Explorations in Schenkerian Analysis 1580465595, 9781580465595

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Explorations in Schenkerian Analysis

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Eastman Studies in Music Ralph P. Locke, Senior Editor Eastman School of Music Additional Titles of Interest Analyzing Atonal Music: Pitch-Class Set Theory and Its Contexts Michiel Schuijer Aspects of Unity in J. S. Bach’s Partitas and Suites: An Analytical Study David W. Beach Bach to Brahms: Essays on Musical Design and Structure Edited by David Beach and Yosef Goldenberg Explaining Tonality: Schenkerian Theory and Beyond Matthew Brown Formal Functions in Perspective: Essays on Musical Form from Haydn to Adorno Edited by Steven Vande Moortele, Julie Pedneault-Deslauriers, and Nathan John Martin Liszt’s Transcultural Modernism and the Hungarian-Gypsy Tradition Shay Loya Performative Analysis: Reimagining Music Theory for Performance Jeffrey Swinkin Reviving Haydn: New Appreciations in the Twentieth Century Bryan Proksch Stravinsky’s “Great Passacaglia”: Recurring Elements in the Concerto for Piano and Wind Instruments Donald G. Traut A Theory of Music Analysis: On Segmentation and Associative Organization Dora A. Hanninen A complete list of titles in the Eastman Studies in Music series may be found on the University of Rochester Press website, www.urpress.com

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Explorations in Schenkerian Analysis

Edited by David Beach and Su Yin Mak

Published online by Cambridge University Press

Copyright © 2016 by the Editors and Contributors All rights reserved. Except as permitted under current legislation, no part of this work may be photocopied, stored in a retrieval system, published, performed in public, adapted, broadcast, transmitted, recorded, or reproduced in any form or by any means, without the prior permission of the copyright owner. First published 2016 University of Rochester Press 668 Mt. Hope Avenue, Rochester, NY 14620, USA www.urpress.com and Boydell & Brewer Limited PO Box 9, Woodbridge, Suffolk IP12 3DF, UK www.boydellandbrewer.com ISBN-13: 978-1-58046-559-5 ISSN: 1071-9989 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Beach, David, 1938– editor. | Mak, Su Yin Susanna, editor. Title: Explorations in Schenkerian analysis / edited by David Beach and Su Yin Mak. Other titles: Eastman studies in music ; v. 136. Description: Rochester : University of Rochester Press, 2016. | Series: Eastman studies in music ; v. 136 Identifiers: LCCN 2016033864 | ISBN 9781580465595 (hardcover : alk. paper) Subjects: LCSH: Schenkerian analysis. Classification: LCC MT6 .E983 2016 | DDC 780.9—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016033864 A catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library. This publication is printed on acid-free paper. Printed in the United States of America.

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Contents Preface

vii Part One: Eighteenth Century

1

2

A Letter about the C-Major Fugue from The Well-Tempered Clavier, Book 1 Charles Burkhart The Opening Tonal Complex of Bach’s St. Matthew Passion: A Linear View Mark Anson-Cartwright

3

12

3

Recurrence and Fantasy in C. P. E. Bach’s Rondo in G Major Frank Samarotto

26

4

Voice-Leading Procedures in Galant Expositions L. Poundie Burstein

42

5

The First Movements of Anton Eberl’s Symphonies in E-flat Major and D Minor, and Beethoven’s Eroica: Toward “New” Sonata Forms? Timothy L. Jackson

61

Part Two: Early Nineteenth Century 6

Schubert’s “Unfinished” Symphony: Analytical Observations David Beach

7

Structural and Form-Functional Ambiguities in the First Movement of Schubert’s Octet in F Major, D. 803 Su Yin Mak

8

The Form of Chopin’s Prelude in B-flat Major, Op. 28, No. 21 Roger Kamien

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99

123

142

vi

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“All That Is Solid Melts into Air”: Schumann’s Overture to Manfred William Rothstein

co n tents

10 Endings without Resolution: The Slow Movement and Finale of Schumann’s Second Symphony Lauri Suurpää

155

177

Part Three: Late Nineteenth Century 11 Half-Diminished-Seventh Openings in Brahms’s Lieder Ryan McClelland

201

12 Motivic Enlargement in Dvořák’s Symphony Op. 70 Leslie Kinton

226

13 Deliverance and Compositional Design in the “Libera me” of Verdi’s Messa da Requiem Don McLean

241

14 Polyphony and Cacophony? A Schenkerian Reading of Strauss’s “Dance of the Seven Veils” Matthew Brown

283

15 A Force of Nature: Debussy and the Chromatically Displaced Dominant Boyd Pomeroy

303

Appendix: An Interview with Edward Laufer Stephen Slottow

328

List of Contributors

349

Index

355

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Preface Explorations in Schenkerian Analysis is a collection of essays written in memory of Edward Laufer (1938–2014), a prominent proponent of Schenkerian analysis, by former colleagues, friends, and students. Edward’s introduction to Schenker came in a seminar taught by Ernst Oster at Princeton, where Edward was enrolled in the doctoral program in composition and theory. Prior to his studies at Princeton, he had completed a master’s degree in composition at the University of Toronto and attended the Juilliard School of Music, where he studied composition with Roger Sessions, a major influence on his development, and piano with Edward Steuermann. At Princeton, he worked closely with several teachers, including Milton Babbitt, who was the advisor of his doctoral dissertation on Schoenberg’s Four Songs, op. 22. Why he never submitted this last requirement for the PhD degree remains a mystery to his friends.1 Perhaps the reason lies in the disappointing reception of his paper on this topic at the AMS meeting in 1973, or perhaps his interest had shifted elsewhere by that time; or perhaps he simply would not put into print work about which he was not totally convinced—a characteristic trait that was to inform his approach to publication throughout his entire career. After all, Edward was a perfectionist. He devoted the utmost attention and respect to the music under study, and he expected the same level of care from others. Whatever the reason, clearly the pivotal event that shaped Edward’s future was that seminar with Oster, with whom Edward continued to study privately until Oster’s death in 1977. The rest is history; Edward Laufer became a leading advocate and practitioner of Schenkerian analysis in his generation.2 For those who did not know him personally, Edward is probably best known for the voluminous handouts accompanying his conference presentations, which reveal not only his superior grasp of the literature, but also a mind-set, akin to Schenker’s, that a broad view is necessary. Those who have had the privilege of working with him can additionally testify to his outstanding musicianship, intellectual elegance, and an old-school humanism that encompassed all aspects of culture. For thirty years (1974–2004) he taught at the University of Toronto. In addition to offering regular courses on Schenkerian analysis at his home institution, he conducted influential seminars on the subject at several major universities and conservatories in North America and Europe, most notably the Sibelius

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Academy of Music in Helsinki. Because of Edward’s meticulous attitude toward publication, the bulk of his work remains, unfortunately, unpublished—though the pieces he did publish, especially his (incomplete) review of Ernst Oster’s English translation of Der freie Satz and two extended articles respectively on the fantasy and sonata development sections, have had a decisive influence on Schenkerian studies.3 The one large project he never finished, which is our loss, is a projected volume on the teaching of Schenkerian analysis, though we do have glimpses of it from his more recent handouts. Edward was unique among his colleagues in his belief that Schenker’s ideas were applicable, at least in part, to much twentieth-century music, including works that are generally accepted as atonal. See, for example, “An Approach to Linear Analysis of Some Early Twentieth-Century Works” (Proceedings of the Fourth International Conference on Music Theory, Tallinn, 2003), which is a revision of a handout accompanying presentations given at McGill University and at the Eastman School of Music in 1986.4 Among the works analyzed in this handout are the following: Schoenberg, Farben, op. 16, no. 3 and Klavierstück, op. 23, no. 2; and Webern, Variations, op. 27 (I).5 Edward’s approach to this music involved the identification of a referential sonority unique to the piece that governs its linear as well as harmonic aspects at multiple levels. This approach is not without controversy, and there can be little doubt that Oster, along with Schenker, would not have approved. But this is a major contribution to the understanding of early twentieth-century music, and is, along with his extensive work on the tonal repertoire, an important part of his legacy. An interview with Edward, conducted by Stephen Slottow, is included as an appendix to this volume.

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The fifteen essays in this collection are presented in chronological order by composer for the sake of convenience, but the following paragraphs will consider them according to commonalities in subject matter and approach. It should be noted that the state of Schenkerian research is different today than it was twenty or thirty years ago. Missing from the list of composers represented here are the three staples of the Schenkerian canon: late Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven. This was not by design but was a product of what our authors chose to write about. In their place we have essays dealing with repertoire not traditionally associated with Schenkerian studies. L. Poundie Burstein examines formal strategies and voice-leading procedures in expositions written by galant composers, and he argues that we should be careful in applying a concept of sonata form derived from the high classical style retrospectively to this repertoire, which would include the early works of Haydn. Instead, ideas presented by Heinrich Christoph Koch in his Introductory Essay on Composition,

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volume 3 (1793) seem better suited to explaining at least some of these works. Timothy L. Jackson’s study of two symphonies by Anton Eberl, a contemporary of Beethoven, makes a similar argument. Eberl’s unusual formal treatment prompts us to question prevailing assumptions about a lingua franca for sonata form in the early nineteenth century; it also forces us to reconsider the generally accepted voice-leading paradigms, a view that also resurfaces indirectly in other essays in this volume. Also in this category is Frank Samarotto’s fascinating essay on C. P. E. Bach’s Rondo in G Major, which combines two opposing principles, the rondo and the fantasy. Samarotto offers a vivid account of the work’s tonal and formal vagaries, and makes the compelling argument that in the Rondo in G Major Bach problematizes the stylistic conventions for both the rondo and the fantasy by exploring and interweaving the possibilities of structural recurrence and capricious digression. The essays by Leslie Kinton and Don McLean also deal with composers whose work is rarely discussed in the Schenkerian literature: Dvořák and Verdi. With regard to the interactions between formal design and voice-leading structure, several of the essays in this collection focus specifically on sonata form. Aside from the aforementioned studies by L. Poundie Burstein and Timothy L. Jackson, three more essays—by David Beach, Su Yin Mak, and William Rothstein—are also concerned with works in sonata form. Beach’s study of the two movements of Schubert’s Symphony in B Minor stresses their similarities in terms of large-scale tonal organization and motivic types, despite their very different characters. Mak’s analysis of the first movement of Schubert’s Octet in F Major demonstrates that the composer’s unorthodox harmonic, motivic, and formal procedures create both lateral dichotomies across prolongational spans and vertical disjunctions between structural levels. William Rothstein’s essay on Schumann’s Manfred Overture similarly addresses the issue of formal and structural nonalignment. It is an interesting coincidence—perhaps indicative of a new trend in Schenkerian studies of form—that all three authors conclude that anomalies in formal design and key relationships in these works result in an undivided structure. Another feature of Schenkerian analysis today is its frequent combination with other approaches to explain musical meaning. In his study of the slow movement from Schumann’s Second Symphony, Lauri Suurpää combines a Schenkerian interpretation of the structure with a narrative reading based on the theory of Byron Almén. He presents evidence that the movement does not always provide clear resolutions; rather, some of its tensions are deliberately unresolved to avoid a sense of dénouement. In a similar vein, William Rothstein’s analysis of Schumann’s Manfred Overture is concerned primarily with the dramatic effect of Schumann’s elusive treatment of the pillars of tonality, the tonic and dominant. Although Rothstein addresses the interaction of formal design and voice-leading structure, a topic that surfaces regularly in the

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Schenkerian literature, in his description of the form he employs terminology from James Hepokoski and Warren Darcy’s Sonata Theory,6 a feature also of Suurpää’s essay. The integration of voice-leading analysis with expressive exegesis, and attention to the structural role of referential sonorities, are common threads in many of the essays included in this volume. Ryan McClelland’s study of the initial use of a half-diminished seventh chord in three Brahms songs examines both its poetic implications and its role in the voice-leading structure. In her essay on the Schubert Octet, Su Yin Mak argues that salient sonic gestures create associative connections across formal and prolongational boundaries, and that the dialectical interactions between structure, design, and sonority lie at the heart of Schubert’s innovations in sonata form. Don McLean’s study of the “Libera me”” movement from Verdi’s Messa da Requiem focuses on the relationship of motivic links and harmonic anomalies to larger structural design and includes many details of vocal registration and orchestration. His central argument is that special features of the movement, particularly the clash between C♭ and B♮ in the context of C minor, portray a compositional design whose poetic idea allegorically embodies an impassioned plea for deliverance from death. We have included two contributions dealing with music of the early twentieth century in this volume, in part because of its relevance to Schenkerian studies today, but more specifically because of Edward Laufer’s keen interest in this repertoire. Matthew Brown begins his study of Richard Strauss’s “Dance of the Seven Veils” from Salome by recalling Schenker’s criticism of Strauss’s work in general and of this piece in particular. Though Brown concedes that Schenker’s critique is not without validity, he undertakes a detailed explication of the motivic design of this work and provides both detailed sketches of its various sections as well as an overview of its tonal structure. In short, it is Brown’s contention that Schenkerian analysis has much to tell us about a work that Schenker rejected. Boyd Pomeroy investigates the chromatically displaced dominant and its manifestations in selected works by Debussy, and he identifies the necessary tonal-formal conditions necessary for its coherent perception as a substitute for its “diatonic shadow.” This study offers an interesting comparison to Ryan McClelland’s essay on the half-diminished seventh chord in three Brahms lieder, and William Rothstein’s investigation of the various functions of the I6 chord in Schumann’s overture to Manfred. The preceding paragraphs may give the impression that this collection is largely concerned with extensions, or even corrections, of Schenker’s approach as expressed in Free Composition. This is partially true, insofar as those interested in Schenker’s ideas are always willing to utilize them imaginatively toward interpreting works that stretch against convention. But it is also true that this collection contains excellent examples of traditional applications of

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Schenkerian theory. Consider, for example, Charles Burkhart’s analysis of the opening fugue from the Well-Tempered Clavier, written in the form of a letter to Edward Laufer and delivered to him shortly before his death. Burkhart provides extensive sketches with an accompanying commentary that touches on pertinent topics, including motivic enlargement and suggestions regarding performance. Roger Kamien also provides detailed sketches in his study of Chopin’s Prelude in B-flat major, op. 28, no. 21. His commentary focuses on procedures that integrate sections across formal boundaries, including linkage to the following Prelude in G Minor. In fact, all the essays in this volume include analytical graphs that adhere closely to Schenker’s conception of musical structure. A surprise to the editors is the large number of articles that deal at some level with the topic of motive. In at least three of the essays, motive is the main focus. First, Leslie Kinton’s study of the first movement and finale from Dvořák’s Symphony in D Minor is concerned specifically with the issue of motivic enlargement, an important adjunct to Schenker’s conception of structural levels and a main interest of Edward Laufer. Kinton shows how this phenomenon, most frequently associated with Mozart and Beethoven, occur also in the work of a composer outside the Schenkerian canon. Mark Anson Cartwright’s essay on the first eight numbers from Bach’s St. Matthew Passion offers a detailed account of the motivic linkage and linear connections between successive numbers. A major focus of Matthew Brown’s study of Strauss’s “Dance of the Seven Veils” is the role of what he labels “architectural” and “programmatic” motives. In addition, motive is also an important consideration in Burkhart’s study of the C major fugue, as well as in the essays by Beach, Mak, Kamien, Rothstein, and McLean. The editors owe a debt of gratitude to the authors of the individual chapters for accepting our invitations to be included in this collection, for their excellent contributions, and for their patience with our editorial demands. We are also grateful to the two anonymous reviewers at the University of Rochester Press for their comments, which resulted in significant improvements of some parts of the manuscript. Most musical examples in this collection were set by Kai-Yin Lo, whom we thank for his reliability, efficiency, and flexibility in accommodating the different wishes and needs of various authors. The cost of music typesetting was partly supported by a research grant from the Research Grants Council of Hong Kong (GRF CUHK 450910). We also thank Sonia Kane and Julia Cook, editors at the University of Rochester Press, for shepherding the book through various stages of the publication. Mrs. Peggy Laufer kindly granted us permission to reproduce, for the book cover, an excerpt of an unpublished sketch by Edward, namely his analysis of the first eighteen bars of Webern’s Variations, op. 27. We are pleased to be able to include his voice in a volume that honors his memory.

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We have conceived this collection of essays as a Gedenkschrift for Edward Laufer, but we also believe that it can stand on its own as a representative display of the scope and diversity in Schenkerian studies today. Although the unifying focus is Schenker’s method, virtually all the essays consider the interaction of voice-leading structure with aspects of formal, harmonic, motivic, or expressive design from multiple perspectives. There is also wide variety in the composers represented, who range from Bach to Debussy. We hope that this collection will be of interest to scholars, teachers, and students of all theoretical persuasions. As Edward’s former colleague and former student, we also hope that our efforts would have met with his approval. David Beach and Su Yin Mak December 2015

Notes 1.

2. 3.

4.

5. 6.

In a private conversation with the first editor of this volume, Milton Babbitt expressed dismay that Edward had never submitted his final project. “If only Edward would write part two of his monumental review of Oster’s translation of Free Composition and submit it along with part one,” Babbitt said, “Princeton would send him his degree.” A detailed account of Edward Laufer’s career, compiled by Timothy L. Jackson, will appear in volume 9 of the Journal of Schenkerian Studies. “Review of Heinrich Schenker, Free Composition,” Music Theory Spectrum 3 (1981): 158–84; “On the Fantasy,” Intégral 2 (1988): 99–133; “Voice-Leading Procedures in Development Sections,” Studies in Music from the University of Western Ontario 13 (1991): 69–120. Other pertinent publications and handouts include: “On the First Movement of Sibelius’s Fourth Symphony: A Schenkerian View,” Schenker Studies 2 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 127–59; “Aspects of Motivic Transformation in Brahms and Schoenberg,” which includes an extensive analysis of Schoenberg’s Op. 11, No. 1 (Austria 996–1996: Music in a Changing Society, Ottawa, January 1996); “On Linear Analysis of Some Atonal Compositions” (Canadian University Music Society, Carleton University, Ottawa, May, 1993); and “Schoenberg’s Klavierstück, op. 33a: A Linear Approach” (Joint Meeting of the Arnold Schoenberg Society and the Music Theory Society of New York State, Columbia University, 1991). In addition to works by Schoenberg and Webern, this handout includes analyses of shorter works by Bartók, Scriabin, Stravinsky and Dallapiccola. James Hepokoski and Warren Darcy, Elements of Sonata Theory: Norms, Types, and Deformations in the Late Eighteenth-Century Sonata (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006).

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Part One

Eighteenth Century

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Chapter One

A Letter about the C-Major Fugue from The Well-Tempered Clavier, Book 1 Charles Burkhart

Dear Edward, I am very glad for the opportunity to take part in a project that honors you, who have taught so much to all of us. I can think of no better way to do so than to offer a few thoughts—still ongoing—on a piece that has recently been engaging me, and hope they may prick your interest, perhaps even elicit a response. It is the fugue that so auspiciously opens The Well-Tempered Clavier. I have wondered what you would make of the unusual order of the opening entries of this fugue—A–S–T–B—and the resulting I–V–V–I. Does the design of the subject dictate this unusual progression? I cannot see why it should. In any event, with the arrival on the dominant in measure 4, instead of a link based on V8–♮7, the third entry itself is so based. Assigning it to the tenor (so conveniently waiting in just the right place) produces a succession of entries that describes a fanning out from the opening middle C to the bass entry in measure 5. And ending the exposition on the tonic has the further advantage of bringing it to a kind of close, as though to signal that—the subject having now been presented—we are ready to proceed to the strettos, the main point of the fugue. Rather like the counterexpositions of many fugues, the fanning out continues in measures 7 and 10. The G cadence at measure 10 (rhyming somewhat with the C cadence in mm. 6–7) is an important arrival, but subordinate to the larger I–VI spanning measures 1–14. In the sketch below—example 1.1—I show just measures 1–10 (up to the G-major cadence).

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Example 1.1a. J. S. Bach, Fugue in C Major, The Well-Tempered Clavier, book I, two-level sketch of measures 1–10: (a) foreground; and (b) middleground.

a l etter about th e c-major fugue

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Example 1.1b. J. S. Bach, Fugue in C Major, The Well-Tempered Clavier, book I, twolevel sketch of measures 1–10: (a) foreground; and (b) middleground.

With the turn to A minor (mm. 11d–14a),* the texture suddenly becomes quite gnarled compared with the preceding smoothness. I think these bars—even for Bach—required greater effort to compose (and they are harder to figure out how to perform). Another aspect that makes them stand out is the syncopations, most obvious in the bass, but manifested in the upper two voices as well. I understand this passage as shown in example 1.2. Note that in the tenor’s statement of 6 the subject, the G#s at measures 12d and 13b–c produce a VII4 that substitutes ♯ 2 6 for II4. That is, the diminished-seventh chord here has a subdominant func3 tion. Its long prolongation creates—in me—a feeling of suspense. You may be querying my view of measures 10b–14a, and I confess I am not entirely at ease with it. In measures 10–12, my top-voice G5–(F5)–E5, especially the assumed F5, does gives me pause, but if there is a better understanding of this passage it has so far eluded me. I highlight this passage in example 1.3. You may also have noted (back in ex. 1.2) that I have chosen, again per^ to the F5 in measure 13. Rather, haps questionably, not to connect the E5 (3) I hear this F5 as subordinate to a long-extended B4 within the prolonged II, a view that seems to me consonant with the sense of suspense mentioned above. However, I am rather partial to my articulation of the detail of the auxiliary * The letters a, b, c, and d refer to the first, second, third, and fourth quarters of common time.

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Example 1.2. J. S. Bach, Fugue in C Major, two-level sketch of measures 11–14: (a) foreground; and (b) middleground.

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Example 1.3. J. S. Bach, Fugue in C Major, condensed sketch of measures 11–14.

Example 1.4. J. S. Bach, Fugue in C Major, articulation of measures 12–14.

cadence, which I understand as in example 1.4. (The slurs here are performance slurs.) Another unusual feature of the fugue is the complete stop halfway through (m. 14), followed by a “starting over.” It is as though, after the complexities of the A-minor passage, some relief is needed to prepare for the next, and larger, climax. I see bars 14–17a as a condensed recomposition of measures 1–14 that starts with C major, again fans out, then concludes in measure 17a with a regained E5 as 3^ over bass A. I suggest this is an example of a parenthetical passage—the concept you so memorably expounded at the first Schenker Symposium. Employing such a procedure in a fugue seems to contradict the idea of what a fugue is commonly supposed to be. Example 1.5 is my view of the parenthesis and beyond to measure 21. Measures 17–19 contain a passage based on a structural II that culminates ^ I am wondering how you take to my use of the “quasiin the appearance of 2. auxiliary cadence” (Roger Kamien’s term, you’ll recall)—and with two bass arpeggiations yet! That measure 17 has all four voices in stretto is wonderful, but even more startling is—in measure 19—the fresh inner-voice stretto that sails without concern right through the outer-voice D-major cadence. I play quite loudly from measure 17 into this cadence, but the inner-voice stretto (in m. 19) I play in a

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Example 1.5. J. S. Bach, Fugue in C Major, sketch of measures 14–21.

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more subdued way, as though extending the cadence. I continue this dynamic through measures 20, understanding all this as a sort of transition to the upcoming V (m. 21c)—a moment of relative calm, as though pausing before the drive to the close. Referring back to example 1.5, note that the soprano’s B5 in measure 20c, though composed as a sixteenth note, endures as a suspension over the tenor’s C4, and that it is not resolved until the A5 in measure 21. This requires that the performer emphasize both the B and C, then use a lighter touch on the subsequent downward scale. See also the similar downward scales at measures 20a (bass), 21a (tenor), and 21c (alto), which, though derived from the subject’s last four notes, are essentially free, episodelike imitation. I understand the conclusion as in example 1.6, about which I have little to add. It took me a while to be persuaded that measure 25 was a prolongation of 9/♭7, with the salient F5 further prolonging the ninth (D5), but nothing else seemed to work. The toccatalike flourish in the last two bars always surprises me, as does the unusually high register at the end. Perhaps this is a response to earlier high pitches. I sum up the whole in example 1.7, but with a slight feeling that such a structure seems almost too facile for so profound a piece. There are numerous instances throughout the fugue of short motives based either on the subject’s opening, C–D–E–F–E, or its end, A–G–F–E. (As for the latter, see in the score the cascade in measures 25–26!) I have not marked these, but in examples 1.1 and 1.5 you will have noticed—in the topmost staff of each—that I do show a string of undifferentiated note heads, which, taken together, add up to an enlargement of the subject. I do not go looking for such things, of course; they just drop out of the process of reduction, and I am always pleasantly surprised. Out of deference to this enlargement, I have chosen to show its pitches in example 1.5 as having greater value than the higher pitches A6–B♭6–A6 that likewise stretch from measure 17 to measure 19 and are connected with dotted slurs. As for such hidden repetitions, I suppose one might also see the subject’s A–D–G reflected in the Stufen VI–II–V. So much for my current thoughts. I hope this letter finds you doing well, all things considered.1 With warmest wishes, Charles

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Example 1.6. J. S. Bach, Fugue in C Major, two-level sketch of measures 21–27: (a) foreground sketch; and (b) chordal reduction.

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Example 1.7. J. S. Bach, Fugue in C Major, sketch of the entire fugue.

Notes 1.

This letter was delivered to Edward Laufer two weeks before his death in May 2014.

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Chapter Two

The Opening Tonal Complex of Bach’s St. Matthew Passion A Linear View Mark Anson-Cartwright Several scholars have written about the tonal organization of the St. Matthew Passion, including Friedrich Smend, Hermann Abert, and Eric Chafe, the most prominent English-speaking Bach scholar to address this topic.1 Yet no one has analyzed the tonal plan of the Passion (either in part or in whole) from a linear standpoint. Schenker evidently had little interest in structural connections among movements of large-scale works, perhaps because such connections are looser than those that bind a single movement together.2 It would therefore seem that any linear interpretation of tonal relations among movements would have to go beyond the limits of Schenker’s theory. It is precisely the looser kind of connections that I wish to explore in the opening eight numbers of the St. Matthew Passion (i.e., until the aria “Blute nur”). I believe that these numbers, taken together, exhibit tonal connections not altogether dissimilar to what one might observe among successive numbers of an opera, or among movements of a symphony or sonata.3 If we begin by considering the keys that Bach employs in the first eight numbers, we may note that, with only a few exceptions, they are closely related to the key of E minor in which the Passion begins. To borrow a term from Johann David Heinichen’s 1711 treatise, a primary source for Chafe’s analytical approach to key relations in Bach’s vocal music, most of the keys used in the opening scene lie within the six-key ambitus of E minor (G–a–b–C–D–e, the same as for G major).4 But the

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th e opening tonal complex

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opening scene is not unified in the sense of being directed toward closure in E minor. Only at the end of Part 1, with the grand chorale fantasia “O Mensch, bewein dein Sünde groß” in E major, does Bach bring about closure on the same tonic as that of the opening chorus. Nor can one infer a unified tonal plan for the whole Passion, because Part 2 ends in C minor rather than E minor or major. And so it should be: the Passion story does not come full circle, but ends in a different spiritual place from its starting point, with the believers not only mourning Jesus’s death but also looking ahead to the redemption of humanity that his Crucifixion makes possible. Not until Easter will the promise of that redemption be fulfilled. Numbers 1 to 8 form a dramatic unit consisting of an “Exordium” in E minor (“Kommt, ihr Töchter, helft mir klagen”) and a “Prologue” to the Passion proper. At the end of this unit occurs the first turning point in the Gospel narrative, when Judas accepts thirty pieces of silver in payment for his pledge to betray Jesus to the chief priests. The aria that immediately follows this report about Judas, “Blute nur” (no. 8), is set in B minor, the key of the chorale “Herzliebster Jesu” (no. 3) and also the initial key of the accompanied recitative “Du lieber Heiland du” (no. 5). The recurrence of B minor within a relatively short period of time is not accidental but deliberate: in each instance, the text reflects on something horribly unjust or wrong about what has just happened in the narrative. In answer to Jesus’s prediction of his Crucifixion, the chorale “Herzliebster Jesu” begins with a direct and plaintive question that can be paraphrased thus: “What crime did Jesus commit to warrant such a harsh judgment?” Later, following the episode of the anointing at Bethany, the alto soloist laments, in halting phrases, the foolish squabbling of the disciples (“wenn deine Jünger töricht streiten”), who object to the pious woman’s anointing Jesus with precious ointment. And lastly, in “Blute nur,” the soprano reflects on two unsettling aspects of the narrative: the “mere blood” that Judas would profit from, and, in the B section, the “child” (i.e., Judas) who has turned from a suckling babe into a serpent intent on murdering his own nurse. Of the three numbers in the Prologue that begin in B minor (nos. 3, 5, and 8), only no. 3 is prepared by a cadence in that key. At the end of no. 2, a chromatic motion in the bass, D♯–E–E♯–F♯, underscores both the cadence and the text it sets, wherein Jesus foretells his Crucifixion (see ex. 2.1). The tonal events following no. 3 (the chorale) reveal B minor to be a local goal within a larger E-minor prolongation that extends from no. 1 to the end of no. 4e (see ex. 2.2). The latter number concludes in E minor with Jesus’s proclamation that the woman’s act of anointing him at Bethany will be remembered wherever the Gospel is preached. How might one interpret Bach’s choice of B minor as both the key toward which Jesus’s first musical utterances are directed, and that in which the first

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Example 2.1. J. S. Bach, St. Matthew Passion, BWV 244, no. 2 (recitative), ending.

Example 2.2. BWV 244, opening scene: bass plan.

chorale is set? The early turn to B minor may be heard as a harbinger of the key of no. 8, “Blute nur.” The overall bass motion for the Prologue, then, is a rising fifth from E to B, via F♯, the upper fifth of B (see ex. 2.2).5 It is interesting that the tonic of “Blute nur” follows a D-major cadence at the end of no. 7 (the Evangelist’s report about Judas’s plot to betray Jesus), and thus lacks the urgency of the B minor in which Jesus foretells his Crucifixion in the first recitative. The Prologue thus ends on a quieter note than it begins. The intensity of Jesus’s opening modulation to B minor is matched—even exceeded—by the two brief turba choruses that soon follow (nos. 4b and 4d). The first of these choruses (“Ja nicht auf das Fest”) is a riveting six-measure outburst in C major, sung antiphonally by the two choirs to the words of the chief priests, who object to the idea of crucifying Jesus during Passover. Shortly thereafter, during the Bethany episode, there is a second chorus (for choir 1 only) set to the words of Jesus’s disciples (“Wozu dienet dieser Unrat?”), who strongly disapprove of the woman’s anointing of Jesus, claiming that the precious ointment she supposedly wasted could have been sold for a handsome price and the money donated to the poor. Whereas the first chorus has a straightforward tonal plan, outlining a motion from C to its dominant, G, the second chorus is longer and more complex. It starts with a motion from V to I in A minor, then replicates that idea in C major, and finally modulates to three minor keys in quick succession: C minor, G minor, and D minor.

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After some digressions in the ensuing recitative (no. 4e), there is a return to D minor, set to Jesus’s words “Wahrlich ich sage euch” (mm. 44–45). This may be heard as a reinterpretation of the key that, in the second chorus, is associated with indignation over the anointing of Jesus. In pointed contrast to the disciples, Jesus casts D minor in a positive light—vindicating, in prophetic terms, the woman’s act of anointing him. He then proceeds from D minor to a decisive cadential progression in E minor. Although Jesus does not refer explicitly to the Crucifixion here, his music does by association. For E minor, the key in which the Passion begins, is a tonal emblem of the Crucifixion (the sharp in the key signature is itself a cross symbol). The E-minor cadence at the conclusion of the recitative may be heard as completing a large stepwise bass motion, B–C–D–E; the larger context for this rising fourth is a prolongation of E (or E-minor harmony, to be precise). The first half of example 2.2 illustrates this prolongation. Let us now examine the tonal structure of the first part of the Prologue (through the end of no. 4e) in greater detail. (As will become clear, I have more to say about the tonally open recitatives and turba choruses than about the closed numbers. That is because my focus here is on the linear patterning between those numbers, rather than within them. I have chosen this focus because analysts have virtually ignored this aspect of Bach’s vocal music.) The recitative (no. 4a) that follows the chorale “Herzliebster Jesu” enacts several modulations: first to D major, then to G major, the key in which the first recitative (no. 2) began, then to E minor (a reference to the key of the opening chorus), and last, to C major. There is thematic resonance between the two recitatives at the points where the Evangelist cadences on B, the third of G-major harmony (see ex. 2.3). In the latter passage, G major is a stepping-stone on the way to E minor, the key in which the Evangelist cadences in measure 7 on the word “töteten,” a clear reference to the Crucifixion (see ex. 2.4, second system.)6 Yet this E minor is abruptly upstaged by the Evangelist’s assertion of C major, set to the words “Sie sprachen aber,” and by the ensuing chorus, no. 4b, “Ja nicht auf das Fest” (also in C major). This key—or, more precisely, its tonic note—forms a strong linear connection with the earlier B, the tonic of no. 3 (“Herzliebster Jesu”). We may understand the Evangelist’s E-minor cadence in measure 7, then, not as a goal (i.e., not structurally equivalent to the E minor of the opening chorus, “Kommt, ihr Töchter”) but as a bridge between two remotely related keys, B minor and C major. Locally, this C major is the result of a 5–6 contrapuntal exchange over an implied bass E. As I suggested above with reference to example 2.2, E minor provides the background context for the bass line until the end of no. 4e. In this instance, the foreground of no. 4a agrees more with the background (insofar as C-major harmony occurs right after the E-minor chord of m. 7) than with the middleground, which enacts a rising half step from B to C.

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Example 2.3. BWV 244, Evangelist’s G-major cadences compared.

Example 2.4a–b. BWV 244, graphs of BWV 244, nos. 1–4e.

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Example 2.4c–f. BWV 244, graphs of BWV 244, nos. 1–4e.

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This stepwise connection between the tonics of the chorale and the chorus is something that would be missed if one focused only on fifth relations between keys, as Eric Chafe does in his analyses of the key structures of both of Bach’s Passions. From a Schenkerian standpoint, the skips and steps in Bach’s tonal plan—and in tonal music generally—are complementary aspects of structure. Although I do not deny the relevance of the circle of fifths to Bach’s tonal planning, I believe a thorough analysis must acknowledge the interaction between stepwise and fifth-based patterning in Bach’s music, on various levels of structure. For an example of such interaction, consider the sequence at the start of no. 4b (“Ja nicht auf das Fest”). From an abstract point of view, this is simply a sequence by rising fifths, starting on the tonic chord, C major, and ascending through to the mediant harmony, thus: I–V–II–VI–III; but in his setting of these harmonies, Bach emphasizes the steps between alternate chords in the sequence (I–II–III), rather than the fifths formed by the roots of consecutive chords in the sequence. Moreover, the musical fabric is much richer than the preceding description would suggest, for Bach sets the sequence antiphonally (with choir 1 leading and choir 2 following), and ingeniously combines a reaching-over pattern in the top line with overlapping entrances of threebeat “phrases.” The rapid alternation between choirs—with choir 2 trying to upstage choir 1 by echoing its phrases a fifth higher—has a gripping effect in performance, especially so soon after the contemplative chorale, during which the two choirs perform the same music. Choir 1 launches the reaching-over pattern in measures 9–10, with a motion from C5 (via lower neighbor B4) to D5. The expected third tone in this rising line, E5, does not arrive over the mediant harmony in measure 11. Instead, Bach delays that tone until measure 12, where it receives tonic support. Bach then hammers home E5 three more times (m. 12, beat 3; m. 13, beat 1; m. 14, beat 1) before continuing the line upward through F♯5 to G5 (the last two tones being sung by the sopranos of choir 2). One could read the entire top line of this chorus as a rising-fifth progression from C5 to G5, counterpointed by a harmonic progression from I to V, forming a grand half cadence in C major. The following recitative (no. 4c) retains the C-major harmony with which “Ja nicht auf das Fest” began, but in 36 position, rather than the stable root position that appeared at the start of the chorus. With the Evangelist’s assertion of B♭ on the last two syllables of “Bethanien” in measure 16, the music takes a turn toward D minor, the next tonicized harmony to be prolonged.7 This prolongation of D minor is more complex than that of C major, insofar as the music modulates frequently between the first and last cadences on that harmony (in mm. 21 and 43, respectively). Although the Evangelist touches on D-minor harmony in measure 18 (on the word “Weib”), the structural arrival on D happens later, at the cadence in measure 21 (articulated by the continuo following the Evangelist’s formulaic falling fourth, D–A, on “Tische saß”).

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Following that cadence, there is an abrupt turn to the dominant of A minor, by way of a augmented sixth over bass F—the endpoint of a chromaticized voice exchange that prolongs and intensifies the earlier D-minor harmony. This half cadence sets up the attacca entrance of chorus 1 (no. 4d) singing the words “Wozu dienet dieser Unrat?” The transition here from recitative to chorus exhibits a three-part pattern similar to that between the end of 4a and the start of 4b; the parallel between these transitions is illustrated in table 2.1. The double chorus modulates from A minor to several other keys: C major, C minor, G minor, and, last, D minor (m. 33), which completes the prolongation of D minor that began in measure 21. The A-minor harmony in the opening two measures of the chorus is less stable than the D minor at the end; clearly the latter is the main structural event. Furthermore, as I suggested earlier, when Bach has Jesus sing a D-minor arpeggio eleven measures later, in measures 44–45, his purpose seems to be not only the completion of a D-minor prolongation but also the underscoring of the contrast between the disciples’ negative view of the anointing and Jesus’s positive interpretation. In effect, D minor means something different at the end of the prolongation from what it meant in the middle, when the chorus cadenced on that harmony. In the final six measures of no. 4e, Jesus modulates from D minor through A minor to E minor, thus completing the rising fourth B–C–D–E that originated Table 2.1. J. S. Bach, St. Matthew Passion: Parallel between recitative-to-chorus transitions in opening scene. Three-part plan

Nos. 4a–4b

Nos. 4c–4d

1. Evangelist narrates an event or situation.

Evangelist reports the plan to take Jesus by deceit and kill him during Passover.

Evangelist reports the anointing of Jesus at Bethany.

Narration ends with a cadence in key X.

PAC in D minor (m. 21) IAC in E minor (m. 7)

2. Evangelist introduces the direct speech of those who disapprove of the situation.

Evangelist introduces the general outcry with the words “Sie sprachen aber.”

Introduction ends with a cadence in key Y.

PAC in C major (m. 8)

3. Chorus of disapproval begins in key Y.

Evangelist introduces the disciples’ outcry with the words “Da das seine Jünger sahen, würden sie unwilling und sprachen.” HC in A minor (m. 23)

Double chorus sings in Chorus 1 sings in A minor C major “Ja nicht auf das “Wozu dienet dieser Fest.” Unrat?”

