Heinrich Schenker. Der Tonwille I

Der Tonwille: Pamphlets in Witness of the Immutable Laws of Music, Volume I HEINRICH SCHENKER

OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS




der tonwille volume i




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Der Tonwille Pamphlets in Witness of the Immutable Laws of Music, Offered to a New Generation of Youth by HEINRICH SCHENKER Semper idem sed non eodem modo VO LU M E I : Issues 1–5 (1921–1923)
E d i t e d by Wi l l i a m D r a b k i n t r a n s l ate d by ian bent william drabkin j o s e ph d u b i e l t i m ot hy jac k s o n j o s e ph lu b b e n ro b e rt s na r re n b e rg

1 2004

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Copyright © 2004 by Oxford University Press, Inc. Published by Oxford University Press, Inc. 198 Madison Avenue, New York, New York, 10016 www.oup.com Oxford is a registered trademark of Oxford University Press All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of Oxford University Press. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Schenker, Heinrich, 1868–1935. [Tonwille. English] Der Tonwille : pamphlets in witness of the immutable laws of music / Heinrich Schenker ; edited by William Drabkin ; translated by Ian Bent . . . [et al.]. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 0-19-512237-2 1. Schenkerian analysis. 2. Music—History and criticism. I. Drabkin, William. II. Tonwille. III. Title. MT6.S2874 T6513 2002 781–dc21 2002019636

9 8 7 6 5 4 3 3 2 1 Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper

General Preface

Heinrich Schenker’s contributions to music theory and analysis have had a

Schenker’s association with Universal Edition began around 1902, with an edition of Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach keyboard works, arrangements of Handel organ concertos, and Ein Beitrag zur Ornamentik. Universal had been founded in 1901 to produce Austrian editions of the standard repertory that would compete with those of Breitkopf & Härtel and C. F. Peters in Leipzig, and it is interesting to see Schenker as part of this initial mission—a failing one by 1907, when Emil Hertzka was appointed general manager either to liquidate the company or to turn its fortunes around.2 Hertzka must have appreciated Schenker’s worth, for he undertook the second edition of the Beitrag and also the Instrumententabelle (both published 1908), the Bach Chromatic Fantasia edition in 1910, Beethovens neunte Sinfonie in 1912, and the Erläuterungsausgaben of late Beethoven sonatas from 1913 on. Universal also took over Schenker’s principal theoretical project, the “Neue Musikalische Theorien und Phantasien,” from the Stuttgart firm of J. G. Cotta, publishing the second volume of Kontrapunkt in 1922; by this time they had taken over the imprint of the earlier volumes, and they completed the series with the posthumous publication of Der freie Satz (1935). Schenker, however, must soon have noted Universal’s change of policy: the remark in the Preface to Kontrapunkt i (1910), “On the one hand, J. S. Bach, Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert, Schumann, Mendelssohn, Brahms—such abundance! Strauss, Pfitzner, Humperdinck, Mahler, Reger—such poverty,” might be seen as a covert commentary on this change of direction. He might have applauded Hertzka’s encouragement and promotion of German and AustroHungarian composers, which was “worldwide, ruthless, and victorious.”3 However, many of the composers Universal took on, including Mahler and Strauss and the members of the “Second Viennese School,” were modernists for whose music Schenker had little sympathy; moreover, it promoted the music of such

powerful impact on the English-speaking academic world, and their importance, a century after he embarked on his major projects in these fields, is perhaps even greater than ever. In recent years, analysts and historical musicologists have grasped the significance not only of his techniques of analysis, as documented by numerous voice-leading graphs of works from the Western musical canon, but also the accompanying texts, which both clarify their meaning and help us to put his contributions to music theory into historical perspective. Since the publication of Der freie Satz in English, in 1979, there have been complete translations of the two volumes on counterpoint, the monograph on Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, the three volumes of Das Meisterwerk in der Musik, and several shorter writings. To date, only a small number of essays from the ten issues of Der Tonwille, which date from the first half of the 1920s, have been published in English translation;1 this publication represents the first half of what will be a complete English edition of the series.

Origins and History of the Project

A brief discussion of the history of the Tonwille project, and a review of Schenker’s relationship with Universal Edition, may be in order at this point. 1These include the first part of the essay on Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony (Tonwille 1), translated by Elliot Forbes and F. John Adams, Jr., and published in the Norton Critical Score of the symphony (New York: W. W. Norton, 1971), pp. 164 – 82; the essay on Haydn’s Sonata in E
, Hoboken XVI:52 (Tonwille 3), translated by Wayne Petty, published in Theoria 3 (1988), pp. 105– 60; and the analysis of Schubert’s song Ihr Bild (Tonwille 1), in two versions: one, translated by William Pastille, in Sonus 6 (1986), pp. 31– 37, the other, by Robert Pascall, in Music Analysis 19 (2000), pp. 3 –7. The “Erläuterungen,” a brief introduction to Schenker’s theory of voice-leading, first appeared in Tonwille 8/9 and were reprinted in Tonwille 10 and Das Meisterwerk in der Musik i and ii; they were translated by Ian Bent in Music Analysis 5 (1986), pp. 187– 91 and reprinted with modifications in the English translation of Das Meisterwerk.

2Hans 3Ibid.,

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Heinsheimer, Best Regards to “Aida” (New York: Knopf, 1968), pp. 10–11. p. 11.

gener al preface “Where there’s a will, there’s a way,” offering Schenker monthly payments of 200 Krone in return for “five to six short volumes” during the coming year (OC 52/ 557– 8). After further negotiations, however, the matter rests until Hertzka revives it at the announcement of the conclusion of peace with Russia in March 1918 (OC 52/559)—but still to no avail. Three times the proposal is raised at New Year, the last time in 1920. Schenker’s attorney, Dr. Leo Fischmann, drafts the terms of contract, which are finally agreed and signed in July. Issues would comprise two gatherings (i.e., thirty-two pages), with a maximum of twelve issues a year. They would be published not according to a strict schedule (als zwanglose Folge), and would “examine various topics in the field of music, e.g., discussion of symphonic and chamber music, song and piano works, as regards both content and performance, studies of performance per se, critical essays, and miscellanea.” Two thousand copies are to be printed of each of the first four issues, the shop price being two to four marks, Schenker taking 20 percent of home and 30 percent of foreign sales, the contract being for ten years renewable. Crucial for later disputes is the clause binding Universal Edition “to respect my right to free expression of opinions without any limitations, and not to change or condense the wording of the works on any grounds under any circumstances without my agreement” (OC 52/517). Not until proofs of the first issue are already in circulation does Hertzka admit, on February 23, 1921, to having second thoughts about the title and subtitle (OC 52/549), which appears to have stood as follows:

non-German composers as Bartók, Janácˇ ek, Kodály, Milhaud, Casella, and Malipiero. The journal is first announced nine years before its eventual publication, in the Preface to Beethoven’s neunte Sinfonie, which was probably written in spring 1912 (the book was released in September of that year). Implying that his edition of C. P. E. Bach keyboard works, the Erläuterungsausgabe of J. S. Bach’s Chromatic Fantasy and Fugue, the monograph on Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, and the forthcoming Erläuterungsausgaben of Beethoven’s late piano sonatas constituted his “Big Library,” he comments: If the labors on my principal work somehow or other permit it, I plan to recount, in brief, concise words in a “Little Library” to be newly founded, those necessities that reign supreme in other masterworks of our geniuses. The “Little Library” (Kleine Bibliothek) is discussed intermittently throughout 1913– 20, and serves as the provisional title on the Tonwille contract of April 30/ July 30, 1920. By 1913 it has taken shape as a series of short analyses of masterworks, together with other essays, issued together between covers as a pamphlet, possibly sold to the public in concert halls as a rival to Kretzschmar’s concert guides. Works suggested by Schenker include some of those that would later appear in Tonwille and Meisterwerk (WSLB 149, 3 –18–13; WSLB 238, 2–7–15; WSLB 242, 2– 26–15). Around New Year 1914, with war in Europe seeming imminent, Schenker proposes the idea of a series of Flugschriften (literally “leaflets,” a term suggesting wide distribution, and public opinion-forming) to Universal Edition (OC 2/50– 51), and receives a cordial welcome from Herztka (OC 52/138). In February 1915, anticipating difficulty in making headway with the Beethoven Erläuterungsausgaben during the war, Schenker revives the project. Hertzka prematurely welcomes its “first year of operation” in substitution for the Beethoven. Op. 109 and Op. 110 had already appeared and Op. 111 would appear that year, further work on Opp. 101 and 106 had become impossible under wartime conditions, so their publication would be suspended until cessation of hostilities (OC 52/555). The Kleine Bibliothek/Flugschriften idea was thus envisioned as a gap-filling series of wartime issues, perhaps starting in 1916. The modest size of each issue and its flexibility of publication schedule must have appealed to Hertzka; yet the project is shelved once Schenker’s demands as to the scope of the work and his fees as its author are known (OC 52/556). In January 1917, the two men are again in negotiations. Hertzka, unwittingly prophetic of the eventual title, declares

Kleine Bibliothek Blätter zum Zeugnis unwandelbarer Gesetze der Tonkunst einer neuen Jugend erläutert (“Little Library: leaves in witness to immutable laws of music, explained to a new generation of youth.”) “Kleine Bibliothek” might be misunderstood by the public, and by the book and music trade. Hertzka toys with alternatives, including: Flugblätter zum Zeugnis unwandelbarer Gesetze der Tonkunst (“Pamphlets in witness to immutable laws of music”). Schenker evidently rejects this formulation, suggesting Der Fortschritt (“Progress”). Hertzka does not warm to this, and asks how Schenker would feel about Tonschöpfer or Tonschöpfung or some combination including one of these; or, if not, then how about TonkunstFlugblätter or Tonwille-Flugblätter (OC 52/251). It is unclear whether the word

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gener al preface Tonwille comes from Hertzka or has already been mooted by Schenker, but it is interesting to see the publisher take so critical a role in the formulation of the title. The matter is swiftly settled, and from April 1 on the work is consistently referred to in correspondence as Der Tonwille.4 Perhaps the first sign of the eventual troubles comes when, on December 30, 1920, Hertzka writes that he has just read the corrected proof of “The Mission of German Genius” and has “urgent need to speak with [Schenker] in this regard” (OC 52/561). Schenker’s diary contains a report of that meeting: Hertzka says he dare not publish the article for fear of offending his foreign readership. Then he hits on the idea of creating a fictitious publishing house, so leaving Schenker free to write whatever he wants. They agree, as can be seen from Schenker’s diary entry for January 5, 1921 (recorded in Hellmut Federhofer, Heinrich Schenker, nach Tagebüchern und Briefen [Hildesheim: Georg Olms, 1985], p. 33). The publisher’s imprint is not referred to in the contract. Hertzka discusses it in a letter, suggesting “Verlag der Tonkunst-Flugblätter,” or “Tonkunst FlugblätterVerlag” (OC 52/549, 2– 23 – 21). The final designation is “Tonwille-Flugblätterverlag.” We know from another source that Schenker had come to regard Universal as one of the betrayers from within that were his main target in “Mission,” for in a draft of a letter sent in the autumn of 1921 to Paul von Hindenburg, the revered elder statesman of Germany who would be elected president of the Weimar Republic in 1925, he wrote:

From Universal’s side, serious concerns were expressed about a year later, in December 1921, when Schenker was warned that, because of the likely production costs of Tonwille 2, the continuation of the article on Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony would have to be deferred to Tonwille 3 if Schenker considered that the essays on the Mozart A minor Sonata and Beethoven Op. 2 No. 1 had priority (OC 52/296). In spring 1922, printing of the Miscellanea for Tonwille 2 was held up for lack of an adequate supply of small type; but that only masked much greater concern at the sheer bulk of Tonwille 2 (OC 52/296, 562–63). Then came a blow from Hertzka in May: he regretted that he would be unable to print the “anthology” (i.e., the Miscellanea), “most interesting though it is,” in its entirety, because it would make the issue unsaleable. Hertzka continued: Permit me to point out that we envisioned the issues of Tonwille as comprising two gatherings, i.e. 32 pages. . . . Apart from that, our contract says expressly that Die Kleinbibliothek [sic], i.e. Der Tonwille, examines various topics in the field of music. In the fourteen pages of “Miscellanea,” no topics whatsoever in the field of music are examined, but only topics in the field of politics and demagoguery. (OC 52/564 – 65) While expressing the greatest respect for Schenker, he advocated dropping the item altogether from Tonwille 2, leaving a forty-eight-page issue (the eventual outcome), and expressed his willingness to include some of the Miscellanea by mutual consent in Tonwille 3. In a rare and significant confessional moment, Hertzka wrote: “I find it impossible to believe that a genius-aristocracy would flourish better in the context of imperialism and militarism than in the context of democracy” (OC/512–13). This remark was made against the background of an altercation between Schenker and Paul Bekker, a friend of Hertzka, who had in February and April 1922 produced sharply critical reviews of Schenker’s Erläuterungsausgaben in the journal Musikblätter des Anbruch (published by Universal Edition) and his facsimile edition of Beethoven’s “Moonlight” Sonata in the Frankfurter Zeitung, of which he was chief music critic (OC 2, p. 60). Schenker had cut more than half of his nine-column critique of Bekker from the page proofs of the Erläuterungsausgabe of Op. 101 (OC 39/51– 53), presumably at Hertzka’s insistence, but subsequently appropriated a substantial portion of this text for a piece entitled “Musik-Kritik,” adding a vigorous defense of his “Moonlight” facsimile edition against Bekker (OC 39/33– 50), whose review had spoken of “superfluous and sterile introductions by editors” and had cited some of Schenker’s “ridiculous commentary” on Beethoven’s manuscript. “If such personal expectoration has to

. . . the publisher—the Tonwille-Verlag is a fictitious name, behind which stands the major publisher who publishes my other works, but above all operates “internationally”—felt himself personally attacked, and also believed that his “international” business dealings (which he prefers to honor) had been damaged. In the end, the publisher was obliged to give up the fight. (OC 24/14) Universal was a predominantly Jewish firm, and Schenker, himself Jewish, particularly condemned those Jews whom he saw as “cosmopolitan” and therefore disloyal to the German-Austrian nation. 4Even before the publication details had been agreed on, Schenker was referring to his forthcoming “Kleine Bibliothek” in the Erläuterungsausgabe of Op. 101. He had already assigned it the abbreviation “kl. Bibl.” in his list of writings on the contents page; the foreword to the edition, on the page opposite, is dated August 30, 1920. But publication of the sonata was held up until the spring of 1921, so that the list of abbreviations could accommodate the new title. (The publication date of 1920, given in many sources, is an error.)

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gener al preface of “Urlinie” was introduced and first explained. It borrows its overall approach to music—the close reading of scores, together with remarks on textual and interpretative matters, and a survey of the secondary literature—from earlier publications, but the musical document on which readers are asked to focus their attention is no longer the score (whether or not this was integral to the text, as in the Erläuterungsausgaben) but the Urlinie-Tafel that is supplied with each issue. The Tonwille series is the immediate forerunner to Das Meisterwerk in der Musik; indeed, despite the change of format, from occasional publication (Tonwille 1– 6) to “quarterly journal” (Tonwille 7–10) to “yearbook” (Meisterwerk), the two series offer an almost unbroken record of Schenker’s most advanced analytical and theoretical work during the decade immediately following the first conceptualizing of the Urlinie. Although he welcomed the opportunity afforded by Meisterwerk for the publication of longer essays, and took advantage of this in the second and third yearbooks by publishing complete analyses of symphonies in each, Schenker regarded the two titles as a single series: advertisements for his work specifically describe the Meisterwerk yearbooks as the “continuation of the Tonwille issues.” The “order of events” in the analytical essays in Der Tonwille is, to a large extent, derived from his earlier analytical and editorial work on the Beethoven symphonies and sonatas. Matters of analysis (form, harmony, and counterpoint) are generally followed by remarks on autograph materials and early editions, and on editorial issues arising from them; recommendations on performance, in relation to both the analytical and text-critical discussions that precede them; and finally a dismissive survey of the secondary literature. Not every rubric can be applied to every piece—the ideal here is middle- and late-period Beethoven, for which there is usually some account of the sketches (for this, Schenker relied on the work of the Beethoven scholar Gustav Nottebohm), an autograph manuscript, and an enormous critical literature. But in all the longer essays, the close readings found in an analysis at the beginning of an essay are balanced by a less technical and (invariably) more polemical consideration of other matters. To the generations of musicologists trained in the techniques of making editions of old music, Schenker’s text-critical work in the 1910s and 1920s will seem primitive, and at times naïve. No attempt was made at a stemmatic filiation of the sources, the chronological ordering that clarifies the stages by which a composer’s ideas make their way toward publication. Yet, he was ahead of his time, both in his insistence on using the best text of a work as the basis on which to understand

be published at all,” Bekker wrote, “then at least it is out-of-place in this context, and immediately spoils the impression that such a publication ought to give.” Schenker envisaged “Musik-Kritik” as a further item of the Miscellanea originally intended for Tonwille 2; again, Hertzka declined to publish it (OC 52/569). By August 1922, Tonwille 3 was expected to present the conclusion of the Beethoven Fifth Symphony essay and the deferred Miscellanea (“with far too few cuts,” as Hertzka’s colleague Dr. Alfred Kalmus observed in a later communication), making thirty-six pages in all. The fourth issue was, at Schenker’s suggestion, devoted to music for children, with Urlinie graphs of the Little Preludes of J. S. Bach and other short pieces; it acquired the working subtitle “Kinderheft” (“volume for children”) in the correspondence (OC 52/570), and, as initially conceived, was not to contain any polemical material. However, by September, Tonwille 3 threatened to run to eighty pages with the arrival of “Die Kunst zu hören” and an essay on a Haydn sonata.5 Yet again, the Fifth Symphony continuation was shunted back, this time to Tonwille 5. In the event, the “Kinderheft” became compromised by a sizeable Miscellanea, and three of the Bach preludes had to be deferred to the following issue. (As a result, the “Kinderheft” straddles Tonwille 4 and 5, and neither volume refers to the special nature of the contents.) In February 1923, yet another crisis arose, as Hertzka red-penned some derogatory remarks by Schenker about Bekker, Kretzschmar, and others. Schenker, who had accused Hertzka of “terrorist censorship” over the cuts in the Miscellanea published in Tonwille 3, now accused him of being “unjust, partisan, and terrorizing” (OC 52/573–74). Our review of the publication history of Der Tonwille and Schenker’s relationship with Universal will be continued in the second volume of this translation.

Survey of the Contents

D

er Tonwille is a central work—in several respects, the central work—in the Schenkerian canon. Publication began immediately following the appearance of the fourth of the Beethoven Erläuterungsausgaben in 1921, in which the concept 5Kalmus’s letter refers to an “Aufsatz über die Haydn Sonaten,” but the lead article of Tonwille 3 concerns just one work, the Sonata in E
, Hoboken XVI:52. (It is improbable that this essay once embraced the Sonata in C, Hob. XVI:35, the subject of one of the short essays in Tonwille 4 and a companion piece to the essays on easy sonata movements by Mozart and Beethoven.)

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gener al preface were largely free of polemic.6 One of Schenker’s projects conceived along didactic lines was a series of Urlinie graphs for Bach’s twelve “Little Preludes”; this particularly appealed to Hertzka and Kalmus.7 Schenker eventually completed seven of these, each accompanied by a short essay: two appeared in Tonwille 4, three more in the next issue, and a further three in the first of the Meisterwerk yearbooks. The inclusion of two essays on Emanuel Bach in Tonwille 4 is partly driven by a personal agenda: one piece comes from a collection of easy pieces in binary form published by Universal Edition in 1914—as an “Erläuterungsausgabe”!— under the editorship of Otto Vrieslander, who had been a pupil of Schenker’s for two years before the war and who became one of his most ardent champions over the next two decades.8 The other is taken from Schenker’s own selection of Emanuel Bach’s keyboard works, which Universal had issued back in 1902. The “theoretical” writings in Tonwille 1– 5 are all short essays, ostensibly concerned with such matters as musical structure, history, and perception; but they are more philosophical in tone. With polemical sentiments lying not far from the surface, Schenker sometimes digresses from the topic advertised in the title. The “Art of Listening” begins as a dialogue between himself and “a highly gifted composer” on the harmonic interpretation of a prelude from the Well-Tempered Clavier, but later slips into an attack on editors who corrupt musical texts—a subject that Schenker was to treat with greater imagination and insight in the first Meisterwerk yearbook. The sections that are most unashamedly polemical in tone—the lead article, and four sets of “Miscellanea”—are also among the longest in Tonwille 1– 5. Together with Schenker’s one-sided critique of the secondary literature on the music he wrote about, they are usually dismissed as being of little relevance to his con-

and explain its meaning, and in his repeated pleas to respect the wishes of composers in matters of performance. The discussion of textual matters can provide a useful bond between the analysis, with which an essay begins, and the remarks on performance, which will follow; the interconnections are sometimes extended to the discussion of the secondary literature, especially where performers are concerned (Czerny, Reinecke, Weingartner). Moreover, Schenker articulated a position on textual criticism whose fullest realization is perhaps yet to come, namely, that one must have the deepest understanding of structure in order to determine the best reading of a musical text. This is expressed with the greatest force in the paragraph introducing the text-critical commentary to Beethoven’s Sonata in F minor, Op. 2, No. 1: As little as one may say of Beethoven himself that he was merely practicing musical philology when he sought the best notation, improved slurs, etc., just as little may the work of an editor in this matter be regarded as philology. It is rather of a purely artistic nature, and demands the full interest of all those who want to make the content of the work of art truly their own. The analysis of individual works accounts for eighteen of the twenty-eight discrete writings in the first five issues of Der Tonwille. Of these, two represent the major part of what was conceived as a continuous essay on Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, which was completed in Tonwille 6 (dated 1923 but not issued until the spring of 1924) and which Universal Edition published separately as a seventy-three-page monograph a year later. Three of the essays, published successively across Tonwille 2 and 3, form a trilogy on the piano sonatas of Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven. They follow the order of composition (Schenker makes a point of saying so), and the procedures of these masters are compared and contrasted with each other. In the discussion of the secondary literature, the writings of Adolf Bernhard Marx and Hugo Riemann are common targets of Schenker’s contempt. In Tonwille 4, the Viennese triumvirate of Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven make a further appearance, each with a movement from one of their easier sonatas. This was the volume that Schenker and his publishers provisionally referred to as a “Kinderheft,” not because it was specifically designed for children to read but because the music discussed there served a largely didactic purpose, more suited to the piano lesson than the concert hall, and the essays—all of them very short—

6An early formulation of this project confirms this intention. In a letter to Hertzka in early May 1922 (OC 52/589– 90, Schenker proposes that Tonwille 4 should be dedicated to the very young, for Christmas [an die Jüngsten, zu Weihnachten], with analyses of works by “Bach, Haydn and Mozart, etc.” This issue will be published ohne Vermischtes (these words are trebly underlined), that is, without the usual polemics. 7“We greet with enthusiasm your idea of bringing out the Urlinien to Bach’s Little Preludes in succession” (OC 52/570). 8One of the few pupils of Schenker to achieve success as a composer as well as a musicologist, Vrieslander published a number of articles and reviews extolling his mentor as a theorist and music philosopher, which are preserved in the scrapbook relating to Schenker’s career as a musician and writer (OC 2). A reviewer of Tonwille 5 and 6 in Die Musik in 1925 (see OC 2, p. 67) noted, with regret, that Vrieslander had himself adopted the polemical tone that characterized his teacher’s writings, for example, in his recent book on Emanuel Bach.

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gener al preface a sense—and one that would almost certainly have been foremost in Schenker’s mind—in which the opening article of Der Tonwille, “The Mission of German Genius,” set the agenda for the entire publication, and also for Das Meisterwerk in der Musik. All of the subsequent material—the analyses of J. S. Bach, Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, and Brahms, and the theoretical essays, as well as the Miscellanea— constitute the empirical body of evidence for the assertions made in the “Mission”: that Germany was battleworthy when it was tricked into a cease-fire; that the “Western” nations dishonestly used the Treaty of Versailles to lay the burden of guilt for the war on the German nation; that Germany herself had come to believe her guilt, so forgetting her great intellectual and spiritual heritage; and that she needed to be reconnected with her past tradition, and made to recognize the unworthiness of France, Italy, and the Anglo-Saxon countries. It is not far-fetched to suggest that the flashpoint for Der Tonwille was the Versailles Treaty itself (1919), and that all ten issues were impelled by a fervor to “expose” democracy and cosmopolitanism as mortal dangers to Germany’s inherently monarchic society. Schenker was by no means an isolated figure either in his antipathy toward the French and other “Western” nations or in his willingness to publicize it; indeed, there is a long tradition of Francophobia among German men of letters, stretching back to the late eighteenth century; many sections of the Miscellanea are devoted to an exhumation of that tradition, and to the investiture of composers such as Mozart and Beethoven into the pantheon of German genius whose members unashamedly expressed their belief in German superiority: it is for this reason that large extracts of Mozart’s correspondence are included in the Miscellanea of Tonwille 1 and 3, and that Schenker picks up Beethoven’s remarks on the genius of “the German Handel and Sebastian Bach” in Tonwille 5, insisting, moreover, that “Beethoven went out of his way to highlight the fact that Handel was a German” in making this remark. The citations from the secondary literature, which can at times seem to dominate an essay (those on Beethoven’s Sonata in F minor and Fifth Symphony occupy a great deal of space), should not be understood merely as the targets for ridicule by a writer who thinks he knows better, but as examples of (mostly) German writings that fail utterly to shed light upon the tradition of German musical mastery which they claim to understand. Seen from this viewpoint, the greatest transgression a German author can make is to observe foreign traits in a German genius. This helps to explain Schenker’s serialized attack on Artur Schurig’s biography of Mozart, which was among the first to describe French influences on the development of his musical style; the attack reaches fever pitch in the Miscellanea of Tonwille 4.

cerns with musical structure. Yet this material accounts for almost ninety full pages of the original German edition, and of these about seventy are in small typeface, which can accommodate many more words per page. By contrast, a little over one hundred pages of the original German edition—including the interleaved music examples—are devoted to matters of analysis, performance, and textual criticism. It is therefore no exaggeration to say that Schenker’s polemics loom very large in these pages. (In the remaining five issues of Tonwille, the proportion of polemical writings is drastically reduced.) One is bound to ask: why did Schenker attach so much important to these parts of his work, even to the point of expressing the hope that all the Miscellanea and similarly conceived passages from his monographs and editions might be collected and published as a separate book? He believed that they served a didactic purpose: “Polemic is the classroom in which the ‘people’ learn! The rest they will not understand for a long time to come.”9 Indeed, readers who lacked a basic grounding in music theory but nevertheless shared his artistic outlook would have viewed the analytical portions of Der Tonwille as the objective proof of his philosophy, an attitude that is diametrically opposed to that informing the reception of Schenker in the later twentieth century, according to which his polemical writings bear little relationship to his conception of music.10 But the principal reason for the polemical tone is, of course, the intensification of Schenker’s pride in the German nation during and immediately after World War I. The very idea of a series of “Flugblätter” suggests a military operation; their association with the war was thus part of his intention from the outset. There is 9“Polemik ist die Schulklasse, in der das “Volk” lernt! Das Andere verstehen sie noch lange nicht!” This aphorism concludes the draft of a long letter to Hertzka (OC 52/589– 90), which is undated but concerns the contents of Tonwille 3 and 4 and replies specifically to the charge of demagoguery raised in Hertzka’s letter of May 2, 1922 (quoted earlier). 10Thus, for example, Allen Forte, in his “Introduction to the English Edition” of Der freie Satz, could write in 1978: In part, this material is typical of many other German language authors of an older period; in part, it is characteristic of Schenker, and must be placed in proper perspective. Almost none of the material bears substantive relation to the musical concepts that he developed during his lifetime and, from that standpoint, can be disregarded; it is, however, part of the man and his work.” (p. xviii) These sentiments are echoed almost a decade later, by John Rothgeb, in his foreword to the next major Schenker translation, Counterpoint (1987): We urge the reader to recognize that however much Schenker may have regarded his musical precepts as an integral part of a unified world-view, they are, in fact, not at all logically dependent on any of his extramusical speculations. (p. xiv)

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gener al preface Universal Edition never seems to have grasped Schenker’s conception of the Miscellanea as integral to their volumes: they viewed this section as an appendix (Anhang), while referring to the remainder of an issue as its content (Inhalt). Schenker made an effort to link the Miscellanea to the musical topics discussed in same issue. Tonwille 4, the “children’s” issue, recreates an imagined lesson between Bach and his wife concerning a keyboard aria from the Notebook for Anna Magdalena Bach, as well as including extracts from Emanuel Bach’s Versuch on the importance of fingering. Tonwille 5 brings a conjunction of Bach and Beethoven in both the analytical essays (little preludes, Fifth Symphony) and the first section of the Miscellanea; later on in the same Miscellanea, Schenker draws an analogy between a prelude by Bach, that is, a tiny work by a composer of genius, and a “German speck of dust”—Schenker himself—whose ability to understand and convey the meaning of that prelude places him on a higher level of humanity than all foreign armies, presidents, and statesmen. And when Universal Edition postponed the publication of the Miscellanea of Tonwille 2, Schenker included a footnote in Tonwille 3 to the effect that this section was intended for the earlier issue, lest his readers be puzzled by, for instance, the inclusion of lengthy extracts from Mozart’s correspondence in an issue largely devoted to a Haydn sonata.

Although we respect the principle of Fassung letzter Hand, there seemed a strong argument for restoring those passages that he acquiesced to cutting at the last minute, against his will. These will be shown in the translation as enclosed between forward and backward pointing arrowheads, 䊳 and 䊴. The long diatribe against Paul Bekker, whose opening was deleted from the page proofs of the Erläuterungsausgabe of Op. 101 and whose additional material—although intended for Tonwille—was never typeset, appears as an appendix to the second volume of this translation.

Terminology

The publication of Tonwille in English completes a project to translate Schenk-

er’s principal collections of analytical and theoretical essays from the 1920s. Our approach to the translation generally follows that to Das Meisterwerk in der Musik, which was coordinated by us and completed in 1997. Some of the conventions new to that project have been retained here: thus, for instance, we have left Urlinie and Ursatz in the original German. But we now render Urlinie-Tafel as “graph of the Urlinie,” rather than “foreground graph,” which would have been anachronistic. Oberstimme and Unterstimme are now rendered more neutrally, as “upper voice” and “lower voice,” respectively, rather than “treble” and “bass” (as for Meisterwerk). After much consideration, it was agreed to translate Schenker’s neologism Auskomponierung as “elaboration,” rather than the more familiar “composingout.” Schenker devised the word as a musical analogue to Ausarbeitung, and used it consistently in the sense of a development, an elaboration or working out of the details. In each essay, however, the first instance of Auskomponierung will be noted in brackets. Schenker used the expression an der Wende des T. 10–11 when describing a musical event straddling bars 10 and 11 (and similarly for any other adjacent pair of bars) but not actually covering the full space of two bars: we give this as “across bars 10|11,” and so on.

A Note on the Translation

All previous translations of Schenker were based only on final published text. In this work, we make use of materials in the Oster Collection in the New York Public Library and Vienna Stadt- und Landesbibliothek: although he never changed the text of his essays once they were published (this applies to Tonwille, which was reissued in three volumes, and also to the sections devoted to Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony), Schenker annotated his personal copies of Tonwille, sometimes to reflect the developments in his notation of musical structure, and sometimes to add a further thought about a composer and the significance of his work. These will be duly noted in the appropriate places of our translation. The Oster Collection also preserves portions of text that were deleted from the page proofs of Tonwille 3. These are part of File 39, which contains passages “censored” by Schenker’s publishers, as indicated by the heading on the folder:

Some Bibliographical Conventions

We have endeavored to locate the sources of the numerous extracts from German literature quoted in Der Tonwille. For some authors, it has been possible to find the specific passage, other texts have proved more elusive; in an effort to

Zensuriertes! (von “U.[niversal] E.[dition]” u.[nd] 3 M.[asken-Verlag])

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gener al preface against assigning to each essay an identifying chapter number. The numbering of the music examples in the text (Figuren) is the same as in the original, and begins afresh in each essay. The great majority of footnotes are editorial. Those by Schenker himself are prefaced by the symbol [S]; editorial additions to these are enclosed in square brackets. This translation will use mainly American, not British, music terminology. Two exceptions have been made: for Folgen and offene Folgen—and the words Oktaven and Quinten where they refer to the same type of part-writing error— we shall speak of “consecutive” fifths and octaves (rather than “parallel” fifths and octaves). And for Takt(e) and its abbreviation T., we use “bar” and “bars” (without abbreviation), not “measure,” “measures,” “m.,” “mm.” In common with the Meisterwerk series, the original edition of Der Tonwille followed an older style of German book publishing by using Fraktur for the main text, and roman type for foreign words (such as “forte,” “cresc.,” “revanche”) and note names (Es, c3, etc.). We shall use italics for foreign words, but will keep note names in roman typeface. Where Schenker uses Sperrdruck (spaced type) for emphasis, we use italics; where he uses it to mark the beginning of a subsection of text, for example, remarks on an autograph manuscript, or a critique of a particular writer in the discussion of the secondary literature, we use boldface. Octave registers will be given as Schenker indicated them, in accordance with the Helmholtz system, with the middle C as c1 (and higher superscripts as necessary). Where Schenker deliberately does not specify register, we follow his usage: small letters for notes in the upper voice or melody and capital letters for bass notes, the roots of chords, and the names of keys. The reader should be able to distinguish which of Schenker’s unsuperscripted note names are register-specific, and which are not. Urlinie graphs and music examples in Schenker’s original text have not been reset; to do so would not only have been expensive but also risk the introduction of errors (of which very few have been found, and tacitly corrected). We have not attempted to translate the main title of this publication. Each of the constituent parts of the word “Tonwille” conveys a range of meaning, resulting in a large number of possible English renderings, none of which would have the concision of the original German. (It is perhaps significant, in this regard, that two other Schenkerian titles have shown resistance to translation: Erläuterungsausgabe and, to a lesser extent, Der freie Satz.) Some idea of what Schenker

strike a balance here, we give the name of the work from which the quotation has been extracted. Schenker was sometimes attracted to texts that he came across while reading the Neue freie Presse, a Viennese daily newspaper. (The newspaper clippings preserved in the Oster Collection are a useful source of these quotations, and we have been able to trace some of the quotations in Der Tonwille to these clippings.) Prose quotations have been translated into English; quotations of German poetry are given in the original language and in parallel English translation. In all of his writings, Schenker referred frequently to his earlier published work. These, together with all editorial references to Schenker’s published work, will identify both the page numbers of the original German text and those of standard English translations (see the “Bibliographical Abbreviations” for a list of these), with the German page numbers in roman type, those for the English translation in italics. The same practice will be applied, where relevant (and where possible), to other German writings that have been translated into English. For Der freie Satz, we will refer to section numbers (indicated by the symbol §), which are common to both the German and English editions. The vast majority of the secondary music literature cited in Der Tonwille is by German authors (e.g., Marx, Lenz, Riemann, Bekker). The essay on Mozart’s Sonata K. 310 quotes extensively—in the original French—the monumental lifeand-works study of Mozart by Théodore de Wyzewa and Georges de Saint-Foix; we have translated these extracts into English. The case of George Grove’s Beethoven’s Nine Symphonies, originally published 1896, is more complicated: Schenker was using a 1908 German translation that can at best be described as a paraphrase of the original, a translation more of the spirit of Grove’s text than of the letter. For the most part, these passages have been translated afresh; where Grove’s original text departs more radically from the German translation that Schenker was using, we also give it, in a footnote. Quotations from the Bible follow the New International Version, unless otherwise indicated. For readers who wish to compare the original text of Der Tonwille with this translation, the start of each page in the German edition is marked in our translation by the corresponding number in curly brackets. Since the numbering begins anew for each issue of Der Tonwille, we give the issue and page numbers for each essay, alongside their original German title. The essays are presented here in the sequence in which they originally appeared: to preserve the informal structure of the publication, we have decided

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gener al preface sity Press, for overseeing the project in its early stages, and to Ellen Welch, Kimberly Robinson, and Robert Milks of O.U.P. for working so patiently on the production of a music theory text with illustrative materials in an unconventional format. Thanks also are due to John Shepard (New York Public Library) for granting us access to original documents in the Oster Collection, and to Nigel Simeone (University of Wales, Bangor), Thomas Betzwieser (University of Bayreuth), and Brian Sparkes and Jeanice Brooks (University of Southampton) for their answers to specific questions. A special debt of gratitude is owed to Andrea Reiter of the University of Southampton, whose command of the German language and insight into Schenker’s style, which had greatly benefitted the translation team for Das Meisterwerk in der Musik, has again proved indispensable to all who have contributed to this edition of Der Tonwille.

meant by it is given in the essay on Beethoven’s Sonata in F minor, in which he speaks of being able “to feel the fiery will of the tone e
1” (den flammenden Willen des Tones es1 nachzufühlen); see Tonwille 2, p. 35 and explanatory note 16 provided by the translator, Joseph Dubiel.


This project could not have been realized without the encouragement and assistance we have received from within and without. Our contributing translators, in addition to undertaking their individual assignments with professionalism and imagination of the highest order, have always been ready to help us resolve matters of terminology and format relating to Der Tonwille as a whole. We are also grateful to Maribeth Payne, former music editor at Oxford Univer-

Ian Bent William Drabkin

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Contents

Tonwille 3

German Words, Phrases, Technical Terms, and Abbreviations Used in the Music Examples xvii Bibliographical Abbreviations

Haydn’s Sonata in E
Major, Hoboken XVI:52 99 The Art of Listening 118 Miscellanea 121

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Tonwille 4

Tonwille 1 The Mission of German Genius 3 The Urlinie: A Preliminary Remark 21 Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony [first part] 25 The E
Minor Prelude from Bach’s Well-Tempered Clavier, Book I Schubert’s Ihr Bild 41 Miscellanea 44

34

Bach’s Little Prelude No. 1 in C Major, BWV 924 141 Bach’s Little Prelude No. 2 in C Major, BWV 939 145 The Allemande from Handel’s Suite in G Major, HWV 441 146 C. P. E. Bach’s Allegro in G Major 148 C. P. E. Bach’s Keyboard Sonata in C Major 150 Haydn’s Sonata in C Major, Hoboken XVI:35 153 Mozart’s Sonata in C Major, K. 545 156 Beethoven’s Sonata in G Major, Op. 49, No. 2 158 Miscellanea 160

Tonwille 2 Laws of the Art of Music 51 History of the Art of Music 52 Yet Another Word on the Urlinie 53 Mozart’s Sonata in A Minor, K. 310 55 Beethoven’s Sonata in F Minor, Op. 2, No. 1 72

Tonwille 5 Bach’s Little Prelude No. 3 in C Minor, BWV 999 175 Bach’s Little Prelude No. 4 in D Major, BWV 925 177 Bach’s Little Prelude No. 5 in D Minor, BWV 926 180 Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony (Continuation) 182 Miscellanea 210 Index

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German Words, Phrases, Technical Terms, and Abbreviations Used in the Music Examples

This is an alphabetized list of all the analytical labels and explanatory text

Fag. [Fagott(e)] fes Fis Fl. [Flöte(n)] für Ged [Gedanke] ges H I, II Holzbl. [Holzbläser] Hrn, Hörner Kl., Klar. [Klarinette(n)] leicht m, moll Md, Modul. [Modulation]

found in the music examples and Urlinie graphs of Tonwille 1– 5. In general, an abbreviation is followed by the full form of the word in question, either after a comma (if that word also appears somewhere in the examples), or in brackets (if it does not). To obtain a translation of a short phrase, it may be necessary to look up the component words or abbreviations: thus “II Ged” ⫽ “second” ⫹ “subject” (or “group”), in sonata form. The note to the graph of the Urlinie for Haydn’s Sonata in E
(Tonwille 3) is not included in this table, but appears in the text of the essay, at the bottom of the graph of the first movement. 1., 2., 3. 2 Okt tiefer 8va tiefer als Durchgang als Vorhalt alteriert As Auftakt B Br. [Bratsche(n)] c.f ces d, dur Df., Durchführung Dg. [Durchgang], Durchgänge Erster Teil Es

first, second, third two octaves lower one octave lower as passing note as suspension altered A
(note) upbeat B
(note) viola(s) cantus firmus C
(note) major development section (in sonata form) passing note(s), transitional harmony (harmonies) first part, exposition (in sonata form) E
(note)

Mischung N. S. [Nachsatz] Nbn. [Nebennote] Nbn. Hm(n). [Nebennotenharmonie(n)] Oberquint als Teiler oder p.v. [prima volta] Quartzug Quintzug Repr., Reprise s.v. [seconda volta]

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bassoon(s) F
(note) F  (note) flute(s) for subject, group (in sonata form) G
(note) B (note) first, second wind instruments horns clarinet(s) light, unstressed minor modulation (in sonata-form exposition) mixture (of major and minor) consequent phrase neighbor note neighbor-note harmony (harmonies) upper fifth as divider or first ending (of a repeated section) fourth-progression fifth-progression reprise, recapitulation (in sonata form) second ending (of a repeated section)

ger man words, phr ases, te chnical ter ms, and abbrev iations used in the music examples Schlußged. [Schlußgedanke] schwer Sept, Septime sog[ennanter] Akkord d[er] gr[ossen] Septime Strch [Streicher] T. [Takt] Takttriole Teiler Teilgedanke Terzgang des Aussensatzes

closing subject, group (in sonata form) heavy, stressed seventh so-called chord of the major seventh string instruments bar, bar number three-bar group divider part of a group (in sonata form) succession of thirds between the outer voices

Thema Tp. [Trompete(n)] u.s.w. [und so weiter] und V. S. [Vordersatz] Vcl., Vlc. Viol. [Violine(n)] weiblich wie Wiederholung

xviii

theme trumpet(s) and so forth and antecedent phrase violoncello(s) violin(s) feminine as, the same as repetition

Bibliographical Abbreviations

Unpublished materials OC

WSLB

The Oster Collection: Papers of Heinrich Schenker, New York Public Library (New York, USA) A “Finding List” of this collection, compiled by Robert Kosovsky, is dated May 31, 1990, and issued by the New York Public Library Wiener Stadt- und Landesbibliothek [Municipal and Provincial Library of Vienna]: collection of 446 letters from Schenker to Universal edition, Vienna. (On loan from Universal Edition.)

Beethovens neunte Sinfonie

Erläuterungsausgabe

of Op.101 of Op.109 of Op.110 of Op.111

Schenker’s published writings Harmonielehre

Ornamentik

Kontrapunkt i, ii

Harmonielehre ⫽ Neue musikalische Theorien und Phantasien, part 1 (Stuttgart: Cotta, 1906) Abbreviated English translation: Harmony, ed. Oswald Jonas and trans. Elizabeth Mann Borgese (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1954) Ein Beitrag zur Ornamentik, revised 2nd edn (Vienna: Universal Edition, 1908) English translation: “A Contribution to the Study of Ornamentation,” trans. Hedi Siegel, Music Forum 4 (1976), pp. 1–139. Kontrapunkt ⫽ Neue musikalische Theorien und Phantasien, part 2; vol. i (Stuttgart: Cotta, 1910), vol. ii (Vienna: Universal Edition, 1922)

Tonwille 1, 2, 3 etc.

Meisterwerk i, ii, iii

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English translation: Counterpoint, trans. John Rothgeb and Jürgen Thym, ed. John Rothgeb, 2 vols. (New York: Schirmer, 1987) Beethovens neunte Sinfonie (Vienna: Universal Edition, 1912) English translation: Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, trans. John Rothgeb (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1992) Beethoven, Die letzten fünf Sonaten: kritische Ausgabe mit Einführung und Erläuterung (Vienna: Universal Edition) Sonate A dur Opus 101 (1921) Sonate E dur Opus 109 (1913) Sonate As dur Opus 110 (1914) Sonate C moll Opus 111 (1915) (Opus 106 not completed or published) abbreviated second edition: Beethoven, Die letzten Sonaten: kritische Einführung und Erläuterung ed. Oswald Jonas (Vienna: Universal Edition, 1971– 2) Der Tonwille, ten issues (Vienna: TonwilleFlugblätterverlag [⫽ Universal Edition], 1921– 24) English translation: the present publication (projected in two volumes) Das Meisterwerk in der Musik, three vols. (Vienna: 1925, 1926, 1930) English translation: The Masterwork in Music, trans. Ian Bent, Alfred Clayton, William Drabkin,

biblio g r aphical abbrev iations

Der freie Satz

Richard Kramer, Derrick Puffett, John Rothgeb and Hedi Siegel, ed. William Drabkin (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994, 1996, 1997) Der freie Satz ⫽ Neue musikalische Theorien und Phantasien, part 3 (Vienna: Universal Edition, 1935, rev. 2/1956) English translation: Free Composition (Der freie Satz), ed. and trans. Ernst Oster (New York: Longman, 1979)

Schenker’s references to “II3” are to a projected third volume of Kontrapunkt, which used the title “Freier Satz” throughout the publication of Der Tonwille; this work is extensively documented in the Oster Collection. Schenker worked out a plan for it during World War I, and had completed an initial draft by August 1917, to which additions and emendations were made.1 Sometimes he refers to sections of this work that can be specifically identified in the early draft; other references show that his conception of this work was changing, although the final version, published posthumously with the title Der freie Satz as the third and final part of the Neue musikalische Theorien und Phantasien, was to turn out very different. We have attempted to trace these references back to “Freier Satz” as preserved in the Oster Collection, and ahead to the published form of this work. Our references to Der freie Satz use paragraph numbers (§), which are the same in the German and English editions. For the Erläuterungsausgaben of the late Beethoven sonatas, the italicized page numbers refer not to an English translation (at present, none has been published) but to Jonas’s revised German edition. Unless otherwise stated, references to material in the Oster Collection are by file and item number. Thus, for example, “OC 52/138” refers to file 52, item 138, in the collection.

To facilitate reference to Schenker’s original writings and the current standard translations, a system of double page references is used in this translation. Thus, for example, (see Kontrapunkt i, pp. 63ff/pp. 42– 44) indicates that the Schenker original referred the reader to pp. 63 and following of the first volume of his Kontrapunkt, and that we have in addition supplied the corresponding page numbers, 42– 44, in Rothgeb and Thym’s English translation. This dual reference system also applies to this publication, that is, to the first five issues of Der Tonwille; thus, for instance, “see Tonwille 4, p. 24/i, p. 162.”

1For an introduction to the exceedingly complex “prehistory” of Der freie Satz, see Hedi Siegel, “When ‘Freier Satz’ Was Part of Kontrapunkt: a Preliminary Report,” Schenker Studies 2, ed. C. Schachter and H. Siegel (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), pp. 12– 25.

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Tonwille 1

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The Mission of German Genius Von der Sendung des deutschen Genies {Tonwille 1, pp. 3 – 21} t r a n s l at e d b y i a n b e n t

In these grave times, in these most grievous of times, when universal economic

thing) to the people and to humanity, whether these be the Germans, their enemies, particular social classes, or even individuals, whether on the basis of old or new worldviews, systems of government, or social forms, etc. If the present author speaks in this connection of betrayal—betrayal perpetrated by Germans upon Germans, by nations upon one another and upon the whole of humanity, in the past, and still today—and if he speaks in detail and at some length, then he means not so much to denounce betrayal and betrayers in the political sense as to bring to light that which, springing from causes long past, having deep roots, was bound to lead to present betrayal. How, and by whom, the betrayal was perpetrated—at the heart of that question (and our emphasis will be solely on that) lies the demise of genius, the decline of those solutions to the problems of humanity that have from time immemorial been attained through genius: solutions such as nation, state, religion, monarchy, republic, democracy, freedom, art, science, etc. It amounts to all well-established, unalterable concepts having utterly vanished, to a total breakdown of knowledge and ethics, leading to ultimate spiritual and moral degeneracy. This breakdown must be reversed if the path to genius and to human dignity is to be rediscovered. Nor if the present author, in dilating further on the betrayal of culture, turns his criticism against middle class and working class alike, does he for a moment wish to engage in politics as conventionally understood. He means only to investigate the special conditions required for the creation and acceptance of an artwork of genius, and to delineate the path that leads uniquely to that goal. {4} He has thus no intention of playing off the working class against the middle class, or vice versa. Rather, in taking up the cause of genius as something higher than middle class, something higher than working class, as guarantee4 of nation and humanity, as resolution and redemption, he seeks to say which soil (“the land of

and spiritual poverty threatens to make any headway whatsoever in art, albeit threadbare and indigent, impossible, may these pamphlets,1 which will appear from time to time,2 be dedicated unswervingly to the nourishing of genius. Once the artist, in such times, sees how the political parties vying with one another for power sin against art in general, and against his own art in particular, through ignorance and ineptitude, then he must be inflamed, purely in his capacity as equal citizen of the state—even if he were the most detached of citizens—with the duty to protect art. Even more imperative becomes this impulse, the more conscious is he of the lesson of history that, among the arts, music in particular owes its foremost and finest achievements to kings, to the nobility, and to the Church, and the more is he convinced that this represents no chance alliance but an intrinsic bond. It is in just such a frame of mind that the author of Der Tonwille, too, now finds himself. As he sets about placing this collection of essays before the public with the intention of nurturing an elite group, he feels bound first to draw attention to the obstacles that, today more than ever, stand in the way of such an elite. No denying, there has always been resistance to genius throughout history. It has to be said, though, that the accursed World War,3 crueler even in its length than in its ferocity, has intensified that resistance to the utmost. Because of this, the World War has naturally moved to center-stage here, along with all that it has uncovered that is hostile to culture and genius, or (which amounts to the same 1Blätter: literally “leaves,” “pages.” The word reflects the subtitle of the journal: Flugblätter zum Zeugnis unwandelbarer Gesetze der Tonkunst and also the name Tonwille-Flugblätterverlag, which was devised to conceal the identity of the publisher, Universal Edition. 2In zwangloser Folge. This reflects the wording on the cover of the first six issues of Der Tonwille: erscheint in zwangloser Folge (“appears from time to time”). In 1924 Schenker and Universal Edition settled on a quarterly format, deleted this rubric, and adopted a double numbering system. 3That is, World War I, 1914 –18.

4Bürgen:

3

play on words with Bürger, “middle class, bourgeois.”

tonw i l l e 1 the poet”) may be best suited to genius, and whether the latter will be able to take root and flourish among us. The fact that Germans recognize and value their own great minds so little now—worse, that they deprecate them, indeed betray them, preferring those of foreigners—merely confirms that the propagating soil of humans is, after all, only soil. It cannot, however, deflect the author’s unshakeable conviction—a conviction borne of recognition that the temperaments of nations differ so greatly in essentials—that the one, the redeemer, will once again arise only from the German propagating soil of humans. This redeemer will strengthen the immutability and eternal validity of the solutions hitherto achieved—semper idem sed non eodem modo5 newly promulgated—and will moreover bring them to universal validity, though only to the extent of man’s capacity to accept them.












Shameless betrayal has been perpetrated during the World War on the genius of Germanity as a whole, and on the genius of those two time-honored generals, Hindenburg and Ludendorff;6 for the sake of their illustrious personages, sacrificed in exemplary fashion to a supreme goal, the very genius of humanity itself, which sits enthroned on the loftiest peaks, will one day become reconciled to all the dismal happenings of the World War. Betrayal was perpetrated on their own territory:
by a spiritually and morally venal fringe group, which—when not treasonously exploiting the market, and racketeering as manufacturers, merchants, farmers, etc.—were obeying the law whereby human commonplaceness ever lusts after other commonplaceness by selling itself body and soul to the West, to the disadvantage of the fatherland, its dignity, and its future, the very epit-




ome of human commonplaceness, its tawdry form concealing an even more trivial spirit beneath, and in this sense of the word concealing by form, lying by form;7 by that trouble-making megalomaniac wage-church8 of Karl Marx, which not even the choicest insults and affronts on the part of a deceitful International9 deterred from acting in a thorough-going internationalist manner, to the general joy and delight of the enemy; and which, fooling all whom it encountered, concentrated on shamelessly practicing wage-politics and usury; and moreover by openly inciting mutiny and desertion within the army even profiteered with freedom itself, insofar as any church so totally uncreative, and made up solely of job-seekers and -takers, can ever understand freedom, namely as the rejection of every authority except that which guarantees a higher wage, i.e. the church’s founder and his apostles; by a certain gang of sailors in Kiel who, to the utter dismay of the whole nation, so unexpectedly and unwelcomely sent the German Empire up in flames;10 by certain so-called pacifists and professors, their mouths rank with filth, who, counter to all logic, railed nauseatingly against Germany alone while leaving the nations of the West11 unreproached; men whose heinous, dishonorable

7For Schenker, “form” represents a concern with outward appearance, the treatment of form as separate from content, hence as something pretentious and obfuscating. For him, the English phrase “good form” is an emblem of French as well as English superficiality. Form should be the outward result of that which arises from within, and therefore should not need to be viewed in itself. This is, for him, one of the most blatant distinctions between the German mind and that of the Western nations of Europe. 8Lohnkirche: neologism by Schenker or contemporary commentators, from Lohn (“wage”) ⫹ Kirche (“church”), referring to the communist movement in general, and containing an ironic reference to the atheism professed by Marx and that movement. See also note 29. 9The International movement, a succession of federations of working-class socialist parties, the relevant ones being the First International (1864 –76), of which Marx was the dominant force, founded in London; the Second (1889–1914), founded in Paris; and the Third, or Comintern (1919 – 43), founded in Moscow. 10On October 30, 1918, some two hundred sailors on two ships in Kiel (principal port of the German fleet) refused to weigh anchor, and damped the coals in their boilers, in response to the order to raise steam for battle. They were imprisoned. On November 2, five hundred sailors from other ships rallied to demand their release; the next day 20,000 people demonstrated, breaking open the prison, seizing weapons from stores, and running up the red flag on all ships; and by November 6, there were 40,000 people calling for revolution. These events contributed to the exile of the kaiser, led directly to the downfall of the German government, and on November 9 to the declaration of a republic. See R. M. Watt, The Kings Depart: The Tragedy of Germany: Versailles and the German Revolution (New York: Simon & Schuster, 1968), pp. 158 – 200.] 11That is, France, Italy, Britain, and by extension the United States.

5“Always the same, but not in the same way.” This became Schenker’s artistic creed from 1921 onwards and appeared on the cover of every issue of Der Tonwille, after the Foreword to Kontrapunkt II (1922), and on the title-page of Der freie Satz (1935). 6Paul von Hindenburg (1847–1934), who had served in the Austro-Prussian and Franco-German wars (1866, 1870 –71), was recalled to service in World War I, rising to commander of all German land forces, and was later to be the second president of the Weimar Republic, 1925– 34; Erich Ludendorff (1865–1937), chief of staff of the Eighth Army from 1914, and appointed to direct the entire German war effort under Hindenburg from 1916. Schenker had brief exchanges of letters with both Hindenburg and Ludendorff in 1921. He sent copies of Der Tonwille to each with separate covering notes, drawing their attention to specific pages in the present essay and probably the “Miscellanea” of Tonwille 3; drafts of his letters, and the responses they elicited, are preserved in the Oster Collection, file 24, items 11–18.

4

The Mission of German Genius

conduct from childhood to the present day equipped them pitifully and despicably to be lackeys of foreign countries; [nations] whose piracy, drug trafficking, commandeering of God’s high seas, whose navalism,12 Baralongerei, slaughtering of {5} women, children and old people inside and outside of concentration camps, the dissolute conduct of whose kings and aristocracy, whose Armagnacism,13 constant sorties to rob and plunder, squabbling over revolution, militarism, lust after gloire,14 Senegalese marriage relationships,15 Congolese atrocities,16 etc., etc.—in short, whose pronounced barbarism, nay cannibalism, they conceal from themselves and others only scantily beneath high-flown language, verbal trickery, formality, and form itself (here is a random sampling from the lying maw of that infamous civilization:17 “Sun King,”18 “great Revolution,”“revanche,”19 “disannexation,”20 “nobles traditions,” “genius of the people,” “chivalry,” “eternal soldier of right,” “traditional jus-







12That is, the policy of building up naval fleets as instruments of war. Before 1914, the British fleet had been the largest in Europe. From 1912, Germany embarked on enlargement of its fleet to rival the British. However, the German fleet did not engage the British in full-scale battle. 13Armagnac: state in what is now southwest France; from the twelfth century a buffer between the French and English (during the Hundred Years’ War, the Burgundian, French, and English) spheres of influence, it wielded power by switching allegiance strategically; hence allegiance-switching by Western countries. 14Gloire-Brunst: Gloire: patriotic French rallying-cry, closely associated with the French Revolution, and reflected in the text of the Marseillaise (written by Rouget de Lisle on April 24, 1792, during the Revolution): (vs. 1) “Allons enfants de la patrie, / Le jour de gloire est arrivé,” (vs. 6) “Que tes enemis expirants / Voient ton triomphe et notre gloire”; Brunst: lit. “rutting,” or “being on-heat.” 15This is perhaps a reference to intermarriage between Europeans and Africans in the French colony of Senegal; or possibly to the polygamy-based social structure indigenous not to Senegal alone, but to many of the West African colonies. On Senegal, see note 40. 16King Leopold ii of Belgium had established the Congo Free State (since 1960 the Republic of Zaire) in 1884, and the abuses which his administrators and soldiers committed upon villages, especially in the collection of rubber, had become the subject of international protest from 1904. Belgium was held accountable, and sought to address the atrocities during and after World War I. The issue was still current in 1921. 17Schenker contrasted “civilization” with “culture,” the former being preoccupied with the outer trappings of a nation’s heritage, and with elegant and articulate expression (hence associated with the “superficial” Western nations), the latter denoting inward, “deeply felt” heritage, and the struggle for expression (hence associated with Germany. See Thomas Mann, Reflections of a Nonpolitical Man [1918], especially chapters 2– 3). 18King Louis xiv, reigned 1661–1715. 19“Revenge”; also “return match” in a game, or (as here) a policy that seeks to recover territory lost to an enemy. 20That is, the reversal of the annexation by Germany of Alsace and Lorraine, which had been accomplished by Germany during the Franco-Prussian War of 1870 –71.

tice,” “global conscience,” “battle against militarism,” “liberation of peoples,” “League of Nations,”21 etc., etc.). Betrayal was perpetrated, furthermore, by certain sensation-mongers22 who, having no genuine spiritual roots to guide them, hence apt merely to latch on to anything anywhere in the world and publicize and proclaim it indiscriminately, even during the War disparaged all things German in favor of things foreign; by certain other writers, who snored their way loudly through the RussoJapanese War,23 the Spanish- American War,24 and the Boer War,25 and snored, too, as mankind endured the agreements not worth the paper on which they were printed concerning Morocco,26 Tripoli,27 and Persia;28 but who, when the Germans had to defend themselves against an invasion long premeditated by nations whose virulent envy of it exceeded their incompetence, suddenly woke up to discover, oh-so-smugly, the spiritual and moral truth that peace was more humane than war; they then mendaciously painted their own fellow-countrymen as the very instigators of the war and perpetrators of the first murder;

21The League of Nations, formed at the instigation of the British and Americans at the end of World War I to prevent future world conflicts and preserve the postwar status quo, hence viewed by Schenker as an instrument of enforcement upon Germany. 22Litfaßkreaturen: lit: “creatures of Litfass,” perhaps in reference to war correspondents. Ernst Litfass (1816 –74) was a printer, publisher, and advertiser, who during the Franco-Prussian War of 1870 –71 obtained the exclusive first access to wartime dispatches and bulletins, for quotation in his newspapers. He is best known for having negotiated with the Berlin police commissioner to construct one hundred circular pillars and fifty hydrants and public conveniences at his own expense in return for the sole right to post placard advertisements on them. The round pillars became popularly known as Litfaßsäulen (“Litfass pillars”); Schenker’s aushängen (translated here “publicize”) implies “to post” as on a billboard or hoarding. 231904 – 5, won decisively by Japan, and triggering revolutionary unrest in Russia. 24February to August 1898, fought in Cuba and Puerto Rico, resulting in Spain’s recognition of Cuba’s independence and ceding of Puerto Rico to the United States; and also in the Philippines, resulting in the American acquisition of these islands. 251899–1902, fought in South Africa, won by the British, but with a reputation for barbarity in the concentration camps in which 26,000 Boers and more than 13,000 Africans died. 26By 1906, growing French influence in Morocco troubled Germany. In 1906, Kaiser Wilhelm ii visited the sultan of Morocco to assert Germany’s claim to equal rights in that country, causing international alarm; the Conference of Algeciras resulted. In 1911, the German gunboat Panther appeared outside the southern port of Agadir in an attempt to stem French encroachment; Germany backed down. See also note 49. 27The Italo-Turkish War of 1912 was fought over the provinces of Tripoli and Cyrenaica (both part of Libya since 1951), which were then controlled by the Turks, but were ceded to Italy as a result. 28The Anglo-French Entente of 1904 divided Persia into three spheres of influence, British, Russian, and neutral, causing Germany to protest “encirclement.” See also note 49.

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tonw i l l e 1








by certain ballad-mongers of intellectualism, certain “world citizens with love for the fatherland,” representatives of a spiritual half-world who, lacking any truly national feeling, let alone love for the fatherland, were incapable even of discovering for themselves how the exalted world citizenship of our greatest poets and thinkers is rooted primarily in a keenly felt, deep-running Germanity; and whose unprincipledness it served to make out a quintessentially German poet such as Goethe, Jean Paul, Hölderlin, etc., as just the opposite: anti-German, un-German; by certain novelists and spiritual “vassals” of Frenchness who have never been able to see through all the hullabaloo to its all-too genuine and oh-so-droll philistinism, and realize how, given its skeptically lifeless preoccupation with lofty questions, it seeks and finds its emotional fulfillment, refreshment, and delight in genital play and form (unmistakable signs of a typical mediocrity), and also how out of complacency it seeks to convince itself and others that its all-too-limited world is something important, using cheap affectation, cheap wit (esprit and the like: as Jean Paul puts it, “The spiritually-minded German is almost ashamed of being as ready a wit as a Frenchman, and has to try hard not to try hard”), and a form that is attractive to those of inferior mind (again, unmistakable sign of the genuine philistine, who is infatuated with his own wit, temperament—“I say! he’s a devil of a fellow! a real wag!”—and especially his “form”), much less that they could ever aspire to so profound an affirmation, so profound a form, and so demonic a nervous tension as is the preserve of great German geniuses—truly, a proposition by Luther, its content as well as its formulation, or an Adagio by Sebastian Bach, has more nervous energy, more true bravery than all the French armies over all the centuries have exhibited in body or spirit; a line of Goethe’s poetry, {6} a musical smile by Brahms, has more loveliness than all the bestiality of French masculinity and femininity; by certain foreign nationals who, while those in France (out of calculation, cowardice, or pride?) became Frenchmen through and through, and those in England (out of calculation, cowardice, or pride?) became dyed-in-the-wool Englishmen, in Germany by contrast, with barefaced ingratitude, not to mention at the cost of their good German-minded brothers-in-faith, styled themselves as internationalists, more often than not as high priests of the wagechurch;29

by certain international newspapers, oozing so-called democratic conviction and, needless to say, well disposed toward all “progress” (the kind that a democrat, a newspaperman calls progress, and about which he is all empty talk while others get on and make it, but that he resists when anyone else tries to suggest he make it himself—just think of Bismarck and the German democrats); these newspapers saw genuine democracy and true progress only in the deeds of Western nations, and held these up as a model to their own nation, which they claimed had been enslaved by the Junkers30 and deprived of real progress by German chauvinism and Pan-Germanism; in so believing, they have only exposed Germany all the more to the slanders of her enemies, who— as one should, with a little more experience, have foreseen—had not the slightest intention of expending money or spilling blood on Germany’s democratization, or on freeing the German people from the yoke of the Kaiser, the princes, and the Junkers; and betrayal was constantly being perpetrated in their own backyard:
by Magyars playing tricky economic politics and blockading basic foodstuffs against their comrades-in-arms, to the point of barefaced, infamous betrayal in the field, orchestrated by a genuine French catspaw;
by some Slavic nations belonging to Austria who, to this very day, fail to realize that on the scales of true genius one solitary figure, Chopin,31 and perhaps also just the one string quartet, From My Life, by Smetana,32 are worth more


30Junkertum: the landed aristocracy, especially that of Prussia which traced its descent from the Order of Teutonic Knights, founded in 1225. Bismarck belonged to this class, which represented extreme conservatism and upheld the monarchy, and from the ranks of which the Prussian army was staffed. Schenker shared their intense hostility to the Weimar Republic: Otto von Bismarck (1815 – 98), prime minister of Prussia from 1862, and the first chancellor of the German Empire, 1871– 90, under Wilhelm i. 31See Schenker’s analyses of two Chopin etudes in Meisterwerk i, pp. 145 –73/pp. 81– 98, and Ian Bent, “Heinrich Schenker, Chopin and Domenico Scarlatti,” Music Analysis 5 (1986), pp. 131– 49. 32String Quartet No.1, subtitled “From My Life” (1876): this remark relates back to early articles and reviews by Schenker: “Friedrich Smetana,” Die Zukunft 4/40 (7–1–1893), 37– 40; “Smetana’s ‘Kuss’” and review of same, Neue Revue 1 (1894), 347– 50, 375, and review of Dalibor, ibid. 8/2 (1897), pp. 448– 49; “Aus dem Leben Smetana’s (Ein Besuch bei Fr. Smetana’s Witwe),” Neues Wiener Tagblatt 28/245 (9– 6 –1894); all reprinted in Heinrich Schenker als Essayist und Kritiker: Gesammelte Aufsätze, Rezensionen und kleinere Berichte aus den Jahren 1891–1901, ed. H. Federhofer (Hildesheim: Olms, 1990), pp. 48– 54, 70 –75, 109–14, 274 –75, 357– 58. The first of these acknowledges Smetana as a genius, and states that “Since Mozart’s time no composer in the realm of buffo opera has realized the mysteries of the motive and melodic material, especially the fecundity and capacity for proliferation of the motive as has Smetana.” It describes the quartet as “a shattering autobiography over which Beethoven’s blessing hovers,” and states significantly that: “In its originality I discern a certain quality that causes one’s

29Pfaffen der Lohnkirche: reference to communists, the workers’ movement, and, ironically, their professed atheism. See note 8.

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The Mission of German Genius







onymous with ultimate moral depravity, filthy mendaciousness, {7} unparalleled incompetence, crassest ignorance, betrayal of human rights, trickery by blackmail, and theft of private property, not to mention loutish personal behavior. Never in the history of mankind—neither in Antiquity nor in the Middle Ages nor in modern times, not under despots or the Caesars, not even in republics— have nations sunk to such moral and spiritual depths as nations did there in the name of democracy and the middle class. (Even savages and cannibals in their wild state are purer and more virtuous than the savages and cannibal hordes of Versailles, who dress themselves as Christians in order to flaunt their Christian principles.) Four or five human nonentities38 upon whom by democratic law the nations depend, men who with ostentatious contempt for principles (always the reverse side of spiritual worthlessness) have led on unfortunate nations and countries, and with thievish intentions for their contemporaries and posterity have sought to misrepresent whatever has conveniently dropped into their laps, the fruit of most atrocious betrayal, as a victory. In so doing—and this is the heart of mankind’s tragedy, so little understood today—not only warring governments, kings, presidents, and other spokesmen, but even the peoples themselves have been shamed, disgraced, and, in the words of the Old Testament, “been made to stink.”39 The Earth reeks with the foetor britannicus, and needs to be freshened! Europe, even more so after the Franco-Senegalese business,40 needs purifying, in body and spirit!

than all that the nations of the West have produced; nations that, seduced by feeble-minded, wrong-headed leaders, surrendered themselves to those barbarians in totally undeserved servitude, so placing the blood and honor of their children at the disposal of the basest avarice and rapaciousness of foreign Junkers of capitalism, thereby vitiating the future of their natural and untainted manhood and making them the dupes of the West. Beyond its own boundaries, betrayal has also been perpetrated: by the Monroe-lying,33 perfidious United States of America, led by that living incarnation of mendacity Woodrow Wilson;34 as betrayer, as desecrator of mankind and morality, he must surely be named for all time as third alongside Ephialtes35 and Judas; by certain neutral states whose spiritual and moral code nonetheless allowed them to be taken in abjectly by the wiles of the French and English, but who were sly enough to turn their “sympathy for the West” into massive economic gain—as if such blood-money could bring them any more credit than does unscrupulous profiteering to any peasant, merchant, etc.


On top of the shaming defeats that the nations of the West and South have suffered on all battlefields, the most shaming came at Versailles and St. Germain.36 There, Western democracy, judged on its terms—in bello veritas!37 —became synresponse to relate back to the very understanding of art itself, rather than just recalling the expressive manner of some other composer.” Schenker reasoned that “Smetana, whose genius was inclined toward the Classical, was the first to employ the German system directly for Bohemian music; and because he like no other grasped German musical logic so to speak in its inevitability and rationality, he had the privilege of representing Bohemian music from the start in a perfection that was not to be surpassed.” (Neue Revue 8/2 (1897), pp. 654 – 55, Federhofer, p. 361). 33The Monroe Doctrine of 1823, enunciated by President James Monroe (1758 –1831), proclaimed that (1) there should be no further colonization by European countries, (2) the United States should refrain from involvement in European affairs, and (3) Europe should not intervene in governments of the Western hemisphere. To this was added the Roosevelt Corollary (1904), allowing that the United States might in cases of flagrant wrongdoing act as an “international police power.” 34Woodrow Wilson (1856 –1924), president of the United States, 1913– 20, recipient of the 1919 Nobel Peace Prize; author of the “Fourteen Points,” which were intended to offer a basis for just and lasting peace at the end of World War I; one of the principal participants at the peace conference in 1918–19, and ardent advocate of the League of Nations. 35Ephialtes: Malian traitor who, around 480 bc, guided the Persians through the defile of Anopaea while Leonidas was defending the Pass of Thermopylae, so that they could attack his men from the rear. 36That is, at the peace conferences between the Allies and Germany and Austria respectively.

37A play on the adage in vino veritas (“in wine there is truth”), possibly mocking wine connoisseurship as a national tradition in France. 38That is, the Council of Four at the Paris conference (President Woodrow Wilson, and Prime Ministers David Lloyd George, Georges Clemenceau, and Vittorio Emanuele Orlando), and the Council of Five (the foreign ministers of the United States, Britain, France, Italy, and Japan). 391 Samuel 27.12. The sentence from which the words are taken reads, in Luther’s translation: “Er hat sich stinkend gemacht vor seinem Volk Israel, darum soll er immer mein Knecht sein.” 40Senegal: a colony of France, part of French West Africa. Schenker is presumably referring to France’s intensive recruiting of Senegalese to fight in World War I: 13,339 (over half the able-bodied Senegalese males of military age), out of some 140,000 West Africans in all, recruited to fight in the French army on the Western front. This recruitment uncomfortably resembled the slave trade (officially abandoned by France around 1800). See J. Lunn, Memoirs of the Maelstrom: A Senegalese Oral History of the First World War (Portsmouth, NH: Heinemann, 1999), esp. pp. 1– 2, 33– 44; M. Crowder: Senegal, A Study of French Assimilation Policy (London: Methuen, 1962, rev. 1967). This has to be seen in a broader context in which France’s overseas colonies swelled her population from forty million to one hundred million, giving her greater manpower than Germany: see A. Sarraut, La mise en valeur de nos colonies (Paris, 1923). See also reference to “black troop,” later, and note 85.

7

tonw i l l e 1 ities, belief and church with priests. They are fit only for scrabbling after profit, but cannot use this to profit themselves or mankind. They are oblivious to anything that belongs outside their own little world of profit. Anything they know, anything they can do, they consider to be creative thinking, a feat. It is a feat if they find themselves able—like a small child—to express their wishes, longings, and dreams in words, and promptly imagine themselves—again, like the small child—capable of anything, fit to govern themselves and others, hence qualified for all official positions, instantly well-versed in any field of knowledge and the arts (on business affairs in the daytime, on the arts in the evening!), and believe themselves capable of God knows what heroic deeds. It is a feat if they can depose the king and drive out the nobility (millions of middle-class citizens against one king and a few hundred nobles!) so as to commandeer their possessions and, surrounded by their new acquisitions, devote themselves even more single-mindedly to greed, while at the same time boasting of prudence and the needs of the state. It is a feat if the docile worker goes to pay them back with the same coinage on which is emblazoned the motto “Make way for efficiency,”42 but on the contrary makes way, especially the way to power and influence, for the least efficient people, the least likely candidates for the title of genius, but all the closer to that of president and ministerial office. It is a feat if they feel themselves no match for an efficient person and simply resort to murder just to get him out of the way. (When Cain saw that Abel’s offering was more pleasing to the Lord, and so slew him, this was the first democratic murder of someone more capable; when the nations of the West saw that they could lie, break promises, and rob better than the Germans but were still inferior to them in knowledge and ability, they simply slew them in the manner of Cain.) These bourgeois, then, these incompetent, ignorant, incorrigible, unfruitful, lying, corrupt, megalomaniacal, murdering people—a straight line leads from ignorance to murder—these bourgeois have the temerity to equate only themselves with the state, which is and should be more than just what the United Obsession with Profit among the middle and working classes, much more than what the United Dimwittedness of both groups can ever imagine it to be as they cry: “L’état c’est moi!”43

What, then, is the total dissipation of mankind today, if not that after the ignominious example of Versailles no nation on earth, no one social class, no single person will be spared the degradation; that all are driven by an unquenchable thirst for profit into lying, blackmail, stealing, robbery, and murder in the same way, intent on bringing about the wholesale emulation of the Western democratic model? If democracy were really freedom, justice, deliverance, edification, and truth, the preeminent model of government, as its champions proclaim, and if Versailles were really the pledge of all those holy blessings upon mankind, would not the whole of humanity after Versailles have burst into rejoicing at freedom’s wonders, basking in mutual admiration and love, instead of sinking deeper than ever before into despondency and being so defiled that it will take more than an ocean to wash away the filth? But is it perhaps all just a mischance, a temporary aberration, a degenerate form of democracy? No, it is Western democracy itself, the real thing, the lie of the people, the lie of the middle class, the corrosive poison of which has taken effect so lethally over two hundred years. The people, of which no one knows its makeup, its origins, its end: is it only the poor, and not the rich as well? Is it only the middle class and working class, and not the nobility, the Junkers, the princes, the kings, the emperors as well? Only the ranks represented by parties and organizations, and not also the common people, any rowdy bunch of soldiers, the criminal fraternity, etc.? This very people, sphinx though it be, is vaunted as the embodiment of the very idea of the state, as if comprising all the virtuous, all the wise, all the angelically good; as if imbued with ultimate perfection and maturity (why, then, are religious founders and world thinkers necessary?)! The middle class: for them everything has to be pre-digested, pre-believed, preinvented, and pre-discovered, pre-discussed, pre-lived, pre-loved, and pre-suffered. But it would never occur to them, because of their limited capacity and ineptitude, to digest something for themselves, or to believe or love on their own initiative. They possess no insight into the concept of nation, state, monarchy, republic, religion, art, knowledge, history, tradition, authority, etc. They confuse nation with party, state with an institution for satisfying the profit motive41 (for their own profit!), {8} monarchy with king, nobility with nobles, higher realms with author-

42Schenker is writing at a time when German currency was being devalued to the point of being almost worthless, and when towns and businesses issued their own currencies: 7,000 coins (and far more paper money)—known commonly as Notgeld or Kriegsgeld—were released between 1917 and 1922. 43“I am the state!”: remark attributed to Louis xiv before the Parlement de Paris, April 13, 1655. “Die vereinigten Nutzsüchte” and “die vereinigte Begriffsstützigkeit” are both presumably jibes at the United States (die Vereinigten Staaten).

41Bedürfnisanstalt für Nutzen: Bedürfnisanstalt conventionally denotes “public toilet,” the implication being that profit should be laid on like a public utility.

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The Mission of German Genius

But by their fruits ye shall know them!44 One can see well enough, today, what democracy is. And democracy as we can see it today was preached, understood, and practiced throughout recent centuries in the barren West; in the West, where not a drop of true mother’s milk—the milk that nourishes with such holy sweetness, offering life and burgeoning growth—reached the lips of that eternal suckling, mankind; where no effective substitute was provided, merely stones; where as an oblation only poison was offered. The genuinely shallow, quintessentially French “Enlightenment” of the Encyclopedists, of the Rousseaus and Voltaires, who are rightly proclaimed as the finest products of philistinism, the guillotine, the “Temple of Reason” (needless to say, French reason, which under a Napoleon preferred to go about robbing and plundering in quintessentially French fashion)—all of this ran along the lines of such democracy. Along those same lines ran the obsessive commercial cunning of the Anglo-Saxons in England and North America. However, because mediocre nations, just like mediocre individuals, love to make out all that they experience and speak of as new, merely because they have no idea how very frequently it has been experienced and spoken of before, so the nations of the West, too, have declared their democracy as a “first,” and up to now and even today (as we see) have done the best business dealings with it. But what have they achieved? The dance of death of the uncreative has begun! The middle class and working class lock horns over profits; millions are ranged against millions, no longer millions against just the few! {9} They still depend on gifts from kings and princes, from artists and thinkers, gifts—being uncultured, they know nothing of all this—and still they consider plundering and pick-pocketing their special creative act. But what will they do when the stock of gifts has dwindled to nothing?

tice seat of the Sinzheimers, Cohns,45 etc., etc. Rather, it should call the real betrayers to account. History will undoubtedly show Kaiser Wilhelm ii to have brought greater honor to mankind than all the traitors within and outside Germany and all the enemy nations put together;
it will achieve even less if it shoulders the full burden of war-guilt46 and all war crimes, just to oblige the enemy who in true Western democratic vein is after nothing but his reparations (“corriger la fortune”)47; surely, for example, the unimpeachable testimony of a Jaurès,48 and the evidence of documents in the Russian secret archives showing that the war was started (and many Englishmen and Americans conceded this) by the Russian order to mobilize, issued at 7:15 in the evening on July 30 [1914], whereas the Austrian order was not issued until 11:30 the following morning, not to mention by the many other long premeditated maneuverings of the enemy nations, such as King Edward vii’s encirclement of Germany,49 agitation for war and revenge on the 45Perhaps a reference to Hermann Sinzheimer (1884 –1950), editor of a Berlin newspaper, also novelist and critic. 46War-guilt: the acceptance by “Germany and her allies” of moral “responsibility . . . for causing all the damage to which the Allied and Associated Governments and their nationals have been subjected . . . ” (Treaty of Versailles, Article 231). This formed the basis for the reparations clause (Article 232); see the following note. Germany repudiated the guilt clause during the 1920s. 47“To correct fate.” Reparations: “compensation will be made by Germany for all damage done to the civilian population of the Allies and their property by the aggression of Germany by land, by sea, and from the air” (pre-Armistice agreement, November 5, 1918). The French, and in part the British, argued for full indemnity (including cost of the Allied war effort, and pensions to servicemen and their dependents), with a view to bankrupting and crippling Germany, an aim that America resisted. The total figure was set at $30,000 million over a number of years to be determined, plus the supply of 35 million tons of coal over twenty years to France. The Treaty of Saint-Germain with Austria, too, had war-guilt and reparations clauses, but these were quickly abandoned. See A. Sharp, The Versailles Settlement: Peacemaking in Paris, 1919 (London: Macmillan, 1991). 48Jean Jaurès (1859 –1914), French socialist leader, who at the failed Russian revolution of 1905 declared: “From this time forth, the Czar and the regime he represents are the outlaws of human society.” He strove, at the 1912 meeting of the International and elsewhere, to prevent the outbreak of war, correctly predicting that without the use of reserves on front-line duty France would be “terribly submerged.” He was assassinated by a nationalist youth on July 31, 1914. 49Germany saw Edward vii as the prime architect of “encirclement.” Already, the Franco-Russian alliance (1894) had contained Germany to west and east. The Anglo-French entente (1904) securing their interests in North Africa began Germany’s fears of encirclement, triggering the two Moroccan crises; the Anglo-Russian entente (1907) regarding control of the Dardanelles, Afghanistan and Persia intensified the fears. Germany saw its hopes of building a world empire restricted by agreements among the nations of the triple entente. The German race to build a navy from 1905 in rivalry of the British was intended to pierce the encirclement.






How, then, can the German nation save itself from this predicament, and at the same time point the rest of humanity toward salvation? Germany will achieve nothing by holding the emperor, his advisers, diplomats, and military commanders accountable for the consequences of the nation’s betrayal, any more than by hauling a Hindenburg or a Ludendorff before the jus44Matthew

7.(16,) 20.

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tonw i l l e 1










would be better if these could finally see that humanity leads, so to speak, a split life: genius and the remainder; that genius is something quite different from the human propagating soil out of which it grows, just as for example the oak tree is something quite new and {10} different from the mother earth in which it takes root; that it is futile to demand of earth that it be both earth and plant at the same time, and thus to demand that human propagating soil be both soil and genius at the same time; that, nevertheless, only human propagating soil of a particular makeup can produce this or that genius, just as only a certain type of earth can yield a particular variety of fruit. What is the good of preaching “reconciliation”54 to Germany, of all nations, instead of commending it first to her enemies, or at least waiting until they finally desist in their hatred? Germany has never hated. On the contrary, as no nation before it, Germany has made available to the intellect of all people the powerful superiority of its language, more original as it is, infinitely surpassing all others in the richness of its vocabulary and expressive power—but has this spared Germany the hatred of those ungrateful nations? Plainly, hatred in them is only a symptom of envy, so that to abolish hatred they would first have to root out envy—but how could such unoriginal, impotent people accomplish this? So let the German make the best of a bad job and at least grant him the right of self-preservation, as nature implanted it in all her creatures so that he might protect his very existence; just let him not decry as “hatred” the instinctual self-preservation on the part of any democratic Biedermeier of Western progress, or of those foreign friends who, whenever their lies and unproductiveness are touched upon, resort to sturdy selfpreservation. In view of this, it is absurd also to expect other nations to appreciate more fairly, let alone to applaud, the fact that one exerts oneself and strives for “new intellectual attainments,”“new ideas.” If not even the attainments of our great ones, of our greatest ones, of our fellow great ones, indeed of the loftiest minds in all the world, have so far succeeded in this—and one can see from the base behavior of those nations that this is the case (but what is Germany to do if the intellect of other nations is insufficient to recognize German greatness and profundity?)— then there is only one cure: Back to school with them!—with those democratically decrepit, spiritually stillborn nations, so that they can at last get their first inkling of German genius, greater than theirs as it is! To German school with them! But in any case, when did robbery and plunder ever balk at genius or in-

part of the French, the Pan-Slavs, the murder of the heir-apparent to the Austrian throne,50 etc., etc. Surely all of this shows the primary guilt as resting with the entente.51 It will do no good: to go on casting stones at certain pacifists who, instead of vigilantly watching the entente as it (out of true democratic incompetence, but also with an eye to more important interests in Asia and Africa) sows the seeds of renewed wars in Europe and thus adds new and greater guilt to their original guilt, know nothing more ethical, more Christian, more timely than to repeat yet again yesterday’s catalogue of lies, and to shift the blame for the World War on to Germany and Austria alone—and why only this Austria, and not also that of a Bilin´sky52 and a Masaryk? 53 (oh! the special ethics applied to Germanspeaking lands!); to go on letting our minds be poisoned against our “business operations” and “organizations” (so much admired by the enemy itself) by certain writers unsuspecting of our enemy’s resolve to wipe out these very enterprises so as to drive us irrevocably into such dire poverty that our superior German spirit must finally give up the ghost; it is these selfsame writers who, before we know it, will be speaking enviously of the global expanse of the other nations, and again pouring scorn on the Germany that they have betrayed for its poverty and narrow confines; or to let German humanity be condemned outright, as it is by certain philosophers or philosophizing world-travelers who have clearly never reflected on the relationship between human propagating soil, elite group, and genius; it

50Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria (heir to the imperial throne, occupied by Franz Joseph) and his wife, visiting Sarajevo, capital city of Bosnia-Herzegovina, were shot and killed in their car on June 28, 1914, by Gavrilo Princip, who, with other student-nationalists, had been trained by Serbians as part of a plot worked out several months earlier. Austria-Hungary’s declaration of war on Serbia on July 28 was the direct result; it launched the Third Balkan War, and in turn triggered World War I. 51Entente: that is, Britain, Russia, and France, linked by treaty obligations in the event of attack from Germany, or violation of Belgian neutrality, and agreements elsewhere. 52Leon von Bilin ´sky (1846–1923), Galician-born imperial common finance minister of BosniaHerzegovina 1912–18; advocate of military action against Serbia after the assassination of Franz Ferdinand. 53Tomásˇ Garrygue Masaryk (1850–1937), philosopher-statesman, instrumental in dividing the Austro-Hungarian Empire; personally negotiated in 1918 for the establishment of the Czechoslovak Republic, of which he was the founding president, reelected in 1920 (and again 1927, 1934). Schenker reminds us by his references to Bilin´sky and Masaryk that Austria-Hungary was a multinational entity, with Czechs, Hungarians, and South Slavs, as well as German-Austrians—eleven nationalities in all.

54Den

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“Abbau des Hasses,” literally the “dismantling of hatred.”

The Mission of German Genius

in particular to certain foreign-born individuals, every bit of English or French drivel in Dionysian, Apollonian, Expressionist, Impressionist fashion is lauded to the skies in disparagement of German literature—how much more courageous, pleasing, and conducive to culture are the greatly derided, upstanding German defendants of the genuine article than these German foreign-copycats, habitués of Montmartre, and sensation-mongers!
if, in certain German book dealerships, French editors are actually employed for the express purpose of propagating French literature;
in short, if by their use of language, people publicly parade their very foreign servility, for which in times past German emperors and princes were so severely castigated, but now do so to an unprecedentedly greater extent, with far more detrimental effect, and with greater shame than ever before. But, what is more, it will patently get us nowhere
even if in order to put yesterday’s betrayal behind us we muster our courage today against the “advocate-republic” of Poincaré,56 against Wilson, etc.— after all, we were obliged to recognize them yesterday.
even if our great ones, Goethe, Schiller, Jean Paul, Hölderlin, etc., are at last restored to recognition as German, exclusively German, even universally German, and are invoked in the rekindling and uplifting of German courage;
and equally well, even if, as in certain international newspapers, leader-writers arrogantly offer quack recipes, so as “to make something” finally out of the revolution “that nobody really wanted,”57 since it is here to stay (only a German democrat, only a newspaper pontificator, could picture something touched by aristocratic genius, something Bismarckian, as a creative profession!). Futile it is, too, to emulate the supposedly engaging, refined qualities of our enemies, their sang-froid, their ability to “cut a figure on the dance floor.” Anyone not summoned to the highest of callings, who has consequently to go around lying, cheating, and betraying willy-nilly, is also obliged to adopt captivating forms if he wishes to take his victim in. This is just how it is with the Western nations—but what is this sham behavior to the conscientious, honorably industrious German if not confidence trickery? Is a manicured Wilson any bit worthier than an unmanicured German man of honor? Why is it that not one of these na-

tellectual attainment? For it is all about money and possession. That is why the spokesmen of today’s nations can dispense with intellect in their speeches. Verily, they have none themselves, and so ought not to speak of that of which they know not. Were it otherwise, the world would not be crying out today—despite democracy, despite the rule of the people and the middle class, despite the terrorism of the clenched fists (what reserves of talent, genius, knowledge, and ability those would betoken, were they not all mere lying and cheating!)—for a “strong personality,” a single person, indeed, the genius! The Germans would be better off, after all, combating the rapacity of those nations with different weapons, weapons more suited to the task in hand than merely intellectual ones. Archimedes fell victim to the thrust of a soldier’s dagger.55 The family home of a Goethe was defiled during his lifetime, and again today, when filthy, stinking French soldiers were billeted there (how clearly we see the efficaciousness of those nobles traditions!). Thus we can see that Goethe was consistent with his political beliefs when he valued more highly his proud consciousness of “belonging to a great, strong, respected, and feared nation” than proffering “tiresome consolation,” knowledge, and strength. It will achieve nothing
if the German newspapers couch their articles and “feuilletons” in language, as one sees it everyday, heavily laced with French and English, {11} fawning upon our enemies with such linguistic fealty;
if, instead of cherishing and speaking the one true language, the language of a Luther, Lessing, Herder, Goethe, Schiller, etc., that most exalted of all languages, people on every street and in every school—and not just in business schools that, apart from specialist needs, are the only places in which these might appropriately be heard—are now fooling around in French, trashy, hidebound, and provincial as it is, and ill-equipped for the highest flights of the intellect, or in that lowest of all languages, the depraved English language;
if, behind Western literature, the specter of German literature lurks as the unshakeable, unmistakeable source of foreign borrowings, in which, thanks 55During the siege of Syracuse in 212 bc, Archimedes was stabbed to death by a Roman soldier while drawing a mathematical figure in the sand. Schenker uses Dolchstoß, a word with powerful resonances after 1918, in that the army, especially the officer corps, developed a theory that it had been “stabbed in the back” by the civil government, and by the national press, which had called for an armistice when the German army might have gone on fighting to victory. He refers more specifically to a “Dolchstoß von hinten” in the essay on Mozart’s Piano Sonata in A minor (Tonwille 2, p. 22/p. 69), in his hostile critique of Hugo Riemann’s remarks on the work.

56Raymond Poincaré (1860 –1934), president of France 1913– 20, later premier and foreign minister 1922– 24. 57Presumably the Berlin revolution of November 1918, and perhaps more generally the series of revolutions that followed, which led to the establishment of the Weimar Republic in January 1919.

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tonw i l l e 1 ententes,60 to secret and public alliances and military conventions, to world supremacy, imperialism, international world police force, domination, nationalism, chauvinism, strategic borders, other protections, protections of protections, colonies, raw materials, militarism, revenge, incitement to war (even before the war, France, as the smaller of the two nations, had more soldiers than Germany, and still today it maintains 800,000 men61), navalism, blockade (which even Wilson called “illegal”!62), blackmail of all kinds, classification of archives, the “miracle of the Marne,”63 “victory” at Skagerrak,64 “Fochiade on the Rhine” (what suitable material for a comedy: “How Mr. Foch Arrived at the Rhine”),65 the law. It is perverse to concede them the right to rampage about God’s free earth at will and without compunction: with unprincipledness, moral insanity, presumption, arrogance and loutishness (vide the English), with abusive tongue-lashing and horse-whippery (vide the French), with rowdy hooliganism (vide the Italians and Slavs), vandalizing the cultural riches of German high schools (vide certain Entente officers), etc. It is perverse, on top of all these, to concede them the right to claim for themselves exclusive originality, “inspiration,” “ideas,” the gift of invention and discovery, culture and civilization, a monopoly of the true love of peace, freedom and justice (“traditional justice”), the ability to know the minds of all

tions, in order to unmask the deceitfulness of the others, will show itself by its manner, bearing, and handshake to be without hypocrisy or mawkishness, without perfidy? Least of all can it avail the German anything to cloak himself, as if in mimicry, with the democratic mind of the West. Will the German democrat never see that Germany’s enemies—sancta simplicitas: canonization of Joan of Arc,58 canonization of Jan Hus in the orthodox church!59 —would just love to have Germany, indeed the whole of Germanity, lock, stock, and barrel, burned at the stake, so as to free themselves once and for all of German intellect? If he is insufficiently educated to have learned the lessons of history, then are {12} the spot-checks carried out since Armistice Day still not enough for him to gauge the democratic mentality of Germany’s enemies? Does he still feel no shame over democracy, even just the name alone? Does he feel no shame at aligning himself with morally decadent nations that in rewarding the treachery of the Austrian Slavs dare to foist upon Germans in Austria a wholly unconstitutional name (“Austria” instead of “German-Austria”), as if they were branding a beast for the slaughter?— nations that for their own monetary advantage forcibly detach nations from centuries-old political structures, only to turn around and push them into other similar political unions, etc.? And besides, if democracy is really what was exemplified by those Western nations before, during, and after Versailles, then let the German democrat simply take a good look at democracy and do exactly what he sees Americans, Frenchmen, Englishmen, Italians, Poles, Czechs, etc. doing. Let him break promises, violate treaties, infringe international law, steal private property, falsify maps, deface monuments, desecrate war-graves, lie, and commit murder as they do, and use words most pleasing unto man and God in the process, just as they do—perhaps he can then gauge, from the disgust that he as a democrat of their ilk would nevertheless arouse in them, the disgust that he as a German of that (with all due respect) democracy would surely evoke from the cesspool of the West! It is altogether perverse to concede rights, rights of all sorts, exclusively to our enemies: the right to self-determination, to organizations such as the big and little

60The two postwar European political alliances were: (big) France-Britain-Italy-Belgium (deriving from the wartime entente cordiale), and (little) Czechoslovakia-Yugoslavia (Serbia/Croatia/ Slovenia)-Rumania. The initial step in founding the latter came on August 14, 1920, but the name “little entente” was first used contemptuously of this alliance in a Hungarian newspaper on February 21, 1920, and was soon widely adopted. See Robert Machray, The Little Entente (London: Allen & Unwin, 1929). 61Cf. note 40. 62The term “illegal” is not in the Fourteen Points (see note 82), nor does it appear in Wilson’s speeches or communications around the time in question; but the commentary on the Points prepared by Walter Lippmann and Frank Cobb around October 23, 1918, may have used it. If so, it was scotched by Lloyd George immediately. 63Battle fought September 6 – 9, 1914, halting the German month-long advance through Belgium and into France, and march on Paris; widely heralded as “the miracle of the Marne” by politicians and writers. 64Battle of Skagerrak (strait between Norway and Denmark), German name for the Battle of Jutland, the only major confrontation between British and German navies, fought May 31, 1916, in which the British fleet, although numerically superior, suffered heavy losses. 65Fochiade: Ferdinand Foch (1851–1929), French general, chief postwar advocate for the annexation by France of all territory to the West of the Rhine River, and the establishment of a Rhineland state (see also note 94). The suffix “-iade” implies a celebration or competition (e.g., “Olympiade”); Wie Herr Foch am Rhein kam follows a generic title for farce and comedy (e.g., “How the Camel Got Its Hump”).

58Joan of Arc (1412 – 31), tried, excommunicated, and burned at the stake for heresy in 1431; canonized by the Catholic Church on May 9, 1920. 59Jan Hus (c. 1369 –1415), early Protestant reformer, excommunicated in 1411 for his preaching in Bohemia, then burned at the stake in Constance for heresy in 1415. The University of Prague declared him a martyr, and the modern Czechoslovak church, which was formed at the time that the new Czech state was created, claims to continue this tradition.

12

The Mission of German Genius

peoples (even that of the Germans?), and to dedicate oneself unselfishly to their well-being, etc., etc. On the other hand, it is thoroughly perverse to picture oneself demoted to common house servant, even yard dog, forced to show servility and self-deprecation (utterly inappropriately) toward one of those nations, for example, in deference to the constant mistrustfulness displayed by French people,—one has only to read all about this in The Fate of France in the Year 1870 by Gobineau, a Frenchman,66 and compare it to the mistrustfulness of today—which is surely nearer to cowardice than to bravery; or, so as not to disturb thieves, robbers, and murderers in their pleasant enjoyment of their booty, namely, to sacrifice that German imperial unity so bravely won in recent times by our great and noble intellects; or to pursue that most deplorable of policies, particularism;67 or to betray Prussianness (the one true dynamic force among all Germans) or deny the right to self-determination in the {13} Saarland, the South Tyrol, in German Bohemia, and in Alsace;68 or to be ashamed of national pride, maligning it in a derisively French manner as “chauvinism” and in a derisively German manner as “PanGermanism”; to give up the right to celebrate as and when we want our heroes past and present, our Hindenburgs and Ludendorffs, in reverence and gratitude as befits such great men, even to do so in Pan-German spirit; to give up the right to travel the world freely like them, even if we choose to bluster and bellow and boast like them; to give up the right to promulgate to all and sundry what great and supreme things Germans have contributed to humanity over countless centuries, proclaiming their originality in word and deed, the greater profundity of their artists, thinkers, inventors, discoverers, etc., etc.

Are we really to believe, then, that such total self-abasement is the way to put an end for ever to the lie of the enemy, a lie that is too big, too uncomfortable even for the liars themselves, such that they make it out to be something other than it really is?


Only a fool would expect the salvation of Germany and humanity from an “understanding among nations.” Back during the World War, did we not pin our hopes on “the nations” to rise above purely national interests in ensuring the victory of certain humanitarian principles? And did not the nations fail in precisely this? But it could never have been otherwise: how could nations that, as populaces incapable of lofty reasoning or nobler thoughts, took covetousness and gluttony as their sole yardsticks, ever have reached agreement over the questions that mattered most to them: possession and power? Add to this that nature knows no gaps,69 and her first word is also her final word: as little as, for example, an Eichendorff or a Mörike could ever have become a Goethe, or a Mendelssohn a Beethoven, even less could an Anglo-Saxon, a Frenchman, an Italian, or a Slav have by “a miracle” become something different, something higher than he was before and still is now. It is imperative, therefore, to convince the German people that its enemies of yesterday and today, the foes of its superiority, will remain its enemies tomorrow—eternal enemies! Let us take a closer look: The Englishman in principle and in practice—the Magna Carta for himself, the noose round their necks for the other nations; his house is his castle, but everybody else’s house is his as well—offers no insight into this arid, depraved breed of mankind. England and true culture are as inimical as venality and probity. There is nothing more loathsome, nothing more nauseating, than the Englishman who, his prey safely in his lair, changes his tune and protests allegiance to humanity, culture, and religion, as when English scholars (“orthodox Oxford oxen,” as Schopenhauer dubbed them), having only yesterday bitten the hand generously outstretched to them by German scholars, today (don’t forget: his loot safely in the bag!) ingenuously reach out their own hand as if (needless to say) they were the first to offer reconciliation, brotherhood, morality, and culture. Oh,

66 Joseph-Arthur, comte de Gobineau (1816– 82), minister for foreign affairs in 1849; published Essai sur l’inégalité des races humaines (1853 – 55), which earned him the epithet “father of racist ideology.” His incomplete Ce qui est arrivé à la France en 1870, first published in Nachgelassene Schriften des Grafen Gobineau, ed. L Schemen (Strasbourg, 1918), spoke of France as a decaying society, and claimed that the French ruling class was unsuited to sustaining France’s self-styled intellectual superiority because descended from Gallo-Roman slaves. He asserted: “envy is an essential malady of the Latin races”; Prussians were the natural leaders of Germany and Austria-Hungary, and had no need of democracy (a view he began to doubt after 1870). See Michael D. Badiss, Father of Racist Ideology: The Social and Political Thought of Count Gobineau (London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 1970). 67 “The principle of leaving each state in an empire or federation free to retain its own government, laws, and rights, and to promote its own interests, without reference to those of the whole” (OED). 68 The Saarland was ceded to the League of Nations, and its mines to France, with a plebiscite after fifteen years—see Schenker’s comment on the Saarland, later; the South Tyrol passed to Italy; the Sudetenland (“German Bohemia”) to Czechoslavakia; Alsace reverted to France. Schenker implies that all four peoples would have chosen unification with Germany.

69Die Natur keine Sprünge kennt ⫽ natura non facit saltum, that is, nature, in its evolution, does not proceed by leaps: Linnaeus, Philosophia Botanica (Stockholm, 1751), §77, but traceable back to Jacques Tissot, Discours véritable sur la vie (Lyon, 1613).

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tonw i l l e 1 giant,74 though no longer with us in the flesh, will continue to shine over us with greater ardour than even their most ardent midgets and philistines. And who would dream of pinning their hopes on help coming from certain modern French writers belonging to a group called Clarté? Clarity courtesy of French mediocrity? A Kant can see clearly, a Goethe, a Bach, a Haydn, a Mozart— but alas for the clarity of a Rousseau or Voltaire, still less that of a Romain Rolland, Barbusse, etc.!75 If clarity means abject surrender to something that can be achieved only by negating one’s individuality, then the French language—the supreme rule of which is: effect, especially effect on others of the opposite sex— is intrinsically unsuited to accurately perceiving and promoting genuine clarities. This is why even in the best of Frenchmen the mediocre ways of French propagating soil still show through, and all that is left for him is rhetoric, the bon mot, the stylish gesture, mere empty talk76 as camouflage for what he really is, as garrulous papering-over of his essential mediocrity, as a sort of desperate haranguing so as to make himself out more than he is. Such things can be seen in the mediocre individual who casts around him, clutching at anything and everything because he does not know in which direction to go with it; and in human mediocrity as a whole, which kicks over the traces with democracy, Marxism, communism, etc., and declares itself unregenerately “elite”—the elite. Their military victories, their conquests, are nothing but hot air. Napoleon himself won only hollow victories; what is more, for him as a true “parvenu” (Moltke’s77 word) even the imperial throne and his union with an emperor’s daughter78 were only so much hot air. (Goethe, the man of light and of order, actually admired him as the hero

what a miserable toad the Englishman is! What a pity poor German-Austrian children today have, for the sake of better nourishment, to breathe the suffocating air of the jackals70 who strangled them yesterday! Oh, when will the nations cast off this shameful tyranny, when will they burst their bonds of slavery asunder in order to snatch for themselves {14} more air, light, water, earth, dignity, and honor? I would have thought that one concerted effort by all would have done the trick . . . Anyone who would pin his hopes on the French is also a fool. On September 2, 1870, Bismarck said to the commander-in-chief of the defeated French army: “France has declared war on Germany thirty times in the past two hundred years, and this time you declared it as always out of jealousy, because you could not forgive us our victory at Sadowa.71 And yet Sadowa cost you nothing, and could not have impaired your reputation. But you saw victory as a legacy to which you had sole right, as if you held a monopoly of military prowess. You could not bear to see another nation as strong as yourself arise on your borders. You have not yet forgiven us for Sadowa, where neither your interests nor your reputation were at stake: are you any more likely to forgive us your defeat at Sedan?72 Never! However the current negotiations turn out, France is sure to declare war again as soon as it feels strong enough.” Bismarck, genius that he was, knew the “peace-loving” and “chivalrous” French better than did the mediocre ranks of German democrats, social democrats, and other harborers of French ideas. So for him it was a foregone conclusion that the French, down to their last crippled soldier, would try to steal back the German city of Strasbourg, stolen by Louis xiv, for the umpteenth time (désannexation—revanche, désannexation— revanche, désannexation—revanche, etc., ad infinitum), for the simple reason that the French really do not know any noble pastimes other than vaunting their lust after gloire,73 which is engendered not by bravery but by mere philistinism. The simple-minded French would just love—oh, how they would love!—to do away with the Germans once for all—yes, one actually hears such cannibalistic assertions!—except that in their dullwittedness they do not realize that the German

74That

is, Bismarck. Rolland (1866–1944), novelist, dramatist, Nobel Prize winner in 1915; Henri Barbusse (1873 –1935), novelist and poet, one of whose novels is Clarté (1919), and who launched a journal of the same name (1919– 27). He founded the movement Clarté in 1919, emulating the Encyclopaedists and the spirit of the Enlightenment; its membership including Rolland, Raymond Lefèbvre, Jules Romains, Georges Duhamel, Maurice Maeterlinck, E. D. Morel, Bertrand Russell, H. G. Wells, Heinrich Mann, and Stefan Zweig, and rising to nearly 5,000 in France alone at its height. It disintegrated in 1920, when Barbusse turned to communism. Schenker wrote at length about the part played by Rolland in exposing Stendhal’s plagiarism of Giuseppe Carpani’s early biography of Haydn; see Tonwille 4, pp. 28– 30/i, pp. 167– 69. 76Die Phrase, as well as “the phrase,” colloquially denoted “hot air,” “empty talk,” “idle chatter,” and so on, as several times used in the passage that follows. 77Helmuth Karl Bernhard, Graf von Moltke (1800– 91), German field marshall in the FrancoPrussian War, whose writings are extensive and include a history of that war. 78Marie-Louise, daughter of Francis ii, Holy Roman emperor, whom Napoleon married on April 1– 2, 1810, after the dissolution of his marriage to Josephine. 75Romain

70Schakalen-Würger, literally “jackal-stranglers”: the Allied powers, who had deprived their enemies of the essentials of life during the war. 71Sadowa (⫽ Königgrätz), the site of the Prussian army’s defeat of Austria in 1866, at which Bismarck dictated the peace terms. 72Sedan: town in northeast France, site of the decisive battle of the Franco-Prussian War, September 2, 1870. 73Gloire-Brunst: see note 14.

14

The Mission of German Genius

who at least knew how to define {15} a goal from out of the chaos of revolution, and how to bring indignant, rebellious French human propagating soil back into line.) Just take a look at the public pronouncements of the latest members of Clarté in France—only rhetoric, stale formulas, as old as human mediocrity itself: will you set any store by these French fashioners of high-flown verbiage?79 Should we perhaps look to the United States of America for salvation? Still in the era of Washington and Lincoln, lagging far, far behind the European nations and races, all of whom have proud pasts to look back on, America’s vast population has never had a monarchy to consolidate her as a nation proper. Groping through the vale of ignorance, driven on by greed, propelled forward by the profit-motive as if by a million hurtling Niagara Falls, she will never attain the intellectual and moral ascendancy needed to contribute to the higher goals of mankind. Just look at her today: she has settled the war to the advantage of the dollar, having only ever entered it with that in mind. She has enslaved all the nations of Europe, and is busy buying up all their cultural assets and artifacts. (If the boot were on the other foot, would there have been anything in America worth Europe’s buying up?) Now, instead of helping her slaves, she cynically trots out her Monroe doctrine,80 having disregarded it up to now. Far from physically restraining their former partners-in-robbery who now commit imperialistic acts of violence, the Americans, unbending moralists that they are, appease them by yet again waving some moralizing piece of paper at them just to keep up appearances—oh, if only they had adopted Monroe as their own moral standard instead of wearying the world with it!—and they send us alms while withholding the essentials of life . . . that says it all!81 We now know how Wilson’s notorious “Fourteen Points”82 came about: how they were first mooted by one Edgar Lisson,

member of the Committee on Public Information in Russia, via Mr. George Creek, director of the same committee in Washington,83 and how they were designed solely to sway opinion in the army and in the Russian and German hinterland, and in no sense for the greater good of mankind. So we can safely assume that if America’s commercial interests are ever again exposed to serious danger,84 as at the beginning of the World War, some other president will speak lies at Wilson’s grave and, despite the Monroe Doctrine, will call for a new dollar crusade, and will dream up a new set of Fourteen Points . . . Can the Italians help in any way? You only have to look at the expropriation of the South Tyrol to know that there, too, self-determination and democracy are to be understood only as . . . sticking to a treaty. Thus no true understanding is ever to be had with these nations. No matter how much German soil they may grab or how many inhabitants they may assimilate, no matter even if they reduce Germany once more to a parade ground for their rapacious armies, they will never have enough. For their evil proclivities allow them no peace, no true culture, which, along with an ungrudging acceptance of one’s neighbor, is the precondition of an honorable understanding. And the League of Nations? The same old thief ’s motto—wait till the booty is in the bag, then let order commence—makes it a mere memorial (or emblem of shame) to the antipathy toward culture displayed at Versailles. But has a truly great idea ever been born of such shame? Before all else, a league of nations would have had to fulfill the cardinal requirement of all religions: that is, the nations calling it into being would have had first of all, even before convening the first session, to make a humble and abject apology to the whole of mankind and especially to the {16} German people, for all the dishonor heaped upon it, and secondly to restore all that had been stolen. But is it only a matter of theft? Is it not the League of Nations that also, for example, placed the filthy French in such oafish control of Germany’s Saarland, and permitted in the regions occupied by them the ignominy of its black troops85 —the advance party of its genitalitis, of

79Phrasenschellenträger, idiomatic neologism with doubly satirical force: Schellenträger (“bellwearers”) signifies court jesters, but also Old Testament Jewish high priests who attached bells to their clothes (see Exodus 28.33), the latter particularly apposite, since Schenker often adopted the tone of an Old Testament prophet. 80See note 33. 81See note 47. 82Woodrow Wilson (see notes 34 and 62) presented his “Fourteen Points” to Congress in a speech on January 8, 1918. They were then disseminated throughout the world. Avoiding such terms as victory, defeat, reparations, or trials, Wilson set out a basis for peace, including “absolute freedom of the seas” and “open covenants of peace, openly arrived at,” the fourteenth point being establishment of “a general assocation of nations.” The Allies were forced to accept these points as the basis of the Versailles negotiations.

83Both names are spelled wrongly—Edgar (Grant) Sisson, George Creel—but their assignments are given correctly; see Creel, How We Advertised America (New York: Harper, 1920). Wilson seems in fact to have worked on the Fourteen Points with his closest adviser, Edward House, beginning January 4, 1918, assisted by a memorandum from Sidney E. Mezes, David Hunter Miller, and Walter Lippmann. All the drafts are reproduced in The Papers of Woodrow Wilson, vol. 45 (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1984), pp. 476– 539; see also A Day of Dedication: The Essential Writings of Woodrow Wilson, ed. A. Fried (New York: Macmillan, 1965), pp. 315– 21. 84Ein grosses Geschäft (machen): child’s euphemism for defecation. 85Presumably troops from France’s African colonies; see notes 15 and 40.

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tonw i l l e 1 the flesh of its flesh, of the cannibal spirit of its spirit86 —and similarly allowed all the impudent incursions by Czechs, Poles, Yugoslavs, etc.? Then, prudently, after fifteen years, by which time of course Italian and French banditry will have eradicated all trace of German character from the stolen territory, the League will step on to the world stage full of moral righteousness and cynically offer those regions the right to self-determination.87 Finally, it will complacently sign away the property of others to the thieving nations in accordance with the new status quo. And in the final analysis, the League of Nations would be entirely superfluous if the democracy of those nations were really founded on truth, and if England’s “traditional justice,” America’s “morality,” France’s “love of peace,” Italy’s “probity,” etc. were genuine, since with so much virtue going around conflict simply could not take hold. Hence it is impossible to banish one’s suspicions about this new creation by the West. In fact, those nations realize that everybody has at last seen through the lies and trickery of their democracy, so they are forced to invent new lies in order to maintain their deception; the West likes to slip into new cultural evening dress the moment its old garb shows signs of wear. From now on, there should again be new progress, new justice and love of peace, new democracy—a Western brand, be it noted, but always with the booty safely under lock and key, for the English would never have joined the League of Nations in the first place had they not procured in advance the means of forcing all parties to recognize their spoils of war. That is what the Anglo-Saxons hold over the League, and it will stigmatize it for ever. It will be a symbol of Anglo-Saxon benightedness, a symbol of the agony of man. Babies in cradles, children in schools and playgrounds, men in places of art and science, of commerce and industry will fight for breath, suffocated by the lie of the League of Nations: day will be turned compulsorily into night, night into day, deceit will perforce replace truth, robbery honest business, ignorance culture, breach of promise morality, murder selfdetermination. The lie will consume all men’s talents—if I may put it this way, human excreta will spread across the face of God’s earth; man, “by the grace of the people,” will become every inch an ass, corrupted by profit—and he will lisp in English! Oh, the iron grip of the Anglo-Saxons, democracy by lies, the trivial West, the barrenness of the West!

In search of a real cleansing of the polluted atmosphere, who would waste time looking to the numerous conferences of churches, libertarians, pacifists, workers, etc. that have become so fashionable these days? Do creative individuals ever speak at conferences? No: those who attend are mostly people who like the sound of their own voices. For the rest of the time they compensate for their own inadequacies by delighting in destroying, almost systematically, anything that a creative individual might advocate. They spare no thought for healing wounds, the causes of which completely elude them. Instead, they think of nothing but lies, lies of any sort. Here again, it is the Anglo-Saxons who make the real efforts to bring in the nations just so that they can be seen the way they like to be seen, busily making deals: the world in their control, {17} filled with their justice, their wisdom, their culture, and everybody benefitting from the work of their hand. Whether the German social democrats still wear sackcloth and ashes at such conferences and take war-guilt upon themselves is no longer even an issue beside the powerful craving of conferences for the balm of the lie. If there were no conferences, a human race as totally ineffectual as this one today—and when was there ever one more devoid of talent?—would still have to get together every so often just to get their story straight, whether it was still the old lie or some new one. Might we perhaps expect help and support from the German working class? Certainly not so long as they take pride in their betrayal, so long as it is a matter of complete indifference to them (according to one of their leaders) that, while living among us on Germany soil, they purvey their labor for German or French, American or Polish capitalists. Oh, this fist!88 It can do its work anywhere: in Germany, or equally well in other countries or parts of the world. With no head or heart or roots, how could it possibly understand that a Kant or Goethe, a Haydn or Mozart or Beethoven could work and breathe only in Germany! This explains why the German Marxist during the War, when it came to wages, asked only one question: “For whom, then, do I fight and die?”, but never felt the need to ask the other question, which ought to have been more important for him: “For whom shall I live and work in peace?” Oh, the fist! In front of his own child, the fruit of his loins, one ought to have asked him, the worker, whether he could find it in his heart, whether it made sense to him to teach as father to child, that hand and fist were as important as head. Let him say under oath whether he goes along with this! Woe to him if he

86Note the biblical language, for example: “This is now bone of my bones and flesh of my flesh,” Genesis 2.23. 87That is, the plebiscite to be offered under the Versailles Treaty to all the inhabitants of the Saarland after fifteen years. See notes 65 and 68.

88Faust: traditionally, a word that connotes brute force, compulsion, and independence. The clenched fist was used as a symbol for workers’ movements at this time.

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The Mission of German Genius

little Marx-clones92 today recognize only one goal, namely to force their way up the social ladder by deceit and become “middle class,” unsuspecting that if they all eventually became middle class, not to say all Wilsons, Lloyd Georges, and Clemenceaus,93 the world would finally be a human pigsty.

can and does! But if he cannot, then he is a hypocrite if in search of a raise in wages—something that clearly can be pursued and achieved by other means— he is prepared to visit on the body of mankind, on the body of state, the lie that he is unwilling to inflict on his child. If it had been possible back then to put the same question likewise under oath to Karl Marx, who was blessed with many children, before he began his work, how much misery would the world have been spared! However, in downgrading society with his invention of “class,” this wretched man also downgraded himself;89 and centuries, millenia from now he will surely be counted not among the beneficent thinkers in human history but as one of its misguided punchers,90 a champion of brute force. For a start, German workers would have to face up completely to all of this. Then they would have to understand that the despicable lie of capitalist middleclass people so inimical to culture cannot be rectified merely by being compared to the even more despicable lie of the working class allegedly so creative. This is every bit as perverse as making the state, which the working class itself reduced to penury through its betrayal, now an object of (in any case vain) experiments that presuppose a robust economy. Fueled by righteous indignation, the workers would next have to bring their own leaders to account, and depose those who for personal gain (money, position, or perquisites) nurtured in them such selfbetrayal, and drove them to commit such folly;91 a folly by which they finally brought shame, servitude, and poverty down on themselves and on all those other Germans who, even in their hour of greatest need, had no truck with the workers, let alone with the class-warrior himself, Marx; a folly that has succeeded only in furthering imperialism—at any rate that of our enemies. But surely the German worker of today lacks all the necessary qualifications for this task? It would be a waste of time now to set up new schools for the workers’ leaders. They would come too late, at any rate to avoid the destruction that has already been wrought, {18} too late even to serve as a voluntary admission of the ineffectuality and inferiority of workers’ leaders today. So for the time being we must abandon all hope of German workers contributing anything to the rebuilding of the world that they have betrayed—one need only look at how these




Only one thing can be of service: recognition of the truth! It is time that Germans freed themselves from the illusion that all men and all nations are equal. This is no truer than to say that all ants, mushrooms, rocks, etc. are equal. Were they all equal, then the state would surely need to revoke equality and assign unequal tasks and duties to individuals. The state, in human society, unlike for example a bee colony, is never purely natural: it is always only an artifact of human devising, a synthetic creation. Let Germans be alive to the superior quality of their human propagating soil; let them appreciate that even if they were all to become self-betrayers, traitors, Dortens,94 even if South Germans and North Germans were to secede from one another, and all political parties and organizations fragment, even if all German literature were extinguished and replaced by foreign, and all Germans succumbed to total loss of self-respect, and altogether forsook their language, and started speaking exclusively in English, French, Italian, Polish, Czech, Japanese, or whatever; on the day that these things came to pass, Germany as the nation of Luther, Leibniz, Goethe, Schiller, Kant, of Bach, Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, Brahms, would set like the sun, would sink like a spiritual Himalayan mountain range into eternity, irretrievable and unattainable by the other nations! (Jean Paul: “The German language, in all its subtlety of nuance, appears somewhat indeclinable to other peoples; for Goethe and Herder and Klopstock and Lessing cannot be fully enjoyed in any language other than German, and it is not only our aesthetic cos-

92Marx-Homunkulusse:

a “homunculus” is a diminutive, but otherwise fully grown, human being. Wilson was the son of a Presbyterian minister and became an academic political scientist; Georges Clemenceau was the son of a man with revolutionary political leanings and qualified as a medical doctor before turning to professional politics; David Lloyd George came from humble Welsh working-class origins and was brought up by a shoemaker. 94Dr. Hans Abraham Dorten, minor German official who, at the behest of the French generals seeking to subvert the Allies’ policy at the Versailles Conference, carried out a political coup d’état in the Rhineland, declared an independent Rhenish republic with its capital in Wiesbaden, and appealed for French protection. He accomplished this on June 1, 1919, but the French government quickly put a stop to the new republic. 93Woodrow

89Schenker is punning on deklassieren (“to disadvantage, downgrade”) and Klasse (“class,” as a division of society). 90Schenker places Gehirnzellen (“brain cells”) and Faustzellen (“fist cells”) in rhetorical opposition here. 91That is, the overthrow of the government and monarchy in November 1919, and the declaration of a republic.

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tonw i l l e 1 mopolitanism [our world friendship] that distinguishes us from the other nations, but also our aesthetic national distinctiveness.”) Let the German people be guided by history and what history has to tell us through our superior thinkers, artists, and historians; let them especially learn the lessons of the World War and so construct a true picture of the other nations, i.e. the Anglo-Saxons, the French, the Italians, the Slavs, etc. Then they will discover that these peoples all lack power of creativity at the very highest level of genius. Genius is possessedness, demonic nature, “God in one’s bosom.” However, “God spoke only with Moses and not with Aaron”: no Anglo-Saxon, French, or Italian mother could ever carry in her womb a Moses, a Christ, or a Luther, a Buddha, a Confucius, or a Lâo-Tzse, nor yet a Bach, a Mozart, a Goethe, or a Kant. (Not even after intermarrying black racial stock with gloire-esprit could a French mother achieve this!)95 From this, let Germans infer why it is that those nations had to derive their belief in God from the peoples of the East, who were the first to teach the ennobling association of God and man: and at the same time why it is that they understand only one biblical passage from their adopted religion: “Everything that lives and moves . . . I have given you it all.” 96 —from which they understand “you” to mean themselves alone. From this it must also become clear to them why it is that those nations, through lesser capacity for genius, or (which amounts to the same thing) lack of true nobility of spirit and morality, must fall into the lie of {19} the “people,” of middle class, and so into democracy, which sees the middle class as the heart of the state, the middle class’s profit as the content of the state, and financial dealings within the middle class as the sum total of human wisdom; and why it is that they use their magna carta, their doctrine of revolution, their Monroe Doctrine solely for business trickery. But from all of this let Germans conclude that they themselves are too good for democracy. Anyone who, like them, despite all the evidence of history still could not see the sort of deception that democracy practices, even as it approaches, ought certainly not to take up this form of lying. Anyone who, like them, takes a book by Karl Marx—which is after all only a book—so much to heart that they sink into shame and slavery because of it, democracy is not for them. Let them not even try, in the German fashion, to read some deeper moral meaning

into democracy; for every attempt is sure to founder on the unfit intermediary, on the “people,” on the middle class, and as long as each middle-class person, each individual, is no Spinoza—and who would even think of the whole of humanity as entirely made up of aristocrats or geniuses?!—any form of human government that is designed solely for the middle class will lead only to shame and ruin. Nor do Germans need some kind of school for politics. Not one at which Wilsonism, Georgeism, and Clemenceauism are taught, at any rate—but what is democracy without such mendacious trump cards? No, to arrive at democracy one really does have to have entered the world an Anglo-Saxon, Frenchman, or Italian! Rather, Germans must realize that there is only one betrayal of nation, namely not knowing what “nation” itself means. They must strive to stamp out the pitiable lie of the “people” completely if they are not to bring about a Dark Ages of even greater suffering (an era characterized precisely by the lie of the “people”) and with it a betrayal of culture. They must bend all their religious, intellectual, and moral resources to the task of communicating the concept of nation once and for all in all its fullness, so that it encompasses not only brawn—the middle class as the brawn of the intellectual, the working class as the brawn of the middle class—but also intellectuals, king, and aristocracy as equally good parts of nation, if not better ones. Let them make of their nation a model for all, let them prepare it for the first time ever for monarchy in its pure form, free of intermediaries of any sort: for monarchy, for which the nations of the earth are as unready now as ever before, as also for some form of religion and morality. Let them wisely yield to the natural urge, present in every human, to rise ever higher, still higher, to the highest possible realms;97 and trusting in their innate upward-aspiring powers (in contrast to the downward-dragging forces of the middle and working classes) they will nevertheless succeed, without forfeiting their freedom and dignity, without losing their capacity as state citizens, as religious people, in crowning their very own selves in their king, in their intellectual princes: a true monarchy will at long last exist when everyone has, through his king, himself become king.

notes 15 and 40 on Senegal and reference to marriage relationships. 9.3: The ellipsis is ironic. The complete passage is: Alles, was sich reget und lebet, das sei eure Speise; wie das grüne Kraut habe ich’s euch alles gegeben. (“Everything that lives and moves will be food for you. Just as I gave you the green plants, I now give you everything.”)

97. . . Höherem . . . Höherem . . . Höchsten: Schenker is talking of social levels, and his language recalls the mode of royal imperial address: Ihre Königliche-Kaiserliche Hoheit (“Your Royal Imperial Majesty”), and Kaiser Wilhem ii’s appellation as Der Allerhöchste (“The All Highest”).

95See

96Genesis

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The Mission of German Genius

Let them observe how nature has covered the interior of the human body with an outer layer98; then let them apply this principle to the body of state and see how advantageous it will be to the interior organs of this body, too, if they, like the heart, kidneys, stomach, liver, and bowels, do not lie on the surface, exposed to injury, and giving off evil smells, but are protected by an outer covering. If Germans take note, moreover, that the enemy has tricked them on their upper (i.e., outer) flank so as to injure their lower flank (i.e., their innards), then they will have yet one more reason to turn away from the sole redeeming dividend covering [Dividenden-Oben] of the middle class, and from the leader covering [Führer-Oben] of the working class, which promises a higher wage, {20} toward the higher covering of an aristocratic form of state in which a Goethe, a Kant, a Bismarck believed, and that can, at the same time, serve them as a talisman against the stench of the West. Knowing all of this, however, Germans ought emphatically not to greet these still lost nations with hatred or contempt. Much rather, for the sake of culture, religion, and truth, they should feel sympathy toward them, and at any price seek to educate them toward humane and aristocratic ways. It is crucial as part of that, however, that they not just overlook their lies and slander, products of their inferior nature and lack of cultivation, but that they once and for all state the truth, calmly, looking them straight in the eye, holding a mirror up to them so that they can see themselves as they really are, not as they would prefer to see themselves. If necessary, the German might even feel entitled to show arrogance himself wherever any Briton, Frenchman, Italian, or Slav displayed his arrogance, so as to repudiate the [unwarranted] superiority of him who is still in need of education, and who wants to lecture him, the [truly] superior one. And so let us advance by way of the truth to victory over the barbarism and lying of democracy and Marxism, leaving behind all the lecherous lusting, and moving on to the division of the work at hand, to voluntary submission to authority and principle, on to nobility of spirit as the nobility of mankind, and finally on to genius! If in the last analysis genius is total self-abnegation and ceaseless self-sacrifice to something, then it demands relentlessly from the nongenius this same virtue in search of its own salvation!




I

t is however, I fear, impossible for the generation now living to bestir itself and reclaim the capacity for genius that is unquestionably its birthright, in order— semper idem, sed non eodem modo99 —to seek and find in the eternal-same the grace of the ever-new, just as one is so thankfully revitalized by the sun as it rises anew everyday and yet remains the same. The present generation is destined to be a tragic clown among generations, and to perish in the disgrace and shame of insufficient cultivation. Obsessed with at all costs keeping up with the very latest thing, and totally concerned that posterity should rate it higher than all preceding generations, it finishes up by utterly failing to recognize, and so subverting, all that is really best and most valuable of achievements up to today. The task of deliverance must await a new generation. Then again, a pillar of fire will appear ahead of the people,100 again a Prometheus must appear,101 a genius, who will proclaim anew and substantiate the eternal-same. This new generation can only be German, since of all the nations living on the earth today the German nation alone possesses true genius, provided only that her national character has been delivered from all the disgrace and humiliation that today’s servile generation, forgetful of its genius, has bequeathed to it. It will be incumbent upon that new generation to establish once more the sum total of world consciousness, which has today come to nought, and to gather together the immortal past with the immortal present in the manner of our Lessing or Herder, Goethe or Schiller. It will have to manifest in the intellectual realm, too, an absence of discontinuities and a constancy such as can be seen in the evolution of species among animals,102 and the infinitude of the intellect will mirror the infinitude of the generations. The past in its entirety will live anew as the present, What has passed away in the course of millions of years will {21} nevertheless not have perished. The geniuses of all ages will become contemporaries of 99See note 5. Cf Kontrapunkt ii (1922), p. viii/p. xii: “Today the task before us is more to transmit the essence of music to more distant eras, since we cannot expect it to be restored in the near future.” 100Exodus 13.21– 22 (“By day the Lord went ahead of them in a pillar of cloud . . . and by night in a pillar of fire to give them light, so that they could travel by day or night”), 14.24; Numbers 14.14; Nehemiah 9. 12; 9.19. 101Prometheus: Greek God of Fire, who stole fire and returned it to earth; in Aeschylus’ Prometheus Unbound he is the bringer of fire and civilization to men. 102See note 69.

98Oberschicht: lit. “upper layer.” Schenker forges an analogy between the upper layer (royalty, aristocracy) of a monarchic state and the outer layer of the human body. He perhaps uses Schicht, “layer,” rather than Klasse, “class,” not only because of his avowed disbelief in social class but also to draw an analogy with his emerging theory of voice-leading layers inherent in musical works.

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tonw i l l e 1 is at present engaged as editor103 —explicating them and also interspersing between them a variety of essays concerning the theory or history of music, and finally to bring together under a special heading some miscellanea, which will reinforce the principal train of thought. If the author now admits Chopin to the Pantheon of German composers,104 he means to make that composer’s masterworks accessible as a source of the highest genius (for even though they have not arisen directly from Germanity they are certainly directly indebted to it), and in this most lofty sense to offer them anew for use also by a generation of German youth.

all generations, will become eternal contemporaries, and an eternal life for mankind will emerge, built at long last, as the true temple of the eternal one! It is with such future aims as these that I here place at the disposal of a new generation of youth my contributions to the advancement of genius and the nurturing of an elite. The task of these pamphlets will thus be to show what constitutes German genius in music. With this in mind, the author proposes to present, in no particular order, our great symphonies, sonatas, chamber works, and vocal music— including, at some point, the collected piano sonatas of Beethoven, of which he

103Around this time, Schenker was discussing with Universal Edition the possibility of an “UrlinieAusgabe” of the Beethoven sonatas, somewhat along the lines of the Erläuterungsausgaben of the late sonatas. Very likely, the essay on Op. 2, No. 1 (published in Tonwille 2) is a vestige of this project. 104See note 31.

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The Urlinie: A Preliminary Remark Die Urlinie: Eine Vorbemerkung {Tonwille 1, pp. 22– 26} t r a n s l at e d b y r o b e r t s n a r r e n b e r g

In the forthcoming volume of my Kontrapunkt (Neue musikalische Theorien und

ground but have perceived nothing at all of the most tremendous background repetitions in Urlinien. Instrumental music, therefore, does not stem from dance but rather from the Urlinie, which strings the purely musical associations of the motive on its threads and in so doing puts them on their ultimate ground. So long as music for the dance lacked an Urlinie, dance was of course dance, but its music was not yet Art. Only with the Urlinie did the process of music becoming Art really begin, and so also with dance music;3 and thus the theory that instrumental music had its origins in dance topples, together with all the conclusions that have been drawn from it. Just as music began in the Urlinie, so it is only in the Urlinie that it will be able to continue living. The so-called poetic idea is also given the lie by the Urlinie. Although ever so many analogies may be swept from human life into music (how should humanly conceived art not embody the human?), the poetic idea may be relied upon all too often by all those muscle-men of “expression” who do not grasp that it is only possible for them to dissolve themselves in art and not art in themselves; or by certain hermeneutic babblers of “affect” whose inability compels them to see rather than hear their way about in music, as in the rest of the objective world, and thereby compels them to debase music {23} to a cinema for the ears. Above and beyond all that, music with the Urlinie remains a world of its own, unto itself, comparable to the Creation in the sense that it rests only in itself, operating with no end in sight. With everything that belongs to it, that accompanies it, the Urlinie provides truth in the realm of tones, its very own musical truth. Accordingly, all diminutions, all coloraturas remain equally true (musically speaking) in the presence of that line; so does all music certified by verbal truth, such as the lied, the music drama, and so forth. For this reason, all the various divisions and classifications

Phantasien, II3), in which I prove that free composition is essentially a continuation of strict counterpoint, I touch upon a fundamental phenomenon of tonal life in the section on elaboration [Auskomponierung], a phenomenon that I have termed Urlinie.1 As the term already indicates, the Urlinie is an archetypal situation, an archetypal succession of tones.2 The Urlinie bears in itself the seeds of all the forces that shape tonal life. With the cooperation of the harmonic degrees, the Urlinie indicates the paths to all elaboration and so also to the composition of the outer voices, in whose intervals the marriage of strict and free composition is so wonderfully and mysteriously consummated. It is the Urlinie that also gives life to the motive and to melody; only one who has grasped the essence of the Urlinie will find the way to the derivative nature of melody and comprehend that, owing to its origin in the Urlinie, melody is more than what it is usually taken to be. Even the Urlinie obeys the law of procreation, which is the law of repetition; and because it has such a fundamental drive [Urtrieb], the Urlinie joins an ever growing, ever increasing Nature as a living piece of that Nature. While motives and melodies bustle about before our ears in repetitions that are easily perceptible, the Urlinie begets repetitions of a concealed, most sublime sort in its primal womb [Ur-Schoß]. Those who speak of repetitions in music and laugh at their procreative drive clearly betray that they hear only the repetitions in the fore1Schenker’s plans for the third volume of Kontrapunkt were not to materialize as quickly as this announcement suggests. Although a form of “Freier Satz,” as he provisionally entitled it, was drafted prior to the Tonwille series, the promised volume did not appear until the year of Schenker’s death. By 1925 it was no longer billed as “II3” but as “III,” that is, a separate volume of Neue musikalische Theorien und Phantasien; a year later, it bore the revised title, “Der freie Satz.” 2Ein Urzustand, eine Urfolge von Tönen: in this and other essays, Schenker uses or creates words bearing the prefix “Ur-“ to name and underscore the fundamental concepts of his theory.

3See

21

Harmonielehre, p. 4/p. 4.

tonw i l l e 1 such as Classical, Romantic, programmatic, absolute, and the like, disappear from view in face of the Urlinie, since these are biased by personal feeling or historical understanding. Wherever music bears in itself the truth of an Urlinie, it also bears the Urlinie’s blessing and is good. In view of these last revelations about the Urlinie, an extremely dedicated and indulgent search for similarities and points of contact proves to be childish, naive, ludicrous, ignorant, for just as melodies and motives that sound identical in all other respects can differ completely in the way they relate to the Urlinie, so, too, can different melodies (as is nearly always the case) encounter one another in identical Urlinien.4 In the Urlinie, the large-scale miracle of creation is consummated; the Urlinie alone is the muse of all extemporaneous creation, all synthesis; it is the beginning and end of the piece, its very fantasy. In the Urlinie, the composer becomes a seer, drawn to it as to the ancestral mothers [Urmüttern]; and, as if intoxicated with its resources and directions, he assigns his tones a merciful fate full of agreement between the life of each individual tone and a life that exists above and beyond their being (like a “Platonic idea” in music), a fate full of breeding and propriety and order, even in places where uproar, chaos, or dissolution seem to emerge in the foreground. Anyone who has made the Urlinie his own also has a presence of mind and perception of the future [Geistesgegenwart und -zukunft] and, endowed with these, feels exempted from all the rules learned in school and in books that simply never make it possible to generate a presentiment of things to come. If this sort of Urlinie is the long-distance hearing [Fernhören] of the composer, then it may be of use to the reader, the performer, or the listener whose hearing is only near-at-hand, like a pair of mental spectacles that bring distant things closer to him. Permit me to repeat a few things that I explained in my Erläuterungsausgabe of Beethoven’s Sonata Op. 101 (see the “Preliminary Remark” in the Introduction) concerning this same concept:5

The Urlinie is the possession of genius alone, and this explains why knowledge of it was not brought down from those heights long, long ago.6 (As it now turns out, man will learn to fly in the sky before he learns to raise himself up to the genius.) A piece of music comes into the world alive, woven out of Urlinie, degree [Stufe], and voice-leading. The method of observation in which one must initially become aware of each factor in isolation should not obscure the fact that all these sources and forces of energy (from the Urlinie there issues motive and melody) constantly weave together and work on one another. Why, even the essence of man, for example, a complete whole mysteriously woven out of a thousandfold forces, is by no means nullified because an understanding of this essence can be furnished only by theories that go into particulars (anatomy and physiology, for example). Hence it should be declared that we ought to, indeed we must speak of the Urlinie in isolation, however inseparably it cooperates with other forces in the artwork’s play of forces. {24} In a certain sense the Urlinie is like the core of the human soul.7 As this core goes along with man from cradle to grave, so also does the Urlinie accompany [the artwork] from the first tone to the last. Hence, to continue the analogy, the Urlinie may be compared to the span of human life, the seventy years of the Psalmist, because everything that is merely superficial disappears from view when set against it, as so many hours disappear when we contemplate the year and so many years when we contemplate life’s Urlinie. Accordingly, there are difficulties in store when it comes to recognizing the Urlinie of a piece of music, precisely this: one is often inclined to overestimate and misconstrue a voice-leading situation in the present merely because it is present, just as in human life the present hour is often overestimated and misconstrued. When looking at Urlinien, however, do not be disenchanted by the fact that they all resemble one another in their constant stepwise progressions [Zügen von Sekunden], in their repetitions, or even in an up and

4Schenker here proposes an answer to the question of how different melodies could be present in an organically conceived work, a question that he had first raised in 1895 in the essay “Der Geist der musikalischen Technik” (reprinted in Heinrich Schenker als Essayist und Kritiker, ed. Hellmut Federhofer [Hildesheim: Georg Olms, 1990]), pp. 135– 54. 5Erläuterungsausgabe of Op. 101, pp. 22 – 23/pp. 8–10. The ellipsis (. . .) denotes omissions from the original text, including quotations from Goethe, Kant, and Lessing.

6The image of truth being brought down from on high resonates with Schenker’s depiction of himself in other writings as a Moses going up to Mount Sinai to receive the commandments that will bring life to his people. 7Wie des Menschen Seelenkern. The original text, in the Erläuterungsausgabe of Op. 101, reads: Lichtbild des Seelenkernes (“photograph of the core of the soul”).

22

The Urlinie: A Preliminary Remark

down movement as regular as inhaling and exhaling. The artist’s concern is precisely to call forth his own peculiar tensions through a specific number of steps of a second, a particular type of repetition, or a particular up and down, to elicit ever new varieties of his own peculiar motives and melodies from the up and down movement as well as from the elemental laws of voice-leading and the harmonic degree, and thus in every case to progress into what is individual: semper idem, sed non eodem modo— more is not given to the artist . . . . . . But does even the genius himself know anything of the Urlinie? Now it is clear that the genius need not know or express his knowledge of the Urlinie with my words or even in line with my awareness. However, if we see the genius proceeding clearly along the path of the Urlinie, intent on cultivating it marvelously, intent on order even in the midst of change, if we see the genius polishing, and if we must also gather from this that the genius wishes to take only this path and no other, well, then how should we refer to that which impels the genius to do all these things? A piece of Urlinie is certainly contained here and there in not-soingenious pieces of music, but you need only glance at the surroundings of the passage in question and you will immediately gather from the vacillation, the muddling of ends and means, the meandering from one path to another, that obviously this was only a result of good fortune playing its hand once in a while. Such composers simply lack the wonderful natural gift and sacred strength of nerves needed to withstand the overwhelming exigencies, as a secure laying of paths in tonal life presupposes that gift and strength.8 . . . . . . Knowledge of the Urlinie, therefore, is also the surest way to ad-

vance our knowledge of genius. But the study of genius is like astronomy. Stars stood in the heavens long before men ever began to concern themselves about them: they gazed up at them, either in fear or rejoicing. Later, however, they learned to get their bearings from the stars, to turn them to their profit, and ever since the blessing of this knowledge has flowed forth. Above {25} us the starry heaven of genius sparkles, yet mankind has still not succeeded in getting a proper bearing on them. For what is the trifling world of ideas that the average person borrows from genius compared to the abundant blessing that he could and should obtain? And yet to do so requires modesty and respect above all, in the same measure in which these virtues also adorn the true genius. But who does not see that these virtues are completely lacking among today’s generation, which clearly betrays how much it is wanting in geniuses, indeed, even in talents? . . .


I

f it is actually conceivable that the creative mien of our greatest composers could somehow have also been imparted to the non-genius over the course of the generations, then Richard Wagner is probably the one to blame for having hindered this advance, conceivable as it was in the abstract. Since he could not find the way to the ancestral mothers, he had to take refuge in so-called music drama (if only out of a drive for self-preservation) if he were to offer at least extramusical justification for his undisputedly, if idiosyncratically, musical way of thinking. Although he himself absorbed and performed the works of our greatest composers, he failed before the Urlinie and even explicitly impugned the organic necessity in these works, merely because he did not sense what power made the composers of these works into a veritably passive tool of Urlinien, which bear artistic truth and necessity. How easy it is now to comprehend that it was not so much the ostensibly irresistible power of Wagner’s works, which so carried away his contemporaries and later generations (only a few of the best excepted), than the disintegration— by the killing of the Urlinie—which the less capable composers endorsed all the more willingly the more easily they could call attention to themselves by so doing. And if a talent like Wagner’s could no longer suffice for the fiendishly difficult demands of the Urlinie, wherefore out of necessity he made a virtue of the total artwork, then his followers and imitators subsequently made a virtue of it even more easily, far more easily, to the same degree that their talent was so very

8[S]The manufacturers of so-called impressionistic pieces like to speak today of a certain “line.” But where, as in these pieces, the effect amounts only to a tonal noise (which, like every noise only counts as an acoustic phenomenon but not yet as Art), the “line” of the tonal noise certainly says no more than the lines that can also make themselves felt, rising and falling, in other noises (for example, in thunder, the rocking of a table, the rolling of a carriage, and so forth). The vogue for such tonal noises and lines comes from France—that alone says it all. The French nationality, which never had much to offer in music (as of course in other areas, too, except perhaps the so-called exact sciences), no Bach or Handel, no Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert, Mendelssohn, Schumann, or Brahms, not even a Wagner or Bruckner—this French nationality allows itself to make such nonsense the fashion and even to declare it a national art (which would only be consistent), but what does Germany have to do with this noise, this caricature of line, when it possesses such potent Urlinie-runes?

23

tonw i l l e 1 much smaller than his. And if today’s musicians easily make it to the point of roiling about in something that can no longer be called the basic material of the musical art, then, as I said, Richard Wagner alone bears the blame for having demobilized, as it were, their musical nerves. In shattering the Urlinie and destroying musical truth, Wagner readied a fate for music similar to that which Karl Marx readied for society by demolishing every tradition and the truths that rested therein but were incomprehensible to him. This comparison also accords with the fact that they both brought ruin chiefly upon German music and German society. And so, just as one could probably call Karl Marx, to put it rather crassly, the hangman of German humanity, though by no means the executioner of capitalism in general, one can also say of Wagner that he became the hangman of German music, though still by no means the executioner of the music of other nations as well. However, music and society overall are seriously damaged along with German music and German society, for what nation has a greater musical art than the German nation or a more ideal history than the German nation? {26} Consequently the errors and offenses for which German mankind has been blamed by Wagner and Marx alike are serious, extremely serious—and yet they are also German errors, and even as errors they are still noble, German errors, the likes of which no other nation can display. What artistic feeling Wagner called into play, what deep humanity a man like Karl Marx could call upon—but

unfortunately both men had limited vision, hearing or observing only what lay near at hand, neither was a genius. And all their work, no matter how broadly and prodigiously they extended it, melts away before an ever so small but far-seen creation of a genius. For German music there is but one way of salvation: a return to pre-Wagnerian musical truth. Wagner—and German music may well permit this given its high position—must be placed in the same niche as Christoph Willibald Ritter von Gluck, who, in spite of his virtues and excellent qualities, was outstripped in a trice by a Mozart, merely because Mozart could write bass parts of which Gluck had no inkling. It has turned out to be the fate of German music that Wagner, too, was not similarly surpassed by another Mozart.


The Urlinie is the composer’s visionary gift. A visionary gift is a difficult burden. The seer bears it without a word when a god wants to communicate through him, keeping silent about the torments that he suffers at the sight of a humanity that cannot participate in the revelation and, because it cannot, also wants not to participate. The nadir of musical art was already reached long ago, and it is now a question of fortifying nerves that were rendered completely hysterical by artistic idleness, so that in the foreseeable future they can again perform such a great service to the art. The hour of turning back has tolled.

24

Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony Beethoven: V. Sinfonie {Tonwille 1, pp. 27– 37} t r a n s l at e d b y w i l l i a m d r a b k i n

Composed 1805– 8, first performed on December 22, 1808. The orchestral parts

were published in 1809, the score in 1826. The symphony was dedicated to Prince Lobkowitz and Count Razumovsky.1

Since bar 1 must be understood as a metrically weak bar—the repeat of the exposition (see Fig. 6, the graph of the Urlinie) shows it to be the eighth bar (thus a weak bar) of the group beginning in bar 118—the principal motive is four bars long (bars 2– 5), with bar 1 as upbeat. Fig. 3 gives a conspectus of the motive in its primary transformations:

First Movement Bars 1ff. The sonata form of the first movement may be represented as follows First Subject antecedent consequent and modulation Second Subject Development Recapitulation Coda

bars 1– 21 bars 22– 59 bars 60–125 bars 126– 248 bars 249– 373 bars 374 – 502

The principal motive of the first movement does not comprise merely the two tones of bars 1– 2, as has erroneously been assumed until now:

{28} The first form, Ia, with tone repetitions in the upbeat and second bar and fermatas in the first and fourth, is the strongest version and serves as motto for the first group. It thus returns at the start of the recapitulation and toward the end of the coda, almost as if to provide a rhyme for the beginning of the movement. The second version of this form, Ib, retains the definitive leaps of a third; the fermatas are omitted, and the tone repetitions in the second bar are replaced by a half note. Because of its similarity with Ia, it is called upon to announce the latter’s return, not only towards the end of the development (i.e., before the start of the recapitulation) but also before its final appearance in the coda, namely in

but rather the community of the four tones in bars 1– 5: 1Isolated jottings for a C minor symphony appear soon after the completion of the Eroica—the sketch quoted in fig. 4 dates from 1804—but Beethoven undertook the main work on the Fifth Symphony in 1807 and early 1808. The work had been intended for Count Franz von Oppersdorff (1778 – 1818), an aristocratic musical enthusiast who maintained an orchestra at his palace at Oberglogau in Upper Silesia; in the end, Beethoven dedicated this symphony—and the Sixth—jointly to two of his closest patrons, Prince Franz Joseph von Lobkowitz and Count Andreas Razumovsky. Oppersdorff instead received the dedication of the Fourth Symphony.

25

tonw i l l e 1 bars 399ff with the original half notes, and immediately thereafter (bars 407ff) in rhythmic diminution. IIa gives us the second principal form. It differs from Ia by the replacement of leaps of a third with fifths, but is similar to Ib in dispensing with the fermatas and tone repetitions in the second bar. It is the motto of the second subject group: thus it initiates the second part of the development section, bars 180ff, and is given opportunity for thematic development soon afterward, in bars 196ff (shown as IIb). The form given in Ic is clearly related to Ia, on account of the initial leap of a third; but now the first fermata is unnecessary for the simple reason that the second set of tone repetitions appears in the first bar of the motive. And again, on account of the initial leap of a third, the small offshoot in bars 23 – 24 [shown in Fig. 3 as Id], which initiate the consequent phrase of the first group, is closely related to the principal form of the motive. An association of the four distinct pitches is evident in Beethoven’s earliest sketches for the Fifth Symphony, transcribed by Gustav Nottebohm:2

But his commentary is incorrect: Viewed in terms of its rhythmic shape, the principal motive of the first movement of the C minor symphony, which comprises four notes, {29} is also contained in the principal theme of the G major piano concerto. In the former it appears as a self-contained motive, in a primitive version; in the latter it is an element of a larger melodic whole. That the primitive version came first and preceded the other, more unified one, is shown by the sketches. In both cases, i.e. in the symphony and the piano concerto, whose theme Nottebohm also quotes as it appears in the sketches,

we must distinguish between note repetition in the service merely of a single tone, and the principal motive considered as a whole, comprising several pitches. This is well illustrated by the succession of harmonic degrees in Fig. 4; here the former procedure never enters the picture: the “larger melodic whole,” to use Nottebohm’s phrase, is precisely a four-tone and four-bar whole. The same harmonic reason applies also to the final version. For if we were to hear the motive as complete as early as at the first fermata, the consequence would be that the third g–e
would have to be understood in the first place as the tonic of E
major, which would surely occur to no one.3 That the master understood the principal motive as a four-bar construction can be seen from the correction he subsequently made to the first edition. He wrote as follows in the autograph score:4 3Schenker doesn’t explain why the succession G–E
–F–D could not also be heard as E
major, rather than C minor. The point about tonal ambiguity in the first two bars—extendable to the first five bars—was first made by E. T. A. Hoffmann in his review of the symphony for the 1810 Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung. In the continuation of this essay (in Tonwille 5), Schenker quotes substantial extracts of Hoffmann’s review in his discussion of the literature on the symphony, but omits his observations on this ambiguity. 4[S]I wish to express my heartfelt gratitude to the ever helpful, tirelessly accommodating Director of the [Music Division of the] Prussian State Library in Berlin, Prof. Dr. Wilhelm Altmann, for granting me access to a photographic reproduction of the autograph. [A facsimile edition of this manuscript was published by the Maximilian-Verlag in Berlin in 1942, with commentary by Georg Schünemann.]

2Beethoveniana: Aufsatze und Mittheilungen (Leipzig and Wintertur: Rieter-Biedermann, 1872), p. 12. Nottebohm transcribed Figs. 4 and 5 from a privately owned collection of miscellaneous sketchleaves, which entered the collection of the Prussian Royal Library (now the Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin) in 1874 under the signature “Mus. ms. autogr. Beethoven 19e.”

26

Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony

This graph, probably the most basic formulation of the creative fantasy, which in contrast to the Urlinie represents a sort of first elaboration, shows clearly how the two primary tones of the motive strive towards the nodal points of the fourth or fifth by the annexation of further tones (on nodal points at the fourth and fifth, see “Freier Satz”).5 If the principal motive was really that which it has hitherto been taken to be, then the Urlinie and its simplest preliminary formulation would lead us to the most extraordinary conclusion, namely, that even a single tone can be a motive. But doesn’t a motive, considered as a melodic concept, have to consist of at least two tones? (A rhythmic motive is an altogether different matter: variety of pitch does not come into play.) Yet it must be remembered that, even in the case of Id (Fig. 3), Beethoven at least accords the tone f a two-bar rhythmic unit and, moreover, places this tone at the head of the two-note principal motive.6 That it was hitherto possible to misinterpret the principal motive, the correct understanding of which is crucial to performance and musical enjoyment, results from the note repetitions. (It is strange that even those musicians who turn up their noses at a four-bar construction in music cannot even recognize one of the Beethovenian variety.) Even in themselves, repeated notes convey the effect of one or more spoken words (as I have shown in Kontrapunkt i, pp. 63ff/pp. 42– 44). If one adds to this, as is precisely the case in our symphony, the fermatas and the sequential formation in the adjoining bars, then the untrained ear would have had the impression of a motive as early as the first fermata. It was also the repetition of notes that was responsible for the dissemination of legends. One need only recall how for example Czerny, apparently following up a remark by Beethoven, found that the rhythmic motive reproduced the cry of the yellowhammer, whereas Schindler—again based on a remark Beethoven is alleged to have made—related it to the power that destiny wields over humanity (“Thus Fate knocks at the door!”), to judge how utterly worthless these interpretations are. Even the seductive {31} intervention of a Richard Wagner in favour of an interpretation of bars 1– 2 as a motive proves only that even he, a total stranger to ab-

To be sure, this notation preserves the basic metrical scheme of four- and twobar constructions, as in Ia and Id, so that in the fourth or second bar the next motive is connected (as if with an upbeat); and it also confirms at the outset the two-bar construction of Ic. He subsequently added a bar in each of these places, to secure for the motive its own four- or two-bar construction, regardless of whether the following bar is an upbeat (as in Ia and Id) or it fits into the scheme in a metrically regular manner (as in Ic). The upbeat character of the first three eighth notes in bar 1 of the score applies not only to the regular constructions, as for example in bars 14, 22, 29, 101, and so on, but even those that appear to be, so to speak, metrically superfluous, as at bars 6, 25, and 390. The most convincing evidence for the integral motivic coherence of bars 1– 5 is, of course, provided by the Urlinie (see the graph, Fig. 6, p. 28). The Urlinie shows us that it is not actually all four tones making up the principal motive (see Fig. 3) that are of the essence, but merely the two half-notes separated by a step. {30} Grouping in twos at the interval of the second remains the defining characteristic of the motive, even in places, such as in IIa, where a substitution (b
for d) increases the size of the interval. Bars 26– 29 and subsequently bars 45– 48, 49– 51, 60, etc. (leaving the suspensions in bars 34 – 35ff out of consideration) each reply with a pair of tones a second apart. This evidence is confirmed and strengthened still further by the following illustration:

5The concept of nodal point (Knotenpunkt) does not figure in the final version of Der freie Satz. When “Freier Satz” was part of the Kontrapunkt project, Schenker planned a section entitled “Von Knotenpunkten bei der Horizontaliserung” (on the use of nodal points in linear elaborations) under the general discussion of Stufe. See Robert Kosovsky, The Oster Collection: Papers of Heinrich Schenker, A Finding List (New York: New York Public Library, 1990), p. 380. 6After the statement of Id, which leaves f 1 in bars 23–24 unresolved, Beethoven develops the principal motive in such away that f 1 in bar 26 leads to e
1 in bar 29. The connection is shown in the graph of the Urlinie by a square bracket drawn between these bars.

27

28

Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony

counting up its occurrences) is grasped, gaining the audience’s affection at its very first appearance. The exceedingly numerous repetitions have undoubtedly been the primary source of enjoyment: merely by taking pleasure in recognizing the motive as it recurs so many times, one imagines that one is actually hearing and feeling. If what is, after all, such a paltry accomplishment can create such great pleasure, then it would logically have to follow that a greater intellectual accomplishment would lead to still greater pleasure. How blissful would the listener certainly feel if he could share the master’s long-range hearing, traversing and soaring over the broadly planned paths! If only he could! Then his fear, that a better sense of hearing might impinge on his pleasure, would turn to joy. And so it merely remains to be said, with respect to the closed four-bar construction of the principal motive, that the fermatas are merely an inner concern and that, strictly speaking, they could be dispensed with both at the beginning and elsewhere, as is the case for example at bars 228ff, where they are missing. They do give added emphasis, and increase the effect of the note repetitions, raising them to the status of a challenge; far beyond these effects, however, soars {32} the power of synthesis, which is attentive to four—essentially, to just two—principal tones and thereby gains connections at a higher level. The motivic construction that makes its first appearance in the first violin in bar 14 represents a passing note in the same space of a third originally spanned by the principal motive (in bars 1– 2), although it forms a thematic component in its own right, as is speficially confirmed by the development section. It is the downward thrust of this very passing note that pushes the tones still further in the same direction, up to the nodal point of the fourth (see Fig. 7, above) Note the changes in the rhythmic situation of the second half note. At first (as at bars 4 and 11) it falls on the third and fifth bar, i.e. on relatively strong bars, of a four- or eight-bar group. This natural order is, however, breached in the eightbar group comprising bars 26– 33, so that the second half note falls on the fourth and eighth bars, i.e. on weak bars. If, in addition, the order of the basic metrical scheme is relaxed by the ten-bar group that immediately follows (bars 34 – 43), a group that merely mediates between the chords shown in Fig. 8, then the two half notes of the motive only fall still further out of rhythmic equilibrium.

solute music, succumbed to the mysterious eloquence of note repetition in same way as the Czernys and the Schindlers of the world. In his treatise On Conducting, he wrote: Suppose that the voice of Beethoven cried out from the grave to a conductor: “Make my fermatas long and frightening! I did not write fermatas as a joke, or in a moment of difficulty over what to do next; but the same full tone I intended in my adagios, for the expression of swelling feeling, I include in my violent, quick-paced allegros, if need be, as a convulsion of joy or fear. Then shall its life be drained to the last drop of blood; then do I part the waters of my sea and expose the depths of its abyss; or restrain the movement of clouds, dispel the whirling streaks of mist and open up a glimpse of pure blue ether, the sun’s radiant eye. For these reasons do I put fermatas—notes entering suddenly, and held at length— into my allegros. And note my perfectly clear thematic intentions with this sustained E
, after three stormily short notes, and what I meant to say with all the remaining notes that are likewise to be held.”7 Even if we accept that there was a connection between the rhythm of this motive and the idea of a Fate knocking at the door, it is nevertheless only the office of art, not of Fate, which has responsibility for this knocking. And if one wished to offer a hermeneutic interpretation, that Beethoven was wrestling with Fate throughout the movement, then it would not be Fate alone that participated in this struggle but also Beethoven himself: but not merely Beethoven the man, but even more so Beethoven the musician. If Beethoven wrestled in tones, then no legend, no hermeneutic interpretation can offer a satisfactory explanation of the tonal world, unless one thinks and feels with these tones exactly as they themselves think, so to speak. Anyone who, in spite of everything, still finds it difficult to rid himself of the musical and metrical nonsense on account of the legends, merely has to consider that Beethoven developed a similar note repetition in the contemporaneous piano concerto; was it perhaps another door at which Fate knocked, or was Fate knocking at the same door, only in a different way? What is not in dispute, at any rate, is the ease with which the motive of our symphony (Grove calls it an “agreeable” motive; and how often do motive statisticians enjoy 7Schenker, characteristically, fails to let the reader in on the full story. Wagner used this imaginary speech by Beethoven to poke fun at conductors who ask for fermatas to be held for so long that the players run out of bow, or breath, with the result that the tone produced at the end of the fermata is very feeble.

From their position in bars 2 and 5, 6 and 8 in the group of bars 44 – 51, and bars 2 and 7 in the group of bars 52–59, one gets the impression throughout this pas-

29

tonw i l l e 1 bass is at the same time filled by passing tones, and how subsequently, within the  IV (bars 84 – 93), a passing tone in the bass pushes up to the third of the chord (bar 90). Finally we see how, by voice exchange, the a in the bass (bar 84) climbs to b
[2] in the soprano (bar 94) while, conversely, the diminished fifth of the chord, e
2 (bar 85) falls to d in the bass. The motto of the second subject proclaims the restoration of congruence between pitch and metrical order, which had been breached in the modulation: the half notes e
and b
appear again on the first and third bars of the group. But the starting note of the motive of the fourth, e
2, as early as the fourth bar initiates a new tension with the meter, which must again be overcome. All this is mirrored in the Beethoven’s slurring, which—what genius in the creation of such connections!—strengthens and underscores both the tension and its resolution. For if the variation of the motive of the fourth, in contrast to the horn call, should be performed legato, then it is obvious that the upbeat in bar 63 should be included under the slur, just as there should be a break between bars 65 and 66 to avoid a collision of the repeated c2s. The change in the variation in bar 75, resulting from a new set of harmonic relationships starting at bar 72, removes the threat of a collision between two identical notes, but necessitates a new legato articulation: it is the joining of a weak bar to a strong one (see the small slurs in the graph of the Urlinie, bars 75– 82), which Beethoven makes use of so frequently in the service of musical expression: see Beethoven’s Neunte Sinfonie, pp. 40– 42/ pp. 61– 63; Erläuterungsausgabe of Op. 110, p. 37/p. 32.8 With the expansion of  IV in bars 84 – 93, the postponement of the last tone of the fourth-progression, d,—and this is indeed the purpose of the expansion— requires again a new and special arrangement of the slurs:

sage that the tones of the motive are responding to the changes in the bass. Although hardly noticeable at first, all these disruptions of metric equilibrium sound increasingly precipitous in the swing of the modulation before they finally return to a state of order and compliance, in accordance with a general rule of nature. Even in this respect a diversity is evident, in that ascending arpeggiations are used to serve the elaboration [Auskomponierung] in the antecent phrase (from bar 7 onward), and conversely descending arpeggiations are used in the consequent. Bars 60ff. In contrast with the first subject, the second proceeds undivided from the point of view of form. As shown in Fig. 7, it traverses the octave from e
2 to e
1, marked only by its natural division into fourth-progression and fifth-progression. The former is modeled after the fourth-progression in bars 17– 21, the fifthprogression is the required complement. In the realization of this plan, however, the nodal point b
1 is set an octave higher (bar 94), so that the fifth-progression is dispatched in the two-line octave. The fourth-progression remains from start to finish (bars 63 – 66) under the sign of the tonic; by contrast, after the arrival of the high b
2 in bar 94, the dominant controls the harmony of the two eight-bar groups (as can be seen from their beginnings and ends, bars 94 and 101, bars 102 and 109). If, however, the g2 in these spaces (bars 96 and 104) falls in the third bar, i.e. on a weak metrical position in the group, the tonic is too weak here to encroach upon the authority of the dominant. For this reason, the same g2 is brought back in bar 110, at the head of the next two eight-bar groups, which elaborate the remaining part of the fifth-progression in broader measure, so to speak. Now, for the sake of the final, decisive emphasis, the tonic takes over as the leading harmony. What ingenious foresight even in the basic plan of the second subject! It has already been explained that, in the motto of the second subject, the note b
in bar 62 actually stands for d1. Two things are achieved by this substitution: the hidden step progression e
1 –d1 pushes toward the nodal point of the fourth, as in bars 15ff, while the substituting b
proclaims and establishes this very point. Only such an interpretation {33} prevents us from hearing the first-violin motive in bars 63 – 66 as an exact variation of the motto; a superficial consideration might have led us in this direction, on account of the upward push to f 2 (bar 65) and the fall to b
1 (bar 66). We see rather that it is a variation of the fourthprogression, as the Urlinie makes clear. In what follows, too, this same fourthprogression is repeated a number of times; and the variation, seen in this way, becomes entirely clear. Likewise, we can see from the graph of the Urlinie how, as the harmony moves from I to IV in bars 74 – 82, the space of a fourth e
–a
in the

To be sure, at the start of the expansion bars 83– 85 are slurred together in the earlier manner, like bars 63 – 65; but since the expansion can in no way be mistaken for anything else, so long as the final note d is missing, it is also possible—in 8Schenker is probably referring to the first movement of the sonata, bars 35 – 37, a passage in which “the articulation is of the utmost importance.” Beethoven slurs the last beat of bar 35 to the end of bar 37; Schenker is critical of the numerous editions that draw a slur over the whole of bar 35 and use a new slur for bars 36– 37.

30

Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony

with the tones a
in bar 130, g in bar 180, and f in bar 196; these act as stopping points within the space defined by the diminished fifth. Before the start of the first section, a chromatic modulation from E
major to F minor:

order to prepare the restoration of metrical balance, i.e. the fifth-progression that begins in the correct register with b
2 in bar 94—to risk not only placing the head of the motive, g
2, on relatively strong bars in the group (i.e., bars 86, 88, 90, 92) but also starting the slur from this g
2, thus making the slurring agree with the shape of the motive. One can understand from this that, in order to achieve this very slurring, it was actually necessary to group the first three bars (83– 85) together, their purpose being to act as a transition from the previous manner of slurring (bars 75–82). But to do this sort of thing as many as four times in succession, in bars 86, 88, 90, and 92, was something the master obviously found disagreeable, and thus he found himself compelled {34} first to stretch a slur across two bars (86–87) and then—by beginning right in the middle of the group and thereby preserving its equilibrium, as it were—to place the remaining six bars (88–93) under a single slur. On the other hand, to avoid endangering the effect of a crescendo by using too long a slur, he divided the slur in the cello (which plays the same line) into two slurs, two bars plus four bars, and moreover introduced the flute in bar 91, which thus joins in for the last three bars under a single slur. The irregular ten-bar construction of the extension, together with the unusual play among the legato slurs, imparts to this passage an indescribable, irresistible magic. The reasons why the Urlinie shows the organization of the second subject in groups of bars in this way, and not otherwise, may be summed up as follows: it is clear that the horn call is different from the material that follows it, in the way it fills the space of a fourth and in its relation to the overall metric structure. Of the ensuing threefold repetition of the motive of the fourth, by now easily recognizable, the first two repetitions could readily be separated off and understood as an eight-bar group, almost as if they were of little significance for what was to follow. In this sense, only the third repetition, bars 71–74, marks the actual starting point of the movement upward. Were we to compare the twelve bars of 72 – 83 (as three times four bars) with the ten that follow, 84– 93, we would be misconstruing the sense and eloquence of the extension; this can only make sense as a unit of fourteen bars that outstrips the previous eight-bar group.9

is articulated by the motto of the first subject; this determines the thematic contents of the first section. In fact, the two-note principal motive is used here as it was used in the first subject (bars 137– 38 ⫽ bars 14 –15). In bars 142– 45, the descending quarter notes10 exceed the original space of a fourth (cf. bars 17– 21). Yet these seem, in this lengthened form, to be derived rather from the descending octave of bars 94 –101, just as the ascending counterpoint in the voice below it may similarly be traced back to the ascending bass line in those same bars. The harmony modulates from F minor to C minor. In C minor the two voices are inverted; the harmony modulates further, to G minor. A return to the original position of the voices in G minor is then completed in the next group of bars (154ff) and, by means of an expansion, leads to a half cadence in G minor. The ascending soprano line, beginning in bar 158, is to be understood as a rhythmic augmentation of the line in bars 150– 53; as can be seen from the graph of the Urlinie, it is also furnished with anticipations. In bar 167, an acceleration takes place in the descending lines (cello and viola), in consequence of which bar 168, instead of {35} providing the expected anticipation, has a different content and, as a result of this very change, itself becomes transformed into a metrically strong bar of a new group. Now there is a change of harmony, to IV, traversing a series of passing harmonies.11  IV in bars 172 –75 proceeds to V in bar 176. First of all, the ascending soprano line beginning in bar 158 can basically be derived from the succession of merely three tones: bar

Bars 126ff. Fig. 7 shows the deepest background of the development section, the sum of a diminished chord on II or [  ]VII in C minor. Its course is expressed in the Urlinie by a clear grouping of three distinct sections, beginning respectively

158 b
I

–

162 c —

–

166 d V

10Schenker is referring to the quarter notes extracted in the graph of the Urlinie, Fig. 6, not to the actual score of the symphony. 11Hier auch Stufenwechsel: es ist die IV. mit einverleibten Durchgängen. The graph of the Urlinie shows passing notes in the bass (marked “Durchgänge”) between I in bar 158 and IV in bar 168, not a IV that contains passing motions, as Schenker’s text implies.

9That is, the longer, expanded phrase must come second; the initial eight-bar group (72 –79) sets the norm, which is then exceeded by the fourteen bars of 80 – 93.

31

tonw i l l e 1 disregarding the detour in the form of a turn figure before the d: (e
–)d–c  –d in bars 168–79. If one recalls, however, that the descent of the lines, already evident from bar 130 in abbreviated form, is referable to the motion that follows:

{36} The following illustrations may be of some help in explaining the construction of the development:

then one can understand that, in a still deeper sense, this d2 in bar 179 stands for another tone of the dominant, a1, and that the path up to d2 was taken only for the specific purpose of gaining the leap of a fifth needed to introduce the motto (of the second subject which follows). In addition, Fig. 11 shows not only the further activity of the first fourth-progressions, but also the path from the primary tone of the first part of the development, a
, to the primary note of the second, g (see Fig. 7). The second part of the development begins in bar 180 with the motto of the second subject group. The second tone of the principal motive, which in both its first and second version (Ia and IIa in Fig. 3) has only the function of a neighbor note in the Urlinie, is reduced in this section to the passing note that lies concealed behind every neighbor note (cf. Kontrapunkt i, p. 240/p. 179);12 thus a1 in bar 181 climbs at last to b1 in bar 187, as does d2 in bar 189 to e2 in bar 195. In this way, there arise nodal points separated by the interval of a fourth, from which develops a line—led by the strings—that climbs ever higher:

Fig. 14a shows the very simplest way in which consecutive fifths may be avoided by using a 5– 6 exchange together with a chromatic passing note between IV  3 and V  3. If, in addition, the starting triad is minor, as in Fig. 14b, then the dismantling of the minor third allows for an extension, before the original path is resumed.13 Fig. 14c shows how the line prepares itself for the ascending path by means of anticipations, in which the second tone of the principal motive is always hidden. Beethoven strives first toward the nodal point of a fourth, b
(bar 209), and indeed only—what a categorical imperative of the ear!—because he wanted to sacrifice an explicit association between the earlier fourth-progressions and this one, even in the midst of a transitional passage! From this nodal point, one can then also understand the path through g
and a in terms of B
minor: bar 204 209 ⫽ V3 I
3 The further the path ascends, however, the more hesitant becomes its course, as Fig. 14d shows: the space between tones continues to increase. Bar 209 was originally a metrically weak bar; by its being changed to a strong bar, which

Thus we arrive at f in bar 196. Even here, the chord on F is taken up as the IV of the home key, and it is essential to gain the dominant. In a powerful developmental construction full of the wonder of synthesis, the line—still rising, as it was in the two previous eight-bar groups, but now led by the wind instruments— takes the path from f 1 to e
1:

13[S]It may be noted, incidentally, that exactly the same procedure is used in Beethoven’s Piano Sonata in D minor, Op. 31, No. 2, first movement, bars 157ff:

12In his discussion of second-species counterpoint, Schenker regards the dissonant neighbor note as an inferior form of passing note.

32

Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony

makes bar 210 weak, the nodal point is even more emphatically underscored, so that there is no longer any difficulty in recognizing that, from this point onward, only the wind instruments play in the strong bars. This state of hesitation and suspended breath is shattered with the most violent force, taking the listener almost completely by surprise, by the motto of the first subject group in the form Ib—in the inner voices. At first, however, the upper line remains untroubled by this outcry. Even if the inner voices let out a cry of “Become!” from the interior of the harmony, still the upper line heeds the irresistible force of dying only in the following groups of bars. Still more frequent, stronger blows are needed (see bars 241– 48) before the d2 of the upper line becomes totally extinguished and, at bar 249, is resurrected anew in the e
2 of the opening motto. {27}

In the earlier passage the extension is played out on  IV
7 before the harmony moves to V; here the extension proceeds at the outset on V, but can take no other form than a mixture of minor and major intervals, a
and a  . (Although theoretically conceivable, a similar mixture involving g
and g  would have been impossible in bars 83–93 on the grounds that g had to be reserved for the fifth-progression that followed.) As Fig. 15 shows, the transition from minor (a
2) to major (a  2) takes place approximately in the middle of the fourteen-bar group; and the force of the mixture here is so powerful on its own that no further artifices of slurring are needed to strengthen its effect. The coda unfolds in three sections, all of which are marked by an ascending line—see the graph of the Urlinie and Fig. 7—from the tonic, c, followed by a line falling back to the tonic (see bars 374, 439, and 469) The range of the falling line is the greatest in the first of these sections, where it covers the full space of a fifth, g2 –c2 (bars 407– 29). The minor third in this fifth-progression responds to the major-mode fifth progression in the recapitulation, bars 346–73. At bar 399, the interpretation of bars 1– 5 as V6 – 5 is confirmed. The Urlinie makes the exceptional richness of transitional material in bars 407– 24 particularly clear. The purpose of the final section is to introduce the ascending leading tone, which was similarly brought into play at the end of the exposition (see Fig. 7).

Bars 254ff. As in all other masterworks, the principle of variation in the recapitulation also applies to the Fifth Symphony. Instead of a merely purring along vacuously, the reprise breathes new life into the work through a variety of detail. Thus already in the first subject the bassoon and oboe make their mark, the latter even in a soloistic manner by ornamenting a fermata in bar 268; this takes the place of the cry at bars 22 – 24 in the exposition and thus provides equilibrium at a higher level. The bassoons, not the horns, introduce the second subject in the recapitulation. This happens, as was said,14 merely for sake of originality and variety. In contrast to bars 29– 33, the strings play in unison in bars 273 –76. A change in the accompaniment is necessary in bars 331– 45, compared to bars 83– 93, on account of the changed harmonic circumstances:

(This essay is continued in Tonwille 5.)

14Schenker has not previously discussed the issue of bassoons versus horns in bars 303– 6, but the matter will come up twice in the continuation of the essay, in Tonwille 5, in his remarks on the autograph score and on performance.

33

The E
Minor Prelude from Bach’s Well-Tempered Clavier, Book I Joh. Seb. Bach: Wohltemperiertes Klavier, Band I. Präludium Es-Moll {Tonwille 1, pp. 38– 45} t r a n s l at e d b y j o s e p h l u b b e n

The Urlinie of the prelude takes the following course:

change in quantity and harmonic meaning in order to bring forth that three-note succession and, especially, how multifarious is the manner in which the repetitions are interwoven with one another. In bars 4 – 5, 6 –7, 31, 32, and 38– 39 of this prelude, the last note of the succession becomes the first of the repetition—this is the simplest manner. Elsewhere, repetitions are joined by stepwise motion—and indeed, this is the case not only in bars 25 – 26, but also in bars 8– 9, 10–11, 12–13, and 23 – 24, where suspensions mask the actual stepwise connections [between motives] and seem to stretch the successions to four notes. Sometimes the leading tones—ascending in bars 15 and 28, descending in bars 19 and 36—necessitate completions of the three-note successions, whereby they once again {39} form apparent four-note ones (even though, in themselves, they merely present the elaboration of a third within the dominant chords). Elsewhere, as in bars 16, 20, and 22, the head note of the next succession overlaps with the concluding tone.2 But how limited all of this richness is when compared to the overabundance of fantasy by which the master conveys the Urlinie from its ethereal world into reality! Compared to a life force that causes original creations to arise and blossom, on account of whose beauty and multifariousness one remains completely unaware of the underlying cause of the idea: compared to such a life force, how cheap, how shallow are the words ornamentation and diminution! Let us step closer to this marvelous world. The first note of the Urlinie in bar 1 gives life to an arpeggiation that also puts in a claim for individual motivic status; this claim stems not only from its repetition in bar 2, but even more from its subsequent use—see the inversion in bars 4, 6, etc., and the variation in bar 3 that stands for the following:

It is immediately evident here that the Urlinie has the form of what is in essence a three-note motive, whose reproductive urge (see Harmonielehre, pp. 4ff/ pp. 4 – 5) gives birth to countless repetitions.1 Granted, such a motive, since it has just three notes, is in itself nothing more than the elaboration [Auskomponierung] of any given space of a third, and its repetition is also, in itself, nothing more than a repetition; but here, how differently does each execution of the motive take shape, and how differently does each repetition appear! How suddenly the chords 1The opening pages of Schenker’s Harmonielehre ascribe a fundamental importance to motives and their repetition. In §4, motive is defined as any series of tones that gain recognition by virtue of repetition.

2Über den Schlußton . . . wie engführungsmäßig draufgesetzt. Schenker is referring to the fugal technique of stretto.

34

The E
Minor Prelude from Bach’s Well-Tempered Clavier, Book I

In bar 4, the line arrives at g
1. Had a repetition of the motive of the Urlinie been joined to this very note, it would have forced the Urlinie down (since the motive always falls) to a register in which the two outer voices, on account of their excessive proximity, would hardly have admitted further diminution, quite apart from the purely textural disadvantages that would arise if the upper octave were to lie fallow. The Urlinie is therefore moved up to the register of the twoline octave, by a simple but ingenious gesture:

The c3 that in bar 11 is placed up above g
2, the actual, operative note of the Urlinie, merely serves as an outlet for the b
2 in bar 10. In bar 12, the tonic of the new key appears for the first time, and it is followed then in bars 13–16 by two more cycles of harmonic degrees: bar: harmonic degree:

12 I–

|

13 IV – II –

|

14 V – I – IV–

15 V–

| |

16 I

l h h h lwh

The harmonic rhythm in bars 13–14, , is especially noteworthy. Even more powerful here, however, is the art of the diminution that seeks to erode the high register of the two-line octave in bars 12–13, ultimately in order to settle firmly in the lower octave in bars 14 –15! In connection with this, the anticipation in the sixth quarter-note beat of bar 12 performs an especially beautiful service: the note of anticipation appears initially as g
1; however, an arpeggio in bar 13 then leads up to g
2, and thus a deception arises here, as though the anticipation had really been intended for this g
2; but at the beginning of bar 14 f1 finally confirms that already in bar 12, at that first moment of anticipation, the note g
1 was clearly entrusted with the task of absorbing, as it were, the upper voice of the composition (which indeed still holds firmly to g
2 in bar 13) and of extinguishing the two-line octave in this manner. From bar 13 on, it is therefore g
1 that should be watched—as an obligatory inner voice that finally proceeds to f 1 in bar 14. With the tonic at the beginning of bar 16, the first section of the piece has come to a close; there now follows the return through A
minor to the principle key of E
minor (see Fig. 1). Bach elaborates the diminished-seventh chord of VII especially beautifully in bars 17–18. It is important here for the line, after it has sunk to b
1 in bar 16, to regain the high register, and for this purpose Bach once again utilizes the gesture that was used for the first time in bar 4, which he places here, to be sure, in the service of an arpeggiation as well: b
–d
–f
–g in the upper voice. Obviously, this procedure indeed also allows the lower voice to proceed simultaneously in thirds:

Because the same danger and necessity subsequently return, and are treated in the same manner, this gesture appears to be raised to the status of an independent motive, thus contributing in its own way to a greater deception: it seems as if one were dealing with a completely chaotic world here, in which the freest motivic development is the only rule. We encounter the same gesture in bar 8, where it helps to raise the Urlinie (which had fallen since bar 5) as far as c
2. This time, however, the master has already prepared us expressively for the upper register one bar earlier (bar 7), by placing a b
2 above the note that opens the motive, e
1; to be sure, b
2 maintains the character of a filler note while completing this special assignment. I have already had the opportunity several times in earlier works (compare the Erläuterungsausgabe of Op. 110, pp. 35– 36/p. 28, and Beethovens neunte Sinfonie, pp. 105, 113/pp. 113, 120, etc.) to point out such a technique, which often recurs in the works of the great masters; conveniently, a law may be perceived therein—specifically the law of an obligatory treatment, so to speak, of the pitch register.3 The particular case in bars 7– 8 may serve as a typical example: even that first leap {40} to g
2 in bar 4 is fundamentally validated by this very law, even though the high register had admittedly been given in bars 1– 3 by a diminution that remained free from the obligations of the Urlinie. In bar 10 the first cadential cycle is completed, and immediately the I is reinterpreted as the IV in B
minor, whereupon with the cadence IV–V–I the composition turns directly to this new key, the key of the dominant. 3Obligate Führung . . . der Tonlage. The name of this concept, which appears frequently in Schenker’s writings of the 1920s, is shortened to obligate Lage in Der freie Satz. The passages from the Ninth Symphony monograph concerns the reworking of the wind parts in the recapitulation of the first movement by conductors who did not understand this concept, which is expressed as die Gesetze des Anschlusses der Oktoven, “the laws of connection of the octaves.”

35

tonw i l l e 1 Nonetheless Bach prefers—indeed only for the purpose of expansion—to separate the paths of the outer voices, thereby simulating imitations. In the second half-note beat of bar 18 the space between g2 and f
2 is elaborated (see the “NB” in Fig. 4); {41} as an augmented second it is naturally too small, however, to incorporate the motive of a third as it stood up to this point in service of the elaboration. Bach is thus required, if at the very least the rhythm of the motive is to be maintained in this space, to add still one further sixteenth note, namely e
2. It, however, has nothing to do with that motive of a third anymore; rather, it is asked to operate only as an anticipation. (Therefore all of the editions which have an f here instead of f
are incorrect. Compare in this respect my edition of the Chromatic Fantasy and Fugue, bars 21 and 31, where Bach must give up altogether elaborating the space of an augmented second in the VII 7 of D minor, because it could not be translated into a motive of a third.) The tonic of A
minor is reached at the third half-note beat of bar 18, whereupon a cadence follows (IV–V–I), confirming the key more strongly. The comparison between the motive of the Urlinie that is relevant in these bars and its realization in the score shows moreover that the c
3 that is interposed between d
3 and b
2 has been removed by substitution. As I have shown in “Freier Satz,” it is indeed a very common occurrence that single notes of the Urlinie are not given as complete an expression in the diminution as the Urlinie requires: the exchange of consonant notes of the same chord, which is characteristic of free composition, is also introduced occasionally within the Urlinie itself; but what is an obvious consequence of this is that the diminution, precisely on account of its own special motivic process, is often forced into the position of leaving the note of the Urlinie to be divined, rather than recognized clearly and directly. In bar 20, the piece proceeds to E
minor, simply by reinterpreting the tonic of A
minor. It has already been mentioned that the Urlinie in these bars superimposes c
3 above a
2. The two notes that follow c
3, b
2 and a
2, now occur in the right hand at the beginning of bar 21, while the expected g
2, the goal tone of the passing seventh (usually called the resolution of the seventh) is not given until the following bar in the bass. At that time, however, a new repetition of the motive of the Urlinie is simultaneously (thus once again with an overlap) initiated in the upper voice on e
2. The arpeggiation in these bars makes use of an inversion of the motive of bar 4. Now in bar 22 the line arrives at the tonic of the principal tonality, and the repetitions continue along over two cycles of harmonic degrees:

bar: harmonic degree:

22 I–

|

23 IV –

|

24 V–

|

25 I–

|

26– 7
II –

|

28 V–

|

29 IV

Their purpose is clearly to bring the Urlinie at last to a full close, that is, to achieve for it the leading-tone of the principal tonality, as the conclusion in the purely melodic and contrapuntal sense (see Kontrapunkt i, pp. 142, 232/pp. 102, 171). By means of these repetitions, however, the Urlinie here would once again have descended too far (to e
1) had not Bach taken care to lead the line up in a timely fashion to the two-line octave, to g
2, as he had done earlier in bars 4, 8, and 16ff. Already this fact alone should have convinced someone like Forkel, who closes our prelude at this place and then just tacks on four more bars, that a true ending could not yet take place here; how could a piece possessing the character of our prelude be allowed to conclude in such a high register as is represented by e
2, especially considering that the ending would then come to lie higher than the beginning and the middle (both at b
1)? The four bars that he appends, in which the line is hurriedly lowered to e
1, do not change anything. No, this very path down to e
1 should still be traversed in detail once more. {42} This alone was the reason for elevating the line in bar 25: to make a new descent possible.4 The realization in bars 26– 28 requires special explanation. As the graph in Fig. 1 shows, another neighbor note, d 2, is inserted between f
2 and e
2 of the Urlinie (bars 26– 28); it joins a lower voice that comes from f
, and then proceeds –e
together with it in sixths ( df–g
), while the higher inner voice proceeds from a
in bar 26 to b
in bar 27, and from there on to c
in the same bar, at the second halfnote beat (although in the course of the arpeggiation this note is taken over by the right hand as c
2). In light of this, however, the chord in bar 27 is not to be understood as the expected dominant (in third inversion); on the contrary, it came into existence through a merely coincidental meeting of a neighbor note and two passing tones over a stationary bass note. A bolder and more effective 4 Schenker is referring to a handwritten copy of selected preludes and fugues from the WellTempered Clavier made by the early Bach scholar Johann Nikolaus Forkel and included in the list of sources drawn up for the Bach-Gesellschaft edition (Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1866). Schenker owned a copy of this edition, and made several annotations to the critical report. According to the editor, Franz Kroll, the text of Forkel’s copy agrees with the version of the Welltempered Clavier brought out in 1801 by the Leipzig firm of Kühnel & Hoffmeister, who also published Forkel’s influential monograph, Über Johann Sebastian Bachs Leben, Kunst und Kunstwerke (1802). Although Kroll could find no eighteenth-century source for this reading, one should not conclude that Forkel made them himself, as Schenker implies.

36

The E
Minor Prelude from Bach’s Well-Tempered Clavier, Book I

passing motion than the one we see here is hardly imaginable. What an unearthly awareness of the notes, what a tonal conscience it takes to mislead us, by the compelling appearance of the voices—precisely in the same moment in which cadential logic and the Urlinie all the more stubbornly insist on one progression, namely, the final motion to the V—to show us a chord that presents itself to us as the dominant that we expect but nevertheless will signify nothing more than an extended detour to it. What courage it takes to dare such a deception, to take on such danger so candidly and tranquilly! Oh, there are a good many passing motions that are apparently more complicated, but only a few are comparable to this one, which with so much determination toward one direction unexpectedly reveals a new determination for a completely different direction. The deceptive cadence at the beginning of bar 29 forms a bridge to the final cadences. One more time, for the last time, the Urlinie sets out from e
2, in order finally to land on the concluding note, e
1, in bar 37. The bass line in bars 29– 32 originates from a passage in thirds in the outer voices, of which I speak in greater detail in “Freier Satz”:

{43} The interposition of the root, D, in bar 35 also proved to be a necessity of voice-leading, since otherwise consecutive fifths would have resulted: The diminutions of the bass in bar 32 illustrate in the fourth quarter-note beat what is in essence a turn, which indeed is related to the rising motive that is repeated in the last three sixteenth notes (already known to us from bars 20 and 21). The same applies to bars 33 and 34. The coda begins in bar 37. It includes a pedal point on I, above which I–IV– V occurs, while two more repetitions of the motive of the Urlinie take the path down to the major third of the tonic. In bar 38, the function of the right-hand diminution is, in part, to introduce the ascending leading tone d1.


O

nly such a recognition of the connections between the Urlinie and its realization, and of the relationship between the two outer voices, can provide a suitable basis for solving the problems confronting publishers, theorists, historians, critics, performers, etc. How many grave errors they would have been able to avoid, all of those who entered variant upon variant in their own copies, or indeed even in the manuscripts of the master himself, or those that also allowed such alterations to be printed in the editions that they issued! Consider as a specific example the performance directions of editors. To see how inconsistent these are in almost every case with the directions dictated by the content, one needs only to cast a glance at Czerny’s edition for Peters: As early as bar 3 there is a crescendo, which leads all the way to a forte in bar 5, although the line has barely taken its first steps here. To be sure, it is correct that in the latter bar the chromatic f
should be underscored dynamically—such precepts were indeed, as history attests, part of the firm foundation of musical training even in earliest times—but in no way should such an underscoring be allowed to develop into a forte. In bar 9, where the suspension establishes itself for the first time, the force of law requires a > from the resolution of the suspension, but a slight crescendo (supplied by the left hand) must first have led up to it. Czerny’s indications, however, yield just the opposite.

One gathers from this not only that both the g in the bass in bar 30 and the f
in the bass in bar 31 appear merely as substitutions for lower parallel thirds (although they also operate incidentally as neighbor-notes), but also that f
has taken the immediate place of e
here, obviously in order somehow to split the distance between e
and f . What clairvoyance indeed, to draw out of a unison (and f
–f is nothing more) the effect of a neighbor note, since a neighbor note presumes the interval of a second! How many secrets—substitutions, shortcuts, unisons for seconds, etc.—the notes share among themselves here, while giving an outward appearance that is so modest and simple! As the realization in bars 32– 36 shows, here the master has also declined to place the relevant portion of the Urlinie over only one harmonic degree, the dominant (just as in bars 13–15 and 16– 20); and although in bars 35 – 36 the notes c
1 and b
do not disavow their role as simple decorations, Bach has nonetheless dared, in order to increase the strength of the cadence, to place b
over the tonic, thereby ceding to the dominant only the two leftover notes of the line, g
1 and f
1.

37

tonw i l l e 1 In bars 10 –11 we find another crescendo , while here again we should merely proceed as in bars 8– 9. According to Czerny, the forte of bar 11 should lead by way of a diminuendo in bar 12 to a piano in bar 13 that, except for a gentle < > surge across bars 14 –15, should remain in bars 14 –15. Thus, precisely when the new key is trying to develop, Czerny would have the driving force denied and smothered under a piano—even though it is so natural to grant expression to that modulatory force with a crescendo beginning in the third half-note of bar 13, a crescendo that will not yield to a diminuendo until the third half-note beat of bar 15 (where it yields on account of the resolution of the suspension). {44} The return in bars 16ff should also, according to Czerny, begin piano, but already he includes a crescendo in the same bar, and in the next one even a forte. Once again, however, it corresponds more closely to the reality of the situation to direct an intensification toward the tied-over note in bar 18, and only from this point to let the force subside again. Obviously, Czerny did not trust the law of performance of tied-over notes sufficiently, if he could bring himself to place contrarily a > as early as the third half-note beat of bar 18, thereby depriving the syncopation of that which by right belongs to it. In bars 20 – 21, a crescendo is indeed in order, as Czerny suggests, but it should not be allowed to lead all the way to a forte in bar 22; rather it is advantageous in bar 22 to match the most secret genesis of e
2 with a pianissimo, a sotto voce. With this note, the Urlinie appears to be flowing from a new source; how therefore should a forte befit the tender wonder of such a rebirth, a forte that is in fact the hallmark of a life that is already full and broadly flowing? And how tenderly should one play the f 2 that, just at the second half-note beat of bar 24, lies so far from the actual path of the Urlinie; the attack should barely brush it, more softly than a glance from a forest path falls into the underbrush. The ascent to the two-line octave in bar 25, to be sure, requires a crescendo, and on this point Czerny is correct; indeed, he is also correct to return again to a piano at the deceptive cadence in bar 29; only there again, however, a dolce is of course too extreme: have we not, at this place, returned to our point of departure, and is there not still a long way to go before the conclusion? In bar 32, a crescendo marking occurs precisely at a place that should really rather be immersed in the darkest and most secret shades. The falling Urlinie here has already reached the note of the subdominant that, however, under the most mystical circumstances of voice-leading (see earlier) now suddenly falls into

the lap of VII; from this it follows that the compositional elaboration still has a long, long stretch ahead of it. A forte in bar 35 can be approved; however, in no way can the sign > at the third half-note, since at this place too every bit of warmth must still be summoned in order finally to reach g
1; not until this note—here also the law of resolution is operative—is a diminuendo in order again. It should only be mentioned in passing that the decoration in the third halfnote beat of bar 36 represents, to adapt an expression of Emanuel Bach, a trill with a “weak” grace-note. Without doubt, bar 37 should be held at piano; nonetheless the seventh, d
, can not be allowed to go by without a certain emphasis. The diminuendo in bar 38 is certainly applied too early; and likewise the pianissimo comes too soon at the beginning of bar 39; rather, it is correct to apply the diminuendo only in bar 39, and the pianissimo in bar 40.


Of all the theoretical and aesthetic evaluations of this piece, only two shall be discussed here by way of example. In his biography of Bach, volume I, p. 777, Spitta writes: The prelude in E
minor is one of the most ingenious of them all. From this germ:

that is turned in different directions, sometimes in the right hand, sometimes in the left hand, sometimes broken up, sometimes appearing to be dissolved by figuration (while massive chords proceed in a steady halfnote pulse), a piece that stands alone among Bach’s works unfolds. The triumph that the motivic art celebrates here is all the greater, since we are made completely unaware of it by the spellbinding mood that envelops us in ponderous gloom, {45} as on a sultry, stormy evening, when no breeze is blowing and bluish lightning flares up on the black horizon. The expression becomes moribund from bar 29 on; the major mode at the conclusion breathes forth in an unearthly manner.5 5Philipp Spitta, Johann Sebastian Bach, 1873 – 80, third edition Wiesbaden: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1921; English translation, in three volumes, by Clara Bell and J. A. Fuller-Maitland (London: Novello,

38

The E
Minor Prelude from Bach’s Well-Tempered Clavier, Book I

A later author, Riemann, writes on p. 58 his Katechismus der Fugen-Komposition:

Oh, what a splendid companion for Sebastian Bach!7 What barbarism in the presentation of the content! Do I need to prove perhaps that these “basic progressions” (he calls them “melodic peaks” elsewhere) have nothing to do with my Urlinie? How could Riemann, if he had uncovered only a fragment of this fundamental secret, have led his lines in progressions as bizarre and jagged as those we find here? And this man—this un-ear, to put it mildly—presumes not merely to analyze the entire Well-tempered Clavier and Art of Fugue by Bach in a similar manner (one can readily perceive, after examining them for himself, that his presentation of the remaining preludes and fugues also goes haywire), but he also presumes to present Beethoven’s piano sonatas as well, and more than all that: to write a composition manual, indeed even a history of music, when fundamentally he is not even up to the task of authoring a dictionary. Doesn’t all of that provide the strongest evidence for the spiritual decay of the present, for the decay of hearing, of theory, of art, indeed even of the feeling of personal responsibility? Forget his works, you new youth! And leave his dictionary to the journalists, who at least might be able to use the biographical details of artists to pad their copy. But may it finally be granted to Sebastian Bach that he find worthier comrades than Riemann was!

If one can define the character of the E
major prelude with its great fugue as power paired with seriousness and dignity—which certainly corresponds indeed to the general character of the key of E
major (while the second fugue proves that it can also put on a friendlier face)—then in the two pieces before us in E
minor we are confronted by an even more compelling agreement between the general character of the key and the particular content of Bach’s idea. Deeply serious and full of elevated inspiration, the prelude strides along in 3/2 time; a noble, grand feeling is expressed by long passages of a melody that sometimes views us with bright eyes full of love, and sometimes sighs mightily, as if gripped by pain over the limited human faculty that only allows a small portion of the unlimited aspiration to be realized; in this way I would explain at least the powerful divergence of the voices at the beginning of the second half: (here bars 16–18 are cited). The construction of the piece, in its basic progressions, is as follows:

Klavier’ und ‘Kunst der Fuge’ (Leipzig: Hesse, 1890–1904); Analyses of J. S. Bach’s Wohltemperirtes Clavier, English translation by J. S. Shedlock (London: Augener, n.d.). In Riemann’s system of harmonic analysis, major chords are analyzed as a stacking of thirds from the bottom up, minor chords from the top down; additional intervals are given as numbers—arabic in major chords, roman in minor chords—with chromatically raised and lowered intervals identified by the symbols “ > ” and “ < ” respectively. Roots are supplied to diminished seventh chords according to their function: Riemann understands the diminished seventh in the last beat of bar 31 as the four highest notes of a dominant minor ninth built on E
, while that prolonged across bars 32– 35 is based on the lower four notes of a ninth-chord reckoned downward as E
–C
–A
–F–D
. The parenthetical insertions are by Schenker, not Riemann, and the last of these, “Terznonenakkorde es9 > esXI < ,” requires some clarification. To begin with, the angled brackets should have been set as superscripts, as they signal the lowering and raising, respectively, of the superscripted interval. The 9 > in es9 > stands for F
, the lowered ninth of E
major. XI is a misprint for IX (in Fig. 8 it is given as es⫹X< , also a misprint); the IX< in esIX< stands for D , the raised ninth reckoned downward from E
. Finally, it should be noted that the sets of double and triple exclamation marks in Fig. 8 are Schenker’s, not Riemann’s, and refer to what Schenker regards as gross misreadings of the underlying melodic line in the prelude. Because of the numerous errors in Schenker’s Fig. 8, Riemann’s reading of the prelude (Katechismus der Fugen-Komposition, p. 59) is reproduced at the end of the essay. 7Zeitgenosse Sebastian Bachs: Schenker is using the word Zeitgenosse in a colloquial sense (Genosse ⫽ “companion,” “comrade”), and with heavy irony.

That is, the first (smaller) half (comprising two eight-bar phrases) cadences on the subdominant in passing and the dominant in conclusion; the second (two phrases with extensions) ranges even further afield, through broad statements of diminished seventh chords (the ninthchords e
9  and e
IX . .

..

..

..




 






es7 (6) 0 es




 






ces+

es7

 

b vii

f7

0f





 (8)



  es

0es



 

bvii f 64 > f 7 (8) 0f ( 0D )

(4) 0 es

 

 



b7

(4 a) 0 b





..

fes+ b7 (= 0es2>)

es7 (4) 0 es es 9 > (6) esIX<

0b

ges7

0

(8a=2) es

3

 

b 64 > .7. (8=5) 7 1




 



b7 (8) 0 b




   






 

0b f7 (0T = 0S )

II.

0b v


 





..

..

 (6 a) . .



 



0 es

b7

(8a) 0 b

 b7

v

Katechismus der Fugen-Komposition, p. 59: Riemann’s original sketch of the Prelude in E
minor

40

Schubert’s Ihr Bild Franz Schubert: “Ihr Bild” (Heine) {Tonwille 1, pp. 46– 49} t r a n s l at e d b y r o b e r t s n a r r e n b e r g

The three-part musical form (a –b–a ) corresponds to the poem’s three strophes. 1

2

Two bars serve as an introduction: In bars 7–8, the accompaniment repeats the two previous bars and so not only separates the first pair of lines from the following pair in a purely formal, conceptual sense, but also characterizes staring as it occurs over the course of time. The third and fourth lines likewise take up only four bars, during which the succession of harmonies completes a simple harmonic progression with a full perfect cadence, {47} although indeed the cadence is in B
major instead of B
minor. Mixing two keys of the same name, which in any event is a frequently used artistic technique (see Harmonielehre, pp. 106ff/pp. 84ff ), must in this case be attributed less to a perhaps merely superficial application than to a truly strong internal cause, namely, the apparition: “and the beloved face secretly began to come alive” (und das geliebte Antlitz heimlich zu leben begann). Supposing it is correct that only the lover’s continuous immersion in the picture could have elicited that charming illusion, the fact that the illusion took place nevertheless signifies a billow of heightened consciousness in the lover’s soul and consequently it is this very billow of life that rightly finds expression in the transition from minor to major. Schubert writes the following in bar 8:

Since it is certainly not possible to detect a motive in these bars, it is a question of what other purpose they fulfill. Do they just simply introduce the key, or do they perhaps prefigure the initial tone of the voice part, or both? Now be that as it may, in any event one would still have to ask why the master strikes the same tone twice when it was also quite possible simply to let it remain sounding during the two bars. In fact, the answer to this second question brings us the solution of the puzzle: repeating that tone in a slow tempo, after a rest no less, amounts to staring at it, as it were, and while we do this we feel ourselves miraculously transported right to the side of the unhappy lover, who stands there “in gloomy dreams” (in dunkeln Träumen), staring at the picture of his beloved: we, too, now stare at the picture with him. It is a simple artistic device, is it not, to replace a tone sustained for two bars with a repetition of that tone interrupted by a rest? and yet it must take a genius, for only a genius is given the ability to notice the difference between such possibilities, just as, generally speaking, only a genius is given the ability to supply himself instantly, in the midst of a psychological process, with the power to introduce this type of artistic device. Thus right with the first notes Schubert shows himself the true magician, who at once wraps a secret cord around an external event (staring at a picture, in this case), the soul of the unhappy lover, and us, a bond that ensures the event will have an eternal future continually full of new moments well beyond the effect of this one occurrence. The first two lines of the first strophe are performed in unison while the harmony runs through I–II–V. The augmented fourth in Fig. 2 is not merely the conveyor of II, it is also the staring eye itself:

and clearly does so, moreover, with the most complete ease. Did he take no exception, it could be asked, to placing the article in this way on the strong part of the bar, in a dotted value, no less? And would it not also have been incumbent upon him to prefer avoiding such a contradiction between the meter and the natural word stresses? As is well known, more recent composers in fact like to heavily underscore natural word stresses by sacrificing genuine meter for their

41

tonw i l l e 1 sake. Since they do not sense how much they merely reduce genuine poetry to prose when, cost what it will, they chase after natural word stress through hill and dale, and since they also do not sense how only too clearly they betray that they no longer have sufficient command of the musical means for giving meter its due without endangering the natural stresses, they succeed in imagining that they achieve God-knows-what for the enhancement of musical expression and truth. The old masters, however, went down completely different paths: out of their superior compositional instinct, they adhered faithfully above all to the poetic meter and could therefore extract the essentials of musical invention even from that manner of text setting.1 Look at our Schubert example:

and each tone of the music, too, draws life again from this new life. When, in the voices of the accompaniment,

the unison gradually opens into a third, one sees veritably how the lips of the newly revived beloved spread into a smile—and note how the adornment of this smile is reflected in bar 17 in the ornamented resolution of the suspended fourth in the accompaniment! Yet in no sense does the master lose himself in these individual features. As creator of this artistic life he stands at its beginning and end alike, he also remains present in its every breath, and his gaze takes in all that went before and is to come. For it is also a past moment (bars 5– 6 and 7– 8) that he brings back to life in bars 17–18:

The rise of the vocal line to e
, and besides that a crescendo from bar 8 on, the < sign in bar 9 leading up to the e
, the very highest pitch of the group, and finally the push toward II (I–II–V), these features detract so much from that article and its placement that it can no longer be regarded as at odds with the natural stress. And finally, if the poet found it consistent with natural word stress to place the article in an accented position, then what Schubert did is but the same thing again, and in point of fact both are decidedly correct, in contrast to those unsure and incapable composers who promote natural word stress at the expense of the prosody merely on account of having to conceal that they lack a command of the musical means. After the second pair of lines, there follows a response in the accompaniment that, exactly like the first response, is based on the motive of the last few bars of the melody. The second strophe is in G
major throughout. {48} The vision sets forth an example of renewed life for the tender-loving onlooker: Um ihre Lippen zog sich Ein Lächeln wunderbar Und wie von Wehmutstränen Erglänzte ihr Augenpaar.

Apart from minor alterations in harmonic progression and melodic figuration, the second pair of lines in the second strophe produces the same musical image. The text setting in bar 20 (compare bar 16)

is again of the type for which more recent musicians have long since lost the mettle. But it is clear that the unstressed syllables, since they fall on the weak part of the bar, remain unstressed, even though they have the duration of half notes. The soul of the lover now returns from the dreamland of his vision, back to himself, to the place where his soul remains, alone with itself, resigned to suffering over its loss. For is anything left for him, other than merely staring into memory? And so the master also follows him down this path of suffering. In bars 23–24

Around her lips there played a wonderful smile, and how from tears of melancholy her eyes did sparkle.



1Schenker was to return to issues of prosody in his essay on Schubert’s Gretchen am Spinnrade; see Tonwille 6, p. 4.

42

Schubert’s Ihr Bild

one final echo of the vision shudders in fits of staring and then . . . When the old melody now sounds for a second time (a2), the musical poet has spoken only too truly for the lover’s once again lonely soul. He remains so true to it that he even accommodates the final two lines, as in bars 9–14, with a billow of major mode. With a cry of despair: Und ach! ich kann es nicht glauben, Daß ich dich verloren hab’!

Here is the Urlinie:2

And oh!, I cannot believe that I have lost you!

the unhappy lover still clings {49} to the last points of contact with his beloved, and so this is precisely what the major mode declares: has he actually lost her, so long as he still feels this way? Only the seer in the musical poet gazes beyond this moment. He pulls back the major-mode billow; although it could once support the accompaniment’s response, it can do so no longer,—gloomy minor envelopes the entire soulscape . . .

2A copy of Tonwille 1 in the Oster Collection (Books and Pamphlets, no. 18) contains some annotations to this sketch in Schenker’s hand, using a later form of graphic notation that includes the symbol for interruption (||). The first twelve bars are marked to be read as follows:

bar

3 (
)3ˆ d
2

(4)5 2ˆ c2

7– 8 10 || (  )3ˆ d 2

11 2ˆ c2

12 ˆ1 b
1

A marginal note,

冢

3ˆ 2 || 3 2 1 3ˆ I

VI,

together with the addition of d
2 as the upper voice in bar 17 (slurred to the b
1 in bar 18), confirms his reading of the Urlinie with a primary tone of 3ˆ.

43

Miscellanea Vermischtes {Tonwille 1, pp. 50– 55} t r a n s l at e d b y i a n b e n t A protest. In 1809, as the imperial court was on the point of abandoning Vienna under threat from the French,1 Beethoven wrote his heartfelt, poetic work for piano, Op.81a, inscribing into the autograph manuscript the following movement titles: “Farewell on the Departure of His Imperial Highness the Archduke Rudolph, May 4, 1809”; “Absence”; “Return of His Imperial Highness the Archduke Rudolph, January 30, 1810”.2 The first German publisher of the sonata felt at liberty to print the titles solely in French, thereby not only offending against the composer’s convictions but also violating his express wishes.3 To be sure, the tones of this sonata do not portray Beethoven’s hatred of the French. On the contrary, with what matchless nobility does this pure instrumental music upraise itself, incapable ever of evoking such conceptually gloomy feelings and thoughts as hate, lies, and such like. Instead, its tones revolve around affection, pain, and joy, to the purely spiritual bearing of which they are so attuned because they themselves are likewise purely disposed. Nevertheless, the so-

nata does express, directly through the movement headings and in other ways, an anti-French frame of mind. It is historically beyond question that Beethoven came to hate the French. Even the French themselves know this, though, vain and limited as they are, it does not trouble them that as an entire people they are eternally judged and stigmatized through the hatred of one so incomparable, who has borne aloft heroically and in godlike fashion a whole humanity on the wings of his love and his trust. That Beethoven hated, could so have hated, one can only wonder what sort of hideous sneer must have greeted him, by which he would not have been deceived by any appearance of civilization, spirit, taste, or form. Thus Beethoven in 1809. During the years of the disastrous collapse,4 however, inflicted by an ignominious diktat masquerading as a treaty5 in crudely democratic fashion upon German Austria,6 Viennese musicians chose to organize concerts under the French protectorate.7 Although imbued with the tradition of a Brahms, they did not 4The Habsburg monarchy (Schenker was a monarchist and a believer in an aristocratic ruling class) collapsed in November 1918. Severe shortages of food and fuel had begun in January, followed by civilian strikes, and mutinies in the army and navy. Between 1919 and 1921, the urban population of Austria relied on relief from the Allies, and inflation became severe. 5The Peace Treaty of Saint Germain-en-Laye (Paris) of September 10, 1919, between Austria and the Allied and Associated Powers (the principals of which were America, the British Empire, France, Italy, and Japan). Diktat was widely used by Germans and Austrians to indicate that the terms of the Treaty had been worked out in negotiations from which they had been excluded. 6Deutsch-Österreich: The National Assembly for German Austria was formed on October 21, 1918. On November 12 it declared itself a democratic republic, and part of the German republic. The term was problematic in its time. To the Allies, it meant the Austrian half of the former dual monarchy of Austria-Hungary. To the German Austrians, it meant all parts of the Austro-Hungarian Empire in which a majority of inhabitants were Germans, including areas of Bohemia and Moravia, and arguably of Hungary and Yugoslavia. The designation Deutsch-Österreich was proscribed by Article 81 of the Saint-Germain Treaty in favor of Republik Österreich, and annexation to the German republic was denied. 7Protectorate: a state or territory placed under the protection of a superior power. Early in 1919, France was delegated to police central Europe on behalf of the Allied Supreme War Council, including

is, the second occupation of Vienna by Napoleon (the first having been in 1805– 6), during which time the Austrians first defeated the French army at Aspern, and then were decisively defeated at Wagram. 2The heading in the autograph score of the first movement, in the Gesellschaft der Musikfreunde in Vienna, reads: “Das Lebe Wohl / Wien am 4ten May 1809 / bej der Abreise S Kaiserl. Hoheit / des Verehrten Erzherzogs / Rudolf.” The remainder of the autograph disappeared in the 1860s. 3On May 20, 1811, Beethoven urged his publishers, Breitkopf & Härtel, to “make the title, as I wrote it, in French and German, definitely not in French alone—and likewise the movement headings.” Breitkopf complied only with part of this request, printing the headings bilingually, viz. “Das Lebewohl (Les adieux),” “Abwesenheit. L’absence,” “Le retour / das Wiedersehn.” They omitted the longer inscriptions (giving the Archduke’s departure and return dates) and, instead of providing a bilingual title page, issued separate editions with the title pages in either French or German. A subsequent letter of Beethoven’s (October 11, 1811) complained of the publishers’ disregard of his intentions and, specifically, their lack of sensitivity to the difference between the German “Lebewohl” (a term of intimacy) and the French “adieux” (appropriate for large gatherings). His words went unheeded: for the second and third editions of the sonata (1817, 1821), the publishers used the French title page exclusively. 1That

44

Miscellanea

shrink from subjugating themselves to the protectorate of the “Gallic vomited lie” (Jean Paul), a deed both cowardly and uncalled for. With this act of submission, on the face of it a purely nominal act, they have actually besmirched the honor of our great masters, particularly those of German music. In the face of this shameless piece of mischief, committed by musicians whose unwashed ears and minds have left them unable to differentiate a creator of tonal worlds such as Beethoven from such brainless French nonentities as Debussy, Ravel, and others—in the face of this, I for my part do hereby lodge my protest, and, in nominating myself also as the educator of future generations of French musicians (I shall be ready to confiscate from the Germans their false textbooks, by which they still continue to challenge their greatest masters), I am actually extending the protectorate to cover French musicians. I will administer it not in the French manner, but by the German way of truth. The French will have to honor the hand of a “Boche,”8 which brings light into the darkness of all their “clarity.” The truth will humble them, of that I am sure: much {51} more so than their lies and slander, much more so than all their measures “to protect their civilization” in the face of “the German barbarians” can humble the Germans. All they are trying to do with these pretexts is to conceal and gloss over their common acts of pilferage.9 If their vanity should prevent them from seeing, as the truth would reveal to them, their puny stature, that will still be powerless over truth. Whether an accommodation of the sort that the German democrats are pushing for is admissible or not also depends on truth. To come to an accommodation with the French at the cost of truth would be to sink to their triviality of mind and superficiality of taste without any advantage to oneself. So much more pressing are the demands of the greatness of German artistic products, and also of the protection of higher culture—how very greatly humanity would lose in self-confidence if it did not recognize its ability to rise to the heights of a Beethoven, a Mozart, a Goethe, or a Kant. So much more pressing that, on the contrary, it is the French who should come to an accommodation with the Germans, even at the cost of their vanity, in order to learn from them, in so far as they are ever capable of learning anything. Without needing any cowardly

diktat of the sort that forced Germans, for example, to leak secrets from chemical factories, I will, out of love for mankind, gladly divulge in these pages even to Frenchmen the method of composing used by German geniuses—let them see if they can make use of it. Although no great multitude even of Germans will come forward to share the musical sensibility and greatness of a Beethoven, at least it was Germany that produced that mighty one, and not just him alone but several other masters of his rank, on which account one may make allowances also for composers of lesser quality than they, and even for the worst of textbooks. A protectorate for Anglo-Saxon composers would be a waste of time: a boa constrictor cannot sing. Anyone who is such a pitiful coward as to strangle and kill children and whole nations the moment his business is threatened, despite extremely favorable conditions and merely because of his own ineptitude in economic competition, is condemned, to his own shame and that of humanity, to go through life musically deaf and dumb. How on earth, then, should an art that, by secretly spinning out tonal lines into musical creations imbued with life, elevates human creativity through just such enchantment with aims and ends to the realm of the divine, be indigenous to a nation for which, as history attests, comprehensive pilfering was and is always preferable to a heaven full of tonal lines, even indeed to the Heaven of God itself!
Mozart’s Stay in Paris (from letters to his father). May 1, 1778: “ . . . You write that I should pay lots of visits to people so as to make new acquaintances and renew old ones. But that is just not possible. It is too far to walk, and everywhere is too filthy underfoot, for Paris is covered in indescribable muck. If you travel by carriage, you have the honor of paying four or five livres a day, and all in vain: for people merely pay me compliments and that’s it. They book me for such and such a day, I go and play, then it’s ‘O c’est un prodige, c’est inconcevable, c’est étonnant!,’ and next minute it’s ‘Adieu.’ When I first arrived, I spent tons of money that way, and often to no good, because I didn’t find the people at home. Nobody who is not here can imagine how embarrassing it is. Paris has totally changed. The French no longer have as much politesse as they did fifteen years ago. They verge on the uncouth, and they are disgustingly stuck-up . . . ” “ . . . If only the people in this place had ears and an ounce of feeling, understood just a modicum about music and showed some gusto, I would cheerfully {52} laugh all these things off; but I am surrounded by nothing but cattle and

Austria. Schenker reverses the idea by offering a protectorate of French, and even English and American, musicians. 8Boche (French: “rascal”) was used derogatorily in the First World War to denote Germans. 9Presumably referring to the lands that were taken away from Austria and Germany by the peace settlements of 1919, and to reparations, on which the French took a particularly hard line and prevailed.

45

tonw i l l e 1 housekeeper took out a purse and said: ‘Forgive me if I pay you only for twelve lessons this time, but I do not have sufficient money,’—that’s noblesse for you— and doled out three louis d’or, adding: ‘I hope you will be satisfied; if not, then please say so.’ M. le Duc did not have an honorable bone in his body, and must have thought: ‘He is only a young fellow, and a stupid German to boot’—that is how all the French speak of Germans–‘he will be well pleased with that.’ The stupid German was not at all pleased with that, and was not content to let the matter rest. So the duc was hoping to pay me one hour for two hours’ worth, and that without égard for the fact that he has now had a concerto for flute and harp from me for four months and has still not paid me for it. I {53} shall bide my time only until the wedding is over; then I shall go to the housekeeper and demand my money . . .” “ . . . I assure you that if I get to write an opera I shall have no qualms. The devil himself created the [French] language, it is true, and I absolutely appreciate the difficulties that all compositeurs have run into with it. But despite this, I feel as well equipped to surmount these difficulties as anybody else. Au contraire, whenever I imagine (as I do frequently) that the time has come for my opera, my whole body seems to blaze, and my hands and feet tremble, with a desire to teach the French to know, appreciate, and fear Germans once and for all. Why do you suppose nobody entrusts a major opera to a Frenchman? Why does it always have to be a foreigner? For me, the most insufferable thing would be the singers. But I feel equal to the task. I shall not pick any quarrels; but if anybody should challenge me, I shall know how to defend myself. I will be all the happier, though, if things can unfold without their coming to a duel, since I do not much fancy scrapping with midgets . . .” Since 1778, nothing has changed. Mozart has remained Mozart; the French have remained the French. He: scorning all mundane interpretations of history, all “schools” and labels (“Romantic,” “neo-Franco-German,” “Expressionist,” etc.), transcending every “forward step” by which those unequal to him arrogate unto themselves and will ever more arrogate unto themselves, eternally surrounded by the inexhaustible wonders of his synthesizing art, yet perceiving nothing of it to this day. They: the selfsame seers and false prophets of freedom and truth, with the very same crudeness and “impudence” (the word comes from the imperturbable Otto Jahn: see the chapter “Ordeals in Paris” in his Mozart biography), just the same trivializers, corrupters, sweet-talkers, “midgets” . . .

asses (so far as music is concerned). How could it be otherwise, though: they are just the same in all their doings, their feelings, their enthusiasms. There is truly no place on earth like Paris. You must not think I am exaggerating when I speak like this of the music here. Ask whoever you like—just so long as they are not French-born—and (if there is anybody to turn to) they will tell you the same. Now that I am here, I must stick it out, as you would wish. I shall thank Almighty God if I get out of here with my gusto unsullied. I beg God every day to give me the grace to stick it out resolutely, and to bring such honor upon myself and the whole German nation as will redound to His greater honor and glory, and that He permit me to be a success, to earn enough money to be in a position to help you out of your present distressed circumstances and get you back on your feet, and that we may soon be reunited, and live together happily and contentedly. For the rest, His will be done, on earth as it is in heaven . . . ” May 29, 1778: “ . . . but what comforts me most and keeps my spirits up is . . . that I am an honest German and that, if I cannot always say what I want, at least I can think it. But that’s the only thing there is . . . ” July 3, 1778: “So for sheer joy, after the symphony was over, I took myself into the Palais Royal—got myself a scrumptious ice cream—said my rosary as I had promised to do—and went home, since I am always happiest at home and would always rather be at my own home or at that of a good, true, upright German— who if he is single lives a virtuous life alone like a good Christian, and who if he is married loves his wife and brings his children up properly . . . ” July 9, 1778: “ . . . Kapellmeister [Johann Christian] Bach will also be here soon—I gather he is to write an opera. The French are and always will be utter asses: they are incapable of anything themselves, so have to resort to foreigners . . . ” “ . . . If I get to compose an opera, I will get my fair share of aggravation. It would not bother me too much, though, since I am used to it already. If only the accursed French language were not so unspeakably ill-suited to music! Now there’s something vile—German sounds quite divine by comparison. Then there are the singers, though they don’t deserve that name, for far from singing they screech, howl, and bellow with all their might, through their noses and throats . . . ” July 31, 1778: “ . . . Just imagine! The Duc de Guines, whose house I was obliged to visit every day and remain for two hours, let me give twenty-four lessons (payment is supposed to be after every twelve), then went off to the campagne and came back ten days later without getting anybody to say a word to me. If I had not myself had the wit to ask, I would still not know they are back. In the end, the


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Miscellanea

That is how it goes with a man’s reputation, with his character, and his merits. In the marketplace of posthumous fame, if all stood gathered around, how many a man would blush at what he was praised for, and in what manner!

what shadows they must be when set against the actions, the workings of the mind? And how in this realm alone it is possible to create space, world, and time for oneself in whatever way one wants? And if you had {54} experienced this only once in your life, if you had woken after just a quarter of an hour, and from the receding vestiges of your dreamencounters you could have sworn that you had been sleeping, and dreaming, and enacting deeds for nights on end!—then would Mohammed’s dream, as a dream, still seem even the slightest bit absurd to you? And would it not be the first and only duty of every genius, every poet, above all of every dramatic poet, to carry you off to such a dream? Does it occur to you what worlds you are mixing up if you show the poet your pocket watch13 or your drawing room, and ask him to teach you to dream in time to the one or within the other?

Herder, Cäcilia, 1793 Is there anyone in the world who needs to be shown that space and time are in fact nothing in themselves; that they are utterly relative with respect to being, action, emotions, thought process, and degree of attention, internal or external to the mind?10 Have there never been times in your life, you good-hearted clock-watcher of drama,11 when hours became brief moments, and days became hours, and conversely when hours became [days and night watches became] years?12 Have you never in your life encountered situations when your mind sometimes dwelt completely outside you—now in this romantic chamber of your lady-love, now gazing down on that stiff corpse, or now under the crushing weight of external, shaming necessity? Have there not been times when it soared far beyond world and time; when it vaulted over great expanses, over whole regions of the world, forgot everything around it, to lodge in heaven, in the mind, in the heart of one whose inner life you now know intimately? And if this experience is possible in your indolent, sluggish, snail-like, treelike life, where roots enough anchor you to the dead earth, and each circle that you crawl offers ample time for you to measure out your snail’s pace, can you transport yourself mentally for one brief moment into another world, a poetic world, just as in a dream? Have you never experienced how in your dreams all sense of space and time vanish? And thus what inessentials,

Herder, Shakespeare, 1773


I

f I were Secretary of State for the Arts in German Austria, I would summon the musicians of Vienna and say to them: Gentlemen! It has come to my notice that many of you, discouraged by the difficult living conditions in our fatherland, are planning to emigrate to Western countries, where no such difficulties exist today. Let me just tell you why I would advise you under present conditions against going ahead with such plans. Above all, I beg you not to forget that our fatherland is the home of Haydn, Mozart, Schubert, the adopted home of Beethoven, Brahms: no Saint-Germain14 can expunge this from the book of history. These are what made German Austria—Vienna—the big wide world. Is it not true that the big wide world exists only where genius is and, by contrast, the provinces and the small towns are the places where genius is absent? A shopping market is no Parnassus, the stock exchange no Temple of the Muses.15 So what does it signify that more market traders throng together, whether under duress or of their own free will, in New York, London, or Paris than do so here? It means that those socalled cosmopolitan cities are nothing more than provincial towns by comparison with our Vienna, which has radiated out such shafts of purest genius as will

10Johann Gottfried Herder (1744 –1803) was one of the early instigators of the Romantic movement. His essay “Shakespeare,” published as part of the influential manifesto On German Character and Art (1773), puts forward two central notions: that place and time are not absolutes, but creations of the mind; and that Shakespeare is the true heir to the dramatic poets of ancient Greece, whereas Corneille, Racine, and Voltaire are mere imitators of them who, despite their surface brilliance and wit, take the unities of time, place, and action to ridiculous extremes. Schenker revered Herder, referring in his diary for 1917, for example, to “a Goethe, a Herder and similar great spirits” (Hellmut Federhofer, Heinrich Schenker: nach Tagebüchern und Briefen, p. 334). 11Herder alludes to an earlier remark in the essay ridiculing the obsession of the French seventeenth-century dramatists with the unities, when he imagines a spectator checking his watch at the end of each scene to ensure that the action has had its properly apportioned amount of time, and later that all the dead bodies have been checked off. 12The words in brackets, part of Herder’s text, were omitted by Schenker.

13[S]On rhythmic freedom in performance, see the Erläuterungsausgabe of Op. 109, pp. 24 – 25. [These comments form part of the foreword, which was omitted from the revised edition.] 14See note 5. 15Perhaps an allusion to the famous counterpoint treatise, Gradus ad Parnassum (1725), by Johann Joseph Fux.

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tonw i l l e 1 And one final thing. Will you not, if you go to our enemies—and enemies of our self-determination, of our loftier culture they all still are—inevitably give the impression of going begging to them, begging with our Mozart, Haydn, Beethoven, Brahms, rather like hurdy-gurdy men [Savoyardenknaben] with their performing monkeys? But is this really what you want: to demean our great masters so shamefully? Don’t tell me you expect to find discerning listeners there, too. Don’t you believe it, gentlemen. If the democratic townsfolk of the West had possessed even a trace of cultural refinement, of true-hearted interest in genius, they would never have dared to hold us guilty toward them18 with such brutality, mendaciousness, and infamy, as in fact they did, and are still doing. So let me appeal to you openly: stay here, gentlemen, and help us all endure our harsh fate. We wonder whether the provincials of the West will not in fact eventually find their way out of the cultural hostility of democracy and, in desperation for the heart and majestic spirit of the German people, offer a sincere apology for all acts of impotently small-minded arrogance, which merely reflect their hollow, ostentatious, get-rich-quick civilization.

not fade for millions of years.16 None of this alters the delusion under which the inhabitants of those cities and countries labor, which comes about simply because they have never experienced for themselves a genuinely big wide world. The only way to get true culture over to them is for you, gentlemen, to leave it to these small-town folk from their inflated provinces and villages to make the effort to come to our world-class city of music. Then for the first time they would have a real opportunity to get to know what they can never hope to attain by themselves: the culture of our great masters on their home ground, in their own language. Not unrelated to this, they might also come to understand why during the war their countrymen enjoyed greater freedom at our hands then did ours at theirs; and why no embassy buildings were destroyed here, why no compulsory expropriations occurred, and why no lynchings took place here, unlike for example in America. How much would be gained if we could make them realize, here in our midst, that it is more beneficent to compose a beautiful waltz, or to dance to a beautifully composed waltz, than to live according to the slogan “Make as much money as you can,” or to be forced to sing or dance to Negro melodies, since they have not a shred of true melody in them. Just one more push, and they might finally even see that all their democratic humbug is indispensable to them only because they are powerless by their own resources to instill higher spiritual values into their starving nerves. And here is another thing for you to think about, gentlemen. The Western nations are actually continuing the war against us today, but now with cowardly economic {55} measures; they are keeping the raw materials for themselves and fobbing us off against “reasonable securities”17 with the most frugal charitable offerings and even more frugal expressions of sympathy. Why should we Germans take our music, of which we effectively own the raw materials and the end product, into the bosom of these nations, and receive money in return for it, only so that they can then extort it back from us in some other form?






The author graciously requests the readers of this pamphlet to assist him in his search for the autograph manuscript of Beethoven’s Piano Sonata Op.106. Communications regarding this matter should be addressed to the publisher of the Erläuterungsausgabe: Universal Edition, Vienna.19

18Reference is presumably to the “war-guilt” (Kriegsschuld) clause of the Versailles treaty between the Allies and Germany, concluded June 28, 1919. In this clause, Article 231, spearheaded by John Foster Dulles, Germany accepted responsibility “for causing all the damage to which the Allied and Associated Governments and their nationals have been subjected as a consequence of the war imposed upon them by the aggression of Germany and her allies.” Article 232 then recognized that German resources were inadequate, and limited reparations to “compensation for all damage done to the civilian population . . . and to their property.” Germany made strenuous efforts during the 1920s to repudiate the guilt clause. The Saint-Germain treaty included its own war-guilt clause and reparations demand, but it was abandoned in 1921. 19The autograph manuscript has never surfaced and must be presumed lost. Schenker compiled an extensive folder of analyses and notes concerning Op. 106, the “Hammerklavier” Sonata (Oster Collection, File 65), but, despite reserving an edition number for it (Universal Edition 3975), he never completed the Erläuterungsausgabe. The only published analytical material relating to the sonata is a middleground reduction of the bass line of the fugue (Der freie Satz, Fig. 156/2).

16Vienna had itself been the banking and financial center of the Austro-Hungarian Empire until the latter’s collapse in 1918. 17Advance credits totaling $30 million were given by Britain, France, and Italy, to finance the purchase of food supplies, and the “securities” (i.e., collateral) for these credits were a lien on the salt mines of Austria, the real estate of the City of Vienna, and other assets to be agreed on. More broadly, the delivery of food and raw materials such as coal and lignite (much of Austria’s agricultural and industrial regions having been transferred to neighboring states) by the Allies to Austria under the Saint-Germain Treaty were subject to, among other things, the handing over of arms and munitions, and guarantees of the religious, political, and linguistic rights and liberties of all minorities groups within Austria.

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Tonwille 2

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Laws of the Art of Music Gesetze der Tonkunst {Tonwille 2, p. 3} t r a n s l at e d b y r o b e r t s n a r r e n b e r g

The life of tone thrives in consonance and dissonance:

The creation of the world was accomplished with few laws. If the human mind scarcely grasps even the tiniest element of its infinitude, it at least senses that all of creation’s phenomena rest clearly on transformations of just a few elemental forces. In the small world of tones things are no different. The artist reveals consonance and dissonance in ever new forms, drawing ever new effects from triad, harmonic degree, passing tone, and its derivatives. To man it is forbidden to prove himself Nature’s peer and, through an autonomous creative act, to set something completely new and of equal rank in opposition to her law of consonance; man himself, after all, is a mysterious transformation of one of Nature’s fundamental laws. But if the artist is content with newly inventing mere transformations, he obtains the reward of remaining newly safe and secure in them for ever. Thus, new upon new, along an endless chain of artists, the fundamental law of consonance and its group of derivations are never ever exhausted. (From “Freier Satz.”)

Consonance is the sole law of everything harmonic, vertical, and belongs to Nature. Dissonance belongs to voice-leading, the horizontal, and consequently is Art. Consonance lives in the triad, dissonance in passing [im Durchgang]. From triad and passing stem all the phenomena of tonal life: the triad can become a harmonic degree; the passing tone can be modified to become a neighbor note, accented passing tone, anticipation, a dissonant syncopation, and the seventh of a seventh chord. There are no laws other than consonance and dissonance, nor are there any other fundamental derivations. Dissonance must be understood as purely contingent on consonance and thus the consonance of Nature alone must be understood as the ultimate ground of all artistic possibilities in music and acknowledged at the same time as the ultimate goal of all that strives in passing.

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History of the Art of Music Geschichte der Tonkunst {Tonwille 2, pp. 3– 4} t r a n s l at e d b y r o b e r t s n a r r e n b e r g

A history of the art of music has yet to be written. It would have to provide an-

When was it that triads, as the regulators of elaboration, attained their own particular order and grew into the harmonic degrees of a system? When did diminution, in the form of motives and ornaments, obtain its laws? How were motives connected together at first? And now, at this time, what was the situation of the Urlinie, which had to bind together such a fully developed world with steps of a second, lest the diminution of motives and ornaments wander aimlessly? Finally, how did all these forces cause forms to arise, in the sense of those limitations that are indispensable for any sort of human creative endeavor? And now: what are the names of the artists who devised infinitely many invaluable nuts and bolts in order to leash and unleash the voices of the contrapuntal setting in the service of form, variety, and an intensely personal narrative art? All these questions would have to be answered if one wanted to find a suitable basis for selecting artists and for representing their life’s work, indeed, even their life’s destiny. Will it ever be possible to shed so much light on the past in order to obtain light for the future as well? (From “Freier Satz.”)

swers to the following questions: When and how did the law of consonance (with the octave, fifth, and third) first work its way into and fulfill itself in successions of tones (regarded horizontally), so that the tonal successions, because they expressed a triad, could be experienced as a unit? Did this occur even before the initial attempts at polyphony, or later? How about the Urlinie around the time consonance first secretly impregnated the horizontal dimension? And, secondarily, to what extent do the musical utterances of today’s primitive peoples resemble those early tonal successions? After the law of consonance found fulfillment in the vertical dimension in the age of polyphony, which artists were the first to produce an agreement between the vertical and horizontal triad and so {4} forge a path to a horizontal (melodic) elaboration [Auskomponierung] that was also attested by the vertical dimension? How were elaborations of triads connected to one another? Did an Urlinie tie them together?

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Yet Another Word on the Urlinie Noch ein Wort zur Urlinie {Tonwille 2, pp. 4 – 6} t r a n s l at e d b y r o b e r t s n a r r e n b e r g

The Urlinie offers the unfurling of a basic triad, it presents tonality on hori-

mensity of which {5} was until now inconceivable, because the law of strict counterpoint was neither grasped in its profundity nor foreseen in such prolongations. And so it came to be that our young people, so different of late, merely seeming to live among us, were able to hit upon the idea of robbing voice-leading of its freedom with all the idle democratic boasting proper to a giant pygmy, as if they had not already possessed the highest freedom for the longest time, a freedom still fully uncomprehended by them; and in fact they succeeded in destroying that longstanding freedom because in their ignorance they declared themselves superior to the law. Yet what is freedom if not the radiance of a law’s foundation? The fact that the harmonic degree and the selection of intervals come from the Urlinie and go into it constitutes the miracle of circularity. Diminution relates to the Urlinie as flesh in the bloom of life relates to a man’s skeleton. Indeed, though the form and content of the flesh impress us directly, it is the secret of the skeleton that holds everything together. Goethe expressed it as follows:1

zontal paths. The tonal system, too, flows into these as well, a system intended to bring purposeful order into the world of chords through its selection of the harmonic degrees. The mediator between the horizontal formulation of tonality presented by the Urlinie and the vertical formulation presented by the harmonic degrees is voice-leading. Just as the harmonic degrees fend off chords that contradict the tending of their arrangement towards tonality, so, too, does the Urlinie fend off diminutions (motives and ornaments) whose peaks or main tones do not agree with this archetypal succession of tones. Thus, one sees that where the Urlinie holds sway, the diminutions are fashioned in such a way that other diminutions with other peaks cannot be put in their place. Elaboration [Auskomponierung] brings to fruition a bass line that, in view of the fact that the roots of the harmonic degrees operate in the depths of the mind, is just as much an upper voice as the soprano with respect to the behavior of the line, its undulating play, and its consonances and passing [dissonances]. Thus, the setting of the outer voices [Außensatz] is to be understood as a counterpoint of two upper voices above the harmonic degrees, a two-voice setting the quality of which determines the worth of the composition. The Urlinie then leads to a selection of intervals in this contrapuntal setting (and in this selection alone lies the guarantee of the setting’s highest quality and most consummate synthesis), intervals that continue to bear in themselves the law of strict counterpoint. Only through such a selection do we then understand free composition’s prolongations of the law, which do not cancel it but rather validate it in freedom and newness. For example, if the intervals selected deviate in so many passages from those manifested by the diminutions, then it happens that often, on account of the selected intervals, the consecutive fifths and octaves presented by the counterpoint of the diminution are not really consecutives at all. Thus our masters could, while observing Urlinie, harmonic degree, and interval selection, develop a freedom in voice-leading, the im-

Typus

Type

Es ist nichts in der Haut Was nicht im Knochen ist. Vor schlechtem Gebilde jedem graut, Das ein Augenschmerz ihm ist.

There is naught in the skin That is not in the bone. Every man shudders at a wretched creature, That causes his eyes to suffer.

Was freut denn jeden? Blühen zu sehn Das von innen schon gut gestaltet; Außen mag’s in Glätte, mag in Farben gehn, Es ist ihm schon voran gewaltet.

What, then, pleases every man? To see flowering That is already well formed from within; Though its outside may turn glossy or colored, It already holds him in its sway.

1This poem appeared in a set entitled “Kunst” in Goethe’s Sammlung von 1827. The translation is mine. The orthography and punctuation have been emended in accord with Johann Wolfgang Goethe: Gedichte, 1800–1832, part 1, vol. 2, p. 515, ed. Karl Eibl (Frankfurt: Deutsche Klassiker Verlag, 1988).

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tonw i l l e 2 It suffices to know from history only that diminution was active for centuries in the decoration of simple successions of tones, in order to be astonished at the trifling compass of the ordinary imagination, which now, by contrast, does not find its way from the diminutions of our masters back to a simple succession of tones. Caccini, who opposed the excesses of ornamental practice around 1600 and argued on behalf of so-called monody, thought as follows: “I have thus endeavored to express the meaning of the verbal text and, on the other hand, to conceal contrapuntal artifices.”2 But this only proves that he misunderstood his own creation. For, in the first place, monody, too, was the diminution of a simple tonal succession, even if formed differently than the ornament; and, in the second place, contrapuntal artifices indeed vanished, but not counterpoint, which must appear forthwith whenever two voices enter into a relationship with one another. It is precisely counterpoint, after all, that testifies decisively about the intervallic span of the Urlinie as well as about diminution. The Urlinie leads directly to synthesis of the whole. It is synthesis. Since it offers grounds for deciding upon harmonic degree and form in doubtful cases, it makes it possible, above all, to get proper insight into synthesis. Only such a synthesis generated from an Urlinie has the redolence of a true melody. And this is melody of the whole, the sole “endless melody.” In synthesis, melody is constituted in a way that is quite different from those melodies that one carries home from opera houses in one’s vest pocket, so to speak, or those that composers store away in their valises and desks in order to use them in a symphony movement, quartet, or the like, as opportunity arises; it is constituted quite differently than the melodies that program musicians are finally obliged to proffer as soon as they fear {6} becoming a burden to the listener and his uncul-

tivated impulses; and it is also constituted quite differently than the leitmotifs of music dramas or the tonal images of musical portraiture, from whose mouths, as one often sees on the pictures of primitives, there seem to flutter volumes of sayings: I am so and so, I am this and that . . . The invention of synthesis from the Urlinie and the melody of the whole [aus Urlinie und Gesamtmelodie] is German, German to the core—historically considered, a victory over short-nerved Italian melody incapable of widely spaced goals—and generates from the depth and breadth of the German spirit. The fullness of its mysteries and original physiognomy is so great that no one can succeed in revealing it in its entirety. For this reason, those who would wish that the ultimate mysteries of music be protected, so that they continue to exist for a humanity that loves the puzzle more than the solution, need have no fear whatsoever. The synthesis of our masters belongs to the aristocracy of genius, it is integrative, and it makes genuinely great what is seemingly small. And once the German spirit had received the blessing of such a miracle from its great masters, it is right and proper to designate as un-German a composition fitted together in such a way that purely individual moments are exaggerated and distended like aphorisms and leitmotifs. Effusion in one moment causes flaccidity in the next moment, the content of which (tonal wallpaper and molding, as it were) contrasts all the more strongly the more beautiful and ecstatic the preceding effusion. Such a procedure is democratic, the more grandiloquent the part, the more impotent the whole, senselessly fragmented, disintegrative, and it makes genuinely small what is seemingly great. The greater the compass of the work, the more it resembles a hydra whose heads can grow but can also be cut off, or a sentence having several clauses that contradict one another. But, of course, how difficult it is to be German along with our great German masters! The musician has not even once seen his way into their counterpoint, their form, or their melody, because he touches synthesis using only trivial concepts of melody. And anyone who has his sights set upon metaphysics and seeks it in rhythm, melody, and God knows what else, will pass deafly by the Urlinie; and yet the Urlinie is the quintessence of all metaphysics. And then there is the philistine! If you say to him, “Generation upon generation passes away, but the tonal line continues to live as on the first day,” he does not comprehend it. And if you approach him and say, “Capital is self-acting, and so is the tonal line,” he does not grasp it. He knows only the one question: “Where is all that?”—It is there in the noteheads, not in your heads!

2Schenker is here paraphrasing, rather than directly quoting, a passage from the celebrated Preface to Le nuove musiche of 1602 by the Florence-based singer and composer Giulio Caccini (1551–1618): Ne madrigali come nelle arie ho sempre procurata l’imitazione dei concetti delle parole, ricercando quelle corde più, e meno affectuose, secondo i sentimenti di esse, e che particolarmenti havessero grazia, havendo ascosto in esse quanto piu ho potuto l’arte del contrappunto. In madrigals as in arias I have always achieved the imitation of the ideas of the words, seeking out those notes that are more or less expressive, according to the sentiments of the words. So that they would have especial grace, I concealed as much of the art of counterpoint as I could. The English translation, by Margaret Murata, is taken from Source Readings in Music History, ed. Oliver Strunk, revised by Leo Treitler (New York: Norton, 1998), p. 609. A facsimile of Le nuove musiche was published by Broude Brothers (New York, 1973).

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Mozart’s Sonata in A Minor, K. 310 Mozart: Sonate A-Moll (Köchel-Verzeichnis Nr. 310) {Tonwille 2, pp. 7– 24} t r a n s l at e d b y t i m o t h y j a c k s o n

This sonata was composed by Mozart at the age of twenty-two in Paris in 1778.

Urlinie could have taken the shortest path to b1 through d2 and c2, it actually ascends to f 2 in bar 6, so that it may first descend from this tone, its path thus projected through a diminished fifth. Heard in relation to the half cadence in bar 8, the surplus tone, f 2, functions as a suspension to e2 and, at the same time, as a deep sigh. One cannot sufficiently admire the diminution in bars 1– 4, which interweaves the Urlinie so beautifully with the inner voices and presents the web as an independent motive. If one were unaware of its provenance, one would be compelled to believe that the diminished fifth d2 in bars 2 and 4 ascends to e2; but this is not the case. In bars 5– 8, the counterpoint is threatened by bare consecutive fifths: e–d–c–b a–g–f–e⬘, which are avoided by the interpolation of neighbor notes and their harmonies, so that the voice-leading participates in its way in showing the Urlinie the path from f 2. {8}

May I be granted the privilege of revealing the full wonder of this work for the elevation of the human spirit!

First Movement (Allegro maestoso)

The sonata form of the first movement expresses itself as follows: First Subject antecedent consequent and modulation Second Subject (Closing Subject) Development Recapitulation

bars 1– 8 bars 9– 22 bars 23 – 44 bars 45– 49 bars 50–79 bars 80ff

Bars 9ff. The consequent begins with the initial bars of the antecedent. Again, the Urlinie rises up to f 2 (bar 14) before descending to b1 (bar 16); since there has been a modulation to C major, the diminished fifth f 2 –b1 is now reinterpreted as an elaboration of VII, which stands for V. The identical sound of the two diminished fifths, in the antecedent and consequent, is purposefully exploited by the difference in diatonic harmony: the contrast of their tonal meaning elevates them above the status of mere repetition. For even though repetition without a change of harmony would bestow upon the second fifth-progression a certain emphasis, the emphasis created by the change of harmony is all the greater. From this it becomes clear that the modulation is not a vacuous formal duty, but is derived in the most organic way, “spirit from spirit” [Geist vom Geiste], from the antecedent phrase. And if this requires yet another justification than that provided by the Urlinie, we can consider the diminution. Beginning in bar 12, it takes on a form so different from the antecedent that, even on account of this new idea—and all the more so for its incomparable boldness—we should banish from our heads the

Bars 1– 8. A sixteenth-note appoggiatura d  2: and not only is the first tone of the Urlinie, e2, conceived but, in a true creatio ex nihilo, the entire first movement! Already the first creative breath projects the special features of this new musical organism, determining the shape and content of the whole as well as the parts. In the antecedent, the Urlinie (see the graph, p. 56) aims to project the fourth e2 –b1 and, with the support of the fundamental harmonies, lead to a half cadence; the generative principle of the appoggiatura then becomes operative, propelling the inner voice in bars 1– 4 and then the Urlinie from bar 5, and finally also the bass in bars 6– 8 to a series of waves of ascending steps. The ear is now drawn to the neighbor notes, which the composer promotes, taking advantage of the entire circle of fundamental harmonies, by giving both the main and neighboring notes their own harmonies and so increasing the weight of the latter. Thus, while the

55

tonw i l l e 2

this kind of voice-leading is simply the 5– 6–exchange, a5 –g6 –f 5 –e6 –d5!—, then the root F reinforces the impression of an independent harmony, namely IV. (Generally, in such cases theorists and dilettantes alike go so far as to call this a [modulation to the] key of F major.) To this is added the play of suspensions in the inner voice and the Urlinie; in short, there is motion and life in every part of this bar. Everything in the modulation, however, is connected to the single intention of the Urlinie to traverse a fifth-progression. That the diminution in bars 10– 11 stems not from bars 1– 2 but rather from bars 3– 4, and leads to an even richer figure in bar 11, bespeaks the iron will propelling the diminution as a whole (this was also a deep-seated feature of Chopin’s style). In bar 16, the dominant is attained; above its root the leading tone, in accordance with the fundamental motive of this piece, strives toward its upper neighbor (!), several times and with increasing animation. In this way, even this spiritually conceived little figure refutes all those (including, for example, Wagner) who perceive the half cadence as an empty technique of postponement.

notion that Mozart handled the modulation in a routine fashion. The graph of the Urlinie (bars 11–12) shows that the lower of the inner voices ascends to b
1, which is transformed into an upper voice (which ascends beyond the Urlinie tone [e2] to the high b
2), passing through a2 and g2 (bar 13) to f 2 (bar 14). But since the e2 of the Urlinie also strives toward this tone, that progression of the inner voice signifies nothing more than the intention of the diminution to make a detour. Our astonishment increases when we understand the bass in bar 11 as the unfolding of a fifth-progression, which provides harmonic support to this detour (see “Freier Satz”).1 As is often the case with fifth progressions, the midpoint of the path is emphasized by the appropriate harmony (the root F, between A and D), and if this is accompanied, as it is here, by a corresponding chromatic inflection in the preceding auxiliary harmony to make a dominant chord—the basic model for 1The combination of two or more linear progressions, of which this example illustrates a variant form, is discussed and illustrated in Der freie Satz, §§221– 29.

56

Mozart’s Sonata in A Minor, K. 310

were to lead to IV. In bar 53, the b
1 overshoots the g2 of the Urlinie and ascends to b
2; in bar 55, the neighbor-note D
is transformed into C  and in bar 57 b
into a , thereby achieving the chord of  IV in E minor, which leads to V as a  is drawn up to b. Now the secret is revealed: g2 in the Urlinie wants to proceed at the outset to a , as a fundamentally predestined upper neighbor, but hesitates longer than did the e2 in bars 1– 5 and the c3 in bars 23 – 27; and this hesitation, like the illusion of b
2, turns into a wonderful adventure, which heightens the suspense of the narration. Only a complete consciousness of the larger path could permit the young genius to place such an artful notation, namely the disguising of an augmented second as a third, and the enharmonic transformation in the service of the Urlinie. Nothing is actually changed by the fact that the a  (as an augmented second) finally ascends. With the arrival on b, the conventional descending direction of the Urlinie asserts itself. We see this in bars 58ff, and with completely altered diminution, in which the material of bars 5ff are transformed; see the graph of the Urlinie. In a strettolike manner, the Urlinie motive enters, always striving upward; also, there is a marked upward thrust in the lower inner voice, while the higher inner voice devotes itself to suspensions. (At the same time, this voice-leading helps to avoid consecutive fifths.) The way in which the music modulates back to A minor is shown by the graph of the Urlinie. From bar 70 on, the high register is gradually drawn back. The following sketch may further clarify the path of the development:

Bars 23ff. To the diminished fifth of the modulation, the Urlinie of the second group replies with an octave progression, c3 –c2, as an elaboration of the fundamental harmony of the C major diatonicism, so that the two parts of the Urlinie are related to each other as V–I. The octave-progression is subdivided into two segments: c3 –e2 (bar 31, incomplete perfect cadence) and a2 –c2 (bar 35). The c3 in bars 23– 27, unaffected by the cadential progression and in response to the e2 sustained in bars 1– 5, serves as the starting point for the octave-progression; the b2 in bar 25 functions merely as a neighbor note. In the sixteenth-note diminution, the initial {9} sixteenth-note appoggiatura from bar 1 can still be heard fluttering distinctly (b2 –c3 in bar 23, e2 –f 2 in bar 24, a1 –b1 in bar 25). The diminution is expressly modified according to the change of harmony or Urlinie segment (bars 23– 27, 28– 29, 30– 31, etc.), so that it not only achieves fruitful diversity but also serves the harmony and the Urlinie. What an important contribution to synthesis! The graph of the Urlinie indicates the details of the voice-leading. In bar 35, the initial sixteenth rest stands for the concluding note, c2, while the octave-progression with c3 at its apex is repeated immediately from the second sixteenth. This time the line progresses through its segment more quickly, so that there is space for repetitions. The abbreviated form of the summations, combined with the bustling repetition, creates an effect that suggests soothing encouragement and consolation. In bar 40, within the initial segment of the repetition of the octave progression, an inversion of the voices is introduced; this is nevertheless rendered less transparent in bars 42– 44 since the bass requires three octaves to project the succession of three tones.2 The second segment, by contrast, returns to the upper voice. Here, too, if one follows the the alternation of figures and registers, one can only admire the purposefulness of all paths and connections. The counterpoint in the upper voice in bars 42– 43 is derived from the rhythm of bars 1 and 3, which becomes clearer in bars 45ff. While the line in these final bars seeks the rising leading note, b1, in order to produce a more powerful close—for this reason I recommend calling it a closing subject—the dotted rhythm effectively prepares the repeat of the exposition, or the development.

{10} As can be seen, the rising sixths in the upper voice in bars 70–72 are essentially inner thirds and passing tones that leap exactly as those in the bass, with which they form a series of thirds. In bar 73, an e2 on the downbeat would have resulted in consecutive fifths; therefore this tone appears a quarter-note later, where it forms a sixth with the bass, which has in the meantime moved on.

Bars 50ff. At the beginning of the development, the motive of bars 1– 2 enters, but in C major. Now the lowest voice is set in motion, c1 –d
1 (m. 53), which gives the diminution the occasion to follow the idea of I
7, as if the path of the harmony

Bars 80ff. The reprise begins in bar 80. Its most prominent feature can be seen in bars 88 – 97: an unusually bold elaboration of the tonic, whereby consecutive octaves in the outer voices are avoided by the interpolation of chromatically in-

2That is, the succession represented by e1 in bar 42, d in bar 43 and E in bar 44, the last of these notes suggesting a low C.

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tonw i l l e 2 flected tenths in bars 89 and 91. One can only marvel at how willingly the primary motive of bars 1– 2 serves this elaboration; although the motive carries so much weight, there are no true [intervening] harmonies, let alone modulations. What beautiful detours are also created by the diminution in bars 95 – 96 ! In bar 95, the b1 on the downbeat is to be understood as an accented passing tone within IV 6b–a – 5.

Bars 1ff. The first subject has an antecedent and a consequent phrase: bars 1– 4, 5– 8. The melodic line in the antecedent falls from c2 –e1 (half cadence), and the consequent projects the fifth-progression c2 –f 1 as a response (full cadence). Both melodic lines subdivide into two segments, a division which is underscored by the harmonic progression. Always beginning with the third quarter, each segment comprises six quarters and is clearly delineated by the harmonic progression:

Second Movement (Andante cantabile)

The Andante has a four-part form: A1 Modulation B1 Retransition A2 B2

a consistency that serves both synthesis and beauty. The second segment of the melodic line of the consequent (bar 6) begins essentially with b
1 (IV), for which d2 acts as a substitute. At first, b
1 seems to be merely a neighbor note within the fifth-progression; however, the higher third is placed on top in order to attenuate the line and bestow upon it greater emphasis, insofar as the d2 surpasses the initial tone of the first segment. All of this is the case, in spite of the fact that the strong harmonic progression that serves the form gives the illusion that d2 is an important tone of the Urlinie (see the graph below).

bars 1–14 bar 14 bars 15 – 31 bars 32– 53 bars 54 – 67 bars 68– 86

58

Mozart’s Sonata in A Minor, K. 310

progression g2 –c2 without subdivision, and at the outset likewise presents the first two tones, g2 –f 2, twice. Not until g2 is introduced for the third time, in bar 19, does the Urlinie progress definitively to the concluding tone (see the graph of the Urlinie). Here, then, it is the varied realization of the Urlinie that promotes synthesis at a higher level by contrast. The diminution also builds a bridge to B2; compare the third quarter in bar 13 and the response to this made by the third quarter in bars 15 and 16. The seventh of the dominant in bars 16 and 18, the very f 2 of the Urlinie, resolves to E in the bass in bars 17 and 19. In bars 19ff, the diminution, too, is altered to conform to the third entry of the Urlinie; it is able to cross over the fifth-progression in such a way as though it almost were able to deceive it. To compensate for the lack of subdivision in the fifth-progression, the conclusion is reinforced by means of repetition of the Urlinie tones, f 2 to c2 in bars 24 – 25 and e2 to c2 in bars 27– 29. From the concluding tone c1 in bar 22—here, too, the bars have been metrically reinterpreted (8 ⫽ 1)—the ascending progression c2 –d2 –e2 leads to the f 2 of bar 24, which was prepared by the same progression in bar 19. To serve of this new group of bars, and also the rhythmic augmentation,4 yet a new diminution is introduced: three downward leaps of a third lead from c2 up to d2, and an especially artful passing motion in bar 23, passing through two harmonies [II–V], leading from d2 to e2, as shown in Fig. 2:5

{11} The arpeggiation of the upbeat quarter note and the short appoggiatura in bar 1 establish the first tone of the Urlinie; concomitantly, the lowest tone of the arpeggiation, f 1, announces the root, which does not enter until the first quarter note of the bass. Just as the upbeat arpeggio influences the path of the bass in the first full bar, so it contains a treasure trove of mysterious connections, which are of much greater value to the synthesis than the thematic or motivic connections that are generally available to composers. Bars 8ff. In bar 8, the fifth-progression attains its concluding tone, but at the same time the bass initiates a new accompaniment, transforming the metrically weak bar into a strong one. Through this kind of artistic subtlety, the parts are joined together more tightly and the total synthesis is greatly improved. The melodic line is the same as that of the antecedent, only lying an octave higher and repeating the first segment with slightly varied rhythm. It would not have been possible for the second segment, a2 –e2, also to have been presented twice, because B1 begins immediately thereafter with the same succession.3 The diminution becomes increasingly richer, yet it is always governed by the simple arpeggio of the initial upbeat. All of these modifications serve to create the impression of this group of bars as a new idea. But if the new section remains in the key of the first subject and also shares the same Urlinie motive, that shows that the two belong together as subsections of the same subject. On the other hand, one should not overlook the connection between, on the one hand, the impetus that the bass requires to assert its regular meter against the irregular meter of the Urlinie and, on the other, the modulation in bar 14: evidently, it is the same impetus in a new guise, which eventually triumphs in B1, where the Urlinie accommodates itself to the bass. What secrets are concealed in the organically creative mental powers of the genius! Bars 15ff. The modulation is realized in the simplest way, by reinterpreting the V of F major as I in C major; all that is missing is decisive confirmation, since a further cadence establishing the new key has not been added. This is why Mozart fixes the new key in bars 15–18 right at the beginning of B1 by twice repeating V– I, before moving on to a further, more emphatic harmonic progression. This also explains why the Urlinie, in contrast to that in A1, proceeds through its fifth-

{12} Observe, in this transitional progression, the immediate imitation of the soprano by the bass (bracket 1); then the use of c2 in the inner voice to avoid the consecutive fifths cg ––da (bracket 2); and finally the elaboration of the dominant (bracket 3). Preserving the same diminution in bar 25 as in bar 22 brings to the fore the fact that the group of bars 25 – 29 contributes to the form in the same way 2

2

2

2

4Schenker is referring to the ascent c2 –d2 –e2 in bars 22 – 24, which progresses in dotted half notes, that is, at one-third the speed of the ascent in bar 19. 5Fig. 2, which reproduces the score, shows e3 as the goal; but the graph of the Urlinie shows the conceptual step motion, which leads to e2.

3That is, at the start of B the tones of the Urlinie are the same as the preceding segment, g2 –f 2 – 1 e3, but without the initial a2.

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tonw i l l e 2 filling-in with passing tones; at c) the much more developed version in which corresponding multiple passing motions are employed in both the upper and lower melodic lines (using steps or leaps). Finally, [Fig. 3c] shows the full measure Mozart’s consummate command of the diminution, which clarifies the transitions and, of course, also conceals them within a single transitional idea. Thus, we see how, in bars 37ff, the sextuplet arpeggiations in the bass (in the great octave: see, however, the discussion of the literature!) invite the right hand to a diminution in arpeggios, that link the oneand two-line octaves in such an artful way, each time in groups of two bars (see the graph of the Urlinie). The harmonic progression in bars 43ff is served by the inversion of the arpeggio in the bass; since they are in the low register, these now give the impression of being fundamental harmonic, while in truth they are simply leaping passing tones. In bars 48– 49, the passing tone e
2 in the upper line,  like the raised third F  in the bass, mark the process of tonicization I –IV in G minor. It is the very chord built on G that is eventually reinterpreted as II in F major. At this point, the fifth-progression d2 –g1 is set in motion, but already on the firm ground of F major. Its tones are presented more quickly than those of the transitional harmonies in bars 37– 49, and Mozart, as if in passing, lets a still more accelerated imitation of the fifth-progression unfold in the second and third quarters of bar 50, as a simultaneous presentation and summation. What a wonderful progression! In bars 51– 53, the octave c2 is sought as a replacement for the fifth g1.

as the preceding bars 21– 25. (That the diminution in bar 26 differs from that in bar 23 does not change anything in this respect.) In bar 27, the diminution temporarily covers the Urlinie tone e2, and its continuation, with g2. In bars 29– 31, the ascending leading tone functions more as a neighbor note than a true Urlinie tone, on account of varied diminution. Bars 32ff. Two drawn-out summations of the previous fifth-progression, still in C major, initiate the modulation back to F. The diminution changes in the upper voice, and also in the left hand; notice especially the chordal quality of the left hand and the depth of the register (see, however, the discussion of the literature!). Only with the concluding tone of the second fifth-progression, in bar 37, does the real retransition begin. Here the tension of the passing motions grows to colossal proportions, and the artistry with which the young master calls forth so much power from the harmony must inspire the greatest admiration. The following sketch clarifies the path of the retransition:

Bars 51ff. A2 repeats A1 exactly in bars 54 – 61, and also gives the basic idea in bars 61– 67, except that the path of the bass is changed. Here is its origin:

The ground plan is shown at a); according to it, c2 should rise through c 2 to d2, so that this tone can initiate the descending fifth-progression d2 –g1 as a preparation for the fifth-progression c2 –f1 in A2. In this shortest of paths, the modulation to D minor is already prefigured. The harmonic progression at b) shows the reinterpretation of the I in C major as VII in D minor (minor in a strictly Aeolian sense: see Harmonielehre, pp. 59ff/pp. 45ff ), from which the V with the raised  leading tone follows. The harmonic succession  VII–V 3 –I reflects {13} in a deeper sense C5 –C 6 –D5 (⫽VII–V–I); see “Freier Satz.”6 At a) is shown the simplest

Bars 68ff. Compared with B1, B2 is notable for the changes in bars 70 –71, whose purpose is to tonicize the IV, and for an expansion in bars 72ff when compared with bars 20 – 22; finally, in bar 78, a change is made in the transitional harmonies.

6An early draft of Der freie Satz includes several sections that concern progressions from VII to I and VII as a substitute for V (Oster Collection, file 51, items 764 – 68).

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Mozart’s Sonata in A Minor, K. 310

end, and where does the I begin? (Concerning this kind of voice-leading, see the section on harmonic rhythm [Stufenrhythmus] in “Freier Satz.”8 The third group is a repetition of the first, insofar as it introduces the consequent. In the fourth group, the Urlinie already descends to the concluding tone, which, however, is initially caught up within a deceptive cadence. The increased number of tones compels the addition of three bars to accommodate the Urlinie, bars 14 –16. If the tones of the Urlinie are to be brought to a close, then the bars which provide the model (bars 5 and 6) must be reversed; however, d2 is still supported by IV and c2 by I. The fifth and concluding group in the main theme finally presents the complete fifth-progression e2 –a1. In it, as in the preceding phrase, f2 is supported –e f—— by IV, so that the neighbor-note effect, IV–I , is also reproduced. How artfully in bar 18 Mozart transforms an inner voice into an upper voice, so as to ensure that e2 sounds through this bar! A rising eighth-note gesture leads from the fourth to the fifth group; its further transformation serves to prepare that which is coming. Thus, in bar 20, the use of c2 (instead of c 2) announces the modulation to C major.

Third Movement (Presto)

Altogether one of the most individual and intense pieces in the entire musical literature. In contrast to the first part in A minor, bars 1–142, the middle part is conceived as a sort of trio in A major with the character of a musette, bars 143–74, while the repetition of the first part serves as a third part. The first part is itself in two sections: it modulates from A minor through C major (bars 20[21]–55) to the key of the dominant, E minor (bars 56–87), and, after a short retransition (bars 87–106), brings back the primary idea in the main key with a stronger conclusion.

2

Bars 1ff. The Urlinie (p. 62) exhibits an unusual feature: moving in a descending direction, which in A minor must follow the path of the fifth-progression e2 –a1, it is not initiated from the fifth, e2, but rather from the middle, with c2, growing only in the course of events to reach d2 (bar 7) and e2 (bar 17). {14} In addition, the important segment of the Urlinie is delayed until the conclusion of the individual group of bars, which each time also transmits the cadential harmonies in a decisive manner. In this way a wonderful tension is created, both within the individual phrases as well as within the whole, which is intensified especially in those groups where the beginning and conclusion of the phrase sound the same,7 as for example in the first group, bars 1 and 4; in the second group, bars 5 and 7; in the sixth group, bars 21– 22 and 27, etc. For, viewed from the end of the group, we experience its beginning more as a first inhalation [Anhauch] of the line than as the line itself; then, it is as if inhalation and melodic line expressed an unbroken sob. The principal theme, bars 1– 20, is composed of an antecedent and consequent, delineated by the half cadence in bar 8, through the deceptive cadence and complete full cadence in bars 16 and 20. The first group of bars, 1– 4, presents the core musical idea in its purest and simplest form. In the second group, bars 5– 8, the Urlinie grows toward d2, for which it requires two bars, 7 and 8. It would have been possible to support d2 with IV and move from it directly to V: Mozart, however, proceeds otherwise, by interpolating a I beneath c2 and thereby creating a d –c neighbor-note effect: —— IV–I . The path from IV to I is realized through passing tones [bars 5 –7], based on the exchange of upper and lower voices: where does the IV 2

2

Bars 21ff. A simple modulation, achieved by harmonic reinterpretation, leads to C major. The first group in the new key, bars 21– 28, immediately reveals itself, although with varied diminution, to be simply a repetition of the phrase in bars 5 – 8, apart from the interpolation of two new bars, 25 – 26. Even the next groups, bars 29– 32 and 33– 36, are simply repetitions, namely of groups of bars 1– 4 and 5 – 8 (with only slightly changed diminution and modal mixture in bars 29– 32). Thus, in the new key, there is a change neither in the material nor in the way it is treated. In fact, at first glance, the graph shows how the Urlinie carries over its original growth pattern into the new key; in its unfolding, it is required to reach ever higher. Comparing bars 4, 7– 8, 14 –16, 17– 20, 27– 28, 32, 36, 42– 44, 50– 51, 54 – 55, 62– 63, 67, 71, 77–79, 85– 87, etc., it becomes fundamentally clear why, in this piece, Mozart had to employ a three-part song form for the whole and, at a lower level, {15} renounces the model of antecedent plus consequent, so as always to present the same material—to be sure, with some variation in the

2

8In neither the early draft (in the Oster Collection) nor the final form of Der freie Satz is there a section specifically concerned with harmonic rhythm. However, the type of harmonic elaboration found in bars 5– 8 was a favorite of Schenker’s, appearing in the “Elucidations,” Fig. 4c, published in Tonwille 8–10, and in the analysis of the first-movement theme of Beethoven’s Piano Sonata in A
, Op. 26 (see Der freie Satz, especially Fig. 56/1).

7Deren Anfang und Ende zusammenklingen: in Schenker’s exemplification the upper voice of the bars in question are represented by the same notes in the graph of the Urlinie: c2 –b1 in bars 1 and 4, d2 –c2 in bars 5 and 7, and so on.

61

62

Mozart’s Sonata in A Minor, K. 310

scale is likewise directed toward f  2; this note could have come directly from e2 in bar 59. Beneath the chromatic modulation and diminution of bars 56– 61 lies hidden—if c2 is supplied at the beginning of the ascending line—the progression through an augmented fourth, which is thus capable of suggesting a modulation (through reinterpretation):

diminution—simply by changing tonality and register. This is actually what vitalizes the music, namely that one and the same power gains for the whole a form that is eternally true. In contrast to bars 5– 8, the group of bars 33– 36 reaches a full close in bar 36. This is not only a response to the dominant in bar 28, but a crucial premise for the half cadences in bars 50– 51 and 54 – 55, which occur at the end of the intermediate section in the key of C major. The group of bars 37– 44 exhibits the special feature that its initial bars, 37– 38, are no longer in agreement with its concluding bars, nor do they present a tone of the Urlinie either by foreshadowing [Vorerrinerung] or by substitution. An adumbration occurs rather within the progression and not until bar 39, with the tone f 2, although it is foreign to the prevailing harmony. This change becomes intelligible on account of a second special feature, namely that the true Urlinie tone f 2, which enters later in bar 42, is approached by the line rising from c  2 to f 2, which ultimately is to be derived from the above-mentioned slight changes in the two preceding phrases; see the small slurs in the graph of the Urlinie in bars 30– 31, 34 – 35. The chromaticism introduced by the c  2 apparently must come from the c3 at the highpoint of the phrase, so that we discern the underlying sense as follows:

{16} This group [bars 56– 63] has the half cadence in common with the group that modulated to C major, bars 21– 28. Then follow four groups that model themselves on the C major groups, but with one important distinction, namely, the full cadences [on E] in bars 77–79 and 85– 87, which again correspond to the full cadence in the A minor section. This demonstrates the greater significance of E minor compared to C major: if the latter represents merely a transitional path, the former is the definitive goal. Other transformations, for example the clearly profiled bass line in the groups comprising bars 64 – 67 and 68–71, may be easily discerned. Bars 87ff. Raising the third of the tonic E minor triad leads back to A minor; the tonic is now sought (in bar 95), and for this reason the dominant (in bar 99) appears even further reinforced. The entire cycle of fifths [Stufenleiter] in bars 87– 95 may be derived from the following voice-leading:

Thus the original effect of inhalation [Anhauchwirkung] in bars 1, 5, 13, 21– 22, etc. seems to be exchanged for another. However one regards the rising line, whose presence might well lead one to speak of the effect of a pause [in the Urlinie], and however one regards the foreshadowing f2 in bar 39, it remains incontrovertible that the tones of the Urlinie are presented at ends of groups, as in the groups in the A minor section, which finally leads to a result that is related to the inhalation effect. But what artistry in the transformation! This transformation is preserved in the following groups, except that in bars 52– 55 and 56– 63 the starting point c2 before the c 2 has been stripped away, since it is self-evident after having been made clear in the two preceding groups. In the group comprising bars 56– 63, we discover the linear ascent [Anstieg] [of bars 37– 44] in enlarged form, which is associated with a chromatic modulation to E minor, and also an interpolation of two bars, 60– 61, whose descending

Leaping passing tones are inserted into the fifth-progression of the bass in bars 95– 98. Bars 107ff. The repetition of the main theme runs parallel to bars 1–18. The group of bars 123– 26 has the purpose of reinforcing the seventh of the dominant, as a compelling harbinger of the concluding phrases, which herald the close. The group of bars 127–34 finally provides the fifth-progression (with the additional f 2);

63

tonw i l l e 2 but how much more emphatically than in bars 17ff is the rhythmic organization of the harmonies, and especially that of the tonic in the thirty-second bar!9

unfathomable mysteries of our circulatory system, which nourishes and sustains the whole body. What is understood as so-called thematic development—e.g. motivic variation, inversion, augmentation, and similar transformations, which are on the surface and perceived by every listener—most certainly does not apply to the fundamentals that have been brought to light here for the first time, although incompletely, given the limitations of concepts and words. Furthermore, we perceive how all of the parts of the melodic line in the large, in its direction and inner movement, in repetition of smaller formal and tonal units, etc., stipulate each other, so that the power and blessing of the organic streams through all of its veins. Motive and diminution, sprouting from the line, color the segments of the Urlinie, the individual harmonies and the modulations, and set the parts against each other so as to bind the whole more tightly. A further contributor to synthesis, in the domain of rhythm, is the technique of reinterpretation of bars, the play of motives against the underlying meter; in the domain of voiceleading, artistry, and beauty in the outer-voice counterpoint, and this indeed in the counterpoint of the Urlinie as much as in the diminution, and especially the long, artful transitional sections. And in each and everything the richest diversity, testifying to the infinity of organic life. This alone is synthesis, this alone is ingenious, classical, and German—fundamentally German! As if he had descended from a musical Sinai where he had received the laws of synthesis from God’s hand, Mozart passed these laws on to humanity as signs of wonders. But they did not comprehend him. Already in his earliest years he was superior to the musicians of his time, unapproachable. With the exception of Emanuel Bach and Joseph Haydn, who were likewise blessed with the selfsufficiency of genius, all of the others, whatever they were called, wherever they lived and worked, had not the slightest capacity to comprehend his synthesis. Neither the Piccinnis, Padre Martinis, Jomellis, Boccherinis, Paganellis, nor the Dunis, Philidors, Monsignys, Schoberts, Eckards, Hochbruckers; neither Christian Bach, nor Gluck, Hasse, Cannabich, Stamitz, Holzbauer, Wendling, Vogler, Eberlin, Gassmann, Abel, Eichner, etc.—I am speaking now only of the time of the twenty-two-year-old Mozart—not one of these could truly approach him on a spiritual plane. He could, when he wished and, unfortunately, was often compelled to, imitate all of them, even most barren of them—in the most soulless, cheapest sense of the word; but with the best of intentions not one of them could do the same to him. Mozart freely offered his wonder, but his contemporaries accepted it as the empty heap of humanity is accustomed to receive such wonder,

Bars 143ff. All the more unaffectedly does the short interlude in A major project its own fifth-progression, e2 –a1, in two segments. It receives a response, in E major (to which the section modulates), also with a fifth-progression b1 –e1, bars 155– 58. Also to be noted is that the IV in bar 144 appears over the tonic pedalpoint, and that b1 in the inner voice functions as an accented passing note— which was unavoidable in the succession of lower thirds. Bars 159ff. The retransition is governed by a fifth-progression that is unfurled through two fourth-progressions. The harmonic motion supporting the initial fourth-progression is related to that technique of tonicization that requires two preparatory chords (⫽ II–V–I; see Harmonielehre, p. 346, Table XIII);10 the difference here is that the e2 of the Urlinie is not placed above the fundamental C  5, as if the harmony were operating, as it were, in B minor: IIC  ––FV ––BI . It is to be understood that this process of tonicization is a reflection of that which follows in bars 163 – 66, which unequivocally projects the harmonic progression A major: II–V–I. The refinement of the diminution is delightful: using just the passing d2 in bar 160 and the passing c2 in bar 164, it confirms the move to B minor (the goal of the tonicization process) and also suggests a modal inflection of A major by A minor. 5

3

Bars 175ff. In the reprise, the organization of the groups comprising bars 203 – 6 and 207–10 is especially noteworthy; in particular, the way the Urlinie is projected (see the graph) signifies a new transformation, compared to the groups of bars 164 – 67 and 168–71. Concerning all of above changes, and the final cadences, I refer the reader again to the graph of the Urlinie. {17}


It is time to summarize. The work of the youthful master conceals within itself

secret connections that are somehow related to and comparable with the final, 9Und namentlich in T. 32. Schenker cannot be referring to bar 32 of the movement; more probably, he is thinking of the cadences at the end of the section comprising bars 107– 42, where the final tonic is given greater emphasis (both at bar 134 and at bar 142). 10The page is given incorrectly in the original (356); this table, and others that illustrate tonicization schematically, do not appear in the English edition.

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gaping, laughing with cheap astonishment, even bellowing, but the grace of the wonder healed them not in the least, nor did it elevate their souls. When their contact with him was past and the gaping and bellowing over, they became the willing slaves even of those who utterly lacked divine inspiration. So it was also with later generations. No musician, no teacher, still less an aesthete could grasp an iota of Mozart’s art. An instinctive humility before genius could still lead an Otto Jahn, the first to attempt a full account of his life, to attribute sacred powers to so incomprehensible a being, and he exhibits grateful enthusiasm where knowledge would have actually intensified his gratitude and enthusiasm. But shortly thereafter came the historians who, as a profession, have no idea what it is to be in awe of the self-sufficiency of genius and who, Darwinlike, search for Mozart’s musical ape-ancestors; and since they are incapable of reading Mozart’s music, they confuse temporal proximity with spiritual and then, according to their caprice or propensity for their own “historical” activity, seek to interpret one or another artistic circle as the source of his art. {18} The historians were proud to have tracked down common characteristics here and there, but did not suspect that they themselves shared the characteristic of having made no contact whatever with Mozart by these efforts. Just as the Creator of the world is not what man knows of him, but rather precisely that which the earthly blockhead does not know and certainly never will know, so in the same way a Mozart, as a truly divine vessel, is also not that which the historians claim he resembles, but is precisely that which they never were and never could be. In recent times, the attacks on Mozart have multiplied; now they originate in the land of the French, where two biographies (see the discussion of the literature) seek to derive his art from French antecedents. The wave has already overwhelmed Germany and a spiritual “vassal” of those French—so the most recent biographer Mr. Schurig11 identifies himself, evidently with pride—stands as the first to follow the likes of Stendhal, but for this very reason stands as far from Mozart as did Stendhal, i.e. worlds apart; he even dares to slander and disparage

Mozart the man. Now the time has come to put an end to the democratic trade of all of these enemies of progress who seek to “historicize” Mozart without having even the faintest intimation of his spirit, and to reveal the concept of Mozart as sacred and light in terms of his unsurpassed miracles. Here, I have opened a little gate into his Paradise, welcoming all who are of good will, whose souls I can show a wonder not through hollow faith, but for the sake of transfiguration through knowledge.


B

eneath the sun of Art, Mozart also ripened as a man more quickly than is granted to other mortals. When he set down the A minor sonata, in his twentysecond year, his destiny had already left its distinctive mark upon his life. His human qualities were wonderfully in tune with his supernatural gift, but the resistance of a barren humanity forced him into a struggle involving persuasion and compulsion; and thus, in order to support himself, had no other choice but to show his fellow human beings more facile gestures, which they could comprehend much more easily than his wondrous spiritual powers. Mozart recognizes that the gift has come to him from above: he thanks God for it and is devout, as only a genius may be devout. In full cognizance of his abilities, he reveals them only when he must, and then only with the gentlest and most modest words. In the midst of the quarrel between followers of Gluck and Piccinni, he underscores his own superiority to both of them with the briefest of remarks. He remains completely aloof from the conflict and, by his own appearance, immediately takes a decision that is to the disadvantage of both sides. Where can one find among the many, all too many esprit-fools (Grimm12 and those like him), just one soul who comprehended Mozart in his own time and perceived the victory of ability over inability as embodied in him? In his treatment of people, Mozart remains kindly, modest, gladly appreciative, and bares the claws of a genius only when his wondrous gift is maligned or

12Baron Friedrich Melchior Grimm (1723–1807), a German writer and music critic active in Paris until the French Revolution and closely associated with the Encyclopedists. He was on very close terms with Mozart during his trip to Paris in 1778, and seems to have exerted some influence on the young composer’s approach to opera at a crucial moment in his career, shortly before the composition of Idomeneo. But they fell out in the summer of that year, a letter from Grimm to Leopold Mozart (July 27) reporting Wolfgang’s complacency and deficiency of professional ambition (an extract of this letter is quoted in Tonwille 3, p. 32/i, pp. 129–30). Wolfgang wrote to his father on September 11, complaining that Grimm misunderstood his talent and deemed him incapable of writing a French opera.

11Artur

Schurig, the author of a biography of Mozart’s sister Nannerl and of the book that Schenker is referring to here, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart: sein Leben und sein Werk (Leipzig: InselVerlag, 1913, revised in 1923 as Wolfgang Amadé Mozart: sein Leben, seine Persönlichkeit, sein Werk). Schurig’s work is alluded to in the “Miscellanea” of Tonwille 3 (which were originally intended to be published in the same volume as this essay), and revisited in the “Miscellanea” of Tonwille 4, where several personalities mentioned in the essay on Mozart’s K. 310—Schurig, Vogler, and Stendhal—are discussed at greater length.

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tonw i l l e 2 when the untalented (as in the case of Vogler13) behave immodestly. As only a genius can love and be thankful, he loves and honors his relatives and is grateful to his father in spite of his tremendous superiority to him. He is a keen judge of men, of princes, high and low servants of the Church (and for this very reason is not servile, but devout), of rich and poor, of Germans, French, Italian; but he uses his knowledge of human nature less in order to live with or even from men, since in the end he lives only for his art. Not until {19} the time comes that Mozart’s scores can be read with understanding will one be able to understand why he got so excited about the theatre, even from his childhood days, in which his greatest works are anticipated, so that he surpasses even Shakespeare in his portrayal of humanity. To the general mass of men, who merely live as lowly as their basic needs require but do not suspect that everything that they ascribe to themselves derives from the indispensible wares that can be had for money, behind which they plod in self-interested darkness, to such a mass he knows nevertheless how to convey his works to the man. Even if it were not the legacy of every genius, one must marvel—more even than at the abundance of Mozart’s work, more even than at the wonder of his profoundness—at the energy with which he pursues his work. He knew what he was doing, for despite his apparent cheerfulness and gregarious nature he led a lonely life, whose sole purpose was the fulfillment of the miracle with which he felt he had been blessed.

stronger connection than that derived from the general mood [Stimmung]. This gives his compositions the charm of the ever changing, the ever new, nimbly seeking further—as a substitute for the deeply penetrating, that which is destined to seize our souls and which is characteristic of Beethoven’s instrumental compositions. That the frequent changes do not, however, cause the unity to be dissipated and destroyed, that is the function of the mood, which binds each work more securely together to a single conception, together with a strict form and arrangement of the larger sections.” In another passages he writes: “The multiplicity of his themes [Sätze] . . . which are held together only by key and general mood.” And elsewhere: “Here, too, we are concerned with one, if not two themes with different, if not related contents. It would be difficult to demonstrate an inner necessity: the fecund tonepoet was accustomed to expressing himself in pleasant conceits that were unable to move him deeply and hold him firmly in their grip; in the same way, we enjoy his talent.” Or on another occasion, when he speaks of “logic and rationality” in Beethoven’s works: “. . . which is deeper than that of Mozart, who is commonly associated—without any justification whatever—with an advantage in this respect, on the basis of his inheritance and [the achievements of] his youth [aus angeerbter und von Jugend her bestehender Gewöhnung].” And so Marx comes to the conclusion: “Is then the Mozartian manner of this succession of many small structures worthy of imitation or condemnation?— Neither one nor the other. For the tone poet—all the more one who brings such plenitude of ideas—must remain free to proceed to a certain extent without care [in leichter Weise], like a butterfly flitting from one blossom to the next, in wellmannered play with gentle ideas. What is characteristic of this play is precisely its lack of intentionality: the composer relinquishes one idea, one theme, for another, not because he is determined to do so but because this idea did not possess sufficient force to hold him in its grasp for long, and this is the inner necessity of such shapes. But this requires no assiduous exercise; quite the contrary: it is the grasping of ideas and deepening in them that must be practised and developed, these being the special, crucial skills that an artist can learn.” In this way, Marx totally overlooks the essential aspect of Mozart, his technique of changing diminution and motive in the service of Urlinie-segment and degree, i.e. an Urlinie-synthesis that is more fundamental to unity than any kind of “mood.” What a tragic destiny for the nongenius: give him the same, then he always cries out for the new to move and renew his spiritual inertia and uncre-




In the following selection of judgments of Mozart’s disguised genius, by composition teachers and historians, it will be proved and shown how mistakes thrive and multiply like rats in the canals of ignorance, and with what means they seize the right to live and be transplanted. Marx (Kompositionslehre, Part III)14 marvels at “the wealth of musical invention” and opines “. . . Much inherited from him and his successors has become so common that we forget to credit him with its invention.” Then, immediately following he adds “. . . that Mozart frequently proceeds in small structures that lack any 13Georg Joseph Vogler (1749 –1814), German theorist, pianist, and composer. His path crossed Mozart’s in 1777–78, at Mannheim; his “immodest behavior” apparently consisted of a brash, unmusical performance of the solo part of one of Mozart’s concertos. 14Adolf Bernhard Marx, Die Lehre von der musikalischen Komposition, praktisch-theoretisch, 4 vols. (Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel: 1837– 47). Volume 3 was first published in 1845 and went through four editions in Marx’s lifetime.

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given instrument. Now, for the instrument that he had at his disposal, Mozart simply composed better than his contemporaries, and for this reason the perfection of his content also must be sufficient for today’s gigantic instruments; nor does it matter, either, whether I perform a consummately conceived work today on a Steinway, a Blüthner, or a Bechstein, or on a less distinguished make. Anyone who truly hears Mozart’s synthesis can play it better on the most miserable jingle-box than someone playing on our proudest instrument who hears it, for example, only as Marx or the pianists of our time hear it. The human larynx has not changed since the earliest of times; nor has the art of singing changed, since the time such an art existed; the same applies, for example, to the violin and a great many other instruments for some time. Do we like and praise the early masterworks composed for voice or violin simply because the instrument has remained unchanged? Surely not. Then why should the circumstances be different for our early keyboard masterworks? To appreciate the seriousness of Marx’s mistakes, it is necessary to cite further what he writes concerning the way the piano was treated after Mozart’s and Beethoven’s time: “While in the case of both composers, especially with Beethoven, the spiritual content always took precedence over sensual qualities as the determining factor, parallel to them, through Dussek, A. E. Müller and others, there arose a desire for fuller sonority and a broader style of playing, while by contrast, Carl Maria von Weber strove vigorously to incorporate both tendencies.” And in this way he proceeds to Hummel, Thalberg, Schumann, Liszt, and so on. But then Marx further qualifies these thoughts, as he explains: “This consideration is especially important and useful with respect to the most recent direction of piano technique. It combines the most undeniable and meaningful advance with the unmistakable threat to, or hampering of, the spiritual aspect of art. In any case, this is tied in with the direction of the times with its turn toward the material and industrial, toward combining blinding glitter with violence.” If only Marx had understood Mozart better, how differently and much more correctly would he have been able to judge the difference between Mozart and Beethoven in relation to the broad style of playing of Dussek, Müller, and Weber (to whom, may it be noted in passing, all capacity for sonata-synthesis was denied). He also then would have been spared making the distinction with regard to Liszt: “. . . what he did for the instrument cannot be sufficiently praised and urgently enough recommended to the study of composers.” Much more, he should have grasped that Liszt took the piano—which is after all not an orchestra, {21} but a completely self-sufficient, unique instrument—in the direction of the or-

ativity—give him diversity wrung from the most profound unity and freedom, then he stumbles again over diversity, for which he senses no “inner necessity.” Is it possible, then, that the nongenius will ever discover the path to genius? Marx even believes that he knows the precise cause of the putative lack of synthesis in Mozart: “. . . a demand to move forward, simultaneously the feeling of the hurry of life that {20} often does not grant him the peace to incorporate this into a given theme and to cultivate this exclusively, and thereby impart to it that depth and closed unity. . .” In another place, to be sure, he contradicts himself in attributing the cause more to Mozart’s unhappy life-circumstances than to “the independence of his nature”: “In the final analysis, in the haste and pressure of his short life, Mozart often had occasion to accommodate himself more to the taste, modes, and manners of his contemporaries than was right and good for him; he often affirmed it, and bitterly complained that he (though he was indeed very wealthy) could not live a freer, wealthier professional life.” Now it is indeed true that Mozart died young; we also may believe that, in the case of a young genius destined to die young, Nature demands from him maximum accomplishment, in order to secure it within the given time frame: nevertheless, anyone who, like Marx, would claim that an early death is the only reason for a lack of synthesis in Mozart’s work, would search apparently unconsciously to justify his own error. The second source of the putative lack of synthesis is ascribed by Marx to the instrument: “Indeed, at one time the instrument itself was so far removed from its present improved state that one might almost call it a different instrument. The action was light and weak; the strings were thin, with limited resonance, and easily broken; therefore the playing had to be light, refined, and avoiding fullness and power, which it would use to greatest advantage, in combination with the later improvements to the instrument. At that time, the technique required for fullness, brilliance, or intensification was not as developed or widespread as it is today; from this perspective, Mozart himself would not be a match for our present-day virtuosos, in as much as he also would be overshadowed by their spiritual force.” How greatly ill considered are these sentences, too! If a given content is complete in itself from the standpoint of synthesis, without contradicting the instrument—and only internal considerations are crucial in this respect—what can change later through increase in sound, or the like, to the disadvantage of internal completeness? In every epoch, it is possible to compose well or badly for a

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tonw i l l e 2 chestra, as if its essence were, among other things, only an odd abbreviation of the orchestra. At the same time he took what might be called the chest tone, the speaking voice of the piano, and turned it into a high falsetto or thrust it down an octave into the depths, all without any compelling reason and on account of a deficit of creative insight into the fundamental nature of the piano and piano composition. Marx’s above-quoted words should be turned around: the artist should create content, but not occasional pieces for the instrument, offerings to the instrument, as it were. In this sense, the words with which Marx sought to turn justify his opinion of Mozart only turn back upon himself: “True love and veneration go hand in hand not only with such knowledge, but also stand the test of time as something deeply rooted, incapable of being assailed by that fantastical adulation that holds its object—or perhaps just its exalted reputation— firmly in its grasp without actually knowing what it demands of its prey.” One also finds in the Kompositionslehre a judgment about the form of the Andante, but it is entirely wrong, again because Marx is unable to interpret the content. And finally, it may be noted that Mozart composed the sonata in question on his own impulse, and not at all to fulfill a commission.

typical construction: Schobert at least partly compensates for stretches [of his melodies] with dark hues.” But Riemann’s “themes” and “construction” are definitely not Mozart’s synthesis, for how could he have then articulated only that which was accessible to his superficial way of hearing? At the same time, these very impressions cannot be valid when, for example, the “dark hues” which he emphasizes are also sufficiently represented in Mozart’s A minor Sonata (the reader will know how to find them himself); also the same sonata provides evidence that Mozart’s “piano melody” is definitely not confined—as Riemann suggests elsewhere—to the soprano register. And besides: how was Schobert’s “melody” in fact created? In the German manner? more German than Mozart’s? Why, then, does the historian not admit that he prefers him to Mozart? Riemann does not address this issue. Put another way: if it is true that Schobert, in common with Mozart, has a melodic sense derived from the vocal style of Italian opera, how is it that, even so, Riemann does not place him higher than Mozart, since he is prepared to reproach the latter for stereotypical construction and a lack of “dark hues.” But I repeat: where Schobert ends, only there does Mozart’s realm begin— immeasurably, and unknown to all. Riemann has never entered it; otherwise he would not have considered it necessary, in his dictionary of music, to call upon a witness as utterly unreliable as Cornelie von Goethe on Schobert’s behalf. But in order to give the reader an indication of Riemann’s shocking ignorance and lack of taste, I quote his final pronouncement concerning the quality of Mozart’s work: “His piano music remains highly valued as teaching material on account of qualities that cultivate good taste.” I ask: what would one say of a teacher of poetry who would consider Goethe’s poems at best only teaching material simply because, being incapable of grasping Goethean experience, a Goethean expression in its true depth, he believed that he had outgrown them. Thus, Riemann’s judgment belongs with those stemming from the prince-archbishop of Salzburg, Colloredo, of whom Mozart’s father reports in a letter to Padre Martini: “Enough, he was not ashamed to say that my son knows nothing, that he should go—to Naples—and enroll in a music conservatory in order to learn music. And why all of this? In order to explain why {22} a young man should not be so silly as to persuade himself that he deserved a somewhat higher wage, after these particular words were uttered by a prince. This convinced me to give my son permission to leave his service.” If the archbishop’s judgment is a clear sign of his miserliness, Riemann as a historian is familiar with only a few names associated with Mozart; and only in order to give the all-too-motley row the veneer of a “development,” he must, as a backward-oriented democrat, make Mozart much smaller than necessary in order

Riemann (Handbuch der Musikgeschichte, vol. 2, part III, 1913): “Through his appealing and warm melodies Mozart moved his listeners, both contemporaries and future generations, as did almost no other composer.” Riemann speaks then of “melodies” and not of their synthesis, while he understands them neither in particular or general terms, nor how much higher a synthesis, both as a concept and in its realization, stands above a mere “melody.” He does not suspect that without the felicitous synthesis even the “melodies” of a Mozart would not have resonated in the hearts of posterity, even less is this the case with those of his “famous” contemporaries who lack an analogously superior art of synthesis. Riemann thereby confuses cause and effect. One observes this, for example, also in the following assertion: “That which is truly compelling in Mozart’s instrumental music resides most certainly in the cantabile of his themes, which is modeled most certainly on the vocal style of Italian opera.” Thus, he hears in Mozart’s “themes”—again, a fundamental misunderstanding of Mozart’s synthesis—only that part of the effect that, so he believes, connects them with Italian lyricism; but at the same time he fails to identify precisely the qualities by which they so greatly surpass that lyricism (surely he also holds this opinion), and by which, in the last analysis, they alone attain preeminence. And he even writes the following: “In Mozart, the beauty and contents of the melodies make us unaware of their stereo-

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to allow those people a certain role in it. Therefore I warn against interpreting the prince’s behavior as more of a tragedy than the words of the composition teacher (!) and music historian (!) Riemann. These are surely much more the certain “stabs in the back”15 by a democrat in spirit. Finally, the archbishop refused money only once, and Mozart could escape his meanness forever, but how can the genius ever draw out the dagger-blows from behind of those democrats, who will never die out? It is indeed the genius, whether living or dead, who is exposed to a true perpetuum mobile from being knocked around by the dagger-blows of democrats.

Need I add that nobody has ever undertaken to study Mozart’s life from this point of view?”17 And further on: “. . . the project of reconstructing the internal development of Mozart’s genius, with the hope of gaining access to the veritable soul and life of the master, by means of the most anecdotal details of the most minor incidents of his individual existence. We found ourselves on completely new terrain.” Good gracious! I call this an attack of esprit: Mozart himself as a sort of Don Juan (naturally of the spirit), and the “new mistresses,” “the noble muses,” “almost from one month to the next,” and all of this the French New Territory of ideas: surely this will humble the German Schurigs!18 With this we have heartfelt admiration of Mozart’s genius, which gives one to believe in advance that the authors do it full justice. Of course, the clarity for which the French praise themselves so assiduously would have revealed to the authors at the outset the logical incongruity of their perspective; if only “French clarity” were also sufficient for the recognition of genius. What, then, is genius other than the capacity for the highly gifted to let a seed be created {23}, independently of all external patterns and models that have not grown out of and evolved with this seed? Just where, for example, in the sonata by Mozart presented here, which fully develops its own seed, would there be place for the development of seeds foreign to its being? Indeed, one merely has to glance through the authors’ presentation of individual Mozart works to realize immediately that they can only come to grief over the fundamental ideas in the music, because the

T. de Wyzewa and G. de Saint-Foix (Wolfgang Amadée Mozart: Sa vie musicale et son oeuvre de l’enfance à la pleine maturité 1756 –1777, Paris, 1912) present the fundamental ideas of their two-volume work in the introduction, as follows:16 “Given his essentially feminine nature, this poetic genius always needed to receive the additional stimulation necessary to engage his art on new paths, but only so that he could immediately transform the ideas or methods that were revealed by the work of this or that musician he chanced to encounter, animating them with a signification and beauty at once much higher and completely original, the ideas or methods which the work of this or that musician revealed to him. He may be thought to represent a sort of Don Juan figure, condemned by a mysterious instinct to be compelled unceasingly to fall in love with new mistresses—simply because, in each of them in turn, he hopes to find a wonderful ideal of passionate grace—and then instantly lending each one of them a magical reflection of her particular beauty: this is a bit of the history of Mozart’s life, but we must not forget that the mistresses who successively fascinated him in a moment and conquered him totally were neither the Madame Duscheks nor the Aloysia Webers but rather, so to speak, the noble muses who opened his eyes to the works of a Christian Bach, a Schobert, or a Michael Haydn. . . . In this way we show him passing the years of his youth, renewing his inspiration and his style almost month by month; and this powerful creator remained this way until the end, without ever being in doubt about the prodigious, fundamental unity that his genius imposed upon the ever-changing “styles” that he essayed.

17[S]No so. In his own way, Otto Jahn has already thoroughly addressed the question concerning which influences encountered in his youth were decisive (see, for example, the third edition [of Jahn’s Mozart biography], pp. 557– 60). But, naturally, all of his investigations must fail, because he cannot comprehend the purely musical content of Mozart’s brilliance (the new type of synthesis, the art of voice leading, and so on), not to say anything of presenting it. And so he writes: “While some receive the impression of a work of art passively [willenlos], and then somewhat later seek to clarify the basis for their enjoyment, and while others through reflection seek to comprehend the artwork in all its particulars and through this present it to themselves, it is given to the creative genius to preserve its totality, also while learning. In view of the immutability of his own being through which the artistic genius derives only impressions of nature which he seeks to create in a new way, this [process of assimilation] also applies to the foreign artwork as well.” But while Jahn cannot say in which way Mozart expresses the “totality,” his immutable “essential being,” he finds no occasion to distinguish between that in his work which is to be traced back to outside influences and his own development. For genius also develops, as does every other human child. And even a Mozart would not be able to compose, for example, the Symphony in G minor before the Haffner Serenade; so much Nature imposes her will upon the genius, just as much as the rest of the world wants eventually to impute “models.” The idea of both French authors is therefore in no wise new, not new also is their error. 18This bitterly sarcastic remark refers to Schurig’s biography of Mozart (see note 11).

15“Dolchstoß von hinten”: a reference to the demoralization of the German army at the end of World War I by the German government and the national press. See Tonwille 1, p. 10/i, p. 11 and note 55. 16The two volumes of this life-and-works study, published by Declée de Brouwer, are respectively subtitled L’enfant-prodigue (for the period 1756–73) and Le jeune maître (1773 –77); Saint-Foix took the work to the end of Mozart’s life in a further three volumes, published between 1936 and 1946. The first set of extracts are taken from pp. iv–vi of the introduction to vol. 1.

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tonw i l l e 2 notes that Mozart wrote are completely foreign to them. If they had access to the Mozart who is, as it were, the growing seed itself, they would have ignored not only the Duscheks and Aloysia Webers of the world, but also the Christian Bachs, Schoberts, and Michael Haydns! Certainly! But instead of this, they, too, just like their predecessors, describe Mozart’s genius merely with the same words of homage and with an all-the-more democratic pleasure that brings out influences that seem to change almost from one month to the next, but which they are still incapable of explaining. In the appendix, the authors also devote a few words to Mozart’s time in Paris. We read there:19 “March to July 1778. In Paris, during the initial months of his stay, Mozart’s oeuvre appeared to be completely impregnated with ‘instrumental’ reminiscences of Mannheim and the new spirit of the French masters. The expression becomes more precise, more ‘articulated,’ and, naturally, also more emotional [pathétique]. The musical phrase is more condensed, and it is clad in a more ‘modern’ allure. In a word, the young man acquired a host of new influences and ideals of which some, however, never cease to be present in him; but for all this, his compositions of this first Parisian period always have something a bit too constrictive and constrained, as if Mozart felt ill at ease in an atmosphere too different from the one with which he had hitherto been familiar.” Against this, however, stands Mozart’s own critical assessment of those “French masters” (see also Tonwille 1, pp. 51– 52/i, pp. 45 – 46). The only way of deciding which party is correct is to compare Mozart’s works with the French composers of that period, and especially with Schobert’s (who belongs with them: see the discussion of Riemann, earlier). If one perceives how the synthesis is already created in those piano sonatas of Mozart (to say nothing of the symphonies), which he composed long before he found himself in Paris, one must recognize at first glance the depth, which even today is still not comprehended, as the most personal possession of his genius—if only one had a vision of it. So it may be agreed, first of all, that the ingenious Mozartean synthesis is something upon which the “maîtres français” did not even have an opportunity to exert an influence. And if one considers what he composed in Paris—including our sonata— who can seriously think of French models and influences except, of course, for those who have no conception whatsoever of Mozart’s synthesis? To put it in terms of the esprit-language of the authors, it was Mozart, not the French musi-

cians, who was the “esprit nouveau” of his time. And Mozart remains new even today, new even for Germany (of which he is of course a product: but this is a question of genius and the propagating soil of humans [Menschenhumus], see Tonwille 1, pp. 3ff/i, pp. 3ff ), not to speak of France. Furthermore, the true art of music in France was extinguished early on, with Couperin and Rameau. But even in the music of these masters, counterpoint and synthesis never tower above the measure of excellence that was common at that time and, up to a certain point, actually lifted national and personal standards. (A similar phenomenon is found also in Italy, in the work of Domenico Scarlatti, the last peak of great Italian music, but he was a greater genius than the above-named French masters.) As a consequence, the French ear has shown itself not to have matured to meet the challenge of a higher, developed synthesis. The fluttering of the so-called esprit does not replace in music that glow of love that must always be maintained if one is to produce a synthesis in the Mozartean sense. That the Frenchman does not recognize and feel the barrenness of his own soul himself, that is something that, admittedly, Nature alone must answer for, given the general principle that, by way of compensation and comfort, she grants to the least individual the illusion that he is of some value. That Mozart felt uncomfortable in Paris, and the extent to which he was ill at ease, is something we know likewise from his letters. The puffed-up chivalry of the French authors–oh, the French love such chivalry, especially when they practice it among themselves!—belongs to all that which so fundamentally ignores the mercilessly German precision of Mozart’s words. Or are the authors perhaps of the opinion that in Mozart’s time in France there was no “ass” because everywhere and at no time could there be an ass?20 This reminds me of a charming anecdote, related by Jean Paul, of a young French soldier who, finding himself in a theater in a German city occupied by the French, was annoyed that the Germans in the audience were fixing their entire attention on a single highranking French officer, and he finally cried out: “Pah! What a great man [am I]! We French are all great!” {24} Now then, to this “unknown soldier”—I do not wish to take the moral opinions of the French democracy more seriously than is warranted by their deeds, and thus am not exercised by the well-known recent theatrical unveiling of “Victory” in the form of a memorial honoring an “unknown soldier”—but I would like to offer the following reply: I doubt whether 20Schenker

19The

p. 46.

following extract is taken from pp. 404 – 5 of vol. 2.

70

is referring to the extract of Mozart’s letter of July 9, 1778, quoted in Tonwille 1, p. 52/i,

Mozart’s Sonata in A Minor, K. 310

there has ever been a great Frenchman, or even whether there could be one; and I am off the opinion that the entire French Pantheon—lock, stock, and barrel— would not fit inside the toe of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. But I fear that not only the unknown soldier but also the better-known soldiers of France, and the other citizens as well, cannot comprehend a penny’s worth of thought, since as backward esprit-democrats they do not recognize the gold-scales of aristocratic genius. “July 1778 to January 1779.21 The last works composed by Mozart in Paris reveal enormous progress over those of the preceding months. Continuing to be inspired by French taste, the young man again abandons himself freely to his natural inspiration. The pieces become at once longer and more learned, with serious thematic elaboration replacing the taste for virtuosity brought back recently from Mannheim.” I really harbor no suspicion that the French authors want to rob us Germans

of Mozart (as they would rob us of Beethoven and others). He has become so German, so fundamentally engrained in German consciousness, that no people in the world would contemplate making his Germanity a bone of contention. But with regard to “French taste” in Mozart, there really is nothing to it. The French always want to expropriate German land (I speak politely), but for the expropriation of a Mozart-genius, no esprit is sufficient; no imperialism, mandate or title of annexation, no Versailles, Spa, or other treaty will be of help. What the authors say concerning “thematic development” is the usual swagger that one hears in the worst schools. Mozart was buried in Vienna—in bad weather, the good Viennese accompany only middle-class citizens and the nobility on their final journey—but even this was not enough: historians also bury him in the mass grave of the musical lightweights past and present. And yet, and yet: Mozart’s resurrection is eternal! He came from another world and has returned to it. He will live on eternally.

21This

71

extract is taken from p. 406.

Beethoven’s Sonata in F Minor, Op. 2, No. 1 Beethoven: Sonate opus 2 Nr. 1 {Tonwille 2, pp. 25 – 48} t r a n s l at e d b y j o s e p h d u b i e l At the half cadence of the antecedent in bar 8, g2 (fifth of the dominant) would have sufficed as lower boundary of the falling line;1 meanwhile it is the force of the forward thrust, having an after-effect in the reversal, that makes the falling line roll on to e2, and only the turn arrests the force of the forward thrust and the reversal.

First Movement (Allegro)

Sonata form: First subject: antecedent consequent and modulation Second subject Third (closing) subject Development Recapitulation

bars 1– 8 bars 9– 20 bars 20 – 41 bars 41– 48 bars 49–100 bars 101–152

Bars 9ff. The purpose of the consequent is to repeat the line of the reversal in a lower register, c2 to g1 —also with a half-cadence (bar 16), but in A
major. The space gaping between e2 (bar 8) and c2 (bar 15) is bridged with e
2 and d
2 in bars 9–14. In lowering the third of the half-cadential dominant in the first bar of the consequent, and immediately claiming the resulting chord as III of A
major, the master shows a kind of rashness in his synthesis that does not have many parallels in the sonata literature (cf. Erläuterungsausgabe of Op. 101, p. 27/p. 15). {26} The basic features [Urmerkmale] presented in the antecedent recur in the line of the consequent, too:2 First: The tones fall in weak bars: e
2, d
2, c2 in bars 10, 12, 14, and, at the acceleration in bar 15, even on weak beats of the bar: b
2 on the second quarter note and a
2 on the fourth.

Bars 1ff. The distinctive marks of this musical composition, setting it apart, as an individual, from all others, stand out at once in bars 1– 8. One of these marks is the tendency of the Urlinie tones to appear first in weak bars, or on weak beats of the bar. The arpeggiations are meant specifically to foster this tendency—see bars 2 and 4. (In the graph of the Urlinie, p. 73, I have expressed this by placing round brackets ( ) in bars 1 and 3 at the level of the tones in question—as I will in all such cases from now on.) Another is a change in the manner and direction of motion: the line hesitates (bars 1– 4), presses forward, accelerating (bars 5–7)—specifically drawing in the first two tones, as a result of which a
2 attains stronger accentuation—and finally turns around (bars 7– 8). If the postponement [of Urlinie tones] to weak bars contributes to the effect of hesitation, the thrusting ahead is likewise not lacking in additional features that suit it just as well; these are: abbreviation of the arpeggiations, expressed through the short grace notes in bars 5 and 6 and underscored through the two sforzando accents; then, in bar 7, the rolled chord, the shortest way to run through an arpeggiation, marked fortissimo. On this foundation of the Urlinie are now woven the motivic particulars— which will receive no further discussion here, however, despite this usually being the sole subject of an analysis.

1Why g2 would have sufficed is not explained. While a knowledge of Schenker’s later work might suggest a linear connection to a
2 as the reason, other considerations suggested by his writing as of the time of this analysis would be the adequacy of the unfolded interval c3-g2 to determine a C triad, and the melodic qualities of a descending fourth that would be preferable to those of a descending sixth (see Kontrapunkt i, part 1, chapter 2, §§13 and 15). 2For this Urlinie segment, the second of Schenker’s defining characteristics is a change only in the manner of motion—hesitation and acceleration—and not also, as the third paragraph of the analysis promises, in its direction: the Urlinie of the consequent only descends, e
2 –d
2 –c2 –b
1 –a
1–g1. Subsequent Urlinie segments do change direction after they accelerate, so Schenker’s original definition seems to hold for the general case; but the present segment is not identified as an exception. It is interesting to note that no intervallic characteristics are shared by all the Urlinie segments (except, of course, that of step motion), so that the pattern of motion is their only consistent common trait.

72

Beethoven’s Sonata in F Minor, Op. 2, No. 1

Second: The line hesitates in bars 9–14, presses forward in bars 15–16 (c2 –g1) and, by the continuing force of this pressing, moves twice more through the entire sum e
2 –g1 in bars 16– 20, as if to imprint what is swiftly running away. What nature in this art! What correspondence of an ingenious compositional stroke to the general natural laws of the soul! Only here the effect of hesitation is no longer achieved through arpeggiations, as it was in the antecedent, but, first, in bars 11–14, by a chain of seventh chords in a series of falling fifths, which are at the same time harmonic degrees in the service of the modulatory cadence; and, thereafter, in bar 15, by suspensions, surely the smallest-scale version of the defining characteristic [Urmal] of weak metrical position, which connect naturally to the preceding tying-over of notes in the seventh chords:

7

冢

3

7

冢

3

7

冢

3

3 A
major:

III VI II V I

冢

冢

冢

7 6 | 6 5. Consequently the seventh chord in bar 11 is to be heard as VI and not IV (see, however, the discussion of the secondary literature). Most admirable is the security with which the young master, in such a dangerous situation, achieves the tying-over of two principal tones that is essential here, e
| e
across bars 10|11, from just the initial sixteenth note of the turnlike figure in bar 11 (cf. bar 1), while,

73

tonw i l l e 2 in contrast, he forms only the subordinated anticipation, d
| d
across bars 11|12, from the larger values of the third and fourth quarter notes (d
2). The tonic (preparing the half-cadence) is inserted just to mark the boundary between the hesitating segment and the forward-thrusting one in bar 14. The way the syncopations of bar 15 seem to experience a new animation, on the other hand—following more rapidly upon the tones of the preceding bars, broadly hesitating and merely decorated with turns—this belongs to the realm of the melodic. (I have called such expression “the eye of the modulation” in Beethovens neunte Sinfonie, p. 14/pp. 39– 40;3 cf. Ornamentik pp. 10ff/pp. 27ff.)4

冢

second half of this bar; and the same holds for the second a
1 in bar 24. If bar 26 is likewise strong, due to the next motivic alteration (see b), then the two disturbances, bars 21 and 26, cancel each other out, like two negatives, so that the basic meter returns at bar 26 (see at a), and so the third a
1 falls on the regular seventh bar of the eight-bar unit running from bar 20. Consequently, this a
1 asks to be heard as strongly accented, insofar as bar 26 is stronger than bar 27, but also, much more—and this is the decisive thing—as weakly accented compared to g1 of bar 20, which certainly claims the first three pairs of bars (disregarding the os
cillation of g1 to a
1 in bars 22 and 24, shown at ␤), so that a relation like g –a (as shown at ␣) is expressed. The hesitation of the tonic tone a
(bar 26) is accordingly effected here in a new way, in contrast to bars 1– 2 or 9–15, approximating the form of a long apoggiatura. What marvelous variety in this matter! But the bass, which enters with octave arpeggiation on the downbeat of bar 20 and thereby makes the bar into a strongly accented one, by itself maintains the regularity of a), which is indispensable for producing the effect ␣), through the two disruptions—an invaluably ingenious aid to synthesis, since lost to composers, to the considerable detriment of sonata form. In bars 26– 27, it is syncopations that displace the tones to the weak beats of the bars; and the accented passing tones in bars 34 and 35 are to be understood as the last remnants of this technique. Second: The line hesitates in bars 20 – 25 (g1 –a
1 twice, while the pedal point — on the dominant expressly suppresses the effect of a tonic: V–I V ); it thrusts forward 2 to e
in bars 25 – 28 (the tonic comes through clearly with a
1 of bar 26), whereupon a repetition (in the higher octave) follows in bars 30– 33 under the force of the pressing-forward, as in bars 16ff. The high register is maintained until the cadence; then the direction of the line is reversed. The way in which the Urlinie begins with g1 in this segment is imitated in the realm of harmonic degrees through the inversional ordering of them—V enters at the head (see Harmonielehre, pp. 44ff/pp. 31ff )6 —so that, once again, sonata synthesis is most effectively promoted. The graph shows how the descending line of the consequent phrase of the first 1

q .h

Bars 20ff. The Urlinie shows the second group to be basically undivided: we see it striving upward in the new tonality from g1 to e
2 (unfolding of the dominant) and, in reverse direction, falling to the tonic note a
1. The circumstances of bar 41—that the line, while falling and in the context of an adequately developed cadence, reaches only as far as c, leaving this full cadence imperfect—are all that justify the identification of a closing theme starting in bar 41, which finally leads the line downward to a
.5 Thus, according to the line, the closing subject is part of the second subject, while the conduct of the harmony allows the imperfect full cadence to be perceived as a division between second and third subjects. {27} And again the basic features [Urmale]: First: whether one perceives bar 21 as strong, because of the motivic entrance, as at b) of the following sketch: 4/4 ⫽ h. ␣)

g

␤)

→

q a
1

→

bar:

→

1

(g | g —a
) (g | g —a
)

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

7

8

(6)|1

2

1

1

1

1

1

1

(g1

1

2

}

3

4

}

5

6

}

b)

1

(2)|1

2

3

4

5

}

a)

1

or only takes into account the tying-over of the tone g1 in bars 21– 22, as at ␤): either way, the first a
1 is weakly accented, either in the weak bar 22 or indeed in the

passage that he addresses reinforces one conception of the passage and, if not quite undermines, at least complicates the other: the clear fact of the cadence makes for the articulation, while the rather more theoretical proposition that the cadence is imperfect makes for the continuity. And in this sentence Schenker seems to lose track for a moment of which fact argues for which reading, writing that the cadence’s imperfection justifies the identification of a new theme after it. In any event, the ambiguity of his reading is clarified in the next sentence, and the problem of the cadence’s perfection is addressed later (at the end of the section about bars 20ff). 6The passage referred to is §16, “Inversion as Counterpart to Development.”

refers to bars 74 –79 of the first movement. is the section “Form in the Works of C. P. E. Bach.” 5Schenker’s reading of bar 41 gives him a complex case to argue: he wants to admit a thematic articulation at the cadence of bar 41, but to assign this only the status of an inflection of a more fundamental continuity, defined by the Urlinie descent passing through this measure. Each aspect of the 3This

4This

74

Beethoven’s Sonata in F Minor, Op. 2, No. 1

If the motivic content of the eight-bar unit, bars 55– 62, had been repeated exactly in bars 63ff, the tone c2 in bar 69 would be expected to be weakly accented; but since the reversal of the line is to begin with this tone, Beethoven makes a point of altering the content and technique to indicate this as early as bar 68 (where the motive is in the bass), so that bar 69 is perceived as weak in a different sense, namely, within a new group of bars. In this group, b
1 then falls in the weak bar 71. The postponement of the principal tones is effected here through falling fifths with the significance of harmonic degrees, as in bars 11–15, except that the chords are supported by their roots; incidentally, the consecutive-octave succession of the outer voices is also eliminated by the falling fifths:

subject still exerts an effect in the inner voices of the second subject (how beautifully it is able to veil the conduct of the diminution!); {28} how, further, the first tone of the downward arpeggiation, f
2 in bar 20, applies pressure to the line, as it were, and forces it to climb to e
,2 even though f
2 is itself not an Urlinie tone but only a tone of diminution (a
2 in bar 27 similarly prepares g2 in bar 27—what necessity in the apparently unrestrained world of diminutions!); and how, finally, the runs of the right hand in bars 33ff can be derived from arpeggiations, to which those of the left hand reply (the rhythm of the latter originates in the arpeggiations of the preceding bars). The concluding note of the eighth-note run in bar 41 feigns a perfect full cadence, to be sure; against this, what argues for an imperfect one is that the line must touch upon c2 and b
1 if it wants to get from d
2 to a
,1 and that the closing subject commences with c (c
stands for c), which comes from the seventh d
—see bar 40.

soprano: bass:

Bars 41ff. In bars 43, 45, and 47– 48, the leap of a fifth e
2 –a
1 expressly summarizes the fifth-progression just traversed by step, and so—what a significant stroke of diminution [Zug der Diminution] in the service of synthesis!—underscores the overall result of the second group, which as a totality can easily be overlooked and forgotten, over and above the association of the specific second and closing subjects.7

a1

(g1) g1

—

{ Cc

— —

2

8



{

71 b
1 B
8

{29} After this, a
1 is already expected in bar 73; however, since the return modulation is to begin with this tone, the master felt compelled to make a new alteration in bar 73, which once again has the consequence that this bar becomes strong and bar 74, where the a
2 falls, weak. From here on, the eight-bar unit flows forth undisturbed, leading the principal tones in the weak bars 74, 76, 78. In order to achieve a flowing bass motion. Beethoven supports the principal tones with chords of the sixth. Corresponding to the other basic feature, the semitone progression a
–a–b
– b–c in bars 49– 69 expresses the line’s hesitation, in contrast to which the movement of reversal is to be perceived as acceleration. In particular, it should be noted that the harmonic progression in bars 49– 69 can be explained through the following chordal paths:

Bars 49ff. The development provides its content in bars 49– 55 with the material of the first subject, and in bars 55ff with that of the second subject. In contrast, the line follows (apart from the changed harmonic meaning) the course of just the antecedent of the first subject: a
1 to c2 (bar 69) and back to e1 (bar 81). The basic features express themselves in this segment as follows: The tones a
1 and b
,1 bars 50 and 61, fall in the weak bars of the groups. To understand the hesitation in the continuation, another sketch will help: b1

bar 69

f1

} }

b1 c2 b
1 a
1 g1 etc. bar: 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 etc. 1 2 3 4 5 (6) 1 2 3 4 5 (6) 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8

} }

} } } }

10 bars

Fig. 1a shows the succession of harmonies I–II–III, with exchange of 5– 6 and the requisite chromaticism; accordingly, the assumption of independent harmonies VI and VII is superfluous. Fig. 1b gives the same succession, with the exception of the inversion of the first chord. In Fig. 1c, four-part writing supplies a bass voice,

8 bars

7Schenker’s terminology articulates a distinction between a group comprising a number of themes (das zweite Gedankenganze) and the components of such a group (here, an eigentlicher zweiter Gedanke and a Schlußgedanke).

75

tonw i l l e 2 Bars 101ff. In the reprise, the diminution at bar 111 is striking; it is to be understood thus:

and the picture thereby becomes similar to that at a): but since the chromatic motion is, according to plan, reserved for the Urlinie that stretches above, the freely-moving bass takes the opportunity to seek out, in between, the roots lying a third lower [than the chromatic tones a2 and b2], to which it moves in corresponding passing motions—no harmonic degrees here! (See “Freier Satz,” section on Auskomponierung.)8 Accordingly the chord in bar 51 is only accidental, formed from the coincidence of the passing tone g in the bass and the neighboring note b
2 in the upper voice. The path from a
1 to a1 demands two groups of three bars [Takttriolen], since the arpeggiation is discarded before bars 51 and 54. This abbreviation serves the aim of the development, as, likewise, do the succession of disturbances shown in the sketch of bars 63ff, which come out even in a ten-bar unit (5 ⫻ 2) and an eight-bar one. In bar 81, a half-cadence. Then the tone e is transferred to a higher register (e3 enters in place of e1): it is necessary to raise the register of the following content. The graph shows how passing motions and neighboring tones even simulate harmonic degrees over a pedal-point (cf. “Freier Satz,” section on Orgelpunkt).9 Finally (bars 93–100), the line falls from e3 to a
,2 upon which tone the reprise begins. Precisely in this group of bars, in order to prepare the return of the first subject, the basic feature [of presenting Urlinie tones in weak positions] comes forward particularly sharply—see d
3, c3, b
2 in the weak bars 96, 98, 100. It is now no longer chord progressions that produce this effect, but a fifth-progression in the bass, thus a passing motion from the fundamental tone C to F. Among the auxiliary chords (bars 95, 97, 99), only the middle one (bar 97) manages to simulate a dominant to the following main chord, as though V–I in F minor, while the striving of the others for the same appearance founders on the higher requirement of the tonality (cf. “Freier Satz,” section on Knotenpunkte)10 —particularly so in bar 95, where the tonal C of the bass does not give way to {30} the c
required for the character of a dominant.11 (About false interpretations of this chord, see the discussion of the literature.)

In Fig. 2a the origins can be seen: the chromatic alteration of the minor third for the purpose of tonicization, accompanied by the lowering of g to g
; Fig. 2b now shows the third voice as the lowest. True to the basic feature, the tones fall in weak bars here, too—see a
,2 g
2, f 2 in bars 110, 112, 114. How this technique also takes hold of the lowest voice, with tying-over [suspensions in parallel tenths], is especially beautiful to see. Accordingly, appearances deceive in bars 111–12: the chord is formed by passing 97, and is thus no independent
35-chord on E
. That the figure in the right hand nevertheless strikes out from b
2 is to be understood as a response to c3 of bar 107. (For a similarly free elaboration, see for example Mozart’s Piano Sonata in D major, K. 311, Andante, bar 37.) In bars 115–16, the diminution indulges in a motive of its own: e2 –f 2 –g2 –a
2, which works itself loose from the turning figure, as it were, and is imitated by the left hand. The repetition in bars 117–18 establishes the facts of the matter unambiguously. Regarding the stretching out of the fifth in bars 142– 44 and finally bars 146 – 47, see what has been said about bars 43ff. But here at the end, as the example shows, the leap of a fifth stirs up yet a last full-fledged unrolling of the falling fifth-progression c3 –f 2, suitable for a coda, and the basic feature of the movement accompanies even this one to the very end! For deeper study, I warmly recommend that you represent the content for yourself in a reduction of durational values, as shown below. This will afford instructive insight, especially into the reinterpretation of weak bars as strong ones.

8An early version of this treatise, in the Oster Collection, specifies a chapter on “Auskomponierung”; in the final version of Der freie Satz, §247, on “Auswerfen eines Grundtones” (addition/extrapolation of a root), is relevant to this discussion. 9An early version of this treatise (Oster Collection) specifies a paragraph on pedal points; see also Harmonielehre, §§169 –70. 10Nodal points are not specifically mentioned in Der freie Satz, but they are discussed in Kontrapunkt ii, part 3, chapter 2, §2. 11[S]Compare, for example, Beethoven’s Op. 53, first movement, development, bars 104ff.

The picture so attained also might be reinterpreted as a metrical schema: —  |—  |—   |—   , etc.

76

Beethoven’s Sonata in F Minor, Op. 2, No. 1

it appears as though Urlinie and diminution were separating, in reality the fundamental power to show the way is reserved to the former alone.12

from which an understanding will be gained, in this respect as well, of the rhythmic freedom of the whole.

Bars 9ff. In the b section, the tone b
, lately whispered as a mere neighbor-note sigh, is now installed, in its capacity as seventh of the dominant, as a tone of equal rank in the Urlinie, as though [this segment of] the Urlinie actually began with this tone. (Hence we have the illusion of a mere two-part song form, a1: bars 1– 8, a2: bars 9–16.) An ascending register transfer also occurs in this section. The usual exchange of voices proceeds above the dominant, and on the third quarter of bar 10 the diminution even finds occasion to refer to bars 1– 2 in sixteenths (reduced note values).

Second Movement (Adagio)

The form of this Adagio is four-part: A1 modulation and B1 return modulation A2 B2

bars 1–16 bars 16(17)–30 bar 31 bars 32– 47 bars 48 – 61

Bars 13ff. In a2, which resembles just the consequent of a1, the wrapping [of thirds], made possible only by the register transfer, reaches still higher; the leap f–d across bars 5|6 is filled out, so that three rounds of thirds can be distinguished in the falling line. Note the slight alteration in the rhythmic arrangement of the harmonies in comparison to bars 5– 9, which attests to the master’s feeling for variety.

In the graph, p. 78, the upper line represents the Urlinie, while the system located below it presents the first unrolling of it. The pulse of the Urlinie beats with slow solemnity, and one grasps how diminutions need not {31} represent any contradiction of the character of an adagio. (The younger generation of composers err when they feel entitled to demand only oh-so-solemn song of an adagio, whether with chorales thrown in or not—Bruckner, for example—and offer at best superfluous arpeggiations and other sonic drapery as a substitute for diminution. What an adagio calls for, above all, is just long-distance hearing [Fernhören], which allows the gifted to part the waves of diminution safely.)

Bars 16ff. The F major tonic is reinterpreted immediately as the IV of C major. In bars 17– 20 the upper line expresses just a stationary f in a neighbor-note configuration f–(e–g)–f, in that f 3 and e3 could well have stood in for d3 and c 3. Corresponding to this is the harmony’s dwelling on D; for the chord on A is merely an upper-fifth divider, dedicated to the two neighbor notes in the middle (I–[V]–I in D minor). In a similar fashion the D harmony fits in as an extended component (II) in the modulatory cadence introduced in bar 16; and when the diminution at last clearly acknowledges the tone f 2 in bar 21, it then becomes all the more clear that the Urlinie has hovered on this tone since bar 16. (It would be a mistake to mark Beethoven down for antiparallel motion in the transition from bar 16 to bar 17; such steps are indispensable in free composition, where even similar motion to a perfect interval is often justified, not only because of the formal division but also on grounds of harmonic progres-

Bars 1ff. A1 has a little three-part song form; a1, bars 1– 8, with full cadence, moreover has an antecedent and consequent. In bar 6 of the consequent, the Urlinie wafts up to an upper neighboring note (b
1). At the same moment, in the lower figure we see the Urlinie reaching back another third higher, so that the line, now falling from d2 to f 1, presents two rounds of thirds (referred to by the numbers 1 and 2), the basic third [b
1 –a1 –g1] and one wrapped around it [d2 –c2 –b
1], as it were. The actual elaboration goes further still, surrounding the tone d2 with a significant circle of tones and harmonies. It does no harm to the diminution, of course—here no more than at any other point—that it produces a progression of harmonic degrees at the same time, without detriment to the fundamental sense: even if the dependent harmonies weigh heavily upon the diminution and

12[S]The motives stretch out as far as six quarter-notes from the third quarter-note of this bar to the third quarter-note of the bar after next; but I have omitted to indicate these relationships in the musical example, because their entries often affect only filling tones and not Urlinie ones.

77

tonw i l l e 2

sion; cf. Kontrapunkt II, pp. 196ff/pp. 142ff, and “Freier Satz,” section on Offene Folgen.)13

Bars 48ff. One need only imagine an a instead of f (by substitution) in the Urlinie in bars 48– 49 in order to recognize that bars 48ff are specifically meant to represent B2. In bar 59, the dominant chord is suspended above the tonic, which figured-bass doctrine calls the chord of the major seventh.

Bars 21ff. The older masters often just juxtaposed the modulatory passage, together with the beginning part of the main subject in the new key, to a main subject (see, for example, Bach’s {32} Italian Concerto, first movement), and Beethoven proceeds exactly in this way in the Adagio. Apart from different ornamentation (which in any case is not easily noticed), the basic motive of bars 1– 2 is also the content of the B1 section. And more than this, the B1 section matches completely with the preceding modulation and preparation of the seventh (f before e) in bars 9–16, as though b and a2 of the A1 section merely wanted to repeat themselves here, though in the new key of C major. But do not overlook the differences: the extension of bars 22– 25 (in comparison to bars 13–14) and the newly altered rhythmic arrangement of the harmonies. From bar 27 on the main motive even comes out clearly, as a result of which something like the effect of a coda is established. The outcome for the Urlinie consists only in the ascending leading tone b  , which has the effect of a neighbor note until the recalled b
of the return modulation makes a bridge to the main motive and therewith to the A2 section.

Third Movement (Menuetto [Allegretto]) Bars 1ff. The form, in the first part as well as the Trio, is the usual three-part one. The turn-like figure around a
1 in bars 1– 4, like that around c2 in bars 5– 8 (echoed, in quarter-note diminution, in the left hand in bars 3 and 7), prevents us from recognizing at once that the Urlinie (see p. 79), beginning with a
1, just passes lightly over the ridge of neighboring notes b
1 (bar 1) and d
2 (bar 5); but precisely in this lies the finely veiled charm of this discovery. The line climbs from a
1 to e
2 and falls by the same route. As can be seen from the sketch in the top line [of the Urlinie graph], a progression of two voices in thirds—not considering the bass—comes about within this turn-like figure; but since these voices both traverse the interval of a fifth (a
–e
the upper, f–c the lower), a single nodal-point of a fifth cannot possibly obtain for both, so that a change of harmony must intervene here to make an articulation—in this case, due to the form, even a modulation, from F minor to A
major. (Note, by the way, that such a quick modulation

13This topic, which concerns consecutive octaves, fifths and unisons, is assigned a large chapter in an early version of the treatise (Oster Collection); in the final version of Der freie Satz, perfect consonances and voice-leading problems connected with them are discussed in §§156– 64.

78

Beethoven’s Sonata in F Minor, Op. 2, No. 1

Urlinie), whose upper voice presents, in response to the falling fifth-progression e
2 –a
1 (of bars 9ff ), the fifth-progression a step lower, d
2 –g1, and whose lower voice presents a contrapuntal bass (as well as harmonic) progression.

was also common in the dances of older suites, for example.) If we now add the bass of the actual realization to these two voices,

Bars 29ff. The a 2 section promises to go like the a1. But a counterplay appears to throw all that out the window, until we become aware, in bar 31, that this time the line undergoes an abbreviation. {33} It climbs only as far as d
(bar 31)—and basically only as far as c if we prefer to hear d
3 as the upper neighbor to c3. Consequently all three parts of the song form play out falling fifth-progressions, of which the second and third each begin a tone lower. In bar 34, in the bass, an extremely effective leaping over the tone A
(as sixth-chord of I) and an immediate seizing of the  IV7 —evidently a stroke of impatience and passion (note the sforzato accents piled on over the forte).

we observe, to our surprise, how the melody, snaking its way up in thirds and so traversing the turn figure, departs from the upper voice of the figure, which proceeds basically by step, and thereby eliminates the consecutive fifths. In bar 10, d
2 of the Urlinie is replaced by f 2 —in fact, because the succession d
2 –c2 has already occurred in the inner voice on the first and second quarter notes of the same bar. At the repetition of this place, bar 12, the master leaves out the fundamental tone, in order to avoid a superfluous thickness of texture.

Trio Bars 15ff. For the sake of the form, another (chromatic) modulation must be assumed in the b section. In bar 20, the elision of the bass recurs. A modulation by reinterpretation leads back to the main tonality in bar 24, in which an obbligato outer-voice progression results from the unison passage (see the graph of the

Bars 41ff. The lines of the trio, ascending as well as descending, reach only as far as a third and thus follow faster in counterplay upon one another (in bars 41– 44). In the consequent, which presents a modulation along with the inversion of 79

tonw i l l e 2 voices, the ascending line is stretched out in the bass, while the descending one applies another wrapping of a third (f 2 –d2), before presenting the actual continuation of bars 43 – 44 with d2 –b  1 in bars 48 – 49. In the b section, bar 51, two lines are in counterpoint to one another. Here the ascending one shows a striving, through the chaining together of two extensions e–g–b 
, to reach the seventh of the dominant, which so much demands of a third, V___ a reversal of direction. Next, the tone a (bar 54), merely on a detour by way of the falling line, makes contact with b
in bar 57; only on the second approach (which, for the reasons just explained, has an effect of close position, but nonetheless in reality represents an inversion) does the ascending line reach–although a farreaching diminution that extinguishes the tendency toward inversion in its progressions in thirds and then 63-chords—a and b
themselves in the higher octave in bars 60– 61. A compensatory descent at last brings b
1, with which—as though the line had remained from the beginning in the one-line octave—comes the cue for the a2 section. In respect of diminution technique, notice that this proceeds as in Fig. 5a in ascent, and as in Fig. 5b—exactly the same, only inverted—in descent:

section conforms to the characteristics of a usual development, than because the only general prescription that can reasonably given for the organization of a development is to arrange it so that it works as a wedge, creating tension between the exposition and the recapitulation (cf. Harmonielehre, pp. 10ff/pp. 9ff ). {34} Bars 1ff. The first subject shows antecedent and consequent, of which the latter is linked to the modulation to C minor. The colorful motivic and harmonic bustle in the antecedent, bars 1– 9, stems, as the graph of the Urlinie on p. 81 shows (for the sake of importance and clarity I have set this place apart in a line of its own), from the mutual opposition of a fourth- and a fifth-progression in the outer voices. Given the different numbers of tones, the two outer voices naturally do not keep step with one another (cf. “Freier Satz” for the many possibilities for mastering this awkwardness).14 Here the master takes the following course: against e
2 of the upper voice he sets two tones of the lower, g and a
(sixth and fifth)—so that there would have been the possibility from here on of linking the diminutions with 3–1 or 10– 8 for the course of the remaining simultaneities d
—c b
— c ; but, under the spell of the motive’s will to repetition (see the brackets in the lower system), he feels entitled to repeat g–a
of the fifth-progression immediately and even to expend the last two tones of the fourth-progression on it, and for the same reason finally to repeat this, too (with an exchange of the two progressions). Notice in particular how the basic motive, which expresses the leap of a fifth (f 2 –c3) in the time span of eight quarter notes (from the second beat of the first bar to the second beat of the third), is first repeated in the same span, but then, in the continuation from the second beat of bar 5, there is an abbreviation of the motive (the leap of a fourth in just four quarter notes), whose more frequent repetitions provide rhythmic balance (4 ⫻ 4 bars ⫽ 2 ⫻ 8; see the larger brackets in bars 5– 9). Particularly effective is the fact that, at the moment of compensation, the upper voice recalls the leap of a fifth again, even from upbeat to upbeat! It is understandable that such a contrary disposition of the two linear progressions must also provide an illusion of harmonic degrees (here, in effect, III– V–I). But truer to the facts is the fifth-progression, which is able to explain these chords without exception as harmonic accidents of the voice-leading; it is the form that bids us accept  IV before V.

except that Fig. 5a introduces the step of a second into the line, whereas Fig. 5b introduces two tones. In bars 61– 65, it is actually Fig. 5b that is in effect: | 62 |efedcd

冢

| 64

| 65

| b

|b


|

冢

冢

冢

b
—a g f

| 63 |c

冢

61

冢

bar

|

and this alone is the reason why the last dotted half notes are experienced more as a (written-out) ritardando of the whole action than as the earlier counterpoint (bars 51– 53 and 55– 57)—although certainly no ear can resist this allusion either.

Fourth Movement (Prestissimo)

The last movement is to be considered as a sonata form, even despite the unusual appearance of the development section, which assumes a three-part song form. The latter is not out of place here, probably less because the return-modulation

14The simultaneous movement of linear progressions with unequal numbers of tones is discussed in Der freie Satz in §228.

80

Beethoven’s Sonata in F Minor, Op. 2, No. 1

Bars 9ff. The consequent begins in this bar, as is determined above all by the entry of a new segment of the Urlinie. Compared to this, it avails little that the rhythm of the motive obviously reaches back to that of bars 5ff. If one recognizes in bars 12ff a counterpart to bar 8 (on account of the motivic tension from downbeat to downbeat; see the bracket in the upper line), then for exactly this reason one can very well describe the consequent as an imitation of the antecedent of bars 1–5, shortened in the haste of modulation. If the motive finally returns in the original time span of eight quarter notes, from the second beat of bar 13 on, then it is justifiable only to speak of a rearrangement of the rhythmic progressions here. The antecedent takes in four large brackets, whereas the consequent, with modulation appended, runs to six, of which the latter is emphatically further extended.

the head of this very line, as early as the second quarter of this concluding bar (bar 22) and sets the line in motion. In a whirl of the two beginning notes (a
and g) the momentum is increased and there is a wild push into the upper octave, above e
2 in bar 24. Only with a
2, regained in bar 26, is the accumulated pressure discharged into a line, which roars down to the tonic note, {35} sweeps the ascending leading tone along with it, and only in this way throws off the weight of two harmonic cycles. But the greed for height and more height thirsts unappeased: the line begins with c, rages its way down through the space of an octave (the realization resorts to the lower octave for purely pianistic reasons), and then begins again (bar 34) with e
3, from which point it hurtles down a tenth!15 In the 15In this sentence “c” lacks a registral superscript. Probably it should be c3, to mediate between the a
2 found in bar 26 and the e
3 asserted for bar 34; the absence of this c3 is acknowledged, however obscurely, by Schenker’s remark about a “purely pianistic resort to the lower octave.” It should be noted, however, that the e
3 that defines the ascent (and the “greed for height”) is likewise imaginary; also that this ascent is represented, not by the pitch succession on either treble staff of the graph of the Urlinie (the higher one presumably the Urlinie, the lower an elaboration, as explained in the

Bars 22ff. The cadence of the modulation comes to its conclusion with e
1 of the Urlinie in bar 22. What follows is the second subject. Its point is to present a conclusion to the line of the consequent and modulation, a
–e
, with the leading tone and tonic d–c. As if on cue, the master passionately grasps the tone a
, precisely

81

tonw i l l e 2 latter place the realization shows three falling lines that could even be taken for the actual one; the first is still in the lower octave, like bars 30ff, until Urlinie and realization find themselves in the same register in bar 36. But directly in consequence of the fact that larger values of the Urlinie, as if in reflection, are concealed behind the rushing quarter notes of the realization, this place has the wonderful overtone of an indeed passionate, yet at the same time secretly borne, song that agitates and soothes at once, a painfully animated adagio in the midst of the Prestissimo. It is chiefly this secret effect that leads the listener (see also the discussion of the literature) to believe the second subject to be only here. Attached in the most abrupt way, the last line of course presents no more than the succession e
–d–c, and only now are we able to feel the fiery will of the tone e
1 in bar 22,16 which does not rest until followed, as though immediately, by the descending leading tone and the tonic. What long-distance hearing! What improvisatory art of the young master!

abruptness of plummets (sixth, octave, tenth), here the brevity (fifth) and gentle inclination (in fourths) of hesitant descents; there C minor coming from F minor, here A
major leading back to F minor. Bars 79ff. The line in the b-section of the song form shows even more onsets than in the a1 section: It reaches d
2 first, in bar 80, takes c2 only in the second attempt, as it were, in bar 82, clarifies the path in bars 83– 86, and thereby strikes a bridge to a2, whose individual linear progressions then land on still lower tones, at b
1 and finally a
1. Bars 109ff. This passage reveals its meaning only through consideration of the Urlinie. The last fourth-progression, d
3 –a
2 in bars 108 – 9, suggests a further descent, and there follows c3 –a
,2 then b
2 –e2, which together amount to just c3 –e2. But what force the master applies, in this passage of octaves, to confine the Urlinie just to the higher octave! The harmonic progression also deserves particular attention, because of a particularly outstanding trait; here is an outline:

Bars 50ff. These bars must be spoken of as a closing subject. The line indulges only in the exchange of ascending leading tone and tonic, while the basic motive—in its blind rage, one might say—whips up the storm again. Bars 59ff. These bars constitute a1 of the three-part song form. In groups of ten bars, the line runs through the fifth from e
2 to a
1 in two progressions (see the Urlinie), of which the second is accelerated. But in spite of all this stimulation, it remains the case that the line, commencing with e
, now also provides relaxation and resolution of the line of the second subject beginning from the same tone, to which e
has become a true daemon, through contrasts: there the distance and

Generally such a sequence of chords merely serves the purposes of passing motion, in which the exchange 5– 6, including the chromatic notes, helps to avoid consecutive fifths; but here the master exploits the same sequence for harmonic degrees and modulation, he merely suppresses the fourth chord, and instead surrounds the fifth all the more powerfully with neighbor-note chords before finally turning the inner voice into the upper voice in the last three chords. It is superfluous to interpolate a VI between the I and IV, bars 117 and 125, since it is rather the fifth-progression I–IV that comprehends the progression more logically (see “Freier Satz”).17 {36}

Adagio), but only by the dotted line that crosses between them. It is surprising that the ascent of which so much is made is not a feature of the Urlinie, and particularly so that the Urlinie shows lines an octave lower than those of its “erste Aufrollung” (be these actual or notional) in bars 26ff and 30ff— could this be to connect with e
1 in bar 22 (cf. the likewise unsuperscripted “e
-d-c” later in the paragraph, and the “fiery will” of e
1)? It is finally not inconceivable that the absence of a superscript represents deliberate equivocation rather than a typographical error. 16Den flammenden Willen des Tones es1in T. 22 nachzufühlen: an allusion to the series title. We are said to be able to feel the tone’s will only when it is fulfilled—that is, apparently, we are not expected to sense, from the moment we encounter e
1, what would fulfil its intentions (namely d1-c1), and actively (sympathetically with the tone) to listen for this completion through the music that intervenes. Possessed of Fernhören, Beethoven is represented as able to do this. The conjunction of these important concepts makes vivid the identification of “distance hearing” with the recognition of long-range succession, more than with the long-range sustaining of an individual tone: what is “prolonged” here is not the tone e
1 but the motion e
1 –d1 –c1.




A youthful poem of Beethoven’s, how inspired, classical—German! As with the youthful Mozart, whose Sonata in A minor was discussed earlier in this volume, so with the youthful Beethoven we see the overwhelming appearance of a syn17Der

82

freie Satz does not address this issue; but see Harmonielehre, §§125– 28 and 131.

Beethoven’s Sonata in F Minor, Op. 2, No. 1

work” (p. 566), which is refuted by what has just been put forward, Nottebohm describes the sketch accurately. The principal subject of the Adagio originates in a piano quartet in C major, composed in Bonn in 1785.19 But what progress from the consequent formation in the quartet, which merely repeats the harmonic progression I–V of bar 2, to that in the sonata, which also gets IV into the progression and performs two cycles!20

thesis conceived from the deepest sources. Nothing in the outward existence of the tones betrays the mysterious relationships that rule within, which no ear has yet received, no tongue named. The lines show logical consistency in themselves and in relation to one another. Resting in its own laws, the diminution nevertheless places itself at the disposal of the harmonies, of the line, helping with the part as with the whole, cohering and remaining distinct. What range of hearing in the passing motions, the broadly laid out fourth- and fifth-progressions, and what art, too, in the constant changes of realization!




As in my Erläuterungsausgaben of the last five Beethoven sonatas,

21

I intend in Tonwille, too, to give a textual report of my edition of the remaining sonatas, where possible.22 This immediately brings up the last and most difficult questions of the given content, as well as of musical culture in general. As little as one may say of Beethoven himself that he was merely practicing musical philology when he sought the best notation, improved slurs, etc., just as little may the work of an editor in this matter be regarded as philology. It is rather of a {37} purely artistic nature, and demands the full interest of all those who want to make the content of the work of art truly their own. My edition of the sonata (Universal Edition No. 4010) is based on the original edition of Artaria (1796, oblong and vertical formats), as well as the edition of Lischke (Berlin, Edition correcte, 1797).23 [In the Allegro,] the upbeat quarter note to bar 1 has no staccato dot in either edition, and it is the same in bars 8 and 48; thus it is hardly to be taken as a printer’s




About the autograph manuscript of the sonata, nothing is known.

A sketch [for the first movement], preserved in the archive of the Gesellschaft der Musikfreunde in Vienna, is presented by Nottebohm in Zweite Beethoveniana, pp. 564 – 67.18 As I refer to the musical example reproduced there, I will now confine myself to a few observations. In the sketch, the opening bars of the consequent, bars 9–10, still coincide exactly with bars 1 and 2 of the antecedent, which at first conforms to a merely conventional formation of the consequent. But immediately after the two-bar repetition of the motive come triplet figures! In the motive

the kernel of the second subject, bars 20ff, can be recognized, as also can the final version of bars 33ff in the attached cadential formation. In place of bar 40, there still stands

19The work belongs to a set of three early piano quartets (WoO 36), not published in Beethoven’s lifetime. Themes from the opening Allegro vivace were reused in another Op. 2 sonata, no. 3 in C major. 20The progression to which the sonata adds IV is specifically the progression of the first two measures of the consequent (the consequent in the piano quartet does include IV in its third bar); but the “two cycles” of Stufen occur over the entire phrase. 21[S]Universal Edition 3974 – 3978. [The projected Erläuterungsausgabe of Op. 106 (3975) was never completed, partly because Schenker was unable to locate the autograph manuscript (which to this day has not been traced).] 22Schenker’s edition of the remaining Beethoven piano sonatas (1921– 23) coincided with the publication of Tonwille, and at one time he contemplated what he termed an Urlinieausagabe of these works; this essay may represent the companion text of such an edition. There is no text-critical commentary in Schenker’s next (and last) essay on a Beethoven sonata, that of Op. 57 in F minor (Tonwille 6). 23In common with most eighteenth-century piano music, Artaria’s first edition (plate-number 614) was published only in oblong format; the edition in tall format dates from about 1830, and takes over the firm’s original plate-number. Beethoven would not have had any involvement either with this later edition, or that of Lischke (plate-number 940).

a figure that plays motivically on the cadential subject even more clearly than the final version, which bases the continuation of the cadential subject on the constraints of the Urlinie. Apart from the observation that “the middle [of the sketch] is striking at first glance for its difference from the published version. In the published version the melodic essence predominates, in the sketch passage18Gustav Nottebohm, Zweite Beethoveniana: nachgelassene Aufsätze, ed. Eusebius Mandyczewski (Leipzig: Rieter-Biedermann, 1887); the Vienna leaf bears the signature A31.

83

tonw i l l e 2 error, but much more as the composer’s intention for a particular execution (see below). On a
2 and b
2 in bars 2 and 4, there is no sf in either edition—for why this expression, when the line is only hesitantly starting out? But the sfs appear, with justification, in bars 102 and 104 of the reprise, where the forte changes the situation. On the occasion of the grace note in bar 5, let it be said once and for all that both editions notate grace notes exclusively with , , or  (that is, not with a slash through the stem—cf. Ornamentik pp. 33ff/pp. 69ff ).24 In bar 13, the legato slur is likewise taken over from both editions; it would be conceivable that Beethoven wrote it this way for the sake of the upper voice, and with the intention of a contrast to the articulation of the inner voice in bar 12. In bars 33–36, the slurring in Artaria and Lischke, which can obviously be traced back to misunderstood slurring at a change of system in the manuscript, is wrong and should be disregarded. A series of later editions attempt to make the run in bars 33ff correspond to that in bars 132ff (of the recapitulation), on the assumption that Beethoven would have done it this way if his instrument had gone higher than f 3. But it is firmly established that the master always expressly forbade alterations in his pieces, no matter on what basis they may have been attempted. Anyone who understands the law of the obligatory leading of registers will certainly grasp that Beethoven, playing the registers off against one another, at the same time composed with the limits of the instrument, so to speak, right from the start, and it would be a matter for the genius of another Beethoven to rearrange these limits and newly adjust these registers. In bar 47, there is a change to the bass clef in the left hand, according to Artaria and Lischke, which certainly leads more suitably than the treble clef back to bar 1 as well as onward to the beginning of the development. In bar 62, the next-to-last eighth note must be a d
(thus also in Artaria and Lischke), not d as in many later editions; only the succession d
2 –c2 –b1 corresponds to the succession of chords (see the graph of the Urlinie): on the downbeat of bar 62, the third above the root B
is d
and not d.25 The articulation of the bass in bar 69, as well as in bar 71, corresponds to that of the first edition: it serves to bring out the rhythmic opposition of the motive in the right hand [to

that in the left hand]. The way in which Beethoven himself tears open the eighthnote beam at the second quarter of bar 80 (see also Artaria and Lischke) reveals to us how, in composing and playing, he was fully conscious that f1 here enters a quarter note earlier than the half-notes in the preceding measures. In bars 107– 8, > and p disappear, since not only the forte from bar 101 on, but also the altered arrangement of the left hand in bars 106–7, no longer permit the same course of events as in bars 7– 8. The articulation in bars 115–16 creates difficulties. It does not work well to put the turning figure of the right hand under one slur with the following quarter notes, even though this appears to clarify the nascent motive e– f–g–a
. Add to this that {38} only by division of the slurs can the contrast be brought out between bar 115 and bars 117–18, where the motive running in even quarter notes in both the right and left hands can only fittingly be placed under one slur. Moreover, Artaria and Lischke do not agree: in Artaria, several other printing errors have also crept in, in bar 115, and, in particular, the slur that appears under the sixteenth-note triplet—again an indication that there could not also have been a second, longer slur over the figure in Beethoven’s manuscript— may have caused later editors to tie over the whole-note b1, which, through oversight in the earlier plates, unfortunately still remains in my edition, too. With reference to the slurs in bar 136ff, Artaria and Lischke, with whom I concur, are in the right, as against later editors, who include the first quarter note of bar 140: after a slur is in force for so long, the last note of the run must be left out of the slur, if it is to be significant as such. In bar 28 of the Adagio, my edition shows the slur on the second quarter note in the left hand below the run, and not above it, as in Artaria and Lischke; thereby [In fact the relevant passage, on pp. 31– 32, conveys Reinecke’s doubts at least as clearly as his preference for d  : It remains an open question, whether it should be d
or d in the fourteenth bar of the second part. The last half measure refers distinctly to C minor, and if one wants to strip bars 13 and 14 of their ornamentaion, then the following very natural harmony results:

 24The

relevant section is entitled “The Short Appoggiatura in the Works of Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven.” Schenker is mistaken about the notation of grace-notes in Artaria: the first edition, which has been reproduced in facsimile (in Ludwig van Beethoven: The 32 Piano Sonatas, in Reprints of the First and Early Editions, 5 vols. [London: Tecla, 1989]), consistently uses an eighth note with slashed stem to indicate a grace-note. 25[S]All this is overlooked by [Carl] Reinecke (“Die Beethoven’schen Clavier-Sonaten[: Briefe an eine Freundin],” 1894 [recte: 1895; the translator had access to the eighth edition, Leipzig: Gebrüder Reinecke, 1920]), who takes a stand for d, without even being able to convince himself.









 









 







 

 

 

But it is not impossible that Beethoven imagined the c delayed by d
. Admittedly, in the period in which he wrote this Sonata, he called for such harshness only rarely. In any case it seems to me risky to state categorically that “d
” should be recognized as the correct reading. If Beethoven may have forgotten the  before d only two bars later—it is missing from Artaria in both bars 64 and 66—why can he not have forgotten it here too?]

84

Beethoven’s Sonata in F Minor, Op. 2, No. 1

the appearance is avoided of the slur beginning only with A. According to Artaria and Lischke the place of the pp in bar 31 is controversial; Artaria attaches it to f 1, Lischke to g1 in the second quarter note in the right hand; to me, in contrast, this embarrassment gives the impression that the composer merely felt hindered by the closely placed staves from writing the pp right at the beginning of the second quarter, where it appears best to belong, due to the seventh (in the left hand) that effects the return modulation. No less difficult is the question of the slur in bar 32: Artaria shows the slur over the 2nd and 3rd quarters, Lischke over the entire bar. If one considers that an upbeat with the value of a quarter note precedes bar 1, that in contrast a twoquarter-note figure (under a slur) enters in place of the quarter note in bar 31, then the version in Artaria may be justified, which, for the sake of equilibrium, articulates the first quarter note of bar 32 independently. In bar 42, I follow both first editions exactly with respect to the slur. If this may appear unusual in consideration of the fact that the second quarter note presents the resolution of the suspension of a fourth, which as such should be slurred to the suspension, it is again the large number of notes in the second and third quarter notes that requires, as it were, taking a new breath on the second quarter note. About the bass in bar 52 there is a long and amusing story. As is well known, the old practice was to place the extension dot at the point at which the extension should occur, and so Beethoven wrote the extending dot in bar 52 under the fifth eighth note. But obviously his dot came out too fat,26 and this alone has sufficed to throw almost all editors from Artaria to the present into confusion. Because they do not know to connect this supposed notehead with the previous one, they write:

tended for the right hand in the bass staff (he makes a point of laying great value on such a distinction), then beams the last eighth note with the sixteenth-note figure, for the sake of performance, but nonetheless still extends the slur as far as f ! (With the transfer of the eighth-note passage into the treble clef, as given in all later editions, the beauty of the notation is unfortunately lost.) In bar 59 neither Artaria nor Lischke shows a tie between the two g2s of the right hand; here in fact is a turn figure between two notes (g2 and a2), whose ending-tone is merely assumed into large notation and presented at the appropriate place (cf. Ornamentik, pp. 58ff/pp. 114ff ).27 In bar 28 of the Menuetto, my edition follows the first editions; through presentation of the motive in the treble clef, the connection with the preceding bars comes to light more strikingly (see, for example, the Erläuterungsausgabe of Op. 101, first movement, bar 16 and also bar 30). In bars 59– 62, Artaria gives Beethoven’s fingering (it is not in Lischke; more on this below). In bar 10 of the Prestissimo, in Artaria and Lischke, no suffix to the trill. In bar 34, c1 of the right hand in Artaria and Lischke without e
: particularly exquisite is the very fact that e
first appears on the upbeat, but now over c and indeed as though through inversion of the suppressed lower sixth. The two first editions also know nothing of the dots and slurs above the upbeat quarter notes in bars 34, 36, and 38; thus Beethoven intentionally reserved this expression until bars 40 and 41. With the repeat sign in bar 59, I follow the first editions; one has the duty to recognize such a fact about the history of the sonata, without of course allowing oneself to be misled by it in understanding the sonata form. Bars 111–12: the right hand without slurs in Artaria and Lischke. In bar 161, obviously an oversight in the manuscript or in the first editions, which put all the quarter notes of the left hand together under one slur.28


B

eethoven’s freedom in performance is testified to by pupils and contemporaries (think, for example, of Czerny, Ries, Schindler, etc.). If—as I repeat for the umpteenth time—I take absolute exception to every such judgment of Beethoven’s work and playing, it remains possible nonetheless to accept their testimony for Beethoven’s freedom in playing, which they perceived without knowledge of the content, I might say purely by eye and feel. For the master must have expressed

My correction does away with the problem, yet given this opportunity I cannot refrain from calling attention to the wonderful notation in the right hand: {39} the way in which Beethoven takes pains there to write the eighth-note passage in-

27The

section referred to is entitled: “The Turn in the Works of the Later Masters.” is, there should be a slur from the second quarter of bar 161 to the end of bar 162; curiously, this slur is missing from Schenker’s own edition of the sonata.

26[S]One

often encounters such a mishap in Beethoven’s work, e.g. in the “Lebewohl” Sonata, Op. 81a, bar 3 of the first Allegro; in Op. 101, bar 52 of the first movement, etc.

28That

85

tonw i l l e 2 the new content so individually and newly through the manner of his treatment of the keyboard in touch and the play of shadows, in legato and fingering, even in the carriage and movement of his body, etc., that it really would not have been difficult for his contemporaries to perceive freedom. One who knows, of course, can easily dismiss such testimony—all the more easily, inasmuch as the eye- and earwitnesses, having grasped nothing of the content rightly, report different degrees of this freedom. To the initiate, the waves of the Urlinie speak of powers at work in all the turns and twists, repetitions, and pauses, that mock any constraint of tempo. Added to this is the variety of the diminution, in which the lines express themselves, and this calls no less for variety in tempo. In bars 1– 4, the player should not add a hesitation of his own to the one already expressed by the Urlinie. The acceleration of bars 5 – 6 is to be made up for in bars 7– 8, but the thrusting-forward is only to be stilled insofar as the half cadence and the subsequent fermata require; a more significant slowing-down (say from eighth note {40} to eighth note), in contrast, belies the thrusting-forward, which is still so powerful in the turning of the line that it carries along more Urlinie tones in two bars than in all of the six bars preceding. The upbeat c1 is to be played with a light portamento touch, as if one wanted to stretch out the sixth c1 –a
1, which alone, in spite of detours, is what the arpeggiation finally comes to (see bars 5– 6). Already during the fermata in bar 8, the player, inwardly hearing ahead, should turn e into e
; then he will certainly succeed in bringing the alteration to light through a certain attack in bar 10 without stripping it of its mystery. He should play bars 11 and 13 with greater weight than bars 12 and 14. In bar 15, he should have bar 7 in mind, and, on the second and third quarter notes of bar 16, the content of bars 11–14, whose abbreviation they are. It is advisable to practice the threefold repetition of the motive c2 –g1 in bars 15 – 20 as if omitting the second and third quarter notes of bars 16 and 18, if one wants to grasp and perform the intrusion of these notes properly; in bar 16 they are still joined together with a separate slur! (The majority of editors know nothing of this connection and, as early as bar 16, introduce the slur as it will appear in bar 18.) In the second subject, too, the hesitation and acceleration of the line should be expressed through corresponding shadings of the basic tempo, but without slowing down or accelerating too much. One should perform the first octave arpeggiation in bars 20 – 21 without rushing, likewise each fourth quarter note in bars 21 and 23 (despite the impending sf ) and each third quarter note in bars 22 and 24. Supported on the strict rhythm of the bass in bars 33ff, which by itself rules out any blurring of the tempo, the right hand may indulge itself all the more

in the run, in the strictest legato, and indeed without reference to the Urlinie tones, which will already communicate themselves secretly to consciousness through the intervals on the downbeats. In bar 36, the first quarter note should be given a certain emphasis, not only because of the beginning of the legato, but also on account of the significance of the seventh, which (see the graph of the Urlinie) most clearly indicates the imperfect full cadence in bar 41 (with the third c in the upper voice coming precisely from d
.) Pianists are apt to play octave arpeggiations like those in the left hand in bar 41 legato—a bad habit that cannot be condemned enough: put something like this in front of, say, a double bass player or cellist, actually marked with a legato slur, and (even if he doesn’t know why) he will dismiss both the slur and the scribe. The closing subject, bars 41ff, streams forth in the tempo of the second subject, and tolerates a hesitation only in the closing bars, 47– 48, insofar as this promotes the rhythmic enlargement of the leap of a fifth and its legato performance. In bars 49ff, the three-bar groups must enter into the player’s consciousness. The difficulties in bars 73ff can easily be obviated if one first plays the octave arpeggiations of the left hand on the first and third quarter notes, thus unsyncopated, and executes them with the recommended fingering; the superiority of the syncopated version as an aid to a rhythmic animation of the bass will also come to light thereby. If the syncopated version of the arpeggiations is, on one hand, a consequence of the fact that the motive began on a weak beat (the fourth) in the preceding bars, they are, on the other hand, in turn the cause of f 1 in the right hand in bar 80, appearing, likewise, by way of anticipation on a weak quarter note (the second). Bars 93ff proceed in the tempo of the development: consciousness of the Urlinie tones here saves the trouble of a ritardando and clarifies the play of exchanges between the inner and upper voices, which suggests an orchestral effect. In bars 101–8, one should storm through the phrase with a single stroke, without doing more than what is absolutely necessary even for the half-cadence and the fermata in bars 107–8. In bars 115–18, the motivic imitation should be conveyed (b
1 in the left hand in bar 118 stands for g1). {41} If one considers that, in bars 131– 34, nothing further is added that would justify the fortissimo, beyond the forte of bar 33, then it must be said that the fortissimo is less worked out [auskomponiert] than merely asserted. (In the later creations of the master, such alterations will always also be grounded compositionally in some way.) In bars 146ff, the highest succession of tones is to be played as a summary, in accord with the Urlinie. The turn [Doppelschlag] in bar 1 of the Adagio must be executed in the fourth sixteenth of the quarter note; definitive for this is the rhythm of the upbeat   ,



86

Beethoven’s Sonata in F Minor, Op. 2, No. 1

bar 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 a
| b
| a
| g | a
|| c | d
| c | b
| c |

which must not be gratuitously contradicted with a variant rhythm. Nothing about this is changed by the grace-note appended to the turn (on the same figure see also, for example, Mozart’s Sonata in D major, K. 311, Andante, bar 43). It is recommended to bind bars 6 and 7 through dynamics:

>

>

(Similar emphasis should be given to the rhythmic reductions in the left hand.) The eighth-note graces in bars 11 and 13 are of course to be played short, but expressively, in the value of sixteenth notes (cf. Ornamentik, p. 33ff/pp. 69ff ). In bar 30, the trill transfers the emphasis {42} from the third quarter note to the first quarter note of the following bar, and there it remains—see the sf—in bars 32 and 33 also. Across bars 34|35, where the sf and p collide, the urgency of tempo and force must be so increased that, in bar 35, a ff is expected, rather than a p; but just in the last moment the pressure exhausts itself, and the last three tones of the Urlinie sink into piano in bars 35– 36, as if suddenly weakened. This effect will be achieved through a hesitation before the piano, which gives the exuberance an opportunity to discharge itself into the air, so to speak, instead of into the next tone. In bar 43, the change of direction in the line should be made expressive. The 4 – 3 suspension in bar 47 is to be underscored with >, and the increased progression of harmonic degrees in bar 48 with < > between the second and third eighth notes of the left hand. My edition communicates Beethoven’s fingering for bars 59– 62; in addition, another possible one is suggested in a footnote. (With regard to other fingerings, see the discussion of the literature.) Only a firm adherence to the sense of the content, as the Urlinie unveils it, will enable the player to perform the Prestissimo correctly; otherwise, however much fire there may be in his performance, he will only grope snail-like from place to place. For faster indeed than any velocity that the human hand can bring about is the flight of inspiration, such as can vicariously be experienced here. In bars 2– 4 the imitation (f–e–f) in the bass must be made clear. In bars 5ff, a ritardando is superfluous, since the tempo already appears to be slowed down when the triplets drop out. The trills in bars 9–10 may be played as short trills [Pralltriller]; with five notes even the suffix can be dispensed with. The sf accents reserved for bar 19 must be played as hyperintensification. From bar 20 on, the player should indulge in the strong, but always circumspect, use of the pedal, unrestrained by the whirling overlaps of the Urlinie (see the graph of the Urlinie). No sooner than he has touched on a
2 in bar 22, he should already be pressing toward e
2 in bar 24, and yet further to the a
2 in bar 26, the c1 in bar 30, and finally the e
in bar 34! And not even the peculiar satisfaction that undoubtedly arises from the attainment of the final goal in bar 34, as well as from the enlargement of time values

in such a way that emphasis is given only to the IV of the second cycle of harmonies; in spite of this, the first sixteenth note of bar 7 demands its own expression as an accented passing note. My preferred execution of the turn in bar 7 is no longer familiar to the musicians of today; one finds it written out in Beethoven, for example in the Adagio movements of Op. 59, No. 1, [bars 77–78,] and Op. 74, [bars 68– 69 and 93,] and so on (cf. Ornamentik, pp. 58ff/pp. 114ff ). The accompaniment in bars 9–11 must be played legatissimo, in such a way that the hand can reproduce the upward and downward motion of the figure through corresponding light motion in a lateral direction. Bars 17ff (with upbeat) have to flow forth in the sense of a modulation in progress, not doing anything like linger in the sense of a newly starting “Trio” section or the like (see the discussion of the literature). At the leap of a sixth at the across bars 20 – 21 one should think of the upbeat of bar 1 and thus prepare oneself for the variation of the main motive in bars 22 – 23! The two sf in the right and left hands in bars 23 – 24 are to be played more quickly one after the other, which in turn is to be accomplished through a portamento execution of the sixteenth notes of the third beat. In the performance of the main motive in bars 27– 28 (also 29– 30) the sfp must be expressed through a certain accelerating inclination toward the first quarter of bar 28; tempo compensation occurs after the sfp. The tone repetition in the sixteenth notes in bar 34 should be brought to a positively verbal expression (cf. Kontrapunkt i, pp. 64ff/ pp. 42ff ). In the figuration across bars 37|38, take care to play the [triplet] sixteenth and the thirty-second on the second eighth of each beat exactly together; then the remaining tones, too, will automatically find their right position. In bars 40– 43, the movement of the left hand as in bars 9–11. In bar 44, the execution of the turn as in bar 7. Bars 54 – 55 and 56– 57 to be played the same way as bars 29– 30. In bar 59, an expressive performance of the inner voice will also support the crescendo required for the right hand. Since the prominent tones in bars 1– 4 of the minuet express a turn, the b
1 that falls on the first strong beat deserves an emphasis with >, which must be heralded by another > on the preceding upbeat quarter note. 87

tonw i l l e 2 the following 22 bars are to be performed with ever-increasing power and liveliness, very legato, and at the same time especially expressively in the bass.”29 On the second movement: “There now follows, with soothing effect, the gentle Adagio, filled with feeling and melody, to be played in a slow but not dragging tempo and always cantabile, in which above all a beautiful touch and a strict legato as well as an absolutely steady tempo is effective. In the following place (bar 37 is quoted), the thirty-second notes of the right hand are to be played very tenderly, and completely independently of the sextuplets of the bass.” On the third movement: “Moody and lively, so the Allegretto is not to be taken in the usual restful pace here. The Trio gentle and legato. “In the second part of this Trio, we suggest the following fingering in bars 9–12”:

(which amounts to a retardation: see the graph of the Urlinie), may calm the storm. For only by way of a continuous growling will it be possible to reach bars 50ff in a mood that will allow these measures to be appended logically. All the calming effect of the development, bars 59–109, one can confidently entrust to the contrast in tonality, accompaniment, abbreviation, and play of the Urlinie. To the eighth notes of bar 65 one should bring awareness of an progression of fundamental tones [Urtönezug] beginning a step lower, and build up ten-bar units as though along with it. In bar 81, the circumstance of the tonic’s occurring without a suspended fourth (c already in the chord) makes a suffix to the trill undesirable; and then likewise in bar 84, for the sake of the parallelism (although it would be less out of place here). From the repetitions in the higher octave, bars 69–78, 87– 94, and 103 – 9, the player should create the feeling for their decisive significance in bars 111– 27, too, in order to be able to achieve the right performance of these passages. In bar 125, in the fortissimo, two Urlinie tones force their way into one bar for the first time: the quarter rest in the inner voice here actually serves to give this new event more emphasis. The imitations from right hand to left hand in bars 127ff should be played with import, and the same performance is repeated in the concluding bars 199 [recte: 189]ff as well, although here the imitation is in the right hand alone. {43}

On the fourth movement: “Stormily agitated, almost dramatic, like the depiction of some kind of serious event. In the first section, beginning from bar 22, both hands extremely legato. In bars 35–39 crescendo, and the right hand very cantabile. “The first fifty bars of the second section [bars 58–107] with tender, restful expression, but not dragging. From the fifty-first bar [bar 108] on, the original liveliness.” It is idle to waste even one word on this; for Czerny says nothing. He was around Beethoven, certainly, and learned people draw far-reaching conclusions from this, but is not the genius, as a rule, condemned to a circle of people who have nothing in common with him but physical proximity? Next come two composition teachers, one older, one more recent:




Now to the literature. If only Beethoven were preserved in its strata of paper, at least in the way ancient human, animal, and plant remains are in geological strata, then we would have to be thankful even for that. But neither an outline of the whole nor a sign of the parts is to be found there—in short, not a shadow of his musical embodiment: woe to anyone who looks there for an impression of Beethoven’s spirit! Czerny (“Große Pianoforte-Schule,” part IV) on the first movement: “The character of this first movement is serious and passionately agitated, powerful and decisive, and without any of those figures of piano passagework which otherwise conventionally separate ideas from one another. The tempo is a lively, yet not too fast, alla breve. . . . “From the fourth bar of this movement begins a small ritardando and crescendo, which increases up to the fermata. Bars 41– 44 of the first part are likewise to be played with increasing ritardando, and only in the second half of bar 45 does the tempo reenter decisively. From the twentieth bar of the second part [bar 68],

29Carl Czerny, Die Kunst des Vortrags der älteren und neueren Clavierkompositionen, oder: Die Fortschritte bis zur neuesten Zeit, Supplement (oder 4ter Theil) zur grossen Pianoforte-Schule, Op. 500 (Vienna: Diabelli, 1842), available to the translator as Über den richtigen Vortrag der sämtlichen Beethoven’schen Klavierwerke, ed. Paul Badura-Skoda (Vienna: Universal Edition, 1963). In this paragraph and the following three, Schenker quotes the entire passage dealing with the sonata (except for unglossed excerpts from the score and a brief passage citing the third volume in support of a recommendation that the metronome be used), pp. 34 – 36 of the original, 26– 28 of the reprint. Schenker’s changes to Czerny’s orthography have been undone.

88

Beethoven’s Sonata in F Minor, Op. 2, No. 1

Marx (Kompositionslehre, Part III, 1857) writes of the first movement:30

human words would suffice at all to render the horrendous effect of a landslide of keys, A
–E
–A
, if, as Marx here supposes, it really occurred in the space of only eight bars. {44}

The consequent phrase commences with the main motive, plays itself out further with the second motive (bars 9–14 quoted)—

The first subject is formed of upward-striving two-bar segments; the second subject answers almost literally exactly with a downward-turned motive (bars 20 – 22 quoted), that, flowing by means of its coherent and even accompaniment (which the first subject did not have), repeated three times, is led forth, the third time, into a beautifully sweeping Gang in the same motion [in gleicher Bewegung]. [pp. 283 – 84]

Anyone can see and hear that; but why exactly from e
2 and why only to c2? but finds no closure, and instead runs on, Gang-like, into the second subject group. [p. 260] Not “Gang-like,” but corresponding to the Urlinie motive of bars 7– 8. As early as the fifth bar of the consequent, the relative major is reached, in which key the second subject group is to begin; [p. 269]

Aside from the fact that such feeble hearing does not need to be taught in the first place, Marx also commits a contradiction, when he counts the “beautifully sweeping Gang”—he means bars 26– 28—which is turned upward, with the third repetition of the motive, which is directed downward.32 The content of these bars signifies something else, however, namely the Urlinie progression a
1 –e
,2 and thus also more than merely a third repetition, let alone Marx’s beloved “Gang.” It is in just such inspired combinations of ideas that our masters’ art of sonata form culminates!

But the modulation begins already in bar 9, and not in bar 13. a light appendix reinforces the modulation by twice suggesting the dominant key of the relative major (bars 15 –18 quoted) (the last two bars are repeated); [269–70] The phrase31 moves to the V of the new key, but not beyond this into a new key of E
major.

until the closing subject, likewise thrice repeated, returns to the motion and form of accompaniment of the first subject. [p. 284]

and now the second group begins, at the very start even in the dominant key. [p. 270]

But closure lies above all in the formation of the motive, which descends with the remainder of the Urlinie tones of the fifth-progression, (c)–c
–b
–a
, to the tonic note. On the development:

What strikes Marx here is the chord on E
at the head of the second subject, which is in A
major; but, the less he appreciates the implications of this trait— one looks for such things in vain in Bruckner’s symphonic movements, for example—the more easily it occurs to him to assume a new key, and, besides this, to underscore this monstrosity with compulsive cheer with “even,” as though

The first part has closed in A
major; the second begins with the first segment [Abschnitt] of the first subject in the same key, and establishes itself, with a repetition of the last bar, on the dominant, [p. 294]

30Adolf Bernhard Marx, Die Lehre von der musikalischen Komposition, praktisch theoretisch (Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel; the translator had access to the fourth edition, published in 1868), Dritter Theil: Die angewandte Kompositionslehre, pp. 259 – 60. This and the following quotations about the first movement are extracted from the Sixth Book, Fifth Division, “Closer Consideration of Sonata Form”; subsequent citations of this section are indicated by bracketed page numbers in the text. Excerpts from this section can be found in Musical Form in the Age of Beethoven: Selected Writings on Theory and Method, a selection of Marx’s writings edited and translated by Scott Burnham (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997); the terms Satz and Gang, where Marx uses them as complementary opposites in thematic construction (see Burnham’s discussion in Musical Form in the Age of Beethoven, p. 14), will be left untranslated. Schenker’s changes to Marx’s orthography have been undone. 31Satz: Schenker adopts Marx’s word.

which here is not a real dominant (scale degree), however, but, as a passing tone, a merely horizontal phenomenon, 32Apparently Schenker understands “gleicher Bewegung” as “in the same direction,” a reading that would indeed generate the contradiction that he ascribes to Marx; a more charitable reading would be “with the same motion,” referring to the continuity of the accompanying eighth notes, whose onset Marx has just mentioned, and whose cessation he will mention in the next quoted passage. Burnham’s rendering, “that is equally mobile” (Musical Form in the Age of Beethoven, p. 135), is noncommittal.

89

tonw i l l e 2 then repeats the segment a [bars 1– 2] and proceeds, again with a repetition of the last bar, to the dominant of B
minor, thus to the subdominant of the main key. [p. 294]

off the remainder of the bars with “in the manner of a Gang,” just because no other similarly marked motive gets in his way there. On the Adagio:

Only if Beethoven had gone directly back to F minor from this “B
minor” would it have been permissible for Marx to mention the main key at this point; but since this is not the case, the minor triad on B
is certainly not yet the B
minor that would exert pressure on the main key as its subdominant. In the world of synthesis, the sense of interaction, of relationship, is decisive, not value in itself.

The first subject is a two-part song in F major. Its conclusion is followed immediately by the subsidiary subject in D minor.33 Marx understands the Adagio as a three-part form with principal, subsidiary, and principal subjects. It [the subsidiary subject] presents itself at first in line with a song form; its first bars (bars 16– 20 quoted) appear as antecedent of a first part, which would close perhaps in the relative major, or—since that is the key of the principal theme, just departed from—perhaps better in the dominant (A). Only this, too—minor to minor—Beethoven could not accept; the motive of the new subject must always seem attractive and thoroughly appropriate as a contrast to the principal subject, but not suitable for further development. Thus, it turns away from the song form at this very point and goes, with a natural turn of harmony (we give only the underlying melody)—(bars 22– 26 quoted)—to a cadence in C major.

Now the subsidiary subject enters, for eight bars, with a turn to C minor (dominant of the principal key)—presented there twice for two bars by the upper voice, for two bars more by the bass, by this voice again on the dominant of B
minor, and yet again on that of A
minor (the minor of the relative key—a stepwise descent from C to B
to A
minor). [p. 294] Ignorance of the nature of musical elaboration [Auskomponierung] and mixture—see Harmonielehre, pp. 106ff/pp. 84ff—takes its vengeance with Marx, in that, because of f
, he actually speaks of A
minor in bars 71–74, as he did of C minor and B
minor shortly before. But we see a major and not a minor triad in bar 74, and therefore must identify the minor-mode elaboration of the dominant as merely a trait of mixture. Moreover, the minor triads on C (bar 69) and on B
(bar 71), which Marx takes for keys, refer in fact to the diatonic system of A
major and not A
minor (see Harmonielehre, pp. 59ff/pp. 45ff ).

Thus, the variation of the principal motive escapes him in bars 22– 23, and, in bars 27– 28, 29– 30, even the motive itself in the most naked repetition; he mistakes the sense of the diminution in bars 25 – 26, since he reduces it to:

and then presented entirely in the manner of a Gang over a pedal point, where a motive of the first subject finally invites to it and thereby into the third part. [294] But the sinking from c2 to e1 in bars 69– 81 lends this group of measures the character of an indivisible whole, especially as the right-hand counterpoint that coincides with the outcome of the Urlinie in bars 20 – 22 (there g–a
, here b–c), and which, in the sequel, is even thrice repeated in augmentation, grows out to be its leading motive. In this connection one is astounded at the high art of synthesis with which the young master departs from the repetition of the left-hand motive in bar 73, in order to let the augmentation of the contrapuntal motive and its threefold repetition enter as a new driving force—in this case along with a tonal division. Marx therefore reads the passage incorrectly when he attributes decisive significance only to bars 67–73, because of the motive from bars 20 – 22, but writes

{45} (in contrast to this, see the graph of the Urlinie); he mistakes the incomparable accuracy and beauty in the relations of the individual turns of the diminution:

33The Adagio is discussed in the Sixth Book, Second Division, “Second Rondo Form”; all the quotations come from p. 119.

90

Beethoven’s Sonata in F Minor, Op. 2, No. 1

(notice as well the gradation into thirty-second notes, sixteenth notes, eighth notes); thus he does not hear the way in which the primordial unity [das UrEine] works, always present but in ever new transformations, but remains dull with respect to the divine power of genius, which moves the world of tones according to laws of the human soul in just the same measure as it does the converse, offering as a verbal substitute for all these wonders “a natural turn” and “a cadence in C major.”

tion, as an example of a “sharply defined application” of the “fifth rondo form” as II III 38 taught by him: HS—ISS SS HS—SS . But again he reads everything wrong. In bar 5 he declares: “For to the first subject—bars 1– 5 are meant!39 —is now fastened this completely different one” (bars 5– 9 quoted), which for him is already in A
major.40 Bars 12–13 he makes out to be a “rapid turn to G major,” and bars 13ff as a “pedal-point-like reinforcement,” as though in the case of a simple passing motion—and here we have nothing but, in effect: 1

From there a redirection is made, with a cadence, back into the principal subject, which is carried through in varied form and concluded with an appendix. The form is once more unmistakable here;34 but the song-form aspect of the middle subject is only just established and then immediately departed from again.

2

2

Wrong. Only the contrasting tonality C major is actually the contrast as such in this case, and the contrast thus consists exactly of the modulation, with its two cycles of Stufen, as well as of the twofold repetition of the principal motive (see the graph of the Urlinie). Precisely through such synthesis-technique is the weight of the contrasting subject reduced to the desired degree in relation to the principal subject,35 and the flowing character of it brought out all the more. And really, in our case, the modulation, even without a clear-cut subject, seems to suffice so well for contrast that the repetitions of the principal motive almost have just the effect of a coda. (Marx speaks of a “Gang”!)36 But just for this reason, the transposition of this part back into the main key may be accepted as fourth part of the whole and not merely as an “appendix.”37 The last movement is actually cited by Marx, in a long connected presenta-

there could be talk of a pedal point or even a “pedal-point-like reinforcement.” Still on the same page, though, we read the opposite of all this: of a “first subject that hurls itself from F minor at once to A
major, in order, by way of F minor, to close in G major” [p. 191]—as though a theme could run through so many keys without thereby forfeiting its unity. To him bars 22ff represent the “first subsidiary subject [erster Seitensatz],” although “of similar rhythmic configuration” (to the principal subject) [pp. 191– 92]. How far removed he is, therefore, from grasping the art with which Beethoven carries the contrariety and multiplicity suited to the requirements of synthesis even into the realm of arpeggiations: the first subject is ruled by upward arpeggiations (in the left hand), the second by downward ones (in the right hand, and, as it were, whipped into line in the course of bars 20 – 21), and the closing subject by upward ones again (in the left hand), which so unerringly sweep bars 50ff along with them, too. Bars 35ff indicate to Marx—in opposition to his own scheme, on top of everything else—“a closing subject [Schlußsatz],” and bars 50– 56 “almost” a “second closing subject” [192].41

34“Once more” because this is the third in a series of Marx’s examples of “relaxations” of second rondo form. 35Gegensatz, Hauptsatz: Schenker adopts Marx’s term and assimilates it to “contrast.” 36Marx does speak of a Gang, but he does not quite claim that the passage in question is one: Doubt can undeniably arise, incidentally—if not in the case at hand, then in similar ones (which we will yet consider)—about whether to regard a middle theme [Mittelsatz] that is steered away from so early as a Satz of a song form or as a Gang; and so again we recognize here a boundary line at which two most closely related forms, the first and second rondo forms, touch one another, indeed from time to time cannot be distinguished securely, however distinct they may be at the core of their being. (pp. 119– 20) 37Schenker writes Anhänge (“appendices”), apparently in error.

38Marx gives this diagram at the beginning of his Sixth Book, Third Division, Sixth Segment, “Fifth Rondo Form” (op. cit., p. 186). “HS” ⫽ “main subject” (Hauptsatz), “SS” ⫽ subsidiary subject” (Seitensatz). Again, further citations will be given by page number in the text. 39Schenker’s interjection. 40But the “first subject” of this sentence is not the principal theme of the form. Two sentences before Schenker begins quoting, Marx identifies it as a “striking” feature of the principal theme that “it consists of two distinct strange elements,” of which bars 1–5 represent the first and bars 5–9 the second. 41If Schenker means that Marx contradicts himself by including a closing subject when none is indicated in the scheme cited, he is unjustified. The scheme’s defining feature—that is, the feature that distinguishes the fifth rondo from the other “larger” rondo forms—is the occurrence of a second subsidiary subject (SS2), and no repetition of the principal theme, in the middle section, rather than

91

tonw i l l e 2 On the occasion of the “livelier turn back” toward the first subject (bars 111ff are meant) he speaks of no fewer than four keys: F major, D [recte: D
] major, B
minor, C minor (!!) and then it says: “But instead of C minor, c–e–g is written” [p. 193]. . . . {46} But how absurd, this obsession with demonstrating by hermeneutic means the ways of Beethoven’s logical consistency, while failing so completely to comprehend them musically! When Marx sees bars 1ff, already he knows how to say: “The inconstancy in the formation of the principal subject, . . . as well as . . . the choice of the minor dominant . . . are to be attributed to the passionate . . . character of the finale” [p. 191]; he sees bars 22ff and already he writes: “We thus have before us another simple theme with incomplete repetition, of the same impetuosity as the first subject, . . . closely linked with it”; he sees bars 34ff and he already feels: “Now the need for a closing subject (bars 35ff) is felt, to round off the first section soothingly”; he sees bars 50ff and already he knows: “Only the fundamental character of the entire finale conflicts with this peaceful conclusion” [p. 192]. In conclusion, he, of course, does not fail to assert:

where the repetition, if there is to be such a thing at all, should have belonged without exception! His Anleitung zum Vortrag Beethovenscher Klavierwerke also contains many references to Op. 2, No. 1.42 I confidently leave to the reader the examination of these instructions, to which, as I indicate, the prerequisite of a properly understood content is lacking, but can do no other than recognize that Marx at least has an open mind for freedom in performance. Suffice it to say here that, along with Beethoven’s fingering in bars 59– 62 of the minuet, he has also considered that of Czerny (see earlier), as well as the following, imparted to him orally by Bülow: 454 545454 545454 545454 5 121 212121 212121 212121 2.

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But he himself is not averse also to indicate the two voices proceeding in thirds as the basis of the left hand, belonging together, . . . and to leave the upper voice to the right hand, as the carrier of the melody. For small hands this suggestion, alongside Bülow’s fingering in the passage of fourths, seems the most acceptable. Beethoven himself indicates the latter for a span of three bars in the finale of the A major Sonata, Op 101 . . . and this prescription can therefore be taken back to the sonata in Op. 2.

It is one of the earlier and smaller compositions of Beethoven, but one of the most characterful and self-controlled that would ever be written. [p. 194] and delights himself with idle thoughts:

By no means! For the situation in Op 101, last movement, bars 216ff is completely different. But anyone who grasps the sense of the passage in the minuet of of the Op. 2 sonata and understands how to read the slurs will find that it is rendered more fittingly through Beethoven’s fingering than through any others; one sees clearly, from the way the master-player has arranged it for him, that he has touch and power in reserve for the peak fortissimo b
2 in bar 61—and this alone corresponds to the state of affairs there. If a theorist like Riemann cannot follow the aristocratic urge of genius to bind great unities, to present far-reaching compilations of chords from a single point of view, then, whether he wants to or not, then he must, in good democratic fashion, break up the whole, the large form, splinter the connections, and hear innumerable harmonies where only passing motions rule. Thus Riemann dissects

. . . how unnecessary and uncalled-for a central repetition of the first subject would have been [194]. But Beethoven wrote a sonata-form movement, where “a central repetition of the first subject” does not belong at all, and did not write Marx’s “fifth rondo form,”

any feature of the outer sections. Moreover, the scheme is offered only as a kind of first draft of the form; on the next page Marx says, “The first and most important thing that we have to consider, accordingly [that is, once the absence of the principal theme from the middle section has been postulated], is—the close of the first part. Can it be closed satisfactorily with the first subsidiary subject?— No. . . . Also, a Gang following after the subsidiary subject would not have this power. . . . We therefore require a Satz that reinforces the conclusion of our composite mass, or of our first part, thus a closing subject. . . ”; a few lines later Marx elaborates the scheme for the outer sections to “principal theme— subsidiary subject with Gänge—closing subject” [Hauptsatz—Seitensatz mit Gängen—Schlußsatz] (he later adds this to the complete scheme, on p. 199; see also Musical Form in the Age of Beethoven, p. 91) , and he then immediately devotes a subsection of the chapter to the closing subject—all of this on the pages between the scheme quoted by Schenker and the analysis of the sonata’s finale.

42Schenker cites the third edition of 1898; the translator had access only to the second edition, edited by Gustav Behncke (Berlin: Otto Janke, 1875). Pages 90– 95 are devoted to Op. 2, No. 1, and the preceding section of “General Observations” refers to it in a number of places—including the passage cited later in this paragraph, from pp. 33– 34.

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Beethoven’s Sonata in F Minor, Op. 2, No. 1

the first movement of the sonata into sixteen periods: the first part into: I, bars 1– 8, II (“evolution”), bars 9–16, III–IV (“second theme, A
major”), bars 16– 41, IVa (“epilogue”), bars 41– 8; the development into V (“main theme”), bars 49– 54, VI (“second theme”), bars 55– 63, VII, bars 63 –71, VII–IX (“retransition”), bars 71– 93, X, bars 93–100, etc.43 In the text, he distinguishes further assorted antecedent and consequent phrases in III–IV, which suggests total confusion regarding the manifestation of unity in the second group, as is genuinely suited to a sonata (thus also the coupling of two periods). What is the use, for example, of Period VII or Period X? Of course, if one sees him drag a myriad of harmonies into the fifth-progression in the latter case, then one understands how he must have experienced a difficulty there that, in reality, does not exist. But the ultimate cause of his gross transgressions is to be sought in his bad ear for music. Thus, he hears the chord in bar 11 of the first movement as:

sure of the breadth and depth of Beethovenian coherence? So he much prefers to conduct soliloquies about meter, pursue puerilities of reminiscence (see below), etc. The question of whether an upbeat quarter-note c1 also befits the repetition of the motive in bars 3– 4 (it would be taken from the accompaniment), he decides in the negative. But after the first span (of a sixth), c–a
, is established by means of the upbeat to bar 1, a second span, c–b
, must necessarily impose itself in bars 3– 4—and is the origin of the short grace-notes in bars 5– 6 not to be found precisely in the upbeats as well? That, by contrast, the upbeat is missing altogether in bar 100 in the recapitulation (the first bar of the sketch referred to above begins in exactly this way, incidentally) has to do only with the different situation there.44 The form of the Adagio, Riemann, like Marx, understands as a three-part one (Große Kompositionslehre,45 pp. 86[–7]):

and just with this he completely misses Beethoven’s genius of synthesis in the line and in the modulation in the consequent phrase; that he speaks at the same time of “indisputably simple relationships” makes him look even worse; bar 95 sounds like this to him:

For example, the Adagio of Beethoven’s Sonata op 2 no 1 consists, in its first part of two sentences [Sätze] that both show the scheme a a b a: (bars 1–16 quoted). The middle section (the Trio) is actually formed of just a single eight-bar sentence, which begins contrastingly in D minor and cadences to C major, but which is extended through the interpolation of eleven bars and gets four more bars of cadential appendices, whereupon the first section is repeated, richly ornamented, and likewise receives a series of cadential appendices as coda to top it off. (See also Beethovens Klaviersonaten, p. 98.) Thus, like Marx, he, too, fails to recognize the repetitions of the main motive in the contrasting section, as follows from the words “interpolation” and “a series of cadential appendices.” The minuet gives Riemann occasion to write at length about the “internal rest” [Innenpause] in bar 1 and to indicate the motivic formation thus:

{47} a misconception of this passage, a misrepresentation, that makes one blush. In bars 9–11 in the consequent phrase, he still continues F minor with V–I, instead of entering at once into the modulation to A
major. He explains bars 111– 113 with (˚SIV V D7) ˚S, instead of with passing motions, and, in bar 81, he hears a fourfold exchange of V–I, instead of neighboring notes and passing motions. But what further errors he might yet have betrayed if, in the “sketch” of his analysis, instead of just transcribing the notes mechanically, he had attempted to represent their sense, one can hardly imagine. Can such a limited aural range take the mea-

44Hängt nur mit der dort veränderten Lage zusammen: Schenker may also be using Lage in its technical sense of register: in the recapitulation, the a
2 of the principal motive is prepared from above, by the line c3 –b
2 –a
2, rather than from below by the broken chord from c1. 45Hugo Riemann, Große Kompositionslehre (Berlin and Stuttgart: W. Spemann, 1902), vol. 1: Der homophone Satz (Melodielehre und Harmonielehre).

bases the first part of his critique of Riemann’s analysis of Op. 2, No. 1, on L. van Beethovens sämtliche Klavier-Solosonaten: ästhetische und formal-technische Analyse, mit historischen Notizen, vol. 1 (Berlin: Max Hesse, 1918). For subsequent references, he uses the abbreviated title from the spine of the book, Beethovens Klaviersonaten. 43Schenker

93

tonw i l l e 2 If I now juxtapose to this figure the following one:

without interpolation. The motives taken from the main theme now lead back, in three eight-bar sections with a few interpolations, to the main key and to the repetition of the first part, which proceeds normally, and to this degree approximates the most perfect form (the fourth), as it brings the second theme (as already the transition to it) into the main key. Just a few bars of coda, with motives from the first theme, close the movement off.

then I may well say that he is right about bar 1 only by accident. Again like Marx, Riemann writes about the Prestissimo (Katechismus der Kompositionslehre):

In Beethovens Klaviersonaten, too, Riemann clings to this conception of the last movement: “Its form is that of a two-part song form with reprises of both parts, approximating sonata form.” Nagel (Beethoven und seine Klaviersonaten, 1903) declares on p. 26:

关

The closing movement of Beethoven’s sonata Op. 2, No. 1, expresses the third form very clearly (bars 1– 2 quoted): first a three-limbed sentence (4 ⫹ 4 ⫹ 4 ) with cadence to the second upper dominant (G major), and then a second one with extension of the seventh bar into two bars (triplet of bars) closing to the minor upper dominant C minor.46

兴

But anyone who compares its overall structure and the expressive means employed in it to the two other sonatas of the same opus, contrasts its relatively inoffensive manner with the brilliant stamp of the second and third sonatas, and bears in mind that, as conditions stood for Beethoven, it was incumbent on him to introduce himself to Vienna in the most outwardly advantageous way—anyone who takes all that into consideration will conclude that Beethoven would have had no reason at all to write music in Vienna like that of the first sonata.47

Thus, like Marx, he also tears the C minor cadence, II  –V  –I (bars 12–13– 20) in two at the V in the middle (!), and postulates two formal sections with two cadences (cf. also the sketch of his analysis in Beethovens Klaviersonaten). A third sentence, already set completely in this key [C minor], thus remains for the moment still in the character and movement of the first theme, while dwelling on the dominant, g 64  (a
–g–f  –g is a figuration of g), and only in eight bars cadences to the tonic og (with the second halfsentence repeated again).

To wit, Nagel wants to see the work relegated to the Bonn period. One accordingly has the right to expect that he would support this assumption on stylistic features; but if one reads his analysis one sees him, just like Riemann, Marx, and the others, as a failure, and in a condition of helplessness that in no way justifies the issuing of such hypotheses. All that remains is the whim of a historian: thus does a historian slap genius on the back, one might say, in a variant of the popular motto of the Fifth Symphony! It would be superfluous to provide further samples of the literature; now the reader will just get to hear something of the tall tales of those who search for thematic resemblances. Reinecke (Die Beethoven’schen Clavier-Sonaten, 1894) postulates a similarity between the main motive of the first movement in the Beethoven sonata and that of the last movement of the G minor Symphony of Mozart.48 Here I will disre-

But bars 22ff are underpinned by I, not V, and the sense of the figuration—see the graph of the Urlinie—is other than what Riemann states. {48} The actual theme is serious (bars 35– 36 quoted), a regular eight-bar period with full cadence on ˚g, which is repeated exactly, to which are attached cadential reinforcements using the main motive of the first theme (these are repeated). In sharp contrast, the middle section in A

major (relative major) now begins, without transition (bars 59– 68 quoted), repeated exactly, then an intermediate four-bar unit (repeated with ornament) and a return of the main section of the third theme with the omission of the segment bracketed above, i.e., exactly symmetrically, then again the intermediate phrase (4 ⫹ 4) and once more the main section 46Riemann,

47Willibald Nagel, Beethoven und seine Klaviersonaten (Langensalza: Hermann Beyer & Söhne [Beyer & Mann], 1903), vol. 1, p. 26. 48Reinecke, Die Beethoven’schen Clavier-Sonaten, pp. 30–1.

Katechismus der Kompositionslehre (Musikalische Formenlehre) (Leipzig, 1889).

94

Beethoven’s Sonata in F Minor, Op. 2, No. 1

gard the fact that the lines manifest themselves completely differently in the two cases, and only express my amazement that the Masters of the Reminiscence Hunt have not long since been able to find in this motive an anticipation of the Scherzo of the Fifth Symphony, too, since in the meantime it has become well known (through Nottebohm) that Beethoven actually did write a few bars of the Mozart symphony movement referred to on his sketch pages.49 Perhaps this discovery is still to come! In opposition to Reinecke, Riemann would prefer to recall the Mannheim composers and their “rockets” (Beethovens Klaviersonaten, p. 85): “When several such arpeggios climb up in succession, it is difficult to resist an association with

the sight of fireworks. But Beethoven is satisfied with two, and discharges the unrest that such a motivic formation arouses through a turn [Doppelschlag] on the peak tone, which resembles an explosion with slowly sinking star-shells.” Nagel, for his part, trots out other arpeggiations, e.g. those of Christoph Graupner, and moreover affirms that he has seen similar ones in Haydn, Mozart, etc.50 That’s what I call a nice pastime. It is also Riemann who wants to see the arpeggiation at the beginning of the development in the last movement, bars 59– 61, understood “as a reminiscence of the beginning of the first movement.” So that’s how it is with Beethoven’s Op. 2, No. 1!

Zweite Beethoveniana, p. 531: On the third page of the same leaf [a bifolium of sketches for the Scherzo] are 29 bars from the last movement of Mozart’s G-minor Symphony. This proximity is a traitoress. It betrays that the first nine notes of the theme of the third movement of Beethoven’s C minor Symphony, in respect of the pitch succession (not rhythm or key), are exactly the same as the first nine notes of the theme of the last movement of Mozart’s G-minor Symphony. Did Beethoven notice the similarity? Schenker’s remarks about Reinecke are puzzling, because Reinecke does connect the Scherzo theme of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony to the Mozart theme and does note the presence of the latter in Beethoven’s sketches: The first theme [of Op. 2, No. 1,] automatically calls to mind the Finale of the G-minor Symphony of Mozart (music example here). This theme of Mozart’s appears to have made an unusually strong impression on Beethoven in general, for we learn through Wasielewski, in his valuable Beethoven biography, that Beethoven consciously formed the theme of the third movement of the C-minor Symphony out of this theme. To wit, both themes are found, notated close together in Beethoven’s hand, in one of his sketchbooks (music example here). Reinecke’s two music examples provide simple, note-for-note comparisons of the themes in question.

50Nagel, Beethoven und seine Klaviersonaten, p. 28. Graupner’s forename is given as “Christian” in Schenker’s original text.

49Nottebohm,

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Tonwille 3

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Haydn’s Sonata in E
Major, Hoboken XVI:52 Haydn: Sonate Es-Dur {Tonwille 3, pp. 3– 21} t r a n s l at e d b y r o b e r t s n a r r e n b e r g Bars 1ff. While the upper voice rises in bar 1 from g1 to the fifth tone of the diatonic scale, which is the tone that is also decisive for the Urlinie,3 the inner voice traverses 8–
7– 6 in the rhythm l q q h l .4 This rhythm, called a caesura [Einschnitt] in strict counterpoint (see Kontrapunkt i, p. 407/p. 316), proves to be that which bestows life on this movement. Right away in bar 2, the Urlinie corroborates the caesura rhythm with a consecration of its own and thus elevates it to a motive of a special type. As the configuration of bars 1– 2 stands before us, we feel that no one other than Haydn could have made it. We recognize the following as especially characteristic of his inspired style: first, the middle register as the chest tone of heartfelt, manly song; second, the genuinely improvisatory enthusiasm that, because it remains as happily aware of the most distant things as it is of the present moment, freely rushes to a stop [Zäsur] in the very first tones (i.e., the terse cadential progression above the pedal point), an enthusiasm that promotes in an especially effective way both the rhythm of the caesura [Einschnitt] and the closure [Zäsur] of this cadential progression; and finally, the arpeggios, which are artfully divided between the two hands in alternation like a minstrel strumming his strings. In fact, Haydn’s creation of tonal units strongly evokes images of human speech (see Harmonielehre, pp. 26ff/pp. 17ff ). In contrast to other {4} masters, Haydn uses pauses and fermatas to underscore and thereby increase, as if with a diversity of gestures, the significance, animation, and intensity of his tonal rhetoric. In bar 3, the Urlinie is transferred to a higher register, a register in which 5ˆ 4ˆ 3ˆ are already placed in the open (i.e., without a pedal point). And, once again, the

First Movement (Allegro)

This sonata bears the date of December 1798.

1

Haydn wrote it in his sixty-sixth year, twenty years after Mozart wrote his Sonata in A Minor (1778) and two years after Beethoven wrote his Sonata in F Minor, Op. 2, No. 1.2 Even though the younger masters raced ahead of him, Haydn, as is becoming of a genius who relies on God, remained a pioneer, his own man, a man who lent an indestructible body and the wings of an eternal soul to a new perfection. These three are kindred masters, not because they lived during the same period of time, but because they produced tonal synthesis with the same superior strength and were servants of tone who were blessed with connection. And yet, with all these similarities, how different is the world of tone in a Haydn sonata compared to what it is in a sonata by Mozart or Beethoven! The first movement’s sonata form is arranged as follows: First Subject: antecedent phrase consequent phrase and modulation Second Subject Group first part of the subject second part of the subject (Closing Subject) Development Recapitulation

bars 1– 8 9–16 17– 27 27– 40 40– 43 44 –78 79 –116

1[S]Haydn, Gesamtausgabe, no. 52; Universal Edition no. 4. [Schenker worked from Louis Köhler and F. A. Roitzsch’s four-volume edition of the Haydn sonatas, published by C. F. Peters (edition no. 713); in deference to the publishers of Tonwille, however, he gave the numbering of the sonata in the current Universal Edition. (It is characteristic of older collected editions of the Haydn sonatas for the later, more famous sonatas to appear at the beginning, and not in chronological order.) The “Gesamtausgabe” to which Schenker refers was prepared by Karl Päsler in 1918. For an appraisal of Päsler’s work in the context of Haydn editions in the early twentieth century, see Tonwille 4, p. 28/i, p. 167. 2[S]The Mozart and Beethoven sonatas are discussed in the second issue of Tonwille.

3[S]In the graph of the Urlinie (p. 100), I have for the first time used the symbol ^ to indicate that a diatonic tone is called upon to serve in the Urlinie. 4Two of Schenker’s personal copies of Tonwille in the Oster Collection are marked with emendations—these are assigned the numbers 10 and 18 in the category “Books and Pamphlets” (hereafter BP10 and BP18, respectively). In BP18, he indicates a different Urlinie, writing 3ˆ above bar 1, 2ˆ above bar 16 and again above bar 27.

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tonw i l l e 3

*) A number with the sign ^ signifies the corresponding step in the diatonic scale. The succession of numbers so indicated signify the descent of the Urlinie, for example, in E
major. The Urlinie tones of a lesser significance are differentiated by being printed smaller.

caesura rhythm. And now with c3, still in bar 3, 6ˆ appears in front of 5ˆ , as if supplying a new impulse. Indeed, 6ˆ is not assigned a harmonic degree of its own, but instead lies before 5ˆ only as a neighbor note; and, after reaching back three times, it is finally able to set in motion a sixteenth-note run that ushers in the lowering of 6ˆ by an octave.5 Such a descent in the space of an octave naturally makes use of passing chords, but their execution not only varies from one example to an-

other (compare the descents in bars 48– 50 and 58– 61) but even from one segment to another within a single example (see for example, the C minor Prelude, bars 5–18, from Bach’s Well-Tempered Clavier, book 1; the topic is treated at length in “Freier Satz”).6 The Urlinie graph shows which types of passing [chords] arise in the octave descent of bars 4 – 8. Also noteworthy in this descent is the progressive acceleration: whole notes in bars 4 and 5, half notes in bars 6 and 7, and

5The graph of the Urlinie shows a slur between g2 and g1, hence 3 ˆ and not 6ˆ , but Schenker may mean that the stepwise motion through this octave brings 6ˆ down as well, along with 5ˆ and 4ˆ because they are included as passing tones within the octave descent.

6In 1923 Schenker published an analysis of this prelude in the monthly journal Die Musik (vol. 15, pp. 641– 51); he incorporated it three years later into his essay “Das Organische der Fuge” in Meisterwerk ii, which is concerned mainly with the companion C minor fugue.

100

Haydn’s Sonata in E
Major, Hoboken XVI:52

finally quarter notes in bar 8. Yet, the master knew to avoid juxtaposing one note value with the next in blatant contrast; instead, he arranges for a suitable preparation to mediate each point of transition: hence, the entrance of f 2 on the upbeat cleverly prepares for the coming half notes,7 and likewise the motion leading upward from b
to a
1 in two quarter notes in the upbeat of bar 7 prepares for the quarter notes of the downbeat in bar 8.8 And then, in this same bar, the quarter notes of the downbeat together with the half note of the upbeat (2ˆ of the Urlinie) produce, entirely of their own accord, an imitation of the succession 5ˆ –4ˆ –3ˆ of bar 2, an effect especially promoted by the fact that Haydn knew to bring the entire series 4ˆ –3ˆ –2ˆ in the same register as 5ˆ –4ˆ –3ˆ by means of the aforementioned run in the upbeat of bar 7. What sureness in the treatment of diminution! So, out of respect for this unavoidable impression, we may then interpret the Urlinie as running its course in two segments, as indicated in the Urlinie graph (by the solid portions of the bracket above bars 1– 8). (As a whole, of course, the Urlinie falls from 5ˆ to ˆ1 , with the 3ˆ –4ˆ prefixed in bar 1 serving only to elaborate the space of a third.) The increased harmonic motion in bar 8 helps the emphasis of the cadential progression at the conclusion of the antecedent phrase. As for the diminution in the antecedent phrase, the following must be noted: the leap of a third from the first to the second quarter in bar 1 elicits a similar leap in the first quarter of bar 2—the law of repetition in its most delicate manifestation (Harmonielehre, pp. 4 ff/pp. 4ff ); the contraction into sixteenth notes across bars 3|4 continues on into the thirty-second-note figures of bars 6 and 7, which, although they are used here only for decoration, nonetheless have their significant source in the Urlinie’s motive.

point. The thirty-second-note run in bars 9–10 makes an overwhelming impression, storming through the Urlinie’s linear progression (6ˆ ) 5ˆ –1ˆ , (c3) b
1 –E
, and thereby answering as well as thrillingly affirming the run that just occurred in the antecedent phrase. {5} What organic vigor lies in such boldness of improvisation! And then, right away in the fourth quarter of bar 10 no less, 6ˆ reappears in order to unroll the Urlinie’s progression anew, this time in half notes. The newly formed definition of this augmentation, the effect of which is so much more intense for coming after the motivic plummet of bar 10, is only somewhat muffled by its presentation in syncopations. Even in the upbeat of bar 13, one must still assume there is a suspension (a suspended octave leading to the diminished seventh of  IV
7 )  and therefore dismiss the semblance of a V 3 that arises at this point merely through the coincidental collision of the accented passing f 1 (passing between g and e) and the suspended octave e
3 (see the Urlinie graph). The augmentation in bars 11–12 arises automatically with the transference of the diminution from bars 6–7, where the passing motions are likewise paced in half notes. It is appropriate, then, to speak here of an inversion of those bars: the right hand taking the sixteenths and syncopated notes, the left hand taking the half notes; moreover, the e
2 in bar 10 may plausibly be regarded as a half note, too, insofar as harmonic degree I connects the third quarter to the fourth. Indeed, it was this very circumstance, and really just this, that allowed the master to start the new Urlinie progression on the heels of the first—what rigor in synthesis! The transfer of the chromatic tones from the inner voice to the lower in the upbeat of bar 12 (i.e., the division of the half note into a1 and a
1) prepares for the chromatic motion in bar 13. The concluding pitch of the linear progression, e
2 as ˆ1 , is reinterpreted in bar 13 as 4ˆ of B
major, which—see the Urlinie graph9 —is not followed by 3ˆ until bar 18 [recte: 17], inasmuch as the beginning and ending points of the two Urlinie segments 4ˆ [3ˆ 2ˆ and (
6ˆ ) 5ˆ 4ˆ]  3ˆ are drawn together. An exchange of voices in bar 14 brings the motion of the lower voice of bar 13 up to the top and in this way clearly promotes
6ˆ as neighbor to 5ˆ in the second Urlinie segment, expressed in the manner of a turn with g
–f–e preceding f.

Bars 9ff. The antecedent actually concludes with e
1 as ˆ1 in a full cadence (a trait of Haydn’s sonata-synthesis that recurs again and again), but through an act of abbreviation the start of the consequent phrase is superimposed upon it, with the ascending formula [Anstiegformel] 3ˆ –4ˆ –5ˆ placed in the higher octave. 6ˆ now breaks away here, setting itself apart with greater definition: the pitch already acquires the value of a quarter note (notice the sense of increase) and positions itself in this expanded form on IV, which is of course suspended above a pedal

Bars 17ff. The first part of the second subject group begins like the first subject (compare this with bars 1– 2 and also 9–10), and once again, peeping out clearly from behind the altered diminution (a thirty-second-note run that turns two oc-

7Schenker

treats the meter as if it were alla breve, with one downbeat and one upbeat in each bar. this technique of connecting different note values, see, for example, Beethoven’s Sonata in C  Minor, first movement, bars 55–57 and what was said about it in the foreword to my facsimile edition of this sonata: [Ludwig van Beethoven: Sonate, Op. 27, Nr. 2 (die sogenannte Mondscheinsonate), mit drei Skizzenblättern des Meisters], “Musikalische Seltenheiten” No. 1, Universal Edition 7000 [1921]. 8[S]For

9In the graph of the Urlinie, there should be a B dur at bar 13, to show that the roman and capped arabic numbers are reckoned in B
major until bar 43.

101

tonw i l l e 3 taves into a theater for the motive), is 6ˆ before 5ˆ . The criterion for identifying the second subject group is only the change of key itself, and not also the motive (see under “Literature”). At last, in bar 20 and after a long struggle, 6ˆ finally acquires a temporal span longer than what it had in bar 9. By traversing  6ˆ –5ˆ –  4ˆ –5ˆ in bars 20 – 22, the line again circumscribes 5ˆ with a turn figure, as it had done earlier in bars 14 –15, but now greatly enlarged. Taken merely in its horizontal aspect,  the turn figure suggests the elaboration of a II 3 (see the Adagio, bars 11–12 and 27– 28). This impression is also reinforced by the series of chords, which indeed  resembles a course that runs II
3 –V–I–II 3 but is one in which the intervening chords may so much more easily be understood as having a passing value, inasmuch as the same harmonic degree stands at the beginning and at the end. In fact, the voice-leading here is an outgrowth of the conventional voice-leading that makes do with a simple contrary motion: 10 —

冢

8 —

6

g f e



g f e
———————— II
3

5ˆ now appears in the upbeat of bar 22, here again functioning as the real starting point of the descending Urlinie. If one grants the status of the Urlinie’s fifthprogression to the series of tones descending from f 2 to b
1 (from the upbeat of bar 22 to the upbeat of bar 23), one will be mistaken about what follows thereafter: for in fact this is an inner-voice motion that, with the attainment of b
1, wants only to create space for the cycling of new thirty-second-note diminution in bar 24, while the remaining pitches of the Urlinie 4ˆ –1ˆ do not follow until bars 25 – 27 (see the Urlinie graph). It must be observed, furthermore, that the diminution changes virtually harmony by harmony. Of particularly great effect is the lowest line of bars 22– 23, which moves in sudden leaps (instead of steps of a second); these leaps in the lowest line answer similar leaps in the right hand that flicker up above the upper line proper. The master was forced by the law of obligatory registral treatment to write these leaps in the lowest line (see Tonwille 1, p. 39/i, p. 35): the bass pitch e
on the downbeat of bar 20 must be followed in bar 24 by d, also in the small octave; so, because the one-line and the small octave must take turns participating in f–(g)–f–e
–d of the lower voice, the leaps arose out of necessity. As intended, the small octave has the last word in the fourth quarter of bar 24.

冢

3

{6} However, since the final pitch of the lower line in our case had to be brought from the small octave [g] to the one-line octave [g1] (see the Urlinie graph), Haydn preferred to get to g1 not by way of an intervening octave, an interval that would in any event be less conducive to diminution, but instead by way of the intervals 6– 5, i.e., the bass notes A–B
, which now in like manner simulate V and I and allow greater opportunity for elaboration. And it is precisely the important change of harmony and the new motivic formation that, in conjunction, announce the increased weight of 6ˆ . The suspensions placed over II on the down beat of bar 20 constitute at that moment a VI 3; thus, we have here the so-called chord of the major seventh (see Emanuel Bach, Generalbaßlehre [⫽ part ii/2 of the Versuch], chapter XVI/pp. 293– 97) applied to a 63 chord, as shown in Fig. 1b (see “Freier Satz”).

Bars 27ff. The first part of the second subject has deposited ˆ1 on the downbeat of bar 22 [recte: 27] in a full cadence. And immediately, in the second quarter of the same bar, the second part of the subject latches on to it—a priceless treasure of sonata synthesis that I never tire of mentioning. The graph of the Urlinie chiefly shows the descent from 5ˆ to 2ˆ as signifying an antecedent phrase ending in a half cadence with mixture (B
minor). The consequent phrase (bars 33ff) returns to the major mode and undergoes a significant expansion: not only does it finally bring 8ˆ –7ˆ into play before 6ˆ , but it also brings 3ˆ –2ˆ (–1ˆ ), which is tantamount to 10 ˆ –9ˆ before 8ˆ . Yet, the latter prefix does not signify a course of essential Urlinie tones;10 10[S]Such a course would have completely different consequences; see, for example, Tonwille 2, p. 13/i, p. 61.

102

Haydn’s Sonata in E
Major, Hoboken XVI:52

rather, the  3ˆ of this prefix serves to cancel the
3ˆ of the preceding mixture, while the prefix as a whole, in returning to the original note values of the caesura rhythm (see bars 1 and 2), also {7} serves to supply a new impulse to the line, which reaches back to start from 8ˆ . Concerning the diminution, there is a contraction of the basic motive in bar 27 that functions in the service of 5ˆ ; the 3ˆ –2ˆ –1ˆ of the preceding cadential progression provides a direct stimulus for it. This contraction creates space, and a chain of contracted motives (four elaborated thirds) leads down to d
2 (
3ˆ in bar 29).11 Even here, the diminution, although seemingly new, again expresses only the basic motive and, moreover, with the caesura rhythm. Two of these newly derived motives produce the succession d
2 –c2 (with their beginning and ending points) and their repetition gives rise to d
2 –c1 in augmentation, from the upbeat of bar 30 to the c1 of bars 30– 31 [recte: 31– 32], where the ninth (in reality the step of a second; see Kontrapunkt i, pp. 88ff and 119ff/pp. 61ff and 84ff ) is again traversed in four leaps of a third. At the beginning of bar 31, it is II that is presented and not the V that one might suppose: V is not reached until the fifth-progression of bar 31 leads to it in bar 32. In the fourth quarter of bar 32 the run storms upward to d2 in order to regain the two-line register of bar 29; but because of the pressure of that tempestuous ascent, the line stretches even further upward, beyond f 2 in the second quarter of bar 33 (which substitutes for d2) to b
2, the 8ˆ of the Urlinie (see above). 6ˆ is reached in the downbeat of bar 34 and serves to give further impulse to the line, just as in bar 3. 3ˆ is reached in bar 35; and now there is a fascinating play with the lower neighbor notes, which are struck by the left hand an octave lower and point with so much promise in the downward direction (see the Erläuterungsausgabe of Op. 110, p. 34/p. 24), until virtually plunging in bar 36 into 2ˆ and ˆ1 with a forceful sixteenth-note run that sums up, as it were, the preceding events (8ˆ to 3ˆ ). The last tone of the Urlinie (1ˆ ) would thus seem to appear already in the downbeat of bar 37, along with a complete harmonic progression no less; but since the tonic, in keeping with the preceding chain [Zug] of 6 6 3 chords, appears only as a 3 chord, it does not yet amount to a cadence. So after a rest in the upbeat (yet another gesture of Haydnesque tonal rhetoric),12 the master reattempts a harmonic progression, one that finally brings an actual ca-

dence with the ascending leading tone. Accordingly, b
1 must be heard as continuing to sound above the hollow octaves of bars 38– 39. The degree to which 2ˆ ˆ1 7ˆ ˆ1 is in principle equivalent to the linear succession 2ˆ ˆ1 (see the parentheses in the Urlinie graph) will be explained in detail in “Freier Satz.”13 Here I will refer only to what was said in Kontrapunkt i (pp. 142ff/pp. 101ff ) about the use of both ascending and descending leading tones in the cantus firmus as the train of thought underlying this interpretation.14 Not only is the formula of the ascent b
–c–d lightly etched into the final measures of the exposition, a formula that felicitously paves the way to the repetition of the exposition as well as to the development, but also, as if coincidentally, the higher octave is reached, an octave that makes it possible for the motion of the Urlinie tones to proceed in two registers in the development, as if on a double track: a highly unusual treatment of the Urlinie, with exceptionally sonorous charm. Bars 44ff. That to which the final bars of the exposition alluded now comes fully into its own, borne along by exuberant expression. The development section’s line that is led along two registral tracks (see the brackets in the Urlinie graph) moves from (b
) b  to d and back (bars 44 –74); then, in bars 75–79, a quick descent to g is attached to it (albeit in chromatic steps), and this leads into the recapitulation.15 What makes it especially difficult to understand the indicated line is that the regular pace of the its course, in keeping with Haydn’s particular style, is broken by rhetorical caesuras, either in the form of actual fermatas (bars 45 and 67) or as elaborated {8} expansions that in effect amount to fermatas (bars 51–52). The path in its entirety can only be understood from the perspective of G minor. After reinterpreting I in B
major as II [recte: III] of G minor, IV is approached by way of a 5– 6 exchange. In this exchange, however, the outer voices would have led to consecutive octaves:

冢

13In BP10, Schenker has emended the graph of Urlinie by placing the roman number I in bar 35, and omitting the parenthesis enclosing the subsequent (1ˆ  7ˆ ). He appears to reassign 2ˆ to bar 39, but a marginal note clarifies that c2 –b
1 –a1 is an elaboration of c2 in bar 36. 14In the passage from the sonata to which Schenker refers, 2 ˆ and 7ˆ are interpreted as lying on two different paths approaching ˆ1 , hence as virtually belonging to two different lines; here as elsewhere, the primary line is determined by the preceding context; and if the context is the Urlinie, then of course the descending leading tone lies in the primary upper line (2ˆ –1ˆ ) and the lower leading tone lies in an inner voice. The passing from 2ˆ to 7ˆ is an elaboration of the consonant space between the two leading tones, the two lines that lead to tonic; see Der freie Satz, §118 and Fig. 34a. 15Annotations to BP18 indicate that Schenker later considered interpreting the line of the development section as b
–a
, 8–7 above V. See also Der freie Satz, Fig. 62/1.

11That is, by presenting the motivic content within a shorter span of time, Haydn creates an opportunity to fill the remaining time with repetitions of the contracted motive. 12[S]Compare this with a virtually identical treatment of cadences in the master’s Symphony No. 101 in D Major, first movement, [bars 302ff ].

103

tonw i l l e 3 bar: upper voice: lower voice: G minor harmonies:

44 45 46 b
b c B
B C ————————————— III5 ——  III6 —— IV

G minor harmonies:

had the master not anchored the middle chord by casting the root G into the low register (see Tonwille 2, p. 29/i, p. 75, Fig. 1c; and also “Freier Satz”)16 —here it is as if the step of a second III–IV proceeded by dropping a third and a fifth:  III–I 3 –IV (see Harmonielehre, §127/pp. 236– 39)—and had he not, in addition, taken the b  of the upper voice over into the inner voice by means of substitution and led the upper voice along in contrary motion. How striking is the fermata right above the G chord, which belongs to what follows on account of its leadingtone quality: in this case, it was the caesura of the basic motive that automatically cooperated with the fermata. Were the outer voices to have proceeded along the normal path from IV to V (bars 46– 51), they would likewise have to have moved in parallel octaves:

G minor harmonies:

50 c

51 d D ————————————— IV6 —— IV6 —— V

The master, however, enriched this voice-leading pattern by interpolating the neighbor note F between the two E
s, on account of the F he then converted the first E
into a chromatic note, hence E  –F:17 bar: upper voice: lower voice:

冢 冢

bar: upper voice: lower voice:

46 c E


bar: upper voice: lower voice:

G minor harmonies:

46 48 50 51  c ———————— c —— d E —— (F) —— E
—— D ——————————————————  3 —— 4 ——
3 IV ———————— IV —— V (neighbor note)

{9} Moreover, he bestowed a wealth of passing events upon the return of the neighbor note F to E
, the bass note of the inverted harmony (bars 48– 50); what gave him suitable pretext for this was not only the higher octave of the neighbor note (f 1), which eventually had to be led back into the small octave, the genuine register for conducting the bass line (see what was said above on the treatment of the bass in bars 20 – 24), but also the initial disposition of a fifth at the outset of the passing events on the downbeat in bar 48.18 The pitch d, lying at the pinnacle of the development section’s [upper] line, is placed on I in G minor in bar 52, whereupon a process of tonicization (raising the third during the course of the fifth-progression g2 –c2 in bars 53– 54) leads toward the neighboring harmony (or passing, as the case may be) on C (⫽ IV) in bar 54.19

46 50 51 c c d C C D ————————————— IV —— IV —— V

Here there were two possible remedies. The bass could retain its series of scale degrees C–C  –D (and at the same time present the normal line), in which case the upper voice would have to have proceeded in contrary motion with 8–
7 (as indicated by the bass figures above IV– IV in the Urlinie graph); or the line could remain in the upper voice, in which case the bass would have to have accommodated it by inverting IV into a 63 . Haydn chose the latter solution. Even with that choice, a simpler type of voice-leading would have been possible:

17This interpretation is clarified by later emendations to the graph of the Urlinie in BP18: a dotted slur connecting the bass e  in bar 46 to e
in bar 50. 18Schenker alludes to the obligatory register of the neighboring motion by placing the f in bar 48 in parenthesis and an arrow pointing from f to f 1. In BP10 he added a dotted line connecting e  in bar 46 with e  1 in bar 47. Some type of passing event is necessary if the consecutive fifths between the two root-position chords IV–III are to be mitigated. The fifth formed by the outer voices in bar 48 provides a root-position harmony, which, because of its stability, is capable of functioning as a point of departure for an extended passing motion. 19This was emended in the graph of the Urlinie in BP10, to relocate the goal of the tonicization process to bar 55; a dotted slur connects the g1 in bar 52 with the c1 in bar 55.

16That is, the 5– 6 exchange, which mitigates consecutive fifths, nevertheless leaves the octaves untouched. Schenker’s combination of bass figures and Roman numerals in the diagram may be confusing: the middle harmony (bar 45) is not a III chord in first inversion but rather a first-inversion chord based on the chromatically raised third of the scale, whose fifth has been replaced by a sixth. On the technique of moving the root of a chord to the lowest voice (“Auswerfen eines Grundtones”), see Der freie Satz, §247.

104

Haydn’s Sonata in E
Major, Hoboken XVI:52

bar 52; these linear progressions resemble and relate to the Urlinie’s linear progressions but here serve only the overarching line. In the end, however, all these linear progressions are surpassed by both the expansive descent from d2 [recte: d3] to c2 in bars 53– 54 (effected by the combination of two fifth-progressions) and the second descent from c3 to b  1 in bars 57– 64 (as already mentioned above, the second descent is executed in a different manner); both descents, of course, are equivalent to mere steps of a second. {10} The motive of bar 6 (also bars 11ff) returns for the first time in the latter descent; from bar 61 on, new thirty-secondnote figures serve to emphasize the meaning of the passage (see earlier).21

The expansive elaboration of this particular triad simulates an independent key: bar: in C minor:

54—57 I —

58 IV

—

59 III
7 —

61 VI

—

63 IV

—

64 V

In reality, however, this marvelous superabundance stems from the fact (see the Urlinie graph) that the path from the root C (bar 57) to the next root G (bar 7 64) proceeds by way of the neighboring harmony F  53, as is frequently the case; it stems, moreover, from the fact that the path to this neighboring harmony in bars 57– 63 proceeds according to the law of a fifth-progression falling beneath a root,20 taking the leaping-passing A
as the midpoint of the path. This is also why Haydn once again repeats the root C [c1] on the downbeat of bar 57. And when he immediately climbs a sixth to a
1 instead of dropping down a third, he does this from the start with the intention of obtaining an opportunity for developing diminution through the octave descent from the one-line octave to the small octave a
(bars 57– 61; see also bars 4 – 8 and 48– 49). Unprecedented in its profundity is the continuation of the bass path in bars 63 – 64. In bar 63, a
steps to g
, whereupon the listener feels justified in expecting a progression like that in bars 44 – 45 and 48– 51 (in this case, to f), but suddenly, in bar 64, g
is reinterpreted as f , which leads upward to g. The triad on a
, so far from perhaps being the key of A
major or VI of C minor, is instead merely a resting place in the elaboration; and the enharmonic reinterpretation, so far from being just a move of desperation, a deus ex machina—surely the master’s ear heard the G triad well in advance—is instead a deception that should therefore just intensify the surprising turn in the tale of the passing motion. The diminution in this segment of the development provides the basic motive with every possible transformation. The line as a whole (see the Urlinie graph) is equivalent to the ascent and descent of bars 1– 2 in the exposition. In more limited contexts, we see an augmentation in bars 44 – 45 (in half notes) and a diminution in bar 46 (as in bar 27). New thirty-second-note runs and arpeggiations decorate the passing motion in bars 48– 50. And above and beyond that, the figures from bar 47 onward coalesce into descending fifth-progressions (indicated by slurs in the Urlinie graph): from c3 to f2 in bars 47– 48 and from c3 to f  2 in bars 48– 51 [recte: 47– 51], then from d3 to f  2 in bars 51– 52 and from d3 to g2 in 20[S]See “Freier



冢

Bars 68ff. The downward movement pauses at first on I 3 (bar 65 [recte: 64]), which in itself does not contradict the key of G minor. The right to make such an inflection in a minor key sometimes derives from mixture (Harmony, §38/ pp. 84ff ) and sometimes, as here, from the use of a neighboring harmony that, in the chord succession of bars 52– 64, simulates the plagal harmonic succession   I 3 —IV
3 —I 3. It would indeed have been possible to proceed from the G triad to the key of E
major by means of the simpler voice-leading configurations shown below, each of which obviously presupposes a reversion from  3 to the strictly diatonic
3:

Haydn bases his realization on the form shown in Fig. 2c (see bars 64 and 65 [recte: 75ff ] in the Urlinie graph). Even if a raised third in III could in fact be deemed an interval of mixture in a minor key, the origin of this inflection as a tonicizing chromatic note (see above) was nevertheless too fraught with signifi cance for the master to have been able to decide to proceed simply from III 3 to III
3 in this passage of the development section. We therefore find him taking great pains to remove the chromatic harshness from the raised third. He achieves this goal by taking the raised third which is laden with a leading-tone quality and purging it of this quality right away in bar 68 in the first 5– 6 exchange, purifying 21The so-called meaning of the passage is that of a momentary resting place in the midst of a passing motion; the increase in activity presented by the thirty-second-note figures underscores the passing quality of the A
triad.

Satz” and Tonwille 2, pp. 8, 35, etc./i, pp. 56, 82, etc.

105

tonw i l l e 3

Second Movement (Adagio)

All the powers of mind and spirit also united in the master Haydn to make him

fit for the most pensive art of the Adagio. His innate sense of the nature of tones, elevated in an improvisatory manner and invigorated by indefatigably rich practical experience; his secure sense of the Urlinie’s motion, the whole as well as the part; his incomparable stamina along the way and undisturbed composure in unfurling the magnificent sweeps of diminution that arise from his breadth of vision; his liking for rhetorical style—all these naturally conjure forth the miracle of an Adagio. In this case, the key of the movement immediately constitutes an unprecedented test of the Adagio mood that has never before been heard: between two movements in E
major there stands a middle movement, this very Adagio, in E major, a most extreme and unsurpassable tonal contrast (Harmonielehre, p. 379ff/ pp. 288ff ).24 Only complete confidence of spirit, operative within the very first manifestation of the inventive faculty as a veritable confluence of design and deed (“What is invention?” wrote Goethe, “It is the conclusion of the search.”),25 could venture such a jarring contrast without qualm. (Hence, this bold venture cannot be imitated by a musician who can only seek an Adagio, instead of letting himself be found by it.) The form of this Adagio is ternary, with the individual sections also exhibiting ternary song form. Two peculiar characteristics weave mysteriously through the piece. First, whatever the section, the Urlinie always starts off from the pitch e; moreover, the Urlinie always descends, too, along the way adopting requisite chromatic alterations according to the key (mixture, modulation, return modulation).26 This pe-

}

}

it as the fifth of the E triad and later as the octave of the B triad; in this way he definitively obstructs the path upward to the c to which the raised third originally pointed and instead pushes it downward. Oh, how the master could conceal the path! As if improvising, his inventiveness takes a detour in order to approach the root F in the bass (bar 76) by way of F  (bar 75) that functions as a seemingly chromatic passing tone. By means of several 5– 6 exchanges (in which the sixths develop into 65 sonorities) he describes a large arch in the bass, stretching upward from G toward B and downward again toward F . The deception obscuring the path must succeed all the more easily when he not only reaches back to the beginning of the development for the diminutions and motives, but also answers the preceding progression22 b–c–d–c–b with b–c  –d–c  –b and thereby elicits the veritable impression of a consequent phrase. The ensuing moment is all the more effective, since enharmonicism intervenes in bar 75 and the a  in the upper voice, as b
, reinstates the main key, which then of course requires a G
in the bass in place of F . Finally, let us remark on the development in its entirety. The path leads from B
major, the key of the second subject, back toward the main key of E
major by way of G minor. The rationale for this path is this: the G triad is contained in the diatonic system of E
as III (see Harmony, §131/pp. 246– 50) and, from the perspective of voice leading, the path B
–G–E
conforms to the law of the descending fifth-progression (here it is equivalent to V–I in E
major).23 {11} Bars 79ff. The recapitulation begins in bar 79. Here just a word about bars 108ff [recte: 109ff]. They are to be understood as follows:

24Harmonielehre, §155, is concerned with chromaticism in the service of the diatonic system. Schenker mentions Haydn’s sonata on account of its unusual tonal plan (p. 381/p. 290). 25From Maximen und Reflexionen. 26On a sheet of paper inserted between pages 10 and 11 of BP10 is a slip of paper, headed by the rubric Mischung (mixture), on which Schenker has sketched a concise voice-leading analysis of this movement.

Accordingly, B

stands for A (⫽  IV(
7)). The notation suggested itself only because it was impracticable to express the neighbor note as a–a
–a.

Mischung

       ()   

this passage gives clear evidence that, in 1921, Schenker was not yet using the term to mean a unidirectional linear progression. 23[S]See the fifth-progressions mentioned earlier (e.g., C-A
-F  in bars 56 – 64) or B
-G-E
in bars 163 –77 of the last movement. 22Zug:

8



Adagio ^ 5

      

V8

106

(8 3^

   7

                 

Haydn’s Sonata in E
Major, Hoboken XVI:52

culiarity lends the piece, if I may put it this way, an expression that is very nearly like that of a chaconne or even a passacaglia, despite all the contrast in the lengths of individual lines and the treatment of keys and diminution. Added to this is the second peculiarity, namely, that the composer’s creative fantasy, likewise in all sections, works its way from the lower register up to the initial pitch e over the course of only two bars. What aristocratic composure, what creative, paternal joy must the master have had, to cultivate and promote such singular, unique qualities of the tonally begotten!

connection must be present in our minds if we want to familiarize ourselves with the rather hidden meaning of bars 9–10. To be sure, these bars, like bars 1– 2 and 5– 6, are still dedicated above all to preparing the e2 in bar 10; but because the diminution continues to move along the course set in bar 7 and the first ending— see f  –g–a (mixture) in the upper voice at the turn of bars 9 and 10 and e–f–g in the inner voice at the turn of bars 10 –11—it obscures the true state of affairs, which the graph of the Urlinie clarifies. Twice we see a play about the pitch e: the first time with f  in the progression V–I, based on mixture, and the second time with a contrasting f  in  III–  VI (the fortissimo helps strengthen the contrast); and for precisely this reason it is not inappropriate to speak here, too, of an e2 suspended above both bars, similar to bars 1– 2 and 5– 6. The repositioning of the voices resulted only so that the ascent b1 –e2 (bars 9–10) could also be brought out in this section as well. In bar 11,  6 – 5– 4 ought to be regarded only as an elaborative motion (see what was said about bars 14 –15 and 20 – 22 in the first movement) and thus only 6ˆ ought to be taken into account, the resulting 8ˆ –5ˆ thereby becoming more evident. Unlike the a1-section, the bass in the a2-section (bar 13ff ) sets off in an upward motion already in bar 14, and this then elicits the continued climb in bars 15 –17. What a beautiful event in the magical world of cause and effect! Considering that there is the same adherence to the line’s initial tone (bars 13 –15) and the same motivic organization, the decoration becomes more remarkable. Rep-

Bars 1ff. The arpeggiation 10of3 bars 1– 2 leads upward to the e2 of bar 3 as 8ˆ in the () order intended by nature: 581 . On closer inspection, the realization also displays all the intervening tones, distributed among the various inner voices (see the Urlinie graph below). In the consequent phrase, the diminution veers off already at the fifth of the arpeggiation (bar 6), bending upward toward the chromatic b , from which point the diminution moves along in steps of a second, now traversing two spaces of a third: b  –c  –d  in {12} the G  triad (a neighboring harmony to II) and e–f  –g  in the triad of II (C ). It was already noted above that the Urlinie extracts only the e2 in bar 7 from all these movements. Bars 9ff. In reply to bar 7, the diminution of the first ending (bar 8), where the return modulation occurs, brings the elaboration of a third, (d  –e)–f  –g  –a. This

107

tonw i l l e 3 etition of b1 [in bar 14] serves the tonal rhetoric most effectively (see Kontrapunkt i, pp. 64ff [recte: 63ff]/pp. 43ff ).27 The closing bars (16 –18) use the motive of bar 1; this use of the motive could easily mislead us about the true progress of the Urlinie, which, despite the motive, takes the path to ˆ1 via 2ˆ (see the graph of the Urlinie).

sixths in the setting of the outer voices. Notice the anticipatory stratum of thirtyseconds in the bass. There now follows the repetition of A2, with even more remarkable ornamentation in some parts. The coda (bars 50ff ) provides 8ˆ –3ˆ , which in a certain sense is just a final unfolding of the triad, since the Urlinie has already ended with 2ˆ ˆ1 in bar 50. One should admire the appearance of the pedal point in bar 50 underneath the final tones of the Urlinie (2ˆ ˆ1 ) as an ingenious stroke of synthesis. What artful keyboard writing, to take the actual pedal tone E with the right hand in order that the right hand should no longer be disturbed from its rest by the higher octave, which is first played by the left hand and initiates the motion 8ˆ –  7ˆ –6ˆ . Of course, that makes it all the more difficult to secure a sonorous continuation for the E from bar 52 up to the third quarter of bar 53, the right hand’s assumption of (5ˆ ) 4ˆ 3ˆ notwithstanding.

Bars 19ff. The B-section begins in E minor, but upon reaching e2 it immediately modulates to G major (as 6ˆ ), the key in which the cadential progression occurs (5ˆ –1ˆ ). In bar 19, the diminution constructs its ascent in steps of a second out of the smallest motivic cell from the first quarter of bar 1; in bar 20 it is answered and exceeded by a run up three octaves; but again, only e2 hovers above the two bars. The rhetorical style of the two bars is continued even more starkly in the following bars; note the many rests during the constant changes of figuration. According to the counterpoint of the outer voices, the descending motion across bars 21|22 is to be heard as a chain of thirds, which the reinforcing upper voice in the left hand makes clear; omission of every other tone [in the right hand] is a charming means for eluding the consecutive fifths that are otherwise unavoidable in a chain of thirds.

Third movement (Finale: Presto)

The final movement follows the pattern of sonata form: First Subject Modulation Second Subject first part of the subject second part of the subject Closing Subject Development Recapitulation

Bar 25ff. The modulation back to E minor occurs in bars 25 – 26, and here the line works its way up beyond b2 in bar 26 to e3 [in bar 27], although the point of departure (d2 in bar 25) did not lie nearly so high! One need only give a longer duration to the pitch b2 in bar 26 in order to recognize the rhythmic equivalence of the motives; it is basically this:

bars 1– 28 28– 44 45– 65 65– 97 97–102 103 – 203 203 – 307

Bars 1ff. Broadly speaking, 3ˆ and 4ˆ rise upward in order to reach 5ˆ (bars 17ff ), from which point the line falls to ˆ1 (bar 27) (see the graph of the Urlinie, p. 109). Since 3ˆ and 4ˆ are positioned on I and II, consecutive fifths between the bass and the inner voice lurk within an outer-voice counterpoint of thirds; the master removes the consecutive fifths by means of the fermata (bar 8), which also serves a rhetorical purpose. (Even in strict chorale settings, open consecutives are often removed by fermatas and, occasionally, by rests.) What adds to the effect of the fermata is that, even in the first eight bars (without detriment to the single Urlinie tone 3ˆ ), the diminution conjures up a small, self-contained world with the elaboration of a third g–f–e
and two more finely integrated imitations. The five repeated eighth

{13} What was said of the Urlinie in bars 9–12 applies to its abbreviation in bars 27– 28. Bar 29ff. The a2-section is content with bringing forth 5ˆ –4ˆ, or really only 4ˆ, since 5ˆ was already reached in bar 28. It is 4ˆ that shall go to 3ˆ of the A2-section. The 6ˆ between 5ˆ and 4ˆ functions only as a neighbor note, occasioned by the parallel 27 This section, concerned with the prohibition of note repetition in the cantus firmus, includes a number of examples of repeated notes in classical themes, for expressive effect.

108

Haydn’s Sonata in E
Major, Hoboken XVI:52

109

tonw i l l e 3 tually travels 6ˆ –5ˆ . (With respect to 6ˆ 5ˆ  4ˆ 5ˆ in bars 38– 44, see the first movement, bars 14 –15, 20 – 22 and the Adagio, bars 11–12, 27– 28. But notice the difference: on the way from d2 to f 2 it is better here to assume e rather than g.)30 The diminution first touches upon c3 (bar 30), then e
3 (bar 34), and finally even f 3 (bar 36); b  2 –e
3, hidden in the thirty-second-note figure, is a repetition of the fourth-progression g2 –c3, and at the same time e
3 coincides with the Urlinie’s tone. In bars 36– 37 the inner voice rises upward, for all the tones in bars 39– 44 belong to the inner voice below e  2, even if they lie above it. The metrical groups are to be read as changing every two bars.

冢

notes that open the movement form an anacrusis [Auftakt]; in principle, the anacrusis makes two bars count as one; that is, it induces us to read the content in smaller values. (Compare this, for example, to the anacrusic phenomenon of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, Scherzo, in which the anacrusis appears similarly in the form of       in the notated 3/4 meter.) What art there is in letting such a naturally given property of the musical composition thrive in synthesis—such skill is given to genius alone. When the master immediately gives the repetition of the anacrusis to the inner voice (left hand), he stands within the jurisdiction of the law of procreation. Transferred to II (bars 9–16), the tonal creation must now undergo an unmediated tonicization (see Harmony, pp. 338ff/pp. 256ff )— amounting to F minor with the {14} leading tone e.28 After the second fermata (bar 16), the bass now takes the motive, as if in presenting b
–a
–g (bars 16–18) it felt called upon to carry out the motivic demands of repetition conclusively and, in particular, to plant 5ˆ at the peak of the descending line. But the rush of quarter notes instead of half notes [in bar 18] must already make the listener suspicious. And in point of fact, above and beyond this deception (surely an intentional one), the 5ˆ of the upper register persists, at first only as b
2 (bar 17), to be sure, but from bar 19 on as b
1 (in the inner voice); in bar 24, 6ˆ slips in only as a neighbor note, and so when it finally returns to 5ˆ in bar 25, that tone has already turned into the upper voice, which leads the Urlinie’s fifth-progression to its end.29 The upper voice’s resumption of the motive in bar 19 turns the originally weak bar into a metrically strong one, until the next motivic reformulation (bar 28) again effects the change of a weak bar into a strong bar. 16 

17 

18 

19  

20 

21 

22 

23 

24 

25 

26 

27 

28  

29 

}

bar:

Bars 44ff. The second subject then commences with V, a technique of which today’s composers are no longer capable. It merges with the modulating phrase in such a way, however, that even the anacrusic formation falls by the wayside; but it is of course recovered right away in bars 46– 47 and 48– 49, in the form of both the elaborated fourth and the repeated tones. It is important to become aware of the metrical arrangement:   bars 44 – 45 |46– 47 |48– 49 |50–51–52 |53–54 |55–56              |57–58   |59–60   |61–62   |63–64   |65  three-bar group

The transfer of 2ˆ ˆ1 into a higher register (bars 54 – 56) is elicited by f 3 in bar 49; the register transfer serves to connect the two Urlinie segments, 5ˆ –1ˆ and 6ˆ –1ˆ in bars 44 – 56 and 58– 65, in such a way that they seem as if they lie in one line, at least from c3 on (bar 54). What artistic skill, binding parts together for the sake of a higher unit! The assumed in bars 50– 52 represents an expansion whose purpose is merely to strengthen and define the root of I (B
) more clearly, before the bold venture of the fourth–progression {15} b
–f is undertaken in the bass (bars 52– 55); moreover, according to the law of strict counterpoint (see Kontrapunkt i, pp. 331ff/pp. 257ff ), the subsequent suspension figures requires us to equate the

30 

Bars 28ff. The first subject closes with a full cadence. An elaborated fourth, which preserves the intrinsic rhythmic form of the anacrusis, opens the modulating phrase; the first tone of the linear progression (g2) already counts here as 6ˆ of the new key. The phrase proceeds to a half cadence by way of the following harmonic progression in B
major: II–V–I–IV(–  IV)–V, while the Urlinie, with 6ˆ 5ˆ 4ˆ 3ˆ  4ˆ 5ˆ , ac-

冢 冢

30Schenker’s later emendations to BP10 sever a connection between d2 and f2 by interpreting d2 as passing within the g2 –g1 octave. He also emended this portion of the Urlinie graph: a dotted slur connects g2 in bar 30 with g2 in bar 38; a slur connects d2 in bar 36 with g1 in bar 38; a slur connects e
1 in bar 30 with e
in bar 36; and V—I—
7 beneath the bars are enclosed in parentheses. All this points to an interpretation of g2 as 6ˆ above an embedded harmonic cycle elaborating the predominant of B
major, thus clarifying the claim made in the text regarding 6ˆ –5ˆ as the main path of the Urlinie in this section. Schenker appears to have realized that a passing motion from d2 to f 2 (a B
-major span) was incompatible with his assertion that g2 (not a B
-major triad pitch) is in play until the arrival on f 2. Nor does d2 make a consonance with g2 in an appropriate way.

28Unmittelbare Tonikalisierung (rendered as “direct tonicalization” in Harmony): in an unmediated tonicization, there is no tonicizing chord that would indicate the tonicity of II in advance. 29Schenker later amended the graph of the Urlinie in BP10, interpreting g1 as the initial tone of the Urlinie’s third-progression that spans bars 1– 27 and is resumed by g2 in the transition section, leading to f 2 in bar 44. Note that the Urlinie graph is missing “V—” beneath bars 25 – 26.

110

Haydn’s Sonata in E
Major, Hoboken XVI:52

Bars 103ff. The development begins with a modulation to C minor, thematically using both the Urlinie’s motive of a third (bars 2– 4) and also the motive of bars 78ff. The following metrical reinterpretation suits the new event of bar 106:

suspensions with metrically strong bars, and their resolutions with weak ones. The suspension formations were introduced by the motive-form in the three-bar group, which is in turn elicited by the anacrusis [in bars 48– 49]:

bar:

103 — 104 — 105— 106 — 107      

The longer sojourn on I in bars 106–18, as well as all the movement in this group of bars, has to be traced back to:

The fourth-progression in the bass (bars 49– 55) shows minor-mode mixture, b
–a
–g
–f. By means of the suspension b  2 –c3 in bars 53 – 54, the consecutive fifths between f– e
and b
–a
are avoided. The deceptive cadence in bar 56 necessitates a new cadential progression. The Urlinie brings 6ˆ before 5ˆ , thereby underscoring the reinforcement of cadential closure; and therein, too, lies proof that the 6ˆ of bar 38 also belongs to the modulating phrase, wherefore the master had to weave it unmistakably into the diminution at that point.

bar:

106 I
3

—

107 3

— —

112 4

— —

118 3

(see “Freier Satz”).31 It is clear that in such a case it comes down to the neighbornote motion 3– 4 – 3, which, when the triad is minor, easily and for good reason includes a raising of the minor third on the way to the neighbor note, but by no means does that give us leave to speak of a major triad here, to say nothing of a key of C major or F minor (compare the first movement, bars 52– 64). {16} The diminution is supplied with the anacrusis motive of bars 28– 29. Bars 118 – 22 merely bring condensed versions [of the descent from c3 in bars 112 –16]. In bar 124, there occurs a further modulation to A
major. Here it is the basic motive that is placed at the start of the phrase; imitations follow, just as at the beginning of the movement, but the second imitation here undergoes an expansion (bars 128–34) in which 3ˆ is preceded by 4ˆ. (The sixteenth-note figuration alludes to this with d
–c in bars 129–30, 131–32, and 133–34; see the graph of the Urlinie.) The modulation back to the main key occurs in bar 135. Next there follows an imitation of what preceded in bars 128 and following. This would have led to 3ˆ 2ˆ ˆ1 in E
major as early as bar 146 (compare bars 134 –35) had the master not prevented this by letting 3ˆ 4ˆ rise upward to 5ˆ , thereby obtaining the linear progression that starts by reaching back to 6ˆ in bar 178. The diminution in this group of bars uses neighbornote figures (see the graph of the Urlinie): b
–c–b
in bars 148– 49 and a–b
–a in bars 150–51. In order to understand the intricate and ingenious way in which the content of the subsequent passage is treated, let me begin with a brief illustration:

冢

Bars 65ff. The second part of the subject begins with I, in this way answering the first part, which had begun with V. As happens so frequently, 5ˆ is placed on top of ˆ1 as the beginning of the new Urlinie motion. As the graph of the Urlinie shows, the line tarries for quite a long time at 5ˆ (until bar 83), since e  as 4ˆ (bars 73–74) and g
as 6ˆ (bars 80 – 81) cling to 5ˆ with only the effect of neighbor notes. All the other figural play belongs to inner voices (see the graph of the Urlinie). The repetition of the passage in bars 85 – 97 is an enlarged reinforcement of cadential closure. Although the final eighth notes supplied with sf in bars 78– 81 basically belong to the following downbeats, in and of themselves they describe VII
7 (a  –c–e
–g
) before V7, something that has the effect of a suspension, amounting here to g
(bar 80) before f (bar 82). (More will be said of this technique in “Freier Satz.”) The motive of bars 79ff is of special significance: if the upper neighbor note (g
) was intended for use in this group of bars (see earlier), the contracted motive of bar 79 already alludes to it in the very first instance! Also related to the very same play of neighbor notes is the diminution of bars 91– 92, with d–e
–e
–d in the inner voice! The metrical arrangement is unperturbed in this section; but the fermata in bar 77 should be regarded as a genuinely Haydnesque caesura. The closing subject (bars 97ff ) unrolls 6ˆ –1ˆ above I as a final reinforcement of cadential closure. The sixteenth-note motion in the left hand enters beneath the concluding ˆ1 .

31In the graph of the Urlinie in BP10, Schenker has crossed out the  3 in bar 107, thus bringing the Urlinie into line with what is said in the next sentence.

111

tonw i l l e 3 Just as an elaboration of a third strives in bars 146 – 47 toward 5ˆ (bar 148), the elaboration of a third—(
5ˆ )  5ˆ 6ˆ
7ˆ —in bars 160ff continues that ascent and strives for 6ˆ , which always contributes so much energy to 5ˆ and thus to the entire linear progression that rolls down from the fifth scale degree. Insight into these relationships is made difficult for two reasons: first, the neighbor-note figures (see earlier) are continued—b  –c–b  in bars 164 – 66 and c–d
–c in bars 175 –78; and, second, the voice–leading in bars 163 –76, which executes a fifth-progression  in the bass32 having the harmonic significance of V–I, not only simulates III 3 in the middle of its course (bar 164ff; see Tonwille 2, pp. 8, 35, etc./i, pp. 56, 82, etc.) but also withholds the root of I at the very moment (bar 175) that c2 first appears in the upper voice, a pitch that ultimately acts as an accented passing tone leading to d
2, the genuine seventh of the chord in question. And in the midst of all these events, a fermata in bar 170! The thematic material starting in bar 171 originates from the second subject, including the percussive fortissimo chords in bars 178 –79. The tone repetition in this passage is intended to bring about the recapitulation. In addition, the anacrusis motive is also used here in the form of the elaborated fourth (bars 28– 29), now heard in inversion as well (see bars 172 –73, bars 185ff ). The passage now proceeds downward from 6ˆ in an improvisatory manner and is articulated over and over again into segments of a third (see the graph of the Urlinie); the outer voices basically move in thirds:

when 5ˆ initiates the Urlinie and something quite different when 6ˆ appears before 5ˆ , and again something altogether different when 8ˆ 7ˆ 6ˆ precede 5ˆ : each of these signifies a turn of fate for the motives, harmonic degrees, and voice-leading. The conception of diminution occurs in the impenetrable, mysterious recesses of the mind and eludes an ear only accustomed to gaping at the oft-noted thematic development in a shamelessness that, from the standpoint of craft, is barren and desolate.34 A constant interaction of the operative forces: sometimes the constraint of repeating a motive impels new harmonic degrees and Urlinie tones to appear, while at other times the Urlinie and harmonic degrees, with their own constraint, make a new motive credible. Even in the course of a single Urlinie progression, the motives change into new forms (whether actually or only apparently new) in order to clarify a certain harmonic degree or group of degrees and, at the same time, to shed, as it were, the light of the Urlinie’s star within the scope of the musical idea. Necessity, order, light everywhere—the synthesis of a true, resplendent reflection of God’s creation. That is Haydn’s synthesis, purely German, ingeniously German. It is the same as the synthesis we find in his younger fellow artists Mozart and Beethoven (see Tonwille 2), and it had to be the same, because no other kind of synthesis can arise within the diatonic system and the immutable laws of voice-leading. Indeed, synthesis is nothing other than a particular, a tonal individual, in the process of its own growth! But only the genius can hear and detect this; it remains forever mute to the nongeniuses, who transfer the practices of others to their own tonal design, hearing, so to speak, with foreign ears. True synthesis cannot be imitated by ear, it is not learnable and not teachable, and so no teacher showed Haydn the path to it: neither the models of Mathias Franck, Georg von Reutter, Porpora (no matter how much Haydn believed he had to be grateful to him), nor even the model of Emanuel Bach would have sufficed in his youth, had Haydn not possessed a genius of his own, one that finally allowed him to go his own way.35 If

and the diminution of the lower voice touches upon the roots merely as so-called extrapolated roots (see “Freier Satz”).33 A sequence in sixths starts in bar 190. {17} The motive of a third (f–e
–d) even steals into the elaboration of the fermata in bar 202, as a herald of the recapitulation’s g–f–e  .


34Schenker contrasts the fecundity of genius with the barrenness of the non-genius: it is within Scham (privy parts, hence “recesses”) of the genius’s mind that diminution is conceived, while the non-genius gapes with Schamlosigkeit (shamelessness or without privy parts, hence “barren”). 35In 1737 or 1738 the young Haydn left his native Rohrau for the nearby town of Hainburg, where he would live with his second cousin, a school principal and choir director by the name of Johann Mathias Franck; Haydn presumably learned the rudiments of music under Franck’s tutelage. In 1739 or 1740, Haydn was recruited to be a choirboy at the Stephansdom in Vienna by the Kapellmeister, Georg von Reutter (1708–72). In the 1750s, Haydn became the keyboard accompanist, valet, and pupil of Nicola Antonio Porpora (1686–1768) while Porpora was living in Vienna; Haydn claimed to have learned “the true fundamentals of composition” from Porpora.

Haydn’s synthesis in general: In the heavens, as it were, the diatonic stars of the Urlinie, and down below the prodigious generation of motives, one series of tones after another, seed and fruit—stars orbiting and motives sprouting, teeming with life. It is one thing 32The

bass’s fifth-progression passes in steps of a third: B
–G–E
. [Grundtöne]: see note 16.

33Ausgeworfene

112

Haydn’s Sonata in E
Major, Hoboken XVI:52

else, musician and non-musician alike, called him “Papa Haydn” and, patronizingly, extolled merely his “lively genuineness, good humor, and exuberance,” for they saw not into the depths of his spirit. “Papa Haydn!” But soon the children desert him, as children are wont to do with fathers, and yet they would have done better had they allowed their spiritual capacities for perfection and profundity to be trained by him. But that is the German way: always out when a genius pays them a visit. No sooner does the German read a foreign-language book or hear a piece from another nation’s music, than his power of judgment is wrested from him simply by the joy of mastering and comprehending the foreign tongue or the foreign musical world. (The peoples of the West and South lack the talent and inclination for assimilating foreign things to such a degree.) And so, in all cases, he unconsciously overvalues the foreign, much in the way a pianist unconsciously prefers a piece, say, by Liszt or Tchaikovsky to one by Mozart or Beethoven, simply because it flatters his selfimage to have his hands full of keys . . . (Amazing indeed are the paths of “progress” that mediocre men travel, as reactionaries.) So it came to be that Haydn, and the younger masters along with him, had quite soon been betrayed by their own contemporaries under the claim of progress toward the unspeakably wretched dilettantism of French musical Romanticism; at that time they had reached the point of calling Berlioz, for example, a French Beethoven, but now they are well on the way to calling Beethoven a German Berlioz. But what can Haydn say to the present? A genius versus the masses? Divine blessing and a superhuman power to work (even in his last years Haydn worked fourteen to sixteen hours a day!)? or: masses of idleness, incited and deluded by the notion that the ultimate watchword of mankind should be its physical needs? The profundity of a genius stimulated by the profundity of a material forever craving to produce offspring, a glimpse of an eternity pervaded by material and genius? or: the shallowness of merely one [sterile] generation, expressed in turn through shallowness of understanding, inventiveness, and humanity? How can Haydn’s genius be grasped by a purely brutish muttering of impressions or, for that matter, by the sincerely expressed conviction that education is a commodity that can and must be given, as if geniuses could be fried up and tossed into the mouth? {19} And Haydn’s future? Like that of every genius. Whether poorly performed or distributed in corrupt texts, or whether drooled over in the idle chit-chat of loathsome, presumptuous ignorance, the miracle of synthesis must, and will, preserve Haydn for all eternity! For no matter how many evil things may rightfully be

there is also life on other planets (and who could have any doubts about that), it originated independent of the life on our planet, in the fountainhead of God, just as our planet’s life originated independent of that life. It is no different in the world of genius: as a mental, psychical whole, every genius remains a cosmos unto itself, and all geniuses draw their creative energy from God, and from him alone. And it is also the same in the world of the individual creation: “Let there be light” resounds in the mind of the genius, and when the very first animate tonal creature stirs therein, it becomes fruitful and multiplies after its own kind, and not the kind of a different tonal creature.


Haydn was God-fearing; he received succor and solace from above; from the depths of his heart he thanked everyone who showed him any sort of affection; he was kind and charitable, ready to forgive, even when offense was given; he rose above the most bitter fate through his artistic virtues, strongly and serenely. Was he not “Kappelmeister to Count Morzin, and to the Prince of Esterhazy” and did he not dine with this lord’s other functionaries? Yes, indeed, and nevertheless in the presence of princes he was freer than all those who, even at the time, relished the freedom of the Anglo-French Enlightenment; he was also {18} freer than all those who today so affectatiously bask in the sunlight, enlightened by Karl Marx’s arithmetic primer—how telling that the new freedom was brought on by a book about capital! Genius was Haydn’s freedom, the sole true freedom that can be allotted to a man; for to those not so blessed, freedom means money and maw, no matter how ardently they pretend to wrestle with ethics, religion, polity, democracy, partisan issues, and the like. (As one saying by Goethe puts it: “Mankind is constrained by its needs. If they are not met, it proves impatient; if they are, it appears indifferent. The actual man thus moves between these two conditions, and he will apply his understanding, so-called human understanding, to satisfy his needs; when that happens, he has the task of filling the void of indifference. And when this task is confined within the most immediate and necessary limits, he succeeds in it as well. But if his needs become more serious, if they lie outside the realm of the ordinary, then common sense will no longer suffice, he is a genius no longer, and the region of error yawns open before him.”)36 Mozart and Beethoven revered Haydn as a supernatural being, even though they were permitted to see him with their own eyes and shake his hand—everyone 36From

Maximen und Reflexionen.

113

tonw i l l e 3 The path that leads to knowledge of synthesis, whether it serves to stimulate the creative faculty or the ability to recreate in performance, is none other than the path that I am here the first to show. It was a delusion when past generations imagined they had penetrated Haydn’s essence and profundity, and again a delusion to believe that each generation approaches such a genius in its own manner and that true knowledge results only from the sum total of these varying views; futile, too, is the call often heard today: “Back to Haydn, to Mozart and Beethoven!”—for to which Haydn? to the Haydn that is not understood? And since a true genius is never a phenomenon of the past alone but also of an eternal future, must it not actually be “Forward to Haydn!”?—No, no, there is but one true path, the path to synthesis, and it can only be traveled, to repeat myself, in no other way than the one I have shown here. And so I quote here what Goethe said to Eckermann: “Error belongs to librarians, the True belongs to the human {20} spirit”— and, adapting Goethe’s words, I issue a call: The fathers are the True! On to the fathers, to Father Haydn!38

ascribed to mankind, divine favor has nonetheless not abandoned it; mankind, itself called to life organically, is now directly, as if viscerally and instantaneously, attracted to and captivated by the organic wherever it appears, including art. In all ages, therefore, mankind will feel an ineffable sense of the hidden majesty of the organic in Haydn, even long after it will have lost all that excited it through means it could muster at will, if only just that once and yet so skillfully. The German nation, defrauded of everything that it had appropriated from the Western nations, may perhaps long today more than ever for an independent genius—and that is right and fitting, too. Even the German climate itself nourishes a unique type of genius.37 Just as fugues or sonatas could not thrive under the hot suns of Egypt or India (for it is no different with fruits of the spirit than it is with fruits of the soil), it is inconceivable that the North (if we restrict our attention to Europe) could be southernized in spirit or, vice versa, that the South could be northernized. Let us look at the example of diminution: independent of nation and climate, diminution on its own grew organically within the life of the tones and became the common property of all music; nevertheless, North and South soon parted ways in the practice of diminution: the German masters, following the dictates of the German climate, valued diminution above all as a means for achieving a profound synthesis, while the masters of the South, again following the dictates of their climate, fostered dazzling change more than the logical consecution of synthesis. Thus, it is pointless to demand a new type of genius in Germany, one that is indeed German but also (to use a frequently invoked expression) “dancelike” [“tänzerisches”] in the manner of the Romance nations. If every genius is dancelike, since he dances round the precipices of profound depths, and if, accordingly, a Haydn, Mozart, or Beethoven is as dancelike in the most mournful adagio as in the most exuberant finale, then on the whole the German genius is also as dancelike as any Latin genius. Whatever fusion of musical North and South was possible has already been introduced into music in ages past, by our great masters themselves, in fact—now there is no longer anything in the South, and absolutely nothing in music, that could await fusion. Synthesis was the most sublime fruit of music, and what matters is to continue cultivating this and this alone, no matter how new content is created and extended!

38On a slip of paper inserted between pages 16 and 17 of this essay in a personal copy of Tonwille 3 (BP10), Schenker made the following notes concerning Georg August Griesinger’s Biographische Notizen über Joseph Haydn (Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1810): Haydn Griesinger, 104/105: “Wenn ein Meister ein oder zwei vorzügliche Werke geleistet habe, so sei sein Ruf gegründet, seine Schöpfung werde bleiben, u. die Jahreszeiten giengen wohl auch noch mit.” !! Quartette, Trios, Son. ? NB erinnert an B’s Ausspr. über op. 106 Gries. Übergroßer Respekt vor Cherubini (⫽ Beeth, ja auch noch Brahms)—deutsches Erbübel on Haydn: (Griesinger, pp. 104 – 5: “[‘]If a master produced one or two excellent works, that would be enough to establish his reputation.[’] His Creation will survive, and so, surely, will The Seasons.” !! [And what of all those] quartets, trios, sonatas? NB This reminds [me] of what Beethoven said about Op. 106. Griesinger refers to Haydn’s disproportionate veneration of Cherubini (the same applies to Beethoven, and even to Brahms)—the malady of German inheritance. Schenker’s transcription fails to show that Griesinger is actually quoting, or paraphrasing, Haydn in the first sentence. The “NB” refers to a remark that Beethoven is reported to have made to Domenico Artaria, the publisher of the “Hammerklavier” Sonata (Op. 106): “There you have a sonata that will force the pianist to be creative, a sonata that people will still be playing in fifty years time.” (This is quoted it in the “Miscellanea” of Meisterwerk ii.) Further notes for an unfinished article on Haydn by Schenker are found in File 49 of the Oster Collection.

37The effect of climate on individual creativity and group culture is a theme that Schenker returned to in the “Miscellanea” of later writings (Meisterwerk i, p. 212/p. 117 and ii, p. 202/pp. 121– 22).

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Haydn’s Sonata in E
Major, Hoboken XVI:52

tal grasp. Even the reader by now knows that the “continuation” of bars 11–13 is in no sense “new” but, rather, according to the Urlinie and also the thematic aspect, closely connected with the preceding events. Bars 17ff are not yet the second subject for Marx; he hears only this:




There is almost no literature on Haydn—it is tempting to say “Thank God for that.” In the eyes of teachers and writers, it is as if this mountain of truth towering upward to the stars has disappeared, veritably shriveled to a res derelicta. For the most part, Haydn’s name and circumstances only come up when someone chatters on at length about Mozart and Beethoven. Here is proof of this point of view: Marx calls the sonata “spirited, sparkling in the merriest of moods” (Kompositionslehre, part 3).39 I confess, I hear it as seriously great, indeed sublime, yet that is beside the point, for it is more important to show that Marx did not at all understand how to read the work.

But here the kernel of the principal theme returns and is once more continued in a new manner (although similarly bound to the previous continuation). [Quotation of bars 17–18.] The words in parentheses suddenly reveal to us that Marx himself obviously limited what he calls the “kernel” merely to the first three quarter notes of bar 1 (or 9 or 17), since otherwise he could not have confused the full completion of (6ˆ ) 5ˆ 4ˆ 3ˆ 2ˆ ˆ1 in bars 9–10 with 6ˆ 5ˆ 4ˆ 3ˆ in bars 17–18, despite the presence of thirtysecond notes in both passages! Was it even possible for Marx to understand the progress of the second subject in its rational necessity? Marx does not touch upon the “actual subordinate theme not until bars 27ff,” about which he writes:

The kernel of the principal theme [here follows a quotation of bars 1– 3] is continued with new motives used more as a transitional passage [gängartig] up until the introduction of a full cadence. But aren’t these “new motives used more as a transitional passage” in fact the very flesh and blood offspring of the content in bar 2, and does it not make a mockery of something so organic to distinguish here between a “kernel” and “new motives”? Although the impulse to compose constrains a genius, as does nature, “which can attain all that she desires to make only in a series of events” (Goethe), the average ear fails when faced with the force and fullness of such necessary production of offspring. How ossified are the words “is continued . . . up until the introduction of a full cadence,” used for the lively, clearly directed way in which the host of tones pull and sweep from the upper register to the lower and up again, right up to the place in bar 8 that is the only register corresponding to bar 2! This is what Marx says about the consequent phrase (bars 9ff):

This theme, in terms of its total content, is thoroughly separate from the principal theme, yet after only six bars, it leads back again to the same content [quotation of bars 33– 35]; only then does it proceed to the closing theme and the end of the exposition. Apparently, then, the cadential progression closing the first part of the second subject played a mean trick on Marx: solely on account of this cadential progression, which was indeed impossible to mistake, he explains bars 27ff as “in terms of its total content, thoroughly separate from the principal theme” even though here, as we know, all the diminution strictly and clearly hews to the paths of the progenitor (the Urlinie progression in bar 2), including the caesura rhythm. The mystery of musical reproduction remains impenetrable to Marx when a musical “God the Father” like Haydn directs the destiny of a tonal world. The “kernel” he has read into the music is, naturally, the kernel that he finds therein—as it is the search for that kernel alone that also occupies him in the development section:

. . . whereupon the kernel returns in the following bar [the ninth bar] [quotation of bars 9–10] with a new continuation that brings us, quite in harmony with our law of modulation, through the dominant of the dominant [F major, in bar 13]. Once again Marx’s eyes and ears are stuck on the “kernel”; but that rhapsodic, ingenious plunge of 6ˆ 5ˆ 4ˆ 3ˆ 2ˆ ˆ1 , how it is peculiar only to Haydn and recurs so frequently in his works, remains entirely outside the bounds of his aural and men-

Of the development only this much needs to be mentioned here: the subordinate theme, which in the exposition we had to see as neglected to a certain extent relative to the principal theme, is here introduced twice, the second time quite cleverly, while the kernel of the principal theme finds

39Adolph Bernhard Marx, Die Lehre von der musikalischen Komposition, praktisch-theoretisch, vol. 3 (Angewandte Kompositionslehre), 3rd ed. (Leipzig: Breitkopf und Härtel, 1857).

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tonw i l l e 3 nata, introducing the second subject with the motive of the first; the others, therefore a considerable majority, present a new motive in the second subject. Moreover, very little depends on the motivic novelty of the second subject: what really matters is necessity in the continuation, necessity in the overall course of synthesis. Riemann’s lack of relation to Haydn can be displayed more clearly in his interpretation of one of Haydn’s symphonies. He is too full of his god Stamitz to be able to open his ears to the world of Haydn. In his Handbuch der Musikgeschichte, for example, we read:41

no place and returns only in the recapitulation, though it asserts itself there just as strongly as in the exposition. {21} And straightway the false conclusions that had to follow: [Haydn] prefers to adhere to the principal theme as the subject that, as the beginning and source, should also be the goal and midpoint of the entire composition. This stress was not laid on it for its own sake: for it is not particularly important nor more difficult to grasp than the subordinate theme (rather the contrary). Nor is the composer inclined to prefer it above other phrases: for it is finished each time, after a brief interruption, in a different and very loose manner, while the subordinate theme appears again in the development with importance and logically consistent continuation. Only for the sake of a more tightly knit unity and deportment of the whole does this return to the principal theme occur in a context that belongs to the subordinate theme.

There are quite intelligible reasons for the slow development of Haydn’s fame: the electrifying qualities of the fiery spirited Johann Stamitz, who struggled toward new means of expression in the overabundance of passionate feeling, were foreign to Haydn’s plain and unsophisticated disposition. [Etc.] I will limit myself here to repeating his summary judgment on the keyboard music:

Marx does not detect the sacred reproduction, nor is he capable of following the thread of the Urlinie, nor the constraint of the harmonic degrees or voiceleading, and so Haydn’s world must appear to him as one in which a principal theme that “is finished each time, after a brief interruption, in a different and very loose manner.” Indeed, he believes Haydn was even wanting in spirit:

Haydn’s keyboard music . . . looks like orchestral music from the outset; it not only lets the viola and bassoon occasionally have their say, so to speak, but also leaps quite audaciously from one register to another; thus it is perhaps more progressive than the orchestral music itself. This point of view is also important when it comes to assessing Beethoven’s relationship to the two masters, since Beethoven stands closer to Haydn than to Mozart right from the start (even with the early works of the Bonn years). Surely it is open to question whether that must be attributed to Haydn’s direct influence or perhaps instead to Beethoven’s contact with Schobert, who loved the darker tints and knew to esteem the effects of the piano’s lower registers; but perhaps it should also be attributed to the early emergence of a personal distaste for overly bright soprano effects, such as we find, for example, in the keyboard music of Eichner. His familiarity, too, with the music of Philipp Emanuel Bach and even Sebastian Bach, which Neefe is said to have conveyed to him, can have contributed to this. Haydn’s own predilection for humorous effects is certainly a fac-

Haydn must have found himself bound to attend to the deportment and comprehensibility of his composition, an attention that in our time is in no sense necessary to the same degree and would now have to seem superfluous, burdensome, constricting. . . . Music has since attained a stronger awareness of its content, greater security and certainty of its design, and has thus earned the right and the duty to proceed more decisively, without inhibition. In a composer like Beethoven, music develops the principal theme of the sonata with complete decisiveness and a higher degree of satisfaction in order to be able then to abandon it entirely with as much decisiveness and move into the subordinate theme, which only now has obtained a similar freedom to unfold in fullness and without perturbation. But this observation, too, is not sound. For if we consider just the thirtyfour piano sonatas of Haydn,40 perhaps only six repeat the technique of this so40Schenker

41Hugo Riemann, Handbuch der Musikgeschichte, vol. 2, part 3 (Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1913; in the second edition, revised by Alfred Einstein (1922), these extracts appear on pp. 171, 170, and 168.

based his count of Haydn sonatas on Köhler and Roitzsch’s edition (see note 1).

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Haydn’s Sonata in E
Major, Hoboken XVI:52

tor that early on led him to abrupt alternation of high and low effects on the keyboard, effects which, as his experience with orchestral composition grew, he ventured to transfer to the symphony as well.

humorist: that is how Riemann sees Haydn the keyboard composer. And even in listening to Haydn’s symphonic and keyboard music he discovers only Stamitz, Richter, Filtz, Toeschi, Schobert, and Handel, granted, in a “simplicity and cheerfulness bordering on exuberance”—yes, Haydn the humorist, “who, in the best sense of the word, is the most popular master” . . . How humorous, and yet it makes one weep! That is how the literature on Haydn stands!

Haydn’s mighty synthesis, the wide expanse of his world, his musical rhetoric, moving in constraint and freedom, the peculiarity of his pauses and fermatas? Bah! Schobert, Eichner, Neefe, Sebastian Bach, Emanuel Bach, and—Haydn the

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The Art of Listening Die Kunst zu hören {Tonwille 3, pp. 22– 25} t r a n s l at e d b y r o b e r t s n a r r e n b e r g

I asked a highly gifted composer on one occasion about the gist of the opening

cance for the contrapuntal setting, as I show in Kontrapunkt ii, pp. 100ff/pp. 101– 3 and 209ff/pp. 214 –17 and in “Freier Satz.” Accordingly, I accounted for the movement of the upper voice in bar 2 as an adornment of the seventh, which extends only by a trifle what is already permitted in strict counterpoint:

bars of the Prelude in F , from the first book of Bach’s Well-Tempered Clavier:

I went on and showed the fifth-progression in the bass falling from the root of VI to that of II and how the decoration [of the upper line] is fitted to it like an inner voice, with suitable intervals that are, in themselves, consonant (Kontrapunkt ii, pp. 171ff/pp. 175–77). During the fifth-progression, in the upbeat, the chord on G 

冢

In bar 1 he read scale degree I, in bar 2 he read IV on account of the 7– 6 on the downbeat, and in bar 3 he read V. I objected to this reading, whereupon he sought to hear I in bars 1–2 and V in bar 3, and finally even attempted to hear I in all three bars. But I also rejected these two interpretations as well, and, in order to make matters brief, I remarked: Are you surprised if I read the passage as follows?1

arises through the coincidence of mutual passing excursions, but without wanting to effect scale degree II at this point.2 Still dwelling on bar 2, I explained the second sixteenth a  (Fig. 1) as the fifth that fills out the sonority with the seventh (7/5) and the third sixteenth b1, {23} which initiates the succession of upper sixths, as a neighbor note between the two c  2s. And finally, going over into the third bar, I declared that [the following] f 1 in the inner voice is yet again a seventh (of II), as given in Fig. 4a, and not as in Fig. 4b:

The other man’s eyes opened wide . . . And then I declared the tone c 2 in bar 2 to be the seventh of VI, meaning that it passes from one chord to another, from one harmonic degree to another, here from VI to II, and therefore not a suspension, which would have to refer to the 6 3-chord of IV; this is a distinction in layout and effect that is of greatest signifi2“Upbeat” here refers to the second half of the notated bar. Because he regards free composition as a prolongation of strict counterpoint, Schenker conceives each bar as having but two metrical parts: downbeat and upbeat. The connection between strict and free composition is further explicated by using the rhythmic format of species counterpoint (e.g., the whole notes and half notes in Figs. 2b and 3).

Tonwille 3 in the Oster Collection (Books and Pamphlets, No. 10), Schenker has added a d  to the tenor voice at the end of the first bar of Fig. 2a, together with the bass figuring “5 6,” and also “5 6” above the first two bass notes in Fig. 2b; these markings suggest that he considered, after all, interpreting the harmonic change (I–VI) as the effect of a 5–6 exchange within a single harmonic degree (I). 1In a copy of

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and not as the bass of a first-inversion chord? On the other hand, it certainly remains {24} an ancillary matter whether or not he also connected the notion of a harmonic degree to the bass D . If musicians would only for once understand just how much better and more easily they could compose, perform, and carry on theoretical and editorial work if they at least shared the master’s composure and accuracy of aural perception! For so long as this is not the case, they will blunder their way through these flights of human spirit. Read right here, for example, in Riemann’s Katechismus der Fugen-Komposition: “We may forego detailed harmonic analysis of this piece, it offers no problems.”3 A piece that abounds with the most profound art of voice-leading and places us bar by bar before the most difficult puzzles is dispatched simply like that by this obfuscator of the ear! Or take the following example from the field of editorial practice:4

and that, because of the altered behavior of the inner voice and thus in contrast to the descent in bar 2, the descent of the bass under the root of II already brings  about a change of harmonic degree (V) in the upbeat at the simultaneity ce  . Striving to firm up my explanation, I additionally pointed out that it would be rather out of place to linger on only one or two harmonic degrees, seeing as how Bach modulates to C  major starting in the fourth bar; he would then already have modulated away scarcely having expressed one or two scale degrees, an assumption that must remain excluded so long as there is the possibility of a more discriminating conception. “But what does it matter,” the other man objected, “whether it is read this way or that, provided that the principal melodic meaning is not endangered?” I replied: I know very well that these days it does not occur to anyone to take such discriminations seriously, yet I must tirelessly point out that perception and performance would lose nothing of their intrinsic value if the series of tones were also correctly understood just as the master intended, no more than the master himself forfeited his personal feeling when he brought into being the series of tones in the way that I understand it. Again and again it must be stressed, I continued, that it is high time to guide the ear toward better listening. Just as a field needs manure, so, too, must today’s ear, an ear that has become completely barren, be supplied with fertilizer, so to speak, in order to improve its productive capacity. And what could be better suited to this end than to guide the ear down those paths along which our great masters have created such novel and ingenious varieties and prolongations of the fundamental laws? While I thus spoke—and how often had I not also had other occasions to complain to this same musician about the need today for a musical ear!—he seemed to be lost in thought. Suddenly he exclaimed: “Yes! But Bach, in writing, had it easier than I, who want to decipher the finished thing. For if he held only to the root D  in bar 2, which I do not doubt, how easy it was for him to produce here the decoration of the tied-over seventh, the conduct of the bass voice, the inner voice, and everything else . . .” So, then, you see for yourself, I broke in, that the composer, no doubt by virtue of clear intuition alone, invented and guided voices with greater ease, and that is precisely what I meant. What today’s composer has lost is the capacity to know precisely, by ear, the triad within which he sets his own contrapuntal lines moving. The fact that Bach was accustomed to deducing the world of his voices from figured bass numbers must surely give his ear a more determinate footing. For who could deny, except out of ill will, that in our case Bach heard D  as a root

As you see, Bülow has no ear for the multifarious processes of elaboration in cases where voices move below the root of the chord—I will illustrate these in “Freier Satz”—and hence he does not understand that when the bass progresses from scale degree II to V in minor:

3Hugo Riemann, Katechismus der Fugen-Komposition: Analyse von J. S. Bachs “Wohltemperiertem Klavier” und “Kunst der Fuge” (Leipzig: Hesse, 1890– 94). 4This excerpt, from an Allegrissimo in G minor, bars 9–13, was taken from an edition of sixty Scarlatti sonatas published by Breitkopf & Härtel in its “Volks-Ausgabe” series, edition no. 434. The piece is numbered 338 in Alessandro Longo’s edition, and 450 in Ralph Kirkpatrick’s catalogue, of Scarlatti’s sonatas.

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tonw i l l e 3 the tone at the midpoint of the path (c ) seldom has to signify V, even though admittedly that tone usually signifies VII⫽V in minor keys, as in bar 2 of our Bach Prelude, for example, where the midpoint of the fifth-progression already signifies II. How astonished Bülow would be to learn, for example, that at the first asterisk in Fig. 5 the g1 of the inner voice is not the seventh of scale degree V but rather the third of II! And see how injurious it is when Bülow, in his reworking of this passage, takes the duration of II too briefly each time and when, by anticipating b
2 (at the second asterisk), he deprives the upper voice of its summation of the elaborated third-space, a summation that was so clearly worked out and surely intended by Scarlatti! Or take the example of another editor:

{25} Klindworth obviously objects to the octave B  –b  1 (at the asterisk), if he does not perhaps even believe that he must eliminate consecutive octaves (see “Ossia”), and all this only because he does not grasp the genuine gist of the voiceleading (shown in Fig. 7b), which knows nothing of an octave. What arrogance he shows toward Chopin! Similar shenanigans have destroyed all our masterworks for the last two hundred years, one could almost say bar by bar! Reluctantly, I broke off . . .

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Miscellanea Vermischtes {Tonwille 3, pp. 26– 38} t r a n s l at e d b y i a n b e n t O heilig Herz der Völker, o Vaterland!

It is just the same with peoples, and humanity as a whole. The German people are never conscious of the miraculous greatness that is theirs, of the great ones that are their heritage. The German people have forsaken their great miracle-workers, just as the human race as a whole has forsaken Germany, unable to play any part in the miracle of Germany. The same enemy that defiles what is most holy within men has for centuries fulminated in racial hatred against Germany, that most holy member of the human race. Today more than ever. The noble German gaze, which “rests so tranquil and pure upon things” (Schiller’s words to Goethe), must be obliterated for ever. The noble German spirit, of which Kjellen2 says: “If the destruction of personality while striving for the ideal is ultimately to be reckoned higher and more moral than engorged prosperity, then the German spirit is the purest light of mankind. No other is so free from egotism and prejudice, so full of understanding and peaceability toward others. There is no surer way on earth to objectivity.” — this spirit must be killed, that is the clear will of the primitive peoples who for years have danced and raged a genocide, the likes of which has never been seen, like wild animals around a funeral pyre made up of the lies, falsehoods, and calumny to which they have bound the Germans. Although the profundity of the German spirit—the product of great character and capacity for hard work—showers blessings upon them, their envy cannot tolerate its being German. In particular, ever since they have encountered Germany’s economic superiority as well, it has transformed their egotism and covetousness into hatred and murder, into open robbery of German land, German work, and German property. By now, the thinking of the other nations is so sorely

O holy heart of peoples, O fatherland!

Allduldend gleich der schweigenden Mutter Erd’ All-suffering silently, like mother earth, Und allverkannt, wenn schon aus deiner

And all-unrecognized, though it is from your

Tiefe die Fremden ihr Bestes haben.

Depths that foreigners have their best.

Sie ernten den Gedanken, den Geist von Dir,

From you they harvest their thoughts, their spirit,

Sie pflücken gern die Traube, doch höhnen sie

Gladly they pluck the grapes, and yet they mock

Dich, ungestalte Rebe, daß du

You, misshapen vine, because you

Schwankend den Boden und wild umirrest.

Wander about wildly, making the ground shake.

Du Land des hohen, ernsteren Genius!

You land of high, more earnest genius!

Du Land der Liebe! Bin ich der deine schon,

You land of love! Though I am already yours,

Oft zürnt’ ich weinend, daß du immer

I have often raged and wept that you always

Blöde die eigene Seele leugnest.

Senselessly deny your own soul. —Hölderlin1

Man carries God’s miracles within him. But he is oblivious of them; instead, he dishonors them from his youth through to the grave. The less he can read the signs of his own miracles, the more he craves help and release from outside. In vain have religious institutions called out to him: “See God around you and within you.” He cries out for “miracles” so that he may believe, but promptly resorts to denying their very existence. [S]This section was originally intended for Tonwille 2. [Schenker is signaling not only the delay of its publication but also its separation from the essays that it was originally intended to follow. In addition, several paragraphs of the “Miscellanea” were also cut, at the insistence of the publisher. They have been restored here, enclosed by the symbols 䊳 . . . 䊴. See the general preface to this volume, p. ix.] 1Friedrich Hölderlin (1770 –1843), Gesang des Deutschen (1799), stanzas 1– 3 (of fifteen), in Alcaic meter. See OC 24/95 for Schenker’s identification.

2Rudolf Kjellen (1864 –1922), right-wing Swedish political theorist, founder of geopolitics, author of Dreibund und Dreiverband: Die diplomatische Vorgeschichte des Weltkrieges (1921) and Die Grossmächte und die Weltkrise (Leipzig: Teubner, 1921).

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tonw i l l e 3 troubled that Hebbel3 would concur: “It is possible that the German may once again disappear from the world stage. For he has all the qualities that will gain him heaven, but not a single one by which he may hold his own on earth; and all nations hate him, as the evildoers hate the good. However, if they ever do finally bring about his downfall, they will find themselves wishing they could scratch his body out of the grave with their bare hands.” And yet Logau was right when, in his own time, he recognized Germany’s plight thus:4 Das begrabene Deutschland Wir mußten alle Völker zu Totengräbern haben, eh Deutschland in sich selbsten sie konnten recht vergraben. Jetzt sind sie mehr noch mühsam, den Körper zu verwahren, daß in ihn neue Geister nicht etwa wieder fahren, daß das erweckte Deutschland nicht wiederum, wie billig, auch seine Totengräber sei zu bestatten willig.

devotees of Wilson and Northcliff during the war,6 and have since delivered the stab in the back by taking a “freedom” that suited other nations well regardless of outward and inward differences, and foisted it parrot-like on their fellowcountrymen. Later, when chastened for their own betrayal by Wilson’s betrayal, they nefariously and of their own free will heaped the burden of “guilt” for the world war on Germany’s shoulders, wailing penitential songs [GolgathaHymnen]. So doing, they abased their fatherland before nations who were playing out a long-running strategy of robbery and murder, reducing Germany to a sort of village idiot in the eyes of the world—and all this barely half a century after Bismarck.7

Germany Buried We had to allow people of all nationalities to be our gravediggers, before they could bury the German people with themselves. Now they take even greater care to guard the corpse [of Germany], lest new spirits somehow reinhabit it, and Germany, once awakened, should, in its turn, be willing to inter its gravediggers, too.




Did this upsurge of new ideas

“

8

originate in your fatherland, my friend?” “No, thank God! It was carried across a neighboring ocean, and reached our coast.” “Then let it blow itself out over there, where it first started. The neighbor to whom you allude is, of all the nations of Europe, the most different from your nation in character and inner nature. No two peoples are more different naturally and artistically, as their two language-types, customs, and dispositions show. It was the height of folly for the Germans, a century and a half ago, to choose to ape the Gaul.” “Did you say Germans? Why, if ever there was a lazy, good-for-nothing, empty-headed, low-down . . .” “Steady on, now. You, too, have not yet got it fully out of your system; you, too, are not yet wholly free of the infatuation. These slavish imitators are reaping, and will go on reaping, what their weakness and passivity, or their insolent be-

The desire to annihilate Germany is getting truly serious. But even in these direst straits, when the voice screams out in agony—how bloodcurdling must the screaming of the German sacrificial victims have resounded in the ears of mankind!—even in this very darkest hour, the betrayal rests not with those who for the sake of the murderous nations “stupidly disavow their own souls.” Rather, it rests with those utterly untalented, eternal courtiers and lackeys of the West,5 small men and women who lack the character {27} to move in the circles of our greatest figures, and who as a result will also be incapable of gaining access to the great figures of other nations. These are the self-same people who became

lackeys” to whom he refers are Germans and Austrians who acquiesced to the peace process in 1919 and democratization that followed. 6 Woodrow Wilson (1856 –1922), president of the United States, 1912 – 20, previously president of Princeton University; one of the four principal negotiators of the Versailles and Saint-Germain peace treaties; idealist, opponent of retribution, proponent of the League of Nations. Viscount Lord Northcliff (1865–1922), the most powerful newspaper proprietor in Britain, often called the founder of modern popular journalism. 7Otto von Bismarck (1815– 98), prime minister of Prussia from 1862, founder and first chancellor of the Second German Empire, 1871– 90. 8That is, the ideas that helped to precipitate the French Revolution of 1789.

Hebbel (1813 – 63), German poet and dramatist. Logau (1604 – 55), German epigrammatist, author of Erstes Hundert Teutscher Reimsprüche (1638) and Deutsche Sinngedichte drei Tausend (1645, ed. Lessing and Ramler, 1759); see OC 24/ 101 for Schenker’s identification. 5By “the West,” Schenker always means the nations of Europe to the west, north, and south of Germany, particularly France, Italy, and England, and here also the United States. The “courtiers and 3Friedrich

4Friedrich

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Miscellanea

Prémontval11 is not uncharitable in his assessment: ‘If I were searching for an epithet to explain its great success, I would proceed by comparing characteristics. Not as limpid as Italian, not as majestic as Spanish, less compact than English, far below German in vigor, almost less than any European language in richness and superabundance; yet in spite of its poverty, it has sufficient resources, vigor, brevity, majesty, and sweetness to be a very valuable instrument for human thoughts. In particular, the clarity and politeness that characterize it constitute its great merit.’ So, just as a handsome, courteous man, clear and rational in conversation, is more readily accepted in company than a deep-thinking, silent man, so too, among Germans, the French language has earned the laurels as the language of the intellect, where ours could have claimed to have been a language of reason.” Herder: Fragmente zur deutschen Literatur

trayal, sowed. They have already reaped enough shame over their chronic indecisiveness, over their boot-licking toadyism. For more than a century they have schooled themselves in the language and ways of thought of their masters, who have always treated them like lackeys, in order to be able to understand and recite parrot-fashion why they treat them so. Let them be. The German nation has avenged itself on them.” Herder: Aurora: die Erscheinung am neuen Jahrhundert9
“

With what artifice did the French contrive that their language be considered

the language of reason?” “I believe I can offer three grounds for that. During its development—whatever the causes—their language acquired a certain conformity to rules that our language does not possess. Since its word order is prescribed, one is less likely to get embarrassingly tangled up in saying what one wants to say. Second, it has acquired a degree of refinement that few other living languages can boast. At a time when Germany was still writing in Barbarian10 or Latin, French had long been finely honed, because the French always preferred to write for a public, a well-mannered public, while the Germans were writing for private study and scholarly discourse. Just as the ancient Gauls had a female governing body as their highest authority, so also the fair sex soon occupied the center of their learned circles. Books came to be seen more and more as written conversations, as elegantly styled discussions, and so took on the dialogistic air of the sophist. Rather than, third, enumerating all the public institutions that have adopted it, let me come right out and say: the French language would be nothing if it had not garnered all these commendations. Wretched for musical settings, watery, nerveless, and inharmonious for poetic purposes, too precise for the higher realms of philosophy, it has earned its place solely through a mediocrity that has never attained a high level in either philosophy or poetry.


“

W

e despair, and convince ourselves on the basis of this striking example that it is just not worth the trouble of giving satisfaction to the French in this respect, obsessed as they are with the external appearances in everything.12 Accordingly, we jump to the opposite conclusion: {28} that we shall reject the French language entirely, and instead devote ourselves with all our passion and sincerity to our mother tongue. We found opportunities for this, and willing interlocutors, in our daily lives. Alsace had not been part of France13 for so long that old and young had yet lost 11Prémontval (pseudonym) ⫽ André-Pierre Le Gay (1716 – 64), author of Discours sur les mathématiques (Paris, 1743), L’esprit de Fontenelle (Paris, 1743), Mémoires (The Hague, 1749), and Le Diogène de d’Alembert (Paris, 1754). 12Goethe has been praising the spoken and written French of Johann Daniel Schöpflin (1694 – 1771), professor of history at Strasbourg, with whom he has studied, and decrying the tendency of the French to quibble with his command of their language, complaining that he “expounds and philosophizes” rather than “conversing.” In his Aus meinem Leben: Dichtung und Wahrheit (1811– 32), Goethe covered his life from birth to arrival in Weimar in 1775. Part III (1814), book 11, includes his period of legal studies in Strasbourg, 1768 –71. The passage from which Schenker excerpts details his initial desire for an academic position in France, then the disparaging discussions among Goethe and his German friends of French law and politics, literature, society, science, and atheism, and his mildly disillusioned return to Germany. It was in Strasbourg that he came under the influence of Herder and of the latter’s advocacy of Shakespeare. 13Alsace was placed under French protectorate in 1648. Strasbourg was seized by the French in 1681.

9Johann Gottfried Herder (1744 –1803): “Aurora” (i.e., the morning light that drives away the terrors of the night) is the tenth essay in the collection Nachlese für Adrastea: Vermischte Aufsätze und Fragmente: J. G. Herders sämmtliche Werke (Karlsruhe: im Büreau der deutschen Classiker, 1820 – 29), vol. 28 (1821), pp. 441– 564; the quotation is taken from p. 554. “Aurora” is a dialogue about the old century and the new, and in particular about the French Revolution and the concepts of freedom and equality. The italics in this passage reproduce Herder’s emphases, which are not transmitted in Schenker’s text. 10Barbarish. . . schrieb: Herder probably means writing in German before the standardization of the language in the Lutheran Bible. A barbarism is a grammatical error.

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tonw i l l e 3 their lingering attachment to the old outlooks, customs, language, and traditional dress . . . . Similarly, at our table nothing even remotely resembling German was spoken. . . . What alienated us from the French more powerfully than anything was the oft-repeated assertion that Germans in general—like the king, who strove after French culture14 —were lacking in good taste. Whenever we encountered this allegation, which attached itself to every opinion like a refrain, we did nothing and tried to bottle up our feelings. But we became even more befuddled when people assured us that Ménage15 had once said that French writers possessed everything but good taste. . . .16 So there we were, at the French border, suddenly free and divested of all things French. We found their way of life too precise and genteel. To us, their poetry was cold, their criticism destructive; their philosophy was abstruse and, even so, inadequate. Now we stood on the verge of surrendering ourselves to raw nature, at least experimentally—if, that is, another influence had not long since been preparing us for higher and freer views of the world and intellectual delights as true as they were poetic; if it had not been controlling us at first secretively and gently, but later more overtly and forcefully. I hardly need say that it is Shakespeare that I have in mind with this remark. . . . We have generously accorded him all the justice, equity, and protective concern that we deny to one another. Goethe: Aus meinem Leben, Part III

From Mozart’s letters, 1777– 8.

. . . And think how popular I would become if I could give the German National Theater a musical leg up!—And if I were involved, that would certainly happen, for I have been dying to compose ever since I heard German Singspiel.” (Munich, October 11, 1777) “I have an indescribable longing to write another opera . . .18 . . . and I am happier if I have something to compose, for that is, after all, my only joy and passion . . . For I need only hear talk of an opera, I need only to be in a theater, hearing voices, and I am immediately beside myself with joy . . .” (Augsburg, October 17, 1777) “. . . Then we went to supper (at the house of the city councilor Herr Langenmantel).19 He [i.e., his son] had already questioned me regarding the cross20 that morning, and I had told him all about what it was and how I had come by it. He and his brother-in-law kept saying: ‘We should like to get the cross ourselves, too, so that we can belong to the same company as Herr Mozart.’ But I took no notice. And they kept on addressing me as ‘Chevalier, Lord of the Spur!’ I kept my mouth shut. But over supper things turned nasty. ‘How much would one cost? Three ducats? Do you have to get permission to wear it? Does it cost anything to get permission? We really must send for the cross for ourselves.’ There was a certain officer by the name of B. Bach,21 who said: ‘Disgraceful! You should be ashamed of yourselves. What would you do with the cross?’ The young ass von KurzenMantel flashed him a glance—I spotted it, and he knew I did. After that, things quieted down a bit. Then he offered me some snuff, and said: ‘There, take a pinch on it.’ I held my tongue. Eventually he started ridiculing me again unmercifully. ‘Now then, tomorrow

14Frederick II, king of Prussia 1740 – 86, who is said to have remarked “Je parle l’allemand comme un cocher.” 15Gilles Ménage (1613– 92), French literary scholar noted for his sarcasm, and later satirized by Boileau and Molière. 16Large excision at this point. 17Mozart has just been told that the elector is unwilling to offer him patronage until he has been to Italy and made his name there.

18At the promise of Josef Myslivecˇ ek (1737– 81) to recommend him to write one for the Naples Carnival (which came to nothing). 19The parenthesis is Schenker’s. Jakob Wilhelm Benedikt Langenmantel von Wertheim und Ottmarshausen (1719 – 90) had been a friend of Mozart’s father since childhood, and was one of the first people on whom Wolfgang called, at Leopold’s behest, when he arrived in Augsburg. He was a Catholic city counsellor, an imperial provincial governor, and imperial adviser. It is his son, Jakob Alois Karl Langenmantel, the Intendant of the Augsburg patrician music circle, who figures in the event described here, together with his (younger) brother-in-law. Langenmantel ⫽ “long cloak,” hence Mozart’s pun on Kurzen-Mantel ⫽ “short cloak.” 20[S]Mozart’s father wanted Wolfgang to wear the cross of the Order of the Golden Spur, which he had received from the pope [Clement IV] at the age of fourteen, when he was in Augsburg, the city of the Mozart family. 21Karl Ernst Freiherr von Bagge (1718 or 1722– 91), an amateur musician permanently resident in Paris from 1750, and the subject of derision in the Mozart family correspondence.


(Munich, September 29, 1777) “So that’s that! Most of the great aristocrats are besotted in this way with Italy . . .”17 (Munich, October 2, 1777) “I am prepared to submit to a competition. Let him [the Elector of Bavaria] invite all the composers of Munich, and he can rope in a few from Italy and France, Germany, England, and Spain, as well. I am sure I can hold my own with any of them at composition . . .

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(Mannheim, October 31, 1777) “. . . they just think that because I am small and young nothing great or grown-up can come out of me. They will soon learn.” (Paris, July 3, 1778) “Now I have some news that you may perhaps already have heard. That godless arch-scoundrel Voltaire—he has snuffed it, like a dog, like a brute beast. He has got his due!”

I shall send my servant to you. Be so kind as to lend me the cross for a while. I shall return it to you promptly, just as soon as I have talked with my goldsmith about it. He is an odd fellow, and I am sure that when I ask him how valuable it is, he will say ‘About one Bavarian Thaler, not more: it definitely is not gold, only copper. Ha-ha!’ I said: ‘Not at all! It is made of sheet-metal. Ha-ha!’ I was boiling with rage and anger. ‘But tell me,’ he asked, ‘can I do without the spur?’—‘O yes,’ I replied, ‘you do not need one: you already have one in your head. Actually, I have one in my head, too, but it is of a different sort: I would certainly not want to swap mine with yours. Here, have a pinch of snuff on it.’ I offered him some snuff and he went rather pale. {29} ‘The other day,’ he started up again, ‘the other day, your medal looked a real treat on that fancy waistcoat of yours.’ I kept silent. Finally he called out (to his servant): ‘Hey, make sure you treat us with more respect when the two of us, my brother-in-law and I, wear Herr Mozart’s cross. Here, have a pinch of snuff on it.’ ‘It is a funny thing,’ I began, as if I had not heard what he had said, ‘but I can get all the medals that you could ever win sooner than you could become what I am, even if you died and were born again twice over. Here, have a pinch of snuff on it.’ With which, I stood up. Everybody else stood up also, and was covered in embarrassment. I took my hat and sword and said: ‘I shall have the pleasure of seeing you again tomorrow.’—‘I shall not be here, tomorrow.’ ‘Then I’ll come the day after, if I am still around.’ ‘Oh, but you will surely still be . . . ’—‘I shall be nothing of the sort. You are a bunch of scoundrels. Goodbye for the time being.’—and I stalked out.” 䊳 Could anyone outwit a democrat more effectively than the aristocratgenius Mozart did here? And if that democrat were to die twice and be born again—democrat-birth would always be a still-born birth, democrat-life a stillborn life. And if occasionally, like Langenmantel the younger here, he runs headon into a genius, he is consigned to being an eternal shadow of something that never was or is. Here, have a pinch of snuff on it, you democrats! 䊴 22 The father chides his son over this rebuff, and Wolfgang counters:23 “Papa tells me in his earlier letter that I fraternized too much with the son of Langenmantel. Nothing is farther from the truth! I behaved just naturally toward him, and nothing more.”




The German democrats, with their French narrowness of outlook, are forever unable to see through the words and deeds of French mendacity, and therefore swear on no higher authority than the patriarchs of their dishonor, Voltaire, the Encyclopedists, and the “heroes of the French Revolution.” These democrats hold that Mozart, in the manner of the “priests,” had profaned Voltaire’s greatness. And the “vassal” Schurig (see earlier),24 who finds Voltaire more congenial, calls Mozart a “barbarian.” What nonesense! As a German, Mozart was “behaving just naturally” in his remark (see above); and as a German genius, he possessed, without needing to know chapter and verse of Voltaire’s writings as do German devotees of Voltaire, a deeper insight than they into the repulsive ways of this all-too-deeply flawed Frenchman. One need only recall, moreover, how a Goethe—with characteristic sense of responsibility in what he said and what he wrote (Dichtung und Wahrheit)—judged Voltaire, who through his superficiality and unsoundness in matters of religion, art, and politics caused so much mischief in the world, and lived so disreputable a life. One will then see the rightness of Mozart’s hastily penned remark, and will appreciate how fundamentally different from the German is the Frenchman, to whom a Voltaire could become the pride of his Panthéon:25 “You might think, from what I have recounted so far, that only fortuitous ex-

24[S]See Tonwille 2, pp. 18, 22/i, pp. 65, 69. [Artur Schurig, author of Wolfgang Amadé Mozart: sein Leben, seine Persönlichkeit, sein Werk (Leipzig: Insel, 1913, 2nd ed. 1923), in which he drew on Nissen’s collection of biographical sources to conduct new research into the influences on Mozart, including French influences, thereby antagonizing Schenker. (This is in itself probably further evidence of how up-to-date Schenker kept in his reading.) Schenker likens him to the German negotiators (“lackeys”) who in 1919 subjugated Germany to the Allied forces and democracy. Schurig’s book, along with a negative review of its second edition, is critiqued in the last section of the next “Miscellanea” (Tonwille 4, pp. 31– 2/i, pp. 171– 72). 25See note 12. These extracts occur between extracts 4 and 5 of those previously quoted.

deleted from page proofs for the “Miscellanea”: OC 39/20. Oct 18, 1777, continuation Oct 20 “You were insufficiently reserved, you were too familiar”; Wolfgang: Oct 25. 22Passage

23Leopold:

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ternal motivations and personal idiosyncrasies are involved. In fact, however, French literature did itself possess certain qualities that must have deterred the aspiring young man rather than attracting him. It was archaic and refined, neither of which can have appealed to young men in search of freedom and the pleasures of life . . . . . . And even this Voltaire, the wonder-boy of his day, was himself by now archaic, like the literature that he had enlivened and dominated for nearly a century . . . . . . and so he himself, patriarch and elder statesman, had to emulate even the youngest of his rivals by waiting his opportunities, constantly ingratiating himself with others, granting too many favors to his friends, mistreating his enemies too often, and, under the guise of a passionate striving after truth, treating people untruthfully and deceitfully. When all is said and done, was it worthwhile having lived so active and great a life only to end up more dependent than when one started out? . . . . . . For us young men, for whom a German love of nature and truth served as the best guide in living and learning, and honesty to oneself and others was our watchword, the partisan dishonesty of Voltaire, and his demolishing of so many worthy causes, irked us increasingly so that we grew daily more antipathetic toward him. He could never do enough to belittle religion and the holy writ on which it was founded in his desire to damage the “high priests,” as he called them, and many a time this left me feeling uncomfortable. But only when I learned that in order to discredit the oral tradition of a Great Flood he denied the evidence of fossilized shells, considering all such phenomena mere freaks of nature, did I completely lose my faith in him; . . . From his youth upward, he directed his full attention and energy to an active social life, politics, personal gain of all kinds, relationships to the lords of the earth, and exploitation of those relationships with the aim of joining the ranks of those lords. It cannot have been easy for anyone to make themselves so beholden to others in order to be beholden to no one . . . {30} . . . Whenever we heard speak of the Encyclopedists, or opened a volume of their enormous work, its effect on our spirits was as of walking through the innumerable gyrating bobbins and looms of a huge textile mill. The sheer clattering and whirring, all that machinery befuddling one’s senses, the overwhelming sight of so many individual parts interacting so closely, the contemplation of the myriad things that go into making a piece of cloth—it was enough to spoil the feel of the garment on one’s back.”

D

uring his visit to the court of Frederick William II in Berlin, Mozart forces the king’s cello teacher, Duport the Elder,26 who was, in Otto Jahn’s words, “as arrogant a character as he was intriguing,” to speak German, despite the hegemony of French at the court. He remarked of him: “Even that Italianate brute, who has lived on German soil all these many years and consumed German food, was forced to converse in—or rather to mangle—German, whether or not his French muzzle was up to the job.”27 As a genius, Mozart recognizes that political power extends to the realm of language, and accordingly rejects the French language on German soil. But why do no Germans who belong to Mozart’s beloved fatherland follow suit, rather than encouraging, as they do, the unjustified disparagement and denigration of his music and person? Do they expect to administer tests in the understanding of genius just in case they come across some foreign genius, rather than letting justice reign with the authentic article? Now back to Mozart’s character, then Mozart’s music, too, will be revealed to Germans!


B

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ut let us go back, Councilor, for I completely lose my diplomatic character and perspective if I do not frequently revisit the past, the afflictions that underlie our time, among which in particular are the three types of lie. In the very fabric of the French language exists a reflection of the truthfulness of the journal de l’Empire.28 For example, a French billion is so much smaller than ours that a French quintillion is only a German trillion. Likewise, a mere rien on its own, without a second negation, means something to them; but what about le moyen d’en rien croire?29 When faced with numbers of troops or amounts of earnings, this linguistic genius was seldom fazed. Thus by vérités de Moniteur or de Paris there is nothing any truer to understand than by cul de Paris or gorge de Paris,30 though the latter two do at Duport (1741–1818), first cellist of the royal chapel from 1773. A. Mozart (Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1856 – 59, rev. 1867, 5th edn., rev. H. Abert, 1919– 21), vol. 2, p. 630. 28This was the name given to the Journal débats et décrets, a record of the proceedings of the National Assembly, during most of 1814 –15. 29Literally, “the means of believing nothing.” 30‘Truths of Le Moniteur,” “[truths] of Paris,” “Paris arse,” “Paris cleavage”: Le Moniteur universelle, founded 1789 to publish the debates of the French National Assembly, to record public acts and diplomas, and to discuss affairs and literature, became the official organ of the French government in 1814; it changed its name to Journal officiel in 1871. 26Jean-Pierre 27W.

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least refer to something tangible. Just as architecture uses blind doorways for decoration,31 so French architecture of war and peace, in the form of the writer, shows itself—perhaps not at an inopportune moment—through blind or painted doorways and triumphal arches that look in two directions at once. And it is in essence an imitation—albeit an ennobled one—of the Roman practice that required the Emperor literally to put on make-up at his triumphal ascent, when the French newspapers hastily apply make-up32 or rouge to the defeated commander-inchief, and turn loss into victory by eulogy and lies. But every diplomatic councilor will always call this nothing other than the purely fictional lie . . . Quite different from this . . . is the cynical and derisive lie. This is what explains clearly to nations, when they have lost their old freedom, what they have gained in the process, and moreover in the midst of their wars how much they enjoy peace, even at first taking pleasure in war as an advance encounter. It explains also how greatly trade and commerce can actually profit from the very fact of European bankruptcy, just as commercial independence can be achieved from political dependency. It shows how one can really speak of good fortune throughout the whole of present-day Europe, but most especially in the former German Empire. To me, this is a loose, but elegant emulation of the people of Kamchatka, whose custom it is, after devouring the whole of a seal except for the head, to place a garland and crown on this final relic, lay food around it, and instead of saying grace make the following speech to it: ‘See how we mistreat you; we captured you only so that we might regale you right royally. Tell your relatives this, so that they too may come and be regaled.’ It is small wonder that in recent times such garlanded and harangued heads have been a common sight. But it is worth remarking how, in these wild people, the first embodiment—albeit only a faint one—of a good French minister of the interior was actually to be found. . . . Enough. We have now arrived at the third type of lie: the lie by promise, or the lie of treachery. This is the most serious of them all.” . . . Jean Paul: Mars und Phoebus Thronwechsel im Jahre 181433 31Blinde

which has operated, and continues to operate, in Germany against the opinion and advice of her great men—behind their backs, as it were? And do not the French tricksters [die Französler] commit the most grievous betrayal of human culture by constantly driving the French people [die Franzosen] to ruination and depravity through their slavish, foolish posing, when they should instead be helping them out of their predicament? 䊴 34 {29}


A

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few years ago, in a fit of grand self-delusion, the Neue Zürcher Zeitung alleged that the character and customs of German Switzerland were essentially French. There is a grain of truth in this: we do have an inveterate tribe of adulators who gawk at all things French and do not see sense until they have had a ladle-full of misery forced down their throats. Anybody to whom France really has anything to offer should accept it with gratitude. She has nothing to offer us, only things to take from us. Our federal constitution, the first practicable creative idea since the downfall of the ancient confederacy,35 is evidence of the German blood in our veins, evidence as good as the ancient letters of the golden era.36 Gottfried Keller, in Der Bund (Bern), 1860 “. . . A Swiss republic reformed thus from top to bottom would, however, be restored and revitalized if it were to enter into free union with similarly governed states to form a large-scale mutual alliance; and that this might one day be possible with Germany was precisely the assumption of the above-mentioned toast. If in contemplating such an affiliation37 —such an accommodation in times of future world calamities—I showed a preference for Germany, then this was be-

deleted from page proofs for the “Miscellanea”: OC 39/22. old three-canton Swiss confederacy goes back to 1291, and by 1513 embraced thirteen cantons. The establishment of the Helvetian Republic in 1798 ended it; the republic was itself replaced by the new federal constitution in 1815, comprising twenty-two cantons with separate constitutions but one federal army. A new federal state was formed in 1848, with a federal government, postal system, currency, and, later, railway system. 36The golden era probably refers to the original confederacy, formed in 1291 among the forest cantons, Schwyz, Uri, and Nidwalden, the “Everlasting League”; the “ancient letters” to the letter of agreement of 1291 and that among the three cantons affirming their defensive alliance in 1315. See Gottfried Keller: Sämtliche Werke und ausgewählte Briefe (Munich: Hanser, 1958), vol. 3, p. 970: “the two league letters of 1291 and 1315.” 37Anschluss: the word widely used for the “annexation” of Austria by Germany shortly before the start of World War II. 34Passage 35The

Thore can also mean “blind fools.” cf. Schenker’s remarks on the Western political leaders in The Masterwork in Music,

32Schminke:

vol. 3, p. 72. 33Mars und Phöbus: Thronwechsel im Jahre 1814. Eine scherzhafte Flugschrift. This “satirical pamphlet” is subtitled “Brief report of how, on the night of New Year’s Eve 1813, the reigning planet Mars hands over sovereignty to his successor, Sol, the sun god, for the year 1814.” The work appears among the “Political Writings” in the collected edition Jean Pauls Sämtliche Werke: Historisch-kritische Ausgabe, part I, vol.14 (Weimar: Böhlaus, 1839), pp. 155–82. Schenker’s excerpts are taken from pp. 172–75.

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tonw i l l e 3 the three-class electoral system41 (“friends” among Germany’s enemies shared those concerns with him!). But what good is that to him today, now that he is not even free to choose which whip? Anybody who wishes to punish him is free to do so: American, English, French, Italian, Czech, Pole, Rumanian, Hungarian, Yugoslav, or whoever. Did not the German workforce in German Austria recently prove itself utterly worthless by failing to kill a villainous English soldier who had assaulted a German official in English fashion because the wanton destruction was not going ahead fast enough for his liking? Will the German democrats in their spy-holes never understand that Germans are too upright and industrious to get caught up in the democratic activities of indolent peoples without feeling sick with shame? I fear they never will! Their small brain-mass makes it difficult for them to behave as Germans alongside Germany’s great ones, to be LessingHerder-Goethe-Schiller-Jean Paul-Bach-Haydn-Mozart-Beethoven-Kant-MoltkeHindenburg-German, and far easier just to be French-English-Italian-CzechPolish-German.

cause I prefer to turn to where capability, strength, and light, rather than their opposites, prevail.” Gottfried Keller, in the Basler Nachrichten, 1872 By now, the German democrats have got rather more than “a ladle-full of misery forced down their throats.” From their spy-holes, so to speak, they have come to know every single foreign knave by sight. His foreign name was already music to their ears, every word that he published in a newspaper, novel, or stage play holy writ. But this did not stop the foreign whip from cracking over the democrats in Germany, who must grudgingly concede that there has always been and always will be solidarity among the people—Ah! what castles in Spain they dreamt of there! And if it works against the German people, then it will be a solidarity with the exception of the Germans. What is more, the German democrat ought to pay to whoever engineered the long-desired freedom from the Hohenzollerns38 a liberation tax at a level way beyond his means.39 Then at last he would put up economic resistance against his liberator, for the first time ever—but that would still fall far short of intellectual resistance. The German worker is already becoming uneasy even about his beloved Marx, for the foreign whip is on the point of driving this prophet out of him.40 A special tax ought to be levied for this liberation, too: slavery for the liberators! Soon the castles in Spain will have vanished, as a new breed of strong-arm bureaucrat works only eight hours a day himself (and not very good quality work, at that) and so forces middle-class men and women to work that much longer. In the throes of the War, the German worker had nothing better to think about than

T

“




his France was no greater than Germany, but had always had the power to go after anything she wanted in Germany and get it, the power to play cat-andmouse, to inflict harm, to disrupt, to rob whichever neighbor she chose, and to make surprise attacks whenever and wherever she felt like it. From Heidelberg to Peking, from the arsonist Mélac to the thieving accomplice Palikao, she always had her sights set on some foreign possession. The great nation-King Louis xiv stole Belgium’s most valuable border regions, and then the great nation-Emperor Napoleon was able to appropriate the country wholesale, emasculated and dismembered as it was. Louis xiv took the Vosges as his border, Napoleon i took the Rhine as his border, Napoleon iii nursed the idea of snatching land indefinitely, until he got his fingers burned, though he got away with seizing Savoy and Nice.42 The French are compulsively voracious, the ironic thing being that while {32} they grab territory always by expansion, they seek to compensate Germany by contraction, and for her own good. By conjuring away the names ‘Prussia’ and ‘Germany,’ they compensate Prussia in such a way that Germany increases by not a single village, while the whole German-Austrian region shrinks—and in France they call that ‘compensation’!

38That is, the royal family of Brandenburg-Prussia, which also provided the emperors of imperial Germany; in particular Kaiser Wilhelm ii. The ousters in Schenker’s mind must have been the sailors and workers who staged the November 1918 revolution, the independent socialist and Spartacist politicians who (with financial support from Russia) incited revolution, and the majoritysocialist government of Friedrich Ebert, although Hindenburg and Wilhelm Groener made the phone call that produced the abdication. 39The allusion is to the reparations payments imposed on Germany by the Versailles Treaty, which were (at France’s and England’s urging) beyond Germany’s capacity to pay, and were intended to cripple Germany economically. 40Austreiben: the word used for Jesus’ driving out of evil spirits; for example, Matthew 8.16 “er trieb die Geister aus durch sein Wort und machte alle Kranken gesund.” 41The system of election to the Prussian Landtag (lower parliamentary house), which was split into thirds according to taxes paid so that the workers and peasantry—by far the majority of the electorate—received only a third of the seats.

42The city of Nice and the Duchy of Savoy to the north were part of Sardinia-Piedmont until 1860, when Napoleon iii concluded a treaty in which they were transferred to France.

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France cannot live so long as she has only France and not also the lands of her neighbors! Without these, it would be impossible for her to fulfill her European mission! . . . European mission! Now there is another word that belongs to the world of sanitized political rhetoric! If it is France’s mission to steal, rob, plunder, and murder with bands of Africans armed to the teeth and trigger-happy, then the devil take its mission . . .” “France is never happier than when Europe is thrown into turmoil. Germany can claim that, despite having the greatest might, she has been peace-loving through her entire history. France’s history, on the other hand, shows her to have possessed moderate power and yet constantly to have disturbed the peace. A contented Germany means peace in Europe!” “But because they never retaliated, Austria and Germany while apparently promoting peaceful coexistence in reality constituted a perennial tinder-box of war. Over the centuries, every upstart as he flexed his muscles tugged at the beard of the seventy-million Reich, even the puny Dane had to have a go recently. First the Rhine borderland, then Schleswig-Holstein—i.e. an undeniably German possession—joined the neighboring states on the hit-list for robbery, known as ‘questions,’ an affront like no other on the five continents, and that is what they call ‘political equilibrium.’ The fox, I believe, calls it his ‘endangered interests’ when the geese take to the wing but political equilibrium when they are perched motionless in a pen to which he has ready access.” Kürnberger43

declare in a Viennese newspaper merely “fleeting contradictions” to which his nation was prone, in the city so infamously lied to, plundered, and sucked dry by the French, and through which the French eat their way so cheaply.44 Admittedly, this Professor of Mendacity had the French good grace to assure Vienna of his “sympathy,” and that was enough for any Viennese lackey of the French 䊴 .45


From Paris, Monsieur Grimm writes to Mozart’s father (1778):

46

“He is zu does not exert himself, is too easily duped and not sufficiently alert to profitable openings. To get on here, you have to be wily, enterprising, daring. For his own good, I would wish him half the talent and twice the cunning, and then I would have no worries about him. Other than that, there are only two courses of action for him to improve his lot here. The first is to give keyboard lessons. However, quite apart from requiring a lot of active solicitation, not to say charlatanry, to get hold of pupils, I am not sure that his health is up to this line of employment. . . . What is more, this occupation does not please him, because it will prevent him from writing, which is what he likes above all. So he could give himself entirely up to that, but in this country the majority of the public is not well-versed in music. As a result, it is all a question of names, and the merits of a

treuherzig,47

44 䊳 [S]At the urging of his friends, J. S. Bach, in the autumn of 1717 while at the Court of Dresden, challenged the then world-famous French harpsichordist and organist Jean Louis Marchand [1669–1732] to a contest of improvisation and performance (Spitta, [Johann Sebastian Bach], vol. 1, pp. 574ff ). The French artist “took up the gauntlet. A panel of musical judges was selected. . . . Bach and the referees assembled on time. But of Marchand there was no sign. They waited awhile, then the Count sent to his quarters to remind him of his appointment, but word came back only that the man he sought had made himself scarce, taking the express mail coach out of Dresden that morning.” This item of historical information sprang instantly to mind when I read recently that Professor Aulard— this being the name of the history professor mentioned above—answered the challenge issued to him by the Berlin historian Delbrück to come to Cologne for a public debate on war guilt by staying away. The same old French cowardice, in 1922 just as in 1717; the rest is—“gloire.”䊴 [The incident is reported only by German writers, among others, Marpurg, J. A. Birnbaum, and Jacob Adlung.] 45Passage (including Schenker’s footnote) deleted from page proofs for the “Miscellanea”: OC 39/23. 46July 27, 1778; Schenker reproduces this letter in its highly corrupt French orthography, in Roman type, even with tirets instead of quotation marks. Friedrich Melchior, Baron von Grimm (1723–1807) lived in Paris from 1749, contributed to the operatic controversies from 1752 onward, and wrote the satirical Le petit prophète de Boehmischbroda (1753). He was a supportive friend to Wolfgang throughout his 1763 – 64 visit to Paris. 47“Too trusting”—Grimm leaves the phrase in German.

Imagine what Kürnberger would have said if he had lived to see the World War 䊳 , which France instigated in order to seize for itself a second time German Alsace-Lorraine, which Louis xiv had once before stolen in peace time; if he had lived to see how that nation steals German Malmedy-Eupen, Danzig, Memel, the Saar region, the Tyrol, and Upper Silesia, building submarines and extolling their virtues where only yesterday it was decrying those of Germany as contrary to international law; if he had lived to see a history professor at the Sorbonne 43Ferdinand Kürnberger (1823 –79), Austrian novelist, dramatist, and journalist for democratic newspapers and periodicals, but with strong German nationalist and Austrian patriotic feelings. This passage appeared in his principal collection of political writings, Siegelringe: eine ausgewählte Sammlung politischer und kirchlicher Feuilletons (1874). Schenker quoted from an article, “Kürnberger der Deutsche,” by H. Amrhein, in the Unterhaltungsbeilage der täglichen Rundschau for July 2, 1921, p. 510, a clipping of which survives in OC 24/40. Kürnberger’s collected works in five volumes (1910–14) were edited by Otto Erich Deutsch.

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tonw i l l e 3 work can be appreciated by only a small handful of people. At the present time, the public is quite ridiculously split between Piccinni and Gluck,48 and the reasons one hears bandied about are utterly pathetic! It is thus very difficult for your son to make headway between these two factions. So you can see, dear master, that in a country where so many mediocre and even detestable musicians have amassed enormous wealth, I very much fear that your son will not get himself out of this plight on his own.” Monsieur Grimm, whom even Goethe, in his Dichtung und Wahrheit, considers to be a foreigner exceptionally well received “into the bosom of the only linguistically blessed church,” does not so much as attempt to translate zu treuherzig into French. He made himself out to be a “friend” of Leopold Mozart, and gave Wolfgang a helping hand in Paris, but the son saw through him more quickly than the father, writing from Paris (September 11, 1778): “I am only sorry that I shall not be here long enough to show him that I have no need of him, and that I can do as well as his Piccinni—even if I am only a German.”

shows itself totally lacking in imagination. Its architectonic ideas and motives can be reduced to a few perpetually repeating figures. {33} Any medium-sized Italian town has greater wealth of imagination than mighty Paris. Even if the Italians had produced nothing more than Venice, one would still have to say they were of all the people of the world the richest in art and design. The cities of Italy are the sole surviving monuments of a one-hundred-year-long process in which the artistic spirit of a people has manifested itself in a kaleidoscope of individual personal forms. This display of singular genius is lacking in Paris—the interminable streets and boulevards with their showy palaces all look alike—even Communists would have been able to use community funds to build their phalanstères52 in this way. Gregorovius (from unpublished pages of his diary, communicated by Professor Dr. H. H. Houben53)


H

“

ow surprised I was when I encountered Beethoven this morning! In his eccentric, scuttling gait, he lurched toward me, making great show of his joy at seeing me again. We spoke about all sorts of things. He asked me whether I was still pursuing music! No longer, I said: I am following your advice. You said I had no talent, and I have come to the conclusion that you were right. It is pitiful to see someone struggling with something when they have no talent for it. That is why man is a social animal: so that he can draw on the whole of society to realize his full capacity. However, each individual should contribute his own tone—and it must be pure and perfect—to the general harmony, while not claiming to be that harmony entirely himself. Beethoven: Not bad, but not true, either. I would not want to go around with someone who gave out only one tone. He would be a tedious companion, how-




P

“

aris, the most unmusical place in the world after London, deserves to have an exception made for it in this case . . .” Lenz: Beethoven, I, p. 2349

Readers of my Erläuterungsausgaben of the last five Beethoven sonatas will know that I do not count Lenz as a musician.50 However, his hermeneutic sagacity will stretch to judging Paris as a musical city.


T

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hen again, all this empty architectonic ostentation is at base democratic, as is the empire itself. It is monotonous égalité. I see that A. von Humboldt51 somewhere calls Paris humdrum and tedious. And this dreadful city of ostentation

expeditions in Central and South America, who lived in Paris 1804 – 27, where in addition to writing up his scientific work he led a full social life. 52Eighteenth-century neologism modeled on monas ⫹ tère (monastery) comprising phalanx (i.e., social community) ⫹ tère; hence community dwellings in the ideal social system of Fourier (1772 –1837); vast structures, each situated in a square league of cultivated land. 53Ferdinand (Adolf) Gregorovius, pseudonym of Ferdinand Fachsmund (1821– 91), German historian and popular writer of liberal persuasion, author of Idee eines Polenthums (1848) and Geschichte der Stadt Rom im Mittelalter (1859 –72). Schenker read this material in an article, “Ferdinand Gregorovius in Paris: ungedrückte Tagebuchblätter aus dem Jahre 1878,” in an unidentified periodical of January 22, 1921: clipping, OC 24/28. The correspondent, Heinrich Hubert Houben (1875 –1935), was a German literary historian and freelance Berlin critic.

48The

critical controversy between the operas of Niccolò Piccinni (1728–1800) and Christoph Willibald Gluck (1714 – 87) ran from early 1777 into the early 1780s. In this rivalry, Grimm favored the Italian, although at other times he had supported Gluck. 49Wilhelm von Lenz, Beethoven: eine Kunststudie, vol. 1 (Kassel: Balde, 1855). 50A critique of Lenz’s remarks on the late sonatas appears in each of the original Erläuterungsausgaben—Op. 109 (pp. 50– 54), Op. 110 (pp. 77– 9), Op. 111 (pp. 87– 91), and Op. 101 (pp. 72 – 5)—but not in Jonas’s revisions of 1971–72, from which the discussion of the secondary literature was excised. Schenker was also disparaging of Lenz’s interpretation of the Fifth Symphony; see Tonwille 5, p. 17/i, p. 188; Tonwille 6, p. 32. 51Alexander Freiherr von Humboldt (1769 –1859), German scientist and explorer, famous for his

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ever pure his tone. Each man represents within himself the total life of a society, just as society gives an impression of being something a mite larger than an individual. Now then, what news of our bulbous-nosed Marchese and his angelically beautiful daughter? I recounted briefly and as concisely as possible what happened. He received it with apparent indifference, and switched to his favorite topic, politics, which thoroughly bores me. We parted . . .” From the “Diaries of Carl Friedrich Freiherr Kübeck von Kübau,” communicated by Theodor von Frimmel in his Beethoven-Forschung, II54

out to the veranda to impress on me the presence of a democratic majority. He continued intrepidly: “The blame lies with the nobility,55 but the ordinary people scorn the nobility.” I dismissed this gentleman without a word, for I saw in him the archetypal German democrat who, while jumping for joy at having ousted yesterday’s ruling class, is blind to how greatly the German “ordinary people,” who “scorn” their aristocracy, are now themselves scorned by all the scornful peoples of the world. 䊴 56

While the nations of the enemy alliance (or in German: Entente) humiliate Germans constantly these days in a thousand different ways as unwanted people, German musicians, to use Beethoven’s phrase, already display “barbaric indifference” to them. Instead of letting this, the worst act of villainy in world history, finally show up these jackasses, pilferers, and cringing cowards of nations who produced the Versailles diktat for what they are, they grovel on their bellies yet again before their alleged cleverness, skill, noble-spiritedness, and bravery. They again fail to distinguish between a certain acumen, a certain agility of mind, such as is necessary for lying, falsifying, and stealing, and that deeper gift of advancing through superior ability and noble work. Thus, they raise these people up undeservedly on pedestals, and fail to see themselves as thereby demeaned. These musicians need to be told in no uncertain terms that, even with such indifference, they would not measure up to Beethoven’s standard, and precisely because of their indifference.

“




What is the people? I, too, am of the people!” Bismarck once declared.

57

He, genius that he is, knows exactly what the people is; but not the converse: his kindred people do not know what and who he, the Junker Bismarck, is. (Goethe knows and treasures the work of the craftsman, but the latter knows nothing of Goethe.) Those who profess to be the sole representatives of the German people, the German democrats, prove now that they have risen through past acts of treachery to the leadership they long sought, quite incapable of sustaining undiminished and undefiled the German Empire that was created by the genius of the Junker. Instead, they scream out with the might of the majority: “Junkers are not ‘people’.” But note that, in 1883, the French ambassador unreservedly acknowledges the Junker Bismarck’s love of peace: “If the Chancellor ever lays down his office, stormy times will be in store for Europe. The greed of ever-discontented nations, which is currently held in check, will then overflow, and the smallminded ones who incite them in order to satisfy their personal thirst for power and vanity will raise their heads everywhere. Then for the first time we will appreciate how priceless the current German policy is for the peace and prosperity of the nations.” In this way, he recognizes in the Junker Bismarck a love of peace that the entire German people shares with him—a love of which Tacitus could say more than 2,000 years ago: “Devoid of greed or power lust, they live in peace and tranquillity, inciting no one to war, and not molesting their neighbors by pillage and plunder. It is glittering proof of their valor and strength that they do not owe their superior might to acts of violence. {34} Yet, they are always ready for battle, and if need arises they dispatch a mighty army on foot and horseback into the


䊳 A summer incident. It was last summer [1921]. In a dairy farm high up in the

Alps, two German ladies at my table were brought an all-too-frugal lunch. As the young waitress was about to cheat the two ladies on the exchange rate—the consequence of a democratic education!—I intervened to prevent the deception, and so fell into conversation with the ladies. They complained bitterly about conditions in Germany. I was explaining to them the reasons for this sorry state of affairs when a portly Swabian Jew emerged from the next room, having obviously overheard me. He came over to me unsummoned: “Sir, everyone here, inside and out, are democrats.” As he said this his hand swept around the room and gestured 54Beethoven-Forschung: lose Blätter, ed. T. von Frimmel (Vienna: Kommissionsverlag Gerold, 1911– 25), vol. 2, p. 47. Carl Friedrich Freiherr Kübeck von Kübau, German writer; his diary entry is dated February 20, 1801.

55Ferschten:

Schenker is mocking the Swabian pronunciation of Fürsten (“princes”). deleted from page proofs for the “Miscellanea”: OC 39/25. 57See note 7. 56Passage

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tonw i l l e 3 battlefield.”58 Even General Foch in his book Des principes de la guerre admits that the French campaigns of 1854 – 59 were entirely politically inspired, and that of 1870 was a war of aggression: “Even the War of 1870 –71 was undertaken by the French government out of dynastic interests, in order to bolster its faltering power through a victory considered there for the taking.”59 But it is precisely the “people” of the German democrats whose love of peace the other democratic peoples refuse to credit, simply because their millions do not amount to even one Bismarck. Thus, the English democrats taunt us: Are there no great men left in Germany? Clearly questioner and questioned alike fail to realize that there is no such thing as, nor can there ever be, a “great” democrat. At best, there are “men” of great democratic deception, thievery, bad faith, and breach of promise, which they, democrats as they are, and flushed with brief financial success, mistake for the greatness of genius. Democracy is the eternal disappointment of mankind. Is it, perhaps, a form of idealism? No! To think out-and-out incompetency worthy, and to live by it, would be an eternal lie against oneself and others. The democrat is chaos; he is desolate, raw Nature, brute thought. He thus runs counter to the spirituality of a primeval cause, the spirituality of the light, the genius of aristocratism, counter to all selectivity and synthesis. The moment in his childhood when he sees through the tale of the stork, he promptly discards God, as if God were some kind of out-of-favor politician whom one expects to depose at gunpoint or by insurrection. Who created this great world? What for? The democrat has all the answers—for apart from know-

ing nothing whatsoever, he knows everything. His navel is for him the center of the world, and the purpose of creation is his preoccupation, business. Because he is spiritually barren, the democrat does not see the need for a spirituality of civil life that must express itself everywhere, even in a certain artisanship and measuredness of synthesis. With no inkling of how the spiritual element of the state and spiritual men in civil society bring him nourishment, he scrambles undignifiedly after worldly goods—Kant says: “For anything that has a price, something else can be put in its place as its equivalent. By contrast, that which is above all price has true value.”—he wants the very state itself to express only his chaos and nothing else, to emulate his nature, which lives infusory-like by the lips and the arse. Political freedom for him is thus not an ethical concept of an artistically crafted synthesis: it is yet again merely the forces of chaos and unruliness, the sort of freedom that wild horses possess. (Goethe: “In peacetime, on the other hand, man’s duty to work comes more and more to the fore; and the freer he is, the freer he wishes to be. He will tolerate nothing over him; we do not like being restricted: no one should be restricted. And this tender, even sickly, feeling appears to the naïve person as a manifestation of justice.”) In reality, his party is not a political one within the state, but merely some sort of Nature party that frequents the extreme fringes of society, indefatigably devoted to realizing the supposed natural equality of all men. His hair flying, he collides with everyone in authority. He is the people who are forever “grumbling.”60 He descends from those Levites who inveighed against Moses with the words (Numbers, xvi, [3]): “The whole community is holy, every one of them, and the Lord is with them. Why then do you set yourselves above the Lord’s assembly?” But the answer came back from him [ibid., 9–11]: “Isn’t it enough for you that the God of Israel has separated you from the rest of the Israelite community and brought you near himself to make offerings to him . . . but now you are trying to get the priesthood too. It is against the Lord that you and all your followers have banded together. Who is Aaron that you should grumble against him?”61 He denies authority any aristocratic quality: to him, all men are alike. But even the biggest populist sham harbors a tiny aristocratic corner in his own soul as he steps up before his “masses,” whom he calls “uninformed” and

58Schenker’s source for this quotation was a panel at the top of p. 1 of the Unterhaltungsbeilage der Täglichen Rundschau for August 23, 1921: “How did Tacitus speak of the Germans? These words, written by one of the greatest historians of all time about the Germans more than 2,000 years ago, are significant still today and will not change the lies of Germany’s enemies one iota.—Concluding words from Sven Hedin’s war book Eastward! Field edition.”: clipping, OC 24/32. The passage is from Tacitus, De origine et situ Germanorum, chap.35, §2, see Cornelii Taciti Opera Minora, ed. M. Winterbottom and R. M. Ogilvie (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1975), p. 55; trans. J. B. Rives (ibid., 1999), p. 91. However, Tacitus (a.d. c. 25 –c. 117) is speaking here not of the Germans as a whole, but of the coastal northwesterly tribe, the Chauci. Tacitus’s text apparently drew much attention from German nationalists around World War I. 59Ferdinand Foch (1851–1929), French general, chief advocate for the annexation by France of all territory to the west of the Rhine River, and the establishment of a Rhineland state, following the Franco-Prussian War. Schenker took this quotation from an article, “Zum Kapitel ‘Kriegsschuld’,” appearing in the Tägliche Rundschau, July 28, 1921: clipping, OC 24/29. It is part of a communication from a Colonel Buddecke concerning the outbreak of war in 1914.

60Murrt: “So the people grumbled (das Volk murrte) against Moses . . .” (Exodus 15.24); “Why do the nations conspire, and the peoples plot (die Völker murren) so in vain,” etc. 61Translation modified from the New International Version.

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of government. Once the deficient and the dishonest had figured out that the simpleton masses were readier to suspect any one man, or elite group, over them of using force or of fleecing them, they cunningly elevated the “people” to the throne. For in the hallowed name of the “people”—invisible and intangible as that is—the masses could be duped all the more easily. After all, who, having been robbed, would think to ask whether it was the government or the “people” who had done the stealing? It is possible to send a Napoleon packing, like some importunate traveler; but is it so easy, for example, to cope with the entire French people when they steal? That is how the self-seekers conspire to form democracies, confident that their system of government is protecting them from repercussions. Suddenly, however, democracies rise up in arms against democracies,63 monetary interests against monetary interests: They know best what they mean by the slogan “Liberty, Equality, Fraternity,” and what they stand to gain from one another. (Goethe: “How talk of freedom is never more rife than when one party wants to take the other over, and is not known for anything but power, influence, and wealth passing from one hand to the other. Freedom is the secret password of conspirators, and the rallying cry of open revolutionaries, the very motto of despotism itself as it drives its downtrodden masses into battle against the enemy, promising them relief for all time from external pressure.”) But what if the lie of the people, the stealing and plundering, continues its voracious progress in the name of the people? Who will consign the whole of mankind to a penal institution or a reform home? Will we need a different race to come down from some other star to attack and exterminate us, as we ourselves exterminated the mammoths in prehistoric times? Or is the moment of unmasking at hand, the “revision” of democracy? Is it dawning on people that genius and democracy are a contradictio in adjecto?—Never has there been a genius who thought democratically, and it would be a falsehood to count geniuses as belonging to the “people” merely because they were not princes by heredity.—Is it dawning on people that a democrat is someone incapable of anything but deceiving and deluding himself and others? It is high time we recognized that the

thus in need of his leadership. Authority he may be to others, but not others to him; power and compulsion he may exert over others, but not others over him. Just as his first outward expression of freedom is, as a rule, to smear royal palaces with excrement, so he carries this further, even to besmirching the palaces of the great thinkers because his delusion of equality does not acknowledge them. He wants only people like himself, because people like himself are all that he can understand. He hates intellect. And even if he makes a gesture toward invoking intellectual aristocrats and welcoming dealings with them, this—in spite of all that we know about Nature—is the only friction that never releases anything.62 His intellectual palate is no less undiscerning: he still enjoys the rancid and the fresh with equal relish. He remains a snob, to use a foreign word that fits him perfectly, whether he is middle-class or working-class—a snob who affects to do business with the “grandeur” and “nobility” of the intellect merely because the label “nobility” costs him little, indeed nothing. He can “socialize” money, but never intellect. {35} The democrat obliterates the past and future of generations, but makes no history, understands none, and reads none. If he had his way, history would be taught in school only with the goal in mind that he himself has “revealed.” Let us take care to instruct the youth of today in how democrats of all times have lived solely for destruction, and in how genuine public service existed long before their self-inflated version of it. The democrat is eternally ahistorical, like the anthills over which only the changing seasons pass, and not the tides of consciousness. What we call the history of mankind is but a last paltry remnant of the snapped threads that aristocrats of the intellect since time immemorial have spun for us, remnants that have fortunately so far withstood destruction by the Democrats. True, men of limited ability are found occupying even princely thrones. But the advantages of the aristocratic principle underlying the monarchy outweigh the disadvantages of any personal inadequacy. (Novalis says: “A true democracy is an absolute Minus-state. A true monarchy is an absolute Plus-state.”) How could it ever be otherwise? Better, then, merely to have one ass on the throne than to have millions on petty democratic thrones? The democrat wants life to be to his advantage, for only as advantage can he enjoy it. Self-interest is, after all, the principle underlying the democratic system

63[S]“Against democrats, one needs soldiers,” said Bismarck—a maxim that translates well even into foreign politics. The past (Greece, Rome) confirms it, to say nothing of the present. Just consider how full the crafty peoples of the West (and their partisans) are not only of democratic fraud and corruption but also of militarism. And who are they armed against? Against democrats. Thus will it always be, for democracy is business only, and business only means perpetual war.

62Die eine Reibung, die nie etwas auslöst: Schenker is playing on the word Reibung ⫽ friction in the colloquial sense used in English (“nothing rubs off on him”)].

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tonw i l l e 3 opposite of what the democrat maintains is in fact correct: just as only he who is against youth is for it, so too only he who is against the people is for it.

The Frenchman’s truest talent—his inherent talent—is now and always will be that of hating Germans and stealing their territory,65 so that by expropriations and indolence he can soak up worldly vanities and brag about them. He scorns Germans as ponderous because he does not understand them. He fails to understand them because all the slickness of mind on which he prides himself does not begin to measure up to the lightning mental speed with which German genius plumbs the wonders of the intellect. This explains why our great thinkers, despite their prodigious labors, gladly took the time to impart to us something of French literature, whereas their foremost men, with all their esprit-gallopade, were prevented from making German literature available to their fellow-countrymen by virtue of their ponderous intellects and the shortcomings of their language (and by no means out of national pride). And now, so as to satisfy her hatred of Germans and her thievish cravings all in one, France is once again using its position of authority to be officious. Because of her limited intelligence, she knows nothing whatsoever about Poles, Czechs, Rumanians, Hungarians, and numerous others, and yet she divides them up as so much swag and herds them like cattle wherever she chooses.66 She has stockpiled armaments on a vast scale, and is determined to gain supremacy by obstinacy, even without having anything to offer the nations. France can do no right, and really has nothing to give. The French have regained their virility.67 The danger is suddenly acute, for the whole of cheap humanity, so to speak the intellectual provincial public from all countries, including Germany, is constantly flocking to the cheap little Lilliput nation. But first of all, in our own country we should like to see all carriers of “the French” given a massive dose of salvarsan.68 Let them imagine themselves on the




There, right on Germany’s doorstep, sits the Lilliputian nation of the French, its soul still in diapers—one can scarcely call it a soul. Its spirit is incapable of penetrating to the heart of the truth, where all human vanities are but vanity.64 Its spirit is the dross that is left when spirit does not possess the genius of truth or morality. This Lilliputian people calls it esprit. To the deep waters of the spirit it is nothing but—a puff of spray. For those purposes, its language is threadbare, too restricted to meet the demands of a true spiritual insight, and yet canny enough to express everyday mundanities in a mendaciously plausible way. Since the Frenchman lacks depth and probity, all that he knows of the relationships of man to God and to his fellow-men in honor, state, and community of nations he must have acquired through a distorting fabric of lies. He lies his way out of them with his esprit, but is convinced by his lies because not even he thinks it possible for a man {36} to lie so much. For him, neither God, man, woman, state, freedom, right, law, custom, nor fame are ever what they are and must always be; instead, they are whatever his vanity, and its mouthpiece the esprit, need them to be. Even the simplest irrefutable truth turns into a lie in French, because it disports with esprit, with outward effect. Thus, in him, neither philosophy, nor poetry, nor music can prosper—the form of his art is not in reality the form of the work itself: it is merely his Lilliputian handiwork superficially grafted on to art; and his whole world is a veritable spiritual and moral halfworld, demi-monde with demi-liberté, demi-gloire, etc. It is truly a Lilliputian people of the lowest rank when measured on merit against all preceding nations, back to the beginning of time. What would have become of mankind if it had had to depend on the intellectually barren, spiritually impoverished French people; and what is there that had not been said a thousand times more truly, purely, nobly, and worthily before this people first glimpsed the light of day! In Alsatia, so the joke goes, the French had the World War “won for them”—the joke captures the truth aptly—just as they got culture “won for them” from foreign nations; but with esprit-mendacity, they distorted, garbled, falsified it. If they ever stop making 2 ⫻ 2 ⫽ 5, it will only be because they know that the world will get a good laugh out of such an invention.

65[S]Moltke (1841): “Under I don’t know how many false pretexts, and for goodness knows what totally self-contradictory principles, the French have come to us in the past ostensibly to render help but in fact to rob us. They snatched Burgundy from us in the name of the pope, the dioceses of Lorraine, and Alsatia, in the name of the Reformation and as protectors of the Lutherans. They seized Strasbourg and Holland in the name of absolute monarchy, they acquired Spain, Naples and Lorraine in the name of legitimacy, and finally Holland, the Netherlands, and the entire left bank of the Rhine they unified or at least allied with France as tightly as they could in the name of freedom and the republican principle. Four times they invoked a different principle, but with each one they stole a region from us.” 66The allusion is presumably to the Eastern European provisions of the Versailles Treaty, finalized in the spring of 1919, or to subsequent implementation of those provisions. 67[S]In common parlance, as in the literature of the greats, syphilis is called (on well-known historical grounds) “the French.” 68Salvarsan: trade name of the arsenical drug arsphenamine, formulated by Paul Ehrlich in 1909. It was the most effective drug for treatment of syphilis until the discovery of antibiotic penicillin in 1928.

64Ecclesiastes 1.2; 12.8: “Vanity of vanities, saith the Preacher, vanity of vanities: all is vanity”; ibid, iii.19 “. . . man hath no preeminence over a beast: for all is vanity.” See also Job 7.16.

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Goethe-Massif, making a tour of European (i.e., French) thought, seeing all manner of “pioneers” in France, taking the shallow breathing of esprit-lungs for highlevel originality, debasing what is in essence German speech and writing with the glitter of French, and reducing it to the condition of esprit-lies. Let them try to make themselves understood by a France that has not yet learned to understand itself; let them seek to promote the “legend of German Alsatia” to the greater glory of a Louis xiv, the mars christianissimus (Leibniz),69 feeling ashamed of past betrayal (like the betrayers in Dante’s Inferno); let them want to forswear their very name; let them betray to the enemy every action in the national interest (as the German communists did every German gun), let them translate “international” as “anational,” or at least as “anything-but-German.” Let them buy Offenbach soap70 in Paris, and fancy themselves able to play parlor games exclusively à la Pompadour. Let them all come out and be taken to a German clinic for thorough treatment!71 Hurry, hurry! For the English have virtually reduced the Germans to starvation with their dishonorable blockade,72 and the French (Jean Paul) will soon suck out the German brain, at which point that brain will altogether vanish from the world, the brain that like none other exposes their lies and small-mindedness. {37}

completely justified Hermann Finck. Germany has brought forth musical genius such as has put the arrogance of all “people of other lands” firmly in its place. Now, however, we have the English condescending to “pity” Germany openly for a recent piece of musical bungling.74 Clearly not so stupid as to denounce these trends before the whole world as a form of German moral “guilt,” which would given them the right to reduce Germany “punitively” to a mere chattel,75 they must have in mind to use this as a pretext for questioning the superiority of German music—something that seems to taunt them. When the German negotiator appealed to the judgment of world history recently regarding World War “guilt,” the English prime minister76 scornfully quipped: “When does history begin?” With this question, the Englishman betrays himself as having no taste for the verdicts of history when they go against him, and implicitly as acknowledging only the history that advances his cause. He believes only in the God who allows him to steal, rob, murder, lie, and trample all over treaties and international law. The other day, a noble lord articulated this belief in God with words to the effect that England had “accrued a great deal of land against its own will.” (Indeed, Kant says: “The English nation . . . is the most precious assembly of men, seen in relation to one another. But as one state against other states it is the most pernicious, the most violent, the most domineering and bellicose of all.”) And if he believes this, then he may well be hoping that the upshot of the war, which he deems a “victory,” will endow even him with the hitherto German muse of music. By his way of thinking, the history of music does not begin until the day England bestows upon the world the greatest musical genius. So let the English now hear this, loud and clear, in German: The history of music cannot possibly accommodate the English, for—Lloyd George mark my words!—it has already begun, and its verdict has been handed down for all time. No matter whether humanity pays its respects in Japanese or perhaps in English,




An early German music theorist, Hermann Finck, wrote in 1556:

73

“There is space here for me to say only a little in defense of the Germans, who have for many centuries now been regarded by people of other lands as totally unmusical . . . I shall now speak of the art of singing sweetly and with grace. In earlier times, people of other lands arrogated this praiseworthy quality to themselves alone, and totally excluded the Germans.” In due course, the history of music

69Mars Christianissimus (“The Most Christian War-God”) is the title of a violent pamphlet written by Leibniz against Louis xiv in 1683, after the French king had taken Strasbourg and laid claim to ten cities in Alsatia in 1681. 70Presumably soap manufactured by the chemical industry of Offenbach-am-Main, in Hessen. 71Compare “Back to school with them! . . . To German school with them!” in “The Mission of German Genius,” Tonwille 1, p. 10/i, p. 10. 72See “The Mission of German Genius,” note 62. 73Practica Musica Hermanii Finckii . . . (Wittenberg: Georg Rhau heirs, 1556; facs edn Stuttgart: Cornetto-Verlag, 1995), ff. Ss [i] verso, Ss ii, verso: “Pauca hoc loco mihi pro defensione Germanorum dicenda restant, qui multis iam saeculis plane amousoi ab exteris gentibus habentur . . . dicemus nunc de arte suaviter & eleganter, seu . . . ornatè canendi. Hanc laudem sibi superiore aetate peregrinae gentes, solam arrogarunt, Germanosque ab ea prorsus excluserunt.”

74Musikmacherei. 1921 saw the resumption of coverage of musical events in Germany and Austria in British music journals after a seven-year hiatus. It is not possible definitively to identify the report in question. Schenker may be referring to Ernest Newman’s comments in his “The World of Music” column for the Sunday Times. Newman wrote four polemical pieces on Stravinsky and Schoenberg between July 10 and December 18, 1921, the last of which contains a subsection entitled “Sham Music.” From the tone of his remarks, Schenker is clearly distancing himself from the events at which these works were heard. 75An allusion to Germany’s war guilt after World War I, as the following paragraph verifies. See “The Mission of German Genius,” note 46. 76David Lloyd George, prime minister until October 19, 1922.

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tonw i l l e 3 the history of music will never again have to begin; for that which German musical genius has revealed is of such profundity that not even all the human races that may arise between now and the end of time will ever match it. Music will remain eternally—a dire word in the ear of England—made in Germany!77 Let me repeat: Not on the basis of tomorrow’s music, but on that of yesterday’s; which renders it unnecessary to inquire how far a certain branch of contemporary German musical bungling justifies the Englishman’s pity. No encirclement,78 no World War machinations, no lies, no calumny can render this made in Germany more international! The Englishman a “lord,” a “lord of the world”? Democratic thinking, democratic cant. Only he who is ruled by the spirit is truly lord of the world!

much greater German musical genius, the German endowment with music, is than God-forsaken French mediocrity and inferiority, no matter how it is decked out with every conceivable trapping of élégance, of esprit for talent bestowed by God’s or Nature’s grace. If German statesmen, German theater directors, German school teachers and translators, German journalists and book publishers do not already know what the French character is at base, and how much the world would benefit if only they would take a shrewder, more appraising look at France than in centuries gone by, then it would unquestionably redound to the benefit of the German musician, especially at a time when things German are so scorned, if they were to carry the banner of German musical genius in the front line, and at least to restore, on behalf of all who cannot summon the strength on their own account, the self-respect that they deserve. What on earth could suddenly have given the conductor of the Vienna Philharmonic in such an hour the idea of a concert devoted to French music? Was it perhaps pressure arising from the fact that the great-great-grandchildren of that revolution which promulgated the Enlightenment lies about human rights and equality robbed Germans of their right to self-determination, thus acquiring it with the one hand only to surrender it with the other to no less mendacious stolen-goods democracies? Or was it a conscious expression of grateful devotion to the French people, rendered in the heady enjoyment of French-democratic Voltaire-Rousseau-Clémenceau-Briand-Poincaré-freedom, which German democrats and cosmopolites have always prized more highly than Hohenzollern- or Habsburg-freedom? But I personally prefer—always assuming free will on the part of the artistic director—to account for his outrageous act through his musical shortcomings. By chance, I have the opportunity to show in the next issue that this very musician does not even know how to read a Beethoven symphony (the Fifth).81 Then the reader will be in a better position to appreciate that it was his incapacity to




I

䊳 n one of the recent concerts by the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra, its con-

ductor79 appeared, so to speak, wearing French livery: he presented an all-French program, and did so at the very moment when official documents had just come to light incontrovertibly establishing what had long been recognized, namely that prime responsibility for the World War lay with France and Russia, documents revealing French falsifications that led directly to that War. He did it, thus, at the very moment when France’s historically predatory nature was unmasked before the whole world, and when it was caught red-handed in the act of grabbing yet more German property. Evidently the worthy artistic director, as a musician, does not realize (although it behooves a German to know this) what hateful blots on the history of mankind the diktats of Versailles and St. Germain are. He does not realize how culturally antipathetic a role France has actually played up to now.80 That means he cannot even understand that a higher place is to be accorded to German poetry than to French. But, as a German musician he should by now perfectly well know how 77 In

English, in Roman type. Mission of German Genius,” note 49. 79Felix Weingartner, conductor of the orchestra from 1908 to 1927 and the author of books that Schenker included in his survey of the literature on Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. 80 䊳 [S]Herder: “Out of friendship for all men and peoples, I let foreign nations complete what they have begun. Our neighbor has, throughout the ages, been a source of ferment for the German nation, a sour leavening for other nations. Within her borders lay the center of the dreadful and farreaching cult of Druidism. In Greek and Roman times, the Gallic columns were sent forth to rob and plunder far and wide. It has been exactly a thousand years since her Charlemagne (for he proceeded ruthlessly against Germany, and with his plans he made of us a bitter enemy for a millennium). It is a thousand years since he gave Rome a pope, and in defense of the latter established himself as 78See “The

Emperor. The consequences of a Roman-Frankish hierarchy have since that time not been limited to Europe. It was from France that the crusades went forth to the Orient, Germany taking part in them crudely and mindlessly, that is, without being for or against anything. It was from France that the Inquisition emanated and fought to root out heretics and infidels as savages and Saracens. It was from France that sophistry emanated as the hair-splitting of scholasticism, as the spirit of Philip the Fair, of the succession of kings named Louis, who . . . but I see you disappearing, Aurora! . . .” (“Aurora”) 䊴 [See note 9.] 81The second installment of Schenker’s essay on Beethoven’s Fifth, which included a review of the literature on the symphony, was not published until Tonwille 5.

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Miscellanea

how many opportunities the present day affords him for this on all fronts, especially on the political! If he cared to, he would see a veritable {38} madhouse of democrats in other countries who conduct international trade as if it were the very slave trade incarnate,86 who worship theft as if it were a l’art pour l’art—i.e. stealing and dividing the spoils without even knowing what is being stolen or why—and with, so to speak, the very latest reckoning setting in motion a migration of peoples (needless to say, at Germany’s cost). If he put his mind to it, he would surely see that they all stagger from one mistake to another, from one outrage to another, while being quite incapable of undoing their own damage, let alone repairing that of others. He would soon realize that they are all (to use a pet phrase of Mozart’s) “as helpless as a child standing in his own dirt,” and that, in the mentality of the Marxist mob (who for the sake of an asinine spirit of equality hate their so-called card-carrying comrades), they are all fixated on the one goal, namely obliterating him—the “card-carrying” German. The German citizen would surely see, judge, and spurn it all; but he has neither the eyes nor the ears for it, and turns his judgment in all its severity entirely against his own flesh and blood, as if stupidity and botch-work were the sole preserve of the Germans. Instead of sending heroic poetry ringing out into the world, the epic of the World War for the glorification of the German defense forces, a worldwide judgment of the crazed envy of insolent nations, he squanders his strength in the battle of party against party without realizing that in so doing he is offering his enemies, who understand nothing of his true nature, a pretext more welcome than ever to read the internecine recriminations as a further admission of guilt, and so to ratchet up the punitive measures. The German does not even take the trouble to consider that it is contrary to the nature of foreign peoples—injurious to their sense of dignity—to take note of him more than he himself is willing to take even in the best circumstances. If, for example, instead of issuing a declaration of democracy in Weimar, and instituting protection of freedom for foreigners, the woeful consequences of which we see today, the first move had been a boycott of everything French, the French people would surely not have harbored aspirations about taking the Rhineland. But is there any way to help a nation that, in Hölderlin’s words, “mindlessly” disavows its own soul?

recognize German genius that may well have driven him—indeed, must certainly have driven him—to overrate French musicianship. The artistic director has no idea that Berlioz, purely on his own terms, let alone measured beside a Beethoven, is not even a rank beginner when it comes to musical composition. What is so laughable, so derisory, about his conduct is that sheer downright ignorance leads him to the extremity of canvassing for French art, or for the cosmopolitan mentality, or both, in a form that casts a false light not only an a respected institution but on the nation, or at least on the premier musical city. 䊴 82 But it is not my intention—despite what certain people might think—to deprive Germans of the joy of discovering greatness in foreigners.83 Since I revere true genius, the distinguishing mark of which is forever only the solving, not the mere parading, of fundamental questions about humanity, art, etc., as an everpresent model to guide hapless mankind in all its doings—and I believe that I have offered examples of insight into the power of genius, and its capacity for finding solutions, such as no one who has preceded me, either in Germany or elsewhere84 —how could I reconcile it with my conscience, with my mission, if I were to belittle a genius, even if it be a foreign one? I should far rather hold firm to my commitment by condemning the all too many who thirst after greatness among foreigners more ardently than among their own kin, and by declaring that they clearly have no talent at all for recognizing greatness, since instead of committing an indiscretion against German genius they would instead defend it against the aspersions of foreigners. One really cannot begin to understand a Michelangelo or Rembrandt, a Shakespeare or Dostoyevsky, etc., if one has no more than the conventional knowledge of the Germans Bach, Beethoven, and Goethe, i.e. not knowing and feeling precisely what lifts them above the nongeniuses. 䊳 The tactlessness I have censured here is so much more serious as it comes from the characteristic German way of praising in every field only that which is foreign, but judging all the more strictly that which is native. So 䊴 85 why doesn’t the German judge foreign things with at least the same severity as this? Just think 82This passage (including Schenker’s footnote) was deleted from the page proofs for the “Miscellanea”: OC 39/29– 30. 83In the published version of Tonwille 3, this sentence began: “For whatever future eventuality, let me put on record unequivocally here that it is absolutely not my intention . . .” 84The idea of being the first person to unlock the true secrets of musical genius resonates throughout Schenker’s writings, most notably in “A Bach Prelude” from the Miscellanea of Tonwille no. 5 (see especially p. 55/i, p. 222–23). 85Passage deleted from page proofs for the “Miscellanea”: OC 39/30.

86Compare note 66. Schenker is referring here and in what follows to the redrawing of national boundaries, the creation of new nation-states (notably Poland and Czechoslovakia), and the moving of peoples across borderlines, under the Versailles Treaty. He deplores this demographic engineering in its own right, and also what he sees as Germany’s losses of territory, displacement of people, and reduced total population.

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Tonwille 4

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Bach’s Little Prelude No. 1 in C Major, BWV 924 J. S. Bach: Zwölf kleine Präludien, Nr. 1{Tonwille 4, pp. 3– 6} t r a n s l at e d b y j o s e p h d u b i e l

The ground-plan of the prelude is presented at a), b), and c) of the following

cance of harmonic degrees, in spite of their unbroken progression by fifths.2 The practice of expressing a dissonant value through a consonant chord was especially cultivated by the masters, precisely for the sake of the illusion inherent in it; its origins reach back to the oldest contrapuntal era, in a form whose first traces are detectable in mixed-species cantus firmus settings (cf. Kontrapunkt ii, pp. 171ff/pp. 175ff ). At the same time, the interpolation of the fifth-progressions serves to remove consecutive fifths. For the further decoration of the setting, the master employs suspensions. He presents the first one as early as bar 1 (see the long appoggiaturas in the graph of the Urlinie), but only in the inner voice. It is an eternal, irrefutable law of creative nature to show life itself openly, but to keep hidden the germ from which it springs. The deep wisdom of the great German masters, to fulfill this law consistently in their artistic creations, too, in the least of them as in the greatest, truly cannot be praised enough! In this case, one need only leave out the first suspension of the inner voice, and one will recognize from the bad effect that Bach could not possibly have introduced a suspension for the first time in the upper voice in the second bar. In bars 3– 5, instead of climbing up from g2 to a2, a descending path is sought, to a1, by way of passing tones. The following figure shows the origin of the passing tones at a) and the course of their progressive elaboration at b) and c):

figure:

a) shows the compositional elaboration [Auskomponierung] of the space of a fourth within I, g to c, with the root and third stationary. At b), two lower thirds and two lower sixths accompany the fourth-progression, while the root remains stationary. But at c), the bass takes over the progression of what was previously the middle voice (on this technique of elaboration, cf. “Freier Satz”).1 Next, the Urlinie (see the graph of the Urlinie, p. 142) follows the path of the filled-in fourth, except that now the initial chordal configuration is also elaborated linearly, as seen at d): the upper and lower voices pass by step through 3– 5 and 1– 3 of the chord. After this comes ornamentation with neighbor notes (see e)) which may be misleading, because they are set over their own roots (see f)). These interpolated roots do transform the dissonant neighbor notes into consonant sonorities, admittedly; but they nonetheless are subsumed, along with the neighbor notes, under the concept of a dissonant passing motion, so that they lack the signifi1Depending on the scope attributed to the expression dieser Auskomponierung, virtually the whole of Der freie Satz could be cited. Particularly relevant might be §170 (transformation of dissonant passing tones into consonances), §173 (parallelism between passing motion and supporting motion), §212 (fourth-progression), and §§221ff (combining linear progressions). No passage discusses the specific procedure of transferring a succession like e–f–d–e from the middle voice, where it originates, to the bass, let alone the complication (which Schenker does not acknowledge) that the new bass voice in this case is not a simple transfer of the inner voice, but a composite of the middle and bass voices of the preceding stage.

2Quintzüge, here and in the last sentence of the paragraph: the use of this word does not depend on the intervals’ being filled by passing motion.

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tonw i l l e 4

{4} At b), a series of simple 5–6 exchanges can be seen. At c), a diminution of the inner voice, in the form of fourth-progressions, which bring with them their requisite chromaticism as something substantially self-explanatory. The next enrichment (see the graph of the Urlinie) comes from the reinforcement of the fourth-progressions with upper thirds. And finally a rearrangement of the voices, bringing the original lower voice to lie close beneath the upper voice, completes the setting as it is presented in our piece.3 Had Bach applied suspensions in the upper voice in bars 4 and 5, as he did in bars 2 and 3, this would have caused us to assign the same rank to the tones e2 and c2 as to g2. But, here, in order to solidify the passing motion between g2 and a1, firmly connected and serving precisely as passing motion, Bach does without suspensions in the upper voice from the upbeat of bar 3 onward, thereby establishing a unified progression in half notes as an identifying feature of the passing motion. Only in bar 7 does another suspension appear in the upper voice; until then, the newly acquired inner voice continues the suspensions—indeed it compensates for the cessation of the suspensions in the upper voice by presenting two suspensions in each bar, so that, from the upbeat of bar 1 onward, a suspension nonetheless recurs regularly on every first and third beat. What abundance has issued from the germ, what life in all beats of the bar! After the fourth-progression has come to an end in bar 6, the leading tone appears immediately in bar 7. However, it occurs here under circumstances that require continuation of the setting: the dominant still lacks the seventh, and thus the power of a passing motion to lead to the third of the tonic more compellingly than a leap (g–e). That Bach lets the first opportunity for the seventh pass by is based on an artistic intention, of course: it is the desire to spin a tale, which cannot get enough of exquisite tensions and convolutions. Let us acquaint ourselves with the miraculous fruits of this profound narrative art.

冢

The upper voice duly moves directly down to the seventh in bars 7 and 8. But meanwhile its descent disturbs the position of the chord in bar 9, in that the leading tone, predetermined by the setting to end up in the register above the seventh, as in bars 17–18, turns out to be in the inner voice. Now it is time to seek the right path again. Thus, the first arpeggio in bars 9 and 10—who would ever see this purpose in it!—already places the third above the seventh, so that the suitable chordal position of bar 7 recurs on the first beat of bar 10. But now the high register (b2) prevents an immediate close—a new pretext for the search for b1.4 The slurs in the graph of the Urlinie now show how the descent from b2 to b1 in bars 10–17 is articulated into segments of an augmented fourth and diminished fifth, corresponding to the dominant chord. That these two segments (if bars 7– 8 are included) are then presented twice in succession—b1 –f 1 and b2 –f 2 in bars 7– 8 and 10–13, f 2 –b1 and f 2 –b1 again in bars 13–15 and bars 16–17—is to be admired as a stroke of genius: Bach atones for his offence against the commandment of parallelism! {5} The passing motions in bars 11–13 are based on a 7–6 succession. In order to understand the passing motion in bars 14 –15 one must imagine, first, a motion in thirds in the two highest voices; then a third, lower, voice added to them, on every first and third beat, a fifth below the upper voice; and, finally, a fourth, low-

4One wonders how the register of b2 —that is, the original register of the Urlinie, before the downward transfer shown in Fig. 2—can be unsuitable for the final cadence, and that of b1, the result of the transfer, suitable, unless the “law of the obligatory conduct of registers” (see the essay on Prelude No. 4, Tonwille 5) has been suspended. When Schenker revisits this piece in Der freie Satz (§§140 – 41 and Fig. 43 for b)), he reinterprets it completely, with an Urlinie descending from 3ˆ , with e2 –f 2 –g2 –a1 –b1 –c2 as a secondary motion (octave-displaced halfway through) connecting this upper voice to an inner voice a third below it, and b (primarily in the register b1) then part of the inner voice as well. In fact he cites the piece primarily to show that there is no linear motion from e2 to b1 in the unfolding e2 –c2 –b1 –d2, which resonates interestingly with one of his complaints about the alternate version of the prelude, later.

3That is, the lowest voice of Figs. 2b and 2c is moved up an octave. Another change is that the middle voice of Fig. 2c is moved down an octave; Schenker does not mention this, presumably because his concern is only with the vertical ordering of the voices.

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Bach’s Little Prelude No. 1 in C Major, BWV 924

est voice in thirds below the third one.5 (This, too, is fundamentally a matter of the avoidance of consecutive fifths—cf. “Freier Satz” [Der freie Satz §164].) With the fourth quarter-note of bar 15, the leading tone has returned to the upper voice, it is true, but now the chord has once again lost its seventh (cf. bar 7), because of the conduct of the passing motions in the segment just completed. How Bach now seeks to attain it a second time must be accounted among the most exquisite voice-leading. The mere fact that he lets the lower voice advance from g1 to f 1 on the last eighth note of bar 15 can contribute nothing toward this goal, since a repetition of the descent f 2 –b1 is still outstanding, on account of parallelism (see earlier; this must be given its due first, if the artistic intention to connect the leading tone with the seventh is ever to be felt to be completely satisfied). Hence the additional connecting passage b1 –f 2 across bars 15|16. Its upper voice shows another arpeggiation b1 –d2 –f 2, parallel to bars 9 and 10; but Bach, by unexpectedly giving the first three tones triple durational values (dotted quarter note ⫽ three eighth notes), involves a special intention, namely, the syncopated effect brought about by this division within a bar of common time. And although the connection is born of artistic necessity, the new phenomenon of syncopation is also fruitful and decisive for the final sonorities of the prelude, which thus comes to an end in, as it were, a compositionally elaborated broad ritenuto.6 But perhaps all the beau-

ties of voice leading just demonstrated are surpassed by the wonderful melody of the lowest voice [of the right hand] in bars 16–18. Here, as so often in our masters’ treatment of content and part-writing, necessity is the mother of beauty. Because the lower voice must move away from f 1 for a moment on the third quarter-note of bar 16, when f2 has already been reached, in order not to commit a doubling of the seventh, it strives upward, in contrary motion to the upper voice, through f  1 to the octave g1, which it quite marvelously surrounds with the neighbor note a
(modal mixture), after which it finally sinks back through the seventh into the third of the tonic chord in bar 18. The minor-mode mixture occurring in bars 16 and 17 makes the final major all the more brilliant. The last eighth note of bar 17 brings the fulfillment of all plans: the leading tone on top, as in bar 7; and beneath it, proceeding from that octave that has been underscored so emphatically, the repeatedly lost and regained seventh makes its way to the third of the tonic! That the prelude, with its Urlinie, voice leading, and harmony [Stufe], still develops only the triad, the C major chord—after this demonstration, who would still doubt it? For the unfolding of his God-given powers, even eighteen bars were enough for Bach.— 7The “twelve little preludes” have a history in music pedagogy preceding their publication in the old Gesamtausgabe (J. S. Bach, Werke, 36, ed. Ernst Naumann [Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1890]). Most of them (nos. 1, 4 – 5, 8–11) were first set down in the Clavierbüchlein, a manuscript begun at Cöthen in 1720. The rest are found only in non-autograph sources, of which the most important is a copy in the hand of Johann Peter Kellner (Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin, Mus. ms. Bach P. 804). The following table shows that the alternative version of Prelude No. 1 appears later in the Clavierbüchlein, along with No. 4, with a similar title. The former may be a reworking of the Prelude by Wilhelm Friedemann, at about the age of 15; the latter also may have been composed by him.

5Presumably

the third voice rises by step, on each second and fourth beat, to double the second voice, if a fourth voice moving in thirds below it is to supply the pitches that are added below the first two voices on these beats. 6In einem gleichsam auskomponierten großen ritenuto—this use of auskomponiert is noteworthy for the resonance it lends the technical term, of something written out that might have been improvised by a performer. The relationship of the ritenuto to the syncopations is not simple: leaving aside whatever process of rhythmic normalization is applied to the score to derive the durations given in the graph of the Urlinie, Schenker’s main line of reasoning probably is that the dotted-quarter durations of the transitional b1 and d2 mediate between the quarter notes of bars 14 –15 and the ensuing half notes of f 2, d2, and b1 in bars 16–17, or indeed the syncopated rhythms of their occurrence in the final version. But because the quarter notes in bars 14 –15 are features of the elaboration, the comparison of rates cannot be straightforward: the upper line of bars 14 –15, in which the f 2–d2 –b1 progression occurs, actually moves in durations of two quarters tied over against the beat—and this includes the passing tones; f 2 and d2 themselves have durations of a whole note, making the first progression essentially slower than the second. Another thought in play here may be that the dotted-quarter durations of b1 and d2 in bars 15–16 motivate the delay of d2 by one eighth note and of b1 by three eighth notes in bar 17, from which delays increasing durations automatically result. Still obscure, on this reading, is the way the last half note of bar 16 is shared by the pivotal f 2 and the passing tone e
2; at first blush, e
2 would seem to be essential to the dotted-quarter story, regardless of whether this principally concerns three-eighth-note durations of syncopations; but in that case consistency would require the passing tone c2 in bar 17 to be part of the story as well, and it, if counted, would introduce an acceleration just before the end. Schenker appears not to have brought his impressions of this passage to full articulation in the terms he has chosen.

Prelude 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12

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BWV 924 924a 939 999 925 926 940 941 927 928 929 930 942

Position, title in the Clavierbüchlein 2 Preambulum 1 26 Praeludium ex c  — — 27 4 — — 8 10 48 9 —

Praeludium ex d  Praeludium 2

Praeambulum Praeludium Menuet-Trio di J. S. Bach [included in a suite by G. H. Stölzel] Praeambulum

tonw i l l e 4 we would none of us be in a position to imagine a better one for ourselves; but this does not hinder us in drawing from the comparison of the two versions the lesson that Bach himself has given us. How is it possible to commend emphatically enough the opportunity that Bach has bestowed upon us by his innumerable arrangements of his own works, now as refinements, now as transcriptions for other instruments and the like. There could hardly be a worthier topic for a composition teacher than an introduction into this workshop. Might it then provide incontrovertible proof that tones insist upon the best ordering in simultaneity and succession, just as people do!

冢

In Bach’s Clavierbüchlein for his son Wilhelm Friedemann, this prelude occurs in another form.7 3ˆ governs the first four bars (octave descent); in bars 5 and 6 the Urlinie climbs rapidly up from 3ˆ to 8ˆ ; and in the remaining measures the neighbor-note motion 3– 4 – 4 – 3 occurs twice over the dominant. Just this is already difference enough. But if one also observes the stasis of the third e2 in bars 1 and 2 (how misleading the descent to b1, when e2 is recovered again immediately after it!), if, further, one observes the suspensions given to the upper voice at once in bars 3– 5,8 and {6} if one misses a pervading order in the fourth-progressions,9 then one has every justification to declare this version with certainty to be an earlier one, perhaps even a draft. To be sure, if we did not have the improved one,

The authenticity of the Kellner preludes has never been disputed, though one of them, No. 3, was originally composed for lute. 8Schenker’s criticism is not clear: the upper voice’s suspensions are prepared by suspensions in the middle voice in bars 1 and 2, more or less as they are in the prelude as we know it. One difference, subtler than the text explains, is that the inner voice has a suspension every half-bar, starting in the second half of bar 1, so an exchange of suspensions between the two highest voices is never established as a norm. 9Schenker has not said that bars 3– 5 of the alternative version present a succession of fouthprogressions in the bass that are similar to those of the principal version, at least at first: (G–)A–B– c, e–f  –g  –a, c–d–e(–f). Their lack of order would appear to consist in some or all of the following: that they are not arranged registrally in a descending succession; that the third of them is not completed, and the incomplete third one is overlapped by another unbegun version of the first one, (G–)A–B–c; that therefore they collectively bring about no motion, but instead return to the C triad, after not unfolding this triad with their goal tones. After this, an octave progression from c to C, articulated as a (tonicizing) fifth-progression from c to F and a fourth-progression from f to C (the latter very similar to what occurs in bar 6 of the principal version), may also contribute to an impression of disorder. In many respects the alternative version looks like a rearrangement of figures that are used sequentially in the principal version into different sequences, especially ones moving in opposite directions to their originals. Thus the second bar of the alternative version is parallel to the first, but a third lower (instead of a second higher), the bass of the dominant reached in bar 8 alternates G–g (instead of g–G, as in bar 7 of the principal version), and the figuration over this bass rises (instead of falls).

144

Bach’s Little Prelude No. 2 in C Major, BWV 939 J. S. Bach: Zwölf kleine Präludien, Nr. 2 {Tonwille 4, p. 7} t r a n s l at e d b y j o s e p h d u b i e l

From this prelude, we can learn how the Urlinie (given below) can even unify a

In bars 1– 4, a neighbor-note motion on the third is in effect, which, as is usually the case, goes along with the elaboration of the space of a fourth [QuartraumAuskomponierung].1 (Because of the lower register of the bass, the third first appears in bar 1 as e1.) While the neighbor-note motion merely decorates the 3ˆ of the Urlinie, the fourth-progression carries forward the basic subject, which of

course manifests motivic repetitions in the small, according to the intervallic succession of the fourth-progression. The 2ˆ is supported by II and V. In bars 5– 9 a path from the fifth to the third of the dominant underlies the upper voice. The third, reached in bar 9, then carries out a neighbor-note motion (as in bars 1– 4), while the attendant fourthprogression repeats the basic subject just as it did there. The last repetition of it appears in bars 13–15, although now veiled and accelerated by the run of sixteenth notes. Noteworthy is the effect of the passing seventh f in bar 12, which connects the two repetitions. While the Urlinie has to be set in a lower register in the graph of the Urlinie, for the sake of the fourth-progression in bars 9–12 and the related one in bars 13 and 14, figure 1c shows how the fourth-progressions of the basic idea actually strive upward.2 Independent of neighbor-note motion or fourthprogressions, the motive also is in effect in bars 4 – 8, but suitably altered.

1The developments described in this paragraph are not shown in any graph, being subsequent to Figs. 1a and 1b but (as the next sentence indicates) prior to the graph of the Urlinie. The neighbornote motion is e2 –f 2 –e2, of course (although the register of the initial e is about to change), and the fourth-progression is the one shown in the first segment of Fig. 1c; the usual contrapuntal alignment of two such motions—which we see in the preceding analysis also, as well as in the analysis of Prelude e–f –f –e No. 4 in Tonwille 5 (p. 6/i, p. 178)—is g–a–b–c . In the last sentence of this paragraph, and again in the last sentence of the essay, the “motive” referred to is the one of eighth-note arpeggiation within the bar; the fourth-progression is the “basic subject.”

2It is remarkable that the domain of “truth” in which the fourth-progressions “strive upward”— that is, the notional truth of Fig. 1c, in which the three fourth-progressions form a linear continuity, remarkably independent of the Urlinie–is not identified as closely as it might be with the state of affairs in the score, in which the second progression and the beginning of the third do occur in the register of Fig. 1c, d2 –e2 –f 2 –g2 and g2 –a2; also that the registral break in the middle of the last fourthprogression, from g2 –a2 to b1 –c2, is not seen to demand discussion at least as much as any registral break between progressions (not even when the break brings about a final registral convergence between the fourth-progression and the Urlinie). Evidently the figures use registral position primarily to convey ideas about something other than register as such: a claim about continuity within and between fourth-progressions in Fig. 1c, a claim about the Urlinie’s priority over the fourth-progressions in the graph of the Urlinie.

series of imitations in the most felicitous way. The nucleus of the content is illustrated at a) and b) of the following figure:

145

The Allemande from Handel’s Suite in G Major, HWV 4411 Händel: Allemande (XIV. Suite) {Tonwille 4, pp. 8– 9} t r a n s l at e d b y j o s e p h l u b b e n

T

he assumption of keys in bars 5 –7 and 9–11, as shown in the graph of the Urlinie (p. 147), rests on the necessity of conceding a certain amount of self-sufficiency to the parts of even a small form. If one notes, however, that the cadences in both places lack any further confirmation, then one is inclined to hear nothing more than richly developed harmonic degrees of the tonic key, as the following figure shows:

The arpeggiations are also used in the right hand, where, concealing their origin better than in the left hand (in the lower register), they make an exquisite impression. The course of the arpeggiations in bars 12–15 takes shape in the most secret way. If one understands how the eighth-note arpeggiations at the downbeat of bar 12 (see the graph of the Urlinie) increase to arpeggiations in quarter notes and half notes in bars 13, 14, and 15, then one grasps why this very place breathes forth such expression: it is precisely the intimacy of a profound union, whose secret almost appears to be turned more toward the notes than toward us!3 Adding to the effect is the linking of these bars by the motive that is also depicted in the graph of the Urlinie.4 The arpeggiation of the cadential construction, however, derives from the normal arpeggiation technique that just rolls the chord up and down, as shown by the slurs in the graph of the Urlinie. (In J. S. Bach’s allemandes, one more commonly finds neighbor-note motions embellishing the third, or elaborations of the interval of a fourth, likewise to extend the final chord in the manner of a ritenuto.) Now to the other motive. Although it proceeds as three sixteenths , it nevertheless takes the place of only an eighth-note. As such, it is generally associated with the eighth-note upbeat (see earlier): in bars 1 and 8 at each second and fourth beat; in bars 2– 4 and 11–13 at each fourth beat (how significantly the parallelisms of these bars serve the form!). In addition, its rising or falling often prefigures the course of things to come. Compare the rising version: in bar 1 g1 – a1, in bars 2– 4 d2 –e2 –f  2, across bars 4|5 a1 –b1 etc; and the falling: c2 –b1 across bars 1|2. Where, however, both versions follow one another immediately, as in bar 2, the falling one may be interpreted as a neighbor note (see the graph of the Urlinie), in order to avoid a note repetition. Hence at the second and third beats it

This picture indeed offers an even deeper insight into the story; specifically, it confirms the overwhelming significance of 4ˆ in bar 12.2 As to particulars: The eighth-note upbeat and the cadential constructions are intrinsic to an allemande. Although it is doubtless that they originally copied certain dance characteristics, they maintain in the art form a special, purely artistic existence. Thus, the upbeat eighth note does not merely jut out like some sort of useless appendage to the bar, rather the content is continuously saturated with this upbeat, as I have maintained in the graph of the Urlinie. The motivic life is governed by arpeggiations, and by the figure that likewise appears in bar 1, on the second beat. 1The Allemande is part of a suite first published by John Walsh as no. 8 of a second volume of Suites de pièces pour le clavecin (London, 1733); Walsh’s ordering was taken over by the German Handel Society for their collected edition of Handel’s works, edited by Friedrich Chrysander. Schenker owned a copy of Chrysander’s edition of the suites, but took the number XIV from Louis Köhler’s edition of Handel’s keyboard music (published by C. F. Peters), in which the suites in volume 2 were reordered. 2Schenker made some changes to the Urlinie-Tafel in his personal copy of Tonwille 4 and added a page of sketches for a graphic analysis. Instead of viewing 4ˆ in bar 12 as a neighbor to 3ˆ , he now took the primary tone of the Urlinie to be the d2 (⫽5ˆ ) in bar 3, preceded by an initial ascent, with e2 in bar 11 providing the large-scale neighbor-note construction for the piece (OC, Books and Pamphlets, No. 11).

3In the next essay, Schenker draws a parallel between the arpeggiations here and in bars 21– 23 of C. P. E. Bach’s Allegro. 4Schenker is referring to the rising fourth followed by a falling third.

146

The Allemande from Handel’s Suite in G Major, HWV 441

takes place (as a parallelism to bars 3– 4), by which means the inner voice is raised at the second and third quarter of bar 9. In bar 10, it is advantageous to interpret the outer-voice structure, contrary to appearances, as a succession of thirds (see the graph of the Urlinie), so that the lowest notes merely represent inessential lower thirds to the actual bass. They serve to avoid fifths, and are in accord with the leaps of a third in the bass in bars 9 and 11.

is better to hear the succession as b1 –c2 –a1 than as b1 –b1 –a1. The same applies to bar 5, where four falling versions follow one after another. In bar 6 the Urlinie runs straight through the rising version. In bar 9, the upper voice essentially describes a turn around b (see Fig. 1), while the harmonies complete the modulation to E minor. This is very difficult to recognize at first glance, because in bars 10–11 an ascending register transfer

147

C. P. E. Bach’s Allegro in G Major Ph. Em. Bach: Kurze und leichte Klavierstücke mit veränderten Reprisen1 (1766), Nr. 1, Allegro {Tonwille 4, pp. 10–11} t r a n s l at e d b y w i l l i a m d r a b k i n

The simplicity and crystalline clarity of this little piece are shown with utmost

diminution (provided here with appoggiaturas), so that, in replying to the motivic parallelism between bars 1 and 2, it takes care of the motivic parallelism within itself. In the graph of the Urlinie, the dotted line in the bass indicates an arpeggiation whose unity further promotes the conceptual unity of the first four bars considered together, in spite of the intervening cadential harmonies. Compared to bars 1– 4, bars 5–8 introduce a considerable number of changes. Now, the third between the outer voices makes an exact duplication of bar 1 impossible. Bach is thus obliged to give up the elaboration of the space of a third, and retain merely this intervallic span and the eighth-note motion. These are, at any rate, sufficient to give the illusion, at first sight, of an exact repetition of bar 1, all the more so as Bach reproduces the rhythmic shift from bar 2 in bar 6. In bar 7 the appoggiatura (cf. bar 3) appears only with the second group of sixteenth notes, while the diminution in the first beat replies to the interval of a fourth in the first beat of bar 4. This four-bar group, too, is held together by a secret arpeggiation in the bass.

transparency by the Urlinie, the voice-leading, and the deployment of thematic material. The piece also allows us, in spite of its brevity and unpretentiousness, to view a deployment of musical materials that can be described as nothing short of ingenious. Even in these sixteen bars, the genius of Emanuel Bach does not betray its principles. In bars 1– 2, the outer voices proceed, in accordance with the Urlinie, in fifths and not in thirds, as it might appear from the diminution. The arpeggiation of a third is marked in the graph of the Urlinie (p. 149) with the sign for a broken chord. Otherwise, the motive is nothing more than the simplest elaboration of a third [Terzsauskomponierung]. But, as early as bar 2, the motive has been changed so much, on account of a rhythmic delay, that the last eighth of the bar contains two sixteenth notes whose task it is to introduce the sixteenth-note motion in the following bar. Bar 3 is filled by a two-fold deployment of the motive in rhythmic

1[S]A reprint of this short work, with commentary by Otto Vrieslander, was published by Universal-Edition (No. 5295). I cannot recommend it warmly enough to musicians, young and old; described by the master as “for beginners,” it provides an introduction to the subject of diminution itself, by way of the art of the “varied repeat.” Anyone who knows that diminution is not only the alpha and omega of composition but also the only key to its correct interpretation, and who understands that the downfall of the art of composing results from the undervaluing of the fantasy of diminution, which has made us all “beginners” again, will truly appreciate being pointed toward Emanuel Bach’s instructive little piece. [Two sets of Kurze und leichte Klavierstücke mit veränderten Reprisen were published by Bach in 1766 and 1768. The first set, of which this Allegro in G major is the opening piece, was assigned to item 113 in Alfred Wotquenne’s 1913 thematic catalogue of Bach’s works; in Eugene Helm’s more recent Thematic Catalogue of the Works of Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1989), the Allegro is catalogued separately, as item 193. A lifelong friend (and briefly a pupil) of Schenker’s, Otto Vrieslander (1870 –1950) was a song composer, pianist, and C. P. E. Bach scholar. His edition of these twenty-two pieces with commentary appeared in 1914, in celebration of the two-hundredth anniversary of Bach’s birth, with a dedication to Schenker. It is described on the outer cover as an “Erläuterungsausgabe,” and thus forms part of the

series that includes Schenker’s editions of Bach’s Chromatic Fantasy and Fugue and four late Beethoven piano sonatas — a series that is generally associated with Schenker alone. Vrieslander’s commentary runs to almost ten pages and includes a historical introduction to the music; a set of analytical notes on each piece (der kompositionelle Inhalt); a short section on ornamentation, which quotes from Bach’s Versuch and refers the reader to Schenker’s Ein Beitrag zur Ornamentik; and a detailed discussion of Bach’s fingerings, together with remarks on related textual problems. Universal reissued these works in 1952, with Vrieslander’s commentary replaced by a textual report on the handwritten sources by Oswald Jonas, another pupil of Schenker’s. Jonas, declaring Vrieslander’s commentary obsolete because it predated “the first decisive steps in the development of his [Schenker’s] highly original theory,” also wrote an entirely new analytical commentary on the music. His preface reprints Schenker’s graph of the Urlinie from Tonwille 4, together with a new reduction of the voice-leading, in which he uses a more modern graphic notation and reads the descent of the Urlinie from 3ˆ , not 5ˆ . In Vrieslander’s edition, the bars in the first statements of sections are conventionally numbered, 1– 8 and 9–16; for the varied reprises the same numbers are used, this time placed in square brackets. Schenker follows this numbering.]

148

C.P.E. Bach’s Allegro in G Major

In bar 12, the diminution (see the graph of the Urlinie) also lets an arpeggiation in the right hand slip in, as if by chance (compare bars 12–14 of Handel’s Allemande, discussed in the preceding essay), to which the arpeggiation in bar 13 and the more extended arpeggiation in bars 14 –15 owe their existence. That such relationship contribute to the cohesiveness is something that our senses can easily confirm. But greater cohesion means more drive, hence greater beauty. The diminution in bars 15–16 is an exact repetition of that in bars 7– 8. It is not necessary to give a full account of the new features of the diminution that surface in the repeat of bars 9–16. The reader is referred here to Vrieslander’s commentary, on pp. 34 – 5.2

The repetition—precisely the “varied reprise,” bars [1] to [8]—leaves the movement of the Urlinie intact, so that the concept of variation is simply applied to the diminution. Note, however, the ascending register transfer and the use of rhythmic shift also in bars [1] and [5], which in this way point out their close internal relationship. {11} Bar [8] introduces into the bass an arpeggiation (see the graph of the Urlinie) in which three eighth notes are joined together by a single slur. This articulation will be crucial for bars 9–16. The Urlinie remains for a while on 5ˆ , moves in bar 13 up to 6ˆ as a neighbor note, and returns to 5ˆ in bar 14; the remaining tones of the Urlinie follow in bars 15 –16.

2 Vrieslander’s remarks mainly concern the discrepant slurrings in the first beat of bars [7] and [15]: “I would also like to mention the almost exact duplication of bars [7– 8] at [15–16]. The fact that the four sixteenth notes in bar [15] are joined by a single slur, instead of two slurs as in bar [7], is a sign of the master’s sense of refinement as applied to this very passage. The reason for the different slurring is that the four sixteenths represent a greater mass and thus graphically express the full cadence at the close; by contrast the two-times-two sixteenths, as a divided mass, express a half cadence.”

149

C. P. E. Bach’s Keyboard Sonata in C Major Ph. Em. Bach: Sonate C-Dur (1779) (U. E. Nr. 548)1 {Tonwille 4, pp. 12–14} t r a n s l at e d b y w i l l i a m d r a b k i n the ˆ1 in E minor is taken up as a 3ˆ in C major; the line then moves up, through 4ˆ in bar 50, to the start of the recapitulation on 5ˆ . In the recapitulation (bars 52ff) the line proceeds in two sections, 5ˆ –2ˆ and 5ˆ –1ˆ . What this means for the form of the movement is that the consequent phrase of the first subject appears to have grown together with the modulation passage and the second subject (bars 9– 28). The force of the 6ˆ in bar 9 upon the 5ˆ in bar 21 is felt so strongly that one seems to hear them as an unbroken event. And precisely this is proof of the immeasurable worth of the synthesis. Thus, what we confront here is not merely a “primitive” state of sonata form, so to speak, whose sections are still in bud; on the contrary, the nature of the succession of musical ideas is quite sufficient for us to recognize it in terms of sonata form, insofar as the exposition of a sonata movement in essence stipulates no more than a move to a new key, with the development section being responsible for the return to the original key. Indeed Beethoven, even in his last creative period, for example, in the sonatas Op. 101 and Op. 109, composed just as compactly as Emanuel Bach does here, although he was capable of developing the form so luxuriantly in so many of his earlier works.2 {13} Of course Emanuel Bach did, on the other hand, also ensure that there was sufficient contrast in the principal sections; it is just that the technique by which he achieved this is equally well concealed as that by which he used the Urlinie as a means of connection. Notice how he lets the Urlinie speed up only at certain places: in bars 6– 8, 14 –16 and 26– 28, at the end of the antecedent, the modulation and the second subject, respectively; and also at the end of each section of the development, in bars 34 – 36, 42– 44 and bars 50– 51. As these accelerations coincide with half cadences, as in bars 8, 16, 36 and 51, or full cadences, as in bars 28 and 44, one understands their dual rule in joining together and keeping apart.

First Movement (Prestissimo)

Sonata Form: First Subject: Second Subject Development Recapitulation

antecedent consequent and modulation

bars 1– 8 bars 9– 20 bars 21– 28 bars 29– 41 bars 52– 69

A sonata movement born of synthesis and destined for eternal life. I shall attempt here to distinguish and highlight its wonderful powers, even though these are mutually interdependent and, as is the case with all organic creations, work together in harmony. Above all, the principal witness, the Urlinie (p. 151): in the exposition it moves downward in four sections, whose apex tones likewise represent a stepwise descending series, g–f–e–d. The first two sections each elaborate the interval of a third; the last two, separated from them by a change of key, elaborate a fifth, so that the final tone of the last section is an octave lower than the apex tone of the first. The development, bars 29– 51, starts from the apex tone of the final section, d (bar 29); it is raised to d  in bar 33, and so leads to e in the following bar. From this tone, the line—now in E minor—again descends an octave, and thus creates a parallelism with the octave descent in the exposition. Common to both octaveprogressions is the division into fourth plus fifth, g2 –d2 : d2 –g1 in the exposition and e3 –b2 : b2 –e2 in the development. In the retransition, which begins in bar 44, 1The sonata from which this Prestissimo is taken is the first piece in Bach’s Sechs Clavier-Sonaten für Kenner und Liebhaber (1779), a publication that inaugurated a series of five volumes of keyboard music “for connoisseurs and amateurs.” Schenker, too, gave it pride of place, as the first work in his two-volume edition of keyboard works by Bach, referred to in the title of this essay. It appears in Wotquenne’s catalogue as item 55/1, and in Helm’s as item 244.

2The first movements of these works, which are in sonata form, and about which Schenker had written in detail in the Erläuterungsausgaben of the late Beethoven piano sonatas, are respectively 102 and 99 bars long.

150

C.P.E. Bach’s Keyboard Sonata in C Major

Finally, we see that the content of bars 21– 28 returns both in the development (bars 37– 44) and at the end of the reprise (bars 62– 69). For this reason, we must grant it the status of an independent section, in spite of its being so closely bound to the previous material. Is there any other reason why one should not speak of bars 21– 28 as a second subject? And now to the initiating germ [Urzelle], the smallest element: the neighbornote relation of bar 2 to bar 1. All that grows from it, as the graph of the Urlinie shows by means of small slurs, signifies throughout the sonata not what conventional music theory understands as thematic development, i.e. not merely a surface manifestation of counterpoint, but rather an inner principle of construction,3 on whose will not even a genius has influence. It is the first breath, the soul, of the entirety—but who can say how the soul is created? It is only indirectly through the special embryonic construction that the succession of principal harmonies is introduced; and if the smallest element functions within the Urlinie conjointly with the voice-leading and the principal harmonies, then the piece lives in a necessity that takes second place to no organic creation.

The following particulars are also worth noting. In bar 6, e2 is supported by the return of I, thereby emphatically confirming the unity of 5ˆ 4ˆ 3ˆ as an elaboration of the space of a third, which serves the 5ˆ that is paramount. The succession of harmonies in the second section of the Urlinie is basically IV–V, with II inserted merely so that the embryonic construction of the neighbor note appears to be fulfilled here, too. The fifth-progression in the lower voice in bars 1–7 plays an important role in the synthesis; despite the individual harmonies, it expresses the principal harmonic progression, I–IV. In bars 9ff, the outer parts present what is basically an unbroken succession of thirds: one need only place the c1 in the upper voice from bar 14 above the a in the lower voice in bar 13 to be convinced of this; see the dotted line in the graph of the Urlinie. In addition, the linear progression of a the diminished fifth, c[1] –f , in the lower voice of bars 9–14 comes to the fore as a response to the fifth-progression in bars 1–7. The ascending register transfer in these bars ought to be regarded as the distinctive feature of this section, even though the counterpoint, for reasons having to do entirely with keyboard technique, sinks in bars 14 –16 to the octave below middle C; for this reason, 4ˆ 3ˆ 2ˆ are repeated in the high register in bars 19–20. (I would note further that the development section also links up with the same high register, in bars 29–36, thus establishing a new feature of parallelism serving the whole.) Thus, the fourth section of the exposition, bars 21ff, is set an octave lower than the third, whereby the bass succession d–c–b across bars 20|21 specifically acts as an intermediary. Bars 21ff is the first passage in which the bass rises: first to the neighbor note e in bar 24, then at the cadence in bar 27 to d (V). In bars 25 – 26 the embryonic

3[S]See Tonwille 2, pp. 7, 17, 25 and 36/i, pp. 55, 64, 72 and 82; Tonwille 3, pp. 3, 17/ i, pp. 99, 112, etc. [These are all references to the mysterious forces that lie beneath the surface of sonata movements by Mozart, Beethoven and Haydn, which Schenker refers to with expressions such as “creatio ex nihilo” or “secret relationships” or uses metaphors that seek to express the ineffable (“in the firmament, the diatonic stars of the Urlinie, so to speak”). Their appearance here is further confirmation of his high regard for Emanuel Bach, whom he does not hesitate to place beside the three acknowledged masters.]

151

tonw i l l e 4 construction, with 6ˆ as neighbor note, is especially effective. In bar 27, e2 substitutes for c2; {14} the c3 sounds all the more beautiful when it is heard later, in bar 30. The conclusion of bars 29– 32 with I in bar 32 effects their cohesiveness as a unified group headed by d3. The basic progression of the lower voice in bars 29– 36 thus reads g–a–b (bars 32, 35, 36); it replies to the bass line in bar 27 while at the same time presupposes the [identical] line in bar 43. What a magnificent chain of concealed causalities! Both the voice-leading and the harmonic relationships in bars 44 – 51 present some problems. The ˆ1 in E minor is reinterpreted as 3ˆ in C major (see above); this allows the IV7 reached by deceptive cadence to be reinterpreted as I
7 in C major. Fig. 1 shows the origins of the voice-leading:4

changes. In the path from e1 (bar 44) up to f2 (bar 55), the c2 in bar 44, which in reality is derived merely from the b1 gained by substitution, signifies a substantial shortcut. It is more important, however, that the bass in these bars apparently intends to parallel those immediately preceding, bars 41– 43. And if B
–A here in bars 44 – 45 is set against A  –A in bars 41– 42, and if the expansion in bars 45– 50 set in contrast to the quick progression of the bass notes in bar 43, then it is precisely from these features that we know that the retransition has arrived. Finally, some remarks on the diminution and the surface deployment of motives. Our piece is to be seen as an absolutely classic example of the techniques of arpeggiation, in which our master is so superior to us. If one clarifies for oneself the ups and downs of the arpeggiations by a notation such as \/ /\ \/\ /\/, and notes in the margins the way in which the changes of direction occur, one will be further rewarded with a highly instructive contribution toward understanding the arpeggiation technique that we owe the masters in the realization of their works. Furthermore, one should determine the highest points in the arpeggiations and convince oneself, by comparing them with the Urlinie, that they are by no means always the bearers of the line. (One can see this straightaway, at bars 1– 4, etc.) The experiences thus gained are also valuable for orchestral compositions, insofar as the actual line there, too, is better covered by long-held notes, as is shown by the practice of the great masters.

Note the fourth-progression, c2 –f 2 in the upper voice, and the consecutive fifths between the upper and inner voices, which must be avoided by 5– 6 ex-

4Schenker’s text and Fig. 1, and also the graph of the Urlinie, conflate the harmonies in bars 41 and 44. The former, built on A , is a true  IV7, while that in bar 44 has B
in the bass and can therefore be reckoned in E minor only as an inverted VI
7. In the ensuing paragraph, his analysis takes full advantage of the source of his labeling error, namely, the enharmonic equivalence of A  and B
.

152

Haydn’s Sonata in C Major, Hoboken XVI:35 Haydn: Sonate C-Dur (U. E. Nr. 1) {Tonwille 4, pp. 15 –18} t r a n s l at e d b y w i l l i a m d r a b k i n First Movement (Allegro con brio) Sonata Form: First Subject Modulation Second Subject Group Development Recapitulation

[Schenker’s numbering] bars 1–16 bars 16– 36 bars 36– 65 bars 66–101 bars 102 – 68

in half-notes; in this way they stand out actually as Urlinie tones—a particular feature of this very sonata! To prevent the antecedent and consequent from separating from one another, on account of the rests in bar 8, Haydn begins the left-hand triplet accompaniment (again with g1 at the top) right from the downbeat of the bar. From this point on, the bass preserves the eight-bar construction in its own domain (see bars 8–15),2 while the upper voice develops the upbeat motives further, as far as bar 20, at which point the upper and lower voices finally find themselves in the same rhythm.

[actual numbering]1

[36– 67] [68–103] [104 –70]

Bars 16ff. The neighbor-note motion applied to the third above the tonic, together with the continued development of the upbeat quarter note, results in the step of a second (e2 –f 2) for the first time across bars 16|17; this now governs the diminution. In bars 20 – 25, steps of a second lead from c2 up to b2; this amounts to the same thing as the stepwise descent from c3 to b2. In these bars, too, the modulation takes place. Moreover, the triplet accompaniment returns in bar 20, thus creating a parallelism with the first subject, which was similarly made up of bars without triplets (the antecedent phrase) followed by bars with triplets (the consequent). It is precisely this circumstance that determined our excluding bars 16–19 from the modulation section, quite apart from the fact that in these bars the third, e[2], appears in the foreground, in contrast to the fifth, g2, which had previously governed the first subject, so that e2 –f  2 in bar 23 can finally be played out against the earlier e2 –f 2. Bars 27–32 present the Urlinie tones as falling half notes, as in bars 5–6. The 2ˆ is supported by II and V and provides the half cadence. The arpeggiations in bars 32 and 33 are related not merely to the upbeat arpeggiation but also point, with the apex-note d3, to the immediate future—see the d3 {16} in bar 41—a connection that agrees with the law of obligatory register (see Tonwille 1, p. 39/i, p. 35).

Bars 1ff. The first subject is in two parts; the consequent phrase repeats the antecedent almost exactly, apart from the triplet accompaniment. The Urlinie (p. 154) moves from 5ˆ to ˆ1 . In the arpeggiation of the upbeat, which leads up to the 5ˆ in bar 1, the motivic life of this movement is also kindled: the two thirds, c2 –e2 and e2 –g2, are in the course of events answered by b1 –d2 and d2 –f 2: by this, the 4ˆ of the Urlinie is finally gained in bar 5. Still further in the service of the 3ˆ and the 2ˆ , we see the arpeggiation of a third as a creator of motives (downwards arpeggiation). That the quarter-note upbeat contributes to the synthesis also in the rhythmic domain can easily be deduced from the beginnings of the motives. It is all the more striking, however, when the Urlinie tones are freed of this rhythmic bond and at all times, and in all sections of the piece, produce a stronger progression 1The copy of Haydn’s sonatas that Schenker worked from was published not by Universal, but by C. F. Peters (3 vols., edition nos. 6423 – 25), with editing and fingering by Louis Köhler and F. A. Roitzsch. Neither of these, nor any other edition of which I am aware, supports Schenker’s omission of the repetitions within bars 51– 54. In effect, Schenker has analysed the movement without bars 51 and 53: the descent in bars 51– 54 is treated as a simple decoration of bars 46– 47, without the expansion. As a result, his bar numbering from this point onward—in the text, in the graph of the Urlinie, and in Figs. 1 and 2—will not correspond to that given in any modern edition of the sonata. To facilitate comparison with the graph of the Urlinie, Schenker’s bar numbering will be retained; but the reader who follows his essay alongside a score of the sonata should subtract 2 from the bar numbering after bar 54 in the score.

2That

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is, the eight-bar construction is shifted a bar forward, 8–15 instead of 9–16.

tonw i l l e 4

Bars 36ff. The linking of two sections of the Urlinie, 4ˆ –2ˆ in the modulation and 5ˆ –1ˆ in the second subject, signifies the inevitability that the two sections indeed appear as a unified structure.3 The situation is the same in the sonata by Philipp Emanuel Bach that I discussed earlier, except of course that here the 5ˆ is not approached by leap, but rather that the path from ˆ1 to 5ˆ is laid out in step motion. (When Bach introduces 5ˆ immediately after ˆ1 , he is making an interval substitution in the same chord.) The dotted lines in the graph of the Urlinie show how, according to the principles of free counterpoint, the voices move from an obligatory relationship to one in which they reinforce each other by doubling, and vice versa. In bars 44 – 45, the cadential harmonies appear in the one-line octave (a high-register bass); this is the reason that the cadence, despite being complete, requires a continuation. One should understand this upward transfer of register as the remedy for the multiplicity of perfect cadences (see Tonwille 3, pp. 4ff).4

The graph of the Urlinie reveals the master’s intention in this very matter, as he did not return to the lower octave of the bass until bars 57– 60. One now understands at this point, finally, why the beginning of the second subject uses the tonic in first inversion: as the first inversion tightens the connection between modulation and second subject, so, on the other hand, it serves the continuation, in so C –D–G far as introduces the bass progression B– I – II– V–I , which is traversed no fewer than four times between here and bar 60—something that could only have been made possible by a change of register. Accordingly, one cannot in fact regard the upper voice in bars 45– 48 as tones of the Urlinie: rather, the key to these bars is to be found only in the cadences [of the second subject group]. For 3ˆ 2ˆ ˆ1 in bars 48– 50, the bass remains in the oneline octave, as in bars 44 and 45. For 4ˆ 3ˆ 2ˆ in bar 57, however, which already appear an octave lower, the bass likewise distances itself [from the higher octave] and thus arrives in its pre-determined register. Particularly at the summing-up, 5ˆ 4ˆ 3ˆ 2ˆ ˆ1 , in bars 58– 60, the bass for its part also sums things up by reintroducing B in the low register for the first time since bar 41. What intelligence and care has been exercised in forging a unified structure spanning many points of closure! This result is confirmed by the fact that neither in bar 48 nor in bar 53 can one speak of a perfect cadence or a ˆ1 that completes the fifth-progression of the Urlinie (in spite of the e3 at the top, which seems to press forward as a 6ˆ ), and finally

3At this stage in the development of his theories, Schenker reckons the Urlinie tones against the prevailing foreground harmony; thus 4ˆ –2ˆ (f 2 –e2 –d2 in C major) is “linked” to 5ˆ –1ˆ (d3 –c3 –b2 –a2 –g2 in G major) by the commonality of D. This link is, however, more conceptual than concrete: in the actual graph of the Urlinie it is not D, but the C in bar 15 (c2 as ˆ1 in C, and as 4ˆ in G), that provides the link between the two sections. 4A reference to Schenker’s other Haydn sonata essay: the opening bars of the first movement of the Sonata in E
, Hoboken XVI:52, is an obvious place to discuss the organization of series of perfect cadences in different registers. See p. 99 in this volume.

154

Haydn’s Sonata in C Major, Hoboken XVI: 35

In bar 84, the seventh is incorporated into the dominant. Fig. 1 clarifies the artistic treatment of the passing harmonies:

by the fact that, in this same group of bars [i.e., bars 58– 60], a clear progression always projects the Urlinie tones, and only these tones. Bars 66ff. The development section is introduced by the content of bars 5– 6. There is a modulation to A minor, with what appears to be a deceptive cadence onto VI. But since this chord marks the start of a repetition of bars 1– 8, one begins to wonder whether the diversion to an F major chord signified a deceptive cadence or in fact F major understood as a key in its own right, the subdominant, which would have had to introduce the recapitulation.5 The solution to this problem is not provided until after bar 77: if we encounter A minor unmistakably here, then it is impossible to speak of another foreign key between the groups of bars 66– 69 and 77ff, which both suggest A minor. Viewed in terms of A minor, then, the apparent VI can be evaluated only as a neighbor-note harmony applied to the dominant; and we enjoy the profound sense of humor with which the master is able to prepare us for such surprises. In bars 77– 95 the dominant, which had been interrupted by the insertion of the neighbor note, presses on, and the voice-leading features of the most daring sort are placed in the service of this extensive development. Bars 77– 81 {17} are governed by the fourth-progression in the upper voice, e2 –a2, which reduces the lower-voice leaps of a fifth and a third to the status of leaping passing tones (see Kontrapunkt ii, pp. 177ff/pp. 181– 82.) (The threat of consecutive fifths and octaves here is averted by the insertion of leaps of a third.)6 At a2 in bar 81, we arrive at the fourth above the dominant; the line continues upwards to the sixth, c3, in bar 8 82 where, on the third bar, the octave, e3, is gained. At this point, an 64 chord is achieved, with 64 understood as a suspension construction; this construction was required for the resolution of the neighbor-note chord on F, in order to remove 5 the threat of consecutive fifths that would have otherwise resulted from the 3 in bar 83:

Fig. 2a shows the passing harmonies in the form of 64 chords, whose transitional value amounts to the same as that of 63 chords (see Kontrapunkt ii, pp. 185ff/ p. 189). In this example, however, the lowering of the seventh (here the goal of the movement) by an octave would have resulted in unpleasant progressions in augmented seconds in bars 86– 87 and 92 – 93; moreover, a diminished fourth in bar 93 would have arisen, which would have made the elaboration much less viable. Thus, in Fig. 2b, the 64 chord in bar 87 leads to a 63 chord, which is then retained in the next bars. Fig. 2c shows the passing chords each embellished by two suspensions. (The ascending form of the suspension is something which Haydn was motivated to provide by the diminution in bar 83, which makes use of stepwise ascent—albeit as a neighbor note.) Finally, Fig. 2d shows a still richer use of chromatic passing notes, as these prove necessary for the particular construction of the seventh chords. The lower voice is transferred {18} to the lower octave in bar 89 in order to prepare the bass note e in bar 92, which completes the octave e1 –e2 spanning bars 83– 92: it clarifies the unity of all that is transitional in bars 80 – 94 in the most meaningful way. In bar 95, the ˆ1 of the key of A minor finally appears above the I, and yet the upper voice continues to press downward: this point marks the start of the retransition to C major. The left-hand arpeggiation in bar 97 represents a parallelism with the one in bars 90– 91.

5Schenker may be thinking of a more famous example of a piano sonata in C major whose firstmovement “recapitulation” begins in F, namely Mozart’s K. 545. This movement is the subject of the very next essay in Tonwille 4. 6This parenthetical remark must be understood not as a supplementary comment but as an alternative reading of the bass line. The fourth beat of each bar in this passage is, in Schenker’s new terminology, a “leaping passing tone”.

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Mozart’s Sonata in C Major, K. 545 Mozart: Sonate C-Dur (Köch. V. Nr. 545, U. E. Nr. 11) {Tonwille 4, p. 19} t r a n s l at e d b y j o s e p h l u b b e n 9–11; we later find the motive in the inner voice in bar 14, and finally in the Urlinie, which continues the line all the way to ˆ1 . The progression to the neighboring harmony in bars 14 –17 also determines the bass motion of the passing progressions in bars 18– 21, which in this way organically achieve a 10– 8 exchange (see “Freier Satz”);4 what is even more important as far as synthesis is concerned, however, is the use of the upper neighbor c in the bass as a means of signaling the general ascending motion (compare Kontrapunkt ii, p. 74/p. 74). Moreover, the bass progression b–c is repeated (over passing tones) in bars 18—22, so that as a summation of all the motions of the bass in bars 14 – 21, nothing more than b–c remains, as contrary motion to 5ˆ –4ˆ of the Urlinie! The piece proceeds through G minor, achieved by modal mixture in bars 29– 31, to D minor in bars 31– 35. From there it moves in the same manner to A minor in bars 35 – 37—6ˆ –5ˆ –4ˆ –3ˆ is expressed by the diminution in the left hand—while an augmentation of the same succession of tones moves simultaneously by modulation to F major. The voice exchange in bar 41—see the crossing slurs in the graph—is astonishingly bold, a brilliant stroke, as it were, preceding the even more brilliant stroke of the recapitulation, which places at its head the key of the subdominant!

First Movement (Allegro)

Sonata Form: First Subject Second Subject Development Recapitulation

bars 1–12 bars 13– 28 bars 29– 41 bars 42–73

In bars 1– 4, the graph of the Urlinie (p. 157) traces the path of two elaborations of a third, 3–1 in the inner voice and 5–3 in the upper voice, while the Urlinie remains firmly fixed on 5ˆ . The arpeggiations of a third in bars 1 and 2 (see the graph) are beautifully disguised by the diminution.1 In bar 2, the diminution sidesteps consecutive octaves, which have to be circumvented in the graph by leaving the root stationary.2 In bar 5, 6ˆ enters as an apparent neighbor-note between two 5ˆ ’s, but in fact its task is to lead the descending fifth-progression to the 2ˆ in bar 9.3 When the dominant chord is reinterpreted as I of G major, 2ˆ becomes 5ˆ in the new key. The bass motive in bar 13 may well have been motivated by 2ˆ (1ˆ 7ˆ ) in bars Terzbrechungen in T. 2 und 3, clearly a misprint. is referring to the octaves that would have occurred had the graph shown the lowest line of the left hand moving from d1 to c1. That is, he views the neighbor-note in the bass in bars 1– 2 as of a lower order than the third progression e2 –d2 –c2 in the right hand. Schenker later revised his analysis of the voice-leading of bars 1– 2. A graph of the opening bars of the sonata in Der freie Satz (Fig. 124/5a) shows neighbor-note motion in both the bass (c1 –d2 –c1) and the upper voice (c2 –b1 – c2); the third-progression and the stationary root have disappeared. 3Schenker never completely resolved the apparent conflict between the upper-voice a2 as neighbor to g2 and as primary tone of a fifth-progression to d2. In his personal copy of Tonwille 4 (Oster Collection, Books and Pamphlets 11), he marked the a2 as a large-scale neighbor between the g2s in bars 1 and 12 and, on an extra leaf of music manuscript paper, made a short musical sketch that draws a parallel between this neighbor note and the a2 that stands for the melodic line at the “recapitulation” in F major: 1Die

2Schenker

(Nb) Rp

Nb

     (     )
              I


Rp m. Nb. Abkürzung nicht I 5 ± IV

(This reading is further developed in the margins of the graph of the Urlinie.) The later graph (Der freie Satz, Fig. 124/5a) makes e3 (3ˆ ), rather than g2, the start of the Urlinie but still shows a2 as both a neighbor (by the starring of the a2s in bars 3 and 5 and the g2 in bar 12) and as the head of the fifth-progression to d2 (by the slur drawn between these notes). 4The early draft of “Freier Satz” in the Oster Collection includes a section on consecutive octaves, unisons, and fifths that would have accommodated this pattern. In the final form of Der freie Satz, there is no specific discussion of 8–10 exchanges.

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Mozart’s Sonata in C Major, K. 545

157

Beethoven’s Sonata in G Major, Op. 49, No. 2 Beethoven: Sonate opus 49, Nr. 2 (U. E. Nr. 4029) {Tonwille 4, pp. 20 – 21} t r a n s l at e d b y w i l l i a m d r a b k i n d2 — e2 — f  2 d — a — d1 ————— 8 —5 —3

First Movement (Allegro ma non troppo)

Sonata Form: First Subject Second Subject Closing Subject Development Recapitulation

The bass d that belongs to the initial octave comes from as far back as bar 15; it is not actually sounded again until bar 36. Accordingly, the e2 and f  2 in bars 22 and 24 represent anticipations! The motives in bars 21– 22 and bars 23 – 24 bear a certain relationship with the diminution in bars 1– 4. At any rate, the 5ˆ 4ˆ 3ˆ in the second half of bar 24 is related to the succession of tones in bars 22 and 24.

bars 1– 20 bars 21– 36 bars 37– 52 bars 53– 67 bars 68–122

Bars 1ff. In the first subject the Urlinie (p. 159) actually moves from 5ˆ to 2ˆ but, like the Mozart sonata analysed in the preceding essay, includes the 6ˆ as neighbor note. It presents itself in four sections: the twofold descent 5ˆ 4ˆ 3ˆ in bars 1– 8, and a further twofold descent from 6ˆ (6ˆ –3ˆ and 6ˆ –2ˆ ). But even in bars 1– 4 the 5 – 4 – 3 of the tonic chord is repeated: the first elaboration of this descent is strengthened by thirds from below, which have been artfully concealed by arpeggiations (bar 1) and a broader unfolding (bars 2 – 3); the second, being underpinned by a full cadence, is more important. The transfer of the second section, bars 5 – 8, to the higher register also determines the register of the third section; it is only when 4ˆ resolves to 3ˆ that we regain the lower octave, in which the repetition also takes place. The threefold approach to 3ˆ is noteworthy; 2ˆ is reached only in the fourth section. The reinterpretation of 2ˆ as 5ˆ of the new key takes place exactly as it does in Mozart’s Sonata, K. 545.

Bars 36ff. At this point, 5ˆ appears above the ˆ1 , but it is not until bars 43 – 44 [recte: 42– 43] that it is followed by the remaining tones of the fifth-progression: the succession 5– 4 – 3 in bars 36– 40 is merely gives advance notice of what is to come. There follow two further repetitions, which are both distinguished from and connected to each other by changes of register (compare the Haydn sonata discussed earlier, bars 36– 60).1 The two repetitions use 6ˆ as a neighbor note. Bars 53ff. Apart from the key changes, the course of the development basically follows the line d–c–b. The principal motive of the second subject appears in bars 53– 55, and again in bars 56– 59. In bars 59ff, the descending series of tones prepares the way for the descent of the Urlinie in the recapitulation. In the recapitulation, bars 74ff mark a turning to subdominant; but one may not speak of this as the key of C major, for the beginning of recapitulation stands firmly and decisively in G.2

Bars 21ff. The second subject comprises antecedent and consequent phrases, bars 21– 28 and 29– 36. The succession ˆ1 –3ˆ beneath the 5ˆ should be understood simply as an unfolding of the harmony. The outer voices show a particular beauty in the coordination of the principal intervals: see the dotted lines in the graph of the Urlinie.

should have read “bars 36– 62”: see Tonwille i, p. 153, note 1. is probably alluding here to the Mozart sonata discussed in the preceding essay, in which the first subject is recapitulated in the subdominant, F major. 1This

2Schenker

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Beethoven’s Sonata in G Major, Op. 49, No. 2

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Miscellanea Vermischtes {Tonwille 4, pp. 22– 32} t r a n s l at e d b y i a n b e n t

The great masters of German music have not merely made the art of music:

youth—their intellectual advancement was nevertheless unlike the mere cause and effect of physically growing up that others experience, namely pubescence and procreation, but went far, far beyond all of that. This is why they are seen to grow and grow intellectually long after the wings of others have let them down— wings that were only of the body, never of the mind. Therein principally lies the difference between genius and non-genius, between a youth which, confusing bodily development with intellectual, confronts all things past, present, and future with literally only bodily strength, and on the other hand the youth of a genius—genius that independently surmounts the inescapable stagnation of its corporeal nature through the burgeoning of its intellectual strength. Whatever they brought to fulfillment within the art of music—no matter what others may call it: experience, a theoretical agenda,2 and suchlike things— they never overstepped the boundaries of their art. Megalomania, such as once led unhappy mankind to build the Tower of Babel, was unknown to them; the “Faustian” impulse was totally alien to them, for they were ever mindful of the ultimate limits of man, which served as their constant guide and admonition. Just as Kant established these limits for human thought as a whole, so, too, did the great masters of German composition establish the limits of specifically musical thought—as the boundaries of musical composition, akin to the boundaries of human capability at the general level. They have been not just ahead of their own time, but ahead of all times. And so, if I may be permitted to quote myself, for mankind a Sebastian Bach will have more importance for all time than will a talent of the fortieth century.3 They are

they actually are the art of music itself. By an unfathomable dispensation by the Creator, who has sown and reaped all things, they, too, have been allowed to sow and reap in the realm of music. But no matter how little a man contributes to God’s sowing of the seed, he may take away from the harvest as much as he can carry; and likewise, no matter how little he contributes to those musical masters’ sowing of the seed, he may take away from their musical harvest as much as his heart desires.1 A seed is in the earth, and grows—but no one can say whether it has grown of its own accord or has been raised by genius. Something whole develops—but no one can say what is attributable to its own support system and what genius has added to it. But the whole is always determined by the one seed, and thus in the small world of tones the law of Nature at large is enacted. To them, the great masters, was given what was denied even to the religious institutions: namely, to grant mankind actual fulfillment, not merely a recipe for fulfillment. If ethical precepts are the highest laws of human synthesis, then they cannot be understood, let alone followed, without the gift of synthesis. If only natural instinct could be relied on amidst life’s confusions to reach a determination that conforms equally well to religion and to the situation at hand—then no cloud of misery would ever have passed over the human race. But human synthesis, like any synthesis, is first and foremost art—in the loftiest sense—and the animal in man still has no soul for art. The religious institutions were no more able to implant one within him than they were able to create earth, air, fire, and water, which is God’s prerogative alone. Whether or not as men they were subject to the laws of physiological development—in particular, whether they had to pay their dues to the laws governing

2Programm: Schenker may mean a composer’s explanations of his own works, or he may mean literally a “program,” that is, a text that explains the course of a piece. 3In an unpublished typescript in the Oster Collection, “Niedergang der Kompositionskunst,” Schenker writes: “Talent and genius are actually two different intellectual qualities; and so it will always be that a talent, even one of the thirtieth century, will still always be lesser than a genius of, say, the fifteenth century” (OC 31/29, p. 2). The essay is mentioned in Schenker’s Harmonielehre (1906).

1Cf. John 6.36– 38 “Even now the reaper draws his wages, even now he harvests the crop for eternal life, so that the sower and reaper may be glad together. Then the saying ‘One sows and another reaps’ is true. I sent you to reap what you have not worked for. Others have done the hard work, and you have reaped the benefits”; also Psalm 126.5 and Matthew 6.26.

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Miscellanea

hidden behind today’s cults and forms: exhibitionism over weapons and trade, theft of foreign property, and suchlike vices—then it still does not occur to them that their very own shortcomings are to blame. And though they may remain permanently in the same condition, spellbound by authority, form, and cult, they nevertheless regard escape and change as genuine progress, even if it involves changing everything. But what is change? Nothing more than the day, the moment, at which animal existence is fulfilled. Genius, however, is more than the moment in time and its concomitant change. How pitiful in particular is benightedness:5 When genius, in its state of grace and full maturity, requires a whole lifetime of the most unremitting labor for its work, benightedness has no hope of approaching such work without grace and with only hit-and-miss, sporadic involvement. Benightedness might be capable of understanding this, but does not. Instead, it makes as if to claim that even with its more modest gifts and lesser expenditure of time and effort it can nevertheless outmatch the masters, and so display more genius than the genius himself. It fails to realize that it arrives at a work of art never by the direct route of personal introspection and experience but always by the indirect route, i.e., via others. It recognizes it only by hearsay, e.g. a Beethoven symphony only as this or that conductor interprets it, or as this or that orchestra plays it; it does not stop to think that these are all, as a rule, false witnesses—where is the work itself in all of this? Benightedness begets benightedness; and, deaf to the saying of Christ, “You will always have the poor among you, but you will not always have me,”6 it proceeds to betray genius. Even when, to the glorification of genius, it trots out things from the books of geniuses, great and small, doing so serves merely to show the benighted up as patently inferior mortals (it is more economical with money). All it accomplishes by this is to swell the ranks of those hostile to genius, thus doing evil where it might perhaps be doing some good. All its to-do about progress is a misunderstanding; and where the misunderstanding is at its greatest, “progress” is closest at hand. Its constant hankering after “something different” in art, best satisfied by resorting to the genius, is only a desperate cry for new material for it to hold forth and scribble about by the day and by the hour. Ah, what would it not give for art

always high above the horizon, but the eye of mankind cannot endure the glare of their sunlight—“So may the sun be always at my back,” they say, with Faust.4 They will not pass into oblivion with the ages but, rather, the ages with them. Just as Plato lives on in what one may call the idea-made-flesh of his “ideas,” following the passing of the Greeks, and after them so many other ages, none of which understood him, so, too, will the German masters of music, detached from the ages of human history, represent to all eternity the idea-made-flesh of music. They patently felt God’s grace hovering over them. Haydn said of his Creation: “I did not write that: God did.” Likewise Goethe, of his poems: “I did not write them: they wrote me.” The geniuses dwell together and commune in the most blessed state of true theocracy in complete realization of the phrase ut omnes unum sint [that all may be one]—they are all the one music: music itself. {23}


How pitiful, by contrast, is the immutable law of the rest of humanity: Brought into the world as animals, they are slaves to the body’s desires, without the compensating desires of the intellect. Knowing nothing of seedtime and harvest, of first things and last, they live merely by whatever the present moment offers, and this they take as fulfillment, as complete fulfillment. A child’s babbling, its first tentative utterance, they take to indicate a fully developed brain; the first signs of acquisitiveness in a youth to signify progress. Excited and infatuated by the roar of the latest in modern life, each generation believes itself to be ushering in a new spirit. “But it takes other, new ears to understand this,” their mouths bellow, although their ears are far too wretched to take in that which is indestructible in the message of earlier generations. Drawing life only from the impulse to imitate, they cannot do without an authority as the object to be imitated. As soon as they extricate themselves from one, they straightway become addicted to another. But in extricating themselves from one and becoming addicted to another, they nevertheless delude themselves that they are forging constantly ahead, never for a moment realizing the contradiction, never recognizing that all the time they are beholden to authority. It is they who make all forms of hierarchy (theocracy, aristocracy, democracy, etc.) necessary, but just do not realize the fact. Even if, amidst the parade of forms and cults, they experience inevitable disappointment, and come to recognize the harm done—and it does not take much acumen to realize, for example, what lies 4Goethe,

5Halbbildung denotes “half-education” or “half-maturity.” “Benightedness” originally implies the opposite of enlightenment, that is, a state of darkness, but has come to signify intellectual or moral ignorance. For Schenker’s opposition of Halbbildung and Vollbildung, “benightedness” and “full maturity” have been adopted here. 6John 12.8.

Faust, part 2, act 1, scene 1 (twelve lines from end).

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tonw i l l e 4 to comply with their hunger for holding forth and scribbling—instead, it has to learn to be dishonest. It soon works out that “things can be different” and carves out a niche for itself, arranging its lives around it to the advantage of both its pockets and its vanity. It bandies about empty phrases from one payoff to the next,7 and does business on the basis of “You scratch my back, and I’ll scratch yours.” But the betrayal that German benightedness perpetrates on geniuses is particularly grievous. German benightedness is, after all, unlike that of other nations, not even kept within national bounds. The benighted still cannot understand that the concept of world citizenship relies upon a thorough-going plurality and diversity of nations, all under equal justice; and consequently that, if he hopes to assume significance as a world citizen like other nations, the German must actively seek to be a German more than ever. Totally foreign still to the benighted is the concept of national honor as defined by Schopenhauer: “For completeness’ sake, national honor should also be mentioned here. It is the honor of an entire nation as part of the community of nations. Since within this community there is no other forum than that of force, and accordingly every member-nation has to protect its own rights, the honor of a nation consists not only in the established opinion that it is to be trusted (good reputation), but also in the opinion that it is to be feared. Hence it must never let infringements of its rights go unpunished. {24} In this way, it unites the point of honor of bourgeois honor with that of chivalric honor.”8 This is why German benightedness is so easily attracted to, and bedazzled and deluded by, the self-confidence of the other nations, and surrenders itself unconditionally and unreservedly to them like a common prostitute. It makes for a French/English benightedness that is still much better than the very best French or English full maturity could ever be! What the other nations owe the Germans, German benightedness adamantly refuses—in all its magnanimity—to take into account. All the more eager and willing is it therefore actually to overestimate that for which in its view Germans are indebted to other nations, and to pay over

the odds with its land, its people, its national honor, and its intellectual giants— not just once but over and over and over again, just as often as the enemy chooses. Benightedness turns Germany everlastingly into an intellectually occupied region in which, to the advantage of its enemies, it conducts putsch after putsch—worse than that: it ransacks its own country. Like the Hebrews, who once erected a statue of Zeus in the Temple of Jehovah, it thinks nothing of ensconcing in the temple of its Bachs, Mozarts, Beethovens, etc., the likes of César Franck, Berlioz, Debussy, Ravel. Indeed, it abandons most shamelessly the masters with whom it enjoys the premier position among all nations, merely so as to emulate the other nations in ineffectuality, in which it is able to see nothing but “progress.” A Berlin fan of foreign culture was recently able to write: “For us, ancestral pride in our tradition is widely cultivated,” and yet at a public performance in that city a work by Mozart was actually hissed off the stage. However, maybe in time German benightedness will find its way back to the great masters, back to its own nation. Its main task would be to undertake a thorough revision of world history (and not just of the Versailles Treaty), which is as falsely written as is the history of music, and to inscribe anew and irrevocably within that the eternal lineages of the nations [die ewigen Urlinien der Völker]. Then, chastened by serious disappointments, it would have to stop constantly looking out for some “other,” more favorable image of those other nations, and concentrate instead entirely on learning the “other” image of its own great masters. In this, it should be guided by pure pride in its heritage, by the recognition that no one will ever be able to write a fugue, chorale, suite, symphony, quartet, cantata, song, ode, opera, etc., better than they were written by German masters. No less would the internationalist [weltbürgerliche] mentality, which prides itself so greatly on German benightedness, have to assume greater responsibility for cherishing the work of the great masters, as much for the sake of the other nations, as a priceless boon to the whole of mankind, and as a model to all. Let benightedness turn “Enlightenment” against itself above all, not against genius, and finally with all modesty venture its first steps into the realm of profundity. For that realm, as I have explained elsewhere,9 far more than all progress, which steers clear of the depths, is far bluer and more romantic than even the farthest distance!

7Von Löhnling zu Löhnling: the diminutive of Lohn (wages), Löhnling implies a payment of a small cash sum for a one-off job. Its pejorative connotation is accentuated by Schenker’s repetition of the word; he may be thinking in particular of the profession of journalism, in which writers are often paid by the piece rather than receiving a regular salary. 8This paragraph is taken from Schopenhauer’s “Aphorismen zur Lebensweisheit” (Aphorisms on the wisdom of life), chapter 3 “Von Dem, was Einer vorstellt” (What a man represents). See Schopenhauer, Parerga and Paralipomena, trans. E. F. J. Payne (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1974), vol. 1, p. 390.

9Schenker is paraphrasing here the concluding remarks to his essay on the Prelude in C minor from Bach’s Well-Tempered Clavier, book 1, first published in Die Musik, vol. 15, no. 9 (June 1923) and reprinted as an appendix to his essay “Das Organische der Fuge,” an analysis of the companion fugue; see Meisterwerk ii, pp. 94 – 95/pp. 53– 54.

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If, on the other hand, German benightedness keeps up its betrayal, still no harm will come to the German masters on that account. They will live to eternity, they will stand eternally as a national symbol of the German people. (Genius can indeed function at a purely national level, tied to land and people, to mountain and forest, to its very soil.) And if—God forbid!—the German people should one day go the way of the Hebrews and be robbed, deceived, despised, and spat upon by Barbarian hordes, then its masters of musical composition will represent as it were the Holy Testament, and, faced with this, even the Barbarians will have to pay tribute to this for all time.

Bach entitled his Two- and Three-part Inventions (1723):

11

Trustworthy instruction, wherein amateurs of the keyboard, but especially those desirous of teaching, will be shown a clear way not only (1) to learn to play strictly in two parts, but also with further progress12 (2) to handle correctly and well three obbligato parts, and at the same time not only to invent good ideas but also to develop these well; but, above all, {25} to achieve a singing style of playing and therewith to acquire a strong foretaste of composition.


Fortschritt

Progress

Die Zeit, sie eilt so schnell voraus, Und ich, ich blieb zurück. Ich schäme mich! Was kommt heraus? Es bleibt ein Mißgeschick.

Time, she hurries on so swiftly; And I? I stayed behind. I’m put to shame! What will come of it? A misfortune it remains.

Doch stürmt sie hin unbändig jach, Kaum reicht so fern mein Blick. Die Bahngenossen stürmen nach, Und ich, ich blieb zurück.

Yet she hurtles forth unbridled over yon. My eye can scarce discern her up ahead. My fellow-travelers race on in pursuit. And I? I stayed behind.

Vielleicht kehrt wieder sie des Wegs; Laßt sitzen mich am Stein! Vielleicht—hat sie sich müd’ gerannt— Hol’ ich sie doch noch ein.

Perhaps she’ll come back this way; Let me sit down on a rock! Perhaps—if she has wearied now— I may yet catch up with her.

Der Gang der Welt ist nicht so rasch, Als Torheit meint und spricht; Man weiß wohl: Flügel hat die Zeit, Die Zeiten aber nicht!

The pace of the world is not so fast As folly would have us all believe; It’s a well-known thing: time has wings, Yet the ages do not!

The keyboard player of today very likely shakes his head and asks: “Does that mean Bach’s keyboard music is really capable of being played in a singing style? Is there a melody in there somewhere? If so, where?” He doubtless knows that the great German masters who came after him prized Bach’s art above all others; if so, our keyboard player will smile in amusement at the ranking of musical spirits drawn up during Bach’s lifetime by Scheibe: Fux, Hasse, Handel, Telemann, Bach13—or as the Necrology (in Mizler’s Bibliothek, 1754) gave it: Hasse, Handel, Telemann, the two Grauns, Stölzel, Bach, Pisendel, Quantz, Bümler.14 There is nothing there to help him answer his question about melody, by which Bach set so much store. If only he could see the world through the eyes and minds of the masters, then indeed. . . . But about Bach’s voice-leading there is not a word, nothing about the art that he, like nobody before or in his own time—not even Handel, knew how to create and unfold in so new and powerful a way, with a profundity inexpressible in words, on the basis of fewer and simpler laws. He still 11BWV 772– 801, each set of fifteen being in different keys arranged in ascending order from C major to B minor in the final version, surviving in Bach’s autograph MS of 1723. The passage quoted here constitutes the title, inscribed on the title page, and concluding “prepared by Johann Sebastian Bach, Capellmeister to the noble Prince of Anhalt-Cöthen, a.d. 1723.” 12Bei weiteren progressen: Schenker presumably chose this passage, and the Grillparzer poem “Fortschritt,” to complement the discussion of progress that spans the first part of this Miscellanea. 13Johann Adolph Scheibe, Der critische Musicus (Hamburg: Wiering, Beneke, 1738 – 40; enlarged second edition Leipzig: Breitkopf, 1745).] 14Musikalische Bibliothek, vol. 4 (Leipzig: Mizler, 1754), “Communication of the Society for Musical Sciences in Germany from 1746 to 1752,” “Historical Explanation of the Medal at the Founding of the Society for Musical Sciences in Germany,” pp. 105– 6. The article is signed not by Mizler (who had studied with Bach and took up the cudgels on his behalf), but by A. Vestner, who singles out the first three because of their fame respectively in Italy, England, and France, and lists the remainder as “other great German masters.”

Grillparzer (1839)10

10The title is Grillparzer’s; Wiener Grillparzer- Album (Stuttgart: J.G.Cotta, 1877), 125 (which gives the date as 1840).

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tonw i l l e 4 cannot find the tonal connective [Tonwort] that serves to carry the melody in the stricter sense—in short, everything in a keyboard piece by Bach remains foreign to him. He hears Bach, as does all the world, still with the ears of the Arnstadt consistory court and the Arnstadt congregation,15 with the ears of the Leipzig Consistory Court, which, because it could not obtain the services of Telemann and Graupner on whom it had set its hearts, entrusted the job of Cantor only as a last resort to Bach, in their view a “mediocre talent,” on the recommendation of Graupner! This is immediately apparent in the editions of Bach’s music. Not even the collected edition16 is above reproach for recommending at doubtful points precisely the readings that are untenable. The many other editions are even more open to criticism, for they play complete havoc with the text. All those tempo and dynamic markings, slurs and dots, annotations and commentaries! Things are so bad that even the few directions given in the autograph manuscripts have been discarded merely because they contradicted their editors’ interpretations. And the wretched performances of Bach’s works! Whether you attribute them to bad editions or put them down to the staleness that inevitably results from mindless usage over a long period of time is immaterial. It is a fact that Bach’s works are nowadays reeled off in monotonous fashion like the prayerwheel of a Tibetan Buddhist, expressionless, turgid, a veritable agony to the ear and mind of performers and listeners alike.17

Is there anywhere a glimmer of hope? Thoroughness of musical training as it existed in Bach’s day must really have been one’s first duty.18 Today it is clearly unattainable, when the demon of the machine and of business saps the brain power of musical professionals and amateurs, renders them mindless, and whips them up in a frenzy of crazy gyrations. It would be fruitless to point out that art has nothing to do with the extremes of nature—the speed of light-waves, of electric current, and of sound-propagation. For the blessing {26} of art, the exploitation of nature’s forces offers not the least substitute; it has led only to one’s being able to inquire over vast distances about—the weather or the Stock Exchange.19 So for the time being let this rule of thumb be recommended, until more favorable circumstances arise: play Bach’s works slowly, far more slowly, four to eight times more slowly than is done today, and you will see how the time so gained has been spent in a way worthy of art. If we bear in mind first of all that Bach’s own day was not so far removed from one in which people still literally stumped from one chord to the next, we shall recognize the impossibility that the sort of tempo we readily assume as a pretext for ours today could have evolved by then. Admittedly, Mizler tells us that Bach preferred setting very brisk tempi; but he was undoubtedly confusing lively tempo with the richer content of which Bach, in creating from the harmonies an elaboration [Auskomponierung] of hitherto unimagined scope, was the originator.

15[S]“Reprimand him for having hitherto played many peculiar variationes during the chorale, mixing in many foreign tones with it, so that the congregation became confused by it. In future, if he is going to introduce a tonus peregrinus, he should stick to it, and not switch to something else too quickly, or, as he has been used to doing in the past, actually play a tonus contrarius.” 16That is, the nineteenth-century Bach-Gesellschaft edition. 17[S]I wrote about this in Kontrapunkt i, p. 129/pp. 91– 2: They chase and run on the piano, dust-clouds of tones rising behind the hands on the road of the keyboard, with nowhere a point of rest or a lingering, nowhere clarity or animation! It is as if J. S. Bach or Handel—those very composers—were just confused artists incapable of any kind of emotional impulse; as if only we [today] were able to discover the concept of “expression,” which is supposed to be most convincingly documented by our output! Just observe: every artist or amateur will readily admit that J. S. Bach is perhaps expressive in his vocal music—in the B-minor Mass or the Passions, for example; the same quality is discovered by the string player even in the works for violin; but as soon as a pianist sits down at the piano to perform a keyboard work by Bach, all life is immediately driven out of the work of art and nothing remains except a caricature of tones! Does the pianist suppose that Bach suffered a partial eclipse of his expressive capacity? Why is he not eager, like a violinist or singer who follows a good tradition (Joachim or Messchaert, for example), to rise to the full measure of Bach’s art of expression? Perhaps [piano virtuosos] will finally recognize that it is not their place to represent a J. S. Bach as a keyboard-maniac just to claim for themselves

a higher level of inspiration—what a fatuous and idle complacency! Do today’s piano virtuosos really believe that a piece by Liszt, Franck, or Grieg, for example, contains more expression than a suite, partita or toccata by J. S. Bach? Then let them first learn to read notes and truly perceive the meaning of one or another suggestive notation; only then will they humble themselves and let Bach speak as the greatest artist and human being—which should be their sole responsibility—instead of passing their own art off as the only authentic one! Since that time, the performance even of the vocal works, too, has worsened; for example, that of a motet has turned mostly into a hollering and gargling, as if the large chorus were engaged in its morning ablutions. 18[S]In his Klavierübung—Ein Lehrgang des Klavierspiels nach neuen Grundsätzen, zugleich erste Einführung in die Musik [Keyboard practice: a course of instruction in keyboard playing according to new principles, together with an introduction to music] (Stuttgart: G. A. Zumsteeg, 1918–19), August Halm makes a fine attempt at enabling beginners to think musically, feel musically, and be spontaneous. Let us hope that serious educators of the young will make every effort to use his book! 19Schenker implicitly draws an analogy here between (relatively trivial) communicating by telephone (which came into common use in the 1880s), and (much more consequential) thinking and composing musically over great expanses of time. Already in Tonwille 1, p. 23/i, p. 22, he has reified this analogy in speaking of the Urlinie as the composer’s Fernhören (“long-distance hearing”), Fernhörer being the German word for a telephone receiver.

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We can gauge Bach’s tempo with some certainty if we look at the handful of fingerings by him that survive, e.g. the fingerings given in the appendix to the Bach-Gesellschaft edition, vol. 36, for the Fughetta in C major No. 8 (a sketch for the C Major fugue of the Well-Tempered Clavier, book 2).20 How clearly they rule out anything mechanical! How delightfully the motion of the fingers is molded by the fingering from moment to moment! They show convincingly that this finger progression, which moves so lovingly, could never have been executed at the fast tempo to which players of today would like to push it. Unfortunately Spitta, in the first volume of his Bach biography (pp. 649ff), misunderstood Bach’s fingering, for in many places he took as one finger passing under or over another what are clearly nothing of the sort, but are instead indications to reposition the hand for new figurations.21 Behind all of this, moreover, lies the improvisatory element in Bach, which totally contradicts the unduly fast execution so fashionable today—and is not almost everything with him extempore creation? Obviously, lack of skill in improvising has become an obstacle today even just to reimagining the long-lost extempore art of a Bach. This goes to show how one shortcoming always begets another. The construction of our instruments suggest equally well that we should reduce tempo appreciably when performing a keyboard piece by Bach. We know from Emanuel Bach’s testimony that his father was capable of making not only the clavichord sing—which others could, of course, also do—but even the brittlesounding harpsichord, which others could not do. There is nothing to the contention that Bach was himself unable to satisfy his desire for a singing style of playing on account of the awkward construction of his instruments. If our pianos are lauded for their singing and very malleable tone, then this places on today’s pianists an obligation to realize Bach’s desire as strictly as possible—an obligation that would be all the greater if the instruments of Bach’s time had still been inadequate. Additionally, in the performance of polyphonic music, we have to

balance out a certain deficiency in our instruments, which is the reverse side of the advantages that Bach enjoyed. The clavichord and harpsichord, because of the resonance of their all-wood construction, rendered polyphonic voice-leading transparently; such clarity is totally unattainable with the very different resonance of our instruments. Their tone is admittedly bigger and fuller; but this very fullness, together with the type of resonance, to some extent masks the individuality of the voices. Their sonorities lack light and air, they are literally stifled in their own fullness. Thus it is that, in addition to a player’s intellectual comprehension, only the most painstaking balancing of dynamic levels, only the most careful apportioning of light and shade, can render polyphony with true clarity on our pianos, all of which requires more time than the player of today is prepared to grant. Moreover—what a lamentable thought—in a world that has learned how to build organs bigger and richer in tone, and to build pianos that are more robust and malleable, we have in our midst no Sebastian Bach, who alone was able to write for the organ in exemplary fashion, no masters who possess the secret of writing truly well for keyboard instruments and of playing them truly well! I have already drawn attention to non legato playing as an excellent means of slowing down the tempo in older masterworks in the Beitrag zur Ornamentik (1908, Universal Edition 812), pp. 21– 22/pp. 46– 47 and in my explanatory edition of the Chromatic Fantasy and Fugue (1909, Universal Edition 2540), p. 42/p.63. I will offer just one example here to substantiate what I have said in those places. In the D major fugue of the German Requiem,22 Brahms has the same counterpoint played simultaneously by strings non legato and winds legato: while keeping everything flowing and continuous, he nevertheless enables every single eighth note to register individually. If only pianists, too, would capture this effect for their instrument, they would achieve {27} the right non legato for the performance of Sebastian Bach’s works.


In his book on Bach (Breitkopf & Härtel, 1908), Albert Schweitzer comments:

36 (Clavierwerke, vol. 4), pp. 224 – 25 and p. xciv “original fingering”; Neue Bach-Ausgabe, vol. V/vi/2, pp. 311–13 and critical commentary, pp. 376 –77 “in a version more richly embellished and supplied with fingering after Johann Caspar Vogler’s copy.” 21For example, Philipp Spitta, Johann Sebastian Bach, 1873 – 80, third edition Wiesbaden: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1921; English translation by Clara Bell and J. A. Fuller-Maitland (London: Novello, 1889; reprinted New York: Dover, 1951), vol. 2, p. 39: “Philipp Emanuel prohibits the passing of the middle finger over the first; Sebastian prescribes it in the fifth bar of the first piece and in bars 22 and 23 of the second . . . Emanuel does not allow the third finger to cross over the little finger; Sebastian requires it of the left hand in bars 38 and 39 of the second piece . . .” 20Vol.

The copies that he made of other music are the finest testimony of all to his modesty. Long after he could have considered himself anyone’s pupil, he still made copies of Palestrina, Frescobaldi, Lotti, Caldara, Johann Ludwig and Johann Bernhard Bach, Telemann, Keiser, Grigny, Dieupart, and anyone else you care to mention. We sometimes wonder how it was that 22Fourth

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movement, bars 173ff: “Der Gerechten Seelen sind in Gottes Hand.”

tonw i l l e 4 his critical sense did not stop him every few moments, as he copied. To us it seems incomprehensible that he could bring himself to copy out whole cantatas by Telemann. But these were acknowledged masters: he respected them and worked hard to make them widely known. Which of his contemporary composers bothered to make a copy of the St. Matthew Passion, so that this work might be preserved for posterity?23

piece almost without comment. It had nothing to say to them. To me, on the other hand, it says something important. I can virtually hear Anna Magdalena asking her husband to explain the Aria to her. From out of the sixteenth-note passage-work, he extracts its true meaning, notating it in larger note values, almost entirely in quarter notes, and then goes on to indicate a thirty-second-note diminution. There is no doubt that Bach is here demonstrating the concept of diminution, of elaboration [Auskomponierung] in general, since there would be no other way of explaining why he followed the piece in small note values with one in larger values, moreover leaving out the bass. This situation is not to be confused with that of variation, where, by contrast, the piece proceeds from simple proportions to richer and more active ones. We thus learn from this example—and this is the important point—that Bach, when thinking of diminution, not only had the simpler outline clearly in his head but was also when teaching in a position to communicate his consciousness of it to others. Anyone who has the opportunity to see this example of Bach at work as a teacher might, even before he takes its solution to heart, try his hand at it himself. The very simplicity of the piece will enlighten him all the more readily as to the true nature of diminution, as to the rise and fall of the lines with respect to the tones that are ultimately intended, as to the stripping-away [Abstimmung] of all lines with a view to revealing a simpler one, and so on. In particular, may Bach’s teaching come to the attention of those musicians who continue to underestimate the importance of such a backward-tracing process. There is no doubt in my mind that Bach, when asked about the plan [of his piece], would have been able to express himself even more succinctly and to lay out the skeleton26 of the piece in longer values—as the shortest diatonic line, which I call the Urlinie.

The explanation is simple. Non-genius wastes a great deal of time anxiously accumulating artistic capital. It also wastes a great deal of time on life: in breathlessly toadying up to non-entities like itself [and] to the masses, in having to nudge, cajole and pamper the masses so that it may in turn be nudged, cajoled and pampered by them, it admittedly acquires life and recognition in rich measure—the never-ending complaints about lack of recognition are a self-delusion, since the sum total of general recognition far outweighs what its mediocrity warrants. However, since the masses have nothing to offer, non-genius must pay for those gains by loss of personality and of its own creations. To it belongs life. By contrast, genius is spared such losses. A higher dispensation endows it with artistic riches, such that it has time not only to create more works, and works of higher value, but also to lead a deeper, richer, more courageous life. Genius has time also for humanity and modesty; it has time in general, and goes calmly into timelessness. To it belongs life and super-life.24


The seventh piece of Sebastian Bach’s first Clavierbüchlein for Anna Magdalena

Bach (1722), published in vol. 41 [recte: 43] of the Bach-Gesellschaft edition, is an Aria in C minor, in two parts, sixteen bars long, for two voices throughout, and almost entirely in sixteenth notes.25 Spitta and Count Waldersee passed over this




From Philipp Emanuel Bach’s Versuch über die wahre Art, das Clavier zu spielen:

27

Introduction, §1. “The true art of playing keyboard instruments depends on three factors so closely related that no one of them can, nor indeed dare, exist without the others. They are: correct fingering, good embellishments, and good performance.

23Albert Schweitzer, with M. H. Gillot, J.-S. Bach, le musicien-poète (Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1905), enlarged German translation, as J. S. Bach (Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1908), pp. 142– 43; Schenker quotes and discusses Schweitzer’s book also in Meisterwerk i, pp. 88 – 93/pp. 48 – 50. 24Überleben: the word commonly means “survival,” but here it has Nietzschean overtones. 25Vol.43/2, pp. 4 – 5 “VII. Air” and p. vii “Air. Fragment, pp. 42– 43”; Neue Bach-Ausgabe, vol. V/iv, pp. 40– 41 and critical commentary, p. 15: “Fragment of an Air with variations in C minor, BWV 991 [the piece is laid out over pp. 42– 43. Notated material appears only on pp. 42– 43, with the remainder of p. 43 and all of p. 44], ruled for eight systems each, left blank, doubtless for the continuation of the Air.” The thirty-second-note diminution (without bass line) ends incompletely in bar 11. The overall form is thus: I, bars 1–16 in two parts (but bass stops at bar 9); II, bars 1–16, upper voice only, in longer note-values; III, bars 1–11, upper voice only, embellished.

26Gerippe: this term and the synonymously used Plan feature in Schenker’s principal analysis of a pedagogical work: the free fantasy in D major from Emanuel Bach’s Versuch, discussed in “The Art of Improvisation”; see Meisterwerk i, pp. 21– 30/pp. 8–13. 27These remarks are excerpted from part 1 of the Versuch, introduction and chapter 1; the text that follows is based on Mitchell’s translation, pp. 30, 36, 38, 41.

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§2. . . . All other instruments have learned how to sing. The keyboard alone has been left behind, its sustained style obliged to make way for countless elaborate figurations. The truth of this is attested by the growing beliefs that to play slowly or legato is wearisome, that tones can be neither slurred nor detached, {28} that our instrument should be tolerated only as a necessary evil in accompaniment. As ungrounded and contradictory as these charges are, they are, nevertheless, clear signs of bad keyboard playing. §11. The more recent pianoforte, when it is sturdy and well built, has many fine qualities, although its touch must be carefully thought out, a task which is not without difficulties. . . . Yet, I hold that a good clavichord, despite its weaker tone, shares equally in the attractiveness of the pianoforte and in addition features the vibrato and portato which I produce by means of added pressure after each stroke. §12. . . . In order that the strings may be attacked as well as caressed and be capable of expressing purely and clearly all degrees of forte and piano, they must be resilient. §15. . . . Those who concentrate on the harpsichord grow accustomed to playing in only one color, and the varied touch which the competent clavichordist brings to the harpsichord remains hidden from them. This may sound strange, since one would think that all performers can express only one kind of tone on each harpsichord. One can easily perform the following test: ask two people, one a good clavichordist, the other a harpsichordist, to play in turn on the latter instrument the same piece containing a variety of embellishments, and then decide whether the two have produced the same effect. From “Fingering,” §2. For this and other reasons the study of fingering is a treacherous path along which many have erred. For one thing, there is only one good system of keyboard fingering, and very few passages permit alternative fingerings. Again, every figure calls for its own distinctive fingering, which may require modification simply through a change of context, and the comprehensiveness of the keyboard creates an inexhaustible wealth of figures. Finally, the true method, almost a secret art, has been known and practiced by very few.”

and unfailingly clear for anyone, once they were familiar with his particular, often shorthand way of writing slurs, wedges,28 dots, and trills. Considering that all notation is rooted in content, and that where doubt arises this and this alone is the deciding factor, it is after all understandable and excusable that his earliest engravers perpetrated so many errors. Just think what Haydn would have said, had he been presented with engraving like that of today, which flies so disgracefully in the face of all artistic truth! Now, the collected edition of his works (Breitkopf & Härtel)29 marks a turn for the better. The edition of his piano sonatas, now complete, must be welcomed with open arms. The astonishing diligence with which its editor, Kurt [recte: Karl] Päsler, indefatigably examined and collated all the sources he could lay hand on cannot be praised highly enough. If we visualize the conditions of the time, reflecting as they did total scorn for the law, conditions in which pirate publication was rife throughout Europe, in which copyists and publishers engaged in the most underhand dealings with one another, always with an eye to the quickest exploitation of their clandestinely made exemplars rather than to the accurate reflection of their content, then we can get some idea of the difficulties the conscientious editor faced. To judge from the remarks that Päsler makes in his critical commentary, the edition could evidently have turned out even better given a surer artistic sense and greater decisiveness.


One of the first people to report on Haydn’s life was G. Carpani (1812),

30

who also belonged to the master’s circle. Soon after, in 1814, Stendhal published his Lettres écrites de Vienne sur Haydn under the pseudonym A. C. Bombet.31 In this, he lifted at least two hundred pages of Carpani’s 298-page book word for word, even retaining the first-person singular, which must have led his readers to be28Keile: wedge-shaped staccato marks, which usually appeared in handwritten sources as vertical strokes. Haydn generally used these strokes for staccato, and dots with a slur for portato; but he sometimes used dots on their own, for example, to indicate the clear separation of repeated notes. 29Joseph Haydns Werke: Erste kritisch durchgesehene Gesamtausgabe, ed. E. Mandyczewski and others; ten volumes of this unfinished edition were issued between 1907 and 1933. 30Le Haydine, ovvero Lettere su la vita e le opere del celebre maestro Giuseppe Haydn (Milan: C. Buccinelli, 1812). 31Lettres écrites de Vienne en Autriche, sur le célèbre compositeur Joseph Haydn, suivies d’une vie de Mozart, et de considérations sur Métastase et l’état présent de la musique en France et en Italie (Paris: Didot, 1814). See also Lives of Haydn, Mozart and Metastasio by Stendhal (1814), translated by Richard N. Coe (London: Calder & Boyars: 1972).




Haydn wrote to his publisher Artaria on July 5, 1789: “It is a constant source of pain to me that not a single work I have entrusted to you is free of errors.” It must have pained him all the more because he took such meticulous care over his own handwriting. True, his script was small and delicate; nevertheless, it was precise

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tonw i l l e 4 On p. 17, he writes: “Later, when he (Beethoven) was compelled to quit Bonn and spend almost his entire life in Vienna, in the frivolous capital and in its gloomy suburbs, he could never get the Rhineland out of his mind . . .” Rolland is confusing the Vienna that he had seen in 1910 with the Vienna of Beethoven, the outskirts of which were still quite rural and cheerful! But is it right for him to commit such a blunder in, of all places, his book on Beethoven? Did not artistic truth and justice require that the beauty of Vienna’s outskirts be remembered just as clearly as that of—the Rhineland? Was the anachronism just a slip on his part, or did he unconsciously hit upon this as a pretext for expressing some touching words of regret, as utterly inappropriate as they are? Or what else might it be? But on to the next passage. On p. 53, he writes: “Vienna never warmed to him. In this city given to affectation, with its fashionable air satiated with mediocrity, his proud and free spirit could [take no pleasure],” to which he adds in a footnote: “The composers who lived in Vienna toward the end of the nineteenth century suffered severely under the atmosphere of the city, which was in the throes of a pharisaical Brahms cult.”34 What is Rolland up to, with all these thrusts? To begin with, is not mediocrity the same everywhere—in Paris just as in Vienna? Or does he consider—it rather looks like it—that French mediocrity is fundamentally better than German? Beethoven, Brahms in Paris—there’s a laugh!—how on earth would Parisian mediocrity have reacted to those intellectual heroes? When Berlioz made the witty, astute remark that for humanity Beethoven was a luxury, he forbore—although French himself—to choose between humanity in Vienna and humanity anywhere else. But what does Rolland mean by the distinction that he makes? Why is he always taking aim at the Vienna of Beethoven and Brahms, at the Vienna that he thinks he has seen but has not in fact seen? But let me not persist in my questions. I already know why. There’s method in Rolland’s way of doing things. Thomas Mann, who was sorely disappointed by Rolland on many occasions (read his Reflections of a Non-Political Man, pp. 136ff),35

lieve that Bombet was personally close to Haydn. It was Romain Rolland32 who, on the basis of meticulous comparison, exposed this state of affairs in a special essay, admitting candidly that he had no idea what could have induced Stendhal to commit so outrageous a theft (Rolland’s own word). {29} That a German publisher could be induced to couple together two French authors as highly prized on intellectually occupied German territory as Stendhal and Rolland, by printing Carpani’s Haydn book yet again under the name of its plagiarizer Stendhal and including Rolland’s essay as a kind of covering note (as a postscript, of course, not as a foreword), is a complicated German affair. What is more important is that I deal with Rolland’s essay here. At one point, he says: “It took time before this clear, ironic voice could be heard amidst the din of the Romantic orchestra. But once heard, it could never be forgotten.” One can scarcely believe one’s eyes. What? Rolland singing the impostor’s praise in the selfsame article in which he exposes his shameless plagiarism? Does that accord with any of the laws of logic or ethics? Does not Rolland here become as much of a puzzle to us as Stendhal is to him? It is not enough for him to write at another point: “The fact that he (Stendhal) today drags his victim (Carpani) behind him in the wake of his fame makes us want to search these letters for what is intellectually his [Carpani’s] own.” Whose side is Rolland taking? Carpani’s, so that his rightful property can be restored to him on the basis of proven plagiarism? Or Stendhal’s, so that, despite the exposed plagiarism, Carpani’s property can finally be delivered into his hands? Are there two Rollands? One who unabashedly seeks out the truth, and another who ignores it when it suits him, so as to redeem the glory of a compatriot author—as can be seen, Haydn plays not the slightest role in all of this— and award him, against all ethical standards, that which belongs to someone else? In intellectually occupied territory, apathy and lack of principles are prone to consider everything that is a mere slip-up, anything merely harmless, as not worth the effort of putting a stop to. I think otherwise, and have grounds for doing so when I place the many other statements that Rolland has made in his writings about music and musicians alongside it. Let me offer just a few passages from his Beethoven book (published in Zurich by Rascher), widely read in certain circles.33

and in “The Mission of German Genius” (Tonwille 1), Rolland later wrote enthusiastically of Schenker’s theories, quoting the Erläuterungsausgabe of Op. 101 with approval in the third volume of his Beethoven: les grandes époques créatrices (Paris: Editions du Sablier, 1928– 45). 34The quotation from Rolland’s main text has been cut off before the final verb; it is supplied here. From the footnote, of which Schenker quotes only a small part, it is clear that Rolland’s impression of Vienna was strongly influenced by that offered in Wagner’s Beethoven (1870). 35Betrachtungen eines Unpolitischen (Berlin: S. Fischer, 1918), trans. W. D. Morris (New York: F. Unger, 1983), pp. 117– 23.

32For Schenker’s remarks on Rolland, and the Clarté movement to which he belonged, see “The Mission of German Genius,” Tonwille 1, p. 14/i, p. 14 and note 75. 33Schenker is referring to Rolland’s Vie de Beethoven (Paris: Hachette, 1903), German trans. L. Langnese Hug as Ludwig van Beethoven (Zurich: M. Rascher), Eng. trans. B. Constance Hull (London: Kegan, Paul, Trench, Trubner, 1917). Though the recipient of Schenker’s anti-Gallic venom, both here

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came finally to see him as a “Frenchman through and through, and thus at heart entirely without cosmopolitan adeptness,” and once addressed him, with painful irony: “Ah! How little you deserve the stigma of the enboché,36 how little you deserve exile! How temperate is your justice!” And there you have it: “temperate justice” where the Frenchman is concerned, and—covert aggressiveness where the non-Frenchman is concerned. This is why, at Carpani’s expense, Rolland is so temperately just over Stendhal’s “fame” and his “clear ironic voice.” This is why he forgets the Viennese outskirts of that time and dreams, almost like Poincaré,37 of the Rhineland—in his lecherous dream, there comes to him the temperately just equation: Beethoven the Rhinelander ⫽ Beethoven the Frenchman. This is why he covertly scoffs at {30} the mediocrity and pharisaical Brahms cult of Vienna, and is so just as to pronounce judgment even upon Brahms. . . . So now, European-ness is certainly no shame, nor does it need, as we can see, to fear anything from exclusive French-ness. Exclusive French-ness also is certainly no shame but is definitely a disadvantage, since it is no substitute for the preconditions that are still necessary if one is to write pertinently, and not just in the manner of French justice, about music and musicians. To count Rolland among musicians would be to commit all those who dwell on the same, by no means solitary height, to sharing with him his superficiality (Oh! “la douce france”) and his mental attitude: “temperately just” where Frenchmen are concerned, covertly aggressive where non-Frenchmen are concerned.

The words “strict time” here refer forward to the next sentence, to the tempo rubato in the right hand, which yields to the ornaments and other figures but without bringing the left hand along with it. So, far from dispensing with tempo rubato in the right hand, as people regrettably do today for the sake of “strict time,” Mozart creates a higher symmetry to which the left hand, despite the tempo rubato in the right hand, adheres. They (the sonatas of Myslivecˇek)39 are very easy to play, and pleasing to the ear. My advice to my sister, to whom I send humblest regards, would be that she play them with great expression, taste, and fire, and learn them by heart. So: “expression, taste,” even in sonatas by—Myslivecˇek! The Andante (of the Sonata in C major, K309) is what will give us the most trouble, for it is full of expression, and must be played accurately and with taste, the fortes and pianos just as marked.40 That word “expression” again! He (Sterkel)41 played five duets (sonatas with violin), but so fast that one could make nothing of them, and not at all clearly, and not in time. Everybody said the same. Mlle. Cannabich42 played the sixth one and, in truth, better than Sterkel.




Yesterday she (Mlle. Cannabich) again gave me indescribable pleasure: she played my sonata absolutely superbly. She plays the Andante (which must not be taken quickly) with the utmost expression. What’s more, she enjoys playing it.43

The young Mozart on performance (from his letters of 1777–78): He (Stein) was totally besotted with Beecke’s38 playing. Now he sees and hears that I play better than Beecke, that I don’t pull faces and yet play as expressively, that nobody else, to his knowledge, can make his pianofortes sound so good. Everybody is amazed that I always keep strict time. They simply can’t understand how, in a tempo rubato in an Adagio, the left hand is oblivious of what is happening. With them, the left hand yields as well.

N.B. before dinner he (Abbé Vogler) had hashed his way through my concerto . . . at sight. He took the first movement prestissimo, the Andante allegro, and the Rondo really and truly prestissimo. . . . You can imagine how 39Josef Myslivecˇek (1737– 81), Czech composer. The letter is dated November 13, 1777; the underlinings are in Schenker’s personal copy. 40The letter is dated November 14, 1777; the underlinings are in Schenker’s personal copy. 41Johann Franz Xaver Sterkel (1750 –1817), German composer and pianist. 42Rosina (Rosa) Teresia Cannabich, the daughter of the celebrated Mannheim composer and conductor Johann Christian Cannabich, was thirteen years old when Mozart wrote K. 309 for her in 1777. The letter is dated November 27, 1777. 43The letter is dated December 6 –7, 1777; the underlining is in Schenker’s personal copy.

36Lit.

the Germanified-one; Boche (French: “rascal”) was used derogatorily in World War I to denote Germans. 37See “The Mission of German Genius,” Tonwille 1, p. 11, note 56. 38Ignaz von Beecke (1733–1803), pianist, composer. The letter is dated October 23, 1777; the underlinings are in Schenker’s personal copy (OC, Books and Pamphlets 11). There is a further marginal note: Moz. unterscheidet “Partiturschlagen” von “Galanzumspielen” (“Mozart distinguishes between ‘playing exactly what is in the score’ and ‘decorating in galant style’”).

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tonw i l l e 4 unendurable it was from the fact that I could not bring myself to tell him: far too fast! Besides, it actually is much easier to play a thing fast than slow. . . . And what does the art of playing at sight entail? Just this: playing the piece at the correct tempo, exactly as it should be, with all the notes, appoggiaturas, etc., as written, and with the appropriate expression and taste, so that the listener will believe that the performer has composed it himself. Vogler’s fingering is atrocious too, . . .44

The human voice has in any case a certain tremulousness; but it is in the nature of the voice that the degree of fluctuation is attractive. This quality should be simulated not only on wind instruments, but also on string instruments, and even at the keyboard.47 Mark this well, player, and sing, sing, sing!48 {31}


Here at long last the key word of key words: “such that the listener believes the performer to have composed it himself.” I’ve decided to stay home today, although it is Sunday, because it is snowing so heavily. For I am obliged to go out tomorrow, because our house nymph Mlle. Pierron, my greatly-to-be-esteemed pupil, is to rattle off the concerto that I wrote for the lofty Countess Lützow at the French concert that takes place every Monday. I, too, shall prostitute myself and let them give me something to bash out on the piano, and shall be sure to strum it at sight. For I am a born wood-chopper, and all I can do is bang out a little piano!45 Do the wood-choppers of today understand that? She is now quite definitely ready to be heard in public. For a girl of fourteen and an amateur, she plays pretty well, and she has me to thank for that, as all Mannheim knows. She now has taste, trills, tempo, and improved fingering, none of which she had before.46

Zu Mozarts Feier

In Celebration of Mozart

(4. September 1842)

(September 4, 1842)

Glücklich der Mensch, der fremde Größe fühlt Und sie durch Liebe macht zu seiner eignen. Denn groß zu sein ist wenigen gegönnt, Und wer dem fremden Wert die Brust verschließt, Der lebt in einem öden Selbst allein, Ein Darbender—wohl etwa ein Gemeiner. ... Wir aber, die wir dieses Fest begehn, In starrem Erz nachbildend jenen Mann, Der weich war wie die Hände einer Mutter, Laßt uns in gleich verwechselndem Verwirren Nicht auch des Mannes Sinn und Geist entgehn. Nennt ihr ihn groß? er war es durch die Grenze; Was er getan, und was er sich versagt, Wiegt gleich schwer in der Wage seines Ruhms.

Happy is the man who senses greatness in others, And through love makes it his own. For to be great is granted to few, And he who closes his heart to the worth of others Lives alone in his own barren world, Destitute—a low form of life. ... But we who celebrate this feast, Imagining that man cast in hard bronze Who was as soft as a mother’s hands, Let us not, by confusing matters, Fail to see also the man’s mind and spirit. Do you call him great? He was so, beyond measure; What he did, and what he disdained to do, Weighs heavily in the scales of his fame.

of June 12, 1778. this point, Schenker inserts in the margins of his personal copy of Tonville 4 two further items. In the bottom margin of pp. 30 – 31 he reproduces a short pair of extracts from “G. A. Griesinger 104 (Br & H. 1810),” i.e., p. 104 of Georg August Griesinger’s Biographische Notizen über Joseph Haydn. “He always repeated with deep feeling and tearful eyes: ‘Mozart’s loss is irreparable; I shall never forget his keyboard playing all my life: it cut me to the quick’” and “Where Mozart is, Haydn cannot show his face.” (For a modern edition of Griesinger, in English translation, see Vernon Gotwals, ed. and trans., Haydn: Two Contemporary Portraits [Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1968], especially p. 56.) The second marginal insertion, at the top of p. 31, reproduces a passage from another Mozart letter, dated June 17, 1781, concerning Josepha Barbara Auernhammer (1758 – 1820), who became one of his pupils in the early 1780s and received the dedication of his first Viennese publication, a set of six violin sonatas: “The young lady is a monster—but she plays ravishingly. The only thing she lacks is true, refined, singing taste in her cantabile. She plays everything detached.” 47Letter

44This critique of the Georg Joseph Vogler’s playing clarifies a cryptic reference to the German theorist toward the end of the essay on another Mozart work from the mid-1770s, the Sonata in A minor, K. 310; see Tonwille 2, p. 18/i, p. 66 and note 13. The concerto referred to here is probably K. 246 in C major (1776), which has a middle movement marked “Andante” and a finale entitled Rondeau and marked “Tempo di Menuetto.” The letter is dated January 17, 1778; the underlinings are in Schenker’s personal copy. Schenker also indicates, with carets and flags, his intention to complete the whole passage by filling in the two ellipses. He writes out the first in the top and right margins: “For the most part, he played the bass differently than written, and while so doing he played quite different harmony and even melody. Nothing else is actually possible at that tempo: the eyes cannot read, nor can the hands reach the notes. . . . The listeners . . . can say nothing other than that—they have seen music and piano playing. They hear, think and also feel as little in the process as he does.” 45Letter of February 22, 1778. 46Letter of March 24, 1778.

48At

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Miscellanea Weil nie er mehr gewollt als Menschen sollen, Tönt auch ein Muß aus allem, was er schuf, Und lieber schien er kleiner, als er war, Als sich zum Ungetümen anzuschwellen. Das Reich der Kunst ist eine zweite Welt, Doch wesenhaft und wirklich wie die erste, Und alles Wirkliche gehorcht dem Maß. Des seid gedenk, und mahne dieser Tag Die Zeit, die Größres will und Kleinres nur vermag.

(p. 231): “We may search the letters of either of the Mozarts in vain for the sort of profound impressions and sublime words that grace the letters and diaries of all the famous visitors to Rome. Consider Wolfgang Goethe’s words in his diary entry for October 28, 1786, the evening he arrived in the immortal city, intended for Frau von Stein: ‘Rome . . . My second word ought to be addressed to you . . . I can say nothing but that I am here . . .’” He goes on to quote Winckelmann and Heinse, and excoriates the fourteen-year-old Mozart because this child prodigy is not yet in the same league as a Goethe (of the journey to Rome!),51 a Winckelmann, or a Heinse; because at fourteen he is not at the same time an adult, as those men are; because he writes only musical notes, which mean nothing professionally to Schurig. (In this regard, he elects to think with the heads of others.) Why he does not demand the reverse of Goethe, Winckelmann, Heinse, and all the other “famous visitors to Rome,” namely that they accomplish the marvels that Mozart had achieved by fourteen, the reader alone knows (certainly not Schurig). He goes on (p. 233): “There are the Mozarts in Rome! To gauge how half-witted the observations and limited the thoughts of Papa Leopold were as he walked the streets of Rome and Naples, one has only to dig around in his guidebook.”52 On intellectually occupied territory, people write and read such stuff as if it were holy writ, for this is the French “Enlightenment” (as distinct from genius), and French “tact”53 in content and form, to a tee . . . Going on: “This is the divine city as Wolfgang had the good fortune to see it! If he had had the eyes of a painter, what an apotheosis of Rome he would surely have presented us with!” If Schurig had had musician’s ears, what an apotheosis of Mozart he would surely have presented us with! And finally, one more snippet: “In St. Peter’s Basilica he takes down by ear Allegri’s Miserere. Once again, we might recall Heinse, who wrote of Allegri’s music: ‘The angelic song of the Miserere is the most ravishing experience that man’s mortal existence can undergo, the purest harmony, which sighs through a thousand tensions and resolutions of astringent and bitter-sweet tones toward

Because he sought nothing more than to be a man, An imperative sounds out from all that he created, And he would rather appear smaller than he was Than puff himself up to be a giant. The realm of art is a second world, Though in essence and reality like the first, And all that is real obeys according to its measure. Think on this, and on this day remember Time, which wishes for greater things but is capable of only smaller. Grillparzer




I

n an excellent article entitled “A Despiser of Mozart” (Neue Freie Presse, August 7, 1922), Herbert Eulenberg has vented his anger upon the Mozart biography by Schurig.49 True, Eulenberg is no more of a musician than Schurig (who admits it himself), yet it is gratifying for musicians to see that even in lay circles a thrust like Schurig’s is greeted with the contempt it deserves. One wonders whether the issuing of the second edition of Schurig’s infamous work has more to do with its elegant binding, or with a prurient interest in the despising of Mozart, or with contempt for Mozart’s despiser. It is gratifying that Eulenberg does not mince his words when censuring Schurig as is warranted. He really gets down to it when he writes: “This crass failure of judgment on Schurig’s part” (in reference exclusively to Mozart as a letter-writer) “is so astonishing and inexplicable because he reveres every word from the pen of Lespinasse,50 who often applauds things that we view with indifference, or all the pronouncements of that great assimilator—not to say plagiarizer—Stendhal, as if they were holy writ? Should the age-old partiality for and reverence toward things French, which is deep-rooted in us Germans, play a trick even on this ‘energetic man’?” It is best for the reader to catch on to Schurig’s modus operandi. For example, he pursues the Mozarts, father and son, on their journey to Rome, and writes 49[S]See Tonwille 2, p. 18; Tonwille 3, p. 29/i, pp. 66 and 129. [The work under review by Eulenberg is Artur Schurig: Wolfgang Amadé Mozart: sein Leben, seine Persönlichkeit, sein Werk (Leipzig: Insel, 1913, 2nd ed. 1923), in which he drew on Nissen’s collection of biographical sources to conduct new research into the influences on Mozart, including French influences. Schenker’s wording and page numbers refer to the first edition.] 50Julie-Jeanne Éléonore de Lespinasse (1732 –76), French patron of the arts and diarist.

51Goethe made his two trips to Italy when he was in his late thirties; his Italienische Reise (1816 – 17) is the work of a man in his mid-sixties. 52Schurig (vol. 1, p. 193, footnote) identifies the guidebook that Leopold used as J. G. Keyssler, Neueste Reise durch Deutschland, Böhmen, Ungarn, die Schweiz, Italien und Lothringen (Hanover, 1740 – 41). 53Takt: there may be a double-entendre here with the musical sense of the word as “beat.”

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tonw i l l e 4 an eternally new, immortal existence.’ It seems almost as if Wolfgang got more pleasure out of his own petty compositions than out of the Miserere itself. There are a great many artists who, when they encounter works in the medium in which they themselves work, gain pure enjoyment and a natural sensation from them only on rare occasions. Technique interests them far too much. Clearly, {32} this is how it often was with Mozart. This was one moment in which Mozart was a thinking musician. Throughout his life, Mozart was rarely a thinker; most

of the time, he was preoccupied with technical matters. With his compositions, one sees far less working with ideas than is the case with any other European composer.” Eulenberg’s fitting response is: “In the passages of this sort that Schurig often allows himself, one might long for Gottfried Keller to administer a box on the ears, as was his wont in such circumstances.” Schurig, please make your next book—a biography of Debussy54 . . .

54Schenker despised Debussy and his music: see Tonwille 4, p. 24/i, p. 162; Meisterwerk ii, p. 215/p. 130 and iii, p. 108/p. 71, and would have been pleased to see a disparaging biography of him.

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Tonwille 5

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Bach’s Little Prelude No. 3 in C Minor, BWV 999 J. S. Bach: Zwölf kleine Präludien, Nr. 3 {Tonwille 5, pp. 3 – 4} t r a n s l at e d b y j o s e p h d u b i e l

The Urlinie progresses from 5ˆ only as far as 2ˆ , and I accordingly only as far as

How Fantasy sets out toward the eventual composition can be seen at a): knowing full well that V (with 2ˆ ) requires a major third to produce the effect of a half cadence, it dares—for this very reason—to postpone it (until bar 34), and meanwhile to draw out the journey by substituting a minor third; hence the temporary minor mode for V in bar 13. However, the minor third does not do anything like climb chromatically to the major third, which would be the shortest route (see a)). Instead d1, as if it were not the representative of 2ˆ ,3 embarks on a passing motion downward to the major third b (see b)), which must be understood in this case as a more secretive and artistic conversion of the upper voice into the inner voice, because d1 is to be understood as also still sounding above b, in the spirit of the Urlinie.4 Not until bar 42 (see a) and b)) is {4} the secret of the image transformed into reality and d1 finally retrieved. And when the upper voice then climbs on up to g1, it still wants to recall the first tone, as if from a distance, without wishing to unseat the 2ˆ . But how much further the creative force still ventures is revealed only at c). It indulges itself in two broadly arching ornaments in bars 17–32 and 35– 41, which cleave to one another in a relationship of parallelism—what a fulfillment of the law of repetition (Harmonielehre, §4)!5 —of which the first is covered by the major

V; and in this half-cadence the prelude1 is left hanging, as though itself a question mark.2 The reader must be profoundly shaken when following the paths of the imaginative power that coaxes out such a bold manifestation from such an intrinsically simple progression of Urlinie and harmonies (shown in Fig. 1)—not in any way to disavow the simple as too simple, but indeed to confirm faith in its creative infinity through such diverse phenomena, verging even on the enigmatic. There is no least point on the exterior of this body, in the broad curves and lines, that cannot be traced back living to the core of the seed: as neural paths issue forth from the brain, animating the body, moving it, so do nerve fibers lead from this primordial plan, in effect from a brain, into every single sixteenth note:

mediate between Figs. 1b and 1c of this essay), Schenker’s attitude toward the fundamental structure’s incompleteness seems more reserved. 3 Als wäre er nicht Träger der 2ˆ : the tone d1 is not identical with the 2ˆ of the Urlinie, but expresses this function—a distinction generally worth bearing in mind. 4 [S]This is fundamentally a prolonged form of a third-progression; concerning this concept see Kontrapunkt II, pp. 59ff/pp. 58ff., and compare the many other prolongations of fourth-, fifth-, sixth, and octave-progressions, etc., which all derive from the same law, in the issues of Tonwille. 5 The cited section of the Harmonielehre states no “law of repetition” explicitly, at least none that can be satisfied through the mere fact of a figure’s recurrence. The principle that is discussed there— that a figure can take on a significant identity only when repeated (with whatever degree of exactness or overtness), and until then can represent at most a subordinate part of some larger entity—tells what happens if a figure is repeated (or not); it can be construed to require a repetition only if conjoined

1 The Neue Bach-Ausgabe classifies this prelude as a lute piece; see the essay on Little Prelude No. 1, note 7. The lute version is notated with a signature of two flats. Apart from this there are three differences between the lute and keyboard versions (which Schenker, ignoring his own exhortation at the end of the earlier essay, does not discuss). One, with no significance for Schenker’s analysis, is the duration of the final chord: a dotted half-note for lute, a quarter-note for keyboard (in both cases with fermata). The other two, conceivably more significant, are that the descending figure at the end of bar 16 is e
–A for lute, c–A for keyboard, and that the bass note in bar 23 is D for lute, E
for keyboard. These will be discussed at the relevant points in the analysis, in notes 6 and 8. 2 In §307 of Der freie Satz, including Fig. 152/6 (a graph presenting a stage of elaboration inter-

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third of the dominant chord (bar 34), the second by the fifth (bar 42). Written in small note values as at c), the two ornaments would recall those rapid fioriture with which piano writing is also apt to ornament individual tones (as in J. S. and Emanuel Bach, Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, Chopin, etc.). It is essential to keep this firmly in mind, if one wants to come somewhat closer to the incomprehensible, to the miracle of that infallible self-possession with which the master, in preluding, strides in such large note values through an ornament that started so small! The first ornament touches c2 as its highest point (bar 22), the second only a1 (bar 36): in this the greater significance of the first than of the second is expressed even on the surface: the one brings forth the major third that is decisive for the half-cadence, the other pauses after the event, as it were. The graph of the Urlinie (see above) shows exactly how the inner voice is transferred up an octave in bar 15, while the bass falls [from G] in two leaps of a third, thus in a fifth-progression,6 to C, neighbor note to the root D that enters in bar 17, which in this case merely di-

vides the dominant.7 Directly above the root of the divider, in the upper voice, appears the third, f 1, with which the first ornament begins. This ornament must then be articulated, according to the chord, into three segments: the diminished fifth f 1 –c2 (bars 17–22), the same diminished fifth descending (bars 22–27), and finally the augmented fourth (bars 27–32). According to their significance or to the occasion (chromaticism, for example), the individual tones of the ornament are brought forward and maintained for one or two bars. The effectively stationary tone of the divider (bars 17–32) is interrupted only once, by the neighbor note E
in bar 23: 8 the single interruption accentuates the impression of stability all the more, according to a secret law of the psyche. In bar 33, where the divider finds its way back to the root of the dominant and draws in the raised third, the heaviness of the major-seventh chord (Tonwille 3, p. 6/I, p. 102, Fig. 1 [Haydn’s Piano Sonata in E
major]) serves to raise this event to prominence. (Compare, for example, bars 17–18 in Bach’s C minor Prelude in Book 1 of The Well-Tempered Clavier.)9

with some further, independent assumption, such as that a figure of a certain prominence ought not be left with its identity unconfirmed. The circumspection of Schenker’s Harmonielehre formulation seems here to be overcome by his wish to imagine events in piece as occurring in obedience to laws. The passage in Der freie Satz cited in note 2, and, even more explicitly, Fig. 82/4, discussed in §206, show the first of the two fioriture more thoroughly integrated into the third-progression d1 –c1 –b, with its c2 actually serving as the first representation of the passing tone, displaced by an octave; this integration would presumably leave the figure less imitable by a simple iteration of its contour, and indeed this analysis makes no claim for a parallel between the two ornaments, nor even represents the second one. 6 Quintzug: a connected purposeful motion through a fifth, even if not by step. No low C occurs in bar 16; conceivably the reinforcement of c, in the higher octave, could be claimed as the point of the change from e
on the third beat of the bar in the lute version of the piece to c in the keyboard version (although, of course, a revision to include low C, along the lines indicated in the graph of the Urlinie, would also have been possible and was not made). Either version of this bar presents a subtle anomaly: the original, a leap between non-contiguous chord tones (not to mention a concentration of unusual intervals); the revision, a repetition of the downbeat pitch on the third beat. Arguably the approach to the D pedal is a good time for an anomaly of some sort. Meanwhile, the question arises of how the treatment of E
here (its recurrence in the higher octave, or nonoccurrence, on the third beat; its not being superseded as lowest note by C) might interact with the E
neighbor note introduced in bar 32 by another revision (discussed below in note 8).

7 [S]The upper or lower fifth of a chord, presenting itself by leap in the service of a passing motion or neighbor note, I call an upper- or lower-fifth in “Freier Satz.” [Schenker’s promised account of upper- and lower-fifth dividers can be found in the “Elucidations,” which appear later in Tonwille (8– 10) and in Meisterwerk I and II. In Der freie Satz the term “divider” is not extended beyond its paradigmatic application to the upper fifth (implied in §18 and made explicit in §89) to the lower fifth– even though it is extended to a third mediating between root and fifth (in §279). If anything, Der freie Satz projects a degree of skepticism about IV arising other than as a contrapuntal approach to V. In §§106–11 Schenker does discuss the possibility of I–IV–I harmonizing a neighbor motion, but also takes pains to differentiate this categorically from I–V–I.] The divider accordingly is nothing other than a leaping passing tone (Kontrapunkt II, pp. 177ff./pp. 181ff.), and the accompanying chord produced by it likewise just a passing or neighbor-note harmony. Compare, for example, the lower-fifth divider in Bach’s Little Prelude No. 5, later; other lower-fifth dividers in Haydn’s Sonata in E
major, first movement, bars 52– 67, or last movement, bars 106–122, and so on (Tonwille 3); an upper-fifth divider in Beethoven’s Sonata op. 49, no. 2, first movement: bars 21– 24 (Tonwille 4); and so on. 8 Only in the keyboard version does this neighboring E
occur; the maintenance of D in the original lute version shows either that E
was a second thought, or that a secret law of the psyche is not proof against the unavailability of an open string. 9 [S]See my essay about this prelude in Der Musik (Berlin) [XV/9], June 1923 [pp. 641– 51; the point in question is addressed on p. 645. The essay was reprinted as part of “Das Organische der Fuge” in Meisterwerk II; see especially p. 89/p. 50.].

176

Bach’s Little Prelude No. 4 in D Major, BWV 925 J. S. Bach: Zwölf kleine Präludien, Nr. 4 {Tonwille 5, pp. 5–7} t r a n s l at e d b y j o s e p h d u b i e l

T

o a much more significant degree than Prelude No. 2 (see Tonwille 4), Prelude No. 41 shows imitative polyphonic mastered by means of an Urlinie. Secret adherence to its diatonic course provides the only way to conjure such activity into a compelling whole. In the first four bars, ˆ1 –3ˆ actually are produced by the cooperation between reaching-over technique, against an octave descent in the bass (divided into fourth- and fifth-progression), and an application of fugal form in the motivic imitation—see the graph of the Urlinie, p. 178. (On the essence of the reaching-over technique, see “Freier Satz” [Der freie Satz §§129–134]; cf. Tonwille 5, p. 37/I, p. 206.) Fundamentally the motive signifies only a succession of two tones—d2 and 2 c  in bars 1– 2—but the internal treatment is richer: the first two quarter notes, since they both include leaps of a third, d1 –f 1 and a1 –c 2, are tightly bound together by this common characteristic (the light decoration of the second leap of a third does nothing to contradict this); and similarly the third and fourth quarter notes unite into a half note, d2, which they express so strongly that the leap of a third d2 –f 2 is completely lost in them, despite the rhythmic augmentation. In the hand of the master, a motive like this could even have become the dux of a real fugue (see, for example, the fugue of the Toccata in D major [BWV 912], imbued with all the exuberance of a free fantasy), but here Bach is satisfied with just the application of some features of the fugal form. These consist obviously in the fact that the imitation in the bass in bars 2– 3 assumes the form of a comes, which is taken up by the upper voice in bars 3– 4 and answered by a dux form in the bass in bars 4 – 5. With 3ˆ , attained in bar 4, an octave descent begins, f 2 –f 1, whose particular2 ity is demonstrated in the following illustration:

At 1, we see the octave descent carried out exclusively in a progression in thirds in the outer voices—which brings along consecutive fifths, however, involving either the upper or lower voice, depending on the progression of the inner voice. In contrast, 2 shows a mixed plan of execution: after {6} the initial third come four sixths (by inversion of the voices), whereupon thirds return and conclude (see a), b), and c) in 1 and 2). It is the latter form that Bach chose. And once again there is a simulation of fugue, when just the second half of the octave descent is given over to imitations—significantly, the chain of imitations is interrupted specifically in the second half of the sixth bar; thus, at the point when the change in execution occurs, as a marker of the transition from sixths to thirds. f 1 is reached in bar 8; in this bar and the following ones, a continuation to a1 will now be made, in the sense of 3ˆ –5ˆ . Only the first quarter note of the motive is placed in the service of this segment of the Urlinie; but the I remains always in view. The consecutive fifths that come with the outer voices’ progression in thirds are eliminated through interpolated leaps of a fifth (see the graph of the Urlinie). In the second half of bar 9, a new neighbor-note formation arises in the upper voice, which not only gives the sign of a reversal with its falling direction but also—and here the art of synthesis is marvelous—becomes a model for the fol-

1 This prelude may be not by Bach, but by his son Wilhelm Friedemann; see the essay on Little Prelude No. 1, note 7 (Tonwille i, p. 143). 2 [S]For other octave descents, see, for example, Bach’s C minor Prelude from Book I of The WellTempered Clavier, bars 5–18 [see the preceding essay, note 9]; Haydn’s E
major Sonata (Tonwille 3),

first movement, bars 4 – 8, bars 48– 50, bars 57– 64, and so on; Mozart’s Piano Sonata in A minor (Tonwille 2), last movement, bars 37– 40, bars 72 –76, and so on.

177

tonw i l l e 5

lowing formations. The reapplication of the first quarter note of the motive in bars 8– 9 seems to have reawakened a recollection of the second quarter note of the motive as well: in bars 10 and 11 the bass now counterpoints with the entire first half note of the motive. The consecutive octaves and fifths on the first and third beats are likewise eliminated through interpolations of fifths. Consequently, the total ascent ˆ1 –5ˆ is not worked through into a richer change of harmonies, but is only carried out with voice-leading art of the most colorful kind within a single harmony. Only in the second half of bar 11 does the succession [Zug] of cadential harmonies begin: II–V–I. Also, in acknowledgement of the cadence here, a change of motive in the upper voice. The third-progression e1 –c 1 can be grasped as a unit in the sense of a linear elaboration [Auskomponierung] of just 2ˆ (on this, see Kontrapunkt II, pp. 59ff/pp. 58ff, and “Freier Satz” [Der freie Satz, §118]). In bar 13 the line strives upward once again, but this time only to 4ˆ; in the total picture this creates an effect as though 5ˆ (bar 9) had sunk directly to 4ˆ (bar 14), despite the intervening full cadence. In bar 14, once again, only third-progressions are to be assumed for 3ˆ and 2ˆ , just as for 2ˆ in bars 11–12, despite the harmonic progression. In bar 15, ˆ1 now appears for the second time; meanwhile the comes form drives the upper voice right up into the heights, once again making the octave descent d2 –d1 necessary, but this need only be considered an elaboration [Auskomponierung] of I, in the manner of: 7

⫽

冢

6

冢

冢

7

3 Exactly what third-progressions Schenker has in mind is not clear. Having just described bars 15–17 as organized about a neighbor motion on the third, f , he might mean that the whole of bars 15–18 can therefore be identified with their concluding third-progression f  –e–d; but this would leave his use of the plural unexplained. Of the two layers of 3 – 4 – 4 – 3 motion shown in Fig. 2, one within bar 15 and one over bars 15–17 (the former ornamenting the initial f  of the latter), evidently only the latter continues downward. Perhaps the plural is simply a mistake, possibly induced by Schenker’s intention to refer to the third-progressions on 3ˆ and 2ˆ in bar 14, and that on 2ˆ in bars 11–12, which he has recently cited. In that case, one more problem remains: the initiating tones of the earlier thirdprogressions are all shown in larger noteheads in the graph of the Urlinie; but the note printed larger in bar 15 is d1 at the beginning of the span, not the initiating tone of any third-progression. Another possibility might be a succession of third-progressions that can be found in the upper voice in Fig. 2: d2 –c  1 –b1, overlapping b1 –a1 –g1, succeeded by f 1 –e1 –d1 (assuming that the second slur is meant to end within bar 16, and the b1 –a1 –g1 motion to occur entirely within the 4 of the larger 3 – 4 – 4 – 3)–or indeed the further elaboration of these shown in the graph of the Urlinie, in which g1 initiates a third-progression of its own, g1 –f 1 –e1, before f 1, and f 1 initiates a third-progression f 1 – e1 –d1 (not to be identified with the final third-progression of Fig. 2, which has meanwhile been transformed into f 1(–e1)–d1 –c 1 –d1). As irregular an articulation of the octave-progression as this may seem—particularly when Schenker’s overriding claim is that the passage remains under the control of the I harmony—it is no more irregular than what Schenker asserts explicitly in the next essay, on Prelude No. 5 in D minor, namely the articulation of an octave descent from f2 to f1 (third of the D minor triad) into three third-progressions, f–e–d, overlapping d–c–b
, succeeded by a–g–f. Under some circumstances, Schenker evidently considers it possible for a subdivided octave-progression to remain under the control of its originating harmony even if the tones of this harmony are not used as “nodal points” between subordinate progressions at every possible point of articulation. And in fact, his invocation here of the neighboring progression 3 – 4 – 4 – 3 underlying the octave descent in this piece implies a more specific explanation of the ostensibly non-tonic articulation of the octaveprogression than anything in the analysis of Prelude No. 5.

冢

8

{7} Therefore, only third-progressions are to be seen in these bars, too.3 It may appear strange at first that our prelude, whose first Urlinie tone 2ˆ (bar 1) stands in the register d2, concludes with d1 (see bars 15 and 18). Obviously, Bach’s ear attributed decisive significance to the d1 that initiated the motive, if he

8

3 — 4 4 — 3 I — IV — V — I ————————————— I

冣

冢

supported primarily by neighboring-note motion on the third (Kontrapunkt II, pp. 251ff/pp. 261ff ):

178

Bach’s Little Prelude No. 4 in D Major, BWV 925

actually strove in the sequel to reach f 1 (bar 8), and, from here on, to remain in the one-line octave. And if he activates the higher octave once more in bar 15, he only wants to respond to the register of bars 1– 4, in the sense of the obligatory conduct of registers (see Tonwille I, p. 39/I, p. 35), without prejudice to the value of d1 as the beginning and ending tone.

to it. For the work of art should spring forth from genius, the artist should summon forth content and form from the depth of his own essence, deal with the material in a commanding manner, and admit external influences only for the purpose of his own development. Goethe, Theory of Color4 The result of a genuine method is called style, as opposed to manner. Style elevates individuality to the highest point that the genre [Gattung] is capable of reaching; for this reason all great artists approach one another in their best works.






When one considers art in the higher sense, one might wish that only masters would occupy themselves with it, that students would be tested most rigorously, that amateurs would feel content in a reverent approach

Goethe, Diderot’s Essay on Painting5

4 Zur Farbenlehre: Entwurf einer Farbenlehre: Des ersten Bandes erster, didaktischer Teil, 1808. The quotation is from Section 6, Sinnlich-Sittliche Wirkung, from the concluding remarks [Schlusswort]. Goethe makes these grand claims for art in order to contrast it with science, where he expects the contributions of an amateur to be as welcome as those of an expert (indeed, much of the treatise is devoted to a rant against Newton). Whatever Goethe’s self-confidence may do to unify the passage, Schenker still could be accused of taking the quotation out of context. 5 Diderots Versuch über die Malerei, Übersetzt und mit Anmerkungen begleitet (1799), in which the text of Diderot’s Essai sur la Peinture (1765) is translated, reordered, and exceeded in length by Goethe’s commentary on it. The quotation comes from Goethe’s commentary near the end of the section that he calls Von der Harmonie der Farben, in his Zweites Kapitel: Meine kleine Ideen über die Farbe; the translated text in this section is taken from Diderot’s Chapitre II: Mes petites Idées sur la Couleur [Denis Diderot, Œuvres, ed. André Billy [Editions Gallimard, 1951], pp. 1119– 25, but the subject of style as opposed to manner also refers to the end of Diderot’s Chapitre Premier: Mes Pensées bizarres sur le Dessin (pp. 1111–19).

179

Bach’s Little Prelude No. 5 in D Minor, BWV 926 J. S. Bach: Zwölf kleine Präludien, Nr. 5 {Tonwille 5, pp. 8– 9} t r a n s l at e d b y j o s e p h d u b i e l

We encounter f (see the graph of the Urlinie, p. 181, and Fig. 1f) for the first 1

time in bar 7, where it concludes the first descending third-progression: henceforth, f 1 remains the boundary of all the subsequent descending progressions as well—see bars 20, 25, 35, 39 (43), and finally bar 48 (here raised through modal mixture, of course). Whatever any of these progressions in the inner or upper voice might mean, the same goal, f1, striven for and attained so many times, develops a significance in response to which we must recognize 3ˆ as the starting point of the Urlinie, contrary to appearances that speak for 5ˆ . Of course, the upward register transfer in bars 7– 8, as well as in bars 39– 43, compels us to accept the two-line octave as the actual register of the Urlinie tones. In this sense, the first third-progression a1 –f 1 (bars 1–7) belongs to an inner voice, as though the f essential thing were merely to set up f 2 in a chord (in open position), da . In the third-progression a2 –f 2 in bars 42– 43, replying to the first one, as though in parallel f 2 now confirms the actual goal tone—after all, a2 in bar 42 is still completely entangled in the sixteenth-note motion of the run that serves the upward transfer—as well as the true register of the Urlinie progression. Fig. 1 shows the gradual growth of the voice-leading prolongations, all predetermined in the womb of the Urlinie: {9} a) shows the Urlinie progression and the first [contrapuntal] intervals; b) presents the downward register transfer f 2 –f 1, by means of third-progressions in the outer voices and 5 – 6 exchange; also the renewed swing upward to f 2; c) shows chromaticization, effecting more powerful (tonicizing) connections and thereby dividing the progression of an octave into three third-progressions: f 2 –d2, d2 –b
1, a1 –f 1; d) and e) show how, in the second chord of the octave series, the third c2 is not led up chromatically to c 2, but is reached through a falling thirdprogression from e2. It is the voice-leading that we encountered in Prelude No. 3 (see Figure 1; Tonwille I, p. 175), only here the contrapuntal octave2 1

1

progression is placed not on the divider at the upper fifth, as it was there, but on that at the lower fifth.1 Voice-leading errors threaten on the way to this divider: consecutive (contrary) fifths at d), open fifths at e); 2 1 As written, Schenker’s sentence seems to refer to a non-existent octave-progression in Prelude No. 3. The contrast he must mean to make is simply between the two possible dividers of the dominant. In each Prelude, there is (at some structural level) a descending third-progression within the dominant harmony, from the fifth to the major third, 2ˆ 1ˆ 7ˆ (in both cases introducing the major third when the triad was initially minor); in Prelude No. 3, the passing tone is supported by the second degree of the scale, serving as upper-fifth divider (or dominant of the dominant); in this prelude, the passing tone is supported by the first degree of the scale, serving as lower-fifth divider (not as an effective tonic). Only in this prelude are there passing motions to and from the divider, a fifth-progression and a fourth-progression that together form an octave-progression within the dominant harmony. 2 Quinten-Antiparallelen bei d), offene Quinten bei e); referred to collectively as Quint-Parallelen in the following discussion of f).

180

Bach’s Little Prelude No. 5 in D Minor, BWV 926

eration as well as a change of diminution—see bars 9–15, 15–19, 19 – 20 in the graph of the Urlinie: after two-bar values .  .  follow one-bar ones .  , and after these even a quarter-note value  , which introduces the descent in bar 20. The upward register transfer in bars 39– 43 is to be understood as a parallel to that in bars 7–8—yet another witness to the creatively alert tonal conscience of the master!3 But even more astounding is the artistry with which he subdivides the arpeggiations in bars 39– 42: as early as the third quarter note of bar 39, he provides the (second) descending arpeggiation with leaps upward, whose seed bears fruit only in bar 41; here he leads the ascending arpeggiations (setting in again on the third quarter note of bar 40) up to the tone a2, as if to that tone that had to enter at the peak of the motive of a third! (This masterstroke recalls that in Prelude No. 1, bars 9–10—see Tonwille 4, [p. 4]/I, p. 142.) Both a2s in bar 41 appear, moreover, in the rhythm of two dotted quarter notes, to which the first tones of the third-progression in bar 42 are connected in the same rhythm: this leads to a ritenuto effect, which is only further reinforced by the 3/2 rhythm of bars 43– 44.

冢

f) finally shows the removal of the consecutive fifths by means of the exchange 5 – 6, which is also welcome to the diminution. Having come to light in bars 1–7, and even been repeated, as though for confirmation, in rhythmic diminution in bar 6, the third-progression is used as a motive. On a large scale, the motive of a third permeates the broad octave descent of bars 7– 39, supported in this by the chromatic alterations (see earlier). In the dominant chord of bars 9– 21, it takes shape in the larger third-progression e2 –c 2 as well as in the smaller third-progressions set above the 6– 5 exchange (see the graph of the Urlinie). Then two third-progressions enliven the inner voice in bars 21– 25. In bars 33– 39, a rhythmically diminished third-progression (bars 33– 35) anticipates the leading third-progression of the upper voice (see earlier), and the motive is realized for the last time in bars 42– 43. (The descending passage in bars 45– 48 is to be divided into fourth- and third-progressions, however.) The broad path in bars 9– 21 gives the master occasion to shape the various repetitions of the third-progressions more diversely, by means of a gradual accel-

[S]Compare the parallelism of ornaments in Prelude No. 3.

3

181

Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony (Continuation) Beethoven: V. Sinfonie (Fortsetzung) {Tonwille 5, pp. 10– 42} t r a n s l at e d b y w i l l i a m d r a b k i n

T

he metronome marking ( ⫽ 108) does not appear in the autograph; it was added at a later time to the printed parts and score. On this, Nottebohm remarks as follows:

tive as it appears in the consequent phrase, ibid. in Fig. 3; the fermata in bar 21 was originally followed immediately by the material of bar 25 (as the last bar of a four-bar group), without the intervention of the principal motive. The other insertions are best discussed in the order in which they appear. At bars 34ff (and the corresponding passage, bars 277ff), the second violin and viola parts have been heavily corrected. Much effort was needed for the arpeggiation of the seventh chords at bars 48ff and 292ff; here are some of the attempts:

One will find that a proportion of Beethoven’s metronome markings do not entirely accord with the character of the movements to which they are applied. Thus, for example, several symphonic movements seem to us to have been given a marking that is too fast. Perhaps this phenomenon can be explained as follows: Beethoven determined the metronome marking while working at the piano, and arrived at figures that he would hardly have found tenable in the concert hall. Even so, the markings that are available can help guard against misinterpretations, and to offer advice in questionable or disputed cases. . . . Beethoven’s marking of the first movement of the Symphony in C minor (allegro con brio,  ⫽ 108) discredits a communication from Anton Schindler in the first edition of his Beethoven biography (p. 241) , according to which the composer insisted on a slower tempo for the first five bars: “this tempo,  ⫽ 126, approximately andante con moto.” Had Beethoven wished a change of tempo, he would certainly have used the metronome markings to indicate it.1

The notation that Beethoven consistently uses for these arpeggiations, , corresponds better to the motivic sense of the passage than that given in the more recent editions of the score: . {11} For the three repetitions beginning in bar 63, the instruments originally entered in a different order: clarinet and flute, first violins and oboe, first violins and flute.—What the autograph tells us about the slurring in bars 83ff is of great significance. The lower slurs in fig. 18 show the original slurring:

The autograph score shows a great deal of work in many places, often more than what would normally be understood as compositional refinements. That bars 5, 24, 127, 252 and 482 are missing was already mentioned with regard to Fig. 3. Many other bars in the score can very clearly be recognized as later insertions. This is actually the case with bars 22– 23 [recte: 22– 24], the principal mo-

Later, an extra bar was inserted just before the end (bar 92 of the score) and the slurs were changed in accordance with the sense of the passage, as explained earlier, to correspond to the higher slurs in Fig. 18.2 But the authentic slurring is

(Leipzig and Wintherthur: Rieder-Biedermann, 1872), p. 135. [The metronome markings for the first eight symphonies were issued in a small pamphlet by the Viennese publisher S. A. Steiner in 1817; these were not intended for any specific edition of the music. The quotation from Schindler is from the first edition of his Biographie von Ludwig van Beethoven (Münster: Aschendorff, 1840), p. 241.] 1[S]Beethoveniena

2Schenker

182

is referring to the discussion of Fig. 9 in the first part of the essay (Tonwille 1).

Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony (Continuation)

to the next group.—At bars 400ff, Beethoven had a great deal of trouble working out the wind parts. In bars 407–11, the double basses originally played along with the cellos. In bars 429ff the basses proceeded entirely in half notes:3

given only in the original edition; it is, unfortunately, not present in the Peters edition, for example. In bars 182ff, the cellos and basses were originally furnished with legato slurs.—In bars 211ff [recte: 213ff ], the bassoons were originally written an octave lower, and the harmony formed by the clarinets and bassoons sounded as follows:

In bar 442, the violins were originally written an octave higher. The harmony in bars 469ff was originally assigned to the strings, as is shown by a separate leaf in the score. Even in bar 500, Beethoven was thinking of expanding the ending, initially with these powerful half notes:

It is worth noting that, in bars 222ff, the violas still continued to play the f  of the previous bars; Beethoven changed it to d, since the f  in the bass had become a leading note.—At bar 240, Beethoven’s first plan corresponded to the arrangement in bar 228, with the basses leading the fortissimo at the first eighth note, B  (only the basses: even in this respect, a contrast with bar 228 is sought); the remaining instruments (violins, violas and winds) did not enter until the second eighth-note, and likewise fortissimo. Only when bar 240 [in its present form] was inserted into the score was the antiphonal effect developed, but here the first and second violins and violas are marked only forte on the downbeat. In reproducing these two bars, both the first edition and, for example, the modern Peters edition go astray: the former assigns a fortissimo to the second eighth note, leaving the first pianissimo; in the latter the entire string section, including the basses, begins bar 240 with a forte.—At bar 303, the cellos were initially assigned to play with the bassoons: yet further evidence of how little Beethoven was thinking of the horn!—In bars 323ff, the first violins originally developed the singing line on their own (in the final version they alternate with the winds); even the cellos were provided with their own part:

Subsequently, on another leaf, he hammered out tonic and dominant chords in alternation, but eventually abandoned this form, too, contenting himself with an ending of just two bars. Concerning the late changes to the first edition, we may refer to what Beethoven himself wrote, in a letter to Breitkopf & Härtel of March 4, 1809: “Tomorrow you will receive a list of small corrections, which I made during the performance of the [fifth and sixth] symphonies—when I gave these works to you, I had not yet heard either—and one should not want to seem so divine as not to have to make the odd correction in one’s created works.” And to the same publisher, on March 28, 1809: “Enclosed are the small corrections to the symphonies: ensure that the plates are corrected at once. . . . It is always best if you send me the proofs together with the score that you received.” To this same letter, the editor Alfred Kalischer remarks: “The entire letter is concerned only with corrections to the Fifth and Sixth Symphonies, . . . .”4 Apparently, then, Beethoven had en-

At bars 331, the difficulties with the slurring from bars 86ff in the exposition return. Beethoven also replaced f with f  too soon (as early as the third statement of the motive), so that the figure a[
]–g–f  was repeated much too often. In ad
dition, he included the notes af in the horn parts.—In bar 386, the fifth bar of the group beginning at bar 382, an additional bar line was drawn. {12} This had the effect of making an eight-bar group, whose seventh bar was a rest, into a nine-bar group, whose eighth bar is a rest and whose ninth bar is reckoned as the upbeat

3Schenker

is referring here to the articulation of the bass line, not its rate of change. took his text from Alfred Kalischer’s five-volume edition of 1906– 8, revised 1909–11; Beethoven’s text is reproduced with greater accuracy in Ludwig van Beethoven: Briefwechsel: Gesamtausgabe, ed. Sieghard Brandenburg, vol. 2 (Munich: Henle, 1996), letters 359 and 370; in the second letter, Kalischer’s nonsensical “die Klavier Verbesserungen” has been corrected to “die kleinen Verbesserungen.” This translation is based on The Letters of Beethoven, ed. Emily Anderson (London: Macmillan, 1961), letters 199 and 204. 4Schenker

1

1

183

tonw i l l e 5 tended over six bars! This slur is also confirmed by the first edition (see Tonwille 1, Fig. 9/i, p. 30). 5) In bar 95 (and also in bar 102, and the parallel bars 347 and 355), the staccato marks in the first and second violins should be removed (there are none in the autograph score or the first edition). 6) In bar 439, the staccato marks in the strings and timpani should be removed (the first edition is incorrect here).

closed a list of mistakes of the sort that still surfaces from time to time among collectors and manuscript dealers. It is a great pity that the publisher attached no value to such leaves; for without doubt they would have resulted in the clarification of many controversial passages.5 Here are a few more probable errors that have not been corrected in the editions of the score:6 1) The slur beginning in the viola in bar 63 should be extended over four bars, and similarly in bars 67–70 and 71–74, as well as the parallel passages {13} in the recapitulation, bars 307–10 and 315–18. Where the viola part includes a note repetition, as for example in bars 75–78 or bars 79– 82, then the slurs should be only two bars long. In all these groups of bars, the slurring in the first edition is only partly correct. 2) The slur in the bassoon parts beginning at bar 67 should, likewise, be drawn over four bars, i.e. bars 67–70, 71–74, 75 –78, 79– 82, and similarly in the parallel passage, bars 311ff. In this respect, the original edition is in almost complete agreement with the autograph score. 3) The crescendo marked in the clarinets, bassoons and horns at bar 83 should be struck out, as it does not begin until the following bar in both the autograph score and the first edition. 4) The slur in the first and second violins beginning in bar 88 should be ex-




A

recognition of the four-bar construction of the principal motive amounts to a rejection of the customary performance of the opening bars. What is, in fact, important here is to bring out the synthesis that reigns supreme in the four-bar organization, instead of thinking about the knocking of Fate, or about the yellowhammer. It is self-evident that the first fermata should be shorter than the second; and even allowing for freedom of interpretation, it should nevertheless be played so concisely that, in spite of the second fermata, the very addition of a fourth bar should be clearly felt. For if the first fermata is held longer than necessary, how will it be possible for the listener to perceive the longer duration of the second and to make any sense of the totality of the four bars? The flow and coherence of the principal motive will, accordingly, be best communicated if one begins immediately in the principal tempo of Allegro con brio, with the first fermata extending the prescribed length of the half note by just a small amount and, moreover, giving every indication of being ready for the notes that follow. Of course, it would not be out of place to hesitate at the eighth notes in bar 3, if only to prepare and to increase the force of the last note of the principal motive. Maintaining the principal tempo sets up the performance of the movement in the best possible way, viewed in terms of the large-scale connections explained earlier: even with the first two crucial notes of the principal motive, one also enters into the midst of the motive of the fourth, sensitive to the greater relationships that lie ahead and prepared to control them all. Do not overlook that the crescendo in bars 34ff begins piano and, in spite of several sforzandi, leads to forte in bar 44; the fortissimo does not follow for another eight bars. In bars 44 – 45, and again in bars 48– 49, the repeated notes in the motive should be brought out above the bass. In the arpeggiations in bars 44ff, the leading eighth notes should be singled out from the remaining ones, thus with a crescendo from c1 to b in bars 47– 48 and likewise with a crescendo from the

5The textual problems concerning the Fifth Symphony are among the most difficult in any of Beethoven’s mature works. Although many have not been resolved, Schenker’s discussion of the sources for the symphony has been superseded by modern scholarship, of which two items are especially noteworthy: Sieghard Brandenburg’s “Once Again: On the Question of the Repeat of the Scherzo and Trio in Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony,” in Beethoven Essays: Studies in Honor of Elliot Forbes, ed. Lewis Lockwood and Phyllis Benjamin (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Department of Music, 1980), pp. 146 – 98; and Clive Brown’s bilingual companion volume to his edition of the symphony, Die Neubewertung der Quellen von Beethovens Fünfter Symphonie / A New Appraisal of the Sources of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony (Wiesbaden: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1996). In particular, Schenker did not consider two important sources: a fair copy of the score with corrections in Beethoven’s hand (in the archives of Breitkopf & Härtel in Leipzig; missing since 1945), and a set of handwritten parts used at the premiere on December 22, 1808, and at other early performances of the symphony. 6[S]It would be desirable for the scores and parts to be put right, according to these new findings, not only here but also in the following movements, where the mistakes—some quite serious— are far more numerous. [In addition to the first German edition of the score, noted at the very beginning of the essay on the Fifth Symphony, Schenker mentions an edition by Peters, which is probably the conducting score bearing the edition number 8810. Other accessible editions include the Breitkopf & Härtel Gesamtausgabe from the 1860s, and an Eulenburg miniature score (edition no. 3602). There are no personal copies of the Beethoven symphonies in the Oster Collection.]

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Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony (Continuation)

last three eighths of bar 51 to bar 52; {14} the bass should also participate in this crescendo. In order to convey the sense of bars 63ff, one should, above all, observe the articulation as follows:

冢

冢



冢

冢

冢

冢

bar: 4 | 1 2 3 4 | 1 in bars 63 –74;

metrically weak compared to bar 209: what an ingenious, profound move! In bar 240, one should not forget to begin the bar fortissimo, in spite of the forte in the first and second violins and the violas. In the recapitulation, the oboe should be noticeable as early as bar 262. In a certain sense, the dynamic markings in bar 268  strings: ff  oboe: f 

bar: 4 | 1 2 3 4 | 1 in bars 75 – 82.





In bar 86 one should quietly adhere to the basic pulse, but giving more emphasis and recognizing that the middle of the group, bar 88, is a nodal point. The difficulty of performing a legato slur stretched over six bars of precipitous crescendo leads to the question of whether the slur should be divided, against Beethoven’s express instructions. Now, without in any way denying the difficulty, I would still support the execution with an undivided slur, and suggest merely that the crescendo, where it is difficult to achieve, could be facilitated by the desk-by-desk entry of the first and second violins; moreover, Beethoven even suggested as much himself, in his treatment of the cellos and flutes. In bars 158ff, one should avoid an untimely or superfluous expression of force, which might otherwise damage the beautiful expanse of line and dynamics:

{15} represents an original variant of the customary fp, except with a greater dynamic contrast. In bars 303ff, the horns are normally used instead of the bassoons, which is most inappropriate: for Beethoven knew how to write for the bassoon, as is witnessed in his earlier works, and it can be accepted that he knew well what the bassoon would sound like in the high register, as is prescribed here. Finally, it would have been possible for him to have used horns: corni in C, if necessary, as there would have been sufficient time for them to enter.7 One should therefore respect the deliberate change of scoring (as explained earlier), and not show off to Beethoven’s disadvantage by using the prettier sound of the horn, as in the exposition, instead of that of the bassoon. In any event, the three eighth notes g1 should not be blasted out in a deafening fortissimo; if one instead stresses the half notes, especially the c1 in bar 304 and the g in bar 306, the unpleasantness of the sound would undoubtedly be diminished.

bar: 158 — 166 — 168 — 172 — 176 — 178 — 179 — 180 b
— c — d — e
— e  — d — c  — d — (d—g) p —————– cresc. f ——— più f ———————– ff In bars 196ff, the master’s dynamic markings are welded to the unfolding content in such a meaningful and clarifying way: bar: winds:

196 f2 ff

strings: ff

—

209 b
2

211 — c
3 — dim. b
1 c
2 dim.

215 d
3 p

— c 1 p


Literature. It would have been possible to omit the following section if the critical literature on music stood at least on the same plane as that on the other arts, and if writers on music were capable of transmitting the content of a composition in purely musical terms, as for example the plot of a drama is summarized. Unfortunately this is not the case, and therefore it is important not to cease pointing out their shortcomings and generally abysmal quality. One has an opportunity now to decide whether contemporary and posthumous judgments

221 d3 pp d1 pp

that it is astonishing that they could possibly have been refuted (see the discussion of the literature), and yet. . . . It only remains for the conductor to deepen what Beethoven wrote by a complete consciousness of my explanations, in order to create the appropriate effect from the congruence of dynamic and content. If Beethoven begins the diminuendo in the strings with b
1 in bar 210, but delays it by a bar in the winds, until c
2, that is because he wants to ensure that this bar is

7That is, sufficient time for the horn players to change crooks from E
to C. Schenker may be thinking of a possible crook change during the fifteen-bar rest after the start of the recapitulation, which would have been extended by the oboe cadenza in bar 268. In the Piano Concerto No. 3 in C minor, Beethoven gave the horns fifty-seven bars alla breve in the opening Allegro con brio to retune from E
to C, and nineteen bars in the final Allegro in 2/4.

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tonw i l l e 5 during the period 1810–19118 have reflected any of the light from Beethoven’s world, to say nothing of the wisdom of those who claim to have “already known” everything when it was put before them in print. The first to arrive on the scene—as early as 1810—was E. T. A. Hoffmann, whose detailed review appeared in the Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung.9 What is striking about this historically momentous essay is that the author, although a poet, made a great effort to provide a musically objective account, which is only occasionally subjected to romantic illumination. (How strange it seems, on the contrary, when non-poets have the audacity to drivel on, at the expense of the music!) Beethoven acknowledged the poet’s attestation of his understanding— albeit ten years later—with the following note of thanks: “I am taking the opportunity afforded me by Herr Neberich of making myself known to such a gifted person as you. You have also written about my modest achievements. . . .So I must believe that you take some interest in me. Allow me to tell you that this interest on the part of a man like you, who is endowed with such excellent qualities, is very gratifying to me.”10 The custom to this day in Vienna, of printing Hoffmann’s review in its entirety in concert programs, should be stopped, since the compilers of these apparently also regard Beethoven’s note as an expression of agreement; accordingly they accept Hoffmann’s analysis as an accurate account; in this respect they are sadly mistaken. I begin with what Hoffmann says at the end of his analysis and what, at the same time, will expose in his own words the errors he makes, in the most striking way.

or three bars, and moreover they are distributed among the string and wind instruments in constant alternation. One would imagine that something only fragmentary, difficult to grasp, could arise from such elements; on the contrary, it is precisely the ordering of the whole and the constant succession of repetitions of short phrases and single chords that hold the heart fast in an unnameable longing.—Quite apart from the fact that the contrapuntal treatment gives evidence of a profound study of the art, one can see from the transitional passages {16} and the constant references to the principal theme that the master did not merely grasp the whole with its salient features as an entity, but also carefully thought it through. Hoffmann’s understanding of the main theme as comprising just the first bar of the score (together with its upbeat), and the entire movement merely as an assemblage of short phrases of two or three bars, leads to an analysis that contents itself merely with checking for repetition and imitation. Here are a few examples, in abbreviated form:11 Bars 3 and 5: “a repetition of that theme.” Bars 6 –10: “imitations in the violas and the first violins”; “. . . finally, two bars added to the principal theme, which is repeated three times (the last time with the full orchestra entering) and closes with a fermata over the dominant.” Bars 25ff: “violins and violas play the principal theme . . . in imitation, while the basses now and then play a figure that imitates it.” Bars 44ff: “. . . leads to a tutti whose theme has the same rhythmic form as the principal theme and is intimately related to it.” Bars 59ff (second subject): “. . . the relative major key, E
. . . in which the horn again imitates the principal theme. The first violin introduces a second theme, which is, to be sure, melodious but which still retains the character of anxious, restless longing that permeates the entire movement.” Bars 83ff: “As the new theme continues to unfold, the first violins and cellos repeat a two-bar figure five times in the key of E
minor [!], while the basses ascend chromatically.” Bars 179ff: “There now enters a theme that had merely been suggested by the horns in bar 59 of the exposition.”12 Bar 196: “The wind instruments begin this theme fortissimo in F minor, but after the third bar the strings take over for the

There is no simpler idea than that on which the master based the great Allegro (bar 1 with upbeat is quoted here), and with great admiration one becomes aware how he was able to relate all secondary themes, all transitional passages by their rhythmic relationship to that simple theme, so as gradually to unfold the character of the whole—a character that that theme could only hint at. All the phrases are short, consisting of only two last work reviewed by Schenker, Paul Bekker’s Beethoven, was first published in 1912. review appeared in vol. 12 of this journal (which Schenker erroneously gives as the Allgemeine Musikzeitung) on columns 630– 42 (July 4) and 652– 59 (July 11). An English translation, by F. John Adams Jr., appears in the Norton Critical Score of the Fifth Symphony, edited by Elliot Forbes (New York: Norton, 1971); extracts presented here are partly based on this translation. 10Beethoven: Briefwechsel: Gesamtausgabe, letter 1373; The Letters of Beethoven, letter 1014. Beethoven wrote this note on March 23, 1820; the transmitter of the letter, Adam Neberich (whose surname could not be read by Kalischer), was a wine merchant based in Mainz. 8The

9Hoffmann’s

11In the extracts from Hoffmann’s review that follow, Schenker supplies the bass notes for the first-inversion chords along with a few bar numbers for orientation; the latter have been placed in brackets. 12Im 58. Takt. Hoffmann either miscounted the bars or, like Schenker, was sensitive to the status of the first bar of the movement as an upbeat.

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Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony (Continuation)

last two bars. Then the strings and winds alternate, in imitation, a further five times, before alternately playing single chords that create the effect of a diminuendo. After the first-inversion triad on f (bar 214), the reviewer would have expected a G
minor chord to appear in the harmonic progression; in the context of the passage, which modulates to G major, this chord could be understood as the enharmonic equivalent to F  minor. But the wind instruments that play the chord following that first-inversion triad are written as follows:

produce objects nor serve some other purpose, but creates the associations that, when viewed in terms of the abundant resources of humanity, are just as necessary for itself, by repetitions (see Harmonielehre, §4). And precisely in this regard, music is far removed from that concept of “romanticism,” which is depreciated even with respect to the applied arts. It is, if one may say so, even more romantic than “the most romantic of all the arts.” It is only by the failure to comprehend the special quality of the musical world that one can actually understand why, until now, every philosophical {17} or aesthetic system runs aground when applied to music, however appropriate it might otherwise seem for the spoken and representational arts. Schindler, in the third edition (1860) of his Beethoven biography, recently revised by Alfred Kalischer, writes:14

Immediately afterward, the strings play the F  minor chord (bar 216), which is repeated four times, the winds alternating with the strings one bar at a time. The wind chords continue to be written as in Fig. 1, a notation for which the reviewer can find no reason. There now follows in the same way the sixth-chord on f  (bar 221), becoming weaker and weaker, with a foreboding and frightening effect!— The full orchestra then breaks in with a unison G major theme, which is almost exactly the same as the one that had been heard forty-one bars earlier” (bar 179). Bars 398ff: “. . . and now the violas, cellos and bassoons take up a theme which had appeared earlier in G major, in the development section, while the violins . . . play a new counter-melody.” And so forth. One can see that Hoffmann’s ear is not ready for higher musical connections, which makes his presentation merely a hollow duplication in words of the musical events, and not a true clarification of their meaning.13 Thus his introduction is all the more revealing, where we read for instance:

Among the hundreds of masterful compositions, no work bears out more fully than Beethoven’s C minor symphony the maxim that every true work of art is a realization of the divine, its purpose being to confer the loftiest blessing on humanity by the enlightenment of the earthly and the spiritualization of the sensual, as well as by the sensualization of the spiritual. What a marvelous conjoining of pathos, majesty, mystery and grandeur is contained in these four movements! What a life of poetry unfolds before our senses in this work, allowing us to see into its depths! The composer himself provided the key to those depths when, one day, in the presence of the author, he pointed to the beginning of the first movement and expressed the underlying idea of the work with these words: “Thus Fate knocks at the door!” On the last sentence, Kalischer remarks: “From this we learn, at least, to whom and about which work Beethoven spoke about a ‘Fate’ Symphony.” Pious nonsense! Even if what Schindler says is true, he shows here and elsewhere that he has understood Beethoven’s words no better than his music. How little, though, did words matter to Beethoven, for whom the creation meant everything; for the others, unfortunately, the word means everything and the creation counts for so little.

If one speaks of music as an independent art, one should always have instrumental music in mind. For it is only this type which, disdaining all help from or fusion with any of the other arts, expresses by itself music’s special qualities in purely musical terms. It is the most romantic of all the arts—the only romantic art, one might go so far as to say. As apposite as the presentiment is, it is nevertheless still very far from the revelation that, unlike all the other arts, which either effect associations with people or things or serve a useful purpose and so may be reckoned only as applied arts, music has a completely new content, peculiar to itself. It can, in fact, neither re13Schenker

14Anton Felix Schindler, Biographie von Ludwig van Beethoven, 3rd edition (Münster: Aschendorff, 1860). Kalischer’s edition, entitled Anton Schindler’s Beethoven-Biographie (1909), is a reprint of the 1860 edition with extensive endnotes. I have based my text on the English translation by Constance Jolly, edited by Donald W. MacArdle, which was published as Beethoven As I Knew Him (London: Faber and Faber, 1966).

makes a verbal play in this sentence, between Darstellung and Klarstellung.

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tonw i l l e 5 Lenz, in his “critical catalogue of Beethoven’s collected works” (1860), writes:15

Only the most extreme confusion in the habits of judgment could lead one to mention in the same breath the names of those men, who are so great in their own ways, along with that of Beethoven, whose orchestral organisms present themselves to the wonderment of the world in this symphony and the ones that follow. Every bar of the first movement is a stone in the Cyclopean wall.19 Here rages the struggle between two irreconcilables: to possess, and not to possess!

A tragedy of fate for the stages of the world. Battle. Victory. The first movement is an orchestral Heroid in itself.16 The poet discovers the heroic allegro in two-four meter: the Beethoven monogram. Anyone who is able to summarize so succinctly and, in doing so, say so much cannot be surpassed. That is the meaning of the Beethoven monogram. The ancient writing stands apart among the signs of the musical alphabet. This motto would be the appropriate inscription for a monument in Thebes: Osimandeum.17 No individual contest against human destiny is the substance of such a poem, [but rather] the struggle of masses against masses. Spirit or material are the prizes of the struggle. An inversion of rhythmic extremes, in which the greater weight is given to the fleet-footed two-four meter: more than the meter of heaviest caliber in the ancient musical world.18 A finale that, with its inseparably conceived connection to a fast-moving middle movement (a minuet, or scherzo) that strengthens itself in a higher organism, makes the whole divide into two ideal parts; these are reunited by the return of the original idea, which becomes manifest in the second part—a fundamentally new creation, born of the highest artistic understanding and the most inspired poetic impulse, had to nullify for the world Haydn’s and Mozart’s conception of the symphony, whose formalism had thus become incapable of life.

As wrong as it would be to speak about a formalism of the human body, whose existence is entirely owing to a creative act that is forever primeval, irreproducible, so it is just as wrong to speak about the formalism of a Haydn or Mozart symphony. Wherever genius stretches out its finger, to speak in terms of Michelangelo’s “Creation of Adam,” new life arises, truly and eternally new, as all that comes from Nature. Moreover, if one is to continue the story along these lines, from whom, then, should Haydn have taken over his conception of the symphony? And from whom should Mozart have taken over his? Who taught the two of them what would have been left to them merely to imitate? But someone like Lenz, who was born to utter dead figures of speech, bears the curse of misconstruing such sublime tonal worlds as figures of speech, worlds that are at peace in their very own artistic life, as if floating in the ether. For what Lenz insists upon here so gratuitously about Beethoven, at the expense of Haydn’s and Mozart’s symphonies, is again a mere figure of speech. Beethoven thinks in musical terms, a Lenz only in figures of speech: could the two ever be conjoined? But we must think in musical terms, and not in figures of speech, if we wish to follow a musical creator like Beethoven. {18} On p. 73 of his Anleitung zum Vortrag Beethovenscher Klavierwerke (Berlin: Otto Janke, 1863), Marx writes:

15 The Kritischer Katalog sämtlicher Werke Ludwig van Beethovens samt Analysen derselben appeared as the last two volumes of Lenz’s five-volume Beethoven: Eine Kunststudie (Hamburg: Hoffmann und Campe, 1855 – 60). 16Lenz is referring to Ovid’s Heroides, a series of love letters written by mythological figures. 17The statue of an ancient king of Thebes. Shelley’s sonnet “Ozymandias” includes these lines: And on the pedestal these words appear: ‘My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!’ 18Schwerer als die schwersten Taktkaliber der alten Musikwelt. Continuing the military analogy from the previous paragraphs, Lenz is comparing the various musical meters with the bores of firearms. In the Fifth Symphony Beethoven inverts the normal order of metric “calibers”—the first movement is an allegro con brio in 2/4, the finale an allegro in common time, but does not change the normal relationship between them, of “heavy” to “light.” The “heaviest caliber of the ancient musical world” refers to meters that are reckoned in terms of long note values, as used for instance in Renaissance choral polyphony and certain Baroque pieces composed in an “ancient” style.

Strangely, such a rhetorical pause has actually been preserved in musical notation, and in fact in the C minor symphony. The first movement begins as follows (here Marx quotes bars 1– 4, with the upbeat), with a twobar motive g g g | e
, whose last note is lengthened by a fermata. This motive is repeated, f f f | d, except that here the last note is twice as long: Beethoven has extended the motive to three bars, and places the fermata on the third bar, though it had previously stood above the second. In so 19The

188

walls fortifying Mycaenae, or Tirnys, built by the race of one-eyed giants.

Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony (Continuation)

crously insignificant idea (the first bar, with upbeat, is quoted here), which actually says nothing whatever about art but nevertheless has the power, at every concert, suddenly to rouse an ever and utterly bored audience from lethargy to ecstasy.

lingering, stepping outside the metric bounds, Beethoven has indeed indicated a rhetorical pause. It is only at this point that the allegro actually begins, as the master himself regarded the first five bars merely as an introduction. In this way, however, he abandons metrical symmetry in favour of freedom of movement.

Let us desist from invoking the audience’s ecstasy as a form of evidence. (It is strange enough that this form of evidence comes straight from Wagner’s mouth; and yet it is perhaps not so remarkable after all, considering that he hails from the world of opera.) But one must surely begin to wonder when Wagner takes merely bar 1 and its upbeat as his example of a “truly genuine melody”: do they signify to him merely a part standing for the whole [pars pro toto], or was he thinking of them as a whole, even without “all the limbs of a living body”? Should we follow Wagner, it may be asked in passing, in believing that these two bars still retain their meaning for the symphony merely because he, too, believed in the story of Fate knocking (see Tonwille 1, p. 31/i, pp. 27–29), despite the fact that they “say nothing whatever about art”? Should the meaning come merely from Wagner’s personal belief, or from the two bars themselves? And if from the latter, in what should it then consist? But the most disastrous mistake lies in the contrasting of this “almost ludicrously insignificant” succession of tones with the “most artful contrivances” (of the classicizing composers). It affirms only that Wagner was truly so rash as to regard Beethoven as a generally simple artist—simpler than his successors—on account of such opening bars as are found in the Fifth Symphony, and to overlook the fact that the simplicity of genius is, in the highest sense, far more artistically artistic than all the artistry of non-genius, and that its highest art can unfold only in the course of development, in the process of synthesis—whither, unfortunately, no ear can follow. (It is, however, the same with Wagner’s followers: how incomparably high he stands above all his imitators, higher in his apparent simplicity than they in all their “most artful assemblages.”) I underscore Wagner’s mistake here in particular on account of its tragic consequences. Thus, for example, Berlioz, because he believed that the entire wonder of Beethoven’s effect (rather like Wagner) was contained in the simple triadic unfolding of his principle themes, felt himself induced to follow Beethoven in this respect; which bestowed upon him no more than the most feeble, misconceived, unspeakably awkward and {19} childish melodies.21 Wagner and Berlioz should never have been

By “rhetorical pause” Marx is simply describing, in somewhat cumbersome terms, the traditional interpretation of the passage, according to which the lengthening of the note d by a bar merely indicates that it is dwelt on for a while longer. If the first half note also has a fermata, then one must recognize that the dwelling upon d cannot be measured so precisely, and therefore that the master’s intentions cannot, at least, be sought by recourse to this notation. If one accepts this, then one should not insist upon the traditional interpretation, let alone that this interpretation embraces the grounds for the necessity of a rounding-off as a four-bar phrase. If this interpretation adhered fundamentally to the regularity of a four-bar organization and actually embraced internal fermatas (as, for example, at bar 6 in the first movement of Beethoven’s Op. 31, No. 3, or at bar 20 in the first movement of Op. 111), then it would still beyond the power of a five-bar notation of this sort, with two fermatas related differently [to the phrase as a whole], as we find at the beginning of the symphony, to allow us to recognize such a notation as one that aims at regularity. There is, therefore, nothing to Marx’s phrase “rhetorical pause.” How modest, after all, is the so-called traditional interpretation: not only in the beginning was the Word, but also at the end! Wagner writes, in Über das Dichten und Komponieren (1879):20 To be sure, each one of them wanted to bring into the world a truly genuine melody, one of those Beethovenian forms that seem to confront us with all the limbs of a living body. But of what use was all their skill in serious composition [ars musicae severioris], or even in joyful composition [musicae jocosae], if the very form of this melody was certainly not to be revealed to them, let alone composed? Now, everything that we find written by them looks so very like a Beethovenian musical form that it often appears to be copied from his work. And yet their most artful assemblages fail to achieve an effect that even approaches that of this almost ludi20This essay was originally published in the Bayreuther Blätter in July 1879. An English translation, “On Poetry and Composition,” appears in Richard Wagner’s Prose Works, trans. William Ashton Ellis, vol. 6 (London: Routledge, 1897).

21[S]As I shall confirm in greater detail in my essay “Niedergang der Kompositionskunst” [Decline of the Art of Composition], Mendelssohn’s judgment of Berlioz remains valid: “To begin with

189

tonw i l l e 5 motive (bars 179 – 82 are quoted here). . . . In place of the characteristic, sensuous motive of the second theme (bars 63 – 66 are quoted here), the powerful cry is met with a spinning out of the anapaest motive ( ) formed by trimming an eighth note off the upbeat of the principal motive, which had been prominent in the previous phrases:22

allowed to overlook, for example, that in the opening theme of Beethoven’s Third Symphony the arpeggiation of the tonic chord has run its course as early as the fifth bar (not counting the introductory chords): so where has the simple triad got to? Could this turn of events have occurred to anyone, or only to a genius? And would anyone have hit upon a way of developing this theme—despite the novelty of that turn, whose resolution is still awaited—so successfully to its logical conclusion in the space of twelve bars, as Beethoven was able to do? And so it is with the Fifth Symphony: indeed, Beethoven’s mastery here lies not in the first two bars alone but in the continuation, in this manner of continuation. Riemann explains the development section of the Fifth Symphony in his Katechismus der Kompositionslehre (Leipzig, 1889), pp. 134ff. After providing a simple account of bars 135–79, he writes on p. 137:

Obviously this passage has, moreover, been read incorrectly, and not merely because it is in disagreement with the Urlinie but also because it contradicts Beethoven’s score, according to which a2 in bar 181 actually rises to b  2 (see the first violins in bar 187), and likewise d2 in bar 189 to e  2 (first violins in bar 195). Riemann continues:

Until this point we have neither a mixing up of fragments of the two theme nor a colorful array of modulations. On the contrary, what makes this passage sound like a development is the predominance of the subdominant and minor dominant keys, instead of the home key, so that the principal theme is disguised, so to speak, and appears to drift.

Again we have a complete musical sentence, but one that consists of two half-sentences, each set in a different key, which does not amount to a completely rounded statement (i.e., a period) but rather a single-track progression from the fifth-related G major to the parallel key of C major.23 The continuation also proceeds in the same direction, toward the subdominant, and indeed is increasingly restricted to the head motive of the second theme, which finally leads to a play of orchestral colors from one note to the next (in Fig. 3, the notes played by the wind instruments are beamed upward, those played by the strings are beamed downward):

No serious attempt at all, then, is made to determine the sections of the development. Riemann had indeed said only the following about bars 130ff: “Now a rather large section based on the first theme—six bars of it—is developed in F minor, instead of C minor.” When two more sections follow, each based on the same content, he merely speaks of a “remainder”: The character of the development section is more focussed in the remainder, which must be understood as a further attempt to introduce the second theme. But this gets no further than its beginning, i.e. the head he actually made me feel quite melancholy, because he judges everyone else so cleverly and coldly and befittingly; because he is so entirely rational and is utterly oblivious to the utter stupidity that surrounds him on all sides.” Elsewhere: “Being mad and outrageous and rude and clumsy can at times be cheerfully amusing; but this is so dull and lifeless!” Elsewhere: “His orchestration is so unspeakably slovenly, such a confused scribbling, that one must wash one’s hands after each time one holds one of his scores.” Elsewhere: “. . . a true caricature without a spark of talent.” And if Wagner rebukes Mendelssohn in the above-cited writing because, when asked about Berlioz’s music, he is supposed to have answered: “Everyone tries to compose as well as he can,” that is at least a less objectionable answer than the highly convoluted remarks by which Wagner sought to shake Berlioz off his coat-tails. “Niedergang der Kompositionskunst”, a long unpublished essay, is preserved in file 31 of the Oster Collection.

exclamation marks in Fig. 2 are, characteristically, Schenker’s additions. der Seitenwechseltonart G-dur zur Quintwechseltonart C-dur. Riemann uses the term Wechseltonart to mean a key that involves a change of mode. Since he reckons major chords from the root 22The 23Von

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 group, a beat too early (it has been shortened from       ). The following keys have been traversed: F minor—C minor (lightly touched on, without cadencing on the tonic)—G minor (the key most broadly developed)—F minor—B
minor—G
minor (enharmonically equivalent to F  minor)—G major. The keys are thus all rather closely related; the most distant appear just before the recapitulation.

{20} That is, the first sentence misses out its fifth bar; the second reveals two groupings in the form of a triplet of bars, the second of which suffers a remarkable abbreviation (omission of a beat), as indicated at the NB, so that it tears in with its violent upbeat of three eighth-notes (instead of       ). Here, too, the entire harmonic and rhythmic process has been incorrectly heard and explained. Riemann’s embarrassment expresses itself, moreover, in his complete failure to show how Beethoven finds his way from an apparent B
minor back to C minor, and in this passage there is really nothing left for him to do than speak of a “a play between contrasting orchestral colors from one note to the next.” In this respect, he misleads himself and his readers, by excluding from his discussion the content of the passage, which does not accord with his understanding of it. He concludes his explanation of the development section as follows:

I shall pass over his fanciful ideas on meter, which in the absence of a true understanding of the content must remain worthless. (The passages that I have omitted from his discussion are concerned exclusively with questions of meter.) But I cannot fail to point out where matters will lead if passing chords are taken for important harmonies, or even for keys. Instead of saying “all rather closely related (keys); the most distant appear just before the recapitulation,” it would have supported Riemann’s cause if he had explained more carefully how these supposed keys are driven forward. He preferred instead to throw in a few words that, as is only too plain, renounce any responsibility for correctness. It is also Riemann who contributed the music analyses to Thayer’s Beethoven biography. The analysis of the Fifth Symphony, in volume III, pp. 90ff of the second edition,25 begins with surprisingly boldness: {21}

The continuation is even more irregular; the rhythm seems to break down completely, in order to make the reprise of the first theme all the more animated when it is enters immediately afterward:

The significance that the motive with fermatas, placed at the beginning of the first movement, is supposed to have for the content of the entire work has been exaggerated out of all proportion. According to an anecdote related by Schindler, Beethoven is supposed to have said: “Thus Fate knocks at the door!” And, trusting Schindler’s authority, Lenz began his fanciful account of the symphony with the heading: “A tragedy of fate for the stages of the world. Battle and Victory.” . . . People have gone so far as to take the four notes as the theme of the first movement, and even for the symphony as a whole, and to marvel in amazement at all that Beethoven developed from them. That is surely a mistake.

冢

That is, between the second and third bars24 we have a triplet of beats (    ), between the second and fourth bars a triplet of bars (triplet of motives). The consequent phrase proceeds in a regular fashion to its conclusion, always underpinned by the dominant minor ninth of C. But the main theme returns, in a manner recalling the beginning of this eight-bar

25Alexander Wheelock Thayer’s pioneering Beethoven biography had a complex publication history. The original three-volume Ludwig van Beethovens Leben stops at the year 1816; Thayer’s associate, Hermann Deiters, completed a further volume, taking Beethoven’s life to 1823. Riemann not only completed the life in a fifth volume but also revised the earlier volumes, incorporating interpretative remarks on the music. The “second” (i.e., revised) edition of volume 3 was published in 1911 and reissued in 1922 as part of the complete biography. The standard English version, Thayer’s Life of Beethoven, edited and revised by Elliot Forbes (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1964), contains none of Riemann’s musical interpolations.

up, minor chords from the fifth down, the Seitenwechseltonart of C minor (g–e
–c ⫽ 0g in Riemann’s system of harmonic analysis) is reckoned by taking the note from which the chord is reckoned (g) and building a major triad upon it (g–b  –d ⫽ g⫹), which is G major. The Quintwechseltonart is derived by starting with the same reckoning note (g), finding the fifth by reckoning downward from this note (i.e., c), and then building a major chord upon this note (c–e–g ⫽ c⫹), which is C major. 24Riemann is counting the bars in accordance with Fig. 4.

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tonw i l l e 5 progression and fifth-progression motives as viewed from the standpoint of the Urlinie, and the drive of the diminution-motives in the narrower sense (for instance the two half notes, expressed by eight notes, or the tiniest motivic cell of a leaping third expressed by just four notes), which is all that is important if the content is to be clarified in a productive way. Riemann’s inadequacy may be explained by referring to his false reading of the “melodic line of the opening bars,” thus:

But what Riemann proposes in opposition to the general view is entirely wrong: The earliest sketches reveal nothing yet of this headline-like dispatch, which is thoroughly reminiscent of the mottoes in the arias of the later Venetian and Neapolitan opera composers around 1700. Perhaps these bars were tacked onto the beginning at the very last moment, as Beethoven notoriously did in the Adagio of Op. 106 (see Wegeler and Ries, Notizen, p. 149).26 The sketches, however, show precisely the opposite: see Fig. 4 in the first part of this essay (Tonwille 1). For just as bars 1– 4 of that Allegro—that these represented a complete motivic entity from the start was, likewise, explained earlier— must have already existed, if in consequence the motivic repetitions were brought into play, then likewise bars 1– 4 (with upbeat) of the final version, which are identical to the sketch (apart from the fermatas and the underlying harmonic progression), must have unquestionably been in place if a variation of them should have been introduced from bar 5 onward, for example, the broad expansion of the two half notes, e
and d in bars 6 and 11, and the ascending register transfer in bars 15ff. Thus, it is merely the fermatas, which were added later as interior fermatas, and not the content that is new. For this reason, one can speak neither of a “headline-like dispatch” nor of something “perhaps . . . tacked onto the beginning at the very last moment,” as Riemann would have it. He continues:

instead of:

by which the expansion of the half-note motion that leads the melody (see the lower bracket) and the ascending register transfer (see the arrow) are illustrated. He thus ignores the meaning of the broken chord and the way in which it is brought about here by the exchange of instruments (second violins, violas, first violins). He is so far off the mark that he loses all sense of proportion and offers the following historical pontification: This is basically nothing other than an appropriation of the familiar technique used by the old keyboard and organ masters of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries to give life to harmonic massiveness. We still encounter it frequently in Bach’s music, e.g. in the F major prelude from Book II of the Well-Tempered Clavier:

The opening motive is not a theme, as is the case with the introductory motives of the finales of the piano sonatas Op. 10, No. 3, and Op. 31, No. 3, whose melodic steps continuously play a role in the musical development; here, however, only the rhythmic aspect of the upbeat, which takes the form of three eighth notes, which governs the entire movement, remains constant. The world of rhythm is, however, an altogether different world of its own. For all that Riemann now hears the constant rhythm (and yet how easy that is for him), he completely overlooks the wonderfully varied energy of the fourth-

{22}However, in this passage the melody should be read as follows: is referring to the first bar of the slow movement of the “Hammerklavier” Sonata, which must have been added at a very late compositional stage. It was sent to Ferdinand Ries in London in a letter of 16 June 1819 (Beethoven: Briefwechsel: Gesamtausgabe, letter 1309), three months after he had compiled the main batch of proof corrections to Clementi’s English edition of the sonata, and only several weeks prior to its publication. 26Riemann

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But Riemann exceeds all the boundaries of permissibility when, in consolidating his position, he adds:

fashion, that sonata form is strictly obeyed, that the order of modulations sticks to well-trodden paths. All that has been erroneously said about the work can be blamed on the identification of the four notes of the introductory motive as the theme. Anyone who fails to rid himself of this notion, and is unable to recognize the great line of thematic development, will of course get lost in a labyrinth.

We encounter a radical application of this technique, again with a specifically pianistic intention, in Clementi’s Gradus ad Parnassum of 1817, in which Beethoven’s very rhythmic motive is the basis of the B major etude:

Of the “great line of thematic development” speaks a Riemann who has already stumbled over broken chords and is unable to offer a single correct idea about this symphonic movement. {23} On performance, one finds the following footnote: “Of course the second fermata should be held longer than the first, as Beethoven has indicated clearly enough by extending the [second] d to two bars.” Nothing more need be said about this. Elsewhere he writes:

This is, surely, the worst—the most far-fetched—example of a claim for thematic resemblance! Concerning the second subject, even Riemann denies the substantive identity of bars 59– 63 and bars 1– 4: Immediately before it begins, the metric grouping of the first theme reappears, its harmonic progression outlining a half cadence:

We should very probably believe Schindler, despite Nottebohm’s view to the contrary, that Beethoven wanted the two introductory motives played slowly, and in fact on account of the fermatas. It is well-known that fermatas generally presuppose a ritartando that prepares the standstill. If I remember correctly, Bülow always took these bars in such a way that the four notes were clearly audible as two times two:

Grove is extremely misleading when he calls these bars an expanded (?!) form of the main theme. In reality they are nothing more than a repetition, in E
major, of the half cadence proceeding from C minor directly to a B
major chord. This is indeed the case, as one can see quite easily by counting off the bars; the first two bars provide the conclusion (full cadence), although they are [metrically] reinterpreted:

A ritardando comprising just a few notes always takes this form, so that the smallest motives are emphasized. To the remarks expressed above on performance, once again, nothing more need be said. Kretzschmar, in his Führer duch den Concertsaal, vol. 1 (on symphonies and suites), second edition (1890), begins with a brief account of the well-known historical facts. He continues:

But in the following sentences Riemann caps all his previous explanations:

This extraordinary work, Beethovenian through and through, is one which the master also worked on with extreme intensity, and numbers among those works that occupied him for an unusually long period (only the Mass in D and the Ninth Symphony are comparable). It is perhaps the one work whose final form embraces all of its creator’s intentions, without anything left over.

An analysis of the symphony is, unfortunately, not possible here, but also not necessary. Anyone who has spoken about Beethoven having broken the shackles of musical form should retract those remarks outright. From the most varied points of view it has for a long time been shown that, even in the C minor symphony, everything proceeds in a nice, orderly

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tonw i l l e 5 on tasks of increasing technical difficulty, so its imagination also grows, its intellect is sharpened, and its ideas grow in might, strength, and richness. Considered from the technical point of view, the first movement of the C minor symphony is one of the most audacious artistic creations: for its essential material consists of the four notes that make up the lapidary, frightening opening of the work (bar 1 with the upbeat is quoted here). According to Czerny, Beethoven is supposed to have got this idea from a yellowhammer in the forest. To be sure, the movement has a second theme (bars 59– 66 are quoted here). But in the larger psychological process this theme provides only a temporary means of appeasement, and the combinations of the original motive take no notice of it as they stride ahead. Even at its first appearance it was greeted with threats from those four unruly notes, then pursued, and finally pushed into the raging whirlpool. Older composers, too, like Bach have at times developed an entire piece from a single, short motive. But these were preludes and relatively short pieces—here {24} we have an utterly colossal movement, about five hundred bars long! Furthermore, this work of art is at the same time the highest accomplishment in the passionate style that perhaps the world of instrumental music, and most certainly the world of orchestral music, has yet produced—an accomplishment that may never be equalled in future, certainly never overtaken. A detailed description of the course of the movement cannot be undertaken, and is probably not even necessary. After so many touching and shattering attempts, the end returns to the beginning. It is the image of a gripping battle that is fought to the end. Whether our imagination locates its scene in the human soul or in nature, its phases are reproduced with the most fearful clarity. The crucial midpoint consists of the passage in the development section in which the initial motive of the second subject (bars 187– 90 are quoted here) tries to intervene decisively and suffers a despairing, painful hero’s death.

Should it not be assumed that only the purest understanding of the content has inspired Kretzschmar to speak in such away of the complete fulfillment of the master’s intentions? The representation [of ideas] in the C minor symphony is passionate and naturally true, unified by necessity, and therefore so apparently simple and clear that, despite the magnitude of its content, it has become a popular work. From these words, too, it must follow that Krezschmar has seen through the apparent simplicity of the artwork to its most profound basis, where it extracts the fluids of eternal life from the roots of its own necessities. How astonishing, then, are the words that immediately follow: When it comes to determining the content of the C minor symphony, who would dare to say they could translate this into words, without error? Beethoven is supposed to have given the first movement the motto: “Thus Fate knocks at the door.” But we emphasize the word “supposed.” It is characteristic of musical art-works to awaken the listeners’ fantasy, indeed to lead them to conceive specific images. But it is presumptuous to regard and proclaim one of these images as the only correct one. The number of named quantities that correspond to a single algebraic formula is, in general, not small: ratio multiplex veritas una!27 But the general course of the imagination, which we call the basic idea, is so clearly marked in the C minor symphony that it must be named: it is the path “from darkness to light,” per aspera ad astra, the path so often sought out in symphonic art and so much more often missed! Hermeneutic humanity. To start with, a peal of sonorous words, as if the hermeneutist had picked all the fruits from the tree of permitted genuine knowledge; and then immediately thereafter the language—one that, most certainly, was never spoken in the paradise of knowledge—which consists of the withered verbal foliage of those certain phrase-shrubs that grow in hermeneutic allotments. And now turning once more toward apparently genuine knowledge, he instructs the reader:

It is incomprehensible that Kretzschmar could suddenly repeat that a detailed explanation is “probably not even necessary,” since he had earlier declared that the presentation of its content was only “apparently simple and clear.” By this he was surely intending to refer to the depth of the work, which was not generally accessible? So where is this depth? And was it at all necessary, then, to bring into the picture the “four notes” and the “second theme,” which will provide illumination to all, even to those have not feeling for art? The contradiction can only

The first movement is one of the most shining affirmations of a maxim that has been exhaustively tested in all the arts : when a strong spirit takes 27“A

multiple of arguments are contained within one truth.”

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explained by assuming that Kretzschmar has confused “popularity” for understanding. He says further:

The meaning of these repetitions, however, is something on which Grove cannnot enlighten us; he is satisfied merely with hearing repetitions.

For many critics the C minor symphony is the high point not merely of Beethoven’s oeuvre, but of all instrumental music. At any rate it is one of those works of art about whose power all are agreed. Even those for who have no feeling for art cultivate a measure of respect for it. Everyone feels that an unusual spirit speaks from this symphony. Something titanic lies in its anger, in its spite, in its pain and even in the exhilaration that flows from it at the end. One could become afraid of this artwork in many places, were it not for the fact that cheerful spirits, too, emerge from the background of its gloomy fantasies. It would remain for us an otherworldly, merely awesome work if it did not also cast its eye toward both uncountable firmaments and intimate corners of Earth, where we are greeted by envoys of desire and of humor, and by those human sentiments that proclaim that good will, in the end, prevail.

The key of C minor is adhered to with iron firmness, then suddenly both theme and tonality are changed. The tonality leads, after a short modulation, to the most closely related major key, E
major, and the horns impress it upon the ear, fortissimo, with the extended form of the main theme. (Bars 57– 85 are quoted here.) E
major now governs the tonality from this point to the end of the 124-bar exposition; and so the passion, though as ever strongly roused and in spite of being accompanied by the defiant rhythmic beating of the four blows, appears somewhat muted in comparison to the first group, in C minor. Grove’s words, as they are expressed,29 could lead us to believe that he views the motto introducing the second group (bars 60– 63 with upbeat), which from his standpoint is also an “extended main theme,” as part of the modulation, since he expressly assigns the beginning of the second group to the entry of the violins. More serious violations of the text, and a greater number of them, are hardly imaginable. {25}

Grove, in Beethoven und seine neun Symphonien,28 comments on the main theme as follows: “We earlier quoted the subject in its original form”—Grove means the sketches taken from Nottebohm—“and now give it in the form in which it was finally used.” (Bars 1–10 are quoted here.) By “principal theme,” Grove means only bar 1 with upbeat:

Everything changes at a stroke at the first note of the development. The principal theme returns and provokes a breathtaking fight to the finish. There is no place here for the gentle tune of the second theme, but the extended version of the principal motive, which acts as an introduction to it, takes part in the unfolding that is about to take place. The development begins with the following bars. (Bars 125– 45 are quoted here.) As early as the second bar, one is struck by the D
, which resounds in the ear with particular force. A new theme is even introduced: it pushes up amid the downwards threatening motives and, after first being placed in the lower voice, surfaces in the upper voice in a passage of double counterpoint. While everything around it is bent on struggle and annihilation, this

From a short motive comprising four notes arises a symphonic movement approximately five hundred bars long, one of the most passionate movements that we possess! And this music does not even allow us for a moment to imagine what immeasurable technical capability was necessary for its composition. The first fifty-eight bars of the work consist almost entirely of repetitions of the principal theme, whose rhythmic construction and intervallic structure are subject only to slight variation. (Bars 25 – 37 and 44 – 49 are quoted here.)

29Grove’s original text reads as follows (p. 150): “Of modulation there is hardly any, the key does not change till the end of the passage, and then (bar 59) both mood and key suddenly alter, the key after a little hesitation to E flat, the mood to a winning pathos, and after a loud preface by the horns, as if to emphasise the change as much as possible, the second subject enters in the voice of the violins, like the sweet protest of a woman against the fury of her oppressor. . . . The recurrence of the quavers in the accompaniment keeps the rhythm of the first subject present, but the music practically remains in E flat to the very end of the first section, 124 bars, and the fortissimo passages which occur have nothing of the savage character of their predecessors.”

28George Grove, Beethoven and His Nine Symphonies (London: Novello, 1896). Grove’s monograph on the Beethoven symphonies, a popular text at the turn of the century, is the only original English writing that Schenker commented on in any of his critiques of the secondary music literature. The year given by Schenker is that of first and second English editions; his source, however, is the 1906 German edition whose text, prepared by Max Hehemann, is only a free paraphrase of the original. For the extracts that Schenker has chosen to comment on, I have made a fresh translation of Hehemann’s text.

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tonw i l l e 5 theme rings out, although its stepwise motion conveys the sounds of woe and despair. (Bars 149– 53 are quoted here.) In the further course of this remarkably short development section, the lengthened form of the principal theme now assumes a special significance. For its sake, the struggle burns at its brightest; the opposing forces clash violently. (Bars 180 – 92 are quoted here.) We have reached the climax of this gigantic struggle, and now the most turbulent section in the entire movement begins. With the most frightening force, the main theme strives after victory; now it grows short of breath, exhausted . . . (Bars 195– 212 are quoted here.) The breaths become increasingly quieter; they threaten to be extinguished altogether. And yet—once more all the forces are harnessed, but in vain: the end has come. And the main theme is hammered out fortissimo, above the entire orchestra. A short eight-bar transition, and we arrive at the recapitulation.

free rhythm, which is placed between the two statements of the main theme. (Bar 268 is quoted here.) At the end of the reprise, the key of C Major is introduced, in sharp contrast with what has come before; and immediately afterwards the coda takes up a new theme that drives forward energetically. (Bars 424 – 39 are quoted here.) But this theme, too, is silenced, and the movement ends, exhausted, with the motive with which it had so defiantly begun. Finding only darkness by its antiquated modes of perception and presentation, Grove’s intellect could not possibly have been brighter in the moment in which he wrote the following: Form and content are, moreover, so inseparably merged that perfection has become reality. And elsewhere:

Here, too, Grove designates bars 60–63 as “the extended version of the principal motive, which acts as an introduction (to the second theme).” It is plain that the words accompanying this passage fail to shed light, and the music examples also are unable to clarify the contents. But do any of these words offer help: “a new theme . . . downwards threatening motives . . . struggle and annihilation . . . sounds of woe and despair . . . further development . . . struggle, oppositions . . . climax of this gigantic struggle . . . exhaustion,” and so on? If the composer no longer knew, for instance, what kind of succession of notes enters there, threatens, struggles, pleads, develops, exhausts, there would certainly have been no piece of music. But how amusing it is, in the midst of such meaninglessness, to find Grove’s ear suddenly perking up at the neighbor note in bar 130 (he missed the one back in bar 7!), while all other musical events pass him by, so to speak, unnamed! For the recapitulation, we read the following:

In the C minor symphony, the spirit that had signaled the dawn of Romanticism in the literature of the period now stirs once more. He is nothing more than a windbag, and sounds so simple-minded when, dipping into his supply of verbal tricks, he intones the following Prize Song to Beethoven:31 If all art is a representation—and surely it must be a representation of the idea in the mind of the artist—here we have the most concise representation that has ever been accomplished in music. No, it is no disobedience to law, it is the striking and original nature of the thoughts, the direct manner in which they are expressed, and the extraordinary energy with which they are enforced and reinforced, and driven into the hearer, hot from the mind of the author, with an incandescence which is still as bright and as scorching as the day they were forged on his anvil. {26} [. . .] One often finds that the first movement [of this symphony] is more accessible to listeners than the corresponding movements of the other symphonies. The expression reaches the mind in a more immediate manner, with less of the medium or machinery of music about it than in those great works; and yet this simplicity contains the greatest victory that any symphonist

This section is not content with repeating the material of the exposition, but rather changes the details of its features, both thematically and with regard to scoring. The most significant of the differences between the two sections is a passage of the most intense poetry, which might be compared to the Allegretto of the C sharp minor sonata since it stands as a flower between two areas of wasteland.30 It is the oboe phrase, performed in a

31For the last of Schenker’s extracts from this book, I have reproduced substantial portions of the original English, as Hehemann took fewer liberties with it. The ellipses indicate omissions from Grove’s text.

30The

reference is to the middle movement of the “Moonlight” Sonata, a minuet (or scherzo) and trio set in parallel key of D
major.

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has ever won over the material of his art. We have here no prominent counterpoint or contrivance, not even the fugato which was so dear to Beethoven; [. . .] Here, a wonder of thematic development has been achieved. Müller-Reuter has written a study on the rhythmic meaning of the principal motive of the first movement for the Musikalisches Wochenblatt (1898),32 which begins as follows:

Such an arbitrary and superficial line of argument leads the author to make further mistakes. For example, he views the “lower voice that follows” in bars 125– 28 as analogous to bars 3– 5 (version B) while at the same time (!) the “upper voice that leads” is analogous to bars 1– 2 (version A), from which he deduces that there are actually four different rhythmic patterns:

The second occurrence of the principal motive (bars 3, 4 and 5) is interpreted as a transposed repetition of the first (bars 1–2), without a change of rhythmic meaning. But Beethoven’s notations are significantly different from one another and point to a difference in rhythmic meaning: all the more so in that these differences are preserved throughout the movement. Müller-Reuter compares bars 1– 6, 22 – 24, 125– 28 (beginning of the development), 248– 52 and 477– 81 and calls the “two-bar form” (bars 1– 2) “Version A” and the “three-bar form” (bars 3 – 5) “Version B,” and finally identifies bars 125– 8 as a third form of the motive: . He then continues:

All in all, he concludes: In A and C the bar with eighth notes is weak, the held note is strong; conversely, in B and D the bar of eighth notes is strong and the held note is weak. B is thus not a repeat of A, with the same rhythmic meaning, but rather a continuation of it with the opposite meaning. {27} As they occur in the piece, the five bars in Fig. 15 make up an entity: an entity comprising two halves with rhythmically opposed meaning.

Should the half note that precedes the second fermata indicate a longer duration for the held note? That question can be answered in the negative, since a half note, taken at a tempo of 108 half notes per minute, would amount to far too short a value (a fraction of a second) for it to be perceived as a lengthening . . . so one must accept that there is a rhythmic difference between versions A and B, and try to work out what it is. From the repeat of the exposition, Müller-Reuter concludes that bar 1 is metrically weak and bar 2 is strong. He also knows that “the fermatas are not, a priori, an unambiguous sign of a metrically strong bar.” Nevertheless, he allows himself inexplicably to be led to the conclusion, drawn from an “analogy,” that “the remaining fermatas likewise indicate metrically strong bars,” as he explains:

What a pity that the notion of bars 1– 5 as an “entity” is spoiled by so many mistakes! But it is even more surprising that Müller-Reuter, in the midst of arguments whose utmost concern for objectivity is certainly beyond doubt, sudden claims:

From this it would follow that the first bar of version B has an entirely different meaning than that of version A. One can work out the accentuation by counting backwards from second fermata—taking this, of course, to be metrically strong. The surprising result is that version B has the opposite rhythmic meaning from version A:

Now Beethoven’s motto, “Thus Fate knocks at the door,” takes on an entirely new, much deeper meaning. Unexpectedly, Fate barges in; unexpectedly and contrary to all presupposition, the rhythm adopts version B. The strong beat, normally the site of rest (as in A), now becomes the site of movement; the weak beat, normally the site of movement, now becomes the site of rest. The effect of the rhythmic arrangement in B is frightening and incredible: thus Fate knocks at the door!

32[S]Theodor Müller-Reuter, “Über die rhythmische Bedeutung des Hauptmotivs im ersten Satze der C-moll-Symphonie von Beethoven,” Muskalisches Wochenblatt (1898), nos. 27– 29.

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tonw i l l e 5 Turning to the question of implementation, Müller-Reuter now wants “to demonstrate to the ears of the listener the different effects of Version A and B.” He sides with Bülow in favor of “measuring the length of the held notes in terms of beats,” and argues against Wagner: “The rhythmic grouping and division of A and B will be ruined by an arbitrary lengthening of the held notes.” Following Bülow, he goes so far as to sketch the passage in accordance with his interpretation, recommending that in any event “the movement should be conducted alla breve”:

Above all it was the apparently irregular bar interpolated just before the second fermata that gave rise to controversy. The puzzle can be solved, however, in a very simple way, if every two bars are taken as one. . . .This explanation, which no one has to my knowledge yet expressed in quite the same way, is applicable to all the fermata passages, that is, all the places in this movement where the above-mentioned bar is interpolated before a fermata. {28} For sake of a better overall picture, I bring together in Fig. 18 all the musical illustrations introduced by Weingartner to support his arguments in the course of the discussion:

In the same study, Müller-Reuter also discusses bars 196– 228 in the development section. He argues: The alla breve illustration will also clarify the phrase structure of bars 196– 228 in the development. At one point Beethoven has merged downbeat and upbeat with each other . . . the uneven number of bars (thirty-three) informs us that somewhere things are not right. In the bracketed bars 214 – 16 [see Fig. 17], the two-bar organization is breached. The twenty-first bar of the passage (bar 216) is metrically both weak and strong: weak, as the completion of nineteenth bar; strong (in a relative sense), as the start of the inversion of the motive. With regard to its notation, and the way in which the movement is conducted alla breve, one must either add a bar of 2/4 or join such a bar to a bar of alla breve to form a bar of 3/2:

The shift in rhythmic emphasis cannot begin as early as the second half of the seventh bar of the passage in question, bars 208 – 9;33 the melodic and harmonic progressions tell us as much. The F  minor chord marks the start of motivic inversion and melodic and harmonic stagnation, which Beethoven moreover marks piano. Weingartner, in his Ratschläge für die Aufführungen der Symphonien Beethovens (1890), writes the following on the first movement of the Fifth Symphony:34 If Weingartner fails to see that Fig. 18 1) and 2) already contradict each other, that is only because he is not aware of the equality of the principal motive in the two instances. Of course his interpretation in 1) was expressly restricted to “all the fer-

is reckoning bars 196– 228 alla breve. 34Weingartner’s book was published in English as On the Performance of Beethoven’s Symphonies, trans. Jessie Crosland (London: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1908). 33Müller-Reuter

198

Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony (Continuation)

mata passages” with the interpolated bar. It is not until 3) that the contradiction occurs to him:

also be considered as a single bar. In this respect, too, the entire movement is beautifully proportioned.

If we examine carefully the point at which the exposition is repeated, we shall find that the first two bars of the main theme have a different value when they are repeated and that the original rhythmic conditions are not re-established until the following bars. Thus, if each respective pair of bars is taken together, then starting from the third bar before the repeat sign we arrive at the picture shown in Fig. 18 3). The difference between 1) and 3) is noteworthy, in that here we have a 2/4 bar that causes difficulty with the process of making two bars into one. The theme, in so far as it is written without the bar before the fermata, thus appears to have a twofold rhythmic character. This twofold character will be confirmed later unambiguously, thus for the time being we shall be content with stating the fact.

According to this, the “first appearance” would have to agree with the recapitulation but not with the repeat (?!), and the Coda would or would not have its equivalent, depending upon whether or not the repeat were taken. What a pitiful display of errant thinking, verily the epitome of the Western style [westlich anmutende Ausgeburt], is this famous conductor’s notion of a “double character” for the theme; and what a pathetic line of reasoning over what amounts to nothing more than an upbeat! And yet how easy it was, right from the repeat of the exposition, to deduce the upbeat character of bar 1 and thus to gain the key to fourbar construction of the motive, in which the differences among all its manifestations reside. Concerning bars 382– 400, Weingartner quotes the relevant passage from his book on conducting:35

So Weingartner has explained that the formula given in 1) holds good for “all the fermata passages,” and now it no longer applies to the same bar when it is simply repeated! {29} For now “the rhythmic character” is supposed to have changed, depending upon whether the opening bars are heard for the first time or, upon repetition, for the second. How can this be possible? And what are we to make of it when we merely read the score? In 4), Weingartner actually sees “that the rhythmic regularity is not interrupted,” but is unable to take up this sign of the truth. Even the result at 5) hasn’t yet taught him better, for he merely says:

Toward the end of the first movement, there is at one place a five-bar group:

One could understand the fourth bar of the second group, the rest, as a short fermata, and the first bar of the following five-bar group as an upbeat (which would still result in a four-bar group); or the extra bar could be explained by analogy with the principal theme, which always appears the first time thus:

Note that the principal theme at the start of the recapitulation possesses the same rhythmic value as it had at the beginning of the movement, if two bars are taken together as illustrated above in Fig. 18 5). It does not occur to him, then, that a few bars earlier (bars 228– 31) he had likewise ascribed the same “rhythmic character” to the theme, although there it did not display any fermatas. Fig. 18 6) finally gives him an opportunity to sum things up:

and the second time with an extra bar, thus:

Thus we see that the principal theme now once again has the same rhythmic character as it had at the repeat of the exposition. Thus its first appearance agrees with the recapitulation, whereas the repetition agrees with the coda. The two bars, however, which apparently cannot be taken together as one, do in fact complement each other mutually and thus can

35Über das Dirigieren (Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1895, revised 3rd edition 1905). My translation differs from that of the English edition, On Conducting, translated by Ernest Newman (London: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1906), pp. 36– 37.

199

tonw i l l e 5 For bars 44ff he explains:

Regardless of how one reckons things mathematically, the short, breathless pause followed by the outburst of the diminished seventh chord will, as a result of the lengthening, always convey the effect of fear, foreboding, overpowering, destruction. It is as if a giant’s fist were seen rising from the earth. Can it then be believed that, on almost every occasion, I have found the indescribable effect of this passage simply ruined by the shortening of the diminished seventh chord by a bar, or even by the omission of the bar’s rest? {30} No one shrinks in horror at the most tasteless rhythmic displacements; the most simple-minded Luftpausen may be introduced in order to make things appear interesting. But here a genius has hit upon an idea of the most ingenious irregularity, and this has to be levelled to the ground in order that the music can proceed with four-bar regularity. O sancta simplicitas!

Throughout the movement, one should take care that, in forte as well as in piano, the eighth notes that are repeated in the theme are always played with the same degree of strength. Nothing is more dangerous than the following mode of performance:

which can become a habit if the tempo is too fast, or if the players fail to hold each of the notes the same length, both in forte and in piano passages. One then hears accents, but no melody; and the powerful piece is transformed from a titanic struggle into a hunting scene. It is easy, however, to distinguish my recommended method of performance from the two that Weingartner has in mind. In bars 63 – 66 he uses the following phrasing:

冢

冢

But here yet another interpretation of the principal theme surfaces, and indeed one that , moreover one that (“regardless of how one reckons things mathematically”) is unsure about whether [part of the theme] comprises two bars or three. No wonder, then, that Weingartner lacks the courage to decide once and for all that bar 390 is merely the upbeat of a new regular eight-bar group. Nonetheless, he is right to criticize those who cut bar 389. The case teaches us clearly that it is worth following the paths of a genius, even if at first one is unable to clarify the directions his paths have taken. Finally, some of Weingartner’s ideas on performance. He condemns as a “barbarous insanity the practice of starting this movement slowly and not introducing the fast tempo until after the second fermata.” He is also outspoken on the matter of using the horns to strengthen bars 1–5:

63 | 64 | 65 | 66 p sf p

whereby only “a gentle, enlivening emphasis” is called for on the sforzando, one that “will not spoil the general effect of piano in the entire passage.” He preserves this phrasing also in bars 79– 93, without however observing that in doing so he has easily nullified the changes in the slurring. But was it not Beethoven’s very intention to introduce this difference, which is the sole rationale for the “unconditional domination of the four-bar phrase” not beginning until bar 94? The instructions Weingartner gives regarding the string fortissimo in bars 228ff is correct, but he erroneously bases them on Fig. 18 5), which leads him to draw the following conclusion:

What possible reason could Beethoven have had for dispensing with these instruments, given that, of the four notes of the theme, three were available as natural tones on the E
horn and the fourth (B  on the E
horn) was always possible as a stopped tone? He would have used the horns at least in the first two bars had he needed them. Moreover, he uses stopped tones more frequently in this symphony than usual. . . . I believe that, on the contrary, he purposely reserved the horns for the later, more emphatic entries of the theme. Why then, should we want to correct him throughout?

We see, therefore, that the diminished chords that become piano sighs fall at rhythmically important points, so to speak on strong beats. Regarding the oboe cadenza in bar 268, Weingartner is correct in suggesting a soloistic interpretation also of the preceding bars. On the other hand, he is wrong to advance the following argument in preferring bassoons to horns in bars 303ff: {31}

200

Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony (Continuation)

The rescoring of the second theme of this movement—horns in the exposition, bassoons in the recapitulation—is a makeshift. Beethoven could not entrust the passage to the E
horns, as he could not have used stopped tones for this exposed, powerfully conceived passage. There would have been no time for a change of crooks, and he would not have wanted to introduce a second pair of horns just for these few bars.

concentration upon a few elemental though malleable ideas. In this work, where the poet portrays not a character but an event, even the recapitulation loses its retrospective character. The plot pushes on relentlessly, the recapitulation is organized around it and introduces a new phase of development. In the development section itself, the motive of battle first collapsed in exhaustion, then reared up wildly before culminating in a triumphal display of the blows of Fate. The recapitulation now follows, its opening transformed by the addition of an oboe melody of painful grief, which ends movingly with an oboe recitative. Only then does the warrior seem to regain his courage. His strength renewed, the melody of hope now rings out—until the Fate motive returns with unimaginable force, destroying everything in its way: the bright C major mood succumbs once more to the minor and now proceeds aimlessly along its gloomy path towards annihilation. The woodwind group utters sighs of death once more—then the call of Fate ruthlessly surpresses all further lamentation. The battle is over. Fate is victorious.

Bekker (Beethoven, 1912):36 In the Fifth Symphony, it is the principal theme itself that introduces the work like a fiery banner. The interpretation given by Beethoven, “Fate knocks at the Door,” has a persuasive pictorial strength. Twice the resounding blows are heard, awakening a tremulous echo in the strings that rise up into a loud question. The third time, more threatening than ever, the violently overbearing knocking is heard, leaving us no longer in doubt about the nature of this fearful guest who demands admittance. There again follows the frightened play of the voices, but this time it does not end on the questioning dominant chord. It builds up to strong rhythms, which push forwards with breathtaking speed. Short, foreboding pauses interrupt the onslaught. Beginning with the opening motive, a mighty horn fanfare leads in broad leaps of a fifth to E
major: The warrior has taken up the challenge of Fate. A tender responding theme wells up, resounding with hopeful yearning and intensifies into joyfully proud chords that give the exposition a conclusion that senses victory. The warrior’s energy awakened, he wants to take up the struggle: can he survive it? Again the blows of Fate are struck, this time with the wind and string instruments reverberating as if from opposite sides. The opponents have recognized one another; both are determined. The battle begins. It was a thoroughly productive inspiration, crucial for the unified effect of the movement, to develop the principal and secondary themes— the summoning of Fate, and the answer of the summoned one—from a single motive. The substance here, in contrast to the rich intertwining of themes in the first movement of the Eroica, necessitated the most intense

Now, what would this phrase-monger have offered about the content of the first movement, had he known nothing of the legend? {32}


Second Movement (Andante con moto) Wiederholen zwar kann der Verstand, was da schon gewesen; Was die Natur gebaut, bauet er wählend ihr nach. Über Natur hinaus baut die Vernunft, doch nur in das Leere Du nur, Genius, mehrst in der Natur die Natur

Understanding can, in truth, repeat what has already been. It builds, selectively, upon that which Nature has built. Reason can build beyond Nature, but only into a void. Only you, Genius, can multiply Nature in Nature. Schiller

Ich spreche Mysterien, aber sie sind.

Bekker, Beethoven (Berlin: Schuster und Loeffler, 1912). The English edition, “translated and adapted from the German by M. M. Bozman” (London: Dent, 1927), bears only a general resemblance to the original text. 36Paul

I speak mysteries, but so they are. Hölderlin, Hyperion

201

tonw i l l e 5 The Urlinie, charted in the main graph (p. 203), rises in bars 1– 8 (11) from 3ˆ to 5ˆ and falls in bars 11–15 (22) from 5ˆ to ˆ1 ; yet it immediately begins again from 8ˆ in bars 23 – 49, descending in order to regain the 5ˆ once again as its true focal point.37 As these groups of bars are in the same key, it would be mistaken to speak of a rondo form, whose contrasting sections are marked by changes of key. But since the group of bars 1– 22 ends with a full close, and the second group, bars 23 – 49, ends precisely with a half close, then, in spite of the linear connection between the two groups, the second group may be understood as a subsidiary subject, providing a retransition to the starting point of the line (not of a key). According to Nottebohm (Beethoveniana, p. 14), Beethoven marked the first sketch for bars  23ff, which at any rate lead to a full close via the harmonic progression I–III 3 – V–I, “quasi trio”: thus, for this early sketch with the full close, he already used the strong qualifier “quasi.” The main idea, thus put together from a principal and a subsidiary subject, undergoes a figuration whose constant increase in movement and constant rise in register both distinguishes the individual variations and holds them together. Let us indicate the first group (bars 1– 22) as A, the second (bars 23 – 49) as B; then the plan of the Andante may be represented as follows: Theme A B Variation 1 A B Variation 2 A (viola, cello) (violin 1) (cello, double bass) B Variation 3 A Coda

3ˆ –5ˆ 5ˆ –1ˆ 8ˆ –5ˆ

bars 1– 22 bars 23 – 49

8ˆ –5ˆ

bars 50–71 bars 72 – 98

3ˆ –5ˆ 5ˆ –1ˆ

3ˆ –5ˆ 3ˆ –5ˆ 3ˆ –5ˆ

3ˆ –5ˆ 5ˆ –1ˆ

5ˆ –2ˆ

bars 99–106 bars 107–114 bars 115–123 bars 124 –184

8ˆ –5ˆ | 5ˆ –1ˆ

bars 185 – 205 bars 205– 247

greater emphasis, attracts 8ˆ –5ˆ to it: for this reason the B-section of the second variation has already acquired a new line, which likewise aims at a half-cadence with 5ˆ –2ˆ in place of 8ˆ –5ˆ . Since, however, it was not possible to use 5ˆ –1ˆ in the Asection of the second variation if 5ˆ –2ˆ were to follow in the B-section, then 5ˆ –1ˆ had to be abandoned and a threefold 3ˆ –5ˆ set up in its place, as a kind of solidification of the first part of the Urlinie. {33} Bars 1ff. As one finds in the variations as a whole, so also in the theme care is taken to make distinctions and connections in the various Urlinie progressions, and even the individual tones of the Urlinie, by changes of register and instrumentation:

This ordering is also adhered to in the first variation; in the second variation 3ˆ –5ˆ is raised an octave for the first time; it is raised another octave in the third variation. The following illustration may serve us as an introduction to the secrets of the relationships among Urlinie, voice-leading, degree, and motive; it shows the succession of prolongations, that is, the layers of the voice-leading:

The coda, which is intended to take the place of the B-section of the third variation and round off the whole, thus not only retrieves 5ˆ –1ˆ but also, for sake of 37Drehpunkt: “turning point.” Schenker has not developed his theories to the point at which he can identify a single, overarching Urlinie descent with a clearly marked “primary tone” (Kopfton).

202

Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony (Continuation)

3ˆ belongs with I, 4ˆ is a passing tone, 5ˆ belongs with V and I: that is the simple point of departure (see Fig. 1a). Thus locked between the two tonic harmonies, however, the V functions more as the divider of I at the upper fifth than as an essential harmonic degree. And the movement of the fifth to the third in bar 8 signifies merely a progression to an inner voice (see Tonwille 3, p. 6/I, p. 102; Tonwille 4, pp. 7, 15, 19/I, pp. 145, 153, 156, etc.), which paves the way for the true descent. Beginning from 5ˆ , the falling line finally leads to the ˆ1 which, as early as bar 1, lay concealed behind a 3ˆ that was set up chordally but not elaborated.38 The adornment by neighbor notes (see Fig. 2b) leads here to a 10 – 8–10– 8 succession in bars 1– 4, which is different from what one finds, for example, in the third movement of the symphony; however, it invokes the threat of consecutive octaves if the 5ˆ , like the preceding 4ˆ, is also approached directly by leap and, additionally, is supported by the divider in accordance with Fig. 2a. {34} The descending fifths in bars 5– 6 (see Fig. 2c) serve to avoid this error; against these, the upper voice falls a third lower: not, however, as a 3ˆ –1ˆ progression but merely as the elaboration of a third, i.e. as a progression into the inner voice (compare the leap of a third in bars 7– 8); in this way, the last beat of bar 6 shows the return of c1 in the upper voice supported by I! And in this way a great

deal that is significant is gained: and in spite of the circuitous routes along a rich unfolding of harmonic degrees, the basic plan of Fig. 2a is preserved: the 4ˆ re cedes as a passing tone, and the insertion of III 3 in bar 4 gives up its function in 3 the ascent I–III –V. (Compare the downward arpeggiation C–A
in the bass on the third beat bar 8, which reproduces the bass progression C–A
in bars 4 – 6 and, being supported expressly by the tonic, acts as a kind of summary in rhythmic diminution). Finally, the intervention of I between III and V (see Fig. 2b) removes the clash between e  as the raised third of III and E
as the root of V. The conceptual unity of the voice-leading of Fig. 2a, newly fortified by that of Fig. 2c, is no less clearly (albeit differently) affirmed by the motivic realization given in Fig. 2d: despite the rise and fall of arpeggiations that follow the harmonic progression in bars 1– 8, the first arpeggiation is in fact continued only by the last (see the brackets), as if in all these bars only the I was in fact elaborated. How many are the ways in which the unity of the eight-bar phrase is promoted! But the creative force of organicism bears further fruit, for it is evidently the final arpeggiation that evokes its mirror image in bars 11–15 (see the NB in Fig. 2d; this is notated in a lower register). And there is more. In the heavens of the imagination, one can already perceive a more distant future, bars 23ff (see Fig. 2e): the two arpeggiations, filled by passing tones, join together and are continued in a third arpeggiation, which scales the seventh of the chord. It is the second subject, bars 23ff, that comes to

38Der freie Satz, Fig. 41/2, is essentially a copy of Fig. 2c here. It exemplifies the technique of reaching over, in which the individual elements are heard successively, rather than being partly superimposed above each other.

203

tonw i l l e 5 From this, Beethoven uses only the first three intervals, 5– 6– 6, but wants to dispose of 4ˆ –3ˆ above the bass f 1, so that only the 2ˆ remains above e
[1] (V). He avoids the new threat of consecutive fifths

冢

life here. Thus first and second subjects take their nourishment and form from the same root.39 And what intelligence is borne out by the details: In bar 2 the suspension c-b
is built not as a 9 – 8 above the root B
(as in the original analysis) but, rather—see the graph of the Urlinie—as an ambiguous tied-over 7– 6 above D
(see Kontrapunkt II, pp. 84/p. 85, 100ff/pp. 101ff and 207ff/ pp. 212ff ). If its true meaning is immediately recognized on the downbeat of bar 3, nevertheless that falling fifth A
–D
retains its suggestive power as I–IV; and we see how in bar 3 the root B
expressly falls to G in order to set up a falling fifth G–C (VII–III) in imitation: thus, the harmonic degrees and their associated fifth-progressions announce themselves, although the voice-leading actually wanted to proceed along the path 10 8 10 8 (see above). In bars 5 – 6, where upper voice and bass seek the same path to the lower third, the fifth-progressions remove the threat of consecutive octaves and fifths, their rhythm (  ) evidently derived from bar 3. The ascending leap in the upper voice e in bar 5, from b
to d
1, decisively prepares the important ascending arpeggiation in the next bar. Even though the descending arpeggiation in bars 11–15, viewed as a whole, represents a reply to the preceding arpeggiation (see Fig. 2d), the falling third e
3 – c3 in bars 11—12 may nevertheless may be specifically derived from the falling thirds in bars 7– 9 and 9–10, which immediately precede it. It is precisely the accented passing note, which so strongly suggests a short, expressive grace-note and is used here in place of the simple passing tone (see Fig. 2d), that underscores its origins in the most effective way. The first passing tone is mimicked by a second, between c3 and a
2, yet this does not express the 3ˆ –1ˆ of the Urlinie {35} but, rather, just an elaboration [Auskomponierung] of the third from the 3ˆ , which is followed in bar 14 by an elaboration of the third from 2ˆ . The voice-leading in bars 10–15 may be understood as follows: the simultaneous descent of the Urlinie tones 5ˆ –2ˆ and the fourth-progression in the bass a
1 –e
1 (see Fig. 1) threatened with a chain of consecutive fifths. A 5– 6 exchange could be of use only if it had taken the following course overall: 冢

d
— c — f 1 ———– 6 — 5 —

5 harmonic degrees 39Wurzel:

I

g1 6

—

3ˆ c e
1 6

by the diminution, as a last resource: he elaborates the third from 3ˆ down to a
2 and the 2ˆ in the opposite direction, up from g2, which results in two successive
–g 1 thirds ( fa –e
) instead of fifths. And now the finishing touches: instead of g in bar 11, he extrapolates its lower third e
1 (as the root of the passing chord)40 and takes advantage of the expansion produced by the elaboration of 3ˆ (bars 12—13) to insert between f 1 and e
1 an otherwise superfluous c1 in bar 14. The two leaps of a fourth in the bass thus have neither the same origin nor the same meaning. In bar 14, the rhythm of three eighth notes stirs for the first time, which not only anticipates the bass in bar 21 but also the bass in the B-section, where it is one of the most important features. Bars 23ff. The liberating effect, which the beginning of the subsidiary section evokes, is undoubtedly based on its connection with the first theme, as explained above (see Fig. 2e), and on the other hand also by the fact that the Urlinie starts for the first time with the 8ˆ . As in the sketch transcribed by Nottebohm, Beetho ven adheres also in the final version to the chord progression I—III 3 —V, set in contrary motion to the 8ˆ –5ˆ of the Urlinie: it is as if he wished in this section to bring into the open, and thus to animate, the basic plan of bars 1– 8, which had half concealed the same harmonic path I–III–V (in bars 1– 4 –7). The reinterpretation of the seventh, g
, as f  in bar 29—in order to make it more emphatic and believable, the bass expressly introduces a  in place of a
—has as its first consequence in bar 30 the insertion of the secondary dominant G as a kind of VII, which now points with its falling fifth all the more effectively toward III. Using the terminology of voice-leading, we could express the same thing as follows: the threat of consecutive octaves between the outer voices is avoided by the intervening sixth, f , in bar 29, a note that is already the goal of the g
in bars 27–28, which undergoes its own elaboration. The dramatic underscoring of f 2 by an extra bar—

2ˆ b


冢

4ˆ d
f1 6

兴

冢

Urlinie tones fourth-progression in bass

5ˆ e
a
1

b
e
1 5

5 V

40Schenker is exemplifying the technique of prolongation called Auswerfen eines Grundtones, “extrapolation (or ‘addition’) of a root,” which is explained in Der freie Satz in §247.

Schenker is using the botanical term; no other meaning of “root” is intended.

204

Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony (Continuation)

bar 29—should not prevent us from recognizing that the group of nine bars, bars 23– 31, in reality {36} form a regular eight-bar phrase, if not a four-bar construction.41 It is only by looking at the norm that we understand what is unusual about bar 29. The actual reduction can be explained by the following picture :

of a parallelism with bars 27– 28, however, led Beethoven subsequently to make the improvement. The articulation of a quarter note on the second beat (see the cello in bars 39– 40) appears to have been continued in the manuscript in bars 41ff, so that the octave leaps in bar 48 developed organically at the end, In the final version this quarter note is retained only by the bassoon, in bar 41: all others were crossed out, so as not to disturb the freely expanded dotted crotchets. I should like to add a few remarks on the individual variations. The pedal point at the fifth in the clarinet at the beginning of the first variation (bars 49– 52) affirms in its way the unity of 3ˆ –5ˆ as understood in Fig. 2a. The chromatic succession e
2 –e  2 (bars 52– 53), following the surprise step motion g
(⫽ f  )–g in bars 27– 30 and progression in the treble (bars 41ff ), certainly offers nothing further out of the ordinary. The octave leap in the flute, to e
3 (bar 98), announces the ascending register transfer of the second variation. Here the figuration of the 3ˆ –5ˆ section moves up from the cellos to the first violins; and if, in bars 114 – 23, a figuration of these Urlinie tones is still missing from the highest register and its place is actually taken by one in the bass, this occurs because the use of that highest register for thematic purposes {37} is reserved for the third variation (bars 185ff ). Thus the ascending register transfer can continue to stretch across the long episode in bars 123– 84 and so bind the second and third variations; but this does not prevent the filler parts in the register around c3 (first violins and flutes) from being extended in the second variation. For this reason, one could say that the rest of the variation also asserts itself in the register of the flute part in bars 98 – 106 (see earlier).

Bar 32 marks the beginning of a parallelism with bars 23 – 31. To be sure, the motivic material used in the arpeggiations remains the same (see Fig. 1B), yet as early as bar 32 the fifth between the outer voices (g2 in the Urlinie, C in the bass) forces the voice-leading along a different path from that taken in the previous group of bars:

By means of a secondary dominant in bars 39– 45, the root-position C major chord moves in bar 46 to a first-inversion chord built on C, which functions as a neighbor-note chord; in this passage the upper voice develops its arpeggiations along the paths of both chords, see Fig. 1 and the graph of the Urlinie. It is important here to understand the great expansion from the metrically regular form, whether in a) or in b) of the following example:

Bars 124ff. The harmonic plan of this episode, which brings the 5ˆ –2ˆ descent (see earlier), may be understood in simplest terms as follows:

冢

The autograph manuscript shows clearly that the cello part in bar 39 was originally lined up with the other strings, with   ; recognizing the importance

Although the descending fifth V–I is probably delineated well enough in the  harmonic progression V–III –I–V, what is at any rate of even greater significance here is that the end-points of the progression are the same, V: this amounts to a

41In Wahrheit ein regelmäßiger Achttakter, wenn nicht Viertakter ist: the nine bars are an expansion of a regular eight-bar phrase, which can be further contracted to four bars.

205

tonw i l l e 5 circle, a higher unity affirming that the 5ˆ –2ˆ here is in the last analysis the elaboration merely of V. The consecutive octaves that threaten the outer-voice counterpoint in the V–III succession (see Fig. 6a) are avoided by the insertion of a pass ing harmony (⫽ VII 3) for the 4ˆ of the Urlinie.42 Similarly, Beethoven avoids the
 threatening clash between e  and e
in the progression from III 3 to III
53 by moving to the neighbor-note chord of E
(bar 150), which removes the threat. Looking at the passage more closely, bars 123–138 (141) are underpinned by a 7–6 – 5 3 – 4 – 3 progression attached to an ascending register transfer. In the normal course of such voice-leading (see Kontrapunkt II, pp. 251ff/pp. 251ff ) the seventh descends to a fifth and is thus lost to the upper voice (see the NB to Fig. 6b); the technique of reaching over (on this matter see “Freier Satz”; examples are found in Beethoven’s Op. 109, finale, variations 2 and 5, etc.),43 however, renders the greatest service in enabling the seventh yet to remain in the upper voice by means of ascending register transfer; see Fig. 6b. In bars 138– 46 we see the outer voices engaged in a progression of parallel thirds, which only at the last moment switches to contrary motion. Although the realization of the harmonic plan in bars 123 – 46 is supplied with the motives from the principal subject (A), it would be incorrect to speak here of a development section, since even the secondary subject (B) is created from motives from the principal subject. If one places the first and last arpeggiations beside one another, without the dotted rhythm and also without any expansion or filling-in, one will obtain the clarinet and bassoon motive in bars 127– 31. In bars 131ff, the counterpoint is thickened by imitations at the distance of a bar—the flute, followed by the oboe—while the arpeggiations continue in a descending fifth-progression, which stands for bars 11–15; in this way, one can speak overall of an abbreviation of the principal subject (A)! The imitation by the oboe impels the flute to play in thirds above it; there are corresponding lower thirds in the clarinets. In bars 136 – 37, a chain of falling and rising fifthprogressions take place: {38} 冢

which proceed in a 3/4 rhythm (hemiola) and in this way add to the regular group of bars beginning in bar 132 the weight of a fifth bar that has been extended by the effect of a ritenuto. The instruments are reversed in bars 138ff: the clarinets begin, followed by the flute and oboe; here the descending series of tones, d
3 –g2 in bars 142– 45 (see Fig. 6), represents an expansion of the fifth-motive as a whole. The reversal then has the advantage that, at bar 142, the fifth-progression f 3 –b
2 is smoothly joined to its abbreviated form, f 3 –c3. Bars 143 – 44 again show the 3/4 rhythm: it quietly prepares the expansions, by three-bar units, in the next group of bars. With the arrival of c3 in bar 148, the motive of the secondary subject (B), bars 32ff, returns, and in accordance with the generally high register it climbs as far as g3. The dotted rhythms also return with the motive, and they lead back, in the most natural way, to the [original] upbeat arpeggiation. The ascent g1 –b
1 in these very bars recalls the motion to the seventh in bars 23 – 27, but here the change of harmony (the E
chord) prevents [the highest note] from being understood as a seventh; it is that this insertion serves more the circumvention of the chromatic progression c–c
(see Fig. 6a). That ascent is basically set above a progression in thirds between the outer voices (see Fig. 6b), except that the root has been added at every other harmony; and this same progression in thirds prepares the more extended one in bars 167ff. From the group of bars 148– 59, a regular eight-bar construction may be perceived:

冢

bars: 148 149 150 | 151 152 153 | 154 155 156 157 158 159 2

()

2

(2)

2

冢 冢

冢

()

} } }

}

} 2

Bars 205ff. With regard to the coda, one should note that the bassoon motive, despite the ear linking it to the motive of bars 127– 29, is better understood in overall linear terms as a parallelism to the descent of the Urlinie in bars 195– 99. The first violin and cello figure in bars 213 –15 should be understood as an expansion of the arpeggiation across bars 6|7, and indeed again with the characteristic use of the divider at its apex tone, e
2. The first violin motive that follows immediately apparently refers to the motive of bars 22– 24, although here it serves more the overall expansion of a
–c–e
in bars 213 –18, which chordally aims at 5ˆ . Bars 229ff reply to bars 127ff; but now the end of the figure rhymes more clearly with the beginning of the movement because it has regained the dotted rhythm. The arpeggiations with the dotted rhythms now also return. But the root of the tonic has already remained stationary; and when in bar 231 the apex tone e
2 arrives above

42The Urlinie tone is, of course, d
2; but the actual chord in bar 146, however, includes D  (as is  implied by Schenker’s designation VII 3. 43Der freie Satz, §§129 – 34 and 231– 32. In 1923 Übergreifen (“reaching over”) was a relatively new concept and, of course, does not appear in the Erläuterungsausgabe of Op. 109.

206

Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony (Continuation)

tributed between the violas and cellos, although at first in a lower register than that of the final version. Also, the bassoon and clarinet originally used a different rhythm.—In bar 114, the first and second violins originally played triple-stopped eighth notes.—In bar 132, the contrary motion in the clarinet parts coincided with the entry of the oboe, in imitation [of the flute].—In bars 154 – 55 (cf. bars 33ff in this list), the timpani rested in each of the third eighths.—In bars 167ff, the melody was assigned to the first violins (an octave lower than the flute in the final version). The second violins accompanied in double-stops, the violas in thirty-second-note arpeggiations. The corrections to bars 172 –77 became so numerous that, in the end, Beethoven wrote out the two leaves once more.—In bar 180, the basses originally started from C, like the violins in bar 179, with the result, however, that the seventh was played out too soon.—In bars 187– 88, and again in bars 191– 94, the horns and timpani were originally given this rhythm to play: .—In bars 191– 94, the flutes, clarinets and bassoons continued with their motives of imitation; this worked against the synthesis, in so far as it is the 5ˆ that arrives in bar 191 (cf. bar 7) that marks the boundary point of the first ascent.

it, the dominant divider is omitted. In bar 233, the arpeggiation reaches the octave of the chord for the first time, and thus the ground is finally prepared for bars 246 – 47, in which the fifth, instead of leaping down to the third (as in bars 7– 8), now leaps directly to the octave above the root. {39}


Nottebohm’s Beethoveniana,

44 p. 63, transmits a few jottings from the sketches for the second movement. But among these should also be reckoned the jottings and remarks that are found on the edges of the leaves of the autograph manuscript, which was used in the preparation of the first edition, as well the more frequent instances of earlier readings in the text itself. I have already mentioned a few things; to these I add the following:

The original version of bars 12–14 had a dense texture, replete with motives.— The horn entry in bar 29 was to start earlier, on the third eighth note of the previous bar.—In bar 30, the basses, horns, trumpets and timpani also used the dotted rhythm.—In bar[s] 33[–34], the first version of the timpani part was apparently the same as that of bars 154 – 55: (see later).—In bar 37, beside the  there was, in addition, an expressly written diminuendo.—(On the cellos in bars 38– 40 and the [second] bassoon in bars 41ff, see later.)—In bar 48, a leap of an octave, from the second to the third eighth-note, was assigned to the bassoons.—In bars 57– 58, the independent second bassoon part was crossed out, and a unisono was expressly indicated for the two instruments!—In bar 80, a thirty-second-note run, from C to c, was conceived for the basses. At the beginning of the second variation, the clarinet (which is silent in the final version) proceeded with a figure that employed the rhythm of . —In bar 107, the violas were marked divisi; afterward the double-stops were dis-




The errors in the second movement for which the printed scores are responsible include the following: 1. In bars 23 and 25 (and similarly in bars 72 and 74), the autograph shows the wind slurs extending only as far as the third eighth note. (The difference between these {40} slurs and those of the first and second violin parts is intentional: the winds end their progression with a quarter note, whereas the violins end with just an eighth note. The error already appeared in the first edition.) 2. In bar 30, Beethoven applied staccato wedges from the thirty-second note on, not the dotted sixteenth that begins the bar; he did so, with the same care in all the relevant instrumental parts, again in bar 79. The first edition follows the autograph. 3. In bars 35 and 36, the sf in the timpani part should be placed under the first quarter note. The misinterpretation of the autograph, which can already be seen in the first edition, apparently resulted from the master’s improvements to the original rhythm (see earlier): he brought the quarter note with the trill forward to the beginning of the bar but, as is so often the case, forgot to move the sf forward, too. In any event, an sf on the third eighth note would make no sense.

44[S]Let me repeat my plea I issued earlier (in Beethovens nuente Synfonie, p. xxiv/p. 17): “What a terrible shame it is, for the entire world of musicians and those interested in music, but especially for the German nation itself, that a work like Nottebohm’s, which numbers among the few truly valuable monographs of our literature, has not been reprinted since 1872. The sketches of even a Beethoven exert so little drawing power that, in the course of forty and twenty-five years, respectively, not even—shall we say—a thousand composition teachers and pupils can be found who have profited from such immeasurable treasures. One can only draw from this the most disquieting, and yet the irrefutable, conclusion: that the majority of musicians evidently make the access to their art easier than a Beethoven. [Writing in 1912, Schenker is reckoning the time elapsed since the publication of Nottebohm’s two principal collections of Beethoven essays, Beethoveniana (1872) and the posthumous Zweite Beethoveniana (1887).]

207

tonw i l l e 5 4. In bar 40, the second bassoon should also be tied over to the next bar. (Only in this way is it possible to lead to that state of frozen time [Erstarrung], so to speak, in which the dotted quarter-note passing tones proceed almost as though there were no rhythmic pulse. This mistake already appears in the first edition.) 5. The second bassoon’s e in bar 41 is likewise to be tied over; see the cello (incorrect in the first edition). 6. In bars 41– 47 (and similarly in bars 90ff), there should be a continuous legato slur in all the parts, even though Beethoven indicated this only in the first violin, cello and second bassoon parts, providing the inner parts merely with ties. Apparently he reckoned that, with the legato slurs in place in the outer parts, they would also be understood as applicable to the inner voice[s]. (The first edition is slurred arbitrarily.) 7. the f 2 and g2 in the clarinet part in bars 53– 54 should not be slurred together. This is confirmed in the autograph also in the parallel passage, bars 102 – 3, where e–f in the flute, oboe, and bassoon are not played legato. (In the first edition, only the parallel passage is correctly slurred.) 8. In bars 57– 59 the second bassoon should play with the first. (The engraver of the first edition probably ignored Beethoven’s unisono marking.) 9. In bar 57, on the last three sixteenths of the viola part, there should be a lower voice with three sixteenth notes [on e
]. To be sure, these notes appear to have been added at a later stage; but also in bars 8–10 the lower voice of the viola part (e
) appears to have similarly been added later, as one can see from the change of handwriting. (The first edition overlooked this voice.) 10. In bar 97, there should be an ff only for the octave leaps in the viola and bassoon parts, in contrast to an f for the octave leaps in the cello and clarinets. The sixteenth-note e
2 in the oboe and flute should also be only f, not ff. (The fact that Beethoven notated a second f in these parts, on the downbeat of the next bar, has obliged the engravers and editors of the first and later editions to act high-handedly by placing the two markings of f, which are separated by a bar line, together to form an ff in bar 97.) NB In bar 104, the autograph indeed shows a legato slur in the flute part, not in the oboe or bassoon; given, however, that this is a reply to bar 55, there should be no legato slur. 11. In bars 132, 133, 134, and 135, the slurs should stop at the last sixteenth note (compare bars 128 and 130); the same articulation then applies also to the oboe, and later to the clarinets. (The mistake occurs already in the first edition.) {41}

12. In bars 136– 37, all the sixteenth notes in the clarinet parts should be placed under a single slur. (This is wrong in the first edition.) 13. The new slur in the clarinets in bar 138 should end at the end of the bar; 14. Likewise the slur in bar 139. 15. The second slur in the flute and oboe in bar 137 should end at the last sixteenth; likewise the slur in bar 139. 16. In bar 142, the  should stop beneath the third sixteenth note. (With respect to points 13)–16), the first edition is incorrect.) 17. In bar 195, the second clarinet should leap up a tenth, from d1 to f 2, exactly like the second bassoon. (This is correct in the first edition.) 18. Across bars 216|217 the horns should play g–c, exactly as they do across bars 214|215. (The g is already missing from the first edition.) 19. In bar 217, there should be a p before the cresc. in the bassoon, and a cresc. in the last sixteenth notes of the double bass part. 20. In the first bassoon in bar 218, instead of an eighth-note e
1 there should be a quarter-note, which is tied over to bar 219! Only then will the intended expansion of bars 11, 60 and 195 be fully revealed. In this regard, it is also important that the  in the first flute, second clarinet and first bassoon should begin as early as the third eighth of bar 218. 21. In bars 224 – 25, both bassoon parts should be deleted up to the final sixteenth note of bar 225. The first version of bars 225 – 26 required so much revision that Beethoven wrote out the passage a second time, in order to make it clearer; in the new version of bar 225 he did in fact expressly write out the rests before the final sixteenth, but forgot to cross out the bassoon parts in bar 224 (cf. the sf in the timpani in bars 35– 36 [as noted above]). In point of fact, as one can see from the scoring in bars 224 – 28, the participation of the wind instruments does not begin until the last sixteenth of bar 225, and it finishes in bar 226. (The first edition faithfully reproduces the bassoon parts that Beethoven forgot to cross out.) 22. In bar 225, the last sixteenth note in the double bass part should be slurred to the first eighth note of bars 226. 23. In bar 226, there should be a legato slur in the double bass part above B
and C. 24. In bar 230, the slurs in the clarinet and bassoon parts should stop at the end of the bar, 25. And similarly for the slurs in the first and second violins in bars 232, 233, and 234. Not until the violas enter in bars 235ff should the slur connect all three notes.

208

Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony (Continuation)




should not be exaggerated: one should be conscious only that, in the distribution of the instruments in accordance with the structure of the whole (see Fig. 1), the brass also must have their turn; otherwise, on account of the variations form, they would not have been able to appear until bar 115 at the earliest. In bars 37ff, the conductor should guide the performance toward the mysterious progression 6 from C[  53] (bar 37) to C[
3] (bar 46); only if he is able to express the a
2 as a neighbor note will he succeed in making the extremely difficult crescendo in bar 47 sound plausible: for this crescendo must give the illusion almost that the 6ˆ , this very f 2, lasts longer! In the second variation, bars 99ff, the conductor must be aware of the dynamic succession in the individual eight-bar units in advance: piano–pianissimo(!)– forte. If the string section is not sufficiently strong, the wind parts should be appropriately subdued from bars 114 onwards. In bars 124ff, it is imperative to imagine the succession of Urlinie tones as if they followed one another in close succession; only then can one succeed in mastering, effortlessly and beautifully, the apparently strange expansions directed at the individual tones (see above), i.e. the 10, 12, 7, 9, and 9 bars that belong, respectively, to the notes in the line d
3 –c3 –b
2 –c
3 –b
2. In bars 182 – 84, the dotted eighth notes e
must be held for their exact value, in order to clarify the development of this tone in the space of two octaves. The free imitation in the wind parts in the third variation, bars 185ff, has been organized by rhythmic complementation so favorably that no performance difficulties whatever will arise, unless there is a gross imbalance between the numbers of string and wind players; in such a case, one must favor the strings. In bars 205ff, the conductor would be well advised to concentrate not on the bassoon solo but on the basses, which, in defiance of that solo, adhere precisely to the regular eight-bar construction.

The tempo marking Andante con moto ( ⫽ 92) refers here to the secret movement of the Urlinie tones; that is to say, the performance of the Andante must not be taken so slowly that the spiritual prospect [der geistige Ausblick] from the 3ˆ to the 4ˆ and, in spite of the tension across bars 4 – 6, from the 4ˆ to the 5ˆ is neither blurred nor actually made impossible to perceive; and so on. The forte in bar 7 should bear less the external characteristics of power; it should much rather express the arrival of the goal, marked by the 5ˆ , to which the ascent has striven. One should note the differences among the three e
s in bars 7, 9, and 11: in bar 7 the e
1 is unslurred, and the forte should be held for the full bar; in bar 9, it is slurred [to the first note of the next bar]; but not until bar 11 is it followed by a diminuendo. In bar 18, the forte should be in effect right up to the last sixteenth note, b
1, in spite of the piano on the following a
1 in bar 19; in a less conventional way,  strives after the same effect (within a dynamic of piano) in the the sign wind parts across bars 19|20. Only someone who {42} can realize these subtle differences delicately and smoothly will have control over the forte in bars 20 – 21, which also carries with it a
1 (1ˆ ) for the first time, in bar 21. In the group of bars 23 – 31, the execution of the expansion will be correct only if the underlying norm is perceived (see earlier). In bar 30, the first dotted sixteenth note should also be emphasized by being sustained. (See my earlier remarks on the unauthorized staccato mark introduced by printers and editors.) In bars 32ff, one should abandon the idea of a new theme, and enter into the parallelism all the more naturally and freely, as it merely provides an elaboration of the III, which does not lead to a single descent of a fifth but merely represents a halfway point between I and V (see Harmonielehre, p. 314/p. 235 and “Freier Satz”).45 The significance of the horns, trumpets, and timpani, which enter here,



45 The various elaborations of I–V are laid out in tabular form in Der freie Satz, fig. 14; those corresponding most closely to the Andante con moto are figs. 14/1b and 14/3b.

209

Miscellanea Vermischtes {Tonwille 5, pp. 43 – 57} t r a n s l at e d b y j o s e p h l u b b e n Bach—Beethoven. In 1819, Beethoven wrote to Archduke Rudolph: “. . . for which our forefathers indeed serve us doubly, in that most of them possessed genuine artistic worth (although among them only the German Handel and Sebastian Bach possessed genius) . . . ”1 Now, what kind of observation is that? Historical? Style-critical? Philological? Mechanical? Was he also thinking of Zeitgeist, Gothic style, Protestantism, and nation? (Beethoven went out of his way to highlight the fact that Handel was a German!)2 Or of the human character of those masters? Their life stories? On what grounds did Beethoven, while accepting the “genuine artistic worth” of most of the forefathers, grant to Handel and Bach privileged positions as the only geniuses among them? Certainly every musician, music historian, and philologist would agree with him, although I know that they would not even begin to understand his reasons, were he to have elaborated on them (compare his letter of July 1825 to Prince Galitzin).3 But do they also know what he meant by fortitude when he continued his letter to the archduke with “and if we today do not quite possess the same amount of fortitude as our forefathers, nevertheless our refinement of manners has advanced a great deal”? Or, given that he copied parts of Bach’s Chromatic Fantasy and Fugue, parts of fugues from the Well-Tempered Clavier (including the whole of the C minor fugue from Book II), would the musicians, music historians, and music philologists know what to say about his attraction to that music? In his copy of the C minor fugue, preserved in the archive of the Gesellschaft der Musikfreunde in Vienna, he marked a large cross by the B in the bass of bar 7, the second note of the fugal answer. Obviously this B caught his attention, but until

now neither the theory nor the literature of fugue (including Marpurg’s Abhandlung von der Fuge, Riemann’s analysis of the Well-Tempered Clavier, and Busoni’s edition of these works: I have not read Werker’s book)4 has provided any information about this kind of fugal procedure. Here is what I say: this very B contains one of the keys to all fugal synthesis, and precisely the knowledge one can gain from it is sufficient justification for throwing out everything that has been thought, taught, and written about fugue, and precisely in this kind of fugal procedure lies the essential difference between a Bach and any other! To state briefly here what is elsewhere necessary to explain more thoroughly: Bach takes the key of the answer, G minor, in the entry of the fourth voice—that comes clearly labeled with the sign of the answer (the step of a second)—and uses the chromatic note to shift it into the main key of C minor. One has to believe that Bach did not do this only in order to be different, rather that he did it so that the inner workings of the fugue would conform to the dictates of tonality—dictates that were stronger in him, the seer who created spontaneously, than in other fugue-writers. Now, Beethoven noticed this detail—it is, of course, not an isolated case—and precisely because of this and similar details he avidly pursued the music of Bach. He let these significant words immediately follow the passage quoted above: “further, freedom is the only goal of the artistic world, and of all of Creation.” He undoubtedly viewed himself as a protagonist in this 4Friedrich Wilhelm Marpurg, Abhandlung von der Fuge (Berlin: Haude und Spener, 1753 – 4); Hugo Riemann, Katechismus der Fugen-Komposition: Analyse von J. S. Bachs ‘Wohltemperiertem Klavier’ und ‘Kunst der Fuge’ (Leipzig: Max Hesses Verlag 1890– 94); J. S. Bach, Das wohltemperierte Klavier I, revised and annotated by Ferruccio Busoni (1894) (Busoni’s edition was issued by several publishers, including Breitkopf & Härtel in Leipzig, N. Simrock in Berlin, Universal-Edition in Vienna, and G. Schirmer in New York); Wilhelm Werker, Studien über die Symmetrie im Bau der Fugen und die motivische Zusammengehörigkeit der Präludien und Fugen des “Wohltemperierten Klaviers” von Johann Sebastian Bach (Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1922). Schenker comments extensively on each of these works in “The Organic Nature of Fugue, as Demonstrated in the C Minor Fugue from Bach’s Well-Tempered Clavier, Book I,” in Meisterwerk ii (pp. 55– 95/pp. 31– 54).

1Beethoven wrote this from Mödling on July 29, 1819. It appears in Ludwig van Beethoven: Briefwechsel: Gesamtausgabe, ed. S. Brandenburg (Munich: Henle, 1996), vol. 4, pp. 297– 98, as letter 1318. 2Beethoven himself underlined the words “German Handel” in his letter. 3Schenker refers here to Alfred Kalischer’s five-volume edition of 1906– 8, which gives a garbled version of the text. For a reliable reading, see Beethoven: Briefwechsel: Gesamtausgabe, vol. 7, letter 2003. The letter, which survives only in draft form, is the subject of “Beethoven on his Op. 127” in Tonwille 7.

210

Miscellanea

development, but he himself, as we see, would not have presumed to construe “freedom” as a license to sink deliberately to the level of writing fugues that were not free, i.e. badly written. Even though temporally and stylistically he was far removed from Bach, he would never have uttered the phrase we hear daily from the “Most High Midgets” (Beethoven’s term), who, without the slightest idea of what it means to follow Bach, are always saying “I can no longer follow Bach.” They proudly prefer to become epigones5 of savages, of Fiji Islanders and the like, rather than humbly to become epigones of Bach. But, of course, to be a mere epigone of Bach requires the talent of a Beethoven, something clearly lacking in today’s epigones of savages. One could go even further than Schumann, who once stated, “perhaps only a genius completely understands genius,” and confidently maintain that only a genius can really learn, because he alone knows what to learn and from whom. In Epictetus’s handbook of morals one can read: “As the young fop boasts in the theater, ‘I am wise, because I have conversed with many wise people!’ Epictetus replies: {44} ‘I have conversed with many rich people, but I am not rich!’”6 Given that Beethoven indeed possessed sufficient talent to be an epigone of Bach, it follows that his glorification of Bach and Handel in the above-mentioned letter indicated an essential affirmation of genius, of aristocraticism in art. Therefore, in the spirit of Beethoven’s affirmation, let it be proposed: that over all the Bach societies, all publishers, even over the well-known BachGesellschaft, a single, great Bach Society should arise in Germany—along the lines of the Bible society of England7 —that would disseminate the works of the master as inexpensively as possible to all the ends of the earth, as if it were the everlasting religion of music. Naturally, it would be up to the German leadership to ensure that no abuses would be associated with this musical Bible, given the way that certain nations have abused the Good Book. They place it on the nightstands of their hotels, in order to deceive the newcomer with respect to the true way of life in their country, as if it were nothing less than truly pious. Or they send out missionaries, merchants, and soldiers to enslave foreign lands and people, seize their treasures and workers and, with feigned nobility, in the name

of “freedom,” “autonomy” and the like, leave them only that which has no market value, such as morals and customs. Even I know all too well that, for relaxing their nerves after the daily grind or for rekindling their animal spirits, people prefer the shrieking rhythms that (with only the slightest trace of art) in some way strike a chord with the barren life that only they know. This is all the more reason that the true countenance of art must begin to be shown to the widest reaches of humanity. The Bach missionary will be obliged to teach what art really means to human beings: if it fills them with pride that they literally change the surface of the earth, appropriate, transform, and profit from all its resources, quickly and easily unite the most distant places, and move freely above, on, and below it, how much more pride would they feel if they were able, like nature, to create something as insignificant as a flea! But bestowing life is denied to them, and it always will be. This desire to emulate God they only have the power to bring to fruition in art. Thus, the artist’s most holy aspiration is: Daß ich mit Göttersinn Und Menschenhand Vermöge zu bilden, Was bei meinem Weib Ich animalisch kann und muß.

That I with godly sense, and human hand, will be empowered to create that which with my wife, as an animal I can and must. Goethe8

In contrast, how paltry it is to praise life and industry as the highest good, the ultimate goal of humanity! Do not the animals, plants, and rocks also live, just as humans, and are they not also industrious, each in their own way? Creating life is greater than living; art is greater than life. Everything that humans accomplish outside of art can be done better by nature; in art alone nature cannot equal humans. It may well be that nature, from the very beginning and until the end of eternity, ordained and established itself once and for all in the bosom of God as his synthesis, and that we humans are too weak to replicate this synthesis of the world’s Creator. But at least we are strong enough to reflect and imitate it in the little artistic synthesis that is more fitting of our limitations, wherein it is we who

5Epigonen: undistinguished sons, successors, imitators; the term was originally applied by the ancient Greeks to the sons of the Seven against Thebes, who imitated their fathers by attacking Thebes. 6The Golden Sayings of Epictetus (born A.D. 55, died c. 135), a Greek philosopher associated with the Stoics. 7The British and Foreign Bible Society, founded March 7, 1804. Their charter reads in part “for the wider distribution of the Scriptures, without note or comment.”

8Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749 –1832). The identification of Goethe’s writings in this Miscellanea follows the 1888 Weimar edition of Goethe’s complete works (Gustav von Loeper, ed., Goethes Werke: herausgegeben im Auftrage der Großherzogin Sophie von Sachsen. Weimar: Hermann Böhlau). This brief verse is taken from the poems grouped under the rubric “Kenner und Künstler.”

211

tonw i l l e 5 ordain and establish. Art is greater than life. Only in creating art do humans become the true likeness of God. Art unites and makes brothers of all humanity. Never has war been waged on account of art, as it has so often in the name of religion. At most, the occasional conqueror seeks to augment a victory achieved in bloody battle by dragging home the artistic treasures of the conquered nation, but art, in the end, proves to be stronger than such conquerors. Although outwardly enslaved, with inner strength it conquers the conqueror in his own territory. Schiller, for example, treats the subject in The Antiques at Paris as follows: Was der Griechen Kunst erschaffen Mag der Franke mit den Waffen Führen nach der Seine Strand, Und in prangenden Museen Zeig’ er seine Siegstrophäen Dem erstaunten Vaterland!

That which Grecian art created, The Frank wants, with his weapons, To bring back to the banks of the Seine, And in his glorious museums He displays his trophies of war To the amazed fatherland!

Ewig werden sie ihm schweigen, Nie von den Gestellen steigen In des Lebens frischen Reihn. Der allein besitzt die Musen, Der sie trägt im warmen Busen; Dem Vandalen sind sie Stein.

Forever they will be silent to him, Never climbing down from their pedestals Into life’s fresh rows. He alone possesses the muses Who bears them warmly in his bosom; To the vandals they are stone.9

ity, act out the part of Minister of Musical “Reconstruction,” expelling them back into the dark depths from which like a locust swarm they arose and surged destructively over the artistic fields. All hail the Bach Society! Urlinie and voice-leading. The concept of the Urlinie weighs heavily upon the souls of so many young composers. Because they know of nothing with which to oppose it, they toss up their hands, as if to say that they place the individual feeling that they seek to express above everything pertaining to the Urlinie. Now, it doesn’t take a Lessing10 to recognize in this gesture an inadmissible mixing of arts: upraised arms belong at best to gymnastics, not to poetry or music. In fact, if one sees what these young composers have to offer, what they actually express, only then does one understand why they throw up their hands. They first ought to realize that their feeling is not in any way an artistically appropriate feeling, unless it expresses itself musically in such a way that the diatonic Urlinie appears of its own accord, behind their backs, as it were. When I ask if perhaps they hold in their hearts something against voice-leading, they vigorously deny it, out of a conviction that, however one writes music, voice-leading is inevitable. But is not the revolt against the Urlinie the same as a revolt against voice-leading? Again, they first ought to realize that their voice-leading is not artistically valid voiceleading, so long as it is not derived from an Urlinie. But to be sure, if they were to comprehend all of this, that their feeling is no feeling, their voice-leading no voice-leading, they would still be—and here my sympathy with the truly pitiful comes into play—incapable of bringing forth feelings and voice-leading in an artistically useful and valid way unless they were favored by God. This certainly does not excuse me, however, from returning once more in this context to the Urlinie, specifically in its role as the source of voice-leading. I have chosen the Prelude No. 5 in D minor from Bach’s Twelve Little Preludes, which was presented in the main text of this volume. In Fig. 1a, the notes of the Urlinie can be seen in the two-voice Ursatz. One may already observe that this setting is somewhat freer than the voice-leading that would be formed in the setting of an actual cantus firmus—the material given here would not be enough for a cantus firmus setting—but in any case the purity

That is what the Bach-missionaries would have to teach. Should, however, the foreigner, the farmer, and the savage be more taken by the art that they acquire through gramophone horns or telephone lines, {45} the Bach Society need not despair: few are the religious societies who are discouraged when at first their work does not succeed. Every breach in the lines will be filled by another undaunted missionary, and so on through centuries and millennia. But in Germany, where Bach came into the world, the Bach Society today should confer upon him the rank of something like an absolute artistic dictator, to speak in contemporary terms, who calls the hard-pressed German music back to its senses. He alone is capable of bearing witness, with godly authority, to its own eternal laws; he alone, finally and for the first time clearly heard, would be capable of expelling all who, with commercial interests in place of musical abil-

10Gotthold Ephraim Lessing (1729 – 81), German dramatist, critic, and aesthetician. In his Laocoön: On the Limits of Painting and Poetry (1766), Lessing sought to define the separate functions of painting and poetry, holding that the former concerns itself with spatial relationships of a seminal moment, while the latter concerns itself with movement, and must depict events in temporal sequence.

9Friedrich Schiller, Die Antiken zu Paris, composed in 1800 in reaction to the organized plundering of ancient artistic treasures carried out during Napoleon’s Italian campaign of 1796.

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in the progression of intervals is in accordance with the precepts of strict counterpoint. Fig. 1b offers a prolongation of Fig. 1a. On what is this based? Simply on the fact that an octave descent is called upon to help express the retention of a single Urlinie note and a single interval (the third or tenth): without affecting the meaning of the principal progression, it provides an opportunity to increase the musical content, to generate motives, to express small-scale multiplicity and unity— in short, to bring a stationary note to life. Although within the octave descent the voice-leading may also—and this has its own justification—comply with the demands of strict counterpoint, its principal validity remains the derivation from the fundamental voice-leading in Fig. 1a, which alone authenticates it as an octave descent, that is, as the interpretation of exactly one note and one interval. The prolongation in Fig. 1c follows: it is based on the insertion of chromatic notes, which are forbidden in strict counterpoint, but which here in free composition take the place of the diatonic steps, in order to give the appearance of cadential closure. The justification of this voice-leading lies once again above all in its derivation from b) and a),11 even if it also has its own justification. It is exactly the same with the subsequent prolongations in d), e), and f): all of them can be related to the voice-leading in a), b), and c). So, one has to say that if the final realization were not traceable to the Urlinie’s voice-leading in a), by means of the prolongations in e), d), c), and b), it would not have the cogency and perfection that we admire in it. Accordingly, we stand here before several voice-leading levels, mounted on the first of the Urlinie notes. But this entity, far beyond everything purely concerned with voice-leading—precisely in this expansion lies its true significance— moreover bears witness to tonality, becomes one with it, and constructs synthesis and form! {46} Now I hope people will understand me when I say that, just as, on the one hand, only the feeling for the Urlinie brought to the masters the capability for improvisation as the original foundation of their art of elaboration and synthesis (thus in a narrower sense it also provided the logic for the prolongational transformations), on the other hand, those who are not truly called must lack the arts of improvisation, elaboration, synthesis, and prolongation, since they have been denied a sure grasp of the Urlinie, from which alone all of these capabilities and arts arise. Those creating without the Urlinie must therefore painstakingly piece together a whole out of ideas and motives of dissimilar origin and dissimilar 11The

goals as well—the wide range of crescendo, accelerando, etc. should not deceive one about this: it is only the throwing up of hands out of embarrassment—and those who recreate without recourse to the Urlinie must proceed bar by bar, like many old men who read what is written or printed by moving their heads along the lines. Synthesis has been discussed sufficiently in the main text, but regarding prolongation I want to take an important example, in order to clearly distinguish myself from the young composers: the case of the symphonist Bruckner, who in many respects, after all, is considered to be their master. (In the appreciation, indeed the awe, of the ideas that he himself unfortunately cared to call “themes,” I completely agree with his most glowing admirers, but the question of his deployment of musical motives is of secondary consideration beside the more important issues of synthesis and the art of prolongation.) In point of fact the art of prolongation, as it is seen in our Fig. 1b, was not at all attainable for a Bruckner; his ear could not even, in many cases, hear the beginning and end of a motion as an entity. (I am thinking, for example, of the close of the first movement of the Seventh Symphony, 28 bars before the appearance of the final pedal-point, and of the beginning of the first movement of the Ninth Symphony, bars 25ff, etc.) The two points remain without inner relationship to one another; and everything shoved and squeezed in between, though executed with so much art on an individual level, exhausts itself purely physically without any concern for connection (e.g., through the span of a third, fourth, fifth, sixth, or octave, which, however, must be present if the motion is to have any comprehensive coherence). Ultimately, such a purposeless mass represents nothing more than the throwingup of hands of the young fanatics12 mentioned earlier. But that is the fate of Bruckner, who also after all presents us, before and after, with wonderful tonepaintings—which is more than can be said for the legions that we hear performing nothing but the gymnastics of feeling, as it were, without our once hearing from them an intelligent word of music! German Form. The German nation should deeply regret the fact that nature denied to Goethe, the prince of poets, access to music. Whatever path he took in order to approach music, however he methodically worked out the received theories, as was his custom, nothing enabled him to overcome his original incapacity. Moreover, the theories that were provided to him were thoroughly inade-

original text gives “von b) und c),” an error.

12Gefühlsschwängler,

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a word made up by Schenker, from Gefühlsschwang (“flood of emotion”).

tonw i l l e 5 which do not contradict nature. These are his true wealth, for through them he learns to command not only the vast wealth of nature but also to rely upon the richness of sentiment.

quate. Thus, his observations were restricted mainly to the rhetorical and visual arts. But within a well-defined area of inquiry, in which all the arts share common traits regardless of the individual laws of each particular art form, such ideas, even if they do not refer directly to music, are nonetheless relevant to it. So, for example, when Goethe writes (in Diderots Versuch über die Malerei):

We possess countless such statements by Goethe, profoundly illuminating the arts in general. When he speaks specifically about music, however, about its postulates and effects, his thoughts go awry, no matter how general his pronouncements. For example, he writes in Sprüche in Prosa:

. . . Such an artist, a nation, a century of such artists constructs the rules of art, by example and in theory, long after art itself has appeared. From their spirit and their hand spring forth proportions, forms, and shapes, which nature’s creative power fills with substance. They are not concerned with ephemeral particulars, they do not conspire amongst themselves in order to pass off awkwardness as correctness, rather, they construct rules autonomously, following the laws of art. These laws remain true in the nature of the creative genius, just as nature in the larger sense always dutifully maintains the organic laws. It is certainly not a question of in which nation, or at which time, were these laws discovered and followed. It is not a question of whether in some other place, at some other time, or under different circumstances, one might have deviated from them, or whether one might substitute convention for the rule of law. Neither is it a question of whether the authentic rules were ever discovered or obeyed. Rather, one must boldly affirm that they had to have been discovered, and that, if we cannot ascribe them to the genius, we have in fact received them from him. They are that which he in his profound cultivation feels, [the laws] whose sphere of influence he does not fail to recognize.

The value of art perhaps appears most eminently in music, because it has no matter that must be accounted for. It is all form and content, and it elevates and ennobles everything that it expresses. To the poet, who is accustomed to think in terms of matter, it appears that music possesses none. He therefore concludes that it is all form and content, but does not know what to say about wherein or by what means it manages to be all form and content. The last words clearly betray that he is still unconsciously thinking about matter-oriented music, that elevates and ennobles everything “that it expresses.” Or: Music is sacred and profane. The sacred is completely in accordance with music’s virtue, and this is where it has the most pronounced effect on life, an effect unchanging throughout the ages. The profane is completely jovial. Or: The sacredness of church music and the joviality and playfulness of folk tunes are the two foci around which music orbits. At each of these points it inevitably demonstrates a specific effect: devotion or dance. Mixing the two is a mistake, watered down they become insipid, and when music tries to be descriptive or didactic or the like, it becomes cold.

Or: . . . Nature appears to operate for its own sake; the artist operates as a human being, for humanity’s sake. From that which nature grants us, we select in life the desirable and enjoyable only sparingly. {47} Everything that the artist offers to humanity should be, for the senses, cogent and pleasing, provocative and alluring, enjoyable and satisfying—and for the spirit, nourishing, educating, and uplifting. Thus the artist, grateful to the nature that bore him, returns a second nature, but one that is felt, thought, and perfected by humanity. For this to occur, the genius, the artist who is called, must negotiate the laws and rules that nature itself prescribed to him, laws and rules

Obviously Goethe, when using the phrase “all form and content,” must have been thinking only of the characteristics of “accountable matter,” which, however, with respect to form and content, say nothing about the real or the essential. About how music generates itself, clarifies itself, how it supplies its existence, its art, within and beyond itself, how through the Eros of the diatonic it rises out of Noise and Chaos, how it presents its own original life-form, full of sense and purpose, governed by the Moira of the Urlinie—about all of this Goethe knew noth-

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ing. The accomplishments of our great masters remained completely foreign to him, in terms of their intrinsic value as well as their relationship to the past and present of art. Beethoven himself, whom Goethe had the opportunity to know personally, was only an artistic celebrity to him, not an artistic experience. It was certainly not by chance that he let Beethoven’s and Schubert’s letters and dedications go unanswered. He did not see the magnificent expanse of blue heavens, with the light of so many suns shining on him and on his nation! He did not hear the voices of the godly, of Bach, Handel, Emanuel Bach, Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert! He, who studied all the regions of the earth and all generations, rendering in German verse their most priceless possessions, missed that which could not have been nearer to him in time or place: a German world of form that stands alone in the history of art! Granted, our masters did not take pen in hand to give their own accounts of their artistic views and creations, or to offer explanations to each other, as did Goethe, Schiller, and many other poets. Principles of music criticism were lacking in their world, and so it came to be that a general comprehension of the youngest and least accessible art was not nor could be achieved. Thus, when one spoke of or wrote about German form in general, the forms of German music did not come into question, as if among German arts the art of music did not exist. But who dares to doubt that Goethe would have found only the proudest, most noble words to glorify the authentically German formal will and formal capacity, if only he had grasped its glory!? “With all other arts one must be generous, to the Greek alone one remains forever indebted.” Thus concluded Goethe his observations on world art history,13 thereby implying not only the validity of comparisons based on relative worth and rank, but also subtly expressing his consciousness of his own superiority. What better confirmation of this could there have been than that which he would have drawn from the recognition {48} that the form of German music also far exceeded the forms of other nations! What a comfort it would have been for him, in his solitude—and for his nation in its solitude—to know that he was not the only one who bore witness to the German capacity for form; rather, he was accompanied by the masters of tonal art! Why do I speak of this today? Because German intellectuals, literati, and dilletantes do not tire of calling into question the German capacity for form, and for this they constantly cite Goethe in evidence. Accustomed to sniffing around all the intellectual marketplaces and appealing to the authority of Goethe as well, 13Aus

they are always bringing up his great esteem for foreign literature as proof of the lesser value of German literature. They do this without being able to distinguish between the discriminating mind of the chosen and the incapacity of the unchosen for discrimination; without being able to achieve through their constant adjustments and repositionings (which are obviously merely tautological) the slightest success in their contemplation of art and the laws in which it seeks to develop itself, in which it remains immutable. They lack the intellectual power to comprehend why Goethe, in his incomparably beautiful German, untiringly praised the vocation of genius; or why he, to cite one example, placed the greatest of the French at an appropriate distance from the Greeks (see above) and even from himself. Of course, it would never occur to the literati and intellectuals to deny that a Voltaire was capable of depth or closure, as Goethe himself does; or, confronted with a Diderot, to speak of “his well-known sophistical guile,” or even of a “surprise attack from the deformed French [französischen Fratzensprung] . . . against which this nation, in its most serious matters, can never be sufficiently on its guard.” But they always have Goethe at the ready, whenever anyone dares tell them the truth: the German too has form, one even deeper and truer than, for example, the French. Indeed, he goes even further, into the realm of politics, he who proclaims this truth as much for the honor of art and truth as for the comfort of this nation, which is so unspeakably despised and vilified the world over. And all of this is because they still haven’t a clue about German musical art, they still set it aside when considering the question of German formal will and formal ability, and all because to their star witness, Goethe, nature denied access to music! It might appear that in saying all of this I am trespassing on foreign territory. Not so. I have more right to pull poetry, sculpture, painting, and philosophy into my field of vision than those intellectuals do to discuss a German musical art, which is certainly not by any means within their grasp. I mean, of course, when it is not a matter of defending German art against the slipshod efforts, currently in fashion, resulting from German aversion to and incapacity for form. In that case, I hold fast to the maxim: I am only concerned with the musical art that I know. Those multicultural window-shoppers would like to make an example of me, but they should first listen to my teaching about German formal capacity before they presume to claim that the Italian, French, Anglo-Saxon, Buddhist, Japanese, Chinese, and God-knows-what-other forms are superior to the German. It is time that Germans came to know the highest spiritual good they still possess, one that can never be stolen, even if all their other possessions are taken from them. I could even call the attitude of those reckless, irresponsible intellectuals a se-

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tonw i l l e 5 similarly capable artists were concentrated in the same era, and united in the furtherence of the same art. Among the probable reasons I find the following most important: emulation feeds talent; as soon as envy is aroused admiration turns to imitation, and cultivated with the greatest diligence this imitation quickly reaches its zenith. It is difficult to remain there for long, however, and what does not progress must regress. And so at first we take the trouble to follow our leaders; but then, when we despair of ever equaling them, our diligence fades with our hope—and ultimately one stops reaching for that which one cannot attain. One no longer strives for that which has already been achieved by others, but instead looks for something new. Thus we leave behind that in which we cannot excel, we go out and seek a different goal for our strivings. It seems to me that this vacillation provides the greatest impediment to bringing forth fully realized works.

rious crime, if I didn’t know better than any of them how much more difficult the approach to German musical art and its world of form is than the approach to the syrupy, lascivious cabarets and little forms that win the cheap applause of all the world. If only I could make the German musical forms appear just once, as they really are, before the very ears of the intellectuals, they would understand—provided they brought along their ears—that this art had, has, and will forever have no equal, and that the ears of humanity have still not completely opened to it. And who knows then if the children, whose little hands one holds so happily during their youthful games, and the adults, who stand as children before this art—if all of these children, great and small, might one day become capable of art? Epigones. The intellectually and mechanically gifted set about building a city in the plains of Shinear and erecting a tower “with its top reaching to heaven.” Since a task of such enormity exceeded their lifespans, they were forced to entrust its continuation to their descendants. But these did not have the genius of their forebears. They no longer understood the original plans, yet they continued to build frantically, overconfident that they would “make a name for themselves.” Thus the Lord in the fullness of his mercy put an end to their passion for building, “thence he scattered them across the earth, so that they would be forced to stop constructing their city.” When construction of the tower began, the creatures {49} still possessed a “single tongue and language,” but afterward they neither understood the language of their ancestors nor the languages of each other. This is how I read the venerable legend of the Tower of Babel (Genesis 11). It recounts in vague outlines the tragedy of epigonism, a tragedy that repeats itself in all types of human activities, that has already repeated itself innumerable times throughout history and in all lands, and that will be repeated innumerable times to come. The hallmark of epigonism remains the confusion of language: it is no longer the “single tongue and language” of the genius! In his text on Winckelmann,14 Goethe cites a passage from the Roman historian Vellejus Paterculus that reads as follows:

But Goethe does not entirely approve of this line of thought, prefacing it with the following remarks: Vellejus Paterculus observes with great interest the similar rising and falling of all the arts. Of particular interest to him, a man of the world, is the idea that they were able to keep themselves at the pinnacle of achievement for only a short time. From where he stood he was not capable of seeing all of art as an animate being (zwon) that must of necessity present an imperceptible beginning, a gradual maturation, a brilliant moment of perfection, and a gradual decline, just like any other organic being, except that in this case it is divided among many individuals. He provides only human factors as causes. These are certainly not out of the question as partially relevant, but they do not satisfy his keen intelligence, because he believes that a pattern is operative here—one that cannot be assembled from random elements. Compare this with Goethe’s reading of the Babel story and the following thoughts from Sprüche in Prosa:

Anyone who follows the discourses of the era will discover that the grammarians, painters, and sculptors went the way of orators; moreover, excellence in art was limited to a very small period of time. I always wonder—without ever arriving at the fundamental truth—why several 14Winckelmann

The struggle between the old, the prevailing, and the persistent on the one hand, and evolution, cultivation, and transformation on the other, is always the same. From all order stems pedantry. In order to break free of it, one destroys it, and some time passes before one realizes that things must

und sein Jahrhundert.

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tive’s urge to unfold and reproduce, and our soul’s need for causality, etc.17 Must we not then recognize in the life of the tones a life just like our own, dependant on reproductive urges and the laws of the soul, just as we see our own lives reflected in the lives of animals and plants? Are not human life and nature in general reflected in art? The epigone, on the other hand, lacks the power to introduce nature into art in such a way that the artwork belongs equally to art and to nature. Neither by creating nor by imitating is he able to experience this communing of art and nature. He cannot maintain his hold on the fifth, and without it and its fruits he goes astray, into a nature that is completely unrelated to art, wherein it only “appears to operate of its own will.” In this raw nature, which is nothing like nature, he wastes the better part of his strength. He himself feels and insists that he is a child of nature. In order to underscore this point, he again and again spews out phrases such as “my feelings,” “I am first and foremost a human being,” and the like, thus distancing himself more and more from art. He understands neither the essence nor the language of art, and even less that of the genius, and he utters their names falsely. (Perhaps the only hint of what might deserve to be called aristocratic thinking can be seen when he exhorts his contemporaries, for heaven’s sake, not to deny him recognition in the way that their predecessors denied recognition to Bach or Beethoven. This conjures up the image of ranks of others, supposedly likewise unappreciated: Stamitz, Richter, Schobert, Kalliwoda, Kozeluch, etc. May he not be counted among them!) The life of an epigone is this: He is born, he exists: “The day of his baptism should have been the day of Creation” (Goethe).18 His ancestors having passed away, he thinks that their ideas are buried with them. Thus he believes he is called to renew humanity with his own body and soul. In the language of a contemporary: “because for us—and this is really ‘calling’, not only the right but the law of all youth—the world did not exist before we created it!”

be put in order again. Classicism and Romanticism, corporatism and individualism, holding fast to and shattering the foundation: it is always the same conflict, begetting again in the end a new one. The wisest solution would be to balance this struggle in such a way that neither side would lose out to the other and both would be considered equal. This wisdom, however, has not been granted to humanity, and neither does it appear to be the will of God.15 Notice how these closing remarks resonate with his closing remarks on the Babel story: But this attempt went awry just like that first endeavor: they were not destined to be at once prosperous and prudent, neither both numerous and united. Yahweh confused them, the work remained unfinished, the people dispersed. The world was populated but divided.16 Goethe is in agreement with the oldest poets of the Holy Book, through whom the Lord says: “Come, let us go down and confuse their very language, so that not one of them will understand the speech of another.” Epigonism is undoubtedly the will of God. Among a people who are no longer (or still not) capable of expressing what they would like to say arises the genius, who alone is capable of saying what he has to say, what he wants to say. He is thus the only mouthpiece of humanity. His tongue is the first to give things their names and so create them for the first time. The fact that the genius derives the laws of art from nature makes him capable, because of the internal coherence of those laws, of constructing an art that as a sort of second nature displaced nature itself (in the above-mentioned letter to Prince Galitzin, Beethoven remarks “how art is grounded in nature . . . and nature is grounded in art”). The genius takes the fifth from nature, and anchors {50} in it the triad, the relationships between triads and between scale-steps, and all diatonic relationships. Through artificial artistic procedures, he arrives at the fourth as the inversion of the fifth, and further, in the area of voice-leading, achieves coherence through the use of fifth-, fourth-, octave-, and third-spans. All of these are elaborations of individual chords, and bring motives into the world, just as the elaboration of a single triad creates all the individual ones that are also expressed horizontally by the Urlinie. This reflects in a multitude of ways the mo15Aus 16Aus

17[S]This topic is treated in my “New Musical Theories and Fantasies” (Universal Edition, Vienna). [Schenker’s use of the term motive here is more consistent with his earlier published writings on the topic, such as can be found in Harmonielehre (p. 4/p. 4). In the published version of Der freie Satz, Schenker frequently uses the term “motive” in a derogatory sense, to refer to what he considered to be trivial and obvious repetitions. He contrasts these with “diminutions,” repetitions generated on distinct structural levels and serving to unify a musical work organically (see §§251– 54).] 18This is taken from the poems grouped under the rubric “Sprichwörtlich.”

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tonw i l l e 5 For the call of the testator, as Goethe expresses it, . . . möchten sie doch zugleich bedenken Was wir ihnen als Eingebinde schenken.

values. The masses unfortunately have no idea that talent is inversely proportional to quantity. {51} If the solitary epigone is unable to do anything, a mass of epigones will be able to do even less. Among the masses there prevails a secret desire (albeit a very strong one) to escape the compulsion to work that nature holds over them and over all humanity. The masses are unfit for learning or for work, but always hungry for the fruits of foreign talent and foreign labor. Even though nature did not grant hereditary succession to the genius, the few geniuses that occur naturally would be more than sufficient for a humanity that is in general very limited, if only the masses had the sense to avail themselves of other aristocratic systems (self-willed, not god-willed) during periods in which genius was absent [Genie-Vakanz], and to concede the value of hereditary privileges (again, self-willed, not god-willed). How much better it would be for the masses if they honored somewhat less the selected person and instead, with the fear of God, honored that nature which through its selection bestows upon them the fulfillment that would otherwise be inaccessible to them. But the masses do not grasp the true meaning of selection. To them all selection, all aristocraticism—be it manifest in the genius, in royalty, nobility, etc.—is a thorn in their side. This is why they attempt nothing less than to exchange all types of selection for the power of the masses. They invoke “human dignity,” “human freedom,” and “progress,” as if each human face by nature signified human dignity, and each human existence human freedom and progress—as if nature did not likewise effect the dignity of all other living beings, including animals and plants. The masses have no idea that those precious goods are things not of this world, that they only fall on those who are called by the selection of nature and not by majority vote, social or parliamentary device, and the like. And so they clear their path of all impediments in order to actualize their delusions by force and organization. They cast off royalty (but at least they refrain from deposing the queen bee!), republicanize Shakespeare, and commit other similarly ridiculous acts. At the same time, they fail to notice the cruel, almost cocky joke played by history, turning their own battle cry against them: “What is your value? You take the trouble to be born, nothing more” (Figaro, in the comedy by the so-called adventurer Beaumarchais)—not only against royalty and nobility but also against the masses themselves, who base their new human nobility once again on none other than the value of birth, on nothing more than their taking the “trouble to be born”! Thus, the new mass nobility governs a plebeian age: “Authority”? None. “Life”? Chaos, at best the search for barren systems. “Youth”? A paraphrase of de-

If you would only at the same time keep in mind Everything that we bequeathed to you.19

he has no ear. He doesn’t learn, he cannot learn anything. He doesn’t travel, he remains decrepit and foolish until death. Reverence is unknown to him. (By way of contrast, Goethe writes: “My sentiments were always by nature inclined towards reverence, and it would have required great force to shake me from my belief in the venerable”).20 In this the epigone is ungrateful from the bottom of his heart. And even though he does not measure up to the standards of art in general (or, what amounts to the same thing, though he is not good enough to be considered among the best of all time), he explains that above all he wants to meet the standards of his own time. In this way he believes that he will be asssured of his place in history. Meeting the standards of his own time for him signifies setting the automobile, the cinema, the airplane, and the like to music, publishing art as if it were the best-informed morning, midday, or evening newspaper. Unfortunately, he is too weak-minded to realize that later epigones, following the same reasoning, will do the same thing: forget their forebears, himself included. He lives for overviews instead of insight, he fancies himself objective (his favorite word), but he knows nothing about everything. His reality, his calling, is to destroy anything that is grounded and coherent. His internal chaos allows him to tolerate nothing but chaos externally as well. Presumptuous and self-deluded, he takes criticism as if it were intended as a vicious personal attack. Yet he becomes surprisingly amiable, even humble, when—awkwardly—in order to admit to a shortcoming, he casually drops in one’s ear or onto paper the little word, blanketed in fog, “error.” To him, his destructive acts are at worst nothing but an “error.” He definitely does not want to understand himself, and has every reason not to want to. The genius usually goes it alone, but the epigone is always among the masses. Thus, epigonism is always a phenomenon of the masses, and obeys the laws that are characteristic of the masses in the political and social spheres as well. The strength of numbers substitutes for talent in the creation of new cultural couplet follows immediately upon the citation of note 18. meinem Leben, part 1, book 1.

19This 20Aus

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velopment, again in the best case the search for schemata. “Freedom”? The freedom to have no ideas, to speak a sort of corrupted high German, to wear patentleather shoes, short skirts, and the like. Brain? Lacking refined tastes, they stuff it full, no matter whether with truth or error, just as a hungry person stuffs his stomach with whatever is at hand. “Their souls smell of death” (Heraclitus). (The only possible hint of an aristocratic mindset that is also perhaps present in the masses is a longing for something better, but this trace is obscured by a more powerful desire to be free from unpleasing work, or from work in general.) And the end?—Twilight of the Epigones. The end of the individual epigone is the following: The more he loses his way in nature, the more he separates himself from the rest of the mass individuals, even though he remains part of the masses in general. Eventually he is left distorted, disproportionate, corrupted and crippled, standing apart from those other individuals in untutored solitude (thus only connected to nature, not to art), just as in nature one animal, one rock, or one tree stands apart from others of its kind. He erroneously calls such brutality, such devolution into raw nature “higher being” or “technical progress.” Finally, nature closes in on him and buries him under its weight, and art finds no reason to protect him. Goethe, in Diderot über die Malerei, writes: “The artist must know the limits of his abilities, he must cultivate his dominion within the confines of nature. However, he ceases to be an artist when he merges with nature or dissolves into it.” And elsewhere: “The person who gives free rein to his impulses and appetites distances himself more and more from the unity of the whole, indeed even from those that might be similar to him. He makes no demands on humanity, and thereby separates himself from humans. This holds equally true in the moral and the artistic realms, because when all human actions derive from a common source, they all produce similar results.” But the end of the epigonous masses is the following: They become “the multitude of tyrant masses” (Goethe).21 Destruction becomes an occupation, whose profits are shared by the sly and cunning, as if they were business associates.{52} Still, the masses babble on, “tomorrow like today,” about freedom, self-determination, and progress in politics and in the religion of art. But it is only: “The common people take folk remedies, with neither a doctor nor a prescription.”22 21Epigramme, 22Epigramme,

Expressed more forcefully: after taking a step towards its trainer, the horse remains a horse; so, too, the masses, after taking a step forward, remain masses. In the end, weary of their fruitless efforts, they feel a stirring of desire for external salvation. The radiant form [Lichtgestalt] appears. Although he sees it, the epigone does not recognize in it the human being that yesterday he sought in himself, in others. He revolts against the radiant form, though resistance is futile. The radiant form draws the circle, like the sun, giving light and warmth, creating and developing new life. It is foolish to wish away the epigone: his coming is inevitable. It is unnecessary to want to evict the masses from the earth, to “de-mass” them: nature takes care of that. Let them come then, singly and en masse. They will not unhinge nature, selection, and its derived aristocratic institution of genius, the heroes of nation and humanity! Does not history repeat itself exactly in the same way? It certainly repeats itself in succeeding epigones with geniuses. Because just as epigonism is willed by God, so too is genius.
“ ook!” Diotima suddenly cried out to me. I looked, and wished to be swept away in the almighty vision. Athens lay before us like some immense shipwreck, when the gales have died down and the sailors have fled, and the corpses of the wrecked fleet lie unrecognizable upon the sand bar. The deserted columns stood before us like naked tree trunks in a forest that had been ready to leaf out in the evening, but had gone up in flames at night. “Here,” said Diotima, “one learns to be calm about one’s fate, be it good or evil.” “Here one learns to be calm about everything,” I continued. “If the harvesters who worked this field had filled their barns with the harvest, nothing would have been lost, and I would be content to remain here as a gleaner. But who really gained from this? “All of Europe,” replied one of our companions. “Oh, sure!” I cried, “they dragged off and sold amongst themselves the columns and statues. They valued the noble forms highly merely on account of their strangeness, just as one values parrots and monkeys.” “Don’t say that!” he responded. “If the soul were really missing from all these beautiful things, it would have been because it could neither be bought nor taken away.”

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tonw i l l e 5 “Indeed!” I cried. “That soul perished even before the destroyers fell upon Attica. Not until the houses and temples were deserted did the wild beasts brave the gates and alleyways.” “For whoever possesses that soul,” Diotima said comfortingly, “Athens still stands like a blossoming fruit tree. The artist himself can easily complete the torso.”

nome,” or to make us “wary of all metronome markings.” On the other hand, we should not allow ourselves to believe that Beethoven neither undervalued nor overvalued the metronome, or that his original metronomic indications {53} should be maintained as the only ones worthy of our attention.27 We could of course be more informed about the value of Beethoven’s indications in a much more reasonable manner if only we knew how Beethoven resolved the conflict between freedom in the performance of his works and the rigidity of the metronome in the moment in which he determined his metronome markings. Imponderable and inexpressible tempo adjustments (the necessity of which Nottebohm does not doubt: see p. 134 of his essay28), together with those that are expressible and thus clearly indicated, più allegro, più adagio, adagio, rit., a fermata sign, and so on: was all this the concern of the Master? Did he base his metronomization on an imagined orchestral performance, or merely on a piano transcription? The value of Beethoven’s indications depends on the answers to these questions; but who today would dare to propose these answers? Nottebohm resigns himself to the explanation that I quoted above (Tonwille 5, p. 10/I, p. 182). In view of the impossibility of completely clarifying those questions here, I recommend a simple means of testing Beethoven’s indications. It is well known that Mälzel’s metronome is based on the divisions of the minute, so that the equation given by the composer corresponds to the number of beats in one minute: taking the Fifth Symphony as an example, 108, 92, 96, and 84 beats in the four movements, respectively. Anyone who has a pocket watch outfitted with a second hand can use it as a substitute for the metronome, at least insofar as it enables one to establish the number of beats per minute. Moreover, the pocket watch offers a significant advantage over the loudly ticking metronome, namely, that one can attend to the artistic liberties of a performance without being disturbed by the metronome’s constant, pendular beats. In the first movement of the symphony the beat is equal to one half note, i. e. one bar; thus, we have to complete 108 bars per minute. In the second movement, ⫽ 92 in 3/8 time yields 92:3 or roughly thirty bars per minute. In the third movement, . ⫽ 96 in 3/4 time gives exactly

Hölderlin, Hyperion23 Beethoven’s metronome markings. The metronome markings in Beethoven’s symphonies are his own. In 1817, the Viennese publishing firm of Steiner issued a pamphlet giving the tempo markings of the movements for each of the first eight symphonies and the Septet, Op. 20.24 In 1826, the markings for the Ninth Symphony were added.25 In the first volume of his collected essays on Beethoven, Nottebohm has carefully compiled everything ascertainable from the sources concerning Beethoven’s opinions of the metronome, both for and against.26 Because Nottebohm himself recognized the shortcomings of the metronome, it was easy for him to align himself with Beethoven’s point of view, and so he writes: A valid point that can be made against the metronome is the incongruity of its even pulse with a pulse that is in fact musical, and the difficulty that thus arises in trying to base the tempo of a composition on the uniform ticking of a machine. It is well known that it is difficult to play a piece through completely to the beat of a metronome, and that metronome markings applied to the same piece in different eras are rarely in complete accord. The objections that one could make—and that Schindler in part did make—against the metronome could be grounded on these bases. However, all of these objections are not enough to convince us, as Schindler was convinced, of “the low esteem in which the master held the metro23Friedrich Hölderlin’s Hyperion oder der Eremit in Griechenland, the story of a disillusioned combatant for the liberation of Greece, was published in two volumes in 1797 and 1799. The character of Diotima is a reincarnation of the spirit of Ancient Greece. 24Bestimmung des musikalischen Zeitmasses nach Mälzel’s Metronom. Erste Lieferung. Beethoven. Sinfonien Nr. 1– 8 und Septett von dem Autor selbst bezeichnet (Vienna, S. A. Steiner, 1817). 25[S]The metronome markings for the piano sonatas are not Beethoven’s, except the ones for Op. 106; see my editions of the sonatas for Universal Edition. [Schenker’s edition was reissued in 1975 by Dover Books, New York.] 26Gustav Nottebohm, “Metronomische Bezeichnungen,” Beethoveniana: Aufsätze und Mittheilungen (Leipzig and Winterthur: Rieter-Biedermann, 1872), pp. 126– 37.

p. 130. refers here to “the whole of Beethoven’s artistic nature,” and to the fact that contemporaries reported his preference for rhythmically free performances of his music. If his failure to provide metronome markings was at times deliberate, this may not have resulted from indecisiveness (Beethoveniana, pp. 134 – 35). 27Beethoveniana, 28Nottebohm

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96 bars per minute. In the last movement,  ⫽ 84 in common time yields 84:2 or forty-two bars per minute. If it turned out that after one minute one had in fact covered the required number measures, enjoying all the liberties of performance, the Master’s metronome marking would thereby be confirmed, regardless of the manner in which he himself may have calculated it. This means of confronting Beethoven’s metronome markings leads in many cases to the surprising observation that he desired a performance markedly faster than today’s. The observation is confirmed by every conductor who consults a metronome (see, for example, Weingartner on the performance of Beethoven’s symphonies,29 and compare the citation from Nottebohm on p. 10/ i, p. 182). This clearly represents a more significant problem than the first one described. For, while a transcribing or printing error in the metronome markings cannot be completely ruled out, it is possible that the Master had a definite purpose for these tempos, which now seem too quick for us. Take, for example, the second movement of the same symphony: who can tell whether Beethoven’s indication is incorrect, or whether it is really intended to produce a more fluid performance? (Compare in this respect the metronome markings for the second movement of the Third Symphony.30) One has to consider that Beethoven’s creative process, like that of all the great masters, was based on improvisation (more on this on another occasion),31 to which alone can be credited the achievement of synthesis in his works. Thus, it is quite possible, even probable, that in copying his own works he still retained the same breath from whose expression he initially created them. In other words, while copying he might have soared towards the same distant goals that he had sought in the original creative process! We, on the other hand, who have not yet begun to learn how to hear his works— let alone to follow such flights—merely pace off the bars and, being incapable of synthesis, stroll through the individual moments of beauty, thus losing sight of the whole. Consider his profound fingerings in the piano works, the delightful

finger exercises brought to light by Nottebohm (who evidently undervalues them and thus unfortunately presents all too few of them),32 the curious pedal devices that I have replicated from the original in my editions of the piano sonatas,33 and other bold performance techniques, such as changing hands during the execution of a single trill in the fugue of Op. 106 (bars 118 –19, 121– 22), or his original legato, whose effect so struck his contemporaries, etc., etc.: anyone who is familiar with all of this must conclude that, also in the performance of his symphonies, Beethoven surely stood among the elite, as one of the true Beethoven conductors! If in directing he relied upon the strangest gestures, {54} as he was obliged, given that the content demanded them (what a shame that the movie camera was invented too late), his contempories, for lack of comprehension, associated them with his deafness instead of with the content. Today, still without true comprehension, we would at least give him credit for his superior conducting technique. In a copy of Calm Sea and Prosperous Voyage, Op. 112, Beethoven wrote: “ ⫽ 84 Mälzel’s metronome. NB In this first tempo the conductor should lift his hands as slightly as possible, except in the forte part (in the first bar a little higher, then backing off in the second and third bars and returning to the most imperceptible motion in the fourth), so as not to suggest even the slightest disturbance, rather external calm.” Do these words not cast a significant light upon Beethoven the conductor?34 One should never speak about tempo in general without considering the musical character [Tongebung] upon which tempo depends completely. Returning to the previous example, if the Master had really insisted on a faster tempo for the second movement, he undoubtedly was thinking of a lighter, more tender character for the cellos and violins in the opening of the movement than that which 32[S]Zweite Beethoveniana: Nachgelassene Aufsätze (Leipzig: Rieter-Biedermann, 1887), pp. 356ff. [Most of Nottebohm’s examples are taken from the miscellany of 122 loose manuscript leaves from Beethoven’s early years, which was owned by the Viennese collector Johann Nepomuk Kafka, and which Nottebohm consulted before Kafka sold them to the British Museum in 1875. The entire “Kafka Sketchbook,” as these leaves are commonly referred to, was published in facsimile and transcription, under the editorship of Joseph Kerman, as Ludwig van Beethoven: Autograph Miscellany from Circa 1786 to 1799 (London: British Museum, 1970).] 33[S]For example, in Op. 31, No. 2, first movement, bars 143 – 48 and 153– 59; in Op. 53, finale, bars 101, 105; in Op. 109 and Op. 110; and so on. 34[S]Otto Jahn, who owned this copy, remarked in his essay on Beethoven and the editions of his music (in Gesammelte Aufsätze über Musik, [Leipzig,] 1866, pp. 271ff), “in another sense, this commentary is comical.”—It’s tragic.

29In his monograph On the Performance of Beethoven’s Symphonies (see note 34 of the Tonwille essay immediately preceding), Felix Weingartner cautions in general against taking a composer’s metronome markings too literally (p. ix). He recommends slightly slower tempi than Beethoven’s for the first two movements of the Fifth Symphony, but approves the composer’s indications for the scherzo and finale. All in all, Weingartner seems to suggest that contemporary performances (1890) are, on the whole, too slow. 30In his later essay on the Third Symphony, Schenker repeatedly referred to Beethoven’s metronome mark as leading to the correct interpretation; see Meisterwerk III, pp. 95– 97/pp. 65– 66. 31The fullest treatment of this thesis occurs in the essay “On Organicism in Sonata Form” in Meisterwerk II (pp. 43 – 54/pp. 23– 30).

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tonw i l l e 5 we now find appropriate. (I will have more to say about this in my discussions of the other Beethoven symphonies.)35 The relationship between tempo and musical character is such a universal law that even the performance of a crescendo is affected by it. A crescendo that grows mechanically note by note clashes with the content so much so that it becomes necessary to slow down the tempo. In contrast to such a prosaic interpretation, a subtle direction of the tonal mass towards a specific goal, as if the goal were a point of light, not only makes the tempo more fluid but also by means of a psychological illusion makes the crescendo more believable and effective. And so, perhaps by eliminating all of the distortions that are threatened by a false sense of musical character, it will be possible to follow Beethoven even in his quicker tempos—despite our incapacity for synthesis.

man culture to rebuff them. Thus, the arrogance and tactlessness that those people assume in their dealings with us, in speech and in writing, in private and in public, in clubs and in societies, on water and on land, in cities and in villages, is all the more unbearable. They impose themselves everywhere, grabbing for themselves—through force or deceit—our best plazas and our most beautiful mansions. They shatter the peace of our homes with their uncouth shouting, sit at our dining room tables, sprawl their bodies, their legs across our benches, and hem us in for sport.38 Are we already the world’s handmaiden? Are we already in the world’s ghetto? What do you want, you foreigners? What pride do you take in such scorn and derision? Do you perhaps think that we must be caged by your hatred, because we are not like you? Must we accept from you whatever comes our way? All of us, myself included? A thousand times no—I must not, I will not! I know you only too well—whence you came, whither you are going. But do you know who I am? I will tell you: That I am no Sebastian Bach, no Handel, no Beethoven, Haydn, or Mozart, no Schubert, Mendelssohn, Schumann, or Brahms—this I know better than all of you. Before them I am dust, not worthy of the wind that bears it aloft. What all of you, what each and every one of you do not know, but what I know very well, is that to you it has not and will never be granted to bring forth even the likes of me. {55} Gifted by the grace of our greatest ones, I hold up a mirror to musical art, in a way that no one has been able to do before—neither the philosophers of antiquity, the Middle Ages, or the modern era, nor the musicians, music historians, or aestheticians, nor all of them combined. I am the first to demonstrate music’s own laws, that which constitutes its own life. I present the soaring ear of the German masters, their improvisatory creations, their synthesis. I show their boldness in the aural dimension, the likes of which have until now been experienced only in the dimensions of the other senses. Following our masters, I have, as it were, for the first time opened the aural dimension to the word and to communication, thereby enriching human existence with a new dimension. Until now humanity had only the eye and the hand—the ear lay fallow. The eye took flight, absorbed worldly material for words and writing, for daily life and art. The hand also took flight, flying even more than the eye, and grasped for

A Bach Prelude Mit dieser Welt ist’s keiner Wege richtig. In this world there is no right path. Vergebens bist du brav, vergebens tüchtig. In vain you are honest, in vain competent. Sie will uns zahm, sie will sogar uns nichtig! It wants us tamed or even annihilated! Goethe36 Man sagt: Eitles Eigenlob stinket; das mag sein: was aber fremder und unge rechter Tadel für einen Geruch habe, dafür hat das Publikum keine Nase.

One says that vain self-praise stinks; that may be. But when it comes to the smell of foreign and unjust blame, for that the public has no nose. Goethe37

The World War, which began as a war of thievery supported by secret treaties and lengthy military buildup, and which was later continued as a war of capital to recover loans that had been lost as a result of German victories, has today become a war of commerce and culture. It was not that, after the armistice and the peace treaty imposed upon us, the enemy sent us cultural envoys to convert the German barbarians to some sort of culture, namely their own. Quite the contrary: everything they sent us—diplomats, generals, bankers, journalists, idle talkers, freeloaders, costly consultants, usurers, carpet-baggers, women activists, fascists, legionnaires, etc., etc.—in fact only confirmed the appropriateness of using Gerthe analysis of the Third Symphony in Meisterwerk iii (pp. 93– 99/pp. 63– 67). Xenien. 37Aus Kunst und Althertum. 35See

38Sperren sie uns mutwillig: as the verb is missing its normal prefix (einsperren), Schenker’s meaning is ambiguous.

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originally inclined, and arriving late, you will need hundreds of years to absorb the achievements of the great masters who appeared to us in proudly closed ranks, as if by an especially propitious whim nature had made genius hereditary in this isolated case—all the better that the golden age of humanity will have arrived. Now you know! I have completed a noble, humane, and worthy work, in the face of unspeakable need, hardship, and opposition, and without personal gain— and now, because I am not one of you, I am simply supposed to accept your scorn as if I had it coming. Would that not be to shame my accomplishment, my worth, before you? Why should I surrender the value of my work to your judgment? Because you insist that you waged a war of freedom, when in fact you waged a cowardly war of thievery, a money war, an oil war? Because in hating us you believe yourselves to be ethical? Because while cradling children in a bed of lies, or while continuing to vilify us, and sealing all the files, you believe yourselves to be moral and well-mannered? Because you speak of rights, while cowardly unleashing your armies on us (whom you have disarmed), stealing the Rhine and our colonies, and breaking into our safes? Because you discuss your freedom and your culture (though you lack the culture of truth and depth, which is the beginning of all freedom), while taking from us our freedom and self-determination, inflicting fascist torture on our children, and dragging our girls and women off to your Negro brothels? Because you insist on the fulfillment of contracts that you yourselves have broken? {56} Because you fancy yourselves nations of gentlemen and believe in your mission, when there are surely no missions that the German nation, with the minds of a Leibniz or a Kant, the eyes of a Dürer or a Goethe, and the ear of a Bach or a Mozart could not fulfill a thousand times more honestly and surely than you? But what do your delusions matter to me? Should I not say that the badger stinks, although as is nature’s will he does not notice it himself? Should I not call the tiger a ferocious beast, although in his natural innocence he does not perceive himself to be ferocious? So what should stop me from likewise judging you, who are also God’s creatures, according to your actions and thoughts, and not according to your delusions? Therefore I say to you: as your lives and deeds are, so shall you be. As they are base, so shall you be base and vulgar! And to all of your scorn I say: just as all of your imperialisms, your money-bags, foundations, trusts, businesses, armies, presidents, statesmen, and all of your fathers and children are nothing before a short, tiny prelude by Sebastian Bach, so shall you be nothing before him who first heard and communicated this prelude, all of you, every one of you shall be nothing before me, a German speck of dust! For the German souls

everything within its reach—lands, continents, women, and wares. These two organs were driven by sexual desire. The artists saw clearly and portrayed masterfully, but all was still mere copying or representation of the world and its people, as their eyes and hands grasped and comprehended them. When the human soul came under consideration, it was depicted as the soul of a creature that, again, lived only by eye and hand. The ear indeed served the purpose of communication among humans, and even in the earliest times it may have fulfilled its function as protection against the elements, or against enemies (man or beast). But with respect to its own world, the ear, I say again, still lay completely fallow. For the first time the German people—the most spiritual and profound of all peoples—created wondrous musical art and thereby opened up a new world, one that had nothing to do with the eye or the hand, or with sexuality. Our great masters unlocked the ear’s own realm, its own art; they were the first to demonstrate what aural creation and aural flight really are. If you who are differently disposed do not believe in the vocation of the German people, it is only because you still do not comprehend what kind of salvation would be possible for humanity if, once and for all, it could break free of the eye and the hand and reach a realm that, unsullied by lies, weapons and the battle of the sexes, spreads itself wide open in peace and pure spirit like a paradise, while still reflecting that which is most human. We have already reached impenetrable frontiers. Humanity rules earth, water, and air—will its urge to expand, its eyes, its hands, encounter other elements? Where? The folly of the demos has reached its end, its theorems and systems disproved. The hand of greed has been exhausted by its own overindulgence. One may place one’s hopes in the global economy, but sooner or later this folly will likewise be disproved: eventually one recognizes that money cannot be a surrogate for religion, morality, art, philosophy, and authority. Moreover, in compliance with the laws of nature (as an artist I think about a transference of the law of the Urlinie), the medium of exchange must always be that which was the first to come into the world. What, then, will be left to humanity but to resign itself to the frontiers which eye and hand cannot finally penetrate? When there is nothing more to rob, nothing more to steal, O, then you will surely long to learn from the Germans how to hear—and then you will have to turn to me, the German speck of dust. What your eyes have seen as beauty, grace, worth, pride, and defiance, the love, family, and state that you yourselves have made, all of this you will hear in the realm of our musical art, with a soaring ear, a thousand times more clearly than you could ever see it. Not being

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tonw i l l e 5 that you are stealing now, I alone will make your people a hundred times more subservient to me. You have dismissed the German language that once even you cultivated—what can the language of an economically impoverished people possibly say to you today? But because of me you will have to take it up once again, because it is impossible to translate into your languages the words of truth, least of all the truth of musical art that you so completely oppose. Among the Germans, those who themselves are arrogant may find these words presumptuous. To them I say that I compared those people with our great ones, and only indirectly with myself. Thus, it is different than the case of those who compare everything only to themselves, as if they themselves were the great ones. To be sure, the likes of a Beethoven scratched out Bonaparte’s name from the title page of the Eroica, thereby saying far more than the French are capable of understanding. But I who am so poor must unfortunately resort to words. Still other Germans, the politicians, will perhaps accuse me of making a foray into politics. To them I say that it is not a question of politics for me, rather it is only a question of culture, that obliges me, as a contributor, to defend it against scorn and misunderstanding. In the politics that they have in mind, what has been lost is an emphasis on self-worth, or—if the term is allowed in this context—the politics of values! Which is it, politics or values, that pressed Goethe in 1808 to write words like these:

master on to his throne again, and you off of yours! Go ahead and scoff at the law, in the end you will be brought down by it! Bring it on, Frenchman! To fight you it’s now or never! If you take this sentiment from the Germans, or—what is the same—tread it underfoot, you will soon find yourself under the foot of this nation! You can see that I am trembling from head to toe. I have not been this agitated in a long time. Give me this report. Or, rather, take it yourself! Throw it on the fire! Burn it! And when you have burned it, collect the ashes and throw them into water. Let the water simmer, bubble and boil! I myself will put wood on the fire, until everything has vanished, until every last letter, however small, every comma and every period has gone up in smoke and steam, so that not the tiniest bit of its dust remains on German soil! And we must also one day do the same to these presumptuous foreigners, if things are to get better in Germany. (according to Johannes Falk, 1832)39 {57} And when Goethe says (Aphorisms in Rhyme): Die Franzosen verstehen uns nicht. Drum sagt man ihnen deutsch ins Gesicht, Was ihnen wär’ verdrießlich gewesen, Wenn sie es hätten französisch gelesen.

Misfortune! What is misfortune? It is a misfortune when a prince has to put up with the likes of foreigners in his own house. And if it were to go as far as it once did for Johann, where both his downfall and his misfortune were certain, we should not let it confound us, rather, with staff in hand we would accompany our master in his suffering—just as Lucas Cranach did with his—and loyally endure at his side. Women and children, meeting us in the villages, will cry, raise their eyes, and say to one another: there goes old Goethe and the erstwhile duke of Weimar, who was dethroned by the French emperor because he was so loyal to his friends in their misfortune; because he visited his uncle, the duke of Braunschweig, on his deathbed; because he did not want to let his old comrades-in-arms and campmates die of hunger! . . . I will sing for bread! I will become a ballad-singer and set our misfortune to music! I will enter every village and every school, wherever the name of Goethe is known. I will sing of the shame of the German people, and the children will learn by heart my song of shame, until they become men and use it to sing my

The French don’t understand us. Therefore one says in German to their face, What would be vexatious to them, If they had read it in French.40

or: Verfluchtes Volk! kaum bist du frei, So brichst du dich in dir selbst entzwei. War nicht der Noth, des Glücks genug? Deutsch oder Teutsch, du wirst nicht klug.

Accursed nation! No sooner are you free Than you break yourself in two. Was there not enough trouble, not enough fortune? German or Teutonic, you will not be clever.41

is it really about politics or the dignity of mankind? No! As far as I am concerned, the politics of professional politicians is an exceedingly transitory affair. I know that for a long time to come people will be cooking and eating one another like cannibals, only each time the feast will be given a different name, more gruesome in peace than in war. I know that everything pertaining to human political and social history boils down to this: that a man holds his nose when another empties his bowels, but feels good when he mit Falkâ J. D.: 9. Mai 1808. Xenien. 41Zahme Xenien. 39Gespräch 40Zahme

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does it himself; and that he shouts and makes accusations when he has been robbed, but is happy about the spoils that he himself steals. In this I completely agree with remarks I have come across recently by Galsworthy and Pastor Frenssen (in his excellent Letters from America), that human beings today are still no more than monkeys or tigers, and that nations are still as animalistic as they were in the Bronze Age.42 So I do not do politics. I am simply clearly conscious—as few Germans are— of the cultural war, which is a non-political, holy war. Even the German globetrotters and Demos-tourists have caught on quite a bit: “We live in an era of absolutism—political, miltary, or social—an era in which democracy has become profoundly weak, making room for the cult of the individual, of the mercenary soldier, of the successful terrorist, and of the ruthless politician.” Constrained by commercial concerns, they still fail to draw from this the necessary conclusion: that obviously Demos is conceptually bound to absolutism and terror everywhere—east and west, north and south—so that he bestows exactly the opposite of what is expected by his sycophants. Yet, despite this disillusionment, they remain absorbed in their adulation of foreign economic and military power. For them, foreign might is always superior to their own, as if our nation could live by art and science alone, as if it were the duty of a nation to let itself be nailed to a cross as did the Savior! And as true slaves to money, they bow down so low before the foreign money-slaves that they cannot even see their impudent noses, let alone find defensive words that would even come close to matching the force of this humiliation. Now and then even our followers of the demos concede that none other than

“the great Saxon emperors created the German nation,” yet they nonetheless concern themselves—in the midst of the cultural and economic war—with irrelevant and contradictory things. They speak of “class,” as if this non-entity could replace the nation. They deal with “pan-Europe,” as if it hadn’t already existed for a long time, and as if the treason that was perpetrated upon us with similar Utopias during the war were still not enough (why don’t these stubborn fanatics put foreign nations to the test?). They reform the teaching of history: the emperor should be replaced by the inventors of the loom, the sewing machine, and the steam generator, as if these people—worthy, to be sure—were capable of giving the nation a soul. They are absorbed in their intrinsically German “selfness” (Goethe), but never outgrow the Northcliffs and Rothermeres.43 And saddest of all: accustomed to gaping at foreigners, and still not in complete possession of their inherited cultural goods, they destroy these at a speed never before witnessed in the history of destruction, thus working hand-in-hand, suffocated by progress and practically surrounded by euthanasia, with the enemies who are after the same end. But should I be troubled by the misery of all of these crooked spines, these twisted souls (if it be fitting to use that word)? Should I be disturbed by the present rejection, my rejection by all of those who still do not understand me, who speak of theory, analysis, syllable-counts, or who are stuck in unhappy occupation, directing, playing, criticizing? Firm in the calm conviction of my own worth, I have done my duty with respect to myself and my work. I will not have done it in vain, if my words straighten the spine of but one of those lost souls, and if he who has thus been redeemed is thereby readied for the defense of German culture!

42John Galsworthy (1867–1933) and Gustav Frenssen (1863 –1945). Schenker is probably referring to Galsworthy’s short essay “Demos,” originally published in The Nation (London) in 1907, and reprinted in A Commentary (London: Grant Richards, 1908). In it, Galsworthy’s narrator, a country pastor, describes a wife-beating peasant who confronts him: “And I saw that this was not a man who spoke, but the very self of the brute beast that lurks beneath the surface of our State . . .” Frenssen’s Briefe aus Amerika (Berlin: G. Grotsche, 1923) is a collection of letters sent home to Germany during the author’s tour in 1922.]

43Harold Sidney Harmsworth, Baron Rothermere of Hemsted (1868–1940) and his brother, Alfred Harmsworth, Viscount Lord Northcliff (1865–1922), were the most powerful newspaper proprieters in London. They are considered the founders of modern popular journalism.

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Index

Preliminary note: Apart from “Urlinie” and “Ursatz,” which have been left untranslated, technical terms are given in English with the original German (if different) in parentheses. Where these terms are defined or discussed as theoretical concepts, the page-number references are italicized. Terms that appear very frequently in the text are marked by an

asterisk (*): page-number references are given—in italics—only if, and when, they are discussed as theoretical concepts. (One such term, *arpeggiation [Brechung], has no page references given because it is not discussed as a theoretical concept, though it appears frequently.)

Aaron, 18, 132 Abel, 8 adagio (sonata movement), character of, 77, 87, 106 addition (extrapolation) of a root (Auswerfen eines Grundtones), 76 n.8, 112 Adlung, Jacob, 129 n.44 Algeciras, Conference of, 5 n.26 Allegri, Gregorio, 172 allemande, characteristics of, 146 Alsace (Alsatia) and Lorraine, provinces of, 5 n.20, 13, 123, 129, 135 Altmann, Wilhelm, 26 n.4 Archimedes, 11 Armagnac, 5 n.13 Arnstadt, 164 Artaria, Domenico, music publisher, 83– 85, 114 n.38, 167 ascending formula, ascent (Anstiegsformel), 101 Auernhammer, Josepha Barbara, 170 n.48 Aulard, French historian, 129 n.44 Auskomponierung. See elaboration Austria, Austro-Hungarian Empire, 6, 10, 48 n.16, 129. See also German Austria, Republic of

No. 2 in C, BWV 939, 145 No. 3 in C minor, BWV 999, 175 – 76, 180, 181 n.3 No. 4 in D, BWV 925, 142 n.4, 145 n.1, 177 – 79 No. 5 in D minor, BWV 926, 176 no.7, 178 n.3, 180 – 81, 212– 13 Well-Tempered Clavier, ix Book I, Prelude in C minor, 100, 162 n.9, 176, 177 n.2 Book I, Prelude in E
minor, 34– 38 Book I, Prelude in F, 118 – 20 Book II, Fugue in C, 165, 210 Book II, Prelude in F, 192 Bach, Wilhelm Friedemann, 143 – 44, 177 n.1 Bagge, Karl Ernst Freiherr von, 124 n.21 Barbusse, Henri, 14 Beaumarchais, Pierre-Augustin, 218 Bechstein, piano manufacturer, 67 Beecke, Ignaz von, 169 Beethoven, Ludwig van, ix – x, 13, 20, 66– 67, 112 – 14, 116, 130– 31, 137, 161, 210 – 11, 215 Calm Sea and Prosperous Voyage, Op. 112, 221 metronome markings, 182, 220

Babel, Tower of, 160, 216 – 17 Bach, Anna Magdalena, xi, 166 Bach, Carl Philipp Emanuel, 38, 64, 112, 116– 17, 176 Allegro in G, Helm catalogue 193, 146 n.3, 148– 49 Sonata in C, Helm catalogue 244, 150– 52, 154 Versuch über die wahre Art, das Klavier zu spielen, xi, 102, 148 n.1, 166– 67 Bach, Johann Bernard, 165 Bach, Johann Christian, 46, 69– 70 Bach, Johann Ludwig, 165 Bach, Johann Sebastian, 6, 116– 17, 129 n.44, 146, 160, 163 – 66, 194, 210 – 11 Aria in C minor, BWV 991 Art of Fugue, 39 Chromatic Fantasy and Fugue, 210 fingering, 165 Inventions, Two- and Three-Part, 163 Italian Concerto, 78 St. Matthew Passion, 166 Toccata in D, BWV 912, 177 “Twelve Little Preludes,” xi, 143 n.7, 224 No. 1 in C, BWV 924, 141– 44, 181; alternative version, BWV 924a, 143 – 44

227

Mass in D (Missa solemnis), Op. 123, 193 Piano Concerto No. 3 in C minor, 185 n.7 Piano Concerto No. 4 in G, 25 Piano Quartet in C, WoO 36, No. 3, 83 Piano sonatas, 39 Op. 2, No. 1, in F minor, 99; analysis of, 72 – 82; fingering in, 87-88, 92; literature on, 88 – 95; performance of, 85 – 88; sketch for, 83; textual problems in, ix, 83– 85 Op. 10, No. 3, in D, 192 Op. 26 in A
, 61 n.8 Op. 27, No. 2, in C  minor (“Moonlight”), 101 n.8, 196 Op. 31, No. 2, in D minor, 32 n.13, 221 n.33 Op. 31, No. 3, in E
, 189, 192 Op. 49, No. 2, in G, 158 – 59, 176 no.7 Op. 53 in C (“Waldstein”), 76, 221 n.33 Op. 57 in F minor (“Appassionata”), 83 n.22 Op. 81a in E
(Das Lebewohl), 44, 85 n.26 Op. 101 in A, 85 n.26, 92, 150 Op. 106 in B
(“Hammerklavier”), 114 n.38, 192, 220 n.25, 221

index Beethoven, Ludwig van, Piano sonatas (continued), Op. 109 in E, 150, 206, 221 n.33 Op. 110 in A
, 221 n.33 Op. 111 in C minor, 189 Septet in E
, Op. 20, 220 String Quartet in F, Op. 59, No. 1, 87 String Quartet in E
, Op. 74, 87 Symphony No. 3 in E
(Sinfonia eroica), 25 n.1, 201, 221, 224 Symphony No. 4 in B
, 25 n.1 Symphony No. 5 in C minor, 94 – 95, 110, 136 analysis of, 25 – 33, 202 – 7 autograph corrections to and sketches for, 25 – 26, 182 – 84, 202, 207 “Fate knocks at the door,” as thematic interpretation, 27, 29, 184, 187, 189, 191, 194, 197, 201 literature on, 185 – 201 performance of, 29, 184– 85, 189, 200– 1, 209, 220 – 21 textual matters concerning, 182 – 184, 207 – 9 Symphony No. 9 in D minor, 193, 220 Bekker, Paul, vii–viii, xi–xii, 186 n.8, 201 Berlioz, Hector, 113, 137, 168, 189, 190 n.21 Bible, quotations from and references to, xii, 7, 8, 9, 15 n.79, 18– 19, 113, 128 n.40, 132, 134, 160 – 61, 189, 216 – 17 Bilin´sky, Leon, 10 Birnbaum, Johann Abraham, 129 n.44 Bismarck, Otto von, 6, 11, 14, 122, 131, 133 n.63 Blüthner, piano manufacturer, 67 Boer War, 5 Bombet, A. C. See Stendhal Brahms, Johannes, 6, 114 n.38, 168 A German Requiem, 165

Brandenburg, Sieghard, 184 n.5 Breitkopf & Härtel, publishers, v, 44 n.3, 167 British and Foreign Bible Society, 211 n.7 Brown, Clive, 184 n.5 Bruckner, Anton, 77, 89 Symphony No. 7 in E, 213 Symphony No. 9 in D minor, 213 Buddecke, Colonel, 132 n.59 Buddhists, 164 Bülow, Hans von, 119– 20, 193, 198 Bümler, Georg Heinrich, 163 Burnham, Scott, 89 nn.30 and 32, Busoni, Ferruccio, 210

Dante, 135 Danzig, 129 Darwin, Charles, 65 Debussy, Claude, 45, 172 degree, scale degree (Stufe), 22– 23, 52, 76, 118 Delbrück, Hans, German historian, 129 n.44 democracy, democrats, 6, 8– 10, 12, 14, 53, 65, 68, 70 – 71, 125, 128, 131 – 33, 136, 225 Denmark, 129 Deutsch, Otto Erich, 129 n.33 diatonicism (Diatonie), 57 Diderot, Denis, 215 Dieupart, Charles, 165 *diminution, 52, 54 divider, dominant (Teiler, [Ober-] Quintteiler), 77, 176 n.7, 203, 206 Don Juan, 69 Dorten, Hans Abraham, 17 n.94 Dostoyevsky, Fyodor, 137 Dubiel, Joseph, xiii Dulles, John Foster, 48 n.18 Duport, Jean – Pierre, 126 Duschek, Josepha, 69– 70 Dussek, Jan Ladislav, 66

Caccini, Giulio, 54 caesura (Einschnitt), 99, 111, 115 Cain, 8 Caldara, Antonio, 165 Cannabich, Johann Christian, 169 n.42 Cannabich, Rosina Teresia, 169 Carpani, Giuseppe, 14 n.75, 167 – 68 Cherubini, Luigi, 113 n.38 Chopin, Frédéric, 6, 20, 56. 176 Polonaise in B
, Op. 71, No. 2, 120 Christians, Christianity, 7, 10 Chrysander, Friedrich, 146 n.1 Clarté, movement, 14– 15, 168 n.32 Clémenceau, Georges, 7 n.38, 17 Clement IV, Pope, 124 n.20 Clementi, Muzio, 192 n.26 Gradus ad Parnassum, 193 climate, effect on artistic genius, 114 Colloredo, Hieronymus, prince-archbishop of Salzburg, 68 – 69 Congo Free State, 5 n.16 Cotta, J. G., publishers, v Couperin, François, 70 Cranach, Lucas Creel, Edgar, 15 n.83 Czerny, Carl, ix, 27, 37– 38, 85, 88, 194

Ebert, Friedrich, 128 n.38 Eckermann, Johann Peter, 114 Edward VII, king of England, 9 Egypt, 114 Ehrlich, Paul, 134 n.68 Eichendorff, Joseph Freiherr von, 13 Eichner, Ernst, 116– 17 *elaboration (Auskomponierung), 52– 53, 76, 141, 145 encirclement, 9, 136 Encyclopedists, 9, 65, 125– 26 England (Great Britain), the English, 7, 9, 13– 14, 16, 19, 45, 124, 132 English language 123, 135 – 36 Enlightenment, 9, 113, 136, 162, 172

228

Ephialtes, 7 Epictetes, 211 epigones, 211, 216 – 219 Esterhazy, Prince Nikolaus, 113 Eulenberg, Herbert, 171 – 72 exchange, 5 – 6 (5 – 6-, Quint- und SextAuswechslung), 56, 82, 103 – 6, 118 n.1, 142, 152 exchange of voices (Stimmentausch), 101– 2, 156 Fachsmund, Ferdinand. See Gregorovius, Ferdinand Falk, Johannes, 224 Federhofer, Hellmut, vii Fernhören. See long-distance hearing Fiji Islanders, 211 Filtz, Anton, 117 Finck, Hermann, 135 Fischmann, Leo, attorney, vi Foch, Ferdinand, 12 n.65, 132 Forkel, Johann Nikolaus, 36 Forte, Allen, x France, the French, x, 7, 10– 11, 13– 16, 20, 23 n.8, 44– 46, 65– 66, 69– 71, 122– 27, 129, 134– 37, 169, 171, 212, 224 Franck, Johann Mathias, 112 Franco-Prussian War, 5 n.20, 132 Frankfurter Zeitung, newspaper, vii Franz Ferdinand, archduke of Austria, 10 n.50 Franz Joseph, emperor of Austria, 10 n.50 Frederick II, king of Prussia, 124 n.14 Frederick Wilhelm II, king of Prussia, 126 French language, 46, 112, 123, 126 French Revolution, 5 n.14, 122 n.8, 125 Frenssen, Pastor Gustav, 225 Frescobaldi, Girolamo Alessandro, 165 Frimmel, Theodor von, 131 Fux, Johann Joseph, 47 n.15, 163

index Galitzin, Prince Nikolai, 210, 217 Galsworthy, John, 225 genius, artistic, 3 – 4, 10– 11, 22 – 24, 65– 66, 114, 160 – 63, 166, 189, 214, 217 – 18 German Austria (Deutsch-Österreich), Republic of, 12, 44, 47. See also Austria, Austro-Hungarian Empire Germany, the Germans, 3– 4, 6, 9– 20, 24, 45– 48, 64, 66, 68 – 70, 112 – 14, 121 – 29, 131– 32, 134– 37, 163, 168, 171, 222 – 25 Gluck, Christoph Willibald Ritter von, 24, 65, 130 Gobineau, Joseph-Arthur, comte de, 13 Goethe, Cornelie von, 68 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von, 6, 11, 13– 14, 53, 68, 106, 113– 14, 121, 123– 25, 130, 132– 33, 161, 179, 211, 216 – 19, 222 – 25 and music, 213 – 16 Graun, Carl Heinrich, 163 Graun, Johann Gottlieb, 163 Graupner, Christoph, 95, 164 Gregorovius, Ferdinand Adolf (Ferdinand Fachsmund), 130 Griesinger, Georg August, 114 n.38, 170 n.48 Grigny, Nicolas de, 165 Grillparzer, Franz, 163, 170– 71 Grimm, Friedrich Melchior Baron von, 65, 129– 30 Groener, Wilhelm, 128 n.38 Grove, George, xii, 29, 193, 195– 97 Guines, duc de, 46 Habsburg, monarchy, 44 n.4 Halm, August, 164 n.18 Handel, George Frideric, 117, 163, 164 n.17, 210 – 11 Suite in G, HWV 441, Allemande, 146 – 47, 149 harmonic rhythm (Stufenrhythmus), 61 Harmsworth, Alfred. See Northcliffe, Lord

Italy, Italians, 12– 13, 15 – 16, 19, 66, 124, 126 melodic style of, 54, 68

Harmsworth, Harold Sidney. See Rothermere of Hemsted, Baron Hasse, Johann Adolf, 163 Haydn, Joseph, 64, 95, 167 – 69, 170 n.48 artistic assessment of, 112 – 14 The Creation, 114 n.38, 161 The Seasons, 114 n.38 Sonata in C, Hoboken XVI:35, viii, 153– 55, 158 Sonata in E
, Hoboken XVI:52, viii, 154 n.4, 176, 177 n.2 analysis of, 99– 112 editions of, 99 n.1 literature on, 115– 17 Symphony No. 101 in D, 103 n.12 Haydn, Michael, 69– 70 Hebbel, Friederich, 122 Hehemann, Max, 195, 196 n.31 Heinse, Wilhelm, 171 – 72 Helvetia, Republic of, 127 n.35 Heraclitus, 219 Herder, Johann Gottfried, 47, 122 – 23, 136 n.80 hermeneutics, 21, 29, 92, 130, 194 Hertzka, Emil, v – x Hindenburg, Paul von, vii, 4, 9, 11, 128 n.38 history, historians of music, 52, 65 Hoffmann, E. T. A., 26 n.3, 186– 87 Hohenzollern, royal family, 128 Hölderlin, Friedrich, 6, 121, 137, 201, 219 – 20 Houben, Heinrich Hubert, 130 Humboldt, Alexander von, 130 Hummel, Johann Nepomuk, 67 Hus, Jan, 12

Jahn, Otto, 46, 65, 69, 126, 221 n.34 Jaurès, Jean, 9 Jean Paul, 6, 17, 45, 70, 126– 27, 135 Jesus Christ, 161 Jews, Jewishness, vii, 131 Joachim, Joseph, 164 n.17 Joan of Arc, 12 Jonas, Oswald, 148 n.1 Judas, 7 Kafka, Johann Nepomuk, 221 n.32 Kalischer, Alfred 183, 186 n.10, 187, 210 n,3 Kalmus, Alfred, viii Kamchatka, 127 Kant, Immanuel, 132, 135, 160 Keiser, Reinhard, 165 Keller, Gottfried, 127, 172 Kellner, Johann Peter, 143 n.7 keyboard instruments, comparisons among, 67– 68, 165, 167 Kiel, German port, 4 Kjellen, Rudolf, 121 Klindworth, Karl, 120 Kretzschmar, Hermann, viii, 193 – 195 Kroll, Franz, 36 n.4 Kübeck von Kübau, Carl Friedrich Freiherr, 130 – 1 Kürnberger, Ferdinand, 128 – 29 Langenmantel, Jakob Alois Karl, 124 – 25 Langenmantel, Jakob Wilhelm Benedikt, 124 Lâo–Tzse, 18 League of Nations, 5, 7 n.34, 15, 17, 122 Le Gay, André-Pierre. See Prémontval Leibniz, Gottfried Wilhelm, 135 Lenz, Wilhelm von, xii, 130, 188, 191 Leipzig, 164

India, 114 International movement, 4 Italian language, 123 Italo-Turkish War, 5 n.27

229

Leopold II, king of Belgium, 5 no. 16 Lespinasse, Julie-Jeanne Éléonore de, 171 Lessing, Gotthold Ephraim, 212 Lincoln, Abraham, 15 *linear (stepwise) progression [Zug], 22 Linnaeus, Carl, 13 n.69 Lischke, music publisher, 83– 85 Liszt, Franz, 67, 113 Litfass, Ernst, 5 n.22 Lloyd George, David, 7 n.38, 17, 135 Lobkowitz, Prince Franz Joseph von, 25 Logau, Friedrich, 122 London, 47 long-distance hearing, 22, 29, 77, 82, 164 n.19 Lotti, Antonio, 165 Louis XIV, king of France (“Sun King”), 5, 8 n.43, 13, 128 – 29, 135 Ludendorff, Erich, 4, 9, 11 Luther, Martin, 6 Lützow, Countess, 170 Magyars, 6 Mahler, Gustav, v Malmedy-Eupen, 129 Mälzel, Johann Nepomuk, 220 Mannheim rocket, 95 Mann, Thomas, 5 n.17, 168 – 69 Marchand, Jean Louis, 129 n.44 Marie-Louise, Princess, 14 n.78 Marne, Battle of, 12 Marpurg, Friedrich Wilhelm, 129 n.44, 210 Marseillaise, La, 5 Martini, Govanni Battista, 68 Marx, Adolf Bernhard, ix, xii Anleitung zum Vortrag Beethovenscher Klavierwerke, 92, 188 – 189 Die Lehre von der musikalischen Komposition, 66– 68, 89– 92, 115– 16 Musical Form in the Age of Beethoven, 89 nn.30 and 32, 91 n.41

index Marx, Karl, and Marxism, 4, 17 – 19, 24, 94, 113, 128 Masaryk, Tomásˇ Garrygue, 10 Mélac, 128 Memel, 129 Ménage, Gilles, 124 Mendelssohn, Felix, 13, 189 – 90 n.21 Messchaert, Johannes, 164 n.17 Michelangelo, 137, 188 mixture, modal (Mischung), 41, 103, 106, 111, 141, 143 Mizler, Johann Christoph, 163 – 64 Moltke, Helmuth Karl Bernhard, Graf von, 14, monarchy, monarchists, 6 n.30, 18 Monroe Doctrine, 15, 18 Monroe, James, 7 Mörike, Eduard, 13 Morocco, 5 Morzin, Count Moses, 18, 22 n.6, 132 Mozart, Leopold, 124 n.19, 125, 129– 30, 171 – 72 Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus, 24, 113 – 14, 116, 137, 162, 171 – 72, 176, 188 artistic assessments of, xii, 11 n.55, 64– 71 Concerto for Flute and Harp, K. 299, 46 Idomeneo, 65 n.12 letters to his father, x, 45 – 46, 66, 70, 124 – 25, 169 – 70 on performance, 169 – 70 Piano Concerto in C, K. 246, 170 n.44 Piano Sonatas K. 309 in C, 169 K. 310 in A minor, 55 – 64, 82, 99, 177 n.2 K. 311 in D, 76, 87 K. 545 in C, 155 n.5, 156– 58 Serenade in D (“Haffner”), K. 250, 69 n.17 Symphony in G minor, K. 550, 69 n.17, 94 – 95

Müller, August Eberhard, 67 Müller-Reuter, Theodor, 197 Musikblätter des Anbruch, journal, vii Myslivecˇ ek, Josef, 124 n.18, 169

Palestrina, Giovanni Pierluigi da, 165 Palikao, comte de, 128 Paris, city of, 45– 47, 70, 130 Pantheon, 125 particularism, 13 Päsler, Karl, 99 n.1, 167 passing, passing tone (Durchgang), 51, 155 Persia, 5 Peters, C. F., publishers, v philistines, 6 Piccinni, Niccolò, 65, 130 Pierron, Mlle., 170 Pisendel, Johann Georg, 163 Plato, Platonic idea, 22, 161 Poincaré, Raymond, 11, 169 Porpora, Nicola Antonio, 112 Prémontval, 123 Princip, Gavrilo, 10 n.50 prolongation, 213 Prometheus, 19

Nagel, Willibald, 94 Naples, 68 Napoleon (Bonaparte), 9, 14, 44 n.1, 128, 133, 212 n.9, 224 Napoleon III, 128 navalism, 5, 12 Neberich, Adam, 186 Neefe, Christian Gottlob, 116– 17 Neue freie Presse, Viennese newspaper, xii Newman, Ernst, 135 n.74 New York, 47 nodal point (Knotenpunkt), 27, 29, 78 Northcliffe, Lord (Alfred Harmsworth), 122, 225 n.43 Nottebohm, Gustav, viii, 26, 83, 95, 182, 193, 195, 204, 207, 220 – 21 Novalis, 133

Quantz, Johann Joachim, 163 Rameau, Jean-Philippe, 70 Ravel, Maurice, 45 Razumovsky, Count Andreas, 25 reaching over (Übergreifen), 206 register transfer, ascending and descending (Höherlegung, Tieferlegung), 35 – 36, 76– 77, 81, 99, 110, 147, 149, 152, 154, 158, 180 – 81, 192, 205-7 Reinecke, Carl, ix, 84, 94 – 95 Rembrandt van Rijn, 137 Reutter, Georg von, 112 Rhine river, Rhineland, 12, 129, 132 n.59, 168– 79 Richter, Franz Xaver, 117 Riemann, Hugo, ix. xii, 11 n.55, 94 – 95 Beethovens sämtliche Klavier-Solosonaten, 92 – 94

obligatory register (obligate Führung der Tonlage), 35, 153, 179 Oppersdorff, Count Franz von, 25 n.1 Orlando, Vittorio Emanuele, 7 n.38 Oster Collection (New York Public Library), xi – xii, 114 n.38 annotations to Schenker’s personal copies of Der Tonwille, 43 n.2, 99 n.4, 103 nn.13 and 15, 104 nn.18– 19, 110 nn.29– 30, 111 n.31, 118 n.1, 146 n.2, 156 n.3 sketches for works analyzed in Der Tonwille, 106, 156 n.3 outer voices, contrapuntal setting of the (Aussensatz), 53, 79– 80, 108 Ovid, 188 n.16

230

edition of Thayer’s Ludwig van Beethovens Leben, 191– 93 Große Kompositionslehre, 93– 94 Handbuch der Musikgeschichte, 68 – 69, 116 harmonic analysis, system of, 39 n.6 Katechismus der Fugen-Komposition, 39 – 40, 119, 210 Katechismus der Kompositionslehre, 94, 190– 91 Ries, Ferdinand, 85, 192 n.26 Rolland, Romain, 14, 168 – 69 Rothermere of Hemsted, Baron (Harold Sidney Harmsworth), 225 n.43 Rothgeb, John, x Rousseau, Jean-Jacques, 9 Rudolph, archduke of Austria, 44, 210 Russo-Japanese War, 5 Saarland, 13, 15, 129 Sadowa, Battle of, 14 Saint-Foix, George de, xii, 69– 71 salvarsan, 134 Scarlatti, Domenico, 70 Sonata in D minor (Kirkpatrick catalogue no. 450), 119-120 Scheibe, Johann Adolph, 163 Schenker, Heinrich editions of music Bach, C. P. E., keyboard works, v, 150 n.1 Beethoven, “Moonlight” Sonata facsimile edition, vii, 101 n.8 Beethoven, piano sonatas, 20, 83, 85 n.28 Handel, organ concertos, v editorial principles, viii – ix, 83 Erläuterungsausgaben (editions with critical commentary), viii Bach, J. S., Chromatic Fantasy and Fugue, v – vi, 36, 148 n.1, 165

index Beethoven, Die letzten fünf Sonaten, v–vi, 83, 130, 148 n.1, 150 n.2; Op. 101, xi, 22, 72, 168 n.33; Op. 106 (projected), 48, 83 n.21; Op. 109, 47 n.13, 206 n.43; Op. 110, 30, 35 polemics in the writings of, ix–xi translation of writings of, v, xi writings, published Beethovens neunte Sinfonie, v – vi, 30, 35, 74, 207 n.44 Ein Beitrag zur Ornamentik, v, 74, 84, 87, 148 n.1, 165 Der freie Satz, v, 35 n.3, 48 n.19. 67, 76 n.8, 78 n.13, 80 n.14, 103 n.14, 104 n.16, 141 n.1, 142 n.4, 156 nn.2– 4. 175 n.2, 176 n.5, 177, 203 n.38, 204 n.40, 206 n.43 Harmonielehre, 21 n.3, 34, 60, 64, 74, 76 n.9, 82 n.17, 90, 99, 101, 104 – 6, 110, 160 n.3, 175, 176 n.5 Kontrapunkt I, v, 27, 32, 36, 71 n.1, 87, 103, 108, 110, 164 n.17 Kontrapunkt II, 19 n.99, 76 n.10, 78, 118, 141, 155– 56, 175 n.4, 176 n.7, 204, 206 Das Meisterwerk in der Musik, v-vi, viii, 114 nn.37– 38, 166 n.26, 176, 210, 221 nn.30 – 31 Der Tonwille: children’s issue of, viii, xi; contents of, viii – xi; “Elucidations,” 176 n.7; materials deleted from, xi; publication history of, v– viii; title of, vi–vii, xii–xiii, 82 writings, unpublished “Freier Satz” (early drafts of Der freie Satz), xx, 21, 27, 36, 51– 52, 56, 60– 61, 76, 78, 80, 82, 100, 103 – 4, 105 n.20,

111 – 12, 118 – 19, 141– 42, 156, 176 n.7, 177, 206 Haydn, unfinished article on, 114 n.38 “Musik-Kritik,” vii – viii Niedergang der Kompositionskunst, 160 n.3, 189 – 90 n.21 Schiller, Friedrich, 121, 201, 212 Schindler, Anton, 27, 85, 182, 187, 191, 193, 220 Schleswig-Holstein, 129 Schobert, Johann, 67, 69– 70, 116– 17 Schopenhauer, Arthur, 13, 162 Schöpflin, Johann Daniel Schubert, Franz, 215 Gretchen am Spinnrade, 42 n.1 Ihr Bild (from Schwanengesang), 41– 43 text setting, 41– 43 Schumann, Robert, 67, 211 Schurig, Artur, x, 65, 69, 125, 171 – 72 Schweitzer, Albert, 165 – 66 Second Viennese School, v Sedan, Battle of, 14 Senegal, 5 n.15, 7 n.40, 18 n.95 sexuality, 223 Shakespeare, William, 66, 137, 218 Silesia, 128 Sinai, Mount, 64 Sinzheimer, Hermann, 9 n.45 Skagerrak, Battle of (Battle of Jutland), 12 Slavic nations, 6, 10, 12– 13, 19 Smetana, Bedrich, 6 – 7 String Quartet in E minor (From My Life), 6 South, nations of the, 7, 113 – 14 Spa, Conference of, 71 Spain, 124 Spanish-American War, 5 Spanish language, 123

Spinoza, Baruch de, 18 Spitta, Philipp, 38– 39, 129 n.44, 165 – 66 Stamitz, Johann, 116– 17 Stein, Charlotte von, 17 Stein, Johann Andreas, 179 Steiner, Sigmund Anton, 182 n.1, 220 Steinway, piano manufacturer, 67 Stendhal, 14 n.75, 65, 167 – 69, 171 Sterkel, Johann Franz Xaver, 169 St. Germain-en-Laye, Treaty of, 7. 9 n.47, 47, 122 n.6, 136 Stölzel, Gottfried Heinrich, 163 Strasbourg, 14, 123 nn.12– 13 Strauss, Richard, v Sudetenland, 13 *synthesis (Synthese), 53, 70, 83, 114, 150, 213, 222 Tacitus, 131 Tchaikovsky, Peter Ilyich, 113 Telemann, Georg Philipp, 163, 165 – 66 Thalberg, Sigismond, 67 Thayer, Alexander Wheelock, 191 n.25 Thebes, 188, 211 n.5 Tissot, Jacques, 13 n.69 Toeschi, Carl Joseph, 117 tonicization (Tonikalisierung), 64 Tripoli, 5 Tyrol, 13, 15, 129 United States of America, Americans, 7, 8 n.43, 15 – 16, 48 Universal Edition, publishers, v–viii, x – xi, 3 *Urlinie, 21– 24, 52– 54, 166, 212 – 213 Ursatz, 212 – 13

231

Vellejus Paterculus, 216 Versailles, Treaty of, x, 7– 8, 9 n.46, 15 n.82, 48, 71, 122 n.6, 128 n.39, 131, 134 n.66, 136, 137 n.86, 162 Vestner, A., 163 n.14 Vienna, 44, 47– 48, 71, 168 – 69, 186 Gesellschaft der Musikfreunde, 83, 210 Staat- und Landesbibliothek, xi St. Stephen’s Cathedral, 112 n.35 Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra, 136– 37 Vogler, Georg Joseph (Abbé), 65 n.11, 66, 169 – 70 Vogler, Johann Caspar, 165 n.20 voice exchange. See exchange of voices Voltaire, 9, 125– 26, 215 Vrieslander, Otto, ix, 148 n.1, 149 Wagner, Richard, 23 – 24, 27, 29, 56, 189 – 90, 198 Waldersee, Paul Graf von, 166 Walsh, John, 146 n.1 Washington, George, 15 Weber, Aloysia, 69– 70 Weber, Carl Maria von, 67 Weingartner, Felix, ix, 136 n.79, 198 – 201, 221 Werker, Wilhelm, 210 West, nations of the, 4, 7– 12, 48, 113– 14, 122, 199 Wilhelm I, emperor of Germany, 6 n.30 Wilhelm II, emperor of Germany, 4, 5 n.26, 9, 18 n.97, 128 n.38 Wilson, Woodrow, 7, 11– 12, 15, 17, 122 Winckelmann, Johann Joachim, 171 – 72, 216 World War I, vi, x, 3– 17, 45 n.8, 48, 69 n.15, 128, 134– 36, 222 – 23 war-guilt, 9, 132 n.59, 135 Wyzewa, Théodore de, xii, 69– 71