN 978-3-11-063154-8, e-
ISBN 978-3-11-063158-6
Arbeitsbuch Elektrotechnik
Band 1: Gleichstromnetze, Operationsverstärkerschaltungen,
elektrische und magnetische Felder
Christian Spieker, Oliver →Haas, 2022
ISBN 978-3-11-067248-0, e-ISBN 978-3-11-067251-0
Band 2: Wechselströme, Drehstrom, Leitungen, Anwendungen der
Fourier-, der Laplace -und der z-Transformation
Christian Spieker, Oliver Haas, Karsten Golde, Christian Gierl,
2022
ISBN 978-3-11-067252-7, e-ISBN 978-3-11-067253-4
Jeweils auch als Set erhältlich:
Set Grundgebiete der Elektrotechnik 1, 13. Aufl.+ Arbeitsbuch
Elektrotechnik 1, 2. Aufl.
ISBN 978-3-11-067673-0
Set Grundgebiete der Elektrotechnik 2, 13. Aufl.+Arbeitsbuch
Elektrotechnik 2, 2. Aufl.
ISBN 978-3-11-067674-7
Weitere empfehlenswerte Titel

Elektronik für Informatiker

Von den Grundlagen bis zur Mikrocontroller-Applikation
Manfred Rost, Sandro Wefel, 2021
ISBN 978-3-11-060882-3, e-ISBN 978-3-11-040388-6

Power Electronics Circuit Analysis with PSIM®

Farzin Asadi, Kei Eguchi, 2021
ISBN 978-3-11-074063-9, e-ISBN 978-3-11-064357-2
Oliver Haas, Ludwig Brabetz, Christian Koppe
Grundgebiete der Elektrotechnik
Band 2: Wechselströme, Drehstrom, Leitungen, Anwendungen
der Fourier-, der Laplace- und der z-Transformation
13. korrigierte Auflage
Autoren
Prof. Dr. Ludwig Brabetz
Universität Kassel
FB 16 Elektrotechnik und Informatik
Wilhelmshöher Allee 73
34121 Kassel
brabetz@[Link]
Dr.-Ing. Oliver Haas
Universität Kassel
Fahrzeugsysteme und Grundlagen der Elektrotechnik
Wilhelmshöher Allee 73
34121 Kassel
[Link]@[Link]
Christian Koppe
Wilhelmshöher Allee 73
34121 Kassel
[Link]@[Link]
Begründet von
Horst Clausert
Gunther Wiesemann
ISBN 978-3-11-063160-9
e-ISBN (PDF) 978-3-11-063164-7
e-ISBN (EPUB) 978-3-11-063180-7
Library of Congress Control Number: 2022946487
Bibliografische Information der Deutschen
Nationalbibliothek
Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek verzeichnet diese Publikation in
der Deutschen Nationalbibliografie; detaillierte bibliografische
Daten sind im Internet über →[Link] abrufbar.
© 2023 Walter de Gruyter GmbH, Berlin/Boston
Einbandabbildung: Nick_Picnic / iStock / Getty Images Plus
Druck und Bindung: CPI books GmbH, Leck
→[Link]
Vorwort zur 13. Auflage
Diebeiden Bände Grundgebiete der Elektrotechnik der Autoren
Clausert und Wiesemann gelten schon seit vielen Jahren an der
Universität Kassel als Standardwerk für die Studierenden der
Fächer Elektrotechnik, Mechatronik, Maschinenbau und
Informatik.
Wie bereits bei Band 1 wurden konsequent alle Empfehlungen
des wissenschaftlichen Formelsatzes berücksichtigt; also die
Festlegung, wie Indizes, Variablen und Funktionen sowie
mathematische Konstanten gesetzt werden.
Viele Änderungen waren notwendig, damit auch diese Auflage
weiterhin den Anspruch erfüllen kann, den Studierenden ein
aktuelles Standardwerk zu bieten. Hierbei wurden die
bestehenden Texte erweitert, Fehler korrigiert und Bilder
überarbeitet. Die zusätzlich neu eingeführten Beispiele sollen
dazu dienen, dem Leser den theoretischen Inhalt verständlicher
zu präsentieren.
Der zweite Band dieser Reihe soll neben der neu eingeführten
Wechselstromtechnik und den Mehrphasensystemen das bereits
erworbene Wissen der Studierenden über die Grundlagen der
Elektrotechnik erweitern. Diese fundamentalen Grundlagen
geben den Studierenden die Möglichkeit tiefer in die Materie der
Elektrotechnik einzutauchen und Lösungen für später
auftretende Probleme zu generieren.
Abschließend möchten wir uns bei den Mitarbeitenden von DE
GRUYTER OLDEN-BOURG für die gute und freundliche
Zusammenarbeit herzlich bedanken.
Kassel im August 2022
Ludwig Brabetz Oliver Haas Christian Koppe
Aus dem Vorwort zur ersten Auflage
Nachdem sich Band 1 in den Kapiteln 1 bis 6 mit elektrischen
und magnetischen Feldern sowie mit elektrischen Netzen bei
Gleichstrom befasst hat, kommen in dem vorliegenden zweiten
Band in den →Kapiteln 7 bis →12 folgende Themen zur Sprache:
die Wechselstromlehre (Ströme und Spannungen im
eingeschwungenen Zustand) einschließlich des
Drehstromsystems, die Theorie der Leitungen, Wirbelströme, die
Fourier-Darstellung von nichtsinusförmigen Strömen und
Spannungen und die Laplace-Transformation, die auf
Ausgleichsvorgänge in linearen Netzen angewendet wird.
Wie bei einem Lehrbuch üblich, findet man auch hier in allen
wichtigen Abschnitten Übungsaufgaben. Anspruchsvollere
Hilfsmittel werden nicht vorausgesetzt, sondern im Text
erläutert.
Recht ausführlich ist das Literaturverzeichnis ausgefallen. Es
enthält auch viele Arbeitsbücher und Aufgabensammlungen, da
Studenten, die sich auf Prüfungen vorbereiten wollen, meist
gerade nach solchen Büchern fragen. Auch einige englische Titel
haben wir aufgenommen, weil diese oft für ausländische
Studenten eine große Hilfe sind, außerdem wollen wir dazu
ermuntern, englische Fachliteratur schon frühzeitig zu Rate zu
ziehen.
Zum Schluss danken wir allen, die zum Gelingen des Buches
beigetragen haben.
Der erstgenannte Verfasser dankt Frau Bauks für die
Anfertigung der Reinschrift seines Beitrages sowie Herrn cand.
ing. Butscher für das Entwerfen und Zeichnen der Bilder.
Der zweitgenannte Verfasser dankt seinen Kollegen, den
Professoren W. Eberhardt und W. Hogräfer, für vielerlei
Anregungen, die sie ihm in jahrelanger gemeinschaftlicher
Arbeit gegeben haben.
Dem Verlag gebührt unser Dank für die angenehme
Zusammenarbeit und die sehr gute Ausstattung des Buches.

Wuppertal, Braunschweig H. Clausert

im März 1980 G. Wiesemann
7 Wechselstromlehre
7.1 Zeitabhängige Ströme und Spannungen
7.1.1 Entstehung von Sinusströmen und -spannungen
In der Physik spielen periodische Schwingungen eine besondere Rolle. An zwei Beispielen soll
gezeigt werden, wie elektrische Schwingungen aus der gleichmäßigen Drehung einer Spule
im Magnetfeld (Beispiel 7.1: Prinzip der Induktionsmaschine) oder aus akustischen
Schwingungen (Beispiel 7.2: Kondensator-Mikrofon) entstehen können. Außer solchen in
ihrem Verlauf von außen erzwungenen Schwingungen gibt es auch freie elektrische
Schwingungen: deren Verlauf wird im Wesentlichen durch die Bauelemente (Kondensatoren,
Widerstände, Spulen, Verstärker, Glimmlampen u. a.) eines elektrischen Netzes bestimmt,
vgl. →Abschnitt 12.5 »Die Behandlung von Ausgleichsvorgängen«.
Unter den periodischen Schwingungen interessieren uns vor allem die
sinusförmigen,weil auch die nichtsinusförmigen periodischen Vorgänge als
Summesinusförmiger Schwingungen aufgefasst werden können, vgl. →Abschnitt 11.2
»Fourier-Reihen«.
Beispiel 7.1: Prinzip der Induktionsmaschine (vgl. Bd. 1, Bsp. 6.2) .
Die Drehachse einer Leiterschleife steht senkrecht zu einem homogenen, zeitkonstanten
→
Magnetfeld B (→Bild 7.1). Zur Zeit t = 0 soll für den Drehwinkel gelten:
φ = 0.

Bei konstanter Drehgeschwindigkeit gilt

φ~t.

Als Proportionalitätsfaktor verwendet man hierbei ω:

φ = ωt. (7.1) (7.1)
Abb. 7.1: Drehung einer Leiterschleife im konstanten Magnetfeld.

Abb. 7.2: Mit einer Leiterschleife verketteter Fluss Φ = f1(t) und induzierte Spannung u = f2(t).

Die Größe ω gibt an, wie schnell φ mit der Zeit anwächst, ist also ein Maß für die Anzahl der
Umdrehungen pro Zeit; daher wird ω als Winkelgeschwindigkeit oder Kreisfrequenz bezeichnet.
Mit der Schleife ist der Fluss

verkettet (hierbei bezeichnet A die Fläche des von der Leiterschleife begrenzten ebenen
Rechtecks).
In der Schleife wird dem Induktionsgesetz gemäß [vgl. Band 1, Gl. (6.2)] folgende Spannung
induziert:

u = −
dΦ
= −AB
d
(cos ωt) = ωAB sin ωt. (7.3) (7.3)
dt dt
 Der mit der Schleife verkettete Fluss Φ und die induzierte Spannung u sind in →Bild 7.2 als
Funktionen der Zeit dargestellt.
Nach dem Induktionsprinzip arbeiten die wichtigsten elektrischen Energie-Erzeuger
(Generatoren); solche Induktionsmaschinen erzeugen primär immer Wechselspannungen,
die allerdings bei den Gleichstrommaschinen durch Gleichrichten nach außen hin nur als
Gleichspannung in Erscheinung treten. Der Wechselstrom bietet die Möglichkeit der
Spannungs- und Stromtransformation und damit den Vorteil geringer Energie-
Übertragungsverluste, wenn auf den Leitungen mit hohen Spannungen und kleinen Strömen
gearbeitet wird.
Beispiel 7.2: Kondensatormikrofon.
Beim Kondensatormikrofon steht einer starren, unbeweglichen Platte als Gegenelektrode eine
elastische Metallmembran gegenüber (→Bild 7.3). Diese Membran kann auftreffenden
Schallschwingungen folgen, wodurch der Plattenabstand d des Kondensators im Takt der
Schallschwingungen verändert wird. Trifft beispielsweise eine sinusförmige Tonschwingung auf, so
ändert sich auch der Plattenabstand sinusförmig:
Abb. 7.3: Zum Prinzip des Kondensatormikrofons.

d = d 0 + δ sin ωt.

Damit gilt für die Kapazität gemäß Gl. (3.32) aus Band 1
A
C = ε0
d 0 +δ sin ωt

und mit den Abkürzungen α = δ/d0 und C0 = ε0 A/d0

Φ = Bab cos φ = BA cos φ (7.2) (7.2)

Wenn die Auslenkung der Membran relativ klein ist (d. h. α ≪ 1 ), konvergiert die angegebene
Reihe sehr rasch, und man kann schreiben
 C ≈ C 0 (1 − α sin ωt); (7.5) (7.5)

in erster Näherung ergibt sich also auch für die Kapazität C eine sinusförmige Änderung, falls
die Schallschwingung sinusförmig ist. Für die Ladung des Kondensatormikrofons gilt
Q = CU ≈ C 0 U (1 − α sin ωt),

für den Strom demnach

i =
dQ
≈ −C 0 U αω cos ωt, (7.6)
(7.6)
dt

d. h. eine akustische Sinusschwingung wird in eine nahezu sinusförmige elektrische

Schwingung umgewandelt, deren Amplitude offenbar von ω abhängt.

7.1.2 Periodische und nichtperiodische Vorgänge

[Link] Periodische Vorgänge
Vorgänge, bei denen sich immer wieder der gleiche Ablauf wiederholt, nennen wir
periodisch. Beispiele hierfür gibt das →Bild 7.4.
Abb. 7.4: Periodische Vorgänge.

In →Bild 7.4a wird die Sinusschwingung dargestellt,

f 1 (φ) = a sin φ, (7.7) (7.7)

wobei φ einen (Phasen-) Winkel bezeichnet. Die Sinusschwingung lässt sich leicht mit
Hilfe der →Wertetabelle (7.1) zeichnen.
Tab. 7.1: Wichtige Werte der Sinus- und Kosinusfunktion.
φ sin φ cos φ
0° 0 0 0 1 1
30° 1

6
π 1

2
0,5 1
√3 0,866
2

45° 1

4
π 1
√2 0,707 1
√2 0,707
2 2

60° 1

3
π 1
√3 0,866 1

2
0,5
2

90° 1

2
π 1 1 0 0
120° 2
3
π 1
√3 0,866 −
1
2
−0,5
2

135° 3

4
π 1
√2 0,707 −
1
√2 −0,707
2 2

150° 5

6
π 1

2
0,5 −
1
√3 −0,866
2

180° π 0 0 −1 −1
210° 7

6
π −
1

2
−0,5 −
1
√3 −0,866
2

225° 5

4
π 1
√2 0,707 −
1
√2 −0,707
2 2

240° 4

3
π −
1
√3 −0,866 −
1

2
−0,5
2

270° 3

2
π −1 −1 0 0
300° 5
3
π −
1
√3 −0,866 1
2
0,5
2

315° 7

4
π −
1
√2 −0,707 1
√2 0,707
2 2

330° 11

6
π −
1

2
−0,5 1
√3 0,866
2

360° 2π 0 0 1 1

Für die Funktion f1(φ) gilt die Periodizitäts-Bedingung

f 1 (φ) = f 1 (φ + 2π) = f 1 (φ + 4π) = … = f 1 (φ + 2nπ) (7.8a)

(n positiv oder nagative ganzzahling),

d. h. nach dem Durchlaufen des Winkelbereiches 2π nimmt die Funktion jeweils wieder
den gleichen Wert an. Ebenso verhält sich die gegen f1(φ) um den Nullphasenwinkel φ0
verschobene Funktion f2(φ), siehe →Bild 7.4b. Stellt man den Winkel φ gemäß →Gl. (7.1) dar,
so wird
f (φ) = f (ωt) (→Bild 7.4c).
2 2

Statt der Bedingung (7.8a) schreiben wir nun:

f 2 (t) = f 2 (t + T ) = f 2 (t + 2T ) = … = f 2 (t + nT ) (7.8b)

(n positiv oder negativ ganzzahlig).

Hierbei ist T die Periode(ndauer) der Schwingung; für eine vollständige Schwingung wird
die Zeit T gebraucht:
ωT = 2π
 π
2
T = . (7.9a)
ω

Die Größe
1 ω
f = = (7.9b)
T 2 π

bezeichnet man als Frequenz. Eine mögliche Einheit der Frequenz ist somit
1 1
[f ] = = .
[T ] S

Die Einheit 1/s wird bei der Angabe von Frequenzen meist durch die Einheit Hertz ersetzt,
1 −1
1 Hertz = 1 Hz = = S ,
S

jedoch als Einheit der Kreisfrequenz nicht verwendet. In der Darstellung

f 2 (ωt) = a sin (ωt + φ 0 ) (7.10) (7.10)

bezeichnet man a als die Amplitude oder den Scheitelwert der Schwingung.

[Link] Nichtperiodische Vorgänge

Die Wechselstromlehre befasst sich nur mit Vorgängen, die periodisch im Sinne der
Bedingungen (7.8) sind. Nichtperiodisch ist zum Beispiel ein irgendwann eingeschalteter
Gleich- oder Wechselvorgang oder ein einzelner Rechteck- oder Sinus-Impuls (vgl. →Bild 7.5).
Die Funktion
0 f ür t ≤ 0
f 4 (t) = { (7.11a)
1 f ür t > 0

bezeichnet man als Sprungfunktion oder Heaviside-Funktion und verwendet für diesen
Sprung an der Stelle t = 0 auch die Bezeichnungen s(t), σ(t), ε(t) oder 1 (t):
f 4 (t) = s(t) = σ(t) = ε(t) = 1(t). (7.11b)

Ein Sprung im Zeitpunkt t0 wird also bspw. durch die Funktion σ(t − t0) dargestellt.
Sprungfunktionen spielen bei der Beschreibung aller Schaltvorgänge eine wichtige Rolle (vgl.
→Abschnitt 12.5 »Die Behandlung von Ausgleichsvorgängen«).

7.1.3 Überlagerung zweier Sinusschwingungen gleicher Frequenz

Wenn zwei Sinusschwingungen (z. B. zwei Sinusströme) zu addieren sind, die beide die
gleiche Kreisfrequenz ω, aber verschiedene Amplituden a1 und a2 und verschiedene
Nullphasenwinkel φ1 und φ2 haben, so hat auch die resultierende Sinusschwingung die
Kreisfrequenz ω (vgl. →Bild 7.6). Amplitude und Nullphasenwinkel der resultierenden
Schwingung sollen im Folgenden berechnet werden. Die Schwingungen
Abb. 7.5: Beispiele nichtperiodischer Funktionen.

f 1 = a 1 sin (ωt + φ 1 ) und f 2 = a 2 sin (ωt + φ 2 )

werden addiert:
f = f 1 + f 2 = a 1 sin (ωt + φ 1 ) + a 2 sin (ωt + φ 2 ).

Mit Hilfe des Additionstheorems

sin(α + β) = sin α cos β + cos α sin β (7.12) (7.12)

wird daraus
Other documents randomly have
different content
that picture.’ There was a person at one time a good deal with Mr.
Fox, who, when the opinion of the latter was asked on any subject,
very frequently interposed to give the answer. This sort of tantalizing
interruption was ingeniously enough compared by some one, to
walking up Ludgate-hill, and having the spire of St. Martin’s
constantly getting in your way, when you wish to see the dome of St.
Paul’s!—Burke, it is said, conversed as he spoke in public, and as he
wrote. He was communicative, diffuse, magnificent. ‘What is the
use,’ said Mr. Fox to a friend, ‘of Sheridan’s trying to swell himself
out in this manner, like the frog in the fable?’—alluding to his speech
on Warren Hastings’s trial. ‘It is very well for Burke to express
himself in that figurative way. It is natural to him; he talks so to his
wife, to his servants, to his children; but as for Sheridan, he either
never opens his mouth at all, or if he does, it is to utter some joke. It
is out of the question for him to affect these Orientalisms.’ Burke
once came into Sir Joshua Reynolds’s painting-room, when one of
his pupils was sitting for one of the sons of Count Ugolino; this
gentleman was personally introduced to him;—‘Ah! then,’ said
Burke, ‘I find that Mr. N—— has not only a head that would do for
Titian to paint, but is himself a painter.’ At another time, he came in
when Goldsmith was there, and poured forth such a torrent of
violent personal abuse against the King, that they got to high words,
and Goldsmith threatened to leave the room if he did not desist.
Goldsmith bore testimony to his powers of conversation. Speaking of
Johnson, he said, ‘Does he wind into a subject like a serpent, as
Burke does?’ With respect to his facility in composition, there are
contradictory accounts. It has been stated by some, that he wrote out
a plain sketch first, like a sort of dead colouring, and added the
ornaments and tropes afterwards. I have been assured by a person
who had the best means of knowing, that the Letter to a Noble Lord
(the most rapid, impetuous, glancing, and sportive of all his works)
was printed off, and the proof sent to him: and that it was returned
to the printing-office with so many alterations and passages
interlined, that the compositors refused to correct it as it was—took
the whole matter in pieces, and re-set the copy. This looks like
elaboration and after-thought. It was also one of Burke’s latest
compositions.[50] A regularly bred speaker would have made up his
mind beforehand; but Burke’s mind being, as originally constituted
and by its first bias, that of an author, never became set. It was in
further search and progress. It had an internal spring left. It was not
tied down to the printer’s form. It could still project itself into new
beauties, and explore strange regions from the unwearied impulse of
its own delight or curiosity. Perhaps among the passages interlined,
in this case, were the description of the Duke of Bedford, as ‘the
Leviathan among all the creatures of the crown,’—the catalogue
raisonnée of the Abbé Sieyes’s pigeon-holes,—or the comparison of
the English Monarchy to ‘the proud keep of Windsor, with its double
belt of kindred and coeval towers.’ Were these to be given up? If he
had had to make his defence of his pension in the House of Lords,
they would not have been ready in time, it appears; and, besides,
would have been too difficult of execution on the spot: a speaker
must not set his heart on such forbidden fruit. But Mr. Burke was an
author, and the press did not ‘shut the gates of genius on mankind.’
A set of oratorical flourishes, indeed, is soon exhausted, and is
generally all that the extempore speaker can safely aspire to. Not so
with the resources of art or nature, which are inexhaustible, and
which the writer has time to seek out, to embody, and to fit into
shape and use, if he has the strength, the courage, and patience to do
so.
There is then a certain range of thought and expression beyond the
regular rhetorical routine, on which the author, to vindicate his title,
must trench somewhat freely. The proof that this is understood to be
so, is, that what is called an oratorical style is exploded from all good
writing; that we immediately lay down an article, even in a common
newspaper, in which such phrases occur as ‘the Angel of Reform,’
‘the drooping Genius of Albion;’ and that a very brilliant speech at a
loyal dinner-party makes a very flimsy, insipid pamphlet. The orator
has to get up for a certain occasion a striking compilation of partial
topics, which, ‘to leave no rubs or botches in the work,’ must be
pretty familiar, as well as palatable to his hearers; and in doing this,
he may avail himself of all the resources of an artificial memory. The
writer must be original, or he is nothing. He is not to take up with
ready-made goods; for he has time allowed him to create his own
materials, to make novel combinations of thought and fancy, to
contend with unforeseen difficulties of style and execution, while we
look on, and admire the growing work in secret and at leisure. There
is a degree of finishing as well as of solid strength in writing, which is
not to be got at every day, and we can wait for perfection. The author
owes a debt to truth and nature which he cannot satisfy at sight, but
he has pawned his head on redeeming it. It is not a string of clap-
traps to answer a temporary or party-purpose,—violent, vulgar, and
illiberal,—but general and lasting truth that we require at his hands.
We go to him as pupils, not as partisans. We have a right to expect
from him profounder views of things; finer observations; more
ingenious illustrations; happier and bolder expressions. He is to give
the choice and picked results of a whole life of study; what he has
struck out in his most felicitous moods, has treasured up with most
pride, has laboured to bring to light with most anxiety and
confidence of success. He may turn a period in his head fifty different
ways, so that it comes out smooth and round at last. He may have
caught a glimpse of a simile, and it may have vanished again: let him
be on the watch for it, as the idle boy watches for the lurking-place of
the adder. We can wait. He is not satisfied with a reason he has
offered for something; let him wait till he finds a better reason. There
is some word, some phrase, some idiom that expresses a particular
idea better than any other, but he cannot for the life of him recollect
it: let him wait till he does. Is it strange that among twenty thousand
words in the English language, the one of all others that he most
needs should have escaped him? There are more things in nature
than there are words in the English language, and he must not expect
to lay rash hands on them all at once.
 Learn to write slow: all other graces
Will follow in their proper places.

You allow a writer a year to think of a subject; he should not put you
off with a truism at last. You allow him a year more to find out words
for his thoughts; he should not give us an echo of all the fine things
that have been said a hundred times.[51] All authors, however, are not
so squeamish; but take up with words and ideas as they find them
delivered down to them. Happy are they who write Latin verses! Who
copy the style of Dr. Johnson! Who hold up the phrase of ancient
Pistol! They do not trouble themselves with those hair-breadth
distinctions of thought or meaning that puzzle nicer heads—let us
leave them to their repose! A person in habits of composition often
hesitates in conversation for a particular word: it is because he is in
search of the best word, and that he cannot hit upon. In writing he
would stop till it came.[52] It is not true, however, that the scholar
could avail himself of a more ordinary word if he chose, or readily
acquire a command of ordinary language; for his associations are
habitually intense, not vague and shallow; and words occur to him
only as tallies to certain modifications of feeling. They are links in
the chain of thought. His imagination is fastidious, and rejects all
those that are ‘of no mark or likelihood.’ Certain words are in his
mind indissolubly wedded to certain things; and none are admitted
at the levée of his thoughts, but those of which the banns have been
solemnised with scrupulous propriety. Again, the student finds a
stimulus to literary exertion, not in the immediate éclat of his
undertaking, but in the difficulty of his subject, and the progressive
nature of his task. He is not wound up to a sudden and extraordinary
effort of presence of mind; but is for ever awake to the silent influxes
of things, and his life is one long labour. Are there no sweeteners of
his toil? No reflections, in the absence of popular applause or social
indulgence, to cheer him on his way? Let the reader judge. His
pleasure is the counterpart of, and borrowed from the same source as
the writer’s. A man does not read out of vanity, nor in company, but
to amuse his own thoughts. If the reader, from disinterested and
merely intellectual motives, relishes an author’s ‘fancies and good
nights,’ the last may be supposed to have relished them no less. If he
laughs at a joke, the inventor chuckled over it to the full as much. If
he is delighted with a phrase, he may be sure the writer jumped at it;
if he is pleased to cull a straggling flower from the page, he may
believe that it was plucked with no less fondness from the face of
nature. Does he fasten, with gathering brow and looks intent, on
some difficult speculation? He may be convinced that the writer
thought it a fine thing to split his brain in solving so curious a
problem, and to publish his discovery to the world. There is some
satisfaction in the contemplation of power; there is also a little pride
in the conscious possession of it. With what pleasure do we read
books! If authors could but feel this, or remember what they
themselves once felt, they would need no other temptation to
persevere.
To conclude this account with what perhaps I ought to have set out
with, a definition of the character of an author. There are persons
who in society in public intercourse, feel no excitement,
‘Dull as the lake that slumbers in the storm,’

but who, when left alone, can lash themselves into a foam. They are
never less alone than when alone. Mount them on a dinner-table,
and they have nothing to say; shut them up in a room by themselves,
and they are inspired. They are ‘made fierce with dark keeping.’ In
revenge for being tongue-tyed, a torrent of words flows from their
pens, and the storm which was so long collecting comes down apace.
It never rains but it pours. Is not this strange, unaccountable? Not at
all so. They have a real interest, a real knowledge of the subject, and
they cannot summon up all that interest, or bring all that knowledge
to bear, while they have any thing else to attend to. Till they can do
justice to the feeling they have, they can do nothing. For this they
look into their own minds, not in the faces of a gaping multitude.
What they would say (if they could) does not lie at the orifices of the
mouth ready for delivery, but is wrapped in the folds of the heart and
registered in the chambers of the brain. In the sacred cause of truth
that stirs them, they would put their whole strength, their whole
being into requisition; and as it implies a greater effort to drag their
words and ideas from their lurking-places, so there is no end when
they are once set in motion. The whole of a man’s thoughts and
feelings cannot lie on the surface, made up for use; but the whole
must be a greater quantity, a mightier power, if they could be got at,
layer under layer, and brought into play by the levers of imagination
and reflection. Such a person then sees farther and feels deeper than
most others. He plucks up an argument by the roots, he tears out the
very heart of his subject. He has more pride in conquering the
difficulties of a question, than vanity in courting the favour of an
audience. He wishes to satisfy himself before he pretends to
enlighten the public. He takes an interest in things in the abstract
more than by common consent. Nature is his mistress, truth his idol.
The contemplation of a pure idea is the ruling passion of his breast.
The intervention of other people’s notions, the being the immediate
object of their censure or their praise, puts him out. What will tell,
what will produce an effect, he cares little about; and therefore he
produces the greatest. The personal is to him an impertinence; so he
conceals himself and writes. Solitude ‘becomes his glittering bride,
and airy thoughts his children.’ Such a one is a true author; and not a
member of any Debating Club, or Dilettanti Society whatever![53]
 ESSAY XXV
ON A PORTRAIT OF AN ENGLISH LADY, BY
VANDYKE
The portrait I speak of is in the Louvre, where it is numbered 416,
and the only account of it in the Catalogue is that of a Lady and her
daughter. It is companion to another whole-length by the same
artist, No. 417, of a Gentleman and a little girl. Both are evidently
English.
The face of the lady has nothing very remarkable in it, but that it
may be said to be the very perfection of the English female face. It is
not particularly beautiful, but there is a sweetness in it, and a
goodness conjoined, which is inexpressibly delightful. The smooth
ivory forehead is a little ruffled, as if some slight cause of uneasiness,
like a cloud, had just passed over it. The eyes are raised with a look of
timid attention; the mouth is compressed with modest sensibility;
the complexion is delicate and clear; and over the whole figure
(which is seated) there reign the utmost propriety and decorum. The
habitual gentleness of the character seems to have been dashed with
some anxious thought or momentary disquiet, and, like the shrinking
flower, in whose leaves the lucid drop yet trembles, looks out and
smiles at the storm that is overblown. A mother’s tenderness, a
mother’s fear, appears to flutter on the surface, and on the extreme
verge of the expression, and not to have quite subsided into
thoughtless indifference or mild composure. There is a reflection of
the same expression in the little child at her knee, who turns her
head round with a certain appearance of constraint and innocent
wonder; and perhaps it is the difficulty of getting her to sit (or to sit
still) that has caused the transient contraction of her mother’s brow,
—that lovely, unstained mirror of pure affection, too fair, too
delicate, too soft and feminine for the breath of serious misfortune
ever to come near, or not to crush it. It is a face, in short, of the
greatest purity and sensibility, sweetness and simplicity, or such as
Chaucer might have described
 ‘Where all is conscience and tender heart.’

I have said that it is an English face; and I may add (without being
invidious) that it is not a French one. I will not say that they have no
face to equal this; of that I am not a judge; but I am sure they have no
face equal to this, in the qualities by which it is distinguished. They
may have faces as amiable, but then the possessors of them will be
conscious of it. There may be equal elegance, but not the same ease;
there may be even greater intelligence, but without the innocence;
more vivacity, but then it will run into petulance or coquetry; in
short, there may be every other good quality but a total absence of all
pretension to or wish to make a display of it, but the same unaffected
modesty and simplicity. In French faces (and I have seen some that
were charming both for the features and expression) there is a
varnish of insincerity, a something theatrical or meretricious; but
here, every particle is pure to the ‘last recesses of the mind.’ The face
(such as it is, and it has a considerable share both of beauty and
meaning) is without the smallest alloy of affectation. There is no false
glitter in the eyes to make them look brighter; no little wrinkles
about the corners of the eye-lids, the effect of self-conceit; no pursing
up of the mouth, no significant leer, no primness, no extravagance,
no assumed levity or gravity. You have the genuine text of nature
without gloss or comment. There is no heightening of conscious
charms to produce greater effect, no studying of airs and graces in
the glass of vanity. You have not the remotest hint of the milliner, the
dancing-master, the dealer in paints and patches. You have before
you a real English lady of the seventeenth century, who looks like
one, because she cannot look otherwise; whose expression of
sweetness, intelligence, or concern is just what is natural to her, and
what the occasion requires; whose entire demeanour is the
emanation of her habitual sentiments and disposition, and who is as
free from guile or affectation as the little child by her side. I repeat
that this is not the distinguishing character of the French
physiognomy, which, at its best, is often spoiled by a consciousness
of what it is, and a restless desire to be something more.
Goodness of disposition, with a clear complexion and handsome
features, is the chief ingredient in English beauty. There is a great
difference in this respect between Vandyke’s portraits of women and
Titian’s, of which we may find examples in the Louvre. The picture,
which goes by the name of his Mistress, is one of the most celebrated
of the latter. The neck of this picture is like a broad crystal mirror;
and the hair which she holds so carelessly in her hand is like meshes
of beaten gold. The eyes which roll in their ample sockets, like two
shining orbs, and which are turned away from the spectator, only
dart their glances the more powerfully into the soul; and the whole
picture is a paragon of frank cordial grace, and transparent brilliancy
of colouring. Her tight boddice compresses her full but finely
proportioned waist; while the tucker in part conceals and almost
clasps the snowy bosom. But you never think of any thing beyond the
personal attractions, and a certain sparkling intelligence. She is not
marble, but a fine piece of animated clay. There is none of that
retired and shrinking character, that modesty of demeanour, that
sensitive delicacy, that starts even at the shadow of evil—that are so
evidently to be traced in the portrait by Vandyke. Still there is no
positive vice, no meanness, no hypocrisy, but an unconstrained
elastic spirit of self-enjoyment, more bent on the end than
scrupulous about the means; with firmly braced nerves, and a
tincture of vulgarity. She is not like an English lady, nor like a lady at
all; but she is a very fine servant-girl, conscious of her advantages,
and willing to make the most of them. In fact, Titian’s Mistress
answers exactly, I conceive, to the idea conveyed by the English
word, sweetheart.—The Marchioness of Guasto is a fairer
comparison. She is by the supposition a lady, but still an Italian one.
There is a honeyed richness about the texture of the skin, and her air
is languid from a sense of pleasure. Her dress, though modest, has
the marks of studied coquetry about it; it touches the very limits
which it dares not pass; and her eyes which are bashful and
downcast, do not seem to droop under the fear of observation, but to
retire from the gaze of kindled admiration,
——‘As if they thrill’d
Frail hearts, yet quenched not!’

One might say, with Othello, of the hand with which she holds the
globe that is offered to her acceptance——
 ——‘This hand of yours requires
A sequester from liberty, fasting and pray’r,
Much castigation, exercise devout;
For here’s a young and melting devil here,
That commonly rebels.’

The hands of Vandyke’s portrait have the purity and coldness of

marble. The colour of the face is such as might be breathed upon it
by the refreshing breeze; that of the Marchioness of Guasto’s is like
the glow it might imbibe from a golden sunset. The expression in the
English lady springs from her duties and her affections; that of the
Italian Countess inclines more to her ease and pleasures. The
Marchioness of Guasto was one of three sisters, to whom, it is said,
the inhabitants of Pisa proposed to pay divine honours, in the
manner that beauty was worshipped by the fabulous enthusiasts of
old. Her husband seems to have participated in the common
infatuation, from the fanciful homage that is paid to her in this
allegorical composition; and if she was at all intoxicated by the
incense offered to her vanity, the painter must be allowed to have
‘qualified’ the expression of it ‘very craftily.’
I pass on to another female face and figure, that of the Virgin, in
the beautiful picture of the Presentation in the Temple, by Guido.
The expression here is ideal, and has a reference to visionary objects
and feelings. It is marked by an abstraction from outward
impressions, a downcast look, an elevated brow, an absorption of
purpose, a stillness and resignation, that become the person and the
scene in which she is engaged. The colour is pale or gone; so that
purified from every grossness, dead to worldly passions, she almost
seems like a statue kneeling. With knees bent, and hands uplifted,
her motionless figure appears supported by a soul within, all whose
thoughts, from the low ground of humility, tend heavenward. We
find none of the triumphant buoyancy of health and spirit as in the
Titian’s Mistress, nor the luxurious softness of the portrait of the
Marchioness of Guasto, nor the flexible, tremulous sensibility, nor
the anxious attention to passing circumstances, nor the familiar look
of the lady by Vandyke; on the contrary, there is a complete unity
and concentration of expression, the whole is wrought up and
moulded into one intense feeling, but that feeling fixed on objects
remote, refined, and etherial as the form of the fair supplicant. A still
greater contrast to this internal, or as it were, introverted expression,
is to be found in the group of female heads by the same artist, Guido,
in his picture of the Flight of Paris and Helen. They are the three last
heads on the left-hand side of the picture. They are thrown into every
variety of attitude, as if to take the heart by surprise at every avenue.
A tender warmth is suffused over their faces; their head-dresses are
airy and fanciful, their complexion sparkling and glossy; their
features seem to catch pleasure from every surrounding object, and
to reflect it back again. Vanity, beauty, gaiety glance from their
conscious looks and wreathed smiles, like the changing colours from
the ring-dove’s neck. To sharpen the effect and point the moral, they
are accompanied by a little negro-boy, who holds up the train of
elegance, fashion, and voluptuous grace!
Guido was the ‘genteelest’ of painters; he was a poetical Vandyke.
The latter could give, with inimitable and perfect skill, the airs and
graces of people of fashion under their daily and habitual aspects, or
as he might see them in a looking-glass. The former saw them in his
‘mind’s eye,’ and could transform them into supposed characters and
imaginary situations. Still the elements were the same. Vandyke gave
them with the mannerism of habit and the individual details; Guido,
as they were rounded into grace and smoothness by the breath of
fancy, and borne along by the tide of sentiment. Guido did not want
the ideal faculty, though he wanted strength and variety. There is an
effeminacy about his pictures, for he gave only the different
modifications of beauty. It was the Goddess that inspired him, the
Siren that seduced him; and whether as saint or sinner, was equally
welcome to him. His creations are as frail as they are fair. They all
turn on a passion for beauty, and without this support, are nothing.
He could paint beauty combined with pleasure or sweetness, or grief,
or devotion; but unless it were the ground-work and the primary
condition of his performance, he became insipid, ridiculous, and
extravagant. There is one thing to be said in his favour; he knew his
own powers or followed his own inclinations; and the delicacy of his
tact in general prevented him from attempting subjects uncongenial
with it. He ‘trod the primrose path of dalliance,’ with equal prudence
and modesty. That he is a little monotonous and tame, is all that can
be said against him; and he seldom went out of his way to expose his
deficiencies in a glaring point of view. He came round to subjects of
beauty at last, or gave them that turn. A story is told of his having
painted a very lovely head of a girl, and being asked from whom he
had taken it, he replied, ‘From his old man!’ This is not unlikely. He
is the only great painter (except Correggio) who appears constantly
to have subjected what he saw to an imaginary standard. His
Magdalens are more beautiful than sorrowful; in his Madonnas there
is more of sweetness and modesty than of elevation. He makes but
little difference between his heroes and his heroines; his angels are
women, and his women angels! If it be said that he repeated himself
too often, and has painted too many Magdalens and Madonnas, I can
only say in answer, ‘Would he had painted twice as many!’ If Guido
wanted compass and variety in his art, it signifies little, since what he
wanted is abundantly supplied by others. He had softness, delicacy
and ideal grace in a supreme degree, and his fame rests on these as
the cloud on the rock. It is to the highest point of excellence in any
art or department that we look back with gratitude and admiration,
as it is the highest mountain-peak that we catch in the distance, and
lose sight of only when it turns to air.
I know of no other difference between Raphael and Guido, than
that the one was twice the man the other was. Raphael was a bolder
genius, and invented according to nature: Guido only made draughts
after his own disposition and character. There is a common cant of
criticism which makes Titian merely a colourist. What he really
wanted was invention: he had expression in the highest degree. I
declare I have seen heads of his with more meaning in them than any
of Raphael’s. But he fell short of Raphael in this, that (except in one
or two instances) he could not heighten and adapt the expression
that he saw to different and more striking circumstances. He gave
more of what he saw than any other painter that ever lived, and in
the imitative part of his art had a more universal genius than
Raphael had in composition and invention. Beyond the actual and
habitual look of nature, however, ‘the demon that he served’ deserted
him, or became a very tame one. Vandyke gave more of the general
air and manners of fashionable life than of individual character; and
the subjects that he treated are neither remarkable for intellect nor
passion. They are people of polished manners, and placid
constitutions; and many of the very best of them are ‘stupidly good.’
Titian’s portraits, on the other hand, frequently present a much more
formidable than inviting appearance. You would hardly trust yourself
in a room with them. You do not bestow a cold, leisurely approbation
on them, but look to see what they may be thinking of you, not
without some apprehension for the result. They have not the clear
smooth skins or the even pulse that Vandyke’s seem to possess. They
are, for the most part, fierce, wary, voluptuous, subtle, haughty.
Raphael painted Italian faces as well as Titian. But he threw into
them a character of intellect rather than of temperament. In Titian
the irritability takes the lead, sharpens and gives direction to the
understanding. There seems to be a personal controversy between
the spectator and the individual whose portrait he contemplates,
which shall be master of the other. I may refer to two portraits in the
Louvre, the one by Raphael, the other by Titian (Nos. 1153 and 1210),
in illustration of these remarks. I do not know two finer or more
characteristic specimens of these masters, each in its way. The one is
of a student dressed in black, absorbed in thought, intent on some
problem, with the hands crossed and leaning on a table for support,
as it were to give freer scope to the labour of the brain, and though
the eyes are directed towards you, it is with evident absence of mind.
Not so the other portrait, No. 1210. All its faculties are collected to
see what it can make of you, as if you had intruded upon it with some
hostile design, it takes a defensive attitude, and shews as much
vigilance as dignity. It draws itself up, as if to say, ‘Well, what do you
think of me?’ and exercises a discretionary power over you. It has ‘an
eye to threaten and command,’ not to be lost in idle thought, or in
ruminating over some abstruse, speculative proposition. It is this
intense personal character which, I think, gives the superiority to
Titian’s portraits over all others, and stamps them with a living and
permanent interest. Of other pictures you tire, if you have them
constantly before you; of his, never. For other pictures have either an
abstracted look and you dismiss them, when you have made up your
mind on the subject as a matter of criticism; or an heroic look, and
you cannot be always straining your enthusiasm; or an insipid look,
and you sicken of it. But whenever you turn to look at Titian’s
portraits, they appear to be looking at you; there seems to be some
question pending between you, as though an intimate friend or
inveterate foe were in the room with you; they exert a kind of
fascinating power; and there is that exact resemblance of individual
nature which is always new and always interesting, because you
cannot carry away a mental abstraction of it, and you must recur to
the object to revive it in its full force and integrity. I would as soon
have Raphael’s or most other pictures hanging up in a Collection,
that I might pay an occasional visit to them: Titian’s are the only
ones that I should wish to have hanging in the same room with me
for company!
Titian in his portraits appears to have understood the principle of
historical design better than any body. Every part tells, and has a
bearing on the whole. There is no one who has such simplicity and
repose—no violence, no affectation, no attempt at forcing an effect;
insomuch that by the uninitiated he is often condemned as
unmeaning and insipid. A turn of the eye, a compression of the lip
decides the point. He just draws the face out of its most ordinary
state, and gives it the direction he would have it take; but then every
part takes the same direction, and the effect of this united
impression (which is absolutely momentary and all but habitual) is
wonderful. It is that which makes his portraits the most natural and
the most striking in the world. It may be compared to the effect of a
number of small loadstones, that by acting together lift the greatest
weights. Titian seized upon the lines of character in the most original
and connected point of view. Thus in his celebrated portrait of
Hippolito de Medici, there is a keen, sharpened expression that
strikes you, like a blow from the spear that he holds in his hand. The
look goes through you; yet it has no frown, no startling gesticulation,
no affected penetration. It is quiet, simple, but it almost withers you.
The whole face and each separate feature is cast in the same acute or
wedge-like form. The forehead is high and narrow, the eye-brows
raised and coming to a point in the middle, the nose straight and
peaked, the mouth contracted and drawn up at the corners, the chin
acute, and the two sides of the face slanting to a point. The number
of acute angles which the lines of the face form, are, in fact, a net
entangling the attention and subduing the will. The effect is felt at
once, though it asks time and consideration to understand the cause.
It is a face which you would beware of rousing into anger or hostility,
as you would beware of setting in motion some complicated and
dangerous machinery. The possessor of it, you may be sure, is no
trifler. Such, indeed, was the character of the man. This is to paint
true portrait and true history. So if our artist painted a mild and
thoughtful expression, all the lines of the countenance were softened
and relaxed. If the mouth was going to speak, the whole face was
going to speak. It was the same in colour. The gradations are infinite,
and yet so blended as to be imperceptible. No two tints are the same,
though they produce the greatest harmony and simplicity of tone,
like flesh itself. ‘If,’ said a person, pointing to the shaded side of a
portrait of Titian, ‘you could turn this round to the light, you would
find it would be of the same colour as the other side!’ In short, there
is manifest in his portraits a greater tenaciousness and identity of
impression than in those of any other painter. Form, colour, feeling,
character, seemed to adhere to his eye, and to become part of
himself; and his pictures, on this account, ‘leave stings’ in the minds
of the spectators! There is, I grant, the same personal appeal, the
same point-blank look in some of Raphael’s portraits (see those of a
Princess of Arragon and of Count Castiglione, No. 1150 and 1151) as
in Titian: but they want the texture of the skin and the minute
individual details to stamp them with the same reality. And again, as
to the uniformity of outline in the features, this principle has been
acted upon and carried to excess by Kneller and other artists. The
eyes, the eye-brows, the nose, the mouth, the chin, are rounded off as
if they were turned in a lathe, or as a peruke-maker arranges the
curls of a wig. In them it is vile and mechanical, without any
reference to truth of character or nature; and instead of being
pregnant with meaning and originality of expression, produces only
insipidity and monotony.
Perhaps what is offered above as a key to the peculiar expression of
Titian’s heads may also serve to explain the difference between
painting or copying a portrait. As the perfection of his faces consists
in the entire unity and coincidence of all the parts, so the difficulty of
ordinary portrait-painting is to bring them to bear at all, or to piece
one feature, or one day’s labour on to another. In copying, this
difficulty does not occur at all. The human face is not one thing, as
the vulgar suppose, nor does it remain always the same. It has
infinite varieties, which the artist is obliged to notice and to
reconcile, or he will make strange work. Not only the light and shade
upon it do not continue for two minutes the same: the position of the
head constantly varies (or if you are strict with a sitter, he grows
sullen and stupid), each feature is in motion every moment, even
while the artist is working at it, and in the course of a day the whole
expression of the countenance undergoes a change, so that the
expression which you gave to the forehead or eyes yesterday is totally
incompatible with that which you have to give to the mouth to-day.
You can only bring it back again to the same point or give it a
consistent construction by an effort of imagination, or a strong
feeling of character; and you must connect the features together less
by the eye than by the mind. The mere setting down what you see in
this medley of successive, teazing, contradictory impressions, would
never do; either you must continually efface what you have done the
instant before, or if you retain it, you will produce a piece of
patchwork, worse than any caricature. There must be a
comprehension of the whole, and in truth a moral sense (as well as a
literal one) to unravel the confusion, and guide you through the
labyrinth of shifting muscles and features. You must feel what this
means, and dive into the hidden soul, in order to know whether that
is as it ought to be; for you cannot be sure that it remains as it was.
Portrait-painting is, then, painting from recollection and from a
conception of character, with the object before us to assist the
memory and understanding. In copying, on the contrary, one part
does not run away and leave you in the lurch, while you are intent
upon another. You have only to attend to what is before you, and
finish it carefully a bit at a time, and you are sure that the whole will
come right. One might parcel it out into squares, as in engraving, and
copy one at a time, without seeing or thinking of the rest. I do not say
that a conception of the whole, and a feeling of the art will not
abridge the labour of copying, or produce a truer likeness; but it is
the changeableness or identity of the object that chiefly constitutes
the difficulty or facility of imitating it, and, in the latter case, reduces
it nearly to a mechanical operation. It is the same in the imitation of
still-life, where real objects have not a principle of motion in them. It
is as easy to produce a fac-simile of a table or a chair as to copy a
picture, because these things do not stir from their places any more
than the features of a portrait stir from theirs. You may therefore
bestow any given degree of minute and continued attention on
finishing any given part without being afraid that when finished it
will not correspond with the rest. Nay, it requires more talent to copy
a fine portrait than to paint an original picture of a table or a chair,
for the picture has a soul in it, and the table has not.—It has been
made an objection (and I think a just one) against the extreme high-
finishing of the drapery and back-grounds in portraits (to which
some schools, particularly the French, are addicted), that it gives an
unfinished look to the face, the most important part of the picture. A
lady or a gentleman cannot sit quite so long or so still as a lay-figure,
and if you finish up each part according to the length of time it will
remain in one position, the face will seem to have been painted for
the sake of the drapery, not the drapery to set off the face. There is an
obvious limit to every thing, if we attend to common sense and
feeling. If a carpet or a curtain will admit of being finished more than
the living face, we finish them less because they excite less interest,
and we are less willing to throw away our time and pains upon them.
This is the unavoidable result in a natural and well regulated style of
art; but what is to be said of a school where no interest is felt in any
thing, where nothing is known of any object but that it is there, and
where superficial and petty details which the eye can explore, and the
hand execute, with persevering and systematic indifference,
constitute the soul of art?
The expression is the great difficulty in history or portrait-
painting, and yet it is the great clue to both. It renders forms doubly
impressive from the interest and signification attached to them, and
at the same time renders the imitation of them critically nice, by
making any departure from the line of truth doubly sensible. Mr.
Coleridge used to say, that what gave the romantic and mysterious
interest to Salvator’s landscapes was their containing some implicit
analogy to human or other living forms. His rocks had a latent
resemblance to the outline of a human face; his trees had the
distorted jagged shape of a satyr’s horns and grotesque features. I do
not think this is the case; but it may serve to supply us with an
illustration of the present question. Suppose a given outline to
represent a human face, but to be so disguised by circumstances and
little interruptions as to be mistaken for a projecting fragment of a
rock in a natural scenery. As long as we conceive of this outline
merely as a representation of a rock or other inanimate substance,
any copy of it, however rude, will seem the same and as good as the
original. Now let the disguise be removed and the general
resemblance to a human face pointed out, and what before seemed
perfect, will be found to be deficient in the most essential features.
Let it be further understood to be a profile of a particular face that we
know, and all likeness will vanish from the want of the individual
expression, which can only be given by being felt. That is, the
imitation of external and visible form is only correct or nearly
perfect, when the information of the eye and the direction of the
hand are aided and confirmed by the previous knowledge and actual
feeling of character in the object represented. The more there is of
character and feeling in any object, and the greater sympathy there is
with it in the mind of the artist, the closer will be the affinity between
the imitation and the thing imitated; as the more there is of character
and expression in the object without a proportionable sympathy with
it in the imitator, the more obvious will this defect and the
imperfection of the copy become. That is, expression is the great test
and measure of a genius for painting, and the fine arts. The mere
imitation of still-life, however perfect, can never furnish proofs of the
highest skill or talent; for there is an inner sense, a deeper intuition
into nature that is never unfolded by merely mechanical objects, and
which, if it were called out by a new soul being suddenly infused into
an inanimate substance, would make the former unconscious
representation appear crude and vapid. The eye is sharpened and the
hand made more delicate in its tact,
‘While by the power
Of harmony, and the deep power of joy,
We see into the life of things.’

We not only see, but feel expression, by the help of the finest of all
our senses, the sense of pleasure and pain. He then is the greatest
painter who can put the greatest quantity of expression into his
works, for this is the nicest and most subtle object of imitation; it is
that in which any defect is soonest visible, which must be able to
stand the severest scrutiny, and where the power of avoiding errors,
extravagance, or tameness can only be supplied by the fund of moral
feeling, the strength or delicacy of the artist’s sympathy with the
ideal object of his imitation. To see or imitate any given sensible
object is one thing, the effect of attention and practice; but to give
expression to a face is to collect its meaning from a thousand other
sources, is to bring into play the observation and feeling of one’s
whole life, or an infinity of knowledge bearing upon a single object in
different degrees and manners, and implying a loftiness and
refinement of character proportioned to the loftiness and refinement
of expression delineated. Expression is of all things the least to be
mistaken, and the most evanescent in its manifestations. Pope’s lines
on the character of women may be addressed to the painter who
undertakes to embody it.
‘Come then, the colours and the ground prepare,
Dip in the rainbow, trick it off in air;
Chuse a firm cloud, before it falls, and in it
Catch, ere it change, the Cynthia of the minute.’

It is a maxim among painters that no one can paint more than his
own character, or more than he himself understands or can enter
into. Nay, even in copying a head, we have some difficulty in making
the features unlike our own. A person with a low forehead or a short
chin puts a constraint on himself in painting a high forehead or a
long chin. So much has sympathy to do with what is supposed to be a
mere act of servile imitation!—To pursue this argument one step
farther. People sometimes wonder what difficulty there can be in
painting, and ask what you have to do but to set down what you see?
This is true, but the difficulty is to see what is before you. This is at
least as difficult as to learn any trade or language. We imagine that
we see the whole of nature, because we are aware of no more than we
see of it. We also suppose that any given object, a head, a hand, is
one thing, because we see it at once, and call it by one name. But how
little we see or know, even of the most familiar face, beyond a vague
abstraction, will be evident to every one who tries to recollect
distinctly all its component parts, or to draw the most rude outline of
it for the first time; or who considers the variety of surface, the
numberless lights and shades, the tints of the skin, every particle and
pore of which varies, the forms and markings of the features, the
combined expression, and all these caught (as far as common use is
concerned) by a random glance, and communicated by a passing
word. A student, when he first copies a head, soon comes to a stand,
or is at a loss to proceed from seeing nothing more in the face than
there is in his copy. After a year or two’s practice he never knows
when to have done, and the longer he has been occupied in copying a
face or any particular feature, sees more and more in it, that he has
left undone and can never hope to do. There have been only four or
five painters who could ever produce a copy of the human
countenance really fit to be seen; and even of these few none was
ever perfect, except in giving some single quality or partial aspect of
nature, which happened to fall in with his own particular studies and
the bias of his genius, as Raphael the drawing, Rembrandt the light
and shade, Vandyke ease and delicacy of appearance, &c. Titian gave
more than any one else, and yet he had his defects. After this, shall
we say that any, the commonest and most uninstructed spectator
sees the whole of nature at a single glance, and would be able to
stamp a perfect representation of it on the canvass, if he could
embody the image in his mind’s eye?
I have in this Essay mentioned one or two of the portraits in the
Louvre that I like best. The two landscapes which I should most
covet, are the one with a Rainbow by Rubens, and the Adam and Eve
in Paradise by Poussin. In the first, shepherds are reposing with their
flocks under the shelter of a breezy grove, the distances are of air,
and the whole landscape seems just washed with the shower that has
passed off. The Adam and Eve by Poussin is the full growth and
luxuriant expansion of the principle of vegetation. It is the first lovely
dawn of creation, when nature played her virgin fancies wild; when
all was sweetness and freshness, and the heavens dropped fatness. It
is the very ideal of landscape-painting, and of the scene it is intended
to represent. It throws us back to the first ages of the world, and to
the only period of perfect human bliss, which is, however, on the
point of being soon disturbed.[54] I should be contented with these
four or five pictures, the Lady by Vandyke, the Titian, the
Presentation in the Temple, the Rubens, and the Poussin, or even
with faithful copies of them, added to the two which I have of a
young Neapolitan Nobleman and of the Hippolito de Medici; and
which, when I look at them, recal other times and the feelings with
which they were done. It is now twenty years since I made those
copies, and I hope to keep them while I live. It seems to me no longer
ago than yesterday. Should the next twenty years pass as swiftly,
forty years will have glided by me like a dream. By this kind of
speculation I can look down as from a slippery height on the
beginning, and the end of life beneath my feet, and the thought
makes me dizzy!
My taste in pictures is, I believe, very different from that of rich
and princely collectors. I would not give two-pence for the whole
Gallery at Fonthill. I should like to have a few pictures hung round
the room, that speak to me with well-known looks, that touch some
string of memory—not a number of varnished, smooth, glittering