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with the tonic of the chorale. As we observed in the context of example 2.2, the cadence in E minor not only completes that rising fourth but also marks a return to the opening key of the Passion. The ensuing accompanied recitative for alto (no. 5, “Du lieber Heiland du”) begins in B minor, a key whose structural function is more transitory than it is in the chorale “Herzliebster Jesu” and the aria “Blute nur.” Here, the initial B-minor harmony is an unstable passing chord within a prolongation of the E-minor chord from the end of the preceding recitative for Jesus. As shown in example 2.5, the top line rises by step from E5 (at the end of no. 4e) through F♯5 (in the flutes at the start of no. 5) to G5 (m. 6). The third of the initial B-minor harmony is altered to D♯, first in the flutes in the middle of measure 3, and then in the bass via a voice exchange in measure 4, where it is extended for two full measures before resolving to E in the middle of measure 6. There is a parallel between D♯ as leading tone to E and E♯ as leading tone to F♯ (first sung by the alto in m. 7, and then transferred to the bass in m. 8, also via a voice exchange). Of these two leading tones, E♯ is more significant at the middleground level, for it embodies a transformation of E (the note to which all the tonal action of the opening scene ultimately relates) into E♯, the leading tone of F-sharp minor, the key with the most sharps up to this point and the key of the first aria in the Passion. The poignancy of E minor and B minor (whose “sharpness” is symbolic of the Crucifixion) is heightened through modulation to a key whose tonic itself is sharp. The opening flute melody from the aria “Buß und Reu” is unmistakably related to the motive that pervades the flute parts in the recitative. It embodies linkage technique (Knüpftechnik) of a special kind, because there is a change of interval rather than an exact intervallic match between the motives that are linked.8 As example 2.6 illustrates, the motive of descending third (filled in by step) becomes a descending fourth at the start of the aria. The motivic relation here is not merely one of association, but also of fulfillment, insofar as the falling fourth (F♯–E♯–D♯–C♯) forms a logical continuation of the series of statements of the third-motive, whose identity as a third must be altered to a fourth when it starts on the tonic note. As the bracket above example 2.6 shows, the starting notes of the three statements of the motive form an overarching instance of the third-motive, so that linkage occurs here in conjunction with motivic parallelism. The middleground structure of “Buß und Reu” (no. 6) is fairly straightforward, though it should be noted that the primary tone (C♯5) is not articulated during the ritornello, but rather at the entrance of the alto soloist (see ex. 2.5, second system). Furthermore, the B section of the aria outlines—at least by implication—an octave line from C♯5 down to C♯4, completed by the vocal cadence in measure 105. I say “by implication” because the alto melody in the B section starts on A4 rather than C♯5; yet the latter tone is asserted (or, from

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Example 2.5. BWV 244, graphs of BWV 244, nos. 5–7.

a middleground perspective, retained) over A-major harmony in measure 76, immediately before the next tone in the octave descent, B4. Incidentally, the descending chromatic tetrachord in the bass of this aria recalls a similar pattern in another F-sharp-minor aria, namely “Ach, mein Sinn” from the St. John Passion. In both instances, the lamento bass is an emblem of penitence, though “Ach, mein Sinn” reflects on a later episode in the Passion story—Peter’s denial

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Example 2.6. BWV 244, linkage between movements 5 and 6.

of Jesus—and thus occupies an analogous position to that of “Erbarme dich” in the St. Matthew Passion. In the recitative that follows “Buß und Reu,” Judas makes his first appearance, declaring his intention to betray Jesus for the price of thirty pieces of silver—the “blood money” to which the ensuing aria “Blute nur” so poignantly refers.9 The tonal plan of the recitative (no. 7) must be understood in relation to the keys of the surrounding arias: the bass outlines a descending arpeggio F♯–D–B, with F♯ and B as tonics of the framing arias, and D being expressed by the D-major cadence at the end of the recitative. (The reader should refer back to ex. 2.2.) Bach enriches the basic plan of the recitative with tonal elisions that underscore the deception in Judas’s scheme; these are highlighted under the bass of example 2.5, third system. The first elision occurs in the bass of measure 3, where G natural takes the place of an expected A in the bass. This gives rise to the first of two tonicizations of D in this recitative (the second being the definitive one). The next elision, in F-sharp minor measure 6, is more striking: the bass E♯ takes the place of another expected resolution to A, coinciding with the second syllable of “verraten” (betray). This E♯ restores the key of the preceding aria, F-sharp minor. Only in measure 9 does bass G♯ resolve to A as expected, underscoring the concluding cadential progression in D major. As I pointed out above, this D-major cadence provides weak preparation for the B minor of “Blute nur,” in sharp contrast to the strong modulation to B minor in the opening recitative that leads directly into the chorale “Herzliebster Jesu.” Yet in the Baroque period in general, and in Bach’s music in particular, it is quite conventional for a movement that concludes in a major key to be immediately followed by a movement in the relative minor. This and four other examples from the St. Matthew Passion are listed in table 2.2 below. With “Blute nur” the opening tonal complex of the St. Matthew Passion comes to a close. I have not included a graph of this aria, because it is a closed number marking the end of this dramatic unit; its tonic, B, is shown at the end of the bass-line sketch of example 2.2. One aspect of example 2.2 requires a brief explanation, namely, the lack of a top line. In listening to and reflecting on the Passion, I have become increasingly aware of both the benefits and the limitations of a linear approach to this music. It seems to me that although

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Table 2.2. J. S. Bach, St. Matthew Passion: Falling minor-third relations (major key followed by its relative minor) between adjacent movements. Paired movements

Tonal orientation

No. 7 (Dry recitative) No. 8 (Aria)

ending in D major B minor

No. 18 (Dry recitative) No. 19 (Accompanied recitative with interpolated chorale)

ending in A-flat major

No. 22 (Accompanied recitative) No. 23 (Aria)

ending in B-flat major G minor

No. 26 (Dry recitative) No. 27 (Aria duetto with choral interjections)

ending in G major

F minor

starting in E minor No. 48 (Accompanied recitative) No. 49 (Aria)

ending in C major A minor

Bach’s music in general, and this work in particular, is marked by continuity across substantial stretches of time, it also contains digressions that create a palpable impression of discontinuity. (Such digressions arise most often in the recitatives.) At a deep level, the top line of the Passion’s opening scene does not exhibit nearly as much as linear continuity as the bass; for that reason, I have omitted it from example 2.2. Yet, as I hope to have shown in the more detailed graphs, the top line does exhibit continuity on more immediate levels of structure. Analyzing the St. Matthew Passion—even a relatively small portion of it— raises far more questions than any single approach could possibly resolve. In light of this fact, I would like to conclude by addressing a concern raised by Chafe in his book on Bach cantatas. Chafe writes: “I resist the notion that analysis is the application of one or another of those systems—Schenkerian voice leading, Riemannian functional harmony, and Fortean pitch-class set theory being the leading ones—that center primarily on pitch relationships.”10 In the same paragraph he also states that “analysis is by no means the quasi-objective operation some musicians believe it to be.” On this last point I quite agree with Chafe. To be sure, the linear patterns I have argued for in this essay are not objectively verifiable in the way that a statement such as “this movement is in E minor” is verifiable; but at the same time, I regard analysis as an imaginative enterprise, an attempt to grasp, albeit cautiously, some of the meanings embodied in a musical work. I endorse a flexible attitude toward analysis— one that does not seek a definitively “correct” or “authentic” view (as if that

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were really attainable) but instead allows for multiple perspectives on a particular work. Students of Bach’s vocal music ought to take an interest in both the relationships among the tones and the ways in which, as Chafe has suggested, those relationships might allegorize ideas embodied in the text. The fact that I do not ascribe allegorical significance to the linear patterns I hear in Bach’s Passion does not mean I disagree with Chafe’s analytical approach. Instead, I regard our approaches as complementary and (on some level) reconcilable, despite their obvious differences.

Notes 1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

The numbering in this essay follows the Neue Bach-Ausgabe. See Friedrich Smend, “Die Tonartenordnung in Bachs Matthäus-Passion,” Zeitschrift für Musikwissenschaft 12 (1929–30): 336–41 (reprinted in Smend, Bach-Studien, ed. Christoph Wolff [Kassel: Bärenreiter, 1969], 84–89); Hermann Abert, “Bachs Matthäus-Passion,” in Gesammelte Schriften und Vorträge, ed. Friedrich Blume (Halle: Max Niemeyer, 1929; reprint, Tutzing: Hans Schneider, 1968), 143–155; and Eric Chafe, “Key Structure and Tonal Allegory in the Passions of J. S. Bach: An Introduction,” Current Musicology 31 (1981): 39–54; portions of Chafe’s article are incorporated into chapter 14 of his book Tonal Allegory in the Vocal Music of J. S. Bach (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1991). Schenker published analyses of three movements from the St. Matthew Passion, as follows: “J. Seb. Bach: Matthäuspassion, Rezitativ: ‘Erbarm es Gott,’” Tonwille 7 (1924): 34–38; “J. S. Bach: Matthäuspassion, Einleitungschor (Erste ChoralFantasie),” Tonwille 10 (1924): 3–10; “Ich bin’s ich sollte büssen,” in Fünf Urlinie-Tafeln (Vienna: Universal, 1933). For English translations of the first two essays, see Heinrich Schenker, Der Tonwille, vol. 2, ed. William Drabkin (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), 65–68 and 127–34 (both essays translated by Joseph Dubiel). For a persuasive argument in favor of hearing connections among several successive numbers of an opera, see Carl Schachter, “E Pluribus Unum: Large-Scale Connections in the Opening Scenes of Don Giovanni,” in Essays from the Fourth International Schenker Symposium, vol. 1, ed. Allen Cadwallader (Hildesheim: Olms, 2008), 3–22. On p. 21, Schachter draws an analogy between the large-scale connections he hears in Don Giovanni and those in certain nineteenth-century symphonies and sonatas. Johann David Heinichen, Neu erfundene und Gründliche Anweisung zu vollkommener Erlernung des General-Basses (Hamburg, 1711); facsimile reprint edited by Wolfgang Horn (Kassel: Bärenreiter, 2000), 261–67. A precedent for this view may be found in Abert (“Bachs Matthäus-Passion,” 152), who writes, “The first large affective sphere of Part 1 extends until the aria No. 12 [= No. 8 in the Neue Bach-Ausgabe’s numbering of movements, which I follow here] and is under the influence of the dominant stretch from

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E minor to B minor, whose limit is even overreached by F♯ minor in No. 10 [= No. 6]” (Die erste große Affektsphäre des ersten Teils reicht bis zur Arie Nr. 12 und steht unter dem Zeichen der Dominantspannung e–h, das in Nr. 10 sogar bis fis übersteigert wird). Smend (“Die Tonartenordnungen in Bachs Matthäus-Passion,” 337) agrees with Abert’s interpretation of Part 1 of the Passion, though he views Part 2 differently from Abert. 6. The graphs in this essay are basically of two kinds: (1) middleground graphs (nos. 1, 3, and 6); and (2) foreground graphs of the recitatives and the turba choruses. Thus, the numbers that are tonally open are, for the most part, analyzed in detail, and those that are closed are shown in simplified form. A brief word about my reading of no. 1 (shown in example 2.4): Unlike Schenker, ^ ^ who takes the chorus from 5, I read an 8-line from E5. This reading takes into account the emphasis given to E5 at the soprano entrance in measure 17; it also includes D5, the local Kopfton of the G-major chorale, sung by the soprano ^ in ripieno at measure 31. Schenker’s reading from 5, though based on a perceived link between the chorale tune and the surrounding E-minor music, needlessly ignores the importance of E5 and D5 at those two junctures of the movement. 7. Chafe (Tonal Allegory in the Vocal Music of J. S. Bach, 407) discusses the significance of this B♭ as launching “the first move to flats” in the Passion—a move that, among other things, points up the sense that the scene in Bethany is an “intercalation” within Matthew’s narrative. 8. Emil Platen hears a thematic association (also in the flute parts) between the final two measures of the recitative and measures 9–12 of the aria. Yet his claim is problematic insofar as it ignores the tonal content of beats 2 and 3 of the recitative’s penultimate measure. See Die Matthäus-Passion von Johann Sebastian Bach: Entstehung, Werkbeschreibung, Rezeption, 2nd ed. (Kassel: Bärenreiter, 1997), 132. 9. It is noteworthy that in Part 2 of the Passion, when the chief priests refuse to keep the money that Judas has returned to the temple out of remorse, they sing “denn es is Blutgeld” to a cadence in B minor, the same key as that of “Blute nur.” 10. Chafe, Analyzing Bach Cantatas (New York: Oxford University Press, 2000), xiv.

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Chapter Three

Recurrence and Fantasy in C. P. E. Bach’s Rondo in G Major Frank Samarotto

Carl Phillip Emanuel Bach’s capstone collection of sonatas, fantasies, and rondos für Kenner und Liebhaber represents a kind of summa of his experimentation and, arguably, the most successful products of it.1 That experimentation is easily observed in the rondos found throughout these sets; as is well known, these rondos violate the common practice of the rondo refrain as touchstone of the tonic.2 Instead, it is not uncommon for the refrain to appear in keys that are distantly—even bizarrely—removed from the home key. As such, they would seem to undermine the very formal principle that grounds the rondo, that of thematic and tonal recurrence. The Rondo in G Major (H. 268, Wq 59/2) will be our case in point.3 Besides the accustomed tonic and dominant, its refrain appears, rather weakly prepared, in the confoundingly unrelated keys of F major and E major. The impact of these distant transpositions is not cushioned by the shift to a fantasylike discourse; rather, the middle section of this piece convolutes like a labyrinth, its tonal vagaries seeming that much more aimless and lost. It would be a sufficient challenge merely to explain how tonality coheres in the face of Bach’s radical experimentation.4 Yet this rondo raises other issues larger even than tonal coherence. I have already alluded to the role of recurrence in the typical rondo form. Surely the rondo is about nothing else if not the restatement of a central idea, about

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touching base on the tonic before gearing up for another excursion. Fantasy would seem to be the very antithesis of this central idea: it would seem to be nothing but excursus, unplanned, not looking back, always seeking something new. And it is not simply that Bach’s G-major Rondo juxtaposes these two principles. The rondo’s first extended foray into fantasy-like passagework strikes one as just that—a simulation of free improvisation—but it is curious that this illusion is dispelled when a vast swatch of the fantasy section is repeated in near-exact transposition. Thus, Bach introduces a principle of recurrence at a higher level, one that forces a reinterpretation of immediate experience in light of the broader context. Moreover, both these parallel fantasy passages enclose rondo refrains in its most distant keys, the already mentioned F major and E major. Though harmonically unprepared, the refrains present themselves as goals of the searching fantasy; they turn back to the rondo’s opening and force us into a close comparison of both recurrence, in the familiar theme, and fantasy, in their remote tonalities. Thus, Bach’s discourse involves a nuanced intertwining of recurrence and fantasy: it will be helpful to distinguish between fantasy recurrence, in which a familiar element reappears within space clearly belonging to fantasy, and recurrence fantasy, which creates the illusion of normal discourse but is understood as fantastic at a deeper level (more on this in due course). Inspired by this work’s idiosyncratic content, I shall refer to the rondo’s three large sections as Introit, Centrum, and Exitus (after similar designations found as rubrics in the so-called Harmonic Labyrinth, BWV 591, once attributed to J. S. Bach). The Introit and Exitus reside comfortably within the space of the tonic key but are not themselves devoid of fantasy elements. The weight of the piece rests within its Centrum, the convoluted labyrinth that abjures order and fully realizes fantasy space. The work’s form is not so much rondo as it is frames enclosing frames, and this will take some explication to apprehend.5

Introit (mm. 1–67) The rondo opens comfortably, even affably. (It is marked “Andante” but only “un poco.”) As is typical of Bach’s rondos, the refrain has a 4 + 4 antecedent-consequent construction. The voice leading is correspondingly straightforward: example 3.1 shows that the bass serves as the anchor, traversing the descending tetrachord to V in the antecedent and extending this descent to an emphasis on IV in the consequent.6 This pair of phrases is repeated with light embellishment. However, the sixteen measures of tonic foundation conceal small tremors of instability. The first two measures, the initial two units

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Example 3.1. C. P. E. Bach, Rondo in G major, sketch of rondo refrain, mm. 1–8.

of a sentence structure, have an oddly stop-and-start quality, underscored by the third-beat tenuti. Moreover, the opening melodic figure conceals a manipulation of the tonal rhythm.7 The rising fourth from B to E, while motivically significant, actually effects a 5–6 exchange above the bass G (clarified by the articulation separating the 5–6, or D–E, from the prior slurred notes). More subtly, the 5–6 prepares an implied 7–6 suspension, a standard counterpoint to the descending bass tetrachord. Example 3.2 illustrates that the normative metric placement for the suspension is skewed, shifting the quality of downbeat stress onto the third beat of the actual first measure. Right from the start, the theme’s easy flow is deceptive; there are hints of fissures that might open space for later excursions. The first excursion, however, is rather modest. Four more measures, cognate with the antecedent, take us to the V of V, and, as expected, the consequent now follows in the key of the dominant (mm. 17–24).8 An apparent return to tonic is darkened by minor-key ombra, and likewise returns us to V after four

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Example 3.2. C. P. E. Bach, Rondo in G major, implied suspensions in opening bars.

measures (mm. 25–28). However, that V brings a sudden freeze, as motion is abruptly curtailed, constrained within a dominant pedal. The initiation of that dominant pedal on the second beat of measure 28 creates a curious effect of elision, and thus metric shift, right on that second beat and into the measures that follow. Indeed, metric shift gives way to metric suspension as Bach writes a measure of Adagio in free meter.9 Here is our first infusion of pure fantasy, and it is not just temporal. Example 3.3 renders the extraordinary tonal events of measure 31, first placing them in the context of the previous tonicization of V (mm. 21–24, summarized in the sketch). The dominant is prolonged, but in a mind-boggling way: C♯, the leading tone to D, is forcibly reinterpreted as D♭, over a B-flat-minor 46 chord. (The reinterpretation is vividly actualized by the sudden forte on the syncopated D♭.) Bewilderment persists as the bass splits into two paths; F both moves down to E♭ leading to D, and also up to F♯, achieving in both cases the dominant seventh of G. (See example 3.3; also note the significant C♯ in m. 28.) The C♯/D♭ transformation will return as a linchpin of the fantasy to come. For now, the intensity of the events in measure 31 so overwhelms the pianissimo statement in measures 32–33 that these bars may be read as parenthetical, with the dominant persisting until the more definite return in measures 35–39. Thus, with an affirmation of the tonic, we close off a complete formal unit.10 However, there is more to the story of the Introit. The dissonant refashioning of the theme in measures 40–41 turns statement into question. The question

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Example 3.3. C. P. E. Bach, Rondo in G major, sketch of mm. 21–36.

is not so much answered as deflected, as the F♮ of the diminished seventh chord is reinterpreted as E♯, allowing a C-sharp dominant seventh chord to emerge (in mm. 42–44; see also example 3.4). The music that follows—in F-sharp minor!—prepares a more literal statement of the rondo theme (mm. 48–49). But this is not the recurrence of the theme: it is too distant, and occurs within this local foray into fantasy (of which the enharmonic reinterpretation was a sure signal). This is a fantasy recurrence; we recognize the melody’s resemblance to the refrain, but understand that it is fantasy, in a way not really part of the essential fabric of the music. Ungrounded, it shifts easily to B minor (mm. 50–55), and with a B anchored in the bass, the theme again recurs. Again, this is fantasy recurrence. Surrounded by distant modulation and freely varied discourse, we understand this thematic reference to be taking place in fantasy space; the recurrence of rondo material is an allusion to reality, not the reality itself. We harbor no illusion about its true nature. We might have such an illusion about the return of the rondo theme in measure 56. Nonetheless, the tint of fantasy may color our perception. Measure 54 is telling. It hints at the opening figure, the rising fourth (though here it is articulated differently, with all four notes under a single slur), and that brings with it

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Example 3.4. C. P. E. Bach, Rondo in G major, sketch of mm. 40–61.

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the implication of a 5–6 exchange. So G major is already sounded above a prolonged bass B and, when measure 56 tentatively outlines a deceptive resolution into the following measure (the E and A♯ resolving inward), G major’s status as I is weakened, not to mention the dynamic contrasts that undermine the explicit tonic chords. Example 3.4 suggests a reading in which the bass B resumes upward progress to the C in measure 58 and the D in measure 61, reinstating the tonic only with measure 62’s consequent phrase.11 The equivocal quality of the apparent tonic harmony in measure 56 is an outgrowth of the fantasy material that preceded it, but it is not part of fantasy space. We believe it to be reality-grounded tonic, until overly developed subdominant harmony overrides it in favor of a larger connection. This is to be considered a recurrence fantasy: we are to take it, initially, as real recurrence; only subsequently do we intimate that it has an aspect of fantasy, of transience, instability, even arbitrariness. The play between fantasy-recurrence and recurrence-fantasy seems quite salient here, and is arguably an essential part of the discourse. With incrementally increasing infusions of fantasy, and a secure closure on the tonic, the Introit comes a conclusion, clearing space for the extravagant excursions to follow.

Centrum (mm. 68–154) Here we truly enter the labyrinth. Our pathway in recalls prior fantasy incursions—references to C♯ and a move to B minor—but these only prefigure much greater divagation. The diminished seventh chord of measure 68, with C♯ anchoring its questioning melodic turn, is immediately reinterpreted as leading to B minor.12 This patch of B minor easily accommodates a Neapolitan sixth, inflecting C♯ back to C♮ (m. 70), and a brief fantasy recurrence (m. 72). But just when the new key seems secure, the Neapolitan sixth returns; though deceptively understated (m. 74), it seizes tonal control, treating itself as tonic. C major, however, is never fully realized, and its dominant weakly articulates only a half cadence (m. 77). Now fully in fantasy mode, this dominant searches further, continuing the stepwise ascent in the bass, only to arrive—astonishingly—at B-flat minor, with a fantasy recurrence in that key (m. 81–82). This half step transposition is significant, in that it allows the previously emphasized C♯ to sharply contrast with its enharmonic equivalent, D♭, the main uppervoice note of this B-flat-minor statement. The presence of this key, so disorientingly distant and so curiously achieved, seems to leave the piece in a state of incomprehension. The arpeggio figure on the last beat of measure 82 calls for a hesitant pause, as if uncertain how to proceed.

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What follows is turbulent explosion, an outburst of Sturm und Drang, echoing the vigorous figuration of measures 34–35 but quite different in content and character. The sequence begins with a series of applied dominants (dynamically emphasized) with stepwise rising bass; this is best understood as an ascending 6–5 series, its first step in chromatic form (mm. 83–86, beat 1).13 The four-measure grouping, which had been gradually loosening, is here abandoned entirely. The sequence is grouped in units of two quarter notes, but these do not create a hemiola against the prevailing meter; rather, the passage disengages fully from the notated meter, as if it were written without bar lines. It is thus not surprising when a definitive arrival at D minor, marked by the only fifth leap in the bass, occurs on the second beat (of m. 86) and continues the two-quarter-note pattern, at least into the next measure. Only when the turbulence is dispelled is meter restored; the arrival at an E dominant seventh (in m. 89) is marked both by this restoration and by the augmented sixth that precedes it. But how did this music come to such a place? In fantasy passages such as this the appearance of arbitrariness can conceal a hidden rational discourse. Of course, maintaining that appearance is as important as keeping rationality hidden. Example 3.5 proposes a thread through this labyrinth, and it hinges on the fragile link provided by that disorienting move to B-flat minor. The D♭ introduced so tentatively in the bass of measure 82 opens a path through which the B-minor tonicization can pass to the D-minor arrival in measure 86. However, to open this path, this D♭ must be understood to be acting as its enharmonic equivalent, C♯. Now, we understand that our willingness to hear this transformation has been prepared by the extraordinary sonorities of measure 31, with its slow-motion focus on the dual nature of C♯ and D♭. The return to D♭ now is a type of recurrence, but not of a fixed entity, but rather of a tone fluidly shifting its identity. However, the process of re-hearing D♭ as C♯ is not immediate, or without effort. The Sturm und Drang passage expends considerable energy to effect this: example 3.5 shows the absorption of D♭ into the A major that precipitates an arrival at D minor.14 Pure passing motion, the ascending 6–5 series, yields to functional harmony, and momentarily the discourse becomes more lucid. Though the music is still quite agitato, we seem to know where we are going, from D minor to V7 of A minor.15 Are we, then, about to put fantasy behind us? We certainly receive mixed signals. Our arrival at the dominant is highly marked: the four measures of measures 89–92 abruptly change texture, restate the questioning form of the theme, and fall silent, awaiting the theme in V.16 That key does not eventuate. Instead, F major appears not so much as a deceptive resolution but as a magical one. It brings with it a complete restoration of the conditions of the Introit, but in the lowered subtonic, a key improbably

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Example 3.5. C. P. E. Bach, Rondo in G major, sketch of mm. 68–93.

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distant from our start, and one that is simply asserted with minimal preparation. We are meant to believe that this is recurrence, but all surrounding circumstances tell us that it is fantasy, i.e., a recurrence fantasy, the rondo refrain heard within a dream. The dream is not dispelled when the eight-measure parallel period (mm. 93–100) proceeds into a digression passage (mm. 101–104), as if realizing a rounded binary configuration. This formal logic begins to unravel as the fantasy reasserts its explicit presence: theme gives way to figuration (mm. 107–111), wanders through various implied keys (B-flat major and minor, C minor and B minor), and dissolves into a cadenza (mm. 111–113). At a loss to continue, we appeal again to magic. The diminished seventh chord traced in the cadenza passagework shifts surreptitiously to an apparent dominant seventh—apparent to the listener, who (ironically) hears a V7 of F, but not to the performer, who reads (and plays) an augmented sixth chord whose implied resolution is to the V of E. A moment of pregnant silence, and E major indeed materializes, in the form of the rondo refrain’s full recurrence (mm. 115–122), a recurrence fantasy as deceptive as that of the theme in F. (See example 3.6 for an interpretation of the connecting passage.17) We have entered the second of the labyrinth’s internal chambers, and it is time to seek the thread that will provide a way out. That thread comes in an unexpected form, in a yet more complex deployment of fantasy and recurrence. After the refrain completes a transposition down a minor third, more wandering ensues (beginning at m. 123). The key seems new—G-sharp minor, impossibly distant from the home key— but the material is somehow familiar. Only gradually do we realize that we have embarked on a near-exact replication, transposed down a minor third, of the fantasy journey that led the Centrum from the tonic key of G major to the fantasy key of F major. (Compare mm. 68–92 and mm. 123–47, and compare ex. 3.5 with ex. 3.7.) In other words, what we initially perceived as improvisatory, capricious, and unstructured is now, by sheer dint of repetition, given a substructure of logic and directedness. Paradoxically, the path into the core of the Centrum and the path out are the same, but we experience them quite differently. These framing passages are counterparts to the double entendre of the F-major and E-major refrains: the refrains appear as recurrences but in reality are not; the frames appear as flights of fancy, but in fact they provide a secure path. The intentionality of that path is evidenced by a sleight of hand that covertly adjusts the Sturm und Drang sequence. The ascending 5–6 sequence in measures 138–41 begins as before (mm. 83–86) but omits the enharmonic reinterpretation of one of the bass’s rising steps; this allows it to progress one half step further than before.18 This small nudge places us exactly where we

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Example 3.6. C. P. E. Bach, Rondo in G major, sketch of mm. 105–19.

Example 3.7. C. P. E. Bach, Rondo in G major, sketch of mm. 119–44.

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need to be for tonality to be securely restored, and the piece seems to know it. When V7 of G arrives at its marked goal, there is no hesitation, no caesura of any kind. To be sure, the dominant here undergoes some diversion from direct resolution, but that is par for the course for a retransitional dominant (mm. 144–54).19 However, there is more to this dominant than syntactic formal function: it is the articulation point of a process that has occupied the rondo thus far. In this regard, an offhand remark on this rondo by Schenker is illuminating: “In order to understand the design of the piece it is important to observe the progressive lowering of the tonality from G major . . . to F major . . . and thence to E major.”20 To this process I would add the arrival on D as V, with which a remarkable picture of the middleground emerges. Example 3.8 uncovers a motivic enlargement of the opening bass line: the descending tetrachord G–F♯–E–D recurs as G–F♮–E–D, fantastically transposing the rondo’s refrain in order to enact a sub rosa recurrence on a grand scale. Moreover, the internal steps, F and E, maintain their transitory status even in the middleground: as recurrence fantasies, the F-major and E-major refrains have only the semblance of stability, semblance being their true nature.

Exitus (mm. 155–87) Bach’s essay on recurrence and fantasy has stated its essential arguments; all that remains is recall and review. The refrain in the tonic key now has the effect of a return to the opening and comes as a bit of a relief. The eight measures of measures 155–62 are comfortable and relaxed. A bit of developmental extension notwithstanding, fantasy has a lesser place in the Exitus—save for one striking moment: a subito fortissimo C♯ that leads to V, followed by cadenza elaboration. C♯ is our first review: it recalls its vertiginous reinterpretation as D♭ in the anomalous measure 31, and the vigorous reinstatement of D♭ as C♯ in the Sturm und Drang passage in measures 81–86. Another recall is more conceptual. The rondo’s structural ending comes, in my view, at the pivotal turn in measures 183–84.21 The Urlinie closes here, albeit an octave lower than the initial presentation of the rondo theme. That lower octave is the opening for a special effect: in measures 184–85, the lefthand G, acting as both bass and as 1^ of the upper voice, remains fixed as the point of closure, while above it and eliding with it, a fantasy-recurrence of the refrain enacts the appearance of another refrain statement. A ghost of the refrain, it is emptied of its force of formal recurrence. Recasting the theme

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Example 3.8. C. P. E. Bach, Rondo in G major, comparison of opening with middleground of Centrum.

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as the bass line in the very last bars confirms that this is a coda only, not a genuine refrain. Is this piece a rondo? Or perhaps a rondo with significant admixture of fantasy elements? I have cast my discussion into three parts, but dissecting the form is not my point. Nor do I think it is Bach’s. I have argued that this rondo (perhaps not uniquely) is Bach’s exploration of the possibilities of structural recurrence and fantastic digression, and how these can be interleaved with each other. At least that might be so for performers and listeners willing and able to immerse themselves deeply in the rondo’s labyrinthine modulations. Further speculation on my part is piqued by Bach’s recommendation of his collection to Kenner and Liebhaber, the first time such language was used to preface a musical score.22 Could it be that he has intentionally composed music to be heard differently by the connoisseur and the amateur, with equally rewarding results? Could the amateur perceive this piece as a simple variation on rondo form, while the connoisseur savors the conflicting rhetoric so ingeniously crafted in its fabric? Enticing speculation aside, one can safely say that in his Rondo in G major Bach problematizes the simple language of recurrence, defamiliarizing the comforting refrain and domesticating the unruly fantasy.

Notes 1. 2.

3.

4.

5. 6.

The Kenner und Liebhaber collection was published in six sets over the period from 1779 to 1787. The Grove dictionary acknowledges the sui generis nature of Bach’s rondos by providing them with a separate section within the larger article on the rondo. See Malcolm S. Cole, “Rondo.” Grove Music Online, Oxford Music Online, Oxford University Press, http://www.oxfordmusiconline.com/subscriber/article/ grove/music/23787 (accessed April 6, 2016). Composed in 1779, this piece was published as Rondo I in the fifth set in 1785. The score is available at http://imslp.org/wiki/Clavier-Sonaten_f%C3%BCr_ Kenner_und_Liebhaber,_Wq.55-59,_61_%28Bach,_Carl_Philipp_ Emanuel%29 (accessed April 6, 2016). See Richard Kramer, “The New Modulation of the 1770s: C. P. E. Bach in Theory, Criticism, and Practice,” Journal of the American Musicological Society 38 (1985): 551–92. For a more conventional reading of this rondo’s form see Leonard Ratner, Classic Music: Expression, Form and Style (New York: Schirmer Books, 1980), 252. The tonic chord appearing in measure 4, in its weak metric position, is easily taken as consonant support for a passing tone; the tonic 36 chord in the

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7. 8. 9.

10.

11.

12. 13.

14.

15. 16.

17.

18. 19. 20.

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consequent (m. 7) is much more emphasized, but Bach’s consistent inflection of D to D♯ suggests that its aim is to lead purposefully toward the following IV chord. I speak of tonal rhythm in the sense introduced by Carl Schachter in “Rhythm and Linear Analysis: A Preliminary Study,” Music Forum 4 (1976): 281–334. One may note that the suspension implied in measure 1, beat 3, is explicitly realized here in measure 17. The notated measure 31 contains six quarter notes, but the change to Adagio renders any continuation of the previous meter doubtful. The placement of the Adagio marking over the second quarter may also be an indication of the intended free rendering of this passage. That is, measures 1–39. It can be noted that if the anomalous measure 31 is taken as equivalent to two actual measures, then this section could be taken as a symmetrical 40-measure formal unit. Still, it seems clear that measures 28–31 abandon any intentional impression of symmetry. The fuller prolongation of II6 in measures 58–61, beat 2, expands the phrase to six measures. The consequent phrase is similarly expanded, allowing it to balance the antecedent with another six measures (mm. 62–67). That is, the obvious interpretation of this chord would be as a fully diminished seventh of D. That is, the first two 35 chords, measure 83, beat 2, and measure 84, beat one, progress by half step, from E♭ minor to E minor, such that an enharmonic reinterpretation is required, the bass tone E♭ being reinterpreted as D♯. Of course, the succeeding motion from E minor to F minor (m. 84) requires no such reinterpretation. The linkage here assumes a deeper-level 5–6 exchange between the B-flatminor sonority and the A-major harmony, as well as enharmonic reinterpretation of all chordal elements. In retrospect at least, the A-major harmony is understood to be the primary prolonged Stufe. The brief tonicization of G minor in measures 87–88 is easily heard as a IV within D minor. Presumably A minor is implied, but it is significant that at no point does this rondo present a full version of the refrain in minor mode, a version that would require some adjustment to the harmonic setting. A root-position tonic is not the expected resolution of an augmented sixth chord, but rather a fantastic one. Given the augmented sixth’s tendency to resolve to dominant harmony, I have displaced the arrival of the tonic of E major until measure 119. That is, an exact transposition would arrive at B minor in measure 141, instead of C minor, and would continue a half step lower thereafter. See also note 13. The G minor chord of measure 148 should not be understood as tonic arrival; the following sequential repetition confirms its transitory status. “A Contribution to the Study of Ornamentation,” translated and edited by Hedi Siegel, Music Forum IV (New York: Columbia University Press, 1976), 44.

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21. Beats 2 and 3 of measure 183 have the effect of a written-out ritenuto, signaling a moment of closure. Further, the arrival of tonic on the downbeat of the next measure conforms to eighteenth-century maxims. 22. See Christopher Hogwood’s editorial commentary on this title in Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach: The Complete Works, I/4.2: “Kenner und Liebhaber” Collections II (Los Altos: Packard Humanities Institute, 2009), xi.

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Chapter Four

Voice-Leading Procedures in Galant Expositions L. Poundie Burstein

Modern analytic approaches to sonata form generally take for granted that expositions normally divide into two large theme groups linked by a transition.1 This two-part analytic model has much to recommend it, for it helps to highlight the dramatic dialectic that lies at the heart of many sonata expositions composed during the high classical period. Analyzing an exposition in terms of two contrasting theme groups can also shed light on its voice-leading structure, since middleground prolongations often correlate directly with these thematic groupings. Despite their importance in modern analytic discourse, however, large thematic groups in expositions went entirely unnoticed in publications throughout much of the eighteenth century. Not until the last few years of the 1700s was there any published indication that musicians recognized the presence— much less the importance—of a secondary theme within what would now be labeled a sonata-form exposition. Even when they did point to features that today would clearly be associated with secondary themes, music theorists of the time seemed not to notice the groupings that result. That eighteenth-century theorists did not discuss such thematic groupings makes much sense, considering the repertoire with which they were concerned. After all, they examined not only works from the high classical period but also works composed earlier, including those from around the 1750s through the 1770s. For works composed during this earlier era, the formal descriptions proposed by eighteenth-century theorists work particularly well. The same might be said even for certain works from later decades by composers—most notably

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Joseph Haydn—who continued to employ formal procedures that were developed closer to the middle of the 1700s. Modern analytic approaches to sonata form, by contrast, tend to take as their starting point procedures that developed in the high classical period or later. When examined through the assumptions inherent in modern analytic approaches, an uncomfortably large number of standard formal layouts of works composed during the third quarter of the eighteenth century appear to be deformational or involve departures from the norm. This in turn creates difficulties when we try to come to grips with the voice-leading procedures in the expositions of such pieces by using modern analytic models. In the present essay, I examine some paradigmatic voice-leading layouts of expositions from the galant era through the lens of eighteenth-century formal theories, taking as my starting point concepts and terminology proposed by Heinrich Christoph Koch, the most articulate and thoroughgoing formal theorist of the time.2 As we will see, regarding the formal layouts of expositions in some galant compositions, Koch’s description fits quite closely with the modern two-part expositional model. For a number of other expositions from this era, however, applying the modern formal analytic model creates needless complications. In these instances, it is helpful to consider them instead in relation to models proposed during that time, an approach that also aids in clarifying crucial features of both their form and their voice-leading that might otherwise be overlooked.

Resting Points and Sätze Let us begin with an overview of Koch’s formal terminology and concepts, focusing on his notions regarding what he refers to as a movement’s first Periode. The first Periode comprises the section that stretches from what today is labeled as the start of the exposition through the arrival of a strongly emphasized perfect authentic cadence in the secondary key.3 Koch explains that this section typically is punctuated by a series of resting points (Ruhepunkte), each of which marks the end of a complete passage (that is, one that lasts for about four measures or longer and that involves at least two different melodic ideas). Depending on the specific circumstances, these resting points correspond to what nowadays are regarded either as cadences, subphrase endings, or merely sustained harmonies that appear midphrase. Koch uses the term Satz (plural: Sätze) to describe a complete passage that leads to a resting point; he also uses this term to refer to the resting point itself. The Satz that concludes a Periode with a perfect cadence is called a Schlußsatz, and the Sätze that appear in the middle of a Periode are called Absätze. Absätze are further categorized by harmonies on which they conclude: an Absatz that

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leads to a resting point on a I triad is called a Grundabsatz, and one that that leads to a resting point supported by V is a Quintabsatz. These terms are summarized in table 4.1. Table 4.1. Definitions of standard eighteenth-century formal terms. Periode

Large section that ends with a PAC and that comprises multiple Sätze.

Satz

Complete passage (with at least two contrasting ideas) that leads to a resting point, as well as the resting point at the end of such a passage.

Absatz

Satz that concludes in the middle of a Periode.

Grundabsatz

Absatz that ends on I.

Quintabsatz

Absatz that ends on V.

Schlußsatz

Satz that concludes with a PAC at end of a Periode.

Over the course of the exposition, the resting points—along with the Sätze that lead to them—follow each other according to standard patterns (table 4.2). For instance, in a major-key movement, the first possible resting point arrives over a tonic harmony, and subsequent possible resting points arrive on V, V/V, and I/V—in that order. In other words, in a major-key movement, the first Periode consists of a Grundabsatz (I/I), followed by a Quintabsatz (V/I), then a Quintabsatz in V (V/V), and finally a Schlußsatz in the key of V (I/V). The resting points of the Absätze can be strongly underscored or barely hinted at. Furthermore, this basic plan can be varied by eliding or omitting one of the resting points, or by repeating a Satz or pair of Sätze. In many cases various textural, thematic, and rhythmic features shape the Sätze so as to suggest larger groupings. Some possible groupings are depicted Table 4.2. Chart depicting standard Satz layout for major-key exposition. Grundabsatz I

Quintabsatz V

Quintabsatz in V V/V

Schlußsatz I/V

Leads to resting point on I.

Leads to resting point on V.

Leads to resting point on V/V (=II♯); often begins in key of V.

Leads to PAC in V; concludes Periode.

● Each Satz label refers both to the resting point at the end of the passage and to the passage itself. ● Any Satz or pair of Sätze may be omitted, elided, or repeated.

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in table 4.3.4 Of particular interest is how much emphasis the resting point on V receives compared with the emphasis given to the resting point on V/V. For instance, consider a situation in which the resting point on V/V appears at a subphrase ending or in the middle of larger Sätze grouping, and the one on V is confirmed by a firm half cadence, with the half-cadential V then sustained for a number of measures, underlined by rhetorical gestures, and followed by a sharp change of texture. In such a circumstance, the resting point on V would be more strongly highlighted than the resting point on V/V (as in table 4.3a). The reverse situation is possible as well, in which case the resting point on V/V would be given greater emphasis than the one on V (as in table 4.3b). Table 4.3. Some possible ways in which the individual Sätze may be grouped together by textural or thematic means. (GA = Grundabsatz; QA = Quintabsatz; SS = Schlußsatz; emphasized resting points are in bold, underlined, or both.) (a) Last two Sätze grouped together, V at end of QA emphasized: GA  I

QA  V

QA in VV/V

SS  I/V

(b) Middle two Sätze grouped together, V at end of QA in V emphasized: GA  I

QA  V

QA in V  V/V

SS  I/V

(c) First two Sätze grouped together, V at end of QA emphasized; V at end of QA in V emphasized even more: GA  I

QA  V

QA in V  V/V

SS  I/V

(d) No Sätze grouped together, V at end of QA in V emphasized: GA  I

QA  V

QA in V  V/V

SS  I/V

Such differing emphases and groupings can in turn color our understanding of the roles these resting points play in the voice-leading structure. For instance, the design depicted in table 4.3a usually correlates with one of voiceleading paradigms seen in example 4.1. According to this voice-leading paradigm, the V at the end of the Quintabsatz is an applied divider, and the V/V at the end of the Quintabsatz in V is embedded within an Ursatz replica in the key of V. Similarly, the layouts depicted in table 4.3b–d typically relate to one of the paradigms shown in example 4.2. In both of the voice-leading paradigms of example 4.2, the resting point on V marks a midpoint within a larger motion of ascending fifths in the bass, leading from I to II♯.

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Example 4.1. Voice-leading paradigms that often form the basis of expositions that follow the model of table 4.3a: (a) Paradigm in which Schlußsatz begins with tonic of local key; and (b) paradigm in which Schlußsatz does not begin with tonic of local key.

Example 4.2. Voice-leading paradigms that often form the basis of expositions that follow the models of table 4.3b–d: (a) Paradigm in which V of Quintabsatz is elided or appears midphrase; and (b) paradigm in which V of Quintabsatz is followed by demarcation.

Naturally, the design and voice-leading structures of expositions do not always line up so neatly. It is certainly possible, for instance, for one or more of the resting points to be subsumed within a prolongation of a strongly emphasized harmony that begins midphrase. Configurations other than those shown in table 4.3 are possible as well (if, for instance, one of the possible resting points is omitted), and these other layouts also may give rise to other possible voice-leading structures. Nevertheless, the voiceleading paradigms presented in examples 4.1 and 4.2 do form the basis of many expositions composed during the galant era, including most of those discussed below.

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Expositions That Emphasize the Resting Point on V An example of an exposition based on the model shown in table 4.3a occurs in the first movement of Mozart’s Sonata in G, K. 283 (example 4.3). The first two Sätze of this movement (mm. 1–16 and 17–22, respectively) are each framed by a sentence that concludes with a firm cadence followed by a short caesura. The next two Sätze, on the other hand, are linked by texture to form a single sentential phrase (mm. 23–43), with the Quintabsatz in V (m. 30) appearing at the midpoint of this phrase. This grouping in turn suggests the voice-leading grouping depicted in example 4.3. Example 4.3. Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, Sonata in G, K. 283 (1774), I: voiceleading sketch of exposition (mm. 1–43); cf. table 4.3a and example 4.1a above. (Heavier bar lines indicate sturdier breaks at Satz endings.)

As suggested by the text above the staff in example 4.3, the grouping of the Sätze also suggests a layout that could effectively be described by modern sonata-form terminology. That is, the Grundabsatz could be characterized as a stable first theme, the active Quintabsatz as a transition that leads to a medial caesura, and the Quintabsatz in V combined with the Schlußsatz as an expansive secondary theme.5 These theme groups may be regarded as by-products of the differences in the demarcations of the various resting points. It might be tempting to argue that the passage in measures 23–43 is the secondary theme because it prolongs V. Yet such a rationale too easily leads to circular reasoning: we can also just as easily claim that this passage prolongs V because it is the secondary theme. It would be fairer to state that the same textural, rhythmic, and thematic features that group the Sätze of measures 23–43 together to form a prolongation of V likewise suggest that this passage may be understood as a secondary theme.

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Not every exposition from the third quarter of the eighteenth century that follows one of the paradigms of example 4.1 can be described so readily by using modern sonata-form terminology, however. Consider the finale of Joseph Haydn’s Symphony no. 12 in E (ex. 4.4). The first two Sätze of this movement strongly resemble one another thematically, and as such they seem to establish a single sixteen-bar group. The next two Sätze (mm. 17–32) are even more strongly bound together, since the V/V is sustained from the end of the Quintabsatz in V in measure 24 past the beginning of the Schlußsatz. The resulting grouping suggests a voice-leading layout that follows the paradigm shown in example 4.1b. Example 4.4. Joseph Haydn, Symphony No. 12 in E (1763), III: voice-leading sketch of exposition (mm. 1–32); cf. table 4.3a and example 4.1b above.

Unlike in Mozart’s K. 283, it is far from clear in this exposition where—or even if—one should locate a transition and secondary theme. Modern concepts of sonata form assume that an active, transitional-sounding passage typically leads from the first theme to the secondary theme. In this exposition from Haydn’s Symphony no. 12, however, the transitional-sounding passage follows the big cadential caesura of measure 16. Accordingly, as shown in the text above the staff in example 4.4, one could either read measures 17–32 as a (deformational) secondary theme or as a “fused transition/subordinate theme.”6 However one decides to parse this exposition using modern sonataform terminology, it should be underlined that this layout is not out of the ordinary when considered in the context of its era. When this symphony was composed, it was quite common for a transitional-sounding passage to follow rather than lead to the cadential break that precedes the passage in the new key. In any case, deciding which passage to label as the transition or the secondary theme has no effect on determining the grouping of the Sätze or the voice-leading structure of the exposition.

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Expositions That Emphasize the Resting Point on V/V V Elided at End of Quintabsatz In the exposition of the finale from Haydn’s Symphony no. 38 in C Major, the resting point on V/V is emphasized, rather than the one on V (example 4.5). The resting point on V/V (m. 41) arrives at the end of a long sequential section and is followed by a sudden shift in texture, orchestration, thematic content, and dynamic level. The resting point on V (m. 30), by contrast, is relatively underplayed, coming as it does within the middle of a large sequential passage (more specifically, at the end of the first half of a two-part sequential section). Far from being followed by a shift in texture or thematic content (as was the case with the resting point on V in the expositions examined in exx. 4.3 and 4.4), the resting point on V in this exposition elides with the start of the next phrase. As a result, the V of measure 30 is best understood as appearing in the midst of a larger motion leading to the strongly emphasized V/V in measure 41 (cf. ex. 4.2a). For this exposition, as for the exposition from Mozart’s K. 283 discussed above, modern sonata-form concepts and terminology work quite nicely (see the text above the staff in ex. 4.5). Accordingly, the stable Grundabsatz here may be characterized as the first theme, the more active Quintabsatz and Quintabsatz in V combine to form the transition, and the expansive Schlußsatz is a secondary theme.7 Example 4.5. Haydn, Symphony No. 38 in C (c. 1767), IV: voice-leading sketch of exposition (mm. 1–62); cf. table 4.3b and example 4.2a above.

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Note that within this exposition, what is labeled as the secondary theme (starting in m. 42) is actually the second passage in the key of V. The first passage that begins and ends in the dominant key is the Quintabsatz in V (mm. 30–41), which—taken by itself—forms a sentential phrase in the key of G. The analysis in example 4.5 suggests that a phrase such as this—which appears entirely within the secondary key—nonetheless can precede the arrival of the background dominant. As will be argued below, such a tonal structure can also arise in situations where it is less clear whether such a passage should be labeled (according to modern terminology) part of the transition or part of the secondary theme.

V at End of Quintabsatz Followed by Short Break The voice-leading framework of the exposition from the first movement of Haydn’s Symphony no. 43 in E-flat (example 4.6) is similar to that just discussed in the fourth movement of Haydn’s Symphony no. 38. The main difference is that in Symphony no. 43, the resting point on V is not elided with the start of the next phrase, but is followed by a small demarcation (in m. 41) and then by a new melody (in m. 42) that is clearly a variant of the previous one. Although slightly emphasized, the resting point on V in measure 41 nonetheless is less firmly reinforced than the ensuing resting point on V/V in measure 58, and it lies within a passage embraced by a single underlying texture that lasts from measure 31 to measure 58. As a result, the Quintabsatz and Example 4.6. Haydn, Symphony No. 43 in E-flat (c. 1771), I: voice-leading sketch of exposition (mm. 1–68); cf. table 4.3b and example 4.2b above.

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Quintabsatz in V combine to form a group that extends from measures 31 to 58, with the resting point on V in measure 41 marking a midpoint within a larger tonal motion from the opening tonic to the II♯ of measure 58 (cf. ex. 4.2b). Much like the exposition of Symphony no. 38, this one can be parsed quite easily into separate theme groups using modern sonata-form terminology (see the text above the staff in ex. 4.6).8 Here, too, the first passage that is entirely in the key of V (mm. 42–58) appears within what is labeled the transition section. To be sure, this new-key passage of measures 42–58 is more independent from what immediately precedes it than the analogous passage in Symphony no. 38. Indeed, had the passage that begins in measure 42 led to a perfect cadence rather than to a half cadence in the key of V, it reasonably could have been labeled as the secondary theme. Such a possibility is soon pushed aside, however, because it eventually becomes apparent that the better candidate for the secondary theme arrives after the half-cadential break in measures 58.

Quintabsatz and Quintabsatz in V Both Followed by Breaks It is not always so easy to determine where the transition ends and the secondary theme begins, however. This is especially so in situations—although otherwise similar to those seen immediately above—in which the two passages in the secondary key are each preceded by a caesura, as is depicted in table 4.4. Although both of the new-key themes start in a stable manner in this standard layout, usually the second of the new-key themes is more stable, and the resting point on V/V is more strongly emphasized than the one on V. As a result, the underlying voice-leading structure of expositions based on this formal layout usually follows one of the paradigms seen in example 4.2, much like the expositions just discussed. Table 4.4. Chart depicting common eighteenth-century layout of an exposition with two themes in V that each follow half-cadential breaks (cf. table 4.3c above). Grundabsatz

Quintabsatz

Quintabsatz in V

Schlußsatz

Presents stable main theme in key of I

Loose-knit, transition-like passage, leads to strong HC in I, followed by caesura

Begins in V with stable theme, ends with energetic motion to stronger HC in V, followed by caesura

Begins in V with an expansive cantabile theme, ends with energetic motion to PAC in V

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The layout shown in table 4.4 is unproblematic from the standpoint of eighteenth-century theory and practice. Indeed, expositions that follow this basic framework are offered as exemplars in treatises by Koch, Joseph Riepel, Georg Simon Lohlein, and Johann Gottlieb Portmann.9 Evidently the theorists of the time expected their readers to understand and to be familiar with this layout, not as an exceptional case, but as a thoroughly typical situation. Difficulties arise only if one tries to account for this standard situation by using modern sonata-form terminology, which (based on practices that would be become the norm only in the later decades of the eighteenth century) assumes that expositions should typically divide into two—and only two—large contrasting thematic groups. One of the many expositions from the galant era that follows the model of table 4.4 occurs in the first movement of Mozart’s Symphony in F, K. 43, written when the composer was eleven years old. The design and structure of this exposition are largely similar to those examined in examples 4.5 and 4.6. It has the same Satz layout, with two passages that begin and end in the key of V, and with greater weight given to the resting point on V/V. Thus, similar to the expositions analyzed in examples 4.5 and 4.6, this one is framed by a large I– (V)–II♯–V voice-leading structure (ex. 4.7; cf. table 4.3c and ex. 4.2b). Compared with what we found in the first movement of Haydn’s Symphony no. 43 (ex. 4.6), the first passage in the key of V (mm. 14–22) in the first movement of Mozart’s K. 43 is even more clearly separated from the passage that immediately precedes it. Using modern terminology, one might be more tempted to label the passage in measures 14–22 as a secondary theme. On the other hand, because it groups thematically with the passage that precedes it, one could also reasonably label it as the start of the transition, or as the Table 4.5. Comparison of possible parsings (a) according to the Satz layout; (b, c) according to modern sonata-form terminology; (d) according to another possible reading. m. 1

7

14

23

(a) after Koch (1793)

GA

QA

QA in V

SS

(b) Brown (2002)

1st theme

transition

2nd theme

(c) Hepokoski & Darcy (2006)

1st theme

(d) another possible 1st theme reading:

transition “S[econd (MC in m. theme]-space” 13) (“post-MC” in m. 22)

“secondary theme space” continues

transition (pt. 1)

2nd theme

transition (pt. 2)

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Example 4.7. Mozart, Symphony in F, K. 43 (1767), I: voice-leading sketch of exposition (mm. 1–45); cf. table 4.3c and examples 4.2b and 4.6 above.

midpoint of a transition that begins in measure 7, with the cantabile theme (mm. 23–45) that follows the strongly demarcated V/V in measure 22 as the secondary theme. Table 4.5 displays these possibilities (two of which have already appeared in published analyses of this exposition by other scholars). One may wonder what advantage would be gained by arguing for one of these readings over the other, however. After all, the manner in which the movement’s design and voice-leading structure are in dialogue with other expositions composed at the time can readily be understood in terms of its Satz structure. The application of the anachronistic concept of a secondary theme to this exposition seems superfluous at best.

All the Absätze Followed by Breaks The voice-leading paradigm of example 4.2 also can govern expositions that do not have even a single clearly established secondary theme, much less two.10 For instance, consider the first movement of Niccolò Jommelli’s Trio in D for Two Flutes and Continuo (ex. 4.8a). Although this exposition includes two Sätze that begin and end in the key of V, neither is fleshed out sufficiently to form a full-fledged theme. The first of these passages (mm. 8–11), which follows a strong half cadence in the main key, is unstable and leads to an even stronger half cadence in the key of V. The next passage (mm. 12–16) is even less stable, sounding more like a “continuation-to-cadence” than a self-contained theme.11 To be sure, one could put forth an argument for labeling a secondary theme as beginning in either measure 8 or measure 12. But again, it is not clear what benefits would accrue from such a determination. Here, too,

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Example 4.8. Niccolò Jommelli, Trio No. 6 in D for Two Flutes and Continuo (1751), I, exposition, mm. 1–19: (a) annotated score; and (b) voice-leading sketch; cf. table 4.3d and example 4.1b above.

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Example 4.8b.

understanding the exposition in terms of its resting points amply demonstrates how its design and voice-leading structure are consistent with those of other works of its time (ex. 4.8b; cf. table 4.3d).

Standard Schenkerian Reading The analyses above that are modeled after the paradigm of example 4.2 depart from what in recent years has become standard analytic practice among many Schenkerian readings of sonata expositions. Specifically, in dealing with formal designs such as those depicted in table 4.3b–d, it has been more customary to draw a connection between the opening tonic and the harmony that immediately precedes the large II♯ chord. This connection takes the form of either a large 5–6 motion or a (chromatic) voice exchange (ex. 4.9). According to this standard Schenkerian reading, the crucial half-cadential V at the end of the Quintabsatz is subsumed within a larger prolongation.12 An example of a reading the follows the paradigm depicted in example 4.9 occurs in an analysis by Lauri Suurpää of the first movement from Mozart’s Symphony no. 38 in D (“Prague”), K. 504 (ex. 4.10a).13 Noting the arrival of a theme in the key of V in measure 71, Suurpää wonders if “the A-major chord of measure 71 functions as the structural dominant, the second background harmony of the exposition.”14 After considering the matter, however, he concludes that “the clearly forward-looking character” of the II♯ that follows (starting in m. 81) ultimately suggests “an interpretation that emphasizes the II[♯] in measure 81 more than the A-major chord in measure 71.”15

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Example 4.9. Standard Schenkerian analysis of sonata-form exposition: (a) Standard analysis involving (chromaticized) 5–6 motion; and (b) standard analysis involving (chromaticized) voice exchange.

Example 4.10. Mozart, Symphony in D, K. 504 (“Prague,” 1786), I: voice-leading sketches of exposition, mm. 37–129: (a) reading by Lauri Suurpäa (2006); and (b) proposed alternate reading.

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Suurpää’s argument for favoring the firmly underlined II♯ of measure 81 over the V of measure 71 is well taken. However, in his voice-leading analysis, the V of measure 71 is subordinated not only to the II♯ of measure 81 but also to the weakly affirmed applied viio6 of E in measure 80. This viio6 of E arises in the middle of a sequence, appears for only a single measure, and is not emphasized by dynamics, texture, rhythm, or thematic content. The A-major chord of measure 71, by contrast, is strongly demarcated by being preceded by a sturdy half cadence on another A-major chord in measures 69–71 (which marks the end of the Quintabsatz, a pivotal moment in the exposition’s design) as well as by being followed by thematic entrance at measure 71, after which the A-major chord is prolonged for eight more measures. These factors argue in favor of the reading proposed in example 4.10b, which more suitably accounts for the structural importance of the A-major chords of measures 69–71 while acknowledging the greater weight given to the II♯ to come. Perhaps the allure of an analysis such as that in example 4.10a results from the sense that the large, implied passing tone in the upper voice is a convenient metaphor for the unstable, “passing” nature of the theme that enters at measure 71. But to what is this theme passing? Is it passing to the applied viio6 of E in measure 80 (as in ex. 4.10a)? Or to the more far strongly emphasized II♯, with the transitory viio6 of E supporting a neighbor tone in the upper voice (as in ex. 4.10b)? To be sure, the paradigms depicted in example 4.9 seem to underlie at least some expositions from this era. This is especially so when the resting point on V is weakly delineated, or when extra emphasis is given to the harmony that precedes the large II♯. Such is the case in the exposition from the second movement of Mozart’s Sonata for Piano in G, K. 283, where the dominant harmony at the end of the Quintabsatz is best understood as functioning on a lower level, embedded within a larger 5–6 motion (ex. 4.11). But in expositions where the V at the end of the Quintabsatz is sturdily marked, as is often the case, one of the paradigms depicted in example 4.2 should at least be strongly considered as a possible structural basis. The importance of the resting points was highlighted by Koch and other music theorists who lived at the time, and for those sensitive to these moments, the large-scale voice-leading implications of the end of the Absätze are not easy to ignore. Taking into account the implications of these standard resting points often allows for a better understanding of expositions from the galant era on their own terms, rather than judged by standards prompted by the norms of music composed during later decades. This in return can pave the way for richer voice-leading analyses, ones that help us better to comprehend the expositions of the galant era in a manner closer to that discussed by those who composed, improvised, performed, and listened to the music during its time.

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Example 4.11. Mozart, Sonata for Piano in G, K. 283 (1774), II: voice-leading sketch of mm. 1–14.

Notes 1.

2.

3.

Even the layout known as the “continuous exposition,” in which there are no separate theme groups, is usually regarded as one in which the expected twopart division has been suppressed. Regarding the continuous exposition, see James Hepokoski and Warren Darcy, Elements of Sonata Theory (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006), 51–64. Heinrich Christoph Koch’s most extended discussions regarding what we now would label a sonata-form exposition appear in his Versuch einer Anleitung zur Composition, vol. 3 (Leipzig: Adam Friedrich Böhme, 1793; trans. [along with sections from vol. 2] by Nancy Kovaleff Baker as Introductory Essay on Composition [New Haven: Yale University Press, 1983]). During the eighteenth century, much as they do today, music theorists differed regarding many particulars. Nevertheless, the basic concepts that Koch explains, especially regarding the standard order and nature of the resting points within an exposition, can be found in the writings and musical examples in other eighteenth-century discussions of musical form: see, for instance, Joseph Riepel, Grundregeln zur Tonordnung insgemein (Frankfurt and Leipzig: Lotter, Auspurg, 1755); Friedrich Wilhelm Marpurg, Principes du Claveçin (Berlin: Haude et Spener, 1756); Georg Simon Löhlein, Klavier-Schule (Leipzig: Waisenhaus- und Frommanische Buchhandlung, 1779–81); and Johann Gottlieb Portmann, Leichtes Lehrbuch der Harmonie, Composition und des Generalbasses (Darmstadt: Fürstl. Hof- und Kanleibuchdruckerie, 1789). To put it differently, the first Periode comprises the section that corresponds to what Hepokoski and Darcy refer to as the exposition through the EEC

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5.

6.

7.

8.

9.

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(“Essential Expositional Closure”) that marks the end of the Secondary Theme Zone; see Hepokoski and Darcy, Elements of Sonata Theory, 16–18. The first Periode may be followed by a Nebenperiode, which corresponds to the modern concept of the exposition’s closing section. The present essay focuses only on the first Periode. It should be noted that within his Versuch, Koch rarely discusses such larger groupings or differentiates between the different weightings of the resting points. The closest he comes to doing so is when he notes that within a first-movement symphonic Allegro, the first “formal Absatz” (that is, the first clearly marked resting point that is not elided) often arrives only at the end of the Quintabsatz in V; see Koch, Versuch, §147 (Baker translation, 230; see also Versuch, §101, Baker translation, 199). Not until his writings published during the nineteenth century does Koch seem to openly acknowledge the different weightings given to the resting points; see the discussion in L. Poundie Burstein, “The Half Cadence and Other Analytic Fictions,” in What is a Cadence? ed. Pieter Bergé and Markus Neuwirth (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2015), 89–95. A medial caesura (MC) is a textural break (either in the form of a brief silence or a sudden thinning of texture) that follows the cadence that precedes the secondary theme; see Hepokoski and Darcy, Elements of Sonata Theory, 23–50. Regarding the term “fused transition/subordinate theme” (in which the transition and secondary theme combine within a single phrase), see William Caplin, Classical Form: A Theory of Formal Functions for the Instrumental Music of Haydn, Mozart and Beethoven (New York: Oxford University Press, 1998), 203. An exposition with a fused transition/subordinate theme would, in a case such as this Haydn symphony, be labeled a continuous exposition according to terminology proposed by Hepokoski and Darcy in Elements of Sonata Theory. A slightly different parsing of the divide between the first theme and transition in this movement is proposed in A. Peter Brown, The Symphonic Repertoire (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2002), 2:112. Brown’s interpretation is based on thematic layout rather that phrase structure, and he reads the first theme as extending until measure 22, so that the transition starts with the sequential passage that begins in the middle of the Quintabsatz. Brown reads the secondary theme as beginning in measure 42 in the manner shown in example 4.4. Such disagreements as noted here regarding the dividing line between the first theme and transition are not uncommon (see also note 8 below). Far more noteworthy are disagreements regarding the start of the secondary theme, as will be discussed in some of the examples below, since such disagreements often challenge the very notion of the bipartite division of the exposition. Brown, in The Symphonic Repertoire, 129, reads measures 31–41 as the closing segment of the main theme and the transition as starting in measure 42. In his reading, therefore, the first passage in the key of V (that is, that passage that starts in m. 42) is read as a transition, not as a secondary theme. For instance, see Koch Versuch §152, 404, 404–8 (Baker translation, 238–39); Riepel, Grundregeln zur Tonordnung, 64 (in which an exposition that has only

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one new theme in the new key is introduced as a variant of what was evidently considered the more normative situation in which there are two newkey themes); Lohlein, Klavier-Schule, 183–88; and Portmann, Leichtes Lehrbuch, example volume, 43–46. Significantly, Portmann proposes a type of background harmonic analysis for the D-major exposition example, one which is based on a D–E–A (= I–II♯–V) structure (cf. example 4.2!); see Portmann, Leichtes Lehrbuch, 404–8. In other words, expositions that would be labeled as continuous expositions; see note 1 above. Regarding the concept of the “continuation-to-cadence,” see Caplin, Classical Form, 40–47. See, for instance, Roger Kamien and Naphtali Wagner, “Bridge Themes within a Chromaticized Voice Exchange in Mozart Exposition,” Music Theory Spectrum 19, no. 1 (1997): 1–12; Graham Hunt, “When Structure and Design Collide: The Three-Key Exposition Revisited,” Music Theory Spectrum 36, no. 2 (2014): 247–69; and the analysis by Lauri Suurpää discussed immediately below. See also Allen Cadwallader and David Gagne, Analysis of Tonal Music: A Schenkerian Approach, 2nd edition (New York: Oxford University Press, 2007), 35–37. It should be noted that although this reading is standard among Schenker’s followers, it is not found in the publications of Heinrich Schenker himself: whereas Schenker did comment on 5–6 motions and chromatic voiceexchanges that lead to the a large II♯in an exposition, in no published analysis of his is the resting point at the end of a Quintabsatz subordinated to such a motion. Lauri Suurpää, “The First-Movement Exposition of Mozart’s ‘Prague’ Symphony: Cadences, Form, and Voice-Leading Structure,” Tijdschrift voor Tuziektheorie 11, no. 3 (2006): 164–77 (esp. 167–68 and 176). Ibid., 168. Ibid., 168. Note that the resting point on V/V that begins in measure 81 does not take the form of a cadence or a subphrase ending but is instead a strongly emphasized and extended harmony.

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Chapter Five

The First Movements of Anton Eberl’s Symphonies in E-flat Major and D Minor, and Beethoven’s Eroica Toward “New” Sonata Forms? Timothy L. Jackson

I first became aware of the music of Anton Eberl (1765–1807), a contemporary of the “Viennese classics,” in 2013.1 Eberl was a composer whose first piano sonata was published as Mozart’s last, under Mozart’s name, even while Mozart was still alive; therefore it is presumed that Mozart must have approved of the deceptive attribution.2 Furthermore, Eberl’s Symphony in E-flat Major was evaluated more highly than Beethoven’s Eroica by contemporary critics when both were initially played in Vienna in 1805. The following study, which focuses on two main examples drawn from Eberl’s mature symphonies, seeks to demonstrate that our concept of “normative” sonata form, in terms of structure and design, is seriously incomplete. Taking the first movements of Eberl’s symphonies in E-flat major and D minormajor as case studies, I shall argue that the sample of “known works” in the so-called classical style is still much too narrow for us to think that we have explored all of the possible models of sonata form. Consider the late Theophil

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Antonicek’s 2012 comment on the symphonies of Antonio Cartellieri in the program booklet for the recording: Cartellieri’s symphonic movements have in common the recapitulation principle—which means that the initial part returns at the conclusion of the movement, as is the case in the classical symphonic movement. What occurs in the middle part of the movement, however, does not correspond to the scheme of the “classical” symphony. A really distinct secondary complex does not come into view; nor does a development like those by Haydn or Beethoven take place.3

Antonicek’s description may or may not be true, but, at this point it is difficult to verify because none of the scores of Cartellieri’s symphonies have been published in modern editions. Yet it is obvious from the single available recording that Cartellieri was an accomplished composer who may well have influenced— and been influenced by—Beethoven. During the intermission at the premiere of Cartellieri’s oratorio Gioas—Re di Giuda (Jesus—King of Juda), which took place on March 29–30, 1795, at the Wiener Burgtheater, Beethoven played his First Piano Concerto in his Viennese debut as a composer.4 In 1796, Cartellieri was engaged as Kapellmeister by Prince Josef Franz von Lobkowitz, and in that capacity he premiered several works by Beethoven, including the Eroica Symphony in January 1805. We may assume that Eberl, whose Symphony in E-flat Major shared this program, was present at the same concert. Apparently Cartellieri and Beethoven admired each other and were friendly, although it is believed that Eberl was Beethoven’s most serious rival. Eberl’s Symphony in E-flat, op. 33, was composed over the course of 1803 and premiered on January 6, 1804, in Vienna. Information about Eberl’s compositional and performing activities in 1804–5 is provided by his friend and librettist Johann Schwaldopler, who published an account in his Historisches Taschenbuch mit besonderer Rücksicht auf die Österreichischen Staaten (Historical pocketbook with special focus on the Austrian states, vols. 3 and 4, published in 1807–8, i.e., just after Eberl’s death).5 On January 6, 1804, Eberl premiered his E-flat Concerto for Piano (op. 40) and his B-flat Concerto for Two Pianos (op. 45), along with the Symphony in E-flat, at the same concert. Schwaldopler reported, “Among the great instrumental compositions of this year, the first place belongs to the symphonies and concerti of Eberl . . . [who] had in a great concert at the beginning of this year [1804] for the first time stepped before the public with large compositions. They justified the expectations nourished by his earlier works. Brilliance, fire, affect, and knowledge of instruments already distinguished the first symphony in E-flat advantageously.”6 The E-flat symphony was performed again just over a year later on January 20, 1805, at a semipublic Sunday concert organized by the Viennese banker Joseph Würth in direct competition with the aforementioned first

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performance of Beethoven’s Eroica.7 Of this first fully public performance of Eberl’s symphony, the critic for the Leipzig-based Allgemeine musikalische (AMZ) reported, “A great new symphony by Eberl, dedicated to Count Lobkowitz, was all the more interesting to musical experts since in this difficult genre so few, even great masters, have been successful. This symphony, however, turned out exceptionally well, full of sharply profiled and new ideas, and Eberl has demonstrated in it a profound and broad understanding of instrumentation. Everything is employed in the most purposeful and appropriate way, and especially felicitously assigned; indeed, everything is assigned precisely that to which it is best suited. After the first, beautifully worked out but very long Allegro in E-flat major follows a fitting Andante in C minor, in which the wind instruments are beautifully employed. . . . Of true originality and great artistic value is the Finale, full of new and surprising modulations and transitions, which attract and hold the attention, and profoundly satisfies educated taste. Especially pleasing was the passage where Eberl moves from A-flat, through an enharmonic transformation as G-sharp, to C major. May this symphony soon be published and widely disseminated, and Mr. Eberl continue to devote his talents to this genre!”8 If the premiere of Beethoven’s Eroica took place in January 1805 alongside the repeat performance of the Eberl symphony in the same key, is it possible that Beethoven had heard the first semipublic performance of Eberl’s symphony and that it influenced the genesis of the Eroica, which was only finished in August 1804? We shall return to this question. The Viennese correspondent for the AMZ had written about the January 6, 1804, premiere of Eberl’s E-flat symphony that “it was extraordinarily well conceived, full of incisive and new ideas.”9 Of the concert a year later, in which Eberl’s symphony was juxtaposed with the Eroica, the Vienna critic for the AMZ wrote that the Eberl contained “so much that was beautiful and powerful” and “handled with so much genius and art, that it would be difficult for it ever to fail if it had been well rehearsed.”10 But the same reviewer criticized Beethoven’s Eroica, finding in it “too much that was shrill and bizarre, which makes an overview extremely difficult and thus unity almost is entirely lost.”11 At the first completely public performance of Beethoven’s Eroica on April 7, 1805, the AMZ critic opined that “the symphony would benefit greatly (it lasts an entire hour) if Beethoven would decide to cut it, and let in more light, clarity, and unity; these are qualities that the Mozart symphonies in G minor and C major, the Beethoven in C and D, and the Eberl in E-flat and D never lose, in spite of the richness of the ideas and mixtures of the instrumentation, and above all the surprising modulations.”12 By contrast, the same reviewer found the “Symphony by Eberl in E-flat . . . extraordinarily pleasing.” On May 2, 1805, a different critic for the Berlinische musikalische Zeitung complained that a “new Beethoven symphony in E-flat is in most parts so shrill and muddled that only those can take pleasure in it who deify [both] the errors and virtues of this

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composer with the same, from time to time ridiculous enthusiasm.”13 Eberl’s Symphony in E-flat, by contrast, continued to be received enthusiastically when the composer took the work on tour throughout Germany. On April 10, 1806, the Berlinische musikalische Zeitung reported on the performance at the Leipzig Gewandhaus, stating, “At the beginning of the second part [of the concert] followed a new, large, magnificent fiery symphony in four movements, rich in multifaceted effective expression, sharply profiled and delightfully realized. Already after the first movement and then at the end there burst forth fantastic applause. The telling expressiveness with which the composer himself conducted his own symphony also heightened interest.”14 The AMZ commented on the success of the concert, “On the 10th of April, Kapellmeister Anton Eberl of Vienna [. . . gave a concert]. A great symphony (in E-flat major) is a multifaceted, brilliant, especially well-sounding fiery instrumental piece, and was received by the [whole] auditorium with great applause.”15 Eberl also conducted his E-flat symphony in Mannheim, and there too the work was received enthusiastically. The reviewer for the AMZ was laudatory, albeit he had one caveat concerning the orchestration: Kapellmeister Eberl of Vienna, whose accomplishment was until now known to us more through highly positive reviews in public media than through his works themselves, presented a concert on the first day of Whitsun, in which he allowed us to hear a significant number of his most valued compositions, namely a large, still unpublished symphony (in E-flat major) and a Piano Concerto (also in E-flat major). It was through these two successful works that he earned here the same high esteem from friends of music— indeed, he demonstrated, among touring artists, the certainly rare qualities of modesty and pleasing demeanor, all to his advantage, to those who had the opportunity to come into closer acquaintance with him. —We too found those compositions to be laid out according to a good plan that was then logically realized. The author knows how to deploy his ideas with witty economy, and demonstrates thereby much acquaintance with contrapuntal arts. So equipped, Mr. Eberl might be able to produce even more superb [works] if he could think about avoiding the overloading through which the many true beauties of his productions are weighed down. For example, why—just to mention one [objection]—why does he cover over so often his beautiful mixtures of harmonies with the noise of tympani and trumpets?16

When the work was performed again in Leipzig at the Gewandhaus on December 4, 1806, it earned renewed praise: “Eberl’s Symphony in E-flat pleases us ever more by repeated hearings, and must be heard often until one is a master of it and can completely appreciate it, because it contains many complicated details and sometimes an almost numbing preoccupation with rushing instrumentation. It is full of fire, luster, and wealth [of invention]; it makes a very strong impression in spite of its sometimes overwhelming

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plenitude, and the Finale is especially [noteworthy] through its strict realization of all its multifaceted free progressions and powerful energy. We do not doubt at all that this symphony, where it is well performed—but truly not heard too infrequently—will achieve respect and lively effect, and also bring real honor to Mr. Eberl.”17 Eberl’s Symphony in D minor, op. 34, was first performed in Vienna on January 25, 1805. A reviewer for the Berlin magazine Der Freymüthige [The Plain Truth] wrote of the premiere, “An entirely new Eberl Symphony in D corresponded exactly to that which one was accustomed to expect from this great composer: it combines beautiful and pleasing ideas with novelty, intensity, and power; it is full of vivid ideas, full of genial turns of phrase, and still at the same time [they are all] bound together into a beautiful unity.”18 The reviewer for the Allgemeine musikalische was enthusiastic, writing of “a powerful, keen poetry in which the power of this composer and the fire of his spirit breaks forth free and nimble. In the concluding fugal pieces there is great strength, and in the beautiful march a totally splendid instrumental effect. Since the symphonies of Mozart, Haydn and Beethoven, certainly nothing has appeared that could be placed so honorably beside them.”19 In a review dated May 2, the Vienna correspondent for the Berlinische musikalische Zeitung reported that “in a new, broadly conceived and deeply felt symphony by Eberl in D this composer evokes gripping passion, high pathos, and the art of controlling a powerful stream of diverse ideas with exceptional power.”20 This D minor-major symphony holds a special place in the repertoire because of its highly unusual form: as we will see, the work begins with a normative introduction in D minor, but instead of moving directly to the movement’s sonata exposition, Eberl interpolates an entire jaunty march movement in D major. This march replaces the minuet and trio, which should have been the third movement in the four-movement symphony; thus, by interpolating it into the newly created space between the introduction and the beginning of the first movement, Eberl reduces the four-movement schema to three! Clearly, Eberl was already thinking creatively in terms of what I have called “super-sonata form”—or what Steven vande Moortele describes as “two-dimensional” sonata form—in a completely new way.21 In other words, we might imagine a “previous state” of the symphony’s four-movement macrosymphonic form being transformed by a diachronic transformation into a three-movement “endstate.”22 As if this remarkable transformation were not enough, both of the outer movements additionally feature the type of “reversed recapitulations” that I investigated in a number of publications in the mid-1990s.23 When the work was premiered in Leipzig in November 1805, it again was reviewed positively, but apparently was received “coldly” by the public. Perhaps the Leipzig audience was baffled by its formal novelties. Indeed, we may see here

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part of the reason why Eberl’s music fell into oblivion, a question to which we will return. David Wyn Jones, in his 2006 study of The Symphony in Beethoven’s Vienna, accords Eberl the place of honor as the most gifted of Beethoven’s contemporaries, whose death on March 11, 1807, at age forty-two of scarlet fever deprived the musical world of one its luminaries: “In a further indication of the veneration in which Eberl was held at the time, the obituary [in the Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung] garnishes its account with two images of abstracted genius identical to those found in representations of Mozart and Beethoven: he was said to compose works in his head before putting them down on paper, and to work through compositional problems on lonely walks when, totally preoccupied, he would fail to acknowledge anybody.”24 Jones is referring to the necrology that ascribes to Eberl musical-imaginative powers very similar to those of Mozart (Beethoven’s creative process, by contrast, was in fact much more “constructive”): “He [Eberl] would not write down any piece of music until he had finished it entirely in his head; and then he would improve it only very reluctantly and usually just a little. Thus he often carried around whole symphonies and concertos in his head for a month or so before he sat down at his desk [to write them down]. Usually he worked on solitary walks, where he saw or recognized no one he might encounter along the way. Also, when he was carrying around significant creations in the head, he usually became very scattered, and suddenly no longer took part in the conversations of the society in which he might find himself.”25 Regarding the Symphony in E-flat, Jones rightly observes that “there are a number of features in the construction of the work that show Eberl’s imagination as a composer.”26 One of Jones’s observations about the form deserves our careful consideration, and indeed will be further explored here. This is his insight that in Eberl’s conception of sonata form there can be two distinct second groups—or subsidiary thematic groups—whereby the second of these is clearly not to be confused with the closing group. Jones posits—in my view correctly—that “the second subject area presents two [my emphasis] melodic ideas, the first led by clarinets and bassoon, the second by first clarinet, but on both occasions Eberl returns the music to the material of the first subject to provide a sense of focus.”27 In discussing this possibly novel type of sonata form, we shall investigate the interaction of this special kind of sonata design with the tonal structure. More specifically, as I shall try to show, the usual procedure in the majormode sonata of prolonging the dominant initiated at the beginning of the second group through to the end of the development is not the operative procedure in Eberl’s conception of sonata form in the E-flat symphony. Rather, in Eberl’s exposition, tonic prolongation cuts through the dominants of both second groups, or Seitenthemas, such that the definitive arrival on the

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dominant (which I designate “DDA”) is postponed until the closing group, or Schlussgruppe. This intervention of the tonic into putative dominant prolongations has consequences for the recapitulation, since there the parallel interventions are made by the subdominant into tonic prolongations. The result is the destabilization of the tonics associated with the first and dual second groups in the recapitulation; indeed, given the emphasis on the subdominant, these tonics also become dominants of the subdominant. According to this logic, then, only at the end of the closing group is the tonic definitively secured—as a parallel to the definitive arrival on the dominant only at the end of the exposition. Beethoven may also have employed this technique in the first movement of his Eroica, possibly as a consequence of hearing the first performance of Eberl’s symphony. I shall conclude with a detailed discussion of the first movement of the D minor symphony.

Sonata Form in the First Movement of Eberl’s Symphony in E-flat The first movement of the Symphony in E-flat begins with an 18-measure introduction (ex. 5.1). Measures 1–5 project the tonic supporting the primary tone 3^ in the upper voice. In measure 6, the harmony moves to V of V, which leads to V in measure 8—a strong move to V. One might imagine that, from this point on, the dominant would be prolonged, supporting an interrupting 2^ in the top voice. However, an emphatic tonic interjected into the music in measure 11 cuts into the projected dominant prolongation. As we will see shortly, this technique of the tonic reasserting its hegemony becomes paradigmatic for the work as a whole. Notice that the opening double-neighbor figure G–F– A♭–G (motive “y” in mm. 1–4) is thereby projected in enlargement across measures 1–12 (see the brackets in ex. 5.1). The dominant reached in measure 15 at the end of the introduction must be the definitive dominant (i.e., DDA in the introduction), supporting an interrupting 2^ in the upper voice. The exposition space proper is initiated in measure 19 (ex. 5.2). The risingthird progression E♭–F–G, presented in measures 19–20 and designated “x,” is expanded across measures 19–27, with the interpolation of the chromatic passing tone E♮, which will become motivically significant later on. In measures 27–30, an expansion of “x” leads to the surprising ♭3^ (G♭) in measure 30, a chromatic passing tone in the upper-voice descending-third progression G–G♭–F–E♭ that spans measures 19–40 (ex. 5.3). In measures 40–48, “x” is recomposed in enlargement in the bass: E♭ (m. 40)–E (m. 42)–F (m. 43)–G (m. 48). The chromatic voice exchange over the tonic, involving E♭, G♮, and G♭ spanning measures 48–51, also becomes a recurring progression. The first bridge, initiated in measure 60, exploits a chromatic voice exchange over the

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Example 5.1. Eberl, Symphony in E-flat Major, I: introduction.

tonic of G♭, E♭, and E♮ in order to use the augmented sixth chord on G♭ in measure 66 to move to V of V in measure 67, setting up the V for the second subject group in measure 75. Indeed, the first second group (or first subsidiary theme) is duly presented by clarinets and bassoons, as Jones observes, in the key of the dominant. Thus far, all has been proceeding normally, or at least according to a known convention. However, it is with the music of the passage which I have designated the “second bridge” (mm. 92–112, Bridge II in ex. 5.3) that Eberl’s conception of sonata form departs from the putative norm. Across measures 92–104, the bass rises B♭ (m. 92)–C (m. 93)–D♭ (m. 103) in a massive enlargement of “x” to land with tremendous force on E♭ in measure 104. Indeed, this E♭ minor chord arrives so emphatically in measure 104 that it cuts through the dominant prolongation initiated with the first second group to connect back to the opening tonic! Eberl then recomposes the preceding chromatic voice exchange over this tonic to the augmented sixth chord in measure 110 to again

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Example 5.1.—(concluded)

move to V of V in measure 111 and to V in measure 113. Now Eberl presents his second second group, which turns out to be a recomposition of the primary idea (or Hauptgedanke) from the introduction, albeit transposed to the dominant. Yet no sooner has this second second group been presented in a passage that I designate “Bridge” III (mm. 130–39) that the tonic major chord (m. 130) again interjects into the dominant prolongation and, beginning in measure 130, recomposes for a third time the chromatic voice exchange to the augmented sixth chord in measure 139, leading to the V of V in measure 140, and to the V in measure 142. It is only with this—in my view, definitive—arrival on the dominant as late as measure 142 in the exposition that the music finally secures the structural V, and it is on this tonal basis that the closing group is finally released! Example 5.3a–b, an overview of the exposition of the first movement, presents alternative interpretations of the middleground voice leading aligned with the sonata design. The question arises as to the role of the dominant prolongations in measures 75 and 113. It is clear from the foregoing that, once achieved with the second group, the dominant is not simply prolonged as in the putative major-mode sonata paradigm.28 On the contrary, the process of getting to the

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Example 5.2. Eberl, Symphony in E-flat Major, I: exposition, mm. 19-31.

dominant is recomposed three times in the course of this exposition, with the intent of ever more emphatically asserting it. In this sonata concept, it is as if the background tonic, both major and minor, refuses to yield the stage to the dominant, compelling the process of securing the dominant to recur at progressively deeper structural levels. How, then, are we to understand the tonal structure? The top system, example 5.3a, suggests that these dominants support F in the top voice as a passing tone connecting the primary tone G with E♭ as an inner voice. However, I favor the alternative reading presented on the second system, example 5.3b, whereby the arrivals on V in measures 75 and 113, which coincide with the second group and the second second group in the design, represent interruptions of increasing structural depth. It is as if, with each of the second themes, the music twice attempts to establish the dominant before definitively achieving it in the closing group. The structure essentially “nests” interruptions within each other, as shown in example 5.3b. Unfortunately, due to space constraints, we must pass over the development section—as fascinating as it is—and turn our attention to the recapitulation

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Example 5.2.—(concluded)

(ex. 5.4). Jones observes that “the 136 bars of the recapitulation provide an almost perfect mathematical balance to the 135 of the exposition, but it is rewritten to avoid . . . excessive symmetry and to provide a new, carefully judged climax in the coda.”29 The essential point in the recapitulation is that the subdominant now receives tremendous emphasis within the first and second groups just as the tonic had done at the corresponding points in the exposition (ex. 5.3). In other words, the IV cuts into the tonic prolongation, destabilizing it as the dominant of the subdominant. Just as in the exposition, the structural dominant (DDA) was achieved only at the closing group, in the recapitulation, the definitive tonic arrival (DTA) is analogously postponed. Here, in the reprise, we propose two interruptions. The initial interruption is associated with the end of the newly composed first bridge (mm. 219–33), whereas the second interruption at a more background level corresponds to the end of the second bridge.

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Example 5.3. Eberl, Symphony in E-flat Major, I: exposition, middleground.

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Example 5.4. Eberl, Symphony in E-flat Major, I: recapitulation, middleground.

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But where the second second group in the exposition had concluded on a structural V supporting the definitive interruption, the second second group in the recapitulation does close on I, supporting 1^ in the top voice (m. 304); this, then, is the definitive tonic arrival (DTA). Now the role of the closing group becomes that of “celebrating” the stabilization of the tonic and replaying the descent of the fundamental line.

Sonata Form in the First Movement of Beethoven’s Eroica Symphony One of the difficulties in Beethoven’s sonata forms can be pinpointing the beginning of the second group and the instance of “definitive dominant arrival” (DDA). Let us now turn to the exposition of the first movement of the Eroica. Here, too, the precise locations of the second group (second subject or subsidiary) and the DDA can be—and have been—debated. Is the eighth-note theme in measure 57, which coincides with the first arrival on the dominant, the second subject? Is the dominant here the DDA? What is one to make, then, of the bridge-like section encompassing measures 65-–82? Many commentators—including Schenker—take the second subject only later, in measure 83. In figure 6 of his Meisterwerk essay, a middleground graph of the exposition, Schenker makes use of an ingenious notation for the bass to point out that the initial arrival on B♭ in measure 57 is not as strong as the second one in measure 83; he indicates the first B♭ as a quarter note, whereas the second one he represents as a half note. The dotted slur connecting the first B♭ with the second might be understood to indicate not so much the prolongation of B♭ as the anticipation of it. However, I hasten to add that this is my own interpretation of Schenker’s notation—his commentary does not explicate his notation. In addition, Schenker shows scale degree 2, F♮, as a half note only in measure 90, seven measures after the bass definitively achieves B♭; notice that above the graph just below the measure numbers, the previous occurrences of 2^ (F5) in measures 45 and 77 are placed in parentheses to suggest that they too somehow anticipate the F4 in measure 90. Further observe that in the harmonic analysis below the graph Schenker also places the V in measure 57 in parentheses, in contrast to the V in measure 83, which is not in parentheses; the same is true in the main graph (“Bild 1”). These aspects of Schenker’s notation seems to indicate that B♭, the dominant, is not really prolonged from measure 57 through 83, but rather that it is anticipated in measure 57 and then affirmed as the DDA in measure 83. To show a prolongation of the 2^ in his figure 6, one might have expected Schenker to employ the exact opposite notation, namely that the F5 in the upper voice

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should have been a half note in measure 45, and the B♭ in the bass should also have been a half note in measure 57. Yet—and here precisely resides the dilemma—other aspects of Schenker’s foreground graph of the same music (“Bild I”) and his commentary suggest that B♭ is indeed prolonged beginning in measure 57. Robert Snarrenberg observes in his eloquent exegesis of Schenker’s Eroica analysis that Schenker also hears a process initiated in the upper voice in measure 57—a process of ^ ^ 1 four upper-voice repetitions of the descending-fifth progression F–B♭ (5– in B-flat major), or more precisely, a figurative program of “seizing” this fifth progression and providing it with ever-increasing bass support. As Snarrenberg further explains, “The program invented by Schenker . . . is represented by a nominalized verb—Zugreifen, ‘seizing.’”30 The fifth progression is finally given full harmonic support in the fourth statement at the conclusion of the exposition (mm. 109–44). Snarrenberg elucidates Schenker’s programmatic idea: The programmatic interpretation extends beyond the transition section and ultimately ties together all four executions of the fifth-Zug. In fact, it is probably his [Schenker’s] inclination to treat motivic history as the development of character and the identity of the Zug as the unifying trait of the transition and second theme that leads Schenker to invent what amounts to a dramatic plot, the early scenes of which are suffused with the expectation that the callowness of youth will give way to maturity.31

Snarrenberg observes that “this view of a goal-oriented ‘maturation’ process is central to Schenker’s thinking about art in general and music in particular: Schenker’s aesthetic preference for fulfillment and satisfaction is clearly revealed in the priority assigned to the goal. No matter what resistance is experienced in the taking of the path, it is always overcome: the pleasure of the path can be extended, protracted, but not in the end voided.” However, there is in Schenker’s Eroica analysis a fundamental contradiction, which I believe is rooted in an antithesis in Beethoven’s music itself, between two different, superimposed processes: the anticipation of the goal dominant in measure 57 and its realization in measure 83, and the prolongation of the dominant from measure 57 to measure 144. This significant conceptual tension in Schenker’s analysis remains unaddressed by Snarrenberg; nor, indeed, has this type of paradox been discussed in the Schenkerian literature.32 My example 5.5 proposes a different solution to the conundrum. First, with regard to the sonata design, I do not simply dismiss the distinct melodic profile of measures 57 through 64 to suggest that there is only a single zweite Gedanke that comes later, as does Schenker (and as do some other commentators). Rather, in measures 57–58, the contrary motion between the stepwise rising-sixth D4–B♭4 progression in the clarinets and the stepwise descendingsixth B♭–D in the violas and basses is definitely a striking new thematic idea.33

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Example 5.5. Beethoven, Third Symphony (Eroica), I: middleground.

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But even more significant, the move to the dominant in measure 57 is elaborately prepared, which should not be the case if the arrival on B♭, combined with this distinctly new musical idea, is trivial: indeed, the process of getting to this B-flat dominant in measure 57 is greatly extended, creating a strong sense of arrival. As Schenker so compellingly demonstrates in his voice leading analysis (Schenker’s figure 6), a large-scale chromatic voice exchange over the tonic leads through the augmented sixth chord above G♭ in measure 44 to the extended dominant of the dominant over the pedal F beginning in measure 45, which in turn resolves to the dominant in measure 57. Beethoven has employed a familiar gambit for getting to the background dominant supporting the zweite Gedanke. But then, in measure 65, something truly remarkable happens: instead of ^ the 2^ (F) in the upper voice in measure 45 is functioning as an interrupting 2, transformed into a passing tone leading down to E♭ in measure 65, and from there to D in measure 67, thus undercutting the expected interruption. A turbulent second bridge passage ensues, leading to the same augmented sixth chord on G♭ in measure 74 that we had in measure 55. Again, it is as if the tonic chord refuses to relinquish control of the background to the dominant and attempts to recompose the process of the chromatic voice exchange of measures 1–44 across the even larger span of measures 1–77. This time, however, the augmented sixth resolves deceptively to the passing dominant 46 on the second quarter note of measure 74, and through it back to the tonic. Only after the tonic is regained in measure 75 does the music move through V of V to V, which now is prolonged in the background supporting the second zweite Gedanke. As the lower system of example 5.5 seeks to show, we might hear the initial tonic supporting 3^ pass through a series of voice exchanges, both chromatic and diatonic, until the V of V is definitive “seized”—to use Schenker’s striking metaphor—in measure 77. As the graph suggests, the enharmonic “conflict” between G♭ (falling to F) and F♯ (as a leading tone to G♮), and between E♮ (as a leading tone to F) and F♭ as an upper neighbor to the background tonic E♭, might evoke the “heroic struggles” of the symphonic protagonist. By this point, the reader has probably noticed the parallelism between the expositions of Eberl’s and Beethoven’s E-flat-major symphonies.

Sonata Form in the First Movement of Eberl’s Symphony in D Minor Let us turn now to a consideration of the first movement of Eberl’s Symphony in D Minor (exx. 5.6–5.8). As already mentioned, the movement opens with a traditional introduction whose role is to present the basic motive, the rising third filled in chromatically by step, D–D♯–E–F, again designated motive “x”

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Example 5.6. Eberl, Symphony in D Minor, I: introduction, March: (a) introduction and March; and (b) exposition.

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in all of the examples. As example 5.6a suggests, “x” is presented in measures 1–10, then restated in measures 10–22. The introduction concludes with an interruption on the dominant (m. 22). Although the march (mm. 23–114) brings a sudden, unprepared change of mode from minor to major, and a change of topos from tragic to jaunty, in a remarkable moment it recomposes “x” from the introduction. Here we can identify a clear and especially eloquent example of continuity created by “concealed association,” which Edward Laufer has defined as “continuity . . . provided by the underlying presence of a middleground motive which can associate passages with distinctly different foreground features [my emphasis].”34 If we consider both the “official” introduction and the march as occurring within “introduction space,” we can posit that within the introduction, the 3^ of D minor acts as an appoggiatura or leading tone (E♯) to the 3^ of D major, which is the primary tone of the symphony as a whole (see exx. 5.6a and 5.7d). This idea will have tremendous significance, not only for the rest of the first movement but also for the symphony as a whole. Let us move forward with an overview of the exposition, example 5.6b. The guiding idea here is to move to the second group in F major (mm. 168–97), the III of D minor, and thereby to recompose “x” as F–G♭–G–A♭–A, that is, transposed up a major third. The music then proceeds to transform the march (transposed from D major to F major). The closing group is highly elaborate, featuring complex chromatic voice leading. As example 5.6b shows, the closing group not only expands “x” but also, by means of an extended parenthetical interpolation (mm. 218–31), simultaneously draws out the enharmonic association of G♯ with A♭—an important enharmonic issue in the symphony.35 Indeed, the transformation of G♯ into A♭ (the 3^ of F minor), which then rises to A♮ (the 3^ of F major) is a transposition of the E♯/F♮ to F♯ motive shown in example 5.7d. What remarkable motivic concentration! Example 5.7 sketches the development. It is noteworthy, in light of the reversed recapitulation to follow, that the order of the subjects in the development is also reversed, that is, the second group is reworked before the first.36 As this graph shows, Eberl’s intention is to move from C as the dominant of F (m. 249) to A as the dominant of D (m. 304). Examples 5.7b and 5.7c coordinate the deep middleground with the elaborated middleground shown in example 5.7a to demonstrate how a massive enlargement of “x” (transposed to F) spans the development. Another noteworthy feature is the introduction of a “new” lyrical theme (or Gesangsthema) in the development (m. 408), yet another feature shared with Beethoven’s Eroica. (Incidentally, the same technique is employed in the development of Eberl’s E-flat symphony, suggesting that Eberl anticipated Beethoven in this regard as well!). The (reversed) recapitulation begins with the second group in D major (ex. 5.8). As we have seen, example 5.7d proposes that the overall structure of the

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Example 5.7. Eberl, Symphony in D Minor, I: development, middleground: (a) middleground; (b) Rising-third motive ‘x’ expanded and filled in chromatically; (c) deep middleground; and (d) background structures.

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Example 5.7.—(concluded)

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Example 5.8. Eberl, Symphony in D Minor, I: recapitulation, middleground: (a) middleground of the recapitulation; (b) deep middleground of the recapitulation; and (c) background of the entire movement.

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Example 5.8.—(concluded)

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exposition-plus-development may not feature the traditional interruption at the end of the development; rather, Eberl’s novel idea here may be to conceive the background as paradoxically both divided and undivided! The structural division would be created by interruption on 2^ over V at the end of the development (m. 304). However, if the initial, putative primary tone F♮ (3^ of D minor) then becomes the largest-scale appoggiatura or leading tone (E♯) to the primary tone F♯ (3^ of D major) and is achieved as the goal as late in the movement as the beginning of the (reversed) recapitulation (m. 312), then the structure becomes undivided! In other words, we can hypothesize that the background appoggiatura F(= E♯)–F♯ annihilates the putative interruption (F–E) at the end of the development, synthesizing the background into a unified tonal structure. Thus, this tonal fusion is a massive enlargement of the same (F– F♯) upper-voice progression spanning the introduction and the march (exx. 5.6a, 5.7d and 5.8c). It is noteworthy that both Beethoven and Eberl were fascinated by paradox, and found quite different ways to work it into their music. Perhaps Eberl and Beethoven were led to explore deep-level paradox in an attempt to achieve both clear formal-tonal boundaries and yet undermine these same divisions to achieve overriding continuity.37 In this context, we may recall Laufer’s last type of “continuity”: “progression to a goal: continuity as a continuing process, whereby earlier implications or expectations are only subsequently realized.” Example 5.8 sketches the recapitulation. Noteworthy is the complete recomposition of the first group. Suffice it to say that this recomposition redramatizes the background issue of F♮ functioning as a leading tone (E♯) to F♯, and thereby confirms the melodic structure bridging over the interruption to weld exposition and development to the reversed recapitulation.

A Novel Type of Sonata Structure By now, a number of remarkable parallelisms between Eberl’s E-flat symphony and Beethoven’s Eroica, also in E-flat, should be obvious. In terms of sonata design, both composers employ two clearly profiled subsidiary thematic groups, each introduced by bridges involving analogous tonal processes. Both introduce new themes in the development. To be sure, the fundamental difference is that, whereas Eberl clearly separates his first and second second groups with caesuras and articulates a series of increasingly deep-level interruptions, Beethoven compresses his first second theme, melding it with the second bridge to the second second subject, thereby creating a single background interruption. But the underlying principle of extending the aegis of the tonic deep into the exposition—well past the contrasting second theme—is common to both expositions.

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Looking through the Beethoven standard biographies, one finds no mention of Eberl, although it is clear that he was one of Beethoven’s most gifted contemporaries and rivals in Vienna. In Jan Swafford’s one-thousand-page biography of Beethoven, published in 2014, Eberl does not merit a single mention.38 We may speculate that Beethoven, who shared with Eberl Prince Lobkowitz as his patron, was present at the premiere of Eberl’s E-flat symphony on January 6, 1804. Indeed, we may imagine Beethoven in the audience listening to Eberl’s symphony intently and with tremendous concentration. (Although Beethoven’s aural abilities were impaired, he still could hear at that time.) We know that Beethoven had already been engaged in composing the Eroica for at least a year. The early sketches for the Eroica in the Wielhorsky sketchbook probably date from before May 1803. In addition, Beethoven’s former pupil the composer Ferdinand Ries wrote in a letter to Simrock on October 22, 1803, that the Eroica was already finished (!) as of that date, because “he [Beethoven] recently played it to me.” However, the music that Beethoven played for Ries before that date still might have been evolving. Beethoven’s desk sketchbook, Landsberg 6, now in Krakow, dates from as late as 1804 and contains sketches for the Third Symphony. Furthermore, the symphony was not officially finished until August 1804, four months after the premiere of Eberl’s symphony. If we examine Beethoven’s sketches for the Eroica in Landsberg 6, recently transcribed and annotated by Lewis Lockwood and Alan Gosman, we discover that the idea of using the same augmented sixth on G♭ in both measures 44 and 74, as in the final version, is only gradually achieved in the drafts.39 In their commentary on the sketches for the exposition of the first movement, Lewis Lockwood and Alan Gosman never acknowledge the immense structural significance of the augmented sixth built on G♭. However, the sketches themselves do eloquently call attention to the importance of this augmented sixth chord. Notice that Beethoven mostly indicates either the top voice or the bass; only in a few places does he delineate both parts, but then often it is to show the augmented sixth. For example, in example 5.9a (Landsberg 6, p. 12, system 2, m. 11), Beethoven notates the augmented sixth in two parts expanding to the octave. Again, in example 5.9d (Landsberg 6, p. 14, stave 5. m. 10), Beethoven moves into two parts in order to notate the augmented sixth. Example 5.9a presents a draft (notated in Landsberg 6, p. 12, staves 2–5) of the first bridge leading through the augmented sixth chord on G♭ to the dominant of the dominant on F (= m. 45 in the final version), which, in turn, prepares the first second subject or group in B-flat (= m. 57). The continuation of this draft with the second bridge (= m. 65) shows a cadence on the dominant (= m. 83) but without the augmented sixth. Another, different continuation of the second bridge on the previous page (p. 13, stave 1, ex. 5.9b) similarly implies no augmented sixth. Yet another draft of the first bridge on page 14, stave 3

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Example 5.9a. Beethoven, sketches for the Eroica Symphony, I; exposition, in Landsberg 6: Landsberg 6, p. 12.

(ex. 5.9c) does not indicate an augmented sixth but rather a o7 of V, presumably resolving to the V. Page 14, staves 5–6, 8–9 contain still another draft of the first bridge (ex. 5.9d). Here, Beethoven oscillates between beginning the first bridge on I or V. This draft, for the first time, contains the augmented sixth chord built on G♭ in two places, but the second usage still differs from the final version in the first bridge (= m. 44), leading to the V of V, and again

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Example 5.9b. Beethoven, sketches for the Eroica Symphony, I; exposition, in Landsberg 6: Landsberg 6, p. 13.

Example 5.9c. Beethoven, sketches for the Eroica Symphony, I; exposition, in Landsberg 6: Landsberg 6, p. 14, stave 3.

in the second bridge (stave 9), leading again to a V of V (notice the addition of the bass G–G♭–F to delineate the augmented sixth). On page 20, the further drafts shown in examples 9e and f, however, present yet another view of the first bridge leading to the V of V but do not profile the augmented sixth on G♭; furthermore, it is undetermined whether the harmony at the end of stave 8 supporting the high F♯ leading to G is an augmented sixth or a diminished seventh chord. To summarize, some of Beethoven’s drafts show the augmented sixth chord on G♭ at the point analogous to measure 44, but not at the point analogous to measure 74, and vice versa! It seems that it took Beethoven considerable mental effort to realize that the same augmented sixth chord could and should be deployed twice in both the first and second bridges, and then he still seems to have prevaricated about doing it. Since Beethoven’s sketches are undated, we do not know if he even considered the dual deployment of the augmented sixth on page 14 before or after January 6, 1804, the date of the premiere performance of Eberl’s Symphony in E-flat. However, it may be that Beethoven heard this “dual augmented sixth on G♭” gambit in Eberl’s E-flat symphony, and recognized that he could do something analogous to it in his own E-flat symphony, albeit in his own way. The chronology opens up the possibility that Beethoven may have been influenced by Eberl.

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Example 5.9d. Beethoven, sketches for the Eroica Symphony, I; exposition, in Landsberg 6: Landsberg 6, p. 14, staves 5–6, 8–9.

Much has been made in recent scholarship on musical form of a dialogue between a piece of music and a putative norm. The Schenkerian literature on sonata form is also guilty of attempting to reduce sonata form to a too-small number of “paradigms”; I am referring here, of course, not only to Schenker’s own pioneering discussion of sonata form in Free Composition but also to Edward Laufer’s magisterial article “Voice-Leading Procedures in Development Sections,” which attempted—with considerable success, I might add—to codify a vocabulary of background structures for sonata forms. But in none of these

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Example 5.9e. Beethoven, sketches for the Eroica Symphony, I; exposition, in Landsberg 6: Landsberg 6, p. 20, stave 6.

Example 5.9f. Beethoven, sketches for the Eroica Symphony, I; exposition, in Landsberg 6: Landsberg 6, p. 20, staves 7–8 and 10.

truly sophisticated discussions of sonata form with structure in the major mode do we find any allowance for the possibility that the tonic could be prolonged so deep into the exposition, indeed well past the appearance of the second subject or subordinate theme or themes, as in the first movement of Eberl’s Symphony in E-flat. If we recall the contemporary critical opinion extensively quoted at the outset, we will observe the virtual unanimity that Eberl’s symphony was “full of sharply profiled and new ideas,” to quote from the very first review. To be sure, this technique of tonic prolongation is possibly one of these “novel” aspects that the critics so lauded in the work. Yet it is not unique, at least in Eberl’s output. A study of Eberl’s last works, his Violin Sonatas in B-flat and F, opp. 49 and 50, reveals still further explorations of a complex counterpoint between design and structure in sonata form.40 It seems that Eberl’s

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music went out of fashion in the early 1830s, shortly after Beethoven’s death. The root cause for its decline may be that the musical language of Joseph Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven became so reified in this slightly later epoch that audiences—and musicians—could no longer comprehend, or even tolerate, Eberl’s different conception of sonata form. Part of the problem we face today is that we simply do not know enough classical repertoire in sufficient depth to be able to determine to what extent Eberl’s sonata-form technique was novel or already part of a lingua franca at the beginning of the nineteenth century. And how could we? The full scores of Eberl’s two major symphonies were published in modern editions only in 2005 to 2009. The only serious scholarly discussion of Eberl’s music dates from roughly the same period, a 2002 German dissertation and some commentary in the abovecited 2006 book by Jones. Both these monographs, in spite of some undeniable merits, are relatively superficial from an analytical perspective—and this after a hiatus of two hundred years in which Eberl’s work languished, completely forgotten. And what about the practices of other symphonic composers active in Vienna at this time, such as Anton Krommer, Paul and Anton Wranitzsky, and Antonio Cartellieri (unmentioned by Jones because unknown to him), or the contemporary French composers whose works were also performed there? Large swaths of this repertoire are still virtually inaccessible, buried in manuscript or with only the printed parts are available. We need also to consider the possibility that the music of this period was not in dialogue with the reified, fixed model discussed in the treatises of the time but rather in dialogue with a wide range of practices contemporary with it. In real terms, we may see Eberl influencing Beethoven, and shortly thereafter Beethoven influencing Eberl, each composer leapfrogging over the other in close sequence. So let us remain humble; as one of our less fondly remembered politicians aptly put it, “There are things we know that we know. There are known unknowns. That is to say, there are things that we now know we don’t know. But there are also unknown unknowns,” namely, things that we do not even know we do not know.

Notes 1.

Anton Eberl (1765–1807) was one of very few composers whom Edward Laufer had never heard of. Although Edward was already seriously incapacitated in 2013, his interest was nonetheless piqued, and he asked me to send him scores and recordings of Eberl’s music, which I did. Throughout the final year of Edward’s life, Eberl was a recurring topic of discussion between us as I tried to leverage my Eberl project to encourage Edward to continue thinking about musical problems. During my last visit with him during the winter break of 2013–14, shortly before my first public presentation of my paper on Eberl in

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Tallinn, Estonia, on January 8, 2014, Edward looked through the scores and analyses presented in this article, and we discussed my hypothesis. Fortunately, in spite of his infirmity, he was able to follow the argument completely, and while expressing his full comprehension and general approval, he asked me to send him the article when it was fully written up so that he could review it more carefully. Unfortunately, shortly thereafter, he suffered a relapse, and further consultation became impossible. This article is an expanded version of two interrelated conference papers, “The First Movement of Anton Eberl’s Symphony in E-flat, op. 33 and Beethoven’s Eroica—Towards a ‘New’ Sonata Form?” delivered at the Fifth International Music Analysis Symposium held in Tallinn, Estonia at the Estonian National Academy of Music on January 8, 2014, and “The First Movement of Anton Eberl’s Symphony in D Minor, Op. 34—Towards a ‘New’ Sonata Form” read at the eighth European Music Analysis Conference, presented September 20, 2014, in Leuven, Belgium. The author wishes to express his gratitude to Andrew Vagts and Yiyi Gao, doctoral candidates in music theory at the University of North Texas, for typesetting his musical examples. A recording of Anton Eberl’s Symphony in C major, Wo07; Symphony in E-flat major, op. 33; and Symphony in D Minor, op. 34 was released by the Concerto Köln in 2000 and reissued in 2011. Recordings of both the E-flat-major and D-minor symphonies are available on YouTube. The scores of the symphonies in E-flat major and D minor discussed here have been produced by Jin-Ah Kim and Bert Hagels in modern editions published by Ries und Erler of Berlin, op. 33 in 2009, and op. 34 in 2005. Hagels’s introductions to these editions and Kim’s doctoral dissertation, “Anton Eberls Sinfonien in ihrer Zeit: Hermeutischanalytische Aspekte der Sinfonik 1770–1830” (Schriften zur Musikwissenschaft aus Münster, Bd. 17, 2002), provide important background information. The pioneering study of Eberl, foundational for all further study of this composer, was undertaken by the American musicologist Alton Duane White, “The Piano Works of Anton Eberl (1765–1807)” (PhD diss., University of WisconsinMadison, 1971), which contains a detailed biography and works list. As far as I have been able to ascertain, there is no indisputable documentary evidence or contemporary report to prove that Eberl actually studied with Mozart; rather, Ernst Ludwig Gerber and Robert Haas surmised that Eberl was Mozart’s student, probably beginning in 1785. When Mozart first arrived in Vienna in 1781, Eberl would have been sixteen years old. However, it is highly probable that Eberl did become personally acquainted with Mozart, even if not as his pupil: when Mozart died in 1791, Eberl composed a cantata in his memory, Bey Mozarts Grab. Eberl gave his first public piano recital in Vienna on March 6, 1784. In 1788, the Hamburg music publishers Günther and Böhme published a set of variations on the aria “Zu Steffen sprach im Traum,” from the opera Das Irrlicht by Ignaz Umlauff, under Mozart’s name. This set of piano variations was actually composed by Eberl, although Mozart was still alive! It was not until 1798, seven years after Mozart’s death, in “A Notice to Public” in the Hamburischer Unparteiischer Correspondent (subsequently reprinted in other music journals), that Eberl claimed authorship of a piano sonata in C minor that had been

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5. 6.

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published by Artaria in Vienna as “the last great sonata by Mozart,” and two sets of variations for piano (including the above-cited set). Given the persistent confusion, in 1805 Eberl felt compelled to assert yet again, “As flattering as it must be to me on the one hand that the public so kindly accepted my earlier piano works, which without my knowledge were published under Mozart’s name, I strongly believe, however, that I owe it to myself to take claim of my own property.” After Mozart’s death, Eberl had a professional relationship with his widow, Konstanze: in the winter of 1795–96, he was the accompanist for Konstanze and her sister Aloysia on a concert tour through Germany. Program notes to Antonio Cartellieri: Complete Symphonies, Evergreen Symphony Orchestra, conducted by Gernot Schmalfuss, cpo 777677, 2012, compact disc. Program notes to Antonio Cartellieri, Gioas—Re di Giuda, Azione Sacra for Soli, Chorus and Orchestra, with Katharina Kammerloher (mezzo-soprano), Gesa Hoppe (soprano), Ingeborg Herzog (soprano), Thomas Quasthoff (baritone), Bachchor Gütersloh, Detmolder Kammerorchester, conducted by Gernot Schmalfuss, MDG 33807482, 1997, compact discs. White, “The Piano Works of Anton Eberl,” 46. “Unter den grossen Instrumentalkompositionen dieses Jahres gebührt den Eberlschen Symphonien und Konzerten der erste Rang. Dieser gemütvolle, kunstreiche Tonsetzer . . . war in einem Konzerte zu Anfang dieses Jahres zum ersten Male mit grossen Kompositionen vor das Publikum getreten. Sie rechtfertigten die von seinen früheren Arbeiten genährten Erwartungen. Glanz, Feuer, Affekt und Instrumentkenntnis zeichneten schon die erste Symphonie in Es vorteilhaft aus.” For information about the Würth concerts, see David Wyn Jones, The Symphony in Beethoven’s Vienna (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 119–22. “Eine grosse neue Sinfonie von Eberl, dem Fürsten Lobkowitz dedicirt, war für die Musikkenner um so interessanter, als in dieser schwierigen Gattung der Musik so wenige, selbst grosse Meister mit Glück gearbeitet haben. Diese Sinfonie ist aber wirklich ganz ausserordentlich gelungen, voll kühner und neuer Ideen, und besonders hat E. dabey eine sehr gründliche und ausgebreitete Kenntniss der Instrumente bewiesen. Jedes ist auf die zweckmässigste und passendste Art benutzt, und ausserordentlich glücklich vertheilt; jedes hat gerade das, was es zu leisten, und vorzüglich zu leisten im Stande ist. Auf das erste, schön gearbeitete, aber sehr lange Allegro aus Es, folgt ein treffliches Andante aus C moll, wobey die Blasinstrumente schön vertheilt sind. . . . Von wahrer Originalität und wirklich grossem Kunstwerthe ist das Finale aus es, voll neuer und überraschender Modulationen und Uebergänge, welche die Aufmerksamkeit reizen und fesseln, und den gebildeten Geschmack sehr angenehm befriedigen. Die Stelle fiel hörchst vortheilhaft auf, wo E. von as, mittels der enharmonischen Verwechslung mit gis, ins C dur übergeht. Möge doch diese Sinfonie bald durch den Stich überall verbreitet werden, und Hr. Eberl ferner seine Talente auf diese Gattung verwenden.” “Diese Sinfonie ist aber wirklich ganz ausserordentlich gelungen, voll kühner und neuer Ideen.”

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10. “Die Eberlsche Sinfonie aus Es gefiel wieder ausserordentlich, und wirklich hat sie so viel Schönes und Kräftiges, ist mit so viel Genie und Kunst behandelt, dass sie ihre Wirkung schwerlich irgendwo verfehlen wird, wo man sie gut einstudi[e]rt hat.” 11. “Sehr oft [. . .] ganz ins Regellose zu verlieren.” 12. “Die Sinfonie [Eroica] würde unendlich gewinnen, (sie dauert eine ganze Stunde) wenn Beethoven sich entschliessen wollte sie abzukürzen, und in das Ganze mehr Licht, Klarheit und Einheit zu bringen; Eigenschaften, welche die Mozartsschen Sinfonien aus G moll und C dur, die Beethovenschen aus C und D, und die Eberlschen aus Es und D, bey allem Ideenreichthume, bey aller Verwebung der Instrumente, und bey allem Wechsel überraschender Modulationen niemals verlassen.” 13. “Eine neue Beethovensche Symphonie aus Es ist in den meisten Parthieen so grell und verworren, daß nur jene daran Behagen finden konnten, welche die Fehler und Vorzüge dieses Componisten mit gleichern, zuweilen bis ins Lächerliche streifendem Feuer vergöttern.” 14. “Zum Anfange des zweiten Theils folgte eine neue, große, prachtvolle feurige Symphonie von vier Sätzen, reich an mannichfaltigem, affektvollen Ausdruck, kühn und hinreißend durchgeführt. Schon nach dem ersten Satz und dann am Schluß erscholl lebhafter Beifall. Der sprechende Ausdruck, womit der Componist diese seine Symphonie selbst dirigirte, erhöhte das Interesse.” 15. “Den 10ten April gab Hr. Kapellm. Anton Eberl aus Wien [. . .] Konzert. Eine grosse Sinfonie (Es dur) ist ein mannigfaltiges, brillantes, äusserst volltönendes, feuriges Instrumentalstück, und wurde vom Auditorium mit ausgezeichnetem Beyfall aufgenommen.” 16. “Hr. Kapellm. Eberl aus Wien, dessen Verdienste man hier bisher mehr durch vortheilhafte Berichte öffentlicher Blätter, als aus seinen Werken selbst kannte, gab am ersten Pfinsttage ein Konzert, worin er uns mehrere seiner schätzbarsten Kompositionen, namentlich seine grosse, noch ungedruckte Sinfonie (Es dur,) und ein Klavierkonzert (ebenfalls Es dur,) hören liess. Diese beyden gelungenen Arbeiten waren es vorzüglich, wodurch er sich hier die allgemeine Achtung der Musikfreunde in eben so hohem Grade erwarb, als er durch— bey reisenden Künstlern gewiss seltene, abspruchslose Bescheidenheit und gefälliges Betragen, alle zu seinem Vortheile einnahm, die mit ihm in nähere Bekanntschaft zu kommen Gelegenheit hatten. —Jene Kompositionen fanden auch wir nach einem guten Plane angelegt, der dann in der Ausführung consequent verfolgt wird. Der Verf. Weiss seine Gedanken mit weislicher Oekonomie zu verwenden, und zeigt dabey auch viel Bekanntschaft mit den kontrapunktischen Künsten. So ausgerüstet würde Hr. Eberl vielleicht noch weit Vorzüglicheres hervorbringen können, wenn er mehr darauf denken wollte, Ueberladungen zu vermeiden, durch die manches wahrhaft Schöne seiner Produkte verdunkelt wird. Warum verdeckt er z. B.—um nur Eins anzuführen—so oft seine schöne Mischung von Harmonieen durch Pauken und Trompetenschall?” 17. “Eberls Sinfonie aus Es gefällt bey öfterem Hören immer mehr, und muss auch oft gehört werden, ehe man ihrer Herr wird und sie ganz geniessen kann, weil

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18.

19.

20.

21.

22.

23.

24. 25.

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sie viele schwierige Details und eine zuweilen fast betäubende Besetzung mit rauschenden Instrumenten hat. Sie ist voll Feuer, Glanz und Reichthum; hat, bey aller, zuweilen überhäufter Mannichfaltigkeit, eine sehr gute Haltung, und besonders ist das Finale von strenger Ausführung bey allen den vielfältigen, freyen Bewegungen kräftiger Lebendigkeit. Wir zweifeln gar nicht, dass diese Sinfonie überall, wo sie gut gegeben wird—wozu aber wirklich nicht wenig gehört—Aufsehen und lebhafte Wirkung, auch Hrn. E. wahre Ehre bringen werde.” “Eine ganz neue Eberlsche Symphonie aus D entsprach ganz dem, was man von diesem großen Komponisten zu erwarten berechtigt ist, sie vereint schöne und angenehme Ideen mit Neuheit, Kühnheit, und Kraft; ist voll regen Lebens, voll genialischer Wendungen, und doch dabei zu einer schönen Einheit verbunden.” “[. . .]eine gewaltige, kühne Dichtung, in welcher die Kraft dieses Tonsetzers und das Feuer seines Geistes frey und keck herausbricht. In dem letzten fugirten Stücke liegt grosse Stärke, und in dem schönen Marsch ein ganz vorzüglicher Instrumentaleffeckt. Seit den Mozartschen, Haydnschen und Beethovenschen Sinfonieen ist wol nichts in dieser Gattung erschienen, das sich so ehrenvoll jenen zur Seite stellen könnte.” “In einer neuen großgedachten und tiefempfundenen Eberlschen Symphonie aus D zeigte dieser Componist ein ergreifende Leidenschaftlichkeit, hohes Pathos, und die Kunst, einen starkvorströmenden Ideenreichthum mit besonnener Kraft zu beherrschen.” For a definition of “super-sonata form,” see Jackson, Tchaikovsky: Symphony No. 6 (Pathétique) (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), especially the section, “Super-sonata Form and Macro-Symphonic Diachronic Transformation,” 26–29. See also Stephen Vande Moortele, Two-dimensional Sonata Form: Form and Cycle in Single-movement Instrumental Works by Liszt, Strauss, Schoenberg, and Zemlinsky (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2009). For a discussion of the “meta-Ursatz” in a symphonic context, see Jackson, “‘The Maiden with A Heart of Ice’: Crystallization in Sibelius’s Pohjola’s Daughter and Other Works.” Conference Report of the Second International Sibelius Conference in Helsinki, November 1995, ed. Eero Taarasti, 1998, 247–53. For a detailed treatment of the theory of formal diachronic transformation and other examples, see Jackson, Tchaikovsky: Symphony No. 6, 28–29, and “Diachronic Transformation in a Schenkerian Context: A Study of the Brahms Haydn Variations Op. 56a–b,” in Schenker Studies 2, ed. Hedi Siegel and Carl Schachter, Cambridge University Press (1999), especially 239–40. Jackson, “The Tragic Reversed Recapitulation in the German Classical Tradition,” Journal of Music Theory 40, no. 1 (1996): 23–72; and “The Finale of Bruckner’s Seventh Symphony and Tragic Reversed Sonata Form,” in Perspectives on Anton Bruckner, ed. Timothy L. Jackson and Paul Hawkshaw (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 140–208. Jones, Symphony in Beethoven’s Vienna, 110. “Er pflegte kein Musikstück eher aufzuschreiben, bis er es nicht ganz im Kopfe fertig hatte; dann aber verbesserte er sehr ungern und in der Regel nur

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the fi rst movements of anton eberl’s symphonies

26. 27. 28.

29. 30. 31. 32.

33.

34.

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weniges. So trug er oft ganze Sinfonien und Konzerte mondenlang mit sich herum, ehe er zum Schreibpulte trat. Gewöhnlich arbeitete er auf einsamen Spaziergängen, wo er auch niemanden sah oder kannte, der ihm etwa auf dem Wege aufstiess. Auch war er, wenn er bedeutende Schöpfungen im Kopfe trug, gewöhnlich sehr zerstreut, und nahm an der Unterhaltung der Gesellschaft, in der er sich vielleicht befand, auf einmal gar keinen Antheil mehr.” Jones, Symphony in Beethoven’s Vienna, 110. Ibid., 112. Generally—although not invariably—in the expositions of Joseph Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven, once secured by the second group, the dominant is prolonged. However, Eberl was interested in exploring a different possibility whereby the dominant is not prolonged; instead, the process of getting to the dominant is recomposed more than once in the course of the exposition. We may identify this technique, not only in the exposition of the Symphony in E-flat major under consideration here, but also in the “late” Sonatas for Violin and Piano in F major and B-flat major, opp. 49 and 50, among the last works Eberl was to able complete before his untimely death from scarlet fever. Jones, Symphony in Beethoven’s Vienna, 112. Robert Snarrenberg, Schenker’s Interpretive Practice (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 128. Ibid., 129. Another curious feature of Schenker’s foreground graph of mm. 57ff. (“Bild I,” ex. 3) also deserves brief mention, namely his designation of the G in the bass in measure 67 as a springender Durchgang, or “leaping passing tone”—the only use of the term in the Eroica study. Unfortunately, Schenker’s commentary does not elucidate this terminology. Elsewhere in Schenker’s writings, the leaping passing tone designates a tone that substitutes for a passing tone and may harmonize a passing tone in another voice while being dissonant with accompanying voices. But that is not the case here. In any event, Schenker’s idea seems to be that the G-minor chord is not a true Stufe but simply a passing chord caught between I and IV in B-flat major. Indeed, Beethoven’s sketches in Landsberg 6 suggest that the composer understood this passage as a new theme on the dominant, which is therefore preserved invariant in a significant number of drafts. Throughout his career, Edward Laufer was profoundly interested in formal issues, and especially the interaction between sonata design and tonal structure (see especially his article “Voice Leading Procedures in Development Sections,” Studies in Music from the University of Western Ontario [1991]: 69–120). Like Schenker in his final period, Laufer emphasized forward directedness, goal orientation, and continuity in music in general and sonata form in particular. Even if there was large-scale repetition, for example in a sonata recapitulation, he stressed that it was never really possible to return to the same place, because the circumstances had always changed: given that music evolves forward, this forward-directed continuity inevitably creates an ever new context, and thus repeated music must acquire a new meaning in the new context. Laufer explored this topic in his lecture “A Different Reading for the

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36.

37.

38. 39.

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Same Music” (Annual Meeting of the Music Theory Society of New York State, Queens College, New York, October 9, 1993) and his article “Continuity in the Fourth Symphony (First Movement),” in Perspectives on Anton Bruckner, ed. Crawford Howie, Paul Hawkshaw, and Timothy Jackson (Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2001), 114–44. See Edward Laufer’s masterly discussion “Interpolations and Parenthetical Passages” (International Schenker Symposium, Mannes College of Music, New York, March 16, 1985). For detailed discussions of “reversed” recapitulations, see Jackson, “Representations of ‘Exile’ and ‘Consolation’ in Hindemith’s Mathis der Maler” in Composition as a Problem IV: Proceedings of the Fourth International Conference on Music Theory, Tallinn, April 3-5, 2003 (Tallinn: Eesti Muusikaakadeemia, 2004); Jackson, “The Tragic Reversed Recapitulation in the German Classical Tradition,” Journal of Music Theory 40, no. 1 (1996): 23–72; and Jackson, “The Finale of Bruckner’s Seventh Symphony and Tragic Reversed Sonata Form,” in Perspectives on Anton Bruckner, 140–208. Obviously, the reversed recapitulation does not have tragic connotations in Eberl’s Symphony in D minor, but it does perhaps allow the composer to attenuate a narrative of “overcoming all obstacles.” See Ben Graf, “An Analytical Study of Paradox and Structural Dualism in the Music of Ludwig van Beethoven” (PhD diss., University of North Texas, in progress). Jan Swafford, Beethoven: Anguish and Triumph (New York: Houghton, Mifflin, Harcourt, 2014). Lewis Lockwood and Alan Gosman, eds., Beethoven’s “Eroica” Sketchbook: A Critical Edition, transcribed, edited, and with a commentary by Lewis Lockwood and Alan Gosman (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 2013). The author is planning to publish a detailed study of the Sonatas in B-flat and F for Violin and Piano, opp. 49 and 50. However, a significant challenge is posed by the fact that complete, modern scores of these pieces have yet to be published; all that exists at present are the extremely rare early nineteenthcentury printed parts. Nonetheless, a first performance of these two sonatas (since the early 1800s) was organized by the author at the University of North Texas’s College of Music on April 27, 2015, played by Dayeon Hong (violin) and Heejung Kang (piano).

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Part Two

Early Nineteenth Century

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Chapter Six

Schubert’s “Unfinished” Symphony Analytical Observations David Beach

This essay is concerned initially with the formal and tonal organization of the two movements, accompanied by analytic graphs interpreting the voice leading at various levels of structure. The analysis reveals several similarities between the two movements despite their very different characters. For example, both movements have mottos: in the first movement the motto is an entire theme (the opening idea in the lower strings); in the second movement it is the opening horn call, an idea that pervades this movement. A feature of both ^ ^ ^ ^ 2–3. In both cases 3^ is immediately covered by 5, ideas is the rising third: 1– which is subsequently prolonged by its upper neighbor. The analysis will interpret 3^ as the primary tone and 5^ as a prominent covering tone in both movements, though their roles do not become clear in the first movement until well into the recapitulation. In both movements, the second theme is in the key of the submediant, which is interpreted as the middle step in a descending progression connecting the tonic to the subdominant. In the first movement, the subdominant is reached in the development section in conjunction with a statement of the motto theme. However, in the second movement, the subdominant is not reached until the final statement of the first theme in the recapitulation. Consequently, the sudden return to the tonic in conjunction with the opening thematic material at the outset of the formal recapitulation in the second movement is not interpreted as a structural return but as V of IV. Already noted are motivic similarities, the rising third and the prolongation

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^ of 5, the covering tone, by its upper neighbor. The two movements also have similarities in the treatment of harmony, especially the enharmonic treatment of the augmented sixth and dominant functions, a favorite Schubertian device.

Allegro Moderato A chart of the formal and corresponding tonal organization of this movement is provided in table 6.1.1 The movement opens with what I have designated as the motto theme, an initial eight-measure idea stated by the lower strings that sets the somber tone for the entire movement. This idea appears again in the development section and later in the coda, both of which are based entirely on this germinal idea. In the exposition, it is followed immediately by the first theme, which is introduced by a four-measure lead-in. The theme itself is stated twice, with the second statement expanded by repetition and extension of the dominant. This section ends with a perfect authentic cadence in measure 38. A foreground graph of the motto theme and first theme area as well as the brief transition to the second theme is provided in example 6.1. The opening gesture of the motto theme, the ascending third B–C♯–D, is marked by a bracket, as are its repetitions, to indicate its importance, which will become clear as we progress through the movement. The larger gesture of this theme is a descent of a tetrachord from tonic to dominant. The focal pitch of the following lead-in to the first theme is 5^ (F♯4), which is locally prolonged by its upper neighbor, a relationship that is expanded later in the movement. The ^ now F♯5. In the fourth focal pitch of the first theme, which follows, is also 5, and fifth measures of the theme, the inner voice ascends the third from B4 to D5, also marked by a bracket. Despite the simplicity of this theme, the interpretation of the continuation is not so obvious as it may initially appear. At issue here is the interpretation of the E5, prolonged locally by its chromatic upper neighbor, in measure 18. It may be possible to hear it as a passing tone in a descending third from F♯5 (m. 15) to D5 (m. 20). However, Schubert’s harmonization of the D5 in measure 17 with a D-major chord (III) rather than a tonic chord forces me to hear measures 17–20 as a unit and thus the E5 in question as a neighbor to D5.2 The ensuing introduction of F♯4 by its upper neighbor (horn) extends the phrase by one measure. The first significant change in the repetition of the theme comes in the fifth measure (m. 26) at the arrival at D5, harmonized with a D-major chord (III). From this point the melodic line continues its ascent back to F♯5, the ascent created by the process of reaching over. Once F♯5 is reached, it is prolonged by its upper neighbor, once again extending the phrase by one measure. Rather than closing this section immediately, Schubert repeats the reaching-over passage and extends the dominant before leading to the cadence in measure 38. The following four-measure transition leads to the second theme in the key of G major (VI).

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Table 6.1. Schubert, “Unfinished” Symphony, I: Formal outline. EXPOSITION

Measure Nos.

Harmony

First Area Motto theme

1–8

b: i–V

lead-in

9–12

i5–6

statement 1

13–21

i–III–V7

statement 2

22–30

i–III–V7

expansion

33–38

III–V7–i

38–42

I [V7]–VI

Theme 1

Transition Second Area Theme 2 lead-in

42–43

G(VI): I

statement 1

44–53

I

statement 2

53–62

(I)

disruption

63–70

iv–+6/5

motivic development (theme 2)

71–93

→I

94–99

I

99–104

I

Retransition

104–09

b: →V

Transition to Development

104–14

[V7] iv

114–45

e(iv): I–V7 of V

Digression

Closing statements (based on th. 2)

DEVELOPMENT Motto extended Sequence 1

Motto theme (ff)

146–53

V of c♯ minor

154–61

V of d minor

162–70

V–i (e minor)

170–76

i

176–80

e–b

180–84

b–f#

Sequence 2 (ascending 5ths)

(continued)

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Table 6.1.—(concluded) Measure Nos.

Harmony

Sequence 3 (descending 5ths) 184–87

iv–V of c# minor iv–V of f# minor

188–91 192–201 Retransition

202–17

b: iv–+6/5 III6–V

RECAPITULATION First Area Theme 1 lead-in

218–21

statement 1

222–31

statement 2

231–40

e(iv): i–III–IV

expansion

240–252

f♯(v): III–V7–i

Transition

252–256

b. i i–III–iv

I→VI (=III)

Second Area Theme 2 lead in

256–257

D(III): I

statement 1

258–267

I

statement 2

267–280

(I)

Digression disruption

281–88

motivic development (theme 2)

289–311

b: iv–+6/5 →V–I

312–17

I

Closing statements (based on theme 2)

Transition

317–22

I

322–328

V–i

Coda (motto theme) Statement

328–36

i–V–i

Development of opening third motive

336–52

i–V–i

Final statements of third motive

352–68

i–V–i

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Example 6.1. Schubert, “Unfinished” Symphony, I: foreground graph of mm. 1–42.

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The famous second theme is initially stated by the celli, then answered by the violins. As shown in example 6.2, the main feature of this second statement ^ by its upper is the prolongation of G5, itself the upper neighbor of F♯5 (5), ^ neighbor. The persistent inner-voice tone is D5 (3). Completion of the consequent phrase is omitted, replaced by a measure of rest (m. 62). What follows is an extended digression (mm. 63–93), delaying completion of the preceding phrase until measure 93. A detailed graph of the extended digression, which rudely interrupts the completion of the second theme, is provided in example 6.3. It opens with the minor subdominant in the local key, which is subsequently transformed into an augmented sixth chord. The alteration of the bass note from E♭ to E♮ in measure 71 sets us off in a new direction,3 an imitative passage based on a fragment of the theme. Schubert returns to the diminished seventh chord that has led to this developmental passage in measure 81 and then emphasizes the chord through repetition. This time the diminished seventh chord leads through a passing 46 back to the subdominant, now the major subdominant that had initiated this extended digression. The subdominant leads us to a V46–53 to I, which is repeated for emphasis as the top voice progresses from D6 to G6. The closing section, which follows, involves imitative statements of the second theme. This leads to a brief transition (sustained winds and brass plus pizzicato strings) leading back to the beginning or forward into the development section. The development section—as was noted above—is based entirely on the motto theme. Here the reader should refer both to table 6.1, the chart of the movement’s formal and tonal organization, and example 6.4, a middleground graph of the development section. Following the brief transitional passage, the motto theme is stated by the lower strings in the key of the subdominant (E minor). Instead of ending on the dominant in the local key, the descent continues to the low C♮, above which an ascending figure, an extension of the rising third that reaches up to the A♯, is treated imitatively.4 The harmony here is an augmented sixth chord, which we might expect to resolve to the dominant. Instead, Schubert redirects the harmony to II♯, or V of V in the local key, which is extended for twelve measures, above which the third G6–F♯6–E6 is repeated several times, gradually compressed from six to three quarter notes in length. At the last minute the harmony in measure 145 is changed to an A7 chord, which is treated enharmonically as an augmented sixth chord leading to the cadential 46 in C-sharp minor. Once again our expectation is not fulfilled, and we are suddenly and forcefully wrenched in a new direction. The passage beginning in measure 146 is the first of three sequences within the development section, this one consisting of three parallel statements progressing up by step, marked in example 6.4 by brackets and the arabic numerals 1, 2 and 3. First we have the above-mentioned augmented sixth resolving to the cadential

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Example 6.2. Schubert, “Unfinished” Symphony, I: foreground graph of mm. 53–93.

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Example 6.3. Schubert, “Unfinished” Symphony, I: foreground graph of mm. 63–94.

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V46–53 in C-sharp minor, then in D minor, and finally in E minor (iv). Only in the last of these does the dominant resolve to the tonic in the local key.5 What follows is a statement of the motto theme by full orchestra in E minor. As shown in example 6.4, the development section to this point consists of a prolonga^ tion of the subdominant supporting G5, the upper neighbor of F♯5 (5). The statement of the motto theme by the full orchestra leads to sequences 2 and 3. The first of these consists of two statements progressing by ascending fifths. It is built on the opening fragment of the motto theme stated by lower strings. Arrival at the F-sharp-minor chord in measure 184 initiates sequence 3, which is built on the latter part of the motto theme, again in the lower strings. Harmonically the progression of the first statement is iv–V34 in C-sharp minor. Again there is no resolution of the dominant; instead the idea is stated a fifth higher. The third statement is another fifth higher, directed finally at the dominant in the original key. Yet another harmonic twist leads us to a D-major chord over F♯ in the bass (replacing the cadential 46), which then resolves to the dominant. Once the dominant is introduced, the upper winds decorate F♯5 with its upper neighbor before progressing to B5 via the covering motion A♯5–B5. Having devoted the entire development section to the motto theme, Schubert omits it at the outset of the recapitulation, which opens directly with theme 1 in the tonic key. Typical of Schubert, the music does not remain in the home key for very long, and if we look ahead (and listen for a while), we see that he states the second theme, at least initially, in the key of D major (III), a tonality already touched on in passing in the initial statements of theme 1 and more recently in the retransition, replacing the cadential 46. We also see that Schubert uses the same transition passage as in the exposition to introduce the second theme. This means ending the first theme area with a perfect authentic cadence in F-sharp minor (v), not the tonic, in order to progress down by major third to D, reproducing locally the progression I to VI from the exposition. It is instructive now to trace the path Schubert takes within the first theme to arrive at the cadence on F♯: see example 6.5, a middleground graph of the recapitulation. The initial statement of theme 1 is extended briefly to lead from I to iv, and the second statement progresses up another fourth from iv to VII (A). It is in the extension of this second statement that Schubert leads us to the cadence ^ is prolonged throughout the first theme on v. As shown in example 6.5, F♯ (5) area. It is in the second theme area that 3^ (D) finally emerges clearly as the primary tone. In the second statement of this theme, beginning in measure 267, the melodic line begins its descent from D5 (III), through an implied C♯5 (V) in measure 279,6 arriving at B4 finally in measure 311 after the extended digression represented in example 6.5 by the parentheses.7 The closing statements, now in the tonic major, embellish this descent, with ♯3^ and 2^ sounding over a dominant pedal.

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Example 6.4. Schubert, “Unfinished” Symphony, I: middleground graph of development section.

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Example 6.5. Schubert, “Unfinished” Symphony, I: middleground graph of recapitulation.

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Example 6.6. Schubert, “Unfinished” Symphony, I: coda.

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A graph of the coda is provided in example 6.6. It is here, with the statement of the motto theme, that the music returns to the somber mood of the beginning. The rising third B–C♯–D is stated several times, and the initial ^ In the foldescent from 3^ at the cadence in measures 350–52 is covered by 5. lowing measures, F♯ appears as an inner-voice tone, decorated as always by its upper neighbor, after which the top-sounding part descends one final time ^ from 3^ to 1. A background graph of the entire movement is provided in example 6.7. Here the function of G major (VI), the key of the second theme area in the exposition, is shown to be part of a descending arpeggiation from the tonic to the subdominant, which is reached and prolonged in the development section. The primary tone is shown as 3^ covered by 5^ until 3^ emerges as primary, supported by III, in the recapitulation. Both G major (VI) and E minor (iv) provide support for the upper neighbor note prolonging the covering tone F♯5. There is no interruption of the fundamental structure; rather, example 6.7 posits a one-part structure. Example 6.7. Schubert, “Unfinished” Symphony, I: background graph of entire movement.

Andante con moto An outline of the formal and tonal organization of the second movement is provided in table 6.2. The movement is divided into two large parts, an exposition and a recapitulation, followed by a coda. As shown in the table, the first theme consists of four periods, the third contrasting and the fourth extended by repetition of the closing gesture. The first two end on the tonic, whereas the third and fourth are continuous, the cadence occurring only at the end of the fourth period. As in the first movement, there is a brief transition leading to the second theme in the key of the submediant (in this case C-sharp minor).

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There are four statements of this second theme, the third and fourth for full orchestra with the theme in the bass. Following an abrupt modulation up a half step to D major, the retransition progresses sequentially by descending fifths from D major to G major to C major, the last preparing the introduction of the augmented sixth chord in the original key. There is no subsequent dominant; instead the augmented sixth chord resolves directly to the tonic and to a restatement of the opening material. The first theme in the recapitulation follows the same formal pattern as in the exposition, the main difference being the modulation in the third period to the key of the subdominant (A). The second theme begins in the minor subdominant, returning to the tonic briefly before an abrupt shift to F major (♭II) at the end of the fourth statement. We might expect Schubert to use this as a springboard for an excursion similar to the retransition passage beginning in measure 111, but instead he progresses directly to the dominant and to the extended passage leading to closure. An interpretation of measures 1–18 is provided in example 6.8. Certain similarities to the first movement are immediately apparent, despite their very different characters. First, the movement opens with a rising third, scale ^ ^ ^ 2–3 (the horn call), a motto that pervades the movement. The inidegrees 1– tial statement of this rising third, marked by a bracket (as are its repetitions), functions as an upbeat to the statement of the basic idea beginning in mea^ which is prolonged by its upper sure 3. Second, 3^ is immediately covered by 5, neighbor before arpeggiating from B5 down to E5 for a restatement of the rising third. The continuation of the repetition of the basic idea leads down by step from E5 to B4 via an augmented sixth chord in 34 position, followed by a sixteenth-note flourish on the dominant, an idea that is repeated many times in this movement. Note the interpretation of the descending third A5–G♯5– ^ ^ ^ 6–5 of the dominant harmony), which becomes important later in F♯5 (7– the movement as the final approach to closure. Also note the hint of C-sharp minor within this phrase (mm. 12–13). So, despite their very obvious charac^ which ters, the two movements share common features: the initial ascent to 3, ^ is immediately covered by 5, which in turn is prolonged in the immediate context by its upper neighbor; and the formal organization of both initial themes.8 However, in this movement the role of 5^ as a covering tone to 3^ is clear by the end of the initial period. As shown in example 6.8, the overall melodic motion of measures 1–16 is the descending third G♯5–F♯5–E5, a middleground replica of the fundamental line. The modal change at the beginning of the next period, the G♮5 in measure 18, prepares the following excursion into G major. Though locally this harmony is heard as III within a progression controlled by E minor, the reference to the first movement, to the key of the second theme, is clear. The following period provides maximum contrast. It consists of three four-measure units,

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Table 6.2. Schubert, “Unfinished” Symphony, II: Formal outline. EXPOSITION Theme 1

Measure Nos.

Harmony

a

1–16

E: I

a´

16–32

i–♮III–V–I

b

33–44

I–V–III♯(V of vi)

a˝

45–60

I

transition

60–63

Theme 2 64–83

retransition

c♯ (vi): i

84–96

I (D♭)

96–103

i

103–111

I →♭II (D♮)

111–121

D♮–G♮

121–129

G♮–C♮ iv6–+56

129–141

E:

Measure Nos.

Harmony

a

142–157

E: I

a´

157–173

i–♮III–V–i

b

174–185

I–IV/ A(IV): I–III♯

a˝

186–201

RECAPITULATION Theme 1

transition

A(IV): I

201–214

Theme 2 and continuation to closure 205–224

i

225–237

I

237–244 Coda

268–312

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E: I–♭II–V–I I

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Example 6.8. Schubert, “Unfinished” symphony, II: foreground graph of mm. 1–18.

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the third suggesting more emphatically than measures 12–13 an immanent motion to vi (C-sharp minor), which is canceled immediately by the return to the material beginning from measure 3. The section ends with two statements of the motto, first by winds (flutes and oboes), then by horns and bassoons. A foreground graph of the initial statement of theme 2 appears in example 6.9. This theme, like the first theme in this movement as well as both themes in the first movement, is introduced by an extended upbeat. The most prominent feature of the theme is the ascending third E5–F♯5–G♯5, marked by a bracket to show it as a copy of the motto, though in this key these pitches are scale ^ ^ ^ 4–5. G♯5 is subsequently prolonged by its upper neighbor (a feature degrees 3– anticipated in the accompaniment in measures 67 and 69) before descending to the inner-voice tone E5, after which G♯5 is reinstated. Two harmonic features internal to this phrase are worthy of special note. First is the suggestion of F major, a harmony that is emphasized at an important place in the recapitulation, here as part of the extension of the D-minor harmony. Second is the reinterpretation of the A7 chord (locally V7 of the D-minor harmony) as the augmented sixth chord leading to the cadential 46 in the local key. We have already heard this enharmonic change in the first movement leading to the first sequence in the development section (see mm. 145–46 of that movement). More importantly, it anticipates the reverse—the change from C-sharp minor to D major—in the fourth statement of theme 2. The second statement of this theme (not shown) is in C-sharp major, rewritten by Schubert as D-flat major. A graph of the third and fourth statements, where the theme is in the bass, is provided in example 6.10. Here Schubert utilizes the full orchestra, as opposed to the thin texture of the first two statements. The main features of the counterpoint (upper strings) are the prolongation of G♯5 by its upper neighbor and above it an ascent of a fifth from C♯6 to G♯6. The approach to the dominant is through a passing augmented sixth chord, and at the cadence there is a descent from 3^ to 1^ in the local key. The fourth phrase begins in the same way (not written out in ex. 6.10), but in the final measures of the phrase the augmented sixth chord, now rewritten as an A7 chord, is reinterpreted as a V7 leading to the key of D major. As was noted above, this sudden shift generates a sequence involving imitative treatment of the opening measures of the second theme that leads us by descending fifths from D major to G major to C major. Once Schubert has arrived at C, he introduces A♯ above, the augmented sixth, but instead of hearing a resolution to the dominant, we suddenly find ourselves back on tonic harmony and the opening horn call. The first two statements of theme 1 in the recapitulation are almost exactly the same as in the exposition. The first significant change comes in the next period, where there is a shift to the subdominant, which is confirmed in the return to the “a” material and the subsequent cadence in measures 196–197.

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Example 6.9. Schubert, “Unfinished” Symphony, II: foreground graph of mm. 64–83.

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Example 6.10. Schubert, “Unfinished” Symphony, II: foreground graph of mm. 96–111.

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As before, this section ends with two statements of the motto, now transposed to the dominant. This key is prolonged throughout the second theme until the enharmonic shift in measures 250–52 takes us suddenly to F♮. A detailed graph of measures 238–268, beginning with the third statement of theme 2—with the theme in the top voice and the counterpoint in the bass, the reverse of the situation in the exposition—and subsequent material leading to closure is provided in example 6.11. This third statement begins in A ^ which is covered by minor (iv), supporting A5, the upper neighbor of G♯5 (3), a fifth progression from C♮6 to G♮6 as we are led back to the tonic key, though ^ ^ ^ 2–1, supin the parallel minor. Overall A5 (N), supported by iv, leads us to ♮3– 6 -5 ported by V4--3 to i in E minor. The next statement opens with the ascending third G♮5–A5–B5, which is answered by C♮6–B♭5–A5. The harmony supporting C♮6–B♭5–A5 involves the reinterpretation of the augmented sixth chord, with A♯ now rewritten as B♭, as V7 of the following F-major chord (♭II), which offers support for the return to the upper neighbor. As in the first movement, the invoking of ♭II signals an important point in the structure, the imminent motion to closure. Instead of using F major to launch one of his colorful excursions, Schubert progresses directly to the dominant seventh followed by vi (one last reference to C-sharp minor) as support for the return to G♯5 (implied as the resolution of the preceding seventh). This is followed by the augmented sixth chord in 34 position and the flourish on the dominant, both features of the initial theme. The motion A5–G♯5–F♯5 above the dominant introduces 2^ of the fundamental line. Schubert avoids closure several times by landing on the tonic chord in first inversion covered by B5, the ever-present covering tone. In the final approach to closure (m. 268), the covering tone is introduced by its upper neighbor, a feature heard several times from the very beginning of the movement. We are now in a position to consider the overall structure of the movement (see example 6.12). The primary tone is 3^ (G♯5), and 5^ is interpreted as a prominent covering tone prolonged by its upper neighbor, a feature shared with the first movement.9 The primary tone is supported both by tonic and by C-sharp minor (vi), the key of the second theme area. There is no dominant as the goal of the retransition and thus no possibility of interruption of the fundamental structure. As in the first movement, the structure is continuous, a one-part form. The return to the tonic at the formal recapitulation is not interpreted as a structural return; rather, it is understood as introducing the subdominant, completing the large-scale motion from tonic to subdominant via the intervening third (the submediant). This is another feature shared with the first movement, though the relationship to the formal design differs. The prolonged subdominant supports A5, the upper neighbor initiating a descending third to F♯5, with the middle member of this third supported by vi. The ^ the 7–6–5 motion within the dominant, might now be final approach to 2, understood as a diminution embedded within this linear progression.

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Example 6.11. Schubert, “Unfinished” Symphony, II: foreground graph of mm. 237–68.

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Example 6.12. Schubert, “Unfinished” Symphony, II: background graph of entire movement.

A foreground graph of the coda is provided in example 6.13. An interesting—actually a curious and unexpected—feature of the coda is the immediate statement of an ascent to B5 and the following descent of a fifth, which is then repeated an octave lower.10 It seems to provide resolution, at least temporarily, of B5, though subsequent events reinforce its role as a covering tone. The descending arpeggiation from B5 that began in measure 282 is answered ten measures later by the equivalent gesture from C6, which highlights this role; the intervening excursion into A-flat major allows Schubert one final opportunity to interject a new color into the tonal landscape. The final statement of the covering tone and its upper neighbor comes in measures 296–98 before ^ ^ 2 three final statements of the motto. The final gesture of the movement is 3– ^ (repeated) with the following 1 covered by the arpeggiation to E6.

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Example 6.13. Schubert, “Unfinished” Symphony, II: foreground graph of the coda, mm. 268–312.

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Notes 1.

In this table and elsewhere a square bracket is used to represent an applied or secondary dominant. For example, [V7] VI means V7 of VI to VI. Augmented sixth chords in standard position are designated by +56. Major keys are indicated by capital letters, minor keys by lower case. 2. Felix Salzer identifies the primary tone as 3^ as early as measure 2; it is then reinstated in measure 17; see his example 497 in Structural Hearing (New York: Dover, 1962). Although I think Salzer is correct in his interpretation, I have decided not to indicate the primary tone in example 6.1, because I think the choice between 3^ and 5^ is not clear at this point in the movement. 3. As indicated by the arabic numerals between the staves, the diminished seventh chord of measures 71–72 briefly interrupts the prevailing quadruple hypermeter. These two measures function as a lead-in to the following developmental passage, very much like the openings of themes 1 and 2. 4. This same figure, transposed to the tonic key, reappears in the coda. 5. The V-like symbols employed in example 6.4 indicate that resolutions are omitted. 6. The importance of this moment in the music is marked by the sole occurrence of the Neapolitan sixth chord to introduce the dominant. 7. This passage is the equivalent of measures 63–93, a detailed graph of which is provided in example 6.3. 8. Both are musical sentences, consisting of a basic idea, its repetition, and a continuation. 9. In example 6.12, the covering voices in the exposition have been moved to inner parts to show more clearly the progress of the primary voice. The numbers 1 and 2 between the staves represent themes 1 and 2, and the dotted vertical line shows the division into two formal parts. 10. When I first studied this movement some years ago, the appearance of this ^ fifth progression made me consider the possibility that B5 (5) might be the primary tone.

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Chapter Seven

Structural and FormFunctional Ambiguities in the First Movement of Schubert’s Octet in F Major, D. 803 Su Yin Mak

This essay explores the relationship between structure and design in the first movement of Schubert’s Octet in F Major, D. 803, which contains a number of unusual features: a highly chromatic slow introduction that returns at the end of the development; a three-key exposition with a I–vi–V key scheme; a development section constructed in parallel blocks within which formal and prolongational spans are out of sync; and a recapitulation where only the first part of the main theme is restated in tonic. The rest of the recapitulation is a literal transposition of analogous passages in the exposition, such that I–vi–V is answered by IV–ii–I. Schubert composed the octet in 1824, the year in which he abandoned his efforts to establish himself as an opera composer and instead sought to make his reputation by composing in serious instrumental genres. By the end of March, he had completed the octet and the string quartets in A minor (D. 804, “Rosamunde”) and D minor (D. 810, “Death and the Maiden”). As Schubert remarked in a letter to his friend Leopold Kupelwieser, he saw these works as means to pave his way toward a grand symphony. He hoped that his efforts in

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large-scale instrumental composition could lead to a concert in Vienna similar to one that Beethoven was about to give, which would include a performance of the Ninth Symphony.1 That Beethoven was both a paragon and a competitor for Schubert is evident in the compositional design of the octet, which is closely modeled on Beethoven’s Septet, op. 20. The two works have similar instrumentations and the same number of movements, each of which is nearly identical in formal type, tempo, meter, and tonal scheme. Since several commentators have investigated the derivation of the octet from Beethoven’s septet, I do not intend to pursue the issue here.2 Instead, I focus specifically on Schubert’s treatment of sonata form in the octet’s first movement, which clearly differs from the characteristic practice of Beethoven. I begin with some general remarks on the viable voice-leading paradigms for the movement’s unusual tonal design at the level of fundamental structure. This will be followed by an analysis of the movement, in which I demonstrate that Schubert’s unorthodox harmonic, motivic and formal procedures create both lateral dichotomies across prolongational spans and vertical disjunctions between structural levels. I will also argue that misalignment of formal and structural boundaries is a deliberate aspect of the movement’s organization. Compared with the two string quartets, the octet has received comparatively little attention from Schenkerian theorists. To my knowledge, a chapter in Deborah Kessler’s dissertation on the Schubertian three-key exposition contains the only extant analysis to explore the first movement in detail.3 Kessler’s reading differs from mine mainly with regard to the movement’s overall background structure and the voice leading of the development section. I will comment on the differences in the following discussion where appropriate.

Viable Voice-Leading Paradigms for Schubert’s Unusual Tonal Scheme In a typical two-part, two-key sonata form, the tonal scheme and succession of themes tend to be aligned with the underlying structure; the structural arrival of 2^ over V in a major-mode exposition, for example, usually coincides with the presentation of a new subordinate theme in the key of the dominant. This alignment downplays the difference between structure and design, encouraging us to view formal boundaries as markers of prolongational spans. It is in atypical sonata-form pieces with unusual tonal schemes that the distinction between structure and design comes to the fore. Given that Schenker’s paradigm for sonata form’s tonal structure is the two-part divided Ursatz (I–V || I–V–I), the middle key of a three-key exposition is, by default, structurally subordinate to I and V; yet if the compositional articulation gives emphasis to

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the middle key, a conflict between tonal structure and tonal design will result. Carl Schachter’s essay on the first movement of Brahms’s Symphony No. 2 in D Major offers a clear example of this type of conflict.4 The tonal design of Brahms’s movement is I–iii–V, and the mediant key, F-sharp minor, is strongly articulated by the presentation of the second theme (m. 82). Schachter’s analysis shows that F♯ actually occurs within a chromatic voice exchange that extends from the opening tonic harmony to an augmented sixth that leads to V of A major (m. 118). Thus, tonic harmony is prolonged across the formal boundary of the second theme, and the structure of the exposition is I– (II♯)–V rather than the key scheme’s I–iii–V. The I–vi–V tonal scheme in the exposition of Schubert’s octet movement posits an intrinsic ambiguity as to the structural function of the middle key. Assuming that vi and V are both tonally closed key areas, the number of viable voice-leading paradigms that can correspond to this tonal scheme at the level of fundamental structure are limited (see example 7.1). If the primary tone ^ then it has to be sustained through vi before continuing to 2^ over V, as is 3, ^ then vi would most likely provide in example 7.1a. If the primary tone is 5, ^ as in example 7.1b. In both cases, harmonic support for the neighbor note 6, parallel fifths or octaves are unavoidable, and a V of V (II♯) must therefore be interpolated between vi and V in order to correct the voice leading, as shown in the latter halves of the above examples. This would in turn imply that, in the fundamental structure, vi is not only subordinate to I and V, but also to V of V (II♯). Yet hypothetically 6^ could also prolong the subsequent dominant rather than the preceding tonic by functioning as a large-scale neighbor note to 5^ in the bass. In such a scenario, where vi and V are directly juxtaposed, the resulting parallel octaves could only be alleviated at a lower hierarchical level, as shown in example 7.1c. Thus, the relative structural weight of vi, and its voice leading role along the path from the tonic to the tonic, are critical analytical considerations. The ways in which the three-key scheme might be recapitulated raise a further question as to the extent to which our analytical decisions about voice leading should be premised on the assumption of a divided background for the movement as a whole. In a typical two-key sonata form in major mode, the subordinate theme is transposed down a fifth in the recapitulation so that the linear descent that had led to the exposition’s local closure in the dominant key could enable the descent of the fundamental line. Formal/tonal design and tonal structure are thereby elegantly aligned. By contrast, in a sonata form with a three-key exposition, the structural requirements of large-scale closure and descent of the fundamental line cannot specify the recapitulation’s tonal design. All three themes could be restated in the tonic (I–vi–V answered by I–i–I), which would mean that the second and third keys of the exposition are transposed by different intervals in the recapitulation, necessitating extensive

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Example 7.1. Schubert, Octet in F Major, D. 803, I: voice-leading paradigms for the ^ ^ I–vi–V tonal scheme: (a) primary tone = 3, vi prolongs I; (b) primary tone = 5, vi ^ prolongs I; and (c) primary tone = 5, vi prolongs V.

recomposition of the exposition’s voice leading; or the main theme could be restated in the tonic, while the second and third keys are transposed down a fifth (I–vi–V answered by I–ii–I). The entire tonal scheme might even be transposed down a fifth (I–vi–V answered by IV–ii–I), resulting in the subdominant recapitulation for which Schubert is notorious. To be sure, these unusual tonal designs may well be subsumed under the structural norms typically associated with sonata form; yet one cannot categorically dismiss all keys aside from I and V as nonstructural. In the case of the subdominant recapitulation, the potential of IV as support for 4^ in the fundamental line should at least be explored. In such a scenario, 4^ above IV could ^ background for only have come from 5^ over I, and an uninterrupted 5-line the movement would thereby be suggested. Ernst Oster has drawn attention to ^ backgrounds in a well-known sonata-form movements with uninterrupted 5-line

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footnote to his English translation of Free Composition.5 In such movements, 5^ would be prolonged until the end of the exposition, and the note that would have been 2^ in the fundamental line is instead an inner-voice tone over a dividing dominant. The prolongation of 5^ continues throughout the development and descends to 1^ only toward the latter part of the recapitulation. In the preceding discussion, I have referred to the voice-leading implications of Schubert’s unusual tonal scheme in the abstract, yet of course analytical choices can only be made when the musical evidence is examined in context. The rest of this essay will therefore be devoted to a detailed investigation of the interactions among thematic design, key scheme, and tonal structure in Schubert’s octet movement. Drawing inspiration from Peter Smith’s concept of “dimensional counterpoint,” I will consider these compositional parameters as independent dimensions, each of which has its own internal hierarchy and coherence.6 Special attention will be given to the misalignments between points of formal and structural demarcation, as well as to features that call into question the functional and hierarchical distinctions of sonata form.

The Slow Introduction The Adagio is colored by extensive chromaticism at both deep and surface levels; a sketch is provided in example 7.2. At measures 1–3, above a tonic pedal, the upper line (violin 1) prolongs primary tone C5 with D♮5 as an upper neighbor. This neighboring motion is given emphasis by two apparent “augmented sixth to V” progressions, which are generated through chromatic passing tones in the first violin and cello; these are marked with asterisks in the sketch. At measures 4–5, the music moves to the dominant via a functional augmented sixth chord in the home key, which presents D♭ rather than D♮ as an ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ 6– 5 and 5–♭ 6– 5 also upper neighbor to C in the bass. Alternations between 5–♮ appear in two foreground details. The first involves the clarinet part. As the sketch shows, the top line of measures 3–6 is two tiered: at the higher level, C5 is retained as the primary tone, whereas at the lower level there is a descending fifth motion into an inner voice. When the dominant arrives at measure 5, C5 is picked by the clarinet and embellished with a D♮ upper neighbor over a cadential 46 chord, before the inner voice motion continues to 2^ over V. The second involves the cello line, which outlines a lament tetrachord (F–E♭–D– D♭–C) over the tonic pedal in measures 1–3, then states C–D♮ and D♭–C in quick succession at measures 4–5. D♭ gains structural importance as the Adagio progresses. After a pastoral theme that briefly tonicizes A♭(♭III), D♭ returns at measure 12 by way of a deceptive cadence in the original key of F. At measure 14, F reappears in the bass to support a dominant seventh chord, which resolves to B-flat minor. In

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Example 7.2. Schubert, Octet, I, slow introduction: voice-leading sketch: (a) foreground; and (b) middleground.

the background, then, bass note F is prolonged throughout measures 1–14, and the D♭ at measure 12 functions as a neighbor note to C in a middleground inner voice. The fortissimo arrival of the minor subdominant at measure 15 provides harmonic support for D♭5 in the top line, which returns to the primary tone C5 when the dominant arrives at measure 17. There are thus two ^ ^ ^ 6– 5 neighboring motions in different registers— noncoinciding large-scale 5–♭ mm. 1–17 in the top line and mm. 1–14 in an inner voice, as shown in level b of the sketch. The constant alternation between D♭ and D♮ (or diatonic and chromatic ^ as neighbor notes to 5^ is an instance of what Steven versions of scale degree 6) Laitz has called the “submediant complex.”7 Here, this neighboring motion is also associated with 5–6 voice leading, the augmented sixth sonority, the pervasive use of modal mixture, and the emphasis on the major and minor forms of the subdominant. It functions as what Brian Black describes as a harmonic motive, “a chord or multi-chord cell” that creates a web of tonal allusions to foreshadow or recall specific keys or events.8 Black has argued that in Schubert’s sonata forms, such harmonic cross-references often inform the movement’s rhetorical design and clarify the relative weights of certain keys at critical junctures in the form. Might they also affect the voice-leading structure?

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The rest of my analysis will seek to demonstrate ways in which the abovementioned features of the Adagio inform the Sonata Allegro that follows, with particular focus on Schubert’s explorations of the neighbor-note relationship between C and D♮/D♭ at different levels of structure and how they interact with the tonal layout and succession of themes.

The Sonata Allegro Table 7.1 provides a formal overview of the movement.9 The exposition has a three-key design, I–vi–V. in which an extended subordinate theme group gives much greater emphasis to vi than to the dominant at the end of the exposition. This contradiction between the thematic and structural status of the second key, D minor, poses an analytical problem as to how its role in the underlying structure might be understood. As we shall see below, ambiguities in tonal design and thematic function within the subordinate group add further interpretative difficulties. Table 7.1. Schubert, Octet in F Major, D. 803, I: Formal outline. SLOW INTRODUCTION Opening gesture: descending tetrachord bass over tonic pedal

1–5

I–6–V

Pastoral theme

6–15

I–♭III–V–♭VI (D♭)–iv

Cadential preparation

15–18

iv6–V4-6-53

Main theme

19–38

I

Transition/counterstatement

38–50

7

EXPOSITION

Subordinate theme ST1 (clarinet)

50–60

d (vi): i–V; i–V/III

ST1 variant (horn)

61–71

F (I): I–V; I–vi

ST2 (strings)

71–77

d (vi) → c (v)

ST3 (strings-winds alternation)

77–90

c (v) → C (V)

Closing theme

90–110

V

Codetta

110–23

C (V): I–♭II–6–V

Transition to development

123–41

C → C♯ (=V of F-sharp minor) (continued)

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Table 7.1.—(concluded) DEVELOPMENT Sequence 1 (descending fifths) ST1 (violin I & clarinet)

142–50

f♯: i–V; i–V/iv (=b)

ST1 (cello and violin I)

150–56

b: i–V; i–V/iv (=e)

agitato antecedent

156–63

b: iv6–6–V (bass = G–F♯)

lyrical continuation

164–69

b minor →B-flat major

agitato antecedent

156–63

a: iv6–6–V (bass = F♮–E♮)

lyrical continuation

164–69

a minor →A♭ major

Sequence 2 (chromatic descent) ST2

ST2

Reprise of ideas from the slow introduction Pastoral theme

183–94

Literal restatement of opening

195–202 6–(apparent tonic)–V

A♭ (♭III)–b♭ (iv)–6

RECAPITULATION Main theme

203–27

I–IV

Transition

227–39

IV–V of ii

ST1

239–50

ii (g)–V/IV

ST1

250–60

IV (B♭)–ii

ST2

260–66

ii → i

ST3

266–79

i→I

Closing theme

279–97

I

Codetta

297–309 I–♭II–6–V

Subordinate theme

CODA Main theme

310–31

I

ST2 and descending tetrachord bass

331–40

I

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Let us first consider how D minor is introduced within the exposition. The main theme (mm. 19–38) is diatonic throughout, and features dotted rhythms and neighboring motions around C5 at the foreground level. Measures 38–50 constitute a quick transition that begins with an abbreviated counterstatement of the main theme. When the thematic restatement reaches the subdominant chord at its third measure (m. 40), Schubert uses a 5–6–♯6 motion above B♭ to turn it into an augmented sixth chord, which leads away from F and toward A, V of D minor. An extended dominant pedal on A prepares the arrival of D minor at measure 50. The subordinate theme group (mm. 50–90) is both melodically and harmonically unstable, and contains three distinct though related thematic ideas (ST1, 2 and 3) presented in four quasi-periodic phrase pairs. Within each pair, a four-measure fore-phrase prolongs a local tonic, followed by a modulating after-phrase that is often expanded.10 The first two phrase pairs (mm. 50–60 and mm. 61–71) share the same thematic material (ST1), the first moving from D minor to C major and the second from F major to D minor, in a pianissimo dynamic. Together, they prolong D. In the third phrase pair (mm. 71–77) the octave leaps and dotted rhythms with which the subordinate theme began turn turbulent with a sudden sforzando. This thematic variant, which I have labeled ST2, is cadential in character. The fore-phrase affirms D minor, but the after-phrase diverts the music to C minor. The fourth phrase pair (mm. 78–90) presents another thematic variant (ST3) that returns to the pianissimo dynamic and reassigns the dotted rhythms and neighbor-note configuration of the previous phrase pair to a plaintive, lyrical gesture. The fore-phrase continues to prolong C minor, and it is only toward the end of the considerably expanded after-phrase that the dominant, C major, finally arrives. The closing theme (mm. 90–110), which is simple and dancelike, prolongs the dominant ^ descent (G5–C5), a common pattern in and brings closure with a local 5-line the subordinate themes of archetypal two-key expositions. I have shown earlier that in the Adagio the neighbor-note motion between C and D♮/D♭ is an important motivic relationship that is enlarged at deeper levels of structure. Here, the juxtapositions between D minor and C minor/ major revisit this relationship; however, the structural weight of D minor is ambiguous. Does D minor grow out of an implied C 5–6 motion above the tonic F in the middleground, making D an inner-voice neighbor note above an inner-voice C? Or does the I–vi–V tonal scheme articulate a I–vi–V structure, in which D functions as a neighbor note to C at a deeper level? In other words, does the second key within this three-key exposition prolong the preceding tonic (as in ex. 7.1b) or the dominant to come (as in ex. 7.1c)? One can make a case for either interpretation (see example 7.3). On one hand, the tonal instability of the subordinate group suggests that it functions as a transition between the two outer groups of the exposition. The establishment

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of D minor is also challenged by the restatement of ST1 in F major beginning at measure 61 (shown in table 7.1 but not in the ex. 7.3 sketch). Even though the subsequent move from F back to D retrospectively clarifies that this F is an upper third prolonging D rather than a continuation of the opening tonic, the allusion to the tonic key before D minor has achieved closure nevertheless undercuts the latter’s structural importance. These features encourage the interpretation of D as belonging to an inner voice that unfolds to V of V (II♯) in the underlying structure. On the other hand, D minor is strongly prepared by an extended dominant pedal on A at measures 42–49 and accompanies the presentation of new and contrasting thematic material. By comparison, the V of V at measure 89 is very weakly articulated. The second set of observations, no less valid, promotes the interpretation of D as a neighbor note that moves directly to C at the background level.11 The structural ambiguity of vi in the subordinate group is intensified in the codetta (mm. 110–23; see ex. 7.4). After repeated cadential confirmation of C, D♭ is suddenly introduced at measure 116. At measure 121, an augmented sixth chord above A♭, prepared as the dominant seventh of D-flat but enharmonically reinterpreted, resolves to a perfect authentic cadence in C. As the example 7.4 sketch shows, the overall bass progression of this passage is C– A♭–G–C, and the C–D♭ neighboring motion takes place at a lower structural level. If we view the C–D♭ here as answering the subordinate group’s D♮–C, it would make sense to read both versions of the enlarged motive as occurring in the middleground inner voice. Yet the C–A♭–G–C bass progression, the C– D♭ neighboring motion, and the highly marked recurrence of the augmented ^ ^ ^ 6– 5 sixth sonority all allude to the Adagio, where the alternations between 5–♮ ^ ^ ^ and 5–♭6–5 took place across different structural levels. Thus, although it is clear that the codetta as a whole prolongs the dominant, the relative structural weight of ♭6^ remains ambiguous. The unusual thematic and tonal design of the development interacts with the underlying structure in other ways that are reminiscent of the Adagio. The form of the development subdivides into three subsections (refer back to table 7.1). The first is based on ST1. At measure 136, Schubert introduces C♯ as a passing tone from C, but resolves it as a local dominant that leads to the tonicization of F-sharp minor at measure 142. He then presents a variant of ST1 as a modulating two-phrase period with a two-bar prefix. A one-bar overlap at the juncture between the antecedent and consequent phrases alters F-sharp minor to F-sharp major and leads to a cadence in B minor. The entire passage is then repeated sequentially down a fifth to tonicize E minor (m. 156), but with the difference that the E-minor chord is stated in first inversion. A phrase overlap leads to the start of the second subsection, which again comprises two sequentially related parallel blocks with a quasi-periodic internal construction. In the first block, the agitato octave leaps of ST2 reappear

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Example 7.3. Schubert, Octet, I, exposition, subordinate theme group, two competing readings: (a) second key prolongs preceding tonic; and (b) second key prolongs dominant to come.

Example 7.4. Schubert, Octet, I, exposition, codetta: voice-leading sketch.

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as an antecedent phrase (mm. 156–63). The bass moves from G to F♯, with G supporting the aforementioned E-minor chord in first inversion and an 6–5 augmented sixth; this resolves to an F-sharp-major chord that supports a V4– 3 half cadence in B minor. A “iv–augmented 6th–V” progression in B minor is thereby suggested. The consequent phrase (mm. 164–169) is a lyrical continuation that begins in B minor but ends with a PAC in B-flat major. The second block (mm. 170–83) is an exact transposition of mm. 156–69 down a whole step: the bass moves from F♮ (supporting a D-minor chord in first inversion and an augmented sixth) to E♮ (supporting a half cadence in A minor); the lyrical continuation begins in A minor and ends with a PAC in A-flat major at measure 183. The third subsection, in which thematic materials from the Adagio are restated, begins here. A variant of the pastoral theme from the Adagio (mm. 6–12) leads from A-flat major (♭III) to V by way of the minor subdominant and an augmented sixth. The literal restatement of the opening of the Adagio at measures 195–202 inserts a non-tonic F between the augmented sixth and dominant chords of this progression. Example 7.5 is a voice-leading sketch of the development. In the first subsection, the tonicized F♯ at measure 142 comes from a middleground inner voice G above the V at the end of the exposition (m. 136); for the sake of clarity, these pitches are shown the sketch in the tenor register as F♯3 and G3 with downward stems. Looking ahead to the second subsection, we can see that the structural bass motion at measures 156–63 is clearly G3–F♯3, which supports E5–E♯5–F♯5 in the upper line; the resultant progression, a strongly directional “augmented sixth to V,” was marked for our attention earlier at the opening of the Adagio and the codetta. The F♯3 at measure 142 can thus be understood as prolonged until the G3 at measure 156, and the tonicization of B minor at measure 150 as a foreground event. Since measures 170–76 transposes measures 156–62 a whole tone lower, the same voice-leading pattern pertains. F♮3–E♮3 supports D5–D♯5–E♮5 in the upper voice, and the progression is likewise articulated by an augmented sixth and its resolution. Earlier on, we noted that the two sequentially related parallel blocks, measures 156–69 and measures 170–183, are each divided into antecedent and consequence phrases. The steps in the chromatic descending bass line, G3– F♯3–F♮3–E♮3, occur at the beginning and end points of the two antecedent phrases, thereby rendering the B-flat cadence in the first consequent phrase (m. 169) structurally subordinate. Yet in the second consequent phrase, the analogous harmonic arrival on A-flat major at measure 183 is given greater structural importance. As level b of example 7.5 shows, at the background level A♭3 arises out of an implied 5–♭6 motion above C.12 I therefore read the chromatic bass descent from G at measure 156 as continuing to the E♭ at measure 182, followed by dominant motion to A♭. In other words, analogous passages within the two parallel blocks (mm. 164–69 and mm. 178–83) have different

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Example 7.5. Schubert, Octet, I, development: voice-leading sketch: (a) foreground; and (b) middleground.

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structural functions, and the underlying voice leading cuts across both transpositional boundaries and local tonicizations. Example 7.6 illustrates the incongruities between the different spans projected by the voice leading, sequential transpositions, and cadential goals. At the background level, then, V is prolonged throughout the first two subsections of the development. The middleground G3 at the end of the exposition (m. 123) initiates a two-tiered linear motion. At the lower level, the chromatic descending bass G3–F♯3–F♮3–E♮3–E♭3 prolongs G with its lower third. At the higher level, G3 moves to A♭3 at measure 183. The top voice is also two tiered. At the end of the exposition, C5 is retained as the primary tone (clarinet), while G5 is placed above it as a cover tone (violin). G5 moves through F♯5, E5, E♭5 and D♭5 to the C5 at measure 183, when the primary tone is recaptured. These multiple lines of voice leading, each containing prolongational spans of varying lengths, generate a middleground structure of considerable complexity. There are also harmonic references to the Adagio; the various statements of the “augmented sixth to V” progression and the descending chromatic bass line, for example, are reminiscent of sonic gestures in measures 2–3. It is only at the A-flat-major chord at measure 183, when thematic material from the Adagio is restated, that the different structural levels align. Formal and structural articulation points also coincide from this point forward. The arrival of A-flat major is accompanied by the reappearance of the pastoral theme from the Adagio (mm. 183–86 = mm. 6–7),13 and the move from A-flat up a major second to B-flat minor at measures 187–90 is achieved through the sequential repetition of the theme. This progression supports C5–D♭5 in the top voice. At measure 191, a chromatic voice exchange transforms iv into a functional augmented sixth of the home key; the structural notes in the melodic and bass lines are now, respectively, B♮4 and D♭3. A literal restatement of the Adagio’s opening material at measures 195–200 inserts a nontonic F-major chord within the prolongation of the augmented sixth built on D♭. This F-major chord provides consonant support for C5, which prematurely arrives before the bass resolves to C at measure 201. The development as a whole thus prolongs the dominant by bass motion to and from its chromatic upper neighbor: the C at the end of the exposition moves to D♭ at measures 191–200, followed by a return to C at measure 201. This neighboring motion refers back to the D♮–C juxtaposition in the second and third key areas of the exposition, as well as the C–D♭ progression in the codetta; but while earlier on the relative structural weight of D♮/D♭ was unclear, here D♭ is unquestionably a neighbor note in the background. These large-scale variants of the C–D♮/D♭–C motive suggest that Schubert may have wished to “develop” the motive by exploring the full range of its voice-leading implications at different structural levels.

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Example 7.6. Schubert, Octet, I: incongruities between temporal spans projected by the voice leading, sequential transpositions, and cadential goals.

The recapitulation, which is largely an exact transposition of the exposition down a fifth, is common in Schubert, but anomalous with respect to sonata conventions. The F major that begins the recapitulation turns out to be V of IV, and from IV the movement progresses to close in the tonic by preserving the tonal scheme of the exposition (that is, F–D–C is answered by B♭–G–F). A crucial consideration in our understanding of the movement’s overall structure is the status of the subdominant here. If we were to try to fit Schubert’s unusual tonal scheme into the paradigm of interruption form, then B♭ would have to be assigned a lower structural status than the F at the beginning of the recapitulation. This is the perspective that Deborah Kessler adopts (see ex. 7.7a). She reads B♭ as a large-scale lower neighbor note to the primary tone, C: “While the exposition and development explore C’s upper neighbors D and D♭, the recap explores the lower neighbor, in a sense completing the double neighbor configuration around C prefigured in measures 1–3.”14 Accordingly, she sees the recapitulation’s harmonic background as consisting of two largescale cadential progressions, and B♭ as occurring within the first progression that precedes the descent of the fundamental line. Kessler’s reading seems guided primarily by the assumption that the movement has to have an interrupted structure. It forces the descent of the fundamental line into a single cadence at measures 294–295, where there is ^ Moreover, in her discussion of the exposition, no harmonic support for 4. ^ ^ ^ ^ 4–3–2 descent in the first part of the strucKessler is also unable to locate a 5– ture leading to the interruption. In my view, it is more convincing to posit an

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undivided background structure for the movement. The primary tone, C, is retained throughout the exposition and development. In the recapitulation, the subdominant harmony brought about by the transpositional scheme provides support for scale degree 4^ in the descent of the fundamental line. Scale degree 3^ arrives with the onset of the closing theme, which leads to structural closure at measures 294–295. Example 7.7b presents my interpretation of the recapitulation. Example 7.7. Schubert, Octet, I, background structure of entire movement: two competing readings: (a) Kessler; and (b) Mak.

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Kessler and I are in agreement that G minor, the key of the recapitulated second group, is an inner voice prepared by 5–6 motion above B♭, but we differ as to its structural and rhetorical significance. Because Kessler reads B♭ as a middleground harmony, for her, G represents “a middleground of the middleground and is one level removed from the exposition’s D-minor prolongation, which embellishes I.”15 The structural demotion of the second group in the recapitulation results in an even greater dichotomy between thematic emphasis and structural weight. I believe, rather, that the voice leading here actually clarifies the structural role of D minor in the exposition. Recall that in the exposition there was considerable ambiguity as to whether D prolonged the preceding tonic through an implied middleground 5–6 progression above F, or was a neighbor note to the dominant at the background level. Here, G minor clearly prolongs B-flat major; and because the voice leading of the subordinate groups in the exposition and recapitulation are identical (albeit a fifth apart), the listener is retrospectively led to interpret the exposition’s D minor as fulfilling an analogous structural function as the recapitulation’s G minor. In other words, the two “extraneous” keys in the recapitulation facilitate our choice between two competing interpretations in the earlier “either/or” situation. The notion of retrospective reinterpretation also informs our understanding of the dominant arrivals at the ends of the exposition and the development. We initially would expect that the C at measure 123 functions as the structural dominant, because the end of the exposition is where interruption would normally occur; also, as I have shown earlier, V is prolonged through the development with its chromatic upper neighbor. The reappearance of the Adagio material in the tonic key at measures 195–200, however, casts momentary doubt as to whether this prolonged V is really a structural dominant or merely a divider. Analysis subsequently reveals that the F major here occurs within an augmented sixth chord built on D♭ and does not function as a tonic. Structural dominant status is thus apparently reallocated to the C at the end of the development. Yet the arrival of subdominant harmony and 4^ in the fundamental line at measure 227 retrospectively reinterprets the “double return” of F major at the point of recapitulation as also an apparent tonic; the extensively prolonged V turns out to be a divider after all. Throughout the course of the movement, the voice-leading functions of recurrent musical events are constantly reevaluated, resulting in an ever-changing relationship among the domains of thematic design, key scheme, and tonal structure. Formal units with distinct boundaries but ambiguous structural functions, such as the subsections within the subordinate theme group and the development section, are repeated and varied on multiple levels of structure. At the same time, they are misaligned with voice-leading spans, especially

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^ ^ ^ ^ those involving the 5–♮ 6/♭ 6– 5 motive. Salient sonic gestures, such as the “augmented sixth to V” progression, create additional associative connections across formal and prolongational boundaries. These dimensionally dissonant interactions destabilize formal conventions and syntactical norms, and posit a dialectical engagement between structure and design. Such engagement, I believe, is at the heart of Schubert’s innovations in sonata form.

Notes Research toward this article has been supported by a project grant from the Research Grants Council of Hong Kong (GRF CUHK 450910). 1. Schubert to Leopold Kupelwieser, March 31, 1824; in The Schubert Reader: A Life of Franz Schubert in Letters and Documents, by Otto Erich Deutsch, trans. Eric Blom (New York: Norton, 1947), 456. 2. See especially Martin Chusid, “Schubert’s Cyclic Compositions of 1824,” Acta Musicologica 36 (1964): 37–45; John Gingerich, “Schubert’s Beethoven Project: The Chamber Music, 1824–1828” (PhD diss., Yale University, 1996); and Stephen E. Hefling and David S. Tartokoff, “Schubert’s Chamber Music,” in Nineteenth-Century Chamber Music, ed. Stephen E. Hefling (New York: Schirmer, 1998), 39–139. 3. Deborah Kessler, “Schubert’s Late Three-Key Expositions: Influence, Design, and Structure” (PhD diss., City University of New York, 1996), chap. 3. 4. Carl Schachter, “The First Movement of Brahms’s Second Symphony: The First Theme and its Consequences,” Music Analysis 2 (1983): 55–68. 5. Heinrich Schenker, Free Composition, trans. and ed. Ernst Oster (New York: Longman, 1980), 139–41. 6. Peter H. Smith, Expressive Forms in Brahms’s Instrumental Music: Structure and Meaning in His Werther Quartet (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2005), chap. 2. 7. Steven Laitz defines the “submediant complex” as a chromatic pitch-class ^ motive that involves the interaction of both forms of scale degree 6. See “The Submediant Complex: Its Musical and Poetic Roles in Schubert’s Songs,” Theory and Practice 21 (1996): 123–65. 8. Brian Black, “The Functions of Harmonic Motives in Schubert’s Sonata Forms,” Intégral 23 (2009): 1–63. Black’s method is based on William Caplin’s theory of formal functions rather than the Schenkerian approach. 9. For the sake of clarity, I will use the consecutive numbering (“first,” “second,” and “third”) to describe the succession of key areas, and the form-functional nomenclature of William Caplin to describe the formal sections: main theme (MT), transition (Tr), subordinate theme (ST), and closing theme (CT). See William Caplin, Classical Form: A Theory of Formal Functions for the Music of Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven (New York: Oxford University Press, 1998). 10. Because there is no periodic relationship between the two phrases, I follow William Rothstein in describing them as “fore-phrase” and “after-phrase”

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11.

12.

13.

14. 15.

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instead of “antecedent” and “consequent.” See William Rothstein, Phrase Rhythm in Tonal Music (New York: Schirmer, 1989), 18–19. Kessler also draws attention to D minor’s structural ambiguity, and indicates a preference for hearing the D minor area as belonging more directly to the preceding tonic prolongation. Kessler, “Schubert’s Late Three-Key Expositions,” 153–57, 500. Kessler gives the A♭ at measure 183 even greater structural importance. She interprets it as belonging to the background and reads the large-scale bass motion in the development as C–A♭–D♭–C. Kessler, “Schubert’s Late ThreeKey Expositions,” 163–173, 504–509. That two bars of the Adagio are equivalent to four bars of the Allegro has interesting implications for the tempo relationship between the two formal sections. Kessler, “Schubert’s Late Three-Key Expositions,” 178. Ibid., 179.

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Chapter Eight

The Form of Chopin’s Prelude in B-flat Major, Op. 28, No. 21 Roger Kamien

The unusual form of Chopin’s Prelude in B-flat major, op. 28, no. 21 has attracted the attention of scholars. Gerald Abraham observes that “the piece is one of the finest examples of Chopin’s art on the tiny scale, for the rudimentary ternary form is completely transfigured.”1 Charles Rosen notes in his brief discussion of our prelude that highly varied “final returns . . . often make it impossible to call Chopin’s forms either ternary or binary. The Prelude in B-flat Major seems at first to be a ternary form. . . . Nevertheless the return to the opening material . . . is so dramatically recomposed to appear as the continuation and the climax to the central material that it is less a return than a final stretto that leads to the coda.”2 I claim that the B-flat-major prelude is best understood as a throughcomposed form, and my comments will focus on musical procedures that integrate sections across formal boundaries. This study concludes by considering the links between the end of this prelude and the beginning of the following Prelude in G Minor. In the autograph of the twenty-four preludes at the National Library in Warsaw, our prelude originally had the tempo indication Andante, but Chopin crossed it out and substituted the word Cantabile, the only such indication in opus 28.3 Perhaps Chopin preferred Cantabile because it contrasts with the Molto agitato indication of the following Prelude in G Minor.

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Design and Tonal Structure As shown in example 8.1, the prelude can be divided into four thematically differentiated sections: A (mm. 1–16), B (mm. 17–32), Aʹ (mm. 33–45) and coda (mm. 45–59). Sections B and Aʹ together constitute a single large phrase, so the piece might be outlined A, B–Aʹ, coda. The tonic (B-flat major) of section A is followed by a section B built entirely on the pedal point G♭. The initial ♭VI (G-flat major, mm. 17–24) is untonicized, reinforcing the connection between section B and the following Aʹ. The ♭VI moves through an extended augmented sixth harmony (mm. 25–32) to a cadential 46 chord at the beginning of Aʹ (m. 33). This Prelude is one of several works by Chopin that begin on a stable I and include a reprise on a cadential 46.4 The tonic returns only at the end of Aʹ (m. 45), which also is the beginning of the coda (m. 45). The middleground graph in example 8.2 shows that the prelude is governed by a fundamental line that prolongs F from the beginning of section A (m. 1) to the middle of Aʹ (m. 39), where it descends to E♭ (m. 39) and then to D (m. 45), initiating the coda. The fundamental line concludes with C–B♭ in the last two bars of the coda (mm. 58–59), delaying complete closure until the very last moment. The concluding section of our prelude, therefore, differs from most codas, which are initiated by a cadence to the tonic with a prominent melodic ^ ^ 1) of the fundamental arrival at the tonic scale degree.5 The final descent (2– line appears in an inner voice, emphasized by accents (ex. 8.3).6 Chopin’s concern that the pianist should specially emphasize this descent is evident in his autograph manuscript (ex. 8.4). Both the accented C and the B♭ are placed for clarity to the right of the chords to which they belong. The final descent C– B♭ is beautifully prepared by a trio of decorated descending seconds embedded in the left-hand eighth notes in measures 55–56 (see the letter names in ex. 8.1 and the brackets in ex. 8.3).

Increasingly Melodic Role of Opening Accompaniment Pattern Section A (mm. 1–16) of our prelude opens with a diatonic, nocturne-like melody accompanied by a chromatic, polyphonic accompaniment. The accompaniment is in three-voice texture, with two tenor voices in eighth notes over a slowly moving bass. A continuous eighth-note motion (usually in the left hand in sections A and B, and in both hands in section Aʹ) up to measure 50 contributes to the through-composed character of the prelude. A basic rhythmic idea of the accompaniment in section A is an upbeat figure of five eighth notes leading to the following downbeat, as in the descent from F to B♭ in the left

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Example 8.1. Annotated score of Chopin, Prelude in B-flat Major, op. 28, no. 21.

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Example 8.1.—(continued)

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Example 8.1.—(concluded)

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Example 8.2. Form and tonal structure of Chopin, Prelude B-flat Major, op. 28, no. 21.

Example 8.3. Foreground voice-leading reduction of Chopin, Prelude B-flat Major, op. 28, no. 21.

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Example 8.3.—(concluded)

hand of mm. 1–2 (example 8.1). This rhythmic idea returns in the first half of section Aʹ (mm. 33–38) and in the coda.7 At the end of section A, the opening melody is supplanted by a variant of the two-tenor accompaniment pattern, which is now shifted to a soprano register and doubled an octave below. In the first half of section Aʹ (mm. 33–38), the accompaniment pattern of measures 1–4 reappears both in its original tenor register and doubled an octave higher. The last four measures of Aʹ (mm. 41–44) expand measures 13–14 near the end of A: a new variant of the two-tenor accompaniment pattern now reappears in the soprano register and is doubled an octave below. Finally, in measures 46–49 of the coda, varied fragments of the two-tenor accompaniment pattern appear in the soprano and tenor registers. Thus, the opening accompaniment pattern takes on leading roles during the course of the prelude.

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Example 8.4. Facsimile of Chopin’s autograph manuscript of Prelude B-flat Major, op. 28, no. 21, mm. 58–59.

Expanding Chromatic Descents in Second Tenor This increasingly melodic role of the opening accompaniment pattern is coupled with chromatic descents in the second tenor line that gradually expand in range. At first, the second tenor includes chromatic descents spanning only a minor third (see the lower brackets in ex. 8.1, mm. 1 and 3). In measures 5–6 the descending chromatic line is expanded to eight notes, from B♭ in measure 5 down to E♭ in measure 6. When the tenor lines are doubled in the right hand of measures 13–14, the mostly chromatic line—including the major second C–B♭—expands to a tenth from F, the second eighth note in measures 13, to D, the fifth eighth note in measure 15. At the end of Aʹ (mm. 41–44) the second tenor contains the longest predominantly chromatic descent in the prelude, now spanning more than two octaves.

Descending-Third Motive The nocturne-like melody of section A is made up of two interrelated eight-bar phrases. The first phrase opens with a descending third, F–D, that becomes a

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main motive as it reappears in different rhythms and on different pitch levels within the prelude (see exx. 8.1 and 8.3, mm. 1–2). Initially, the F appears on the downbeat of the metrically strong measure 1, and the D falls on the metrically weaker measure 2. But when this third is magically recalled at the end of the phrase (mm. 7–8), the rhythmic emphasis is reversed, with the F reduced to a sixteenth-note upbeat to the metrically stronger half note D on the downbeat of measure 8 (see exx. 8.1 and 8.3). Descending thirds in the bass and top voice—some appearing as ascending sixths—help link the second phrase with the first (ex. 8.3, mm. 7–13). Starting in measure 7, the bass descends by thirds: B♭ (I)–G (VI, m. 9)–E♭ (IV, m. 11)–C (II6, m. 12; the last third is expressed as an ascending sixth). The bass is counterpointed in tenths by the melody, which contains the descending-third chain D (m. 8)–B♭ (m. 9; expressed as an ascending sixth)–G (m. 11)–E♭–C (m. 12)–A (m. 13). The initial third in the top voice of the second phrase, B♭–G, spans more than three bars (mm. 9–12, first beat), whereas the following thirds, G–E♭–C (m. 12)–A (m. 12) bring a rhythmic acceleration in quarter notes that intensifies the drive to the dominant (m. 13). As indicated in example 8.3, the top line of measures 1–16 spans the descending-third progression F (m. 1)–E♭ (m. 12)–D (m. 15). In addition, by ending the top line of the melody with a D, rather with the tonic scale degree B♭, Chopin somewhat blurs the border between sections A and B. With its forte dynamic level, damper-pedaled hazy sound, and three-voice texture (octave filled in by a third and a sixth) in the right hand, the eight-bar melody of section B sounds like a heroic transformation of the beginning of the prelude (ex. 8.1, mm. 1–4 and 17–24). The opening four bars of the melody in section B share the basic contour and rhythm of the parallel four bars of A (exx. 8.5a and b). The melody opens with the descending third B♭–G♭, spanning two measures as in section A. Here the low descending third B♭–G♭ in the bass (mm. 16–17) foreshadows the B♭–G♭ in the melody, three octaves higher (ex. 8.3, lower bracket in mm. 15–17 and upper bracket in mm. 17–18). When the melody repeats, slightly varied, in measures 25–31, it is performed pianissimo and without pedal, providing an appropriate dynamic starting point for the crescendo in the first half of section Aʹ (mm. 33–38). Section Aʹ opens with a reprise of the initial descending third, F–D, at the same pitch level and supported by a thicker variant of the accompaniment pattern in measure 1 (exx. 8.1 and 8.3, mm. 33–34). But now the third is sequentially repeated on increasingly higher pitch levels, at first spanning two measures (F–D, G–E♭), then accelerated to one measure (A–F, B♭–G♭)—in which the second note falls on the last eighth note of the measure—leading to the prelude’s dramatic climax in measures 39–40. The sequential repetition of the third motive (mm. 33–38) creates a new hypermeter in section B (2 + 2 + 2) that contrasts with the basic four-bar hypermeter of the prelude, contributing to the section’s climactic effect (ex. 8.3).

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Example 8.5. Chopin, Prelude in B-flat Major, op. 28, no. 21, opening four measures of A and B: (a) mm. 1–4; and (b) mm. 17–20.

Conflict between G♭–F and G–F A conflict between the descending seconds G♭–F and G–F functions as an integrating element in the Prelude. In sections A, Aʹ, and the coda, the G♭ of the descending second always appears within a dominant harmony, whereas the G is supported by I or VI. The conflict begins in mm. 5–7 when two descending G♭–Fs in the accompaniment are followed by a prominent G–F in the melody in measure 7 (see the letter names in ex. 8.1, below and above the staff). Another G♭–F appears at the end of section A, now doubled in octaves with the G♭ and F separated by eighth rests (mm. 14–15). The fleeting descending seconds G♭–F of section A are enormously expanded by the bass of sections B–Aʹ, which moves from low G♭ at the beginning of B to the low F at the same register at the beginning of Aʹ (ex. 8.3, mm. 17 and 33). This kind of expansion occurs frequently in tonal music, where fleeting melodic details can foreshadow entire key areas. In section B, the two tenor voices of new accompaniment patterns introduce hemiolas that heighten the rhythmic tension of a section that is harmonically static (ex. 8.1, mm. 17–18 and 25–26). The neighboring tone pattern F–G♭–F underlies the second half of section Aʹ (mm. 33–45). It is introduced by the G♭s on the last eighth note of measure 38 and the low octave F on the downbeat of measure 39. Then F–G♭–F is obsessively repeated fortissimo in eighth notes (mm. 39–40), and expanded in a passage (mm. 41–44) that functions as a varied and extended reprise of the prolonged V7 in measures 13–14, near the end of section A (exx. 8.6a and b). In Aʹ, however, the chromatic passage begins with the sixth G♭–E♭, rather than F–D, on the downbeat. The voice-leading reduction of example 8.6c— suggested to me by Naphtali Wagner—attempts to explain this complex passage. The three two-bar groups emphasize the pitches F–G♭–F in the second

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Example 8.6. Chopin, Prelude in B-flat Major, op. 28, no. 21, prolongations of V7: (a) mm. 12–16; (b) mm. 39–44; and (c) voice-leading reduction of mm. 39–44.

tenor, because G♭ begins and ends the two-bar group of measures 41–42 and F begins and ends the two-bar group of measures 43–44. The coda begins as a confrontation between G–F and G♭–F (see the letter names in ex. 8.1, mm. 45–49). A new solo line in the bass ending with the ninth skip G–F is answered by dyads doubled in octaves: the descending seconds G–F and E♭–D (see the upper and lower letter names in ex. 8.1, mm. 46–47). These descending seconds as well as the V7–I progression echo the concluding chords of section Aʹ an octave higher (see mm. 44–45 and 46–47). Starting with measure 49, G♭–F is no longer heard; instead, a descending ninth G–F in the bass and a descending second G–F in the top voice are prominent (see the letter names in ex. 8.1, mm. 49–56).

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Links between the B-flat-Major and G Minor Preludes Events in the coda prepare the following Prelude in G Minor. The final octave B♭ in the left hand becomes the opening of the bass melody in the next prelude, the only such instance in opus 28 (ex. 8.7). In addition, the right-hand final chords of the B-flat-major Prelude lead by step into the first two right-hand chords of the G-minor Prelude, and the descending second E♭–D is common to both. The VI (G minor) chords of measures 50 and 52 help prepare the ear for the G minor of the following prelude. Finally, the bass line in eighth notes repeats the notes B♭–A–G, paving the way for the defiant bass octaves B♭–A–G–G that open the furious G-minor Prelude (see the brackets in ex. 8.7). Example 8.7. Pitch connections between the end of Chopin’s Prelude, op. 28, no. 21 and the beginning of Prelude, op. 28, no. 22.

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Notes

1. 2.

3. 4.

5.

6.

7.

Earlier versions of this essay were presented at the International Chopin Symposium and Festival on January 3, 2010, at the Edward Aldwell Center, Jerusalem, and at the Fifth International Schenker Symposium on March 15, 2013, at Mannes College, New York. Gerald Abraham, Chopin’s Musical Style (London: Oxford University Press, 1939), 48. Charles Rosen, The Romantic Generation (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1995), 464–66. I had access to Alison Hood’s study Interpreting Chopin: Analysis and Performance (Farnham, UK: Ashgate, 2014) only after this article was written. Her analysis of Chopin’s Prelude in B-flat Major (Interpreting Chopin, 103–10) focuses on figuration, whereas mine focuses on form. See 24 Preludes by Fryderyk Chopin: Facsimile of the Autograph from the National Library in Warsaw (Warsaw: Biblioteka Narodowa, 1999), 32. Other such works by Chopin include the Etude in A-flat Major, op. 10, no. 10 (m. 55), the Nocturne in G Major, op. 37, no. 2 (mm. 69–70), the Mazurka in F-sharp Minor, op. 59, no. 3 (m. 97), and the Nocturne in E Major, op. 62, no. 2 (m. 58). The beginning of the reprise in works by Chopin is discussed in Erez Rapoport, Mendelssohn’s Instrumental Music: Structure and Style (Hillsdale, NY: Pendragon Press, 2013), 321–25. Schenker defines the coda in this way in Free Composition, trans. and ed. Ernst Oster (New York: Longman 1979), 129. However, in two examples from Free Composition, Schenker locates the descent of the fundamental line in the coda: fig. 40,4: Beethoven, Piano Sonata in C-sharp Minor, op. 27, no. 1/III (with the coda misidentified as the recapitulation), and fig. 155,4: Mozart, Rondo in A Minor, K. 511. I am grateful to Carl Schachter for pointing out these examples to me. For analyses of Chopin preludes concluding with a descent of the fundamental line in an inner voice, see the following two essays by Carl Schachter: “The Prelude in E Minor, Op. 28, No. 4: Autograph Sources and Interpretation,” Chopin Studies 2, ed. John Rink and Jim Samson (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), 165; and “Chopin’s Prelude Op. 28, No. 5: Analysis and Performance,” Journal of Music Theory Pedagogy 8 (1994): 34. In Chopin’s Prelude in D-flat Major, the 2^ of the fundamental line (the E♭ in m. 87) is also accented and in an inner voice. For an analysis of a Chopin prelude in ternary form with a coda initiated by the descent of the fundamental line to the tonic scale degree, see Charles Burkhart, “The Two Curious Moments in Chopin’s E-Flat Major Prelude,” in Structure and Meaning in Tonal Music: Festschrift in Honor of Carl Schachter, ed. L. Poundie Burstein and David Gagné (Hillsdale, NY: Pendragon Press, 2006), 5–18. For a study of closure in Chopin’s preludes, see V. Kofi Agawu, “Concepts of Closure and Chopin’s Opus 28,” Music Theory Spectrum 9 (1987): 1–17. The handout for Edward Laufer’s paper “Notes on the Auxiliary Cadence,” presented at the Third International Schenker Symposium at the Mannes College of Music, March 12, 1999, includes voice-leading graphs of Chopin’s Preludes in A Minor (p. 25), E Minor (p. 22), and F Minor (p. 22). For a discussion of this accompaniment pattern, see William Rothstein, “Like Falling off a Log: Rubato in Chopin’s Prelude in A-flat Major,” Music Theory Online, 11, no. 1 (March 2005), http://www.mtosmt.org/issues/mto.05.11.1/ mto.05.11.1.rothstein.html (accessed April 12, 2016).

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Chapter Nine

“All That Is Solid Melts into Air” Schumann’s Overture to Manfred William Rothstein Most people would associate Robert Schumann more readily with the music theorist Adolf Bernhard Marx than with the political theorist Karl Marx. Yet Schumann’s Manfred, op. 115, calls to mind a famous line from The Communist Manifesto, written by the latter Marx in 1848, the same year in which Schumann composed his incidental music to Byron’s Manfred.1 The line is that quoted in my title. It applies in a fairly obvious way to Byron’s dramatic poem. In a less obvious way, it also applies to Schumann’s music, especially the overture. I have no intention of giving either Manfred a Marxist interpretation (although it would be possible to do so). What melts in Schumann’s overture is not the social fabric of precapitalist society, as in the Manifesto, but those two most solid of tonal pillars, the tonic and the dominant. The more one tries to grasp them, the more they slip through one’s fingers, in ways that underscore and even create the music’s dramatic meaning. Similarities between Byron’s Manfred and Goethe’s Faust, for which Schumann also provided music,2 have been discussed ever since Goethe himself noted the resemblance.3 Like Faust, Manfred has shunned human company in favor of philosophy and magic, pursuits that have left him unsatisfied. What Manfred seeks is not knowledge but oblivion. He wishes to die but is unable to kill himself—fearing, like Hamlet, that death will not end his agony. He is unable even to go mad. He is more defiant than Faust, angrily dismissing priests and demons, seeking neither salvation nor damnation but taking full responsibility on himself. He speaks to spirits and witches, but he never allows

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them to gain power over him; he uses them for his own purposes. Even the spirits admire his self-possession. As one says: [H]e mastereth himself, and makes His torture tributary to his will. Had he been one of us, he would have made An awful Spirit.

Schumann first read Byron’s poem (in a German translation by Karl Adolf Suckow) in 1829, when he confided to his diary: “Bedtime reading: Byron’s Manfred—dreadful night.”4 He returned to the poem in July 1848, as he was completing his opera Genoveva. He compressed the text significantly; then he composed all of the Manfred music, beginning with the overture, in approximately one month, from mid-October to late November.5 Much of the incidental music is melodrama—spoken words over orchestral accompaniment—like the “Wolf’s Glen” scene from Weber’s Der Freischütz; Beethoven had used melodrama in several of his stage works (Fidelio, Egmont, and König Stephan). In Manfred, song is reserved for supernatural characters; Manfred and the other human characters speak. Franz Liszt conducted the staged premiere in Weimar in 1852. For all his defiance, there is much that Manfred seems unable to say. Time and again he refers to a “secret dread,” an “all-nameless hour,” to “that which is within me—I cannot utter it.” We gradually learn that Manfred is crushed by guilt for the death of his sister Astarte, with whom he long ago had an incestuous relationship. Astarte was killed as a result, though by whom we never learn. Throughout the play, the word “sister” is never spoken by or in relation to Manfred; the word “incest” is never spoken at all. Some things in Manfred are literally unspeakable. The principal key of Manfred is E-flat minor, although its six-flat key signature never appears; perhaps it, too, is unspeakable. The poet Christian Schubart wrote this in 1806: “Feelings of the anxiety of the soul’s deepest distress, of brooding despair, or blackest depression. Every fear, every hesitation of the shuddering heart, breathes out of horrible E♭ minor. If ghosts could speak, their speech would approximate this key.”6 Schumann only partly endorsed Schubart’s doctrine of key characteristics,7 but some ghosts in Manfred do indeed speak, or sing, in E-flat minor. Two overtures that share this key with Manfred are those to Beethoven’s oratorio Christus am Ölberge (1803) and Ludwig Spohr’s opera Jessonda (1826); Schumann regarded both works highly.8 Most similar to Schumann’s key plan, however, is Hummel’s Piano Quintet in E-flat Minor, op. 87 (1802), a work that Schumann probably knew. The exposition of Hummel’s first movement touches on F-sharp minor and A major before reaching closure in F-sharp major. Like Schumann, Hummel writes E-flat minor with a signature of three flats.

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Schumann’s orchestration in Manfred is often dramatically motivated. (See example 9.1, reproduced from an article by Laura Tunbridge.9) In the development section, three trumpets, sometimes joined by trombones, portray an act of conjuration—presumably the conjuration of Astarte’s ghost, an event that will take place onstage in act 2, accompanied by slow trombone chords. When the trumpets return near the overture’s end, now augmented by woodwinds, they seem to evoke choral singing, foreshadowing in both key and motive the requiem chorus that ends act 3. (See ex. 9.2, reproduced from Donald F. Tovey’s analysis of the overture.10) The requiem, betokening ultimate salvation for Manfred, was Schumann’s own addition to the poem; it brings Byron’s drama even closer to Faust. Like Hamlet, Manfred is a play in which ghosts and death are constant presences, either literally or in the protagonist’s mind. Heinrich Schenker rarely wrote about ghosts,11 but he did pen these oft-quoted lines: “Every linear progression shows the eternal shape of life—birth to death. The linear progression begins, lives its own existence in the passing tones, ceases when it has reached its goal—all as organic as life itself.”12 In Schenker’s view, reaching the end of a linear progression—above all, the end of the Urlinie—is a kind of death; hence the many prolongations, or delaying tactics, that Schenker describes in Free Composition. Yet the linear progression also wants to complete itself: passing tones need to pass somewhere. Like Manfred, the tones will their own death, but like Manfred they also resist it. Schumann’s overture is in sonata form with a lengthy introduction and a substantial coda. Example 9.3 reproduces a nineteenth-century arrangement of the score for piano solo.13 The work begins in medias res with a startling gesture: three syncopated chords, in rapid tempo, prolonging the dominant of E-flat minor. This dominant first appears as a 24 chord on A♭. As with any unprepared dominant 24, the seventh in the bass is understood to pass from an unstated root, in this case B♭. The third bass note, F, wishes to pass to the tonic, E♭, completing a notional fifth-progression from V to I. Thus, what we hear in the bass of measure 1 is a series of passing tones from which both the origin, V, and the goal, I, are withheld—incomplete passing tones, in short. Nor is a single beat of the 44 meter articulated. The syncopations (metrical dissonances) conflict with nothing audible; the quarter-note beats are figments of the musical imagination. A. B. Marx wrote that the essence of music lies in the three-part formula rest–motion–rest (Ruhe–Bewegung–Ruhe),14 but the music of measure 1 is pure motion. It seems to be fleeing from some imaginary antagonist, but it stops short, with an unresolved leading tone in the violins and with the double basses hurtling toward the abyss of a tonic note, E♭1, that they are physically incapable of playing. The next sound we hear, on the downbeat of measure 2, is the minor third E♭4–G♭4, with the two bassoons placed strikingly high in their range. It’s an

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Example 9.1. From Laura Tunbridge, “Schumann as Manfred,” Musical Quarterly 87, no. 3 (2004): 555. Development section (excerpt) in short score; trumpets and trombones highlighted.

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Example 9.2. From Donald F. Tovey, Essays in Musical Analysis, vol. 4 (1937). Coda: “a new theme on three trumpets.”

eerie sound. Is this the expected tonic in an unexpected manifestation, or is it something else? On beat 2 the oboe enters with A♮, followed a beat later by the lower strings, defining an augmented sixth chord on C♭. Was that a tonic on the downbeat, or was it merely the ghost of a tonic? We cannot know for certain, but like all good ghost stories, my graph in example 9.4 leaves the possibilities open. Example 9.5 shows the overture’s principal motives, most of which make their first appearance in the introduction. Motive a is a variant of what Vasili Byros calls “the Le–Sol–Fi–Sol schema.”15 Schumann reverses this common pattern to the less common Fi–Sol–Le–Sol, A♮–B♭–C♭–B♭. The schema links Schumann’s overture to Wagner’s Faust Overture (which Liszt conducted between the acts of Manfred at the premiere) and to the outer movements of Brahms’s First Symphony, which has been linked to Manfred by authorities from Clara Schumann to David Brodbeck.16

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Example 9.3. Schumann, Manfred Overture, reduction for piano solo, mm. 1–27.

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Example 9.4. Schumann, Manfred Overture, graph of mm. 1–8, with an alternative analysis of mm. 1–3: (a) graph of mm. 1–8; and (b) alternative analysis of mm. 1–3.

Motive b is a stepwise descent, mostly chromatic, from the sixth degree of the minor scale to either the local tonic or the leading tone, usually at a rate of two notes per measure. Both of the overture’s two subordinate themes refer to motive b, and a diatonic version of the same motive forms the subject of the requiem chorus. These derived motives are included in example 9.5b. Motive c originates in the introduction as a countermelody to motive a, but it becomes the head motive of the overture’s principal theme. Its most interesting feature, apart from its rhythm, is the fact that it ascends overall, even as it features notes that demand downward resolution. In other words, it uses the technique of reaching over—Schenker’s Übergreifen—to execute a stepwise ascent, G♭–A♭–B♭ (see the asterisks in ex. 9.5c). This ascent will become especially significant at the beginning of the recapitulation. Motive d is characterized by its dotted rhythm, which suggests a march topic; its pitch content varies, although its shape is consistently ascending. In example 9.5d, taken from the beginning of the coda, repetitions of motive d in the brass accompany a version of motive b in the strings; I have highlighted the ^ This is one of a series of stepwise melodic descents characteristic descent from 6. toward the end of the overture. Together, the descents effect the slow death of the Urlinie, accompanied by the requiem music in the woodwinds and brass.

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Example 9.5. Schumann, Manfred Overture, motives (a)–(d), including three themes based on motive (b).

Let us consider the overture’s form in a little more detail. The exposition is traditional in that it moves from E-flat minor to its relative major, although the latter is spelled as F-sharp major rather than G-flat. As in Beethoven’s Sonate pathétique (op. 13), the major-mode subordinate theme is preceded by a separate theme in the mediant minor, here spelled F-sharp minor, so that the minor mode occupies most of the expositional space—presumably for programmatic reasons.17 Example 9.6 shows most of the subordinate theme group in the exposition. The medial caesura (MC), at measure 51, occurs on a first-inversion dominant rather than the normal root position. The MC is followed by a repeated

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one-measure motive, D♮–C♯–G♯, over a continuation of dominant harmony. This motive introduces the first subordinate theme, which prolongs the dominant rather than the tonic of F-sharp minor, again following precedents in Beethoven.18 As I have noted, the first subordinate theme is a thinly veiled restatement of motive b from the introduction. When this theme ends at measure 66 with a deceptive rather than a perfect authentic cadence, another onemeasure motive appears and is repeated (mm. 68–69; see the brackets in ex. 9.6). The second subordinate theme follows, in F-sharp major. The S-zone as a whole traces the pattern that James Hepokoski and Warren Darcy call a trimodular block: that is, the first subordinate theme fails to bring the essential expositional closure (EEC); the music revisits the rhetoric surrounding the MC moment; a new and more conventional subordinate theme is then proposed, and this theme leads to the EEC. The recapitulation (not shown) seems straightforward at first. It begins above a dominant pedal, somewhat in the manner of Beethoven’s Appassionata (op. 57). Its medial caesura proves more orthodox than that of the exposition, taking place on a root-position dominant (m. 216). The two subordinate themes are recapitulated as expected, but with one crucial difference: this time, neither theme brings a perfect authentic cadence. Example 9.7 shows the music surrounding the expected moment of essential sonata closure, Hepokoski and Darcy’s ESC. The recapitulation was due to close at measure 247, but it misses the deadline, resulting in what Hepokoski and Darcy call sonata failure. The ensuing passage of sonata panic (if I might coin that term) brings back for the first and only time the adrenalin-charged syncopations of measure 1. From a structural point of view, measures 247–53 expand a cadential 46, forming a cadenza of sorts. As far as the upper voice is concerned, measures 243–54 elaborate what promises, at first, to be the Urlinie’s dying fall from ^ ^ 2^ to 1. But the sonata panic has in the meantime reinstated 5, so the Urlinie lives to fight another day. Schumann avoids closure in E-flat major (the key of subordinate theme 2 in the recapitulation) because that would suggest a positive outcome for Manfred, and it is much too early for that. Ending a movement in E-flat major occurs only in the final requiem, when the hero is saved by the god whose aid he has been too proud to seek. Example 9.8 offers a view of the overture from the deep middleground; bar lines indicate major formal divisions. From this perspective, the most conven^ ^ ^ 4–3 of the Urlinie is supported by tional section is the exposition, in which 5– the harmonic progression I–(VII)–III.19 The development section is somewhat atypical in its upper voice, which regains 5^ by ascending from the 3^ at the end of the exposition: G♭–A♭–B♭, the same ascent traced by motive c in example 9.5.20 Normally one would read 2^ over V at the end of a development section, but in this case it is not clear which V, if any, one would pick; the exact moment of the dominant’s arrival is difficult to locate. I contend that V has not

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Example 9.6. Schumann, Manfred Overture, mm. 49–79.

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Example 9.6.—(concluded)

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Example 9.7. Schumann, Manfred Overture, mm. 243–63.

fully arrived as the recapitulation begins, despite the long B♭ pedal marked “pseudo-V” in example 9.8. As example 9.9 shows, this pedal arrives on a hypermetrical upbeat, sounding like an anticipation. Where does the V truly arrive? In my reading, it does so only at measure 205, at the end of the principal theme’s first statement in the recapitulation (compare exx. 9.8, 9.9, and 9.10). Overall, the most striking feature of example 9.8 is the noncoincidence between the overture’s large-scale harmonic progressions and its formal divisions. Only the exposition’s ending is more or less conventional, a III:PAC. The exposition’s beginning falls in the middle of a cadential progression, recalling the first movement of Beethoven’s sonata Das Lebewohl (op. 81a). Schumann’s

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Example 9.8. Schumann, Manfred Overture, deep-middleground graph.

Example 9.9. Schumann, Manfred Overture, durational reduction of mm. 182–208 (retransition).

development section ends before having fully reached the dominant. And the recapitulation ends, at least in my reading, without having once sounded a definitive tonic harmony. It would not be difficult to read a return to tonic in the recapitulation: the tonic would arrive somewhere in the counterstatement of the P-theme, between measure 207 (with upbeat) and measure 216; this passage acts simultaneously as the recapitulation’s TR-zone (see the end of ex. 9.9). Example 9.10 places this passage in context. In the exposition, the TR-zone begins with a real tonic harmony, as we shall see shortly. In the recapitulation, although the music is similar, the half cadence at measure 205 seems to connect aurally to

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Example 9.10. Schumann, Manfred Overture, graph of mm. 205–15 (the TR-zone in the recapitulation).

the half cadence at measure 216, the medial caesura. I hear tonic harmony as the counterstatement begins, owing to parallelism with the exposition; but the quick departure from this tonic, and the emphatic motion to the half-cadential dominant—this time in root position—reopen the dominant prolongation, denying deep-level significance to the intervening tonic. Instead of a structural beginning, the tonic in measures 206–8 becomes a sequential link (via descending fifths) between V and its lower neighbor, IV. In this reading, the dominant prolongation extends through the recapitulation and into the coda. At the deepest level of middleground, therefore, I read the overture’s Urlinie as undivided.21 Other authors have noted the unusually small number of root-position tonic chords in the overture.22 Less often remarked is that those root-position tonics that do occur rarely fall on downbeats, so they are robbed of the fullest degree of stability. A root-position tonic on a downbeat is heard at the EEC (m. 82), but otherwise hardly at all between the introduction and the coda. What we do hear a good deal, in the main body of the overture, are tonic chords in 6 3 inversion. And therein hangs a tale—or, more precisely, a theoretical digression, for which I ask the reader’s indulgence. The tonic 36 is a harmonic chameleon. It has at least three possible functions, which I list here in decreasing order of stability: Function 1: I6 can substitute for root-position I, so that the tonic Stufe is fully present despite the absence of the tonic note in the bass. Such a I6 is a fully fledged tonic, lightly disguised. This function is less common than one might imagine.

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Function 2: As William Caplin has emphasized, I6 often marks the beginning of a cadential progression.23 In Schenkerian terms, such a I6 is an intermediate harmony between I and V, even if it marks the end of a tonic prolongation (as it often does). Such a I6 can also begin an auxiliary cadence, because its function is distinct from that of root-position I.24 The use of I6 as an intermediate harmony is extremely common. Function 3: An apparent I6 can act as a passing or neighboring chord within the composing out of some nontonic harmony—usually II, IV, or V. This pseudotonic function is also very common.

Schumann exploits all of these I6 functions in the Manfred Overture. I present examples of each type in the order in which I have listed them.

I6 as Substitute for a Root-Position Tonic Example 9.11 is a middleground graph of the exposition up to the medial caesura. There are two large phrases, the first from measure 26 (the beginning of the Allegro) to measure 38, the second from measure 39 to measure 51. These phrases coincide with the P- and TR-zones, respectively. The tonic harmony falls in measures 27 and 40, the second measure of each phrase. Both are real tonics, but they are presented in 36 inversion, probably for programmatic reasons. In the second phrase, not only the opening tonic but the half-cadential V of G-flat is in 36 inversion; the roots of both harmonies are merely implied. There is a bass D♭ in measure 50, just before the MC, but I read this D♭ as a passing tone, as shown in the example. It is remarkable that neither of the dominant pedals in example 9.11—on B♭ in the first phrase and on D♭ in the second—form the goals of their respective phrases, even though each phrase ends with a half cadence. (The pedals are labeled in the example.) These pseudo-dominants parallel the “pseudo-V” shown in example 9.8.

I6 as Intermediate Harmony Example 9.11 shows this function in the bracketed Roman numerals beneath the bass staff toward the end of the second phrase. The approach to V of G♭ ^ B♭ (m. 49, beat 4), through C♭ and C♮ to the involves a bass ascent from 3, implied fifth scale degree, D♭ (m. 51). This is an auxiliary cadence without a final tonic. (The tonic will arrive in m. 82.) A similar ascent from I6, but in E-flat minor, underlies the last portion of the development section and the recapitulation, as may be seen in example 9.8. Here again the tonic is massively delayed.

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Example 9.11. Schumann, Manfred Overture, graph of mm. 27–51 (the exposition up to the MC).

I6 as Pseudo-Tonic There are many pseudo-tonics in Manfred. In measure 1, as we have already seen, an apparent I6 acts as a passing chord within a prolonged V (ex. 9.12). A less obvious example is the beginning of the second subordinate theme (ex. 9.13). This theme is a sentence, and measures 70–73 form its presentation. According to Caplin, a presentation normally prolongs the tonic harmony. Taken out of context, this presentation could also be heard to prolong the local tonic, F-sharp, especially if one includes the last beat of measure 73, where the continuation begins. Example 9.14 suggests, however, that the presentation prolongs the dominant and not the tonic of F-sharp. Examples 9.12 and 9.13 even show a certain similarity. Both measure 1 and the second subordinate theme begin with a dominant 24 chord that implies an elided rootposition V preceding it. In both cases, the bass continues in stepwise descent to another inversion of V7. The root-position F-sharp chord at the end of measure 73 unfolds downward to II56, which acts as a prolonged neighboring chord to V within the exposition’s final cadence. Except for its instrumentation, I have not yet discussed the central portion of the development section. Example 9.15 shows this passage, which is set apart visually by its four-flat key signature and aurally by the radical slowing of musical motion and the foregrounding of the brass instruments. Solemn pronouncements by trumpets and trombones are interspersed with fragments of the first subordinate theme, which Clara Schumann is said to have called the “Astarte” theme.25 The music seems several times to have arrived at a goal, but some of these goals are not what they seem; compare example 9.15, the piano score, with my

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Example 9.12. Schumann, Manfred Overture, m. 1.

Example 9.13. Schumann, Manfred Overture, mm. 64–76.

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Example 9.14. Schumann, Manfred Overture, graph of mm. 65–82 (end of the exposition).

graph in example 9.16. The first apparent goal is the F-minor triad in the trumpets (m. 109), where I have placed the first of two asterisks in both examples. But the phrase continues beyond this point to the F-minor half cadence in measure 115, suggesting that measures 104–15 are best understood as prolonging the dominant and not the tonic of F minor. (By this point in the piece, overridden tonics have become what Joseph Dubiel has called an abnorm, a musical feature that violates conventional syntax while motivating events in a particular piece.26) The next apparent goal is the impressive arrival on B-flat minor at measure 126, which is underscored by a perfect authentic cadence and an ominous tattoo in the timpani. Here I have placed my second asterisk in both examples. Even a very perceptive listener might hear this as the longawaited arrival on the dominant of E-flat minor, lacking only the leading tone D♮ to prepare the recapitulation. But this goal, too, proves illusory. The music passes through B-flat to an authentic cadence in D-flat major (mm. 130–31), and it is this D-flat chord that proves to be the real goal of the passage.27 D♭ is V of the exposition’s closing key, G-flat (or F-sharp) major. From here we plunge back into an F-sharp minor that we thought we had left for good. In a sense, the entire four-flat passage has occurred not in real time but in a parallel world of ghosts and spirits. Once that world has vanished from view, Manfred is left as desperate as before, and we hear his desperation increase through the remainder of the overture (see exx. 9.7–9.10). Desperation runs throughout Manfred, which Schumann rightly described as one of his “most powerful children.” Whether Manfred’s desperation was also the composer’s is unknowable, but Schumann’s description of his absorption in

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Example 9.15. Schumann, Manfred Overture, measures 96–134.

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Example 9.16. Schumann, Manfred Overture, graph of mm. 82–131 (development section, part 1).

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the work suggests a personal connection: “Never,” he reportedly said, “have I devoted myself to a composition with so much love and energy as to Manfred.”28 Byron called his poem a “sort of metaphysical drama,” and he disavowed any possibility of staging it.29 His Manfred was the nineteenth-century equivalent of a radio play, designed for performance in the theater of the imagination.30 Schumann intended his Manfred for the stage, but in the overture he—like Byron—created a phantasmagoria of the soul, translating Byron’s ellipses and equivocations into musical equivalents. Absence, ambiguity, and indirection are hallmarks of the Manfred Overture, which, to my mind, represents Schumann’s supreme achievement in the realm of orchestral music.

Notes 1.

Marx wrote the Manifesto, based on a draft by Friedrich Engels, in December 1847–January 1848. It was published on February 21, 1848. 2. Schumann composed Szenen aus Goethe’s Faust over a period from 1844 to 1853. Part III, based on part II of Goethe’s drama, received a private performance in June 1848, shortly before Schumann began work on Manfred. 3. Goethe, review of Byron’s Manfred, in Lord Byron: The Critical Heritage, ed. Andrew Rutherford (London: Routledge, 1970), 119–20. The review was written in 1817 and published in 1820. 4. Schumann, diary entry for March 26, 1829; cited in Laura Tunbridge, “Euphorion Falls: Schumann, Manfred, and Faust” (PhD diss., Princeton University, 2002), 40n128. 5. John Daverio, Robert Schumann: Herald of a “New Poetic Age” (New York: Oxford University Press, 1997), 356–57. 6. Christian Schubart, Ideen zu einer Aesthetik der Tonkunst (Vienna, 1806); cited in Rita Steblin, A History of Key Characteristics in the Eighteenth and Early Nineteenth Centuries (Ann Arbor: UMI Research Press, 1983), 123 and passim. 7. Schumann, “Characteristics of the Keys (1835),” in Schumann on Music: A Selection from His Writings, ed. Henry Pleasants (New York: Dover, 1965), 62–63. 8. Schumann’s regard for Christus am Ölberge is implied in his remarks on the work’s cool reception in Schumann, Gesammelte Schriften 3 (Leipzig, 1854), 136. On Jessonda, see Schumann’s review of Spohr’s symphony Die Weihe der Töne in Music and Musicians, Essays and Criticisms, ed. F. R. Ritter (London, 1877), 312–14. 9. Laura Tunbridge, “Schumann as Manfred,” Musical Quarterly 87, no. 3 (2004): 555. 10. Donald F. Tovey, Essays in Musical Analysis. Vol. 4, Illustrative Music (London: Oxford University Press, 1936), 112–15. 11. In the draft of a letter to his Scottish disciple John Petrie Dunn (July 8, 1928), Schenker laments that strict counterpoint has become a Schulgespenst, a “ghost in the schools.” Oster Collection, New York Public Library, 30/122–24; reproduced and translated (by William Drabkin) in Schenker Documents Online,

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12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17.

18.

19.

20.

21. 22. 23.

24. 25. 26. 27.

28. 29. 30.

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http://mt.ccnmtl.columbia.edu/schenker/correspondence/letter/oc_ 30122124_7828.html (accessed April 29, 2016). Schenker, Free Composition [Der freie Satz], trans. and ed. by Ernst Oster (New York: Longman, 1979), 44. Edition Peters, no. 7023, published ca. 1880. The arranger is not identified. Examples 9.6, 9.7, 9.12, 9.13, and 9.15 are also taken from this source. This formula appears throughout the first three volumes of Marx’s Die Lehre von der musikalischen Komposition (4 vols.; Leipzig, 1837–47). Vasili Byros, “Meyer’s Anvil: Revisiting the Schema Concept,” Music Analysis 31 (2012): 273–346. See David Brodbeck, Brahms: Symphony no. 1 (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 7 and 40–50. On the S-zone in Beethoven’s op. 13 (first movement), see James Hepokoski and Warren Darcy, Elements of Sonata Theory (New York: Oxford University Press, 2006), 143. Examples of dominant prolongations at the beginning of Beethoven’s S-zones include the first movements of the piano sonatas op. 2, no. 1; op. 13; and op. 31, no. 2. In a minor-mode sonata form that modulates to III in the exposition, the ^ ^ ^ descent 5– 4–3 typically occurs only after III has been established as a temporary tonic, because the S-zone will typically begin with the new tonic. Compare Schenker’s similar reading of the development section of Haydn’s Piano Sonata in G Minor, Hob. XVI:44, first movement, in The Masterwork in Music (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1996), 2:24, fig. 1. Compare the well-known “Oster footnote” in Schenker, Free Composition, 139– 41, especially the right column on 139. See, for example, Brodbeck, Brahms: Symphony no. 1, 45. William Caplin, “The ‘Expanded Cadential Progression’: A Category for the Analysis of Classical Form,” Journal of Musicological Research 7 (1987): 215–57; also his Classical Form (New York: Oxford University Press, 1998), 26–28 and passim. See Schenker, Free Composition, figs. 14–16 (complete cadences) and 110c (auxiliary cadences), especially 110c, 1 (Beethoven op. 129). Brodbeck, Brahms: Symphony no. 1, 46 and 56. Joseph Dubiel, “Contradictory Criteria in a Work of Brahms,” in Brahms Studies, ed. David Brodbeck (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1994), 81–110. In example 9.8, this D♭ is shown to support the ascending 4^ in the development section. D-flat major emanates from G-flat major as its dominant, but the return to G♭ in the bass carries a 36 rather than a 35 chord, marking the beginning of an expanded cadential progression in the home key, E-flat minor. Quoted in Tunbridge, “Schumann as Manfred,” 557. The source is Schumann’s first biographer, Wilhelm Joseph von Wasielewski. Quoted in Laura Tunbridge, “Schumann’s Manfred in the Mental Theatre,” Cambridge Opera Journal 15 (2003): 153. Twentieth-century radio plays include Orson Welles’s War of the Worlds (1938, based on the novel of the same name by H. G. Wells) and Dylan Thomas’s Under Milk Wood (1954).

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Chapter Ten

Endings without Resolution The Slow Movement and Finale of Schumann’s Second Symphony Lauri Suurpää

Introduction In literary criticism, narrative trajectory is often understood as consisting of distinct phases, the last of which resolves the plot’s tensions. This is clearly stated, for example, in Vladimir Propp’s classical study Morphology of the Folktale. In every plot archetype that Propp describes, the concluding state resolves tensions that have been established earlier: “Morphologically, a tale (skázka) may be termed any development proceeding from villainy (A) or a lack (a), through intermediary functions to marriage (W*), or to other dénouement. Terminal functions are at times a reward (F), a gain or in general the liquidation of misfortune (K), an escape from pursuit (Rs), etc.”1 The plot’s beginning thus proposes a problem, such as “a lack,” and its end provides a resolution to this problem, such as “a gain.”2 Likewise, discussions of musical narrative often suggest that a work’s ending provides a resolution of its narrative tensions. This is evident, for example, in Byron Almén’s recent theory on musical narrative. Building on the ideas of Northrop Frye and James Jakób Liszka, Almén suggests that the narrative archetypes in music grow out of a tension created by the elements in a binary opposition “order vs. transgression.” The poles of this opposition form an initial conflict, which suggests a distinction between two kinds of musical elements: those

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that attempt to establish order and those that try to lead to transgression. At the work’s end the conflict is resolved; therefore, only those musical elements referring either to order or transgression remain.3 This essay examines the slow movement of Robert Schumann’s Second Symphony, arguing that this movement does not always follow a principle of providing clear resolutions. Rather, it leaves some of its tensions, both local and global, unresolved, thus often avoiding a sense of dénouement. My narrative reading pays special attention to the occurrences of the slow movement’s main theme, its various transformations, and the formal and tonal environments in which it appears. I will argue, in particular, that the primary-theme material does not participate in processes that reach concluding and confirming cadential closures, markers of strong tonal arrivals. Thus this thematic idea is never involved in progressions that provide the sense of harmonic-linear dénouement. The theme’s nonconcluding quality also extends to the symphony’s finale, where the slow movement’s main theme returns, again without a proper tonal resolution. As a result, the slow movement’s primary theme creates cyclical associations of non-finality in the symphony.4 The narrative quality of Schumann’s Second Symphony has received contradictory comments in the literature. Anthony Newcomb argues that this work’s idiosyncratic aspects cannot be explained through technical music analysis, “Our problems with the piece may be rooted in current analytical tools for absolute music.”5 This work should rather be clarified, Newcomb suggests, through narrative elucidations, approaches that are closer to nineteenth-century commentaries on the symphony. Here the music’s consecutive expressive states can be seen to create a plot-like trajectory, one akin to what one might find in a novel: “The conception of music as composed novel, as a psychologically true course of ideas, was and is an important avenue to the understanding of much nineteenth-century music.”6 Raymond Monelle suggests a very different approach in his discussion of the symphony’s slow movement and of its primary theme in particular: “This beautiful evocation, like many slow-movement themes, is entirely self-sufficient and requires no development or extension in progressive time.”7 Because there is no need for progressive time, the work is not guided, Monelle suggests, by teleological formal or structural plans; thus there is no narrative structure either. Although I find much to applaud in both Newcomb’s and Monelle’s studies, my present perspective differs from those aspects of their essays referred to above. Unlike Newcomb, I believe that our technical analytical tools have a lot to tell about the symphony and its narrative. And unlike Monelle, I believe that the slow movement has a clear framework that forms a teleological continuum. I will elucidate this underlying, teleological framework from three perspectives: form, Schenkerian voice-leading structure, and narrative trajectory.

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The Slow Movement: Exposition The slow movement of Schumann’s Second Symphony is in a modified sonata form (table 10.1). In my analysis I will concentrate on those aspects that create form-functional uncertainty and that thus remove the sense of a clear resolution of tensions. I will lay special emphasis on the occurrences of the primary theme. Example 10.1 shows the voice leading and phrase structure of the movement’s opening formal unit, which table 10.1 labels as “primary-theme-becomes-transition” (P ⇒ TR [mm. 1–19]).8 Example 10.1a indicates that this section can be divided into an eight-bar antecedent and an expanded eleven-bar consequent. Significantly, both the antecedent and the consequent end in a cadence in the secondary key of E-flat major (a half cadence in the antecedent and a perfect authentic cadence in the consequent), so the tonic key receives no cadential confirmation at the movement’s beginning. Rather, as the harmonic analysis of example 10.1b indicates, locally E-flat major already arrives as a key area in measure 6, two bars before the half-cadential closure of the antecedent.9 Table 10.1. Schumann, Symphony No. 2, III: Formal outline. Sonata form

Exp. (mm. 1–62)

Zones

P ⇒ TR (mm. 1–19)

mm. 20–25, four functional options: interpolation (independent) suffix (extending what has been heard) prefix (preparing what is about to be heard) “caesura-fill” (bridging from what has been heard to what is about to be heard)

S (mm. 26–62); includes primary-theme material

Keys

c → E♭

E♭

E♭

Cadential conclusion

E♭: PAC (= MC)

—

E♭: PAC (= EEC)

Sonata form

Dev. (mm. 62–74)

Recap. (mm. 74–118)

Coda (mm. 118–28); primary-theme material

Zones

P (mm. 74–81)

S (mm. 82–118)

Keys

E♭ → c: V

c: V

C

C (with modal inflections)

Cadential conclusion

c: HC

—

C: PAC (= ESC)

—

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Example 10.1b indicates that there is a metrical and phrase-structural overlap in measure 8, so the half-cadential closure aligns with the initiation of the expanded consequent. The consequent creates gradually intensifying expectations of an authentic cadence in E-flat major. From the phrase-structural perspective, the compound basic idea that opens the consequent in measures 8–11 is followed by a continuation that is subdivided into two phases.10 As example 10.1b shows, the conclusion of the first of the continuation’s two phases is frustrated by an evaded cadence, which then leads to the second phase. The evasion increases the listener’s expectations of a cadence. Example 10.1a shows that from the voice-leading perspective, the consequent in its entirety consists of an extended auxiliary cadence, which reaches its conclusion with the E-flatmajor chord of measure 19. Example 10.1a also shows that this chord has deeplevel significance; it completes the descent of the Urlinie from the opening 5^ ^ Thus measure 19 signifies a goal at three levels: first, at the background to 3. voice leading (the arrival of the background mediant and the 3^ of the Urlinie); Example 10.1. Schumann, Symphony no. 2, mvt. 3, mm. 1–19: voice leading and phrase structure.

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second, at the middleground voice leading (the auxiliary cadence); third, in the phrase structure (the two-phase continuation). The ensuing music does not confirm the stability that the cadence in measure 19 implies, however. Measures 20–25 consist of a rather unsettled passage that seems to stop the movement’s flow for a moment—it seems as if the music does not quite know how to proceed. To a great extent, the unsettled quality of measures 20–25 is an outcome of their functional ambiguity. Table 10.1 shows four functional ways in which these bars could be connected to the work’s global trajectory: first, they could be an independent interpolation; second, they could extend the preceding unit as a suffix; third, they could prepare the ensuing unit as a prefix; fourth, they could be a “caesurafill” that bridges the motion from the preceding unit to the ensuing one.11 All of these options seem possible to me, yet I feel that the music supports none of them over the others. Measures 20–25 therefore sound like an extended question mark, as it were, thus also casting a shadow over the firmness of the preceding cadential closure. The structural events of the P ⇒ TR section and the ambiguous function of measures 20–25 provide a starting point for the movement’s narrative, which is clarified in table 10.2. The opening introduces two elements important for the narrative: on the one hand, the primary theme (abbreviated in the table as PM), on the other, the tragic expression. The primary-theme material governs through the entire P ⇒ TR section, but the key changes almost immediately from the tonic C minor into the secondary E-flat major, a transformation aligning with the motion from tragic expression to nontragic.12 Because the tragic affection that the haunting opening melody suggests is immediately challenged, it is as if the music attempts to transform the opening theme from its initial tragic guise into a more joyful one. In other words, in the opening section the movement’s primary thematic material introduces both the tragic expression and the attempt to escape from it. Indeed, I argue that the core of the movement’s narrative, to a great extent, grows out of this primary theme’s attempt to escape from the tragic expression and cadentially to confirm a nontragic key. At the movement’s opening the transformation from the tragic emotion to the nontragic is a process, as we just saw, not an instantaneous event. That is, the music must use quite a bit of force, as it were, to reach a firm major-mode conclusion for the opening thematic idea, a closure that at least momentarily wipes away the tragic expression that opens the movement. But the functionally odd measures 20–25 immediately challenge the firmness of the preceding nontragic closure. This closure can thus be understood as a kind of vision of a hoped-for state, rather than as its confirmed arrival. The ensuing secondary-theme zone consists of three functional phases: initiating, medial, and concluding (ex. 10.2). At first, measures 26–35, which

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Table 10.2. Schumann, Symphony No. 2, III: Narrative structure and form. PM (primary-theme material, mainly minor and tragic expression) vs. non-PM (other thematic material, mainly major and nontragic expression) Sonata form

Exp. (mm. 1–62)

Zones

P ⇒ TR (mm. 1–19)

(mm. 20–25)

S1 (initiating) (mm. 26–35)

S2 (medial) (mm. 36–47)

S3 (concluding) (mm. 48–62)

Thematic material

PM (moving from minor to major)

non-PM

non-PM

PM

PM → non-PM

Expression

tragic → nontragic

nontragic (with shades of tragic)

nontragic

tragic → nontragic

nontragic (with shades of tragic)

Dénouement = Confirmation / Resolution

tragic version of PM not confirmed; nontragic version of PM confirmed at the end (PAC)

functionally uncertain

tentative confirmation of non-PM and nontragic (PAC in B-flat major; middleground half cadence)

active, preparatory

non-PM and nontragic confirmed at the end (PAC)

Sonata form

Dev. (mm. 62–74)

Recap. (mm. 74–118)

Zones

Coda (mm. 118–28)

P (mm. 74–81)

S (mm. 82–118)

Thematic material

non-PM

PM

cf. exp.

PM

Expression

mainly tragic

Tragic

cf. exp.

tragic and nontragic fused

Dénouement = Confirmation / Resolution

active, preparatory

PM and tragic not confirmed (V prolonged)

non-PM and nontragic confirmed at the end (PAC)

preceding confirmation challenged; no confirmation of PM, tragic, or nontragic

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open the secondary-theme zone, seem to consist of a straightforward sentence: first a presentation (mm. 26–29), and then a continuation (mm. 30–35) that concludes in a perfect authentic cadence. But this clarity is deceptive: the cadential arrival that we hear in measure 35 is in B-flat major, not in the E-flat major in which the secondary theme started. So the cadence cannot function as the essential expositional closure, its local clarity notwithstanding. The music that follows the cadence in measure 35 confirms the impression of not having reached a goal. The secondary-theme zone’s medial part, which begins in measure 36, starts with two-bar units, each of which sounds a segment of the movement’s opening theme. This thematic recollection is dramatically significant. It reminds the listener that the unresolved tensions that the primary theme left, at the movement’s opening, have not been forgotten. In measure 44, the music reaches an A-flat-major chord that is prolonged for four bars. Even though the harmonic function of this chord is initially uncertain, it retrospectively turns out to be a subdominant in the secondary key, E-flat major; measure 48 introduces a cadential six-four chord that is resolved, after a long delay, to the dominant seventh in measure 60. This delay consists of chromatic music that sounds segments of the opening theme—we are thus still thematically recalling the movement’s beginning. When the essential expositional closure, a perfect authentic cadence in E-flat major, finally arrives in measure 62, the primary-theme material has disappeared. So this theme plays no role in the movement’s strongest closing gesture so far. Example 10.2 shows the voice-leading structure underlying the secondarytheme zone, a framework that supports both the three-phase division of the secondary-theme zone and the functional role of each of its individual phases. The initiating phase (mm. 26–35) prolongs the tonic, E-flat major, through a back-relating dominant, a kind of middleground half cadence. Thus it establishes the tonic as a firm point of departure but avoids a firm closure. At the same time, it shifts B♭, 5^ of E-flat major, to the top voice. As we have seen, the medial phase starts with two-bar reiterations of thematic segments derived from the opening theme. Example 10.2 shows the underlying harmony in each of these two-bar segments. Globally, the harmony of the medial phase moves from an F-minor triad via a passing E-flat-major chord to an A-flat major triad. In the middleground, the medial phase’s opening and closing sonorities function as supertonic and subdominant chords in E-flat major, so the entire phase prolongs chords representing the predominant function; this is suitable harmonic content for a medial formal function. The top voice, in turn, moves from B♭ to A♭, 4^ in E-flat major. Example 10.3 clarifies the foreground voice leading of the secondarytheme zone’s medial phase. The underlying framework shown in example 10.2 is obscured by two kinds of factors: first, by superimposed top-voice pitches (in particular, the structurally significant D♭ in m. 40 locally appears as an

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Example 10.2. Schumann, Symphony no. 2, mvt. 3, mm. 19–62: voice leading and form.

inner-voice pitch); second, by chordal inversions (in particular, the E-flat-major chord in m. 40 is transformed into a 34 chord in m. 42). The ensuing concluding phase (mm. 48–62) that closes the secondary-theme zone consists of an elaborated tonic–dominant motion that completes both the prolongation of the E-flat-major tonic chord and the fifth progression in the top voice. In sum, even though the secondary-theme zone locally includes music that is harmonically and formally quite unsettled, its large-scale formal course—as well as its middleground voice leading—drive the music powerfully toward the closure in measure 62. The movement’s opening theme also affects the narrative course of the secondary-theme zone, whose initiating phase attempts to establish both the nontragic expression and the non-primary-theme material, but the confirmation remains tentative (see table 10.2). The medial phase then brings both the tragic expression and the primary-theme material back, so we are reminded of the unresolved and melancholy opening state of the movement. The cadence in measure 62 is the movement’s first completely untroubled closure, and now the music is able to leave the tragic expression behind. But the primary theme is no longer sounded when the nontragic cadence arrives, whereas the direct references to the primary theme in the medial

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Example 10.3. Schumann, Symphony no. 2, mvt. 3, mm. 33–48: foreground voice leading.

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and concluding phases are mostly tragic. The troubled quality of the primary theme thus remains unresolved, the clear cadential arrival of measure 62 notwithstanding.

The Slow Movement: Recapitulation and Coda The strong cadential arrival in measure 62 overlaps with the onset of the development section (mm. 62–74), whose texture is largely contrapuntal. Harmonically, the development brings the music from the mediant ending the exposition to the structural dominant, which arrives in measure 74 (ex. 10.4). The reaching of the structural dominant provides a half-cadential closure for the development; at the same time, it begins the recapitulation. In other words, two formal functions align in measure 74: the end of the development and the beginning of the recapitulation. The dominant in measure 74 also has far-reaching formal consequences; the dominant pitch is sounded in the bass in measures 74–81, so the entire primary theme that opens the recapitulation occurs over a prolonged dominant. As a result, there is no structural tonic at the beginning of the recapitulation. Example 10.4. Schumann, Symphony no. 2, mvt. 3: voice leading and form.

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The onset of the recapitulation on a dominant creates a form-functional dilemma. On the one hand, the return of the primary theme signals the beginning of the recapitulation, thus suggesting initiation. On the other hand, the harmonic standing on the dominant suggests a postcadential, framing function. Thus the dominant seems at the same time to bring us back to the movement’s opening situation and to extend the preceding harmonic tension. The end of the development therefore provides no sense of unequivocal ending, nor does the onset of the recapitulation signal an unproblematic new beginning. We clearly have a formal boundary, but there is no moment we can call solely an end or a beginning; both qualities are present at the same time. In the narrative trajectory, the opening combination of tragic expression and primary theme return at the beginning of the recapitulation (table 10.2). The context of this main-theme statement differs significantly from the movement’s opening, however, and this change influences its dramatic effect. Now the primary theme is stated above a prolonged dominant, so it does not have the stable quality it initially signaled. Likewise, it does not represent an unequivocal new beginning, as described above. As a result, here the narrative can be seen to recall musical factors encountered in the movement’s opening situation: the primary theme, the initiation, the tonic key, and the tragic expression. But these factors are now sounded in a new environment, which challenges their stability, suggesting that here they somehow signify an active process rather than a stable state. From a narrative perspective, it might be argued that the recapitulation does not bring the movement’s opening state back but rather signifies an attempt to question its stability. Yet unlike in the exposition, where the primary theme challenges the tragic expression through a quick modulation to a nontragic E-flat major, the primary theme does not even attempt to escape the tragic expression. Nevertheless, the tragic affection’s significance is questioned by the avoidance of a tonic chord. So in the exposition and in the recapitulation, the primary theme uses different means for shaking the clarity of the tragic: in the exposition the quick modulation away from the minor-mode tonic, in the recapitulation the avoidance of the structural minor-mode tonic chord. The secondary-theme zone of the recapitulation repeats the music of the corresponding section in the exposition almost note for note, but now in the tonic major. So we again have clear initiating, medial, and concluding phases, as well as a strong cadential closure at the end. This cadence functions as the essential structural closure that completes the background structure, as shown in example 10.4. But the larger contexts in which the two secondary-theme zones occur are different, and this difference affects their global effects. Most importantly, the tonic 36 sonority that opens the secondary theme in the exposition is preceded by a firm tonic 35 of the local key of E-flat major, so it represents

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a clearly articulated local tonic Stufe. In the recapitulation, by contrast, the 36 chord that begins the secondary theme directly follows the structural dominant, with a brief 24 chord in measure 81 functioning as a link. Therefore, as shown in example 10.4, I interpret the chord of measure 82 as an initial element of an auxiliary cadence extending through the entire secondary-theme zone, rather than as the regaining of the structural tonic Stufe. In other words, the tonic 36 chord fundamentally functions as an anticipation. The structural tonic arrives only in measure 118, and this chord completes the Ursatz, thus resolving the deepest level’s structural tensions. In all, the structural tonic, strangely, only receives a small local emphasis in the entire movement: it appears very fleetingly at the movement’s beginning, and it is not regained before the movement’s very end. Moreover, the primary minor-mode form of the structural tonic appears only in the movement’s few opening bars. The narrative of the recapitulation’s secondary-theme zone signals in several ways a trajectory aiming at a nontragic conclusion, which would deny the tragic expression that started the recapitulation: first, its voice-leading structure consists of an extended auxiliary cadence, so it strongly aims at the majormode tonic Stufe of measure 118; second, its form consists of three functional phases, the last of which is concluding and ends in the cadential arrival in measure 118; third, its expression is predominantly nontragic, with only passing recollections of the tragic. Yet the primary theme, clearly recalled in the secondary-theme zone, does not take part in the section’s dénouement. So we get the impression that all of the tensions related to the theme’s attempt to escape from the tragic expression haven’t yet been resolved, the firm cadential majormode arrival notwithstanding. The coda returns to these unresolved tensions. It immediately brings the primary thematic material back. In addition, modal inflections stress in particular the pitch A♭, which recalls the initial tragic expression. As example 10.5 indicates, the coda prolongs the C-major tonic chord by twice sounding a neighboring augmented sixth chord. (The augmented sixth chord of m. 120 is only implied, however, because the bass moves to G at the moment B♮ is heard in the top voice.) So the structural tonic Stufe is prolonged throughout the coda, a factor that lends the preceding cadential arrival further significance. But the local impression of a governing key is more indistinct. The augmented sixth chords locally lend the C-major chord the air of the dominant of F minor, a quality that challenges, at the musical surface, the C-major chord’s deeplevel stability. Moreover, in the surface rhetoric, as shown in table 10.2, the coda fuses tragic and nontragic, denies preceding harmonic confirmation, and avoids cadentially confirming the primary-theme material. In sum, the movement’s end leaves the impression of fusing a firm dénouement and a searching and unstable ending. The primary theme is therefore, even at the movement’s end, unable firmly to establish a nontragic expression. So the movement ends

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Example 10.5. Schumann, Symphony no. 2, mvt. 3, mm. 119–126: foreground voice leading.

in a situation where the listener cannot really know if the tensions have been resolved or if the goal has been reached.

The Slow-Movement Theme in the Finale The form of the symphony’s last movement is notoriously complex. Commentators usually agree that the movement starts as if it might follow principles of sonata rondo, but later departs from the expected path. Anthony Newcomb has noted that following measure 105, “we are in the midst of a modest-sized sonata rondo,”13 but then suggests that direct references to any clear formal scheme vanish at some point during the assumed development section, which begins in measure 118. Julian Horton argues that sonata-rondo implications extend to measure 279, after which, in measure 280, we hear “the movement’s most problematic event: Schumann introduces a new chorale theme, quoting Beethoven’s An die ferne Geliebte, which thereafter engulfs the sense, thus far attained, that the Finale is a sonata rondo. In effect, the rondo design is liquidated by bar 279, and replaced with an expanded chorale prelude.”14 Michael Talbot interprets the idiosyncrasies following measure 279 from the perspective of the entire symphony: “The finale has become ‘deformed’ in the interest of the cycle as a whole. Freed from any need to recapitulate the material from earlier in the movement, the second part of the finale [mm. 280–589] can devote its full energies to becoming a ‘super-coda’ for all four movements.”15 I will not provide a detailed interpretation of the movement’s form but rather will concentrate on the occurrences of the slow movement’s

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main theme in the finale, as well as on the narrative function that the theme plays in the movement. Table 10.3 shows my interpretation of the finale’s form, which I have divided into three sections with freely narrative headings: “attempt at a conventional form,” “going astray and a catastrophe,” and “recovery and victory.” The bold type in table 10.3 indicates that the slow movement’s primary-theme material reappears in the finale’s first two sections. In the first section, “attempt at a conventional form,” the slow-movement theme is heard as a secondary theme in what initially appears to be an ABA section in a sonata rondo. Example 10.6 shows the voice leading and form of measures 1–108, the initial ABA section. After the opening A unit—or Prf, to use the sonata-influenced terminology of Hepokoski and Darcy—the transition (mm. 47–62) leads to a MC preparing the B phase, or the secondary theme.16 The II♯ constituting the medial caesura does not proceed, as one would assume, to a V at the beginning of the secondary theme, however. Rather, the II♯ is being prolonged throughout the secondary theme, so the music avoids the “essential expositional closure”—in other words, the cadential confirmation of the dominant key, G major, has been omitted. Example 10.7, a foreground graph of measures 63–77, shows in more detail the voice leading of the secondary theme, indicating that the only root-position G-major chord in the secondary theme (m. 73) functions as a passing harmony. Owing to the overarching prolongation of II♯, the V35 sonority is also omitted (ex. 10.6). When a G-major chord, the dominant, finally arrives as a deep-level sonority in measure 84, it is an active V7 that begins the retransition preparing the return of the tonic and the Prf. Owing to the prolongation of the II♯, the secondary theme, based on the slow movement’s main theme, ends without cadentially establishing the secondary key or sounding its tonic as a middleground harmony. These events can be seen as continuing the narrative trajectory initiated in the third movement: as in that earlier movement, this theme cannot reach local stability. In addition, the theme now appears in the major-mode, nontragic expression, which represented, in the slow movement, the hoped-for but ultimately nonconfirmed state of affairs. And because the nontragic also remains unconfirmed in the finale’s opening section, the unresolved tension associated with the theme remains. The finale’s second section (mm. 118–279) ends in a very strong cadential arrival in C minor, the minor-mode tonic. The strongly confirmed minor tonic has dramatic significance: the movement has now moved from its nontragic, jubilant opening to a firmly established tragic expression. In table 10.3, I have interpreted the C-minor cadence as a catastrophe and suggested that the movement’s final, third section brings recovery from the gloom of C minor. Ultimately the finale ends in a victory.

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Table 10.3. Schumann, Symphony No. 2, IV: Formal outline. Going astray and a catastrophe (mm. 118–279); starts as a development but then abandons Formenlehre conventions

Recovery and victory (mm. 280–589)

Form

Attempt at a conventional form (mm. 1–118); apparent ABA of sonata rondo

Harmony and keys

motion towards the concluding C (mm. 1–46) → G (mm. 63–78) avoidance of confirmed centers C-major tonic (mm. 118–90) → C (mm. 105–18) passing through G minor, C minor, and A-flat major (mm. 191 ff.) C minor (mm. 253–79)

Slow-movement theme / Other thematic material

primary theme (mm. 1–46) sequential = transition (mm. 47–62); ends in a “medial caesura” (m. 61) secondary theme = slowmovement theme (mm. 63–78) retransition (mm. 78–104) primary theme (mm. 105–18)

mainly sequential (mm. 118–90) slow-movement theme, mainly in inversion (mm. 191–252) new material with a cadential quality (mm. 253–79)

new theme in the pastoral topos; reference to Beethoven’s An die ferne Geliebte and to Schumann’s own Fantasie thematic references to the opening movement

Confirmation

opening C major is cadentially confirmed G major of the secondary theme is a non-confirmed, apparent key (prolongation of the dominant of G major throughout) closing C major is not cadentially confirmed (a cadence on the dominant at the end = a middleground half cadence)

the keys of the slow-movement theme are not confirmed C minor (rather than major) firmly confirmed at the end

strong, victorious confirmation of C major

Example 10.6. Schumann, Symphony no. 2, mvt. 4, mm. 1–108: voice leading and form.

Example 10.7. Schumann, Symphony no. 2, mvt. 4, mm. 63–77: foreground voice leading.

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The slow-movement theme features prominently in the finale’s second section. Owing to the expressive change from the movement’s opening nontragic affection to a tragic one toward the end of the movement’s second section, the slow-movement theme now occurs in this darker emotional environment also. Thus the playful expression in which the theme was heard earlier in the finale has been replaced by an expression closer to that in which the theme was first sounded in the third movement. The theme thus still seems to be unable to escape its initial tragic guise. Example 10.8 shows the voice leading of the movement’s second section, which at deep middleground transforms the initial major-mode tonic into a minor sonority. The section starts with mainly sequential material that leads, in measure 179, into an underlined dominant of G minor, a chord that is then prolonged for more than ten bars. The strong dominant preparation highlights the arrival at the local G-minor tonic in measure 191, a harmonic arrival that coincides with the return of the slow-movement theme. From the expressive perspective, the firmness of the harmonic arrival stresses the tragic guise that the theme here assumes, thus challenging the playful, nontragic quality in which the harmonically unconfirmed version of the theme was sounded earlier in the movement. In the deep-level voice leading, the G-minor chord in measure 191 is prolonged until measure 272, where it has been transformed into a cadential dominant of C minor, the minor-mode tonic that closes the finale’s second section (ex. 10.8). After its occurrence in measure 191, the slow-movement theme is next heard in measure 211 in C minor; this thematic occurrence retains the tragic expression. The movement’s, as well as the entire symphony’s, last statement of the slow-movement theme is heard in measure 237, where it creates subtle and many-sided associations. This thematic occurrence turns out to be of secondary significance in several respects. It starts in A-flat major, so it first seems as if the nontragic expression might be returning, but soon we note that the nontragic emotion is only a fleeting one. In the voice-leading structure, in turn, the A-flat-major chord is a local contrapuntal element, whose bass pitch subdivides the larger-scale descending fifth C–F into two thirds (ex. 10.8). And in the local key-area design, A-flat major is only fleetingly prepared and is soon abandoned when the slow-movement theme begins to be fragmented in measure 243. Once all direct references to the theme’s motivic material have disappeared around measure 250, the music starts to prepare a strong cadence in C minor, which arrives, after some delay, in measures 272–73. In table 10.3, I call this cadential arrival, from a freely narrative perspective, a “catastrophe,” an event from which the remainder of the movement then attempts to recover.

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Example 10.8. Schumann, Symphony no. 2, mvt. 4: mm. 108–273, voice leading.

Even though the slow-movement theme is not heard in the actual cadential progression, we can relate it indirectly to the C-minor cadence. From a global structural perspective, the arrival in measure 191 at the middleground dominant, which is later resolved to the C-minor tonic, aligns with the G-minor occurrence of the slow-movement theme. The firmness of the G-minor key area underlines the tragic quality of the theme, even though the theme itself is not confirmed by a cadence. The next thematic occurrence is in C minor, a key that anticipates the strong C-minor arrival in measure 273, even though the C-minor chords in measures 211 and 273 are not structurally connected (ex. 10.8). Finally, the last thematic occurrence in A-flat major sounds almost as if it were a side step, both in the harmonic structure and in the expressive narrative. Indeed, the A-flat-major thematic statement directly leads to the cadential material that will in measure 273 conclusively confirm C minor. Although none of the three occurrences of the slow-movement theme in the finale’s second section is cadentially confirmed, the only nontragic version is the weakest of the three and, on the musical surface, most directly related to the movement’s catastrophe, the strong C-minor cadence. Thus the cadential progression confirming C minor seems, in quite a concrete way, to deny the slowmovement theme’s possibility of reaching a cadential dénouement; at the same time, it seems to downplay the nontragic quality of the theme’s final occurrence. These events imply that the symphony’s narrative conclusion will not involve the haunting main theme of the slow movement, and that this theme will not be able to escape its initial tragic guise, assumptions that will later be confirmed. In table 10.3, I use the freely narrative heading “recovery and victory” for the finale’s last section, which begins in measure 280, after the strong and gloomy C-minor cadence. From a narrative perspective, this section provides an

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overwhelmingly strong dénouement to the entire symphony—indeed, Michael Talbot calls it, as we have seen, “a ‘super-coda’ for all four movements.”17 In the final section, the tragic quality established at the end of the second section is increasingly clearly displaced by a nontragic expression whose quality ranges from the serenity of a chorale to the exuberant brilliance in which the movement’s background structure closes in measure 571. Like the finale’s first two sections, the last also creates cyclical associations, but these associations differ from those found in the first two. Most importantly, the first two sections refer, as we have seen, to the main theme of the slow movement. The last section, by contrast, recalls thematic material from the opening movement’s introduction, thus ending the symphony in the same material with which it started. In addition, in the last section Schumann quotes a thematic idea from Beethoven’s An die ferne Geliebte, a theme that he also used in his Fantasie, Op. 17. Thus Talbot’s idea of a “super-coda” seems justifiable—the finale’s conclusion clearly closes a trajectory extending through the entire symphony.18 The omission of the slow-movement theme from the finale’s third, concluding section continues the quality associated with this theme so far. In the slow movement it leads to no clear cadential closures, and its final appearance in the movement’s coda challenges rather than confirms the structural closure of measure 118. In addition, the theme attempts to escape its initial tragic expression, but the coda leaves us uncertain whether it has succeeded in doing so. In the finale, in turn, the theme is heard in the first section in the apparent key of G major—a key without a structural tonic—whereas in the second section it passes through G minor, C minor, and A-flat major without cadentially confirming any of them. And in the finale’s third section, which has a concluding and closing general quality, the theme does not appear. Thus, the theme remains an element that reaches no fulfillment in the symphony—a sign of yearning, as it were. Its inability to arrive at a firm tonal closure in the third and fourth movements, as well as to escape conclusively its predominantly tragic guise, can be also seen as casting a shadow over the celebration of the finale’s and the entire symphony’s jubilant conclusion. Even in the symphony’s closing celebration, we sense an almost hidden level of longing for something that has remained, and will remain, unfulfilled.

Notes 1. 2.

Vladimir Propp, Morphology of the Folktale, trans. Laurence Scott (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1968), 92. Literary critics are not, however, unanimous in their opinions on the necessity of this kind of a causal relationship between a narrative’s beginning and end. For a discussion of this topic, see H. Porter Abbott, The Cambridge Introduction to Narrative (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 12.

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5. 6. 7. 8.

9.

10.

11.

12.

13. 14. 15.

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Byron Almén, A Theory of Musical Narrative (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2008), 64–67. Schumann’s Second Symphony includes a wide network of inter-movement thematic and motivic references, of which I will here discuss only the slow movement’s main theme and its recurrence in the Finale. For a general discussion of cyclical, inter-movement thematic associations in nineteenth-century symphonies, including Schumann’s second, see Julian Horton, “Cyclical Thematic Processes in the Nineteenth-Century Symphony,” in The Cambridge Companion to Symphony, ed. Julian Horton (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013), 190–231. Anthony Newcomb, “Once More ‘Between Absolute and Program Music’: Schumann’s Second Symphony,” Nineteenth-Century Music 7, no. 3 (1984): 233. Newcomb, “Once More,” 234. Raymond Monelle, The Sense of Music: Semiotic Essays (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2000), 122. The designation “primary-theme-becomes-transition” refers to a formal unit that begins as a primary theme but is then transformed, often at some indistinct point, into a transition. Such a process of “becoming” is shown with a double-lined arrow (⇒). For a thorough discussion on this phenomenon, see Janet Schmalfeldt, In the Process of Becoming: Analytic and Philosophical Perspectives on Form in Early Nineteenth-Century Music (New York: Oxford University Press, 2011). The brevity of the tonic area at the movement’s beginning has been noted in the literature. Linda Correll Roesner goes so far as to suggest that E-flat major can be seen to assume, in some sense, the function of a tonic. She states that the movement abandons “early on what seems to be the tonic key in favor of a strong projection of another key that appears to usurp the tonic role.” See Roesner, “Schumann,” in The Nineteenth-Century Symphony, ed. D. Kern Holoman (New York: Schirmer Books, 1997), 58. The phrase-structural terminology that I here apply is taken from William Caplin, Classical Form: A Theory of Formal Functions for the Instrumental Music of Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven (New York: Oxford University Press, 1998). This description of the functional ambiguity combines ideas and terminology derived from two sources: the terms suffix and prefix are from William Rothstein, Phrase Rhythm in Tonal Music (New York: Schirmer Books, 1989); and the term caesura-fill from James Hepokoski and Warren Darcy, Elements of Sonata Theory: Norms, Types, and Deformations in the Late-Eighteenth-Century Sonata (New York: Oxford University Press, 2006). I follow Robert Hatten’s lead and use the terms tragic and nontragic when referring to the music’s most fundamental expressive opposition. See Hatten, Musical Meaning in Beethoven: Markedness, Correlation, and Interpretation (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1994), 77. Newcomb, “Once More,” 244. Horton, “Cyclical Thematic Processes,” 199. Michael Talbot, The Finale in Western Instrumental Music (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), 135.

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16. In the theory of Hepokoski and Darcy (Elements of Sonata Theory, 404–5), the designation “Prf” refers to a kind of dual function of the opening thematic unit in sonata rondo; on the one hand, it is the primary theme of the expositionlike formal unit (thus the designation “P”), on the other, it is the refrain in the rondo form (thus “rf”). 17. Talbot, The Finale, 135. 18. The first movement’s opening fanfare is quoted fleetingly in measures 207–10, during the second section’s G-minor occurrence of the slow-movement theme and before more extended quotations of the opening movement in the finale’s last section. This reference is so brief that it hardly catches the listener’s attention, however, whereas the same fanfare returns in measure 423 with much greater emphasis.

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Part Three

Late Nineteenth Century

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Chapter Eleven

Half-Diminished-Seventh Openings in Brahms’s Lieder Ryan McClelland

The half-diminished seventh chord appears frequently in Brahms’s works and in various roles, perhaps none more poetic than as a modally mixed plagal elaboration of a tonic harmony in a major key.1 In some pieces, such as the Capriccio, op. 116, no. 1, the sonority provides the main motivic seed, a feature facilitated by Brahms’s penchant for congruence of melodic and harmonic content, in Edward T. Cone’s terminology.2 In other works, Brahms embeds the half-diminished seventh chord in a more abstract network of relationships. Peter H. Smith has studied the connection between the half-diminished seventh’s harmonic function and metrical setting in the opening movement of the Clarinet Trio, op. 114, revealing a correlation between its function as plagal embellishment and metrical consonance on the one hand, and its function as dominant preparation and metrical displacement on the other.3 Despite Brahms’s fondness for the half-diminished seventh, rarely does one of his works begin with this chord. This essay focuses on three lieder that do, although—as we will see—even among these three lieder, viewing a half-diminished sonority as the music’s starting point is sometimes accurate only in partial ways. The three lieder in question are: “Nachtigallen schwingen” (op. 6, no. 6), “Die Liebende schreibt” (op. 47, no. 5), and “Die Schale der Vergessenheit” (op. 46, no. 3). “Die Liebende schreibt” was composed around 1858, a decade earlier than its opus number would suggest. The chronological order of their composition happens to match the increasing complexity of large-scale tonal structure across these three songs. In each case, the half-diminished seventh is readily interpreted as an event belonging only to the foreground, but in each case the striking launch is not without larger impact.4 Each lied revisits its

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opening half-diminished seventh and later gives special roles to the sonority’s outer-voice pitches. In “Nachtigallen schwingen,” the tonic Stufe arrives solidly at the end of the opening strophe, whereas in the later songs the half-diminished seventh resolves to a first-inversion tonic chord, and an auxiliary cadence serves as tonal background. As Heather Platt has pointed out, many of Brahms’s lieder exhibit nontonic openings of various kinds and degrees.5 Indeed, there are a sufficient number that the three lieder explored in this essay are not among those examined in her dissertation on this topic. Platt’s general characterization of Brahms’s nontonic lieder openings is that they are associated with “nostalgia or estrangement” and reveal the poetic speaker’s “sadness or confusion.”6 This viewpoint accords with the text-music relations I will explore, though only in the case of “Die Schale der Vergessenheit” is the expressive heat and tonal obfuscation in the vicinity of confusion. In the other two lieder, the tonic harmony is more present earlier, and the half-diminished seventh points to an underlying unease that is not made explicit in the text until the end of the poem.

“Nachtigallen schwingen” Composed and published in 1853 on a text by Hoffmann von Fallersleben, “Nachtigallen schwingen” (Nightingales beat) is the most straightforward of the three songs under consideration. Brahms closely follows the ternary form evident in the structure of the text. The middle section is sharply set off by modulation to the flat submediant, a decrease in dynamics, and reduction in rhythmic activity. Moreover, in the outer sections, the pianist’s high staccato thirds in lively triplets vividly depict the merry beating of the nightingales’ wings. The first strophe of the poem serves only to establish the setting: as the nightingales merrily beat their wings and sing their old songs, all the flowers awaken (see ex. 11.1a). The two-measure piano introduction consists of alternations between a pair of thirds. Their identity as a half-diminished seventh emerges only when the singer enters and sustains a pitch across the alternating thirds, whose alternation simultaneously quickens. The singer begins on F, the very pitch that distinguishes a leading-tone seventh chord from a dominant seventh, which is in fact the sonority to which the half-diminished seventh first moves. The pitch F plays an important role in the vocal line throughout, and is variously harmonized. The goal of the first vocal phrase is the dominant (m. 5), and the entirety of the preceding music consists of a predominant preparation (see ex. 11.1b).7 Strictly speaking, Brahms’s initial D♭–F third represents subdominant harmony; this not only makes harmonic sense but also allows there to be consonant

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preparation for the F when it functions as the seventh in the half-diminished seventh. From a purely hierarchical perspective, then, the half-diminished sonority is on the lowest level of structure in the opening phrase: above the bass D♭ it ranks both below the preceding (incomplete) subdominant chord and the following dominant 24 whose E♭ resolves its characteristic F. Yet from an uninterpreted aural perspective, the harmonic content of the piano introduction is simply a half-diminished seventh. I contend that this tension between structural meaning and aural salience lies at the essence of the half-diminished seventh’s role in this lied. Because the piano writing is linked to the nightingales—birds poetically associated not just with love but also with loss—the fate of the half-diminished seventh has clear potential for extramusical interpretation. Here is a quick summary of the reading to follow: across the lied there is a gradual attenuation in the halfdiminished sonority, a shift that complements the text’s move from the exuberant nightingales of the outset to the persona’s mournful thoughts at the end. The song’s second phrase (mm. 6–8) is a varied repetition of the first, but the half-diminished seventh changes substantially. From an immediate aural standpoint, it no longer occurs by itself but includes E♭. I read its structural role differently, too, owing to its emergence from dominant harmony rather than an incomplete subdominant harmony. As the graph in example 11.1b shows, the bass D♭ no longer governs the onset of the phrase but is part of a passing motion from the root-position dominant at the end of the preceding phrase. The third phrase, beginning at measure 9, takes a different approach; the half-diminished seventh is replaced by the first complete subdominant harmony. The implication of the lied’s initial D♭–F dyad is now realized, bringing an appropriately fresh color to the text’s turn at this juncture from nightingales to flowers. Not only is there a new harmonic color; a sharper boundary is drawn, owing to the harmonic context. As noted above, the second phrase emerges smoothly from the end of the first phrase; the use of subdominant harmony to launch the third phrase necessitates a harmonic separation from the dominant close of the preceding phrase. The fresh subdominant is relished in a three-measure stasis (mm. 9–11), whose outer voices remain around the D♭—F from the opening half-diminished seventh. When harmonic motion resumes, the subdominant launches an auxiliary progression, one that leads to the end of the strophe and the background arrival of the tonic Stufe at measure 16. Whereas the bass of the opening phrase progressed down a third from D♭ to B♭, similarly the phrase beginning at measure 9 leads up a sixth from D♭ to B♭ and encloses a lengthy span of subdominant harmonic function. This connection is solidified in measure 14, with not only the return of the half-diminished seventh (now in root position) but also with a compressed restatement of the singer’s opening melody. Although the graph in example 11.1b highlights the longer-range stepwise

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Example 11.1a. Brahms, “Nachtigallen schwingen,” mm. 1–18.

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Example 11.1a.—(concluded)

Example 11.1b. Brahms, “Nachtigallen schwingen,” graph of strophe 1.

descent of the vocal line, the D♭ shown in measure 14 is embellished from an accented F above (the resulting vocal motion F–E♭–D♭–C being a compression of the melody from mm. 3–4). The textual connection is appropriate: with “all these songs” the focus returns squarely to the nightingales after the preceding subdominant flowers. The highly contrasting second strophe withdraws the half-diminished seventh as the perspective shifts to the persona’s Sehnsucht. As shown by the brackets on the graph in example 11.2, the melodic structure is entirely governed

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Example 11.2. Brahms, “Nachtigallen schwingen,” graph of strophe 2.

by the upper tetrachord of E major. The fourth at first rises and resembles the upper notes of the piano accompaniment in the opening vocal phrase of the first strophe (see the brackets in the alto line in ex. 11.1b). At the end of the second strophe, a question is posed: the persona’s Sehnsucht—in the guise of a nightingale—flies off and asks where his “little flower” (i.e., love) is. At this point, the optimistic rising fourth becomes a descending one and is then imbued with Schubertian interrogatory mixture (C♮ replaces C♯). The nightingales return at the end of the second strophe within the span of the flat submediant; their triplets (mm. 30ff.) introduce D♮, the pitch that destabilizes ♭VI and turns it into a German augmented sixth of the home key. In the tonal middleground, this harmonic motion prepares the return of the home dominant, which, however, does not arrive before the onset of the third strophe. Instead, as at the beginning of the song, the dominant comes at the end of the strophe’s first vocal phrase (see score in ex. 11.3a). The start of the third strophe, therefore, occupies a transitory position in the tonal structure. As shown in the graph in example 11.3b, a rising bass line leads from the F♭ from the second strophe up to the B♭ at measure 35, the second measure of the third strophe. In the midst of this rising bass line, the singer re-enters on F, the vocal pitch at the beginning of the first strophe, but the half-diminished seventh is replaced by an applied dominant seventh. In fact, the half-diminished seventh will never be heard again in the song. The subsequent phrase exactly repeats the corresponding phrase from earlier—the one that fully subsumed the half-diminished seventh within dominant harmony—and seems to raise some prospect of a re-emergence of the half-diminished seventh. Where the third strophe is next significantly altered is in the subdominant passage, which again sets the image of flowers. This time the rising bass line is expanded through the insertion of a sequential transposition (mm. 45–46). Without denying the beauty of the E-flat-minor triad as the setting of “traurig,” I would also point out that measure 45 corresponds to measure 14, the moment of resurgence of the half-diminished seventh at the end of the first strophe. In

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Example 11.3a. Brahms, “Nachtigallen schwingen,” mm. 32–52.

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Example 11.3a.—(concluded)

the final strophe, the E-flat minor avoids the convergence of the upper-voice D♭ above a bass G, a natural habitat for the nightingales’ chord. Yet, following the sequential phrase expansion, the upper line does achieve D♭ and as before is embellished from the F above (m. 47). This time, though, the F is not harmonized by a half-diminished seventh. Although F retains some prominence in the final measures—first as a suspension of the final dominant harmony and then as a tenor reminiscence of the start of the B section—the half-diminished seventh is absent. Just as the triplets of the nightingales vanish when the persona acknowledges that “one flower will not bloom” so too does their chord.8 The middleground graph provided as example 11.4 summarizes the song’s tonal content. At this level, the most notable connection to the half-diminished opening is the subsequent emphasis on the subdominant and the prevalence of upper neighbors to the Kopfton. The graph clarifies that despite the delayed arrival of the tonic Stufe at the outset, the song’s background tonal structure is relatively unremarkable; the marked musical and expressive moments lie in the details closer to the musical surface that were outlined in the discussion above. In the two songs examined below, the implications of the opening do extend to the deepest levels of tonal structure.

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Example 11.3b. Brahms, “Nachtigallen schwingen,” graph of strophe 3.

Example 11.4. Brahms, “Nachtigallen schwingen,” middleground graph.

“Die Liebende schreibt” “Die Liebende schreibt” (A woman in love writes) exhibits far-reaching connections between its initial half-diminished seventh and its overall tonal structure. Brahms realizes the sonnet’s two quatrains and two tercets in an AAʹBBʹ musical setting, the music thereby following the poetic form closely and much more so than in either Schubert’s or Mendelssohn’s well-known settings of this Goethe poem. The text refers to a woman who is separated from her lover and thinks back fondly on their time together. The opening lines recall the look from his eyes and the kiss from his lips, but already by the end of the first quatrain the speaker wonders whether she can take pleasure in other things, given her experience with her lover. Unlike the consistently positive nature images of the first strophe in “Nachtigallen schwingen,” the persona’s question expresses

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uncertainty. The second quatrain intensifies the response to the memory of her lover: instead of posing a question, the persona reveals that when her mind wanders back to their time together, she begins to cry. With the onset of the first tercet, her tears suddenly dry as she senses his love for her in the present, not just in the past. Yet the tercet again ends interrogatively as she asks if he cannot reach out to her “in the distance.” In the final tercet, like the young miller in Schubert’s “Der Neugierige,” the persona asks for a sign of love, though not from a brook but from her absent lover. The song’s launch from a half-diminished seventh plays an important role in the text’s interweaving of past and present, memory and uncertainty. The initial appearance of the half-diminished seventh is more direct than in “Nachtigallen schwingen,” since it is presented immediately in the pianist’s opening chord (see score in ex. 11.5a). As in the earlier song, the pitches in the outer voices of the half-diminished seventh are salient in the outer voices later on, but two additional types of connection are present in “Die Liebende schreibt.” First, the upper-voice C of the half-diminished seventh provides the primary tonal focus in the middle of the song. Second, the initial halfdiminished seventh resolves to first-inversion tonic harmony, which is then prolonged through much of the strophe and launches an auxiliary progression that provides the song’s tonal background. Although root-position tonic harmony does occur in the opening strophe (esp. in mm. 8–10), its bass note is always presented as an eighth note in a metrically weak location. Moreover, the restatements of the half-diminished seventh highlight the reiterations of first-inversion tonic harmony, thereby forging a connection to the opening and prioritizing the first-inversion sonority (see graph in ex. 11.5b).9 The reiterations of the half-diminished seventh and its resolution preserve C–B♭ in the upper line. This melodic motive operates independent of the chord succession when it is expanded across measures 10–12; brackets in example 11.5b delineate statements of the C–B♭ motive. The strophe comes to rest on a G-major harmony, locally presented as the dominant of C minor, but more broadly constituting a 6–5 motion from the opening E-flat first-inversion chord. Ending on the dominant of the relative minor suits the poem’s question at this juncture, and the retained bass tone G captures the static quality of the persona’s life as she spends the present thinking back on the past. As shown at the end of the graph in example 11.5b, the 6–5 motion above the bass note G reverses when the second strophe begins. At a local level, the returning half-diminished seventh serves as a pivot chord (ii34 in C minor becomes vii34 in E-flat major). The smoothness of this modulation comports with the speaker’s intermingling of past and present; the half-diminished seventh—the sonic marker for her lover—triggers the move from the uncertain minor-mode present back to the major-mode realm of memory.

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Example 11.5a. Brahms, “Die Liebende schreibt,” mm. 1–13.

Example 11.5b. Brahms, “Die Liebende schreibt,” graph of strophe 1.

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As noted above, the second strophe is a variation of the first one; example 11.6 offers a graph as an outline. The pitch C remains present in the upper voice, but it now also appears prominently in the bass line (m. 23), sounding the lowest note heard thus far just as the singer attains a new registral peak (G). As in the first strophe, the goal is a G-major chord (m. 26), locally serving as the dominant of C minor. Unlike the preceding strophe, the end of the vocal phrase does not coincide with the G-major arrival. Instead, as the persona begins to weep, the voice trails off on the chromatic descent A♭–G– F♯ in measures 24–25, harmonized with a chromatic voice exchange between subdominant and German sixth chords. The progression from a question to tears is thus reflected in subtle changes in the way the large-scale 6–5 motion between first-inversion E-flat major and root-position G major is traversed. The transfer of C from a salient upper-voice pitch to the root of a dynamically and registrally emphasized chord is taken a step further in strophe 3 (see score in ex. 11.7a). Much of the third strophe occurs in the key of C major, the upper voice of the initial half-diminished seventh now receiving its own key area. Recall that this is the momentary breakthrough in the text where the speaker’s tears dry up as she senses the commitment of her lover in the present. Yet C is never established as a Stufe, because this key is represented only through prolongation of its dominant—in other words, the bass note G persists throughout most of this strophe as well (see graph in ex. 11.7b). At the end of the strophe, as the persona directly asks her lover to reach out to her from the distance, the bass line at last departs from G and attains the home dominant. Owing to its return to E-flat major, the fourth and final strophe has the feeling of a reprise, but thematically it is a variation on the immediately preceding strophe (see score in ex. 11.8a). The half-diminished seventh thus does not participate in the return to E-flat major. The tendency for tonal delay, though, persists and is intensified. The root-position E-flat-major chords that appeared Example 11.6. Brahms, “Die Liebende schreibt,” graph of strophe 2.

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Example 11.7a. Brahms, “Die Liebende schreibt,” mm. 27–30.

Example 11.7b. Brahms, “Die Liebende schreibt,” graph of strophe 3.

briefly in the first two strophes are not present in this new thematic material; like the third strophe, the fourth strophe deploys parallel sixth chords. Locally, these chords elaborate first-inversion E-flat harmony, as shown in the graph in example 11.8b. At a deeper level, the first-inversion E-flat harmony is itself subsumed by the strongly articulated dominant Stufe at the end of the preceding strophe; the middleground graph in example 11.9 clarifies the song’s overall tonal structure. As the final strophe proceeds, elements more tightly connected to the initial half-diminished seventh re-emerge, especially the prominent upper-voice C above the expansion of the subdominant (see mm. 43–48 in exx. 11.8a and 11.8b). When C moves back to B♭, the voice part is over; the incomplete melodic closure suits the singer’s anxious waiting for a sign of commitment from her absent lover. In addition, the singer’s exit occurs above the cadential 6 4 harmony. The pianist’s closing measures do more than bring the song to the required harmonic closure. The closing music takes up the C–B♭ motive, articulating it in two registers and placing the C above dominant seventh harmony

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Example 11.8a. Brahms, “Die Liebende schreibt,” mm. 40–53.

Example 11.8b. Brahms, “Die Liebende schreibt,” graph of strophe 4.

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Example 11.9. Brahms, “Die Liebende schreibt,” middleground graph.

(m. 50, m. 52). This generates the notes of the initial half-diminished seventh, albeit now above a dominant pedal. As the Urlinie comes to closure—after the singer has exited—the lied’s striking first sonority and pervasive melodic motive persist. The feeling of uncertainty and the longing for a past state so central to the song remain alive as the music tapers to silence.

“Die Schale der Vergessenheit” “Die Schale der Vergessenheit” (The goblet of oblivion) brings a more complex approach to form and tonal structure than either of the lieder discussed thus far. It follows none of the common song forms exactly, suggesting instead a large binary design with each half setting six lines of Hölty’s text (mm. 1–40 and 41–84). Each half divides again, though differently: the first after three lines, a division motivated by the text, but the second after four lines, a division not particularly suggested by the text. As we will see, and as Walter Frisch noted in a discussion of the song, tonal motions frequently continue across formal boundaries, and more local thematic repetitions draw together passages within the above-mentioned subsections.10 All of these features suit the turbulence of the text with its plea for escape from mental turmoil (apparently caused by a passionate attraction to an unavailable or unattainable woman). The status of the initial half-diminished seventh is exactly opposite to that of “Nachtigallen schwingen.” Here, the half-diminished seventh is clearly the underlying sonority of the first several measures, but due to the appropriately chosen non-chord tone E, it is not the first uninterpreted chordal sonority that is heard (see score in ex. 11.10a). As in “Die Liebende schreibt,” the opening moves toward first-inversion tonic harmony, although that is achieved only in measure 11, because the half-diminished sonority appears in root position

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Example 11.10a. Brahms, “Die Schale der Vergessenheit,” mm. 1–24.

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Example 11.10a.—(concluded)

Example 11.10b. Brahms, “Die Schale der Vergessenheit,” graph of part 1, first section.

rather than as a 34 chord, and the stepwise bass descent is fully harmonized (see graph in ex. 11.10b). As in the first strophe of “Die Liebende schreibt,” subsequent to the arrival of first-inversion tonic harmony, 3^ is prolonged in the bass with a 6–5 motion above. There is, however, an important difference. In the previous lied, the G-major chord generated by the 6–5 motion was subordinate to the earlier E-flat first-inversion tonic, which returned soon thereafter. In “Die Schale der Vergessenheit” the reverse is the case: G-sharp minor is confirmed as a local tonic through a strong cadential progression. In the auxiliary cadence that serves as the tonal background in the present song, the point of departure is the mediant, rather than first-inversion tonic harmony. The modulation to G-sharp minor removes the potential for the opening D-sharp half-diminished seventh to have an ongoing role. Yet, as in “Die Liebende schreibt,” a half-diminished seventh is involved in the modulatory process. Here, it is the motion away from the tonic key in which a half-diminished seventh serves as a pivot; in measure 14, the A-sharp half-diminished seventh, seemingly a chord applied to the dominant of E major, in actuality points toward G-sharp minor. The passage is a curious one, as the hypermetric placement of the preceding E-major 46 chord does not suggest a passing function; rather, the voice-leading context and the denial of cadential function to this 6 chord motivate a passing 6 reading that highlights the important role of the 4 4

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A-sharp half-diminished seventh (see mm. 12–14 in ex. 11.10b). A nonmodulating version of this passage occurs near the end of the song, and later we will compare them. The second subdivision of the song’s first half (mm. 21–40) contains largely contrasting thematic material and is relevant for our discussion only in its contribution to the large-scale tonal plan. Example 11.11 offers a summary of the passage’s tonal structure. After the preceding G-sharp minor turns into the parallel major—a move that is not solidified until the third measure of the vocal phrase—modulation again occurs, this time to the dominant of the local key. Enharmonically, this E♭ is D♯, the bass pitch of the half-diminished seventh from the opening. The second part of the song begins a third higher than the outset, taking the preceding E-flat major as the enharmonic dominant of G-sharp minor (see score in ex. 11.12a). The D♯ is prolonged through an arpeggiation up to F and down, before moving by step down to B, as it did in measure 5. Thus, the connection between the D♯ of the initial half-diminished seventh and the tonal goal of the song’s first part is made explicit. The return of the home dominant at measure 45 is followed by a series of expansions involving neighboring bass motions. As noted by the asterisks on the graph provided in example 11.12b, a variety of half-diminished sevenths are used, though especially frequent are the ones on A♯, the half-diminished seventh that had negotiated the move away from E major early in the song. Rather than progressing to a cadential segment, the music simply returns to the opening material a further third higher at measure 62, and this launches the second subdivision of the song’s second part (see score in ex. 11.13a). An octave transfer of the neighbor A♯ in the bass permits a long bass descent back to B during which the singer’s registral peak occurs at measure 66 above a half-diminished seventh. With the return to the bass B at measure 68, the long-awaited cadential segment occurs. Recall that at measure 11, this segment was launched from tonic harmony in first inversion and then modulated to

𝄪

Example 11.11. Brahms, “Die Schale der Vergessenheit,” graph of part 1, second section.

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Example 11.12a. Brahms, “Die Schale der Vergessenheit,” mm. 41–63.

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Example 11.12b. Brahms, “Die Schale der Vergessenheit,” graph of part 2, first section.

G-sharp minor, resulting in a curious, hypermetrically strong passing 46 sonority. Here measure 70 is plainly a prolongation of the cadential 46 from two measures earlier (see mm. 68–70 in the graph in ex. 11.13b). Note also that the second chord of the cadential segment has been modified to the A-sharp halfdiminished seventh, now acting only as a neighbor within the dominant of E major. A final beautiful touch is the reminiscence of the D-sharp half-diminished 34 tucked in on the last beat of measure 71 (and repeated on the last beat of measure 77 during the phrase expansion following the deceptive motion at measure 74). A half-diminished seventh harmony had not been present at the corresponding location in the song’s first part, given the modulation to G-sharp minor. Example 11.13a. Brahms, “Die Schale der Vergessenheit,” mm. 59–84.

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Example 11.13a.—(concluded)

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Example 11.13b. Brahms, “Die Schale der Vergessenheit,” graph of part 2, second section.

A glance at the middleground graph in example 11.14 reminds us that the upper-voice C♯ and the bass D♯ of the opening sonority both have broader significance in the tonal structure, delaying the tonal progress of the song in various ways. The C♯ frequently serves as a complete or incomplete neighbor to the Kopfton; the D♯ (= E♭) serves as the tonal destination of the song’s first part. In the overall tonal structure, though, this D♯ serves as the upper fifth of the previous G♯ Stufe and the upper third of the ensuing B Stufe.

Example 11.14. Brahms, “Die Schale der Vergessenheit,” middleground graph.

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Concluding Thoughts In this essay I have focused on the structural connections and expressive implications of initial half-diminished sevenths in three songs. In structural terms, although we have seen some motivic use of the entire half-diminished sonority, more consistently in these particular instances it is one or both of the chord’s outer-voice tones that is even more explicitly linked to subsequent events. Certainly there are a number of Brahms’s pieces where the half-diminished seventh is introduced early on—though not as the first chord—and is a source of considerable melodic and harmonic material as in the first movement of the Clarinet Trio and the Capriccio, op. 116, no. 1, mentioned at the outset of this essay. To my ear, the half-diminished seventh seems to have held a special fascination for Brahms. In the lieder examined in this essay, the half-diminished seventh is articulated as a chord, however locally, and forges connections to other aspects of tonal structure. Yet in some cases in Brahms’s oeuvre, the mere sound of a half-diminished seventh, even when not a local chord, is significant. Consider the opening vocal phrase of his lied “Verzagen” (Despondency), op. 72, no. 4 (see annotated score in ex. 11.15). The second and third beats in measures 5–6 are occupied by a fully diminished E-sharp 34 chord with a 7–6 suspension, and in measure 7 the voice adds a 9–8 suspension. The 7–6 suspension creates an apparent sonority enharmonically equivalent to a B halfdiminished seventh on the second beat of each measure. In measure 8, the 7–6 suspension fails to resolve, leaving the apparent sonority as the actual chord, but one that functions normatively in the relative key of A major (as a supertonic half-diminished seventh). Any analysis that attempts to model a prospective hearing of the passage would understand the moment of modulation as occurring at this point; in other words, the pivot chord is an apparent sonority in the home key that has a normative harmonic function in the new key. The richness of Brahms’s deployment of half-diminished sevenths in various modulatory contexts merits an essay of its own, which—together with the present essay—would offer initial stages toward a comprehensive study of Brahms’s half-diminished sevenths as agents of musical structure and expression.

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Example 11.15. Brahms, “Verzagen,” mm. 5–10.

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Notes 1.

Professor Edward Laufer’s first publication was an analysis of Brahms’s lied “‘Wie Melodien zieht es mir,’” op. 105, no. 1, Journal of Music Theory 15 (1971): 34–57, and reprinted in Readings in Schenker Analysis and Other Approaches, ed. Maury Yeston (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1977), 254–72. 2. Edward T. Cone, “Harmonic Congruence in Brahms,” in Brahms Studies: Analytical and Historical Perspectives, ed. George Bozarth (Oxford: Clarendon, 1990), 165–88. 3. Peter H. Smith, “Brahms and the Shifting Barline: Metric Displacement and Formal Process in the Trios with Wind Instruments,” in Brahms Studies 3, ed. David Brodbeck (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2001), 191–229. 4. The motivic importance of chordal sonorities that are, from a Schenkerian perspective, structurally subsidiary is explored in Peter H. Smith, “Brahms’s Motivic Harmonies and Contemporary Tonal Theory: Three Case Studies from the Chamber Music,” Music Analysis 28, no. 1 (2009): 63–110. 5. Heather A. Platt, “Text-Music Relationships in the Lieder of Johannes Brahms” (PhD diss., City University of New York, 1992). 6. Ibid., 235. 7. In all of the graphs, asterisks denote half-diminished sevenths. 8. It is perhaps worth noting Brahms’s substitution of “Blume” for the original text’s “Knospe” in the final couplet. The original “bud” makes more semantic sense than “flower”—as an object that will not bloom—but presumably Brahms desired the assonance between “Blume” and “blühen.” 9. Brahms’s penchant for emphasizing first-inversion tonic harmonies at the outset of his works is well known; one thorough discussion appears in Peter H. Smith, “Brahms and Motivic 6/3 Chords,” Music Analysis 16, no. 2 (1997): 175–217. 10. Walter Frisch, Brahms and the Principle of Developing Variation (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1984), 101–5. Frisch acknowledges the binary division of the poem, but he finds that the music has elements of ternary form that create a unique binary-ternary hybrid. His ternary view considers the second subdivision of my part 1 to be an independent B section, and the second subdivision of my part 2 not to be a discrete formal unit.

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Chapter Twelve

Motivic Enlargement in Dvořák’s Symphony Op. 70 Leslie Kinton

One of the many areas of Schenkerian theory that fascinated Edward Laufer was motivic enlargement, which can be defined as the reappearance of a motivic figure at a deeper structural level of the middleground. In his teaching, he often focused on two manifestations of this technique: first, the enlargement of an initial foreground motive in the first subject of a sonata over a larger span of the first subject, a technique he said was favored by Mozart; second, the enlargement of a foreground motive in the exposition of a sonata over a large part of, or even the entire, development section, a technique often used by Beethoven, but rarely (according to Laufer) by Mozart.1 Dvořák employs both of these techniques in his Symphony in D Minor, op. 70. Using Mozart’s Sonata in C Major, K. 545 and Beethoven’s Sonata in E Major, op. 14, no. 1 as models, this essay will explore the use of the former type in the first movement of the Dvořák symphony, and the latter type in the Finale. Edward Laufer’s analysis of the first movement from K. 545 is reproduced ^ under the as example 12.1.2 The initial prolongation of the primary tone (5) curly brace is of interest here. Although not clearly indicated by the measure numbers, the primary tone, followed by the upper-neighbor note A, and the third progression G–F–E, constitute a foreground reduction of the opening four measures. What is significant for the purpose of this essay is that the section under the brace also shows the analytical structure of the opening eight measures; in other words, the opening theme of the first subject (mm. 1–4) is enlarged through the middleground as the first part of the bridge to the second subject (mm. 14ff.).

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Example 12.1. Edward Laufer’s analysis of Mozart, Sonata in C Major, K. 545, I. From “Review of Free Composition (Der Freie Satz): Vol. III of New Musical Theories and Fantasies. Translated and edited by Ernst Oster. New York: Longman, Inc., in cooperation with the American Musicological Society, 1979,” Music Theory Spectrum 3 (Spring, 1981): 175, example 22. Reprinted with permission of Oxford University Press.

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The first subject from the first movement of Dvořák’s symphony involves exactly this kind of expansion. Example 12.2a provides a piano reduction of the initial sixteen measures, and Example 12.2b shows a foreground sketch of the initial sixteen measures. The main motive in measures 1–5 has three elements that are involved in the enlargement: first, the third progression D–E–F, ^ second, the prolonwhich constitutes the initial ascent to the primary tone (3); gation of the primary tone by means of the upper-neighbor note G; and third, the descending-third progression returning to the initial D (mm. 4–5). What the sketch makes clear is that this opening is enlarged over measures 2–15 by means of the descending-third progression (indicated by the square brace), which proceeds from the primary tone F in measure 3, through E (chromatically altered to E♭) in measure 11, and finally descends to D in measure 15. This prolongation matches precisely the technique Mozart uses in the opening of K. 545, as shown in example 12.1. When one examines the first subject as a whole as found in the score (mm. 1–73), it becomes clear that its overall shape articulates a quasi-ternary structure, a structure that Dvořák often uses in his sonata-form movements.3 After the brooding D-minor opening in measures 1–41, the piece changes mood at bar 42 with a serene E-flat-major theme played by the horn. This serenity is short-lived, however, and the piece quickly reverts back to the more tragic mood of the opening theme, this time in a full fortissimo setting (m. 55), thereby completing the above-mentioned three-part structure. If the foreground of the opening five measures in example 12.2 is compared with the middleground sketch of the first subject (ex. 12.3), it becomes apparent that the descending third F–E–D in the foreground of measures 4–5 is enlarged at least twice, first at measures 21–27, and then at 31–33. There is, however, a much greater enlargement than either of these examples, an enlargement that encompasses the span of the entire first subject area (mm. 1–73). Example 12.3 shows that the “horn” theme, beginning at measure 42, functions as more than just the B section of a quasi-ternary structure. After the initial ascent of D–E–F in measures 2–3, the primary tone F is prolonged, deep in the middleground, by an upper neighboring tone G (m. 42, the beginning of the “horn” theme), which then returns to the primary tone, F, in measure 55, descending through E♭ in measure 72 down to D in measure 73, at which point the second subject begins. In other words, by means of the “horn” theme, the entire first subject (mm. 1–73) replicates precisely the middleground enlargement found in measures 1–15 (shown above in ex. 12.2), including the use of E♭. This, in turn, is an enlargement of the opening five measures, the foreground of which is given in example 12.2. Example 12.4, which is a deeper middleground sketch of the entire first subject (mm. 1–73), shows the overall structure with greater clarity. This kind of enlargement of the opening theme occurs again and again throughout the first movement.4

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Example 12.2a. Dvořák, Symphony in D Minor, op. 70, mvt. 1: piano reduction, mm. 1–16.

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Example 12.2b. Dvořák, Symphony in D Minor, op. 70, mvt. 1: foreground sketch, mm. 1–16.

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Example 12.3. Dvořák, Symphony in D Minor, op. 70, mvt. 1: middleground sketch, first subject, mm. 1–73.

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Example 12.4. Dvořák, Symphony in D Minor, op. 70, mvt. 1: deep middleground sketch, first subject, mm. 1–73.

All of the examples so far have involved the enlargement of the material following the attainment of the primary tone in measure 3, including the upper-neighbor motion F–G–F and the descending-third progression F–E–D that follows. However, the initial ascent, or Anstieg, is also subject to motivic enlargement, two examples of which are shown in example 12.3. The first, in measures 27–31, serves as a vehicle for increasing the musical tension as the subdominant is composed out, culminating in the cadential six-four chord in bar 31 that supports the primary tone. The V46 resolves in measure 33, at which point an even greater enlargement of the Anstieg (mm. 33–37) begins the transition to the horn theme in measure 42. A highly dramatic enlargement of the Anstieg occurs in the retransition at the end of the development section, starting in measure 174. Because of the minor-key setting of the opening motive in the clarinet (mm. 174–75), the initial D is altered to D♭. This is the start of a large-scale inner voice chromatic ascent back to the primary tone, shown in example 12.5, with the D♭ rising to D in measure 182, to E♭ in 191, and to E in 194, finally reaching the fortissimo climax at measure 196, where the primary tone, F, is regained. The enlargement is indicated in example 12.5 by the inner-voice beams in the measures just discussed. In measure 195 of the actual score, immediately before the start of the recapitulation in measure 196, only the rhythm of the Anstieg occurs, and only in the timpani part; the ascending-third progression itself is missing, which makes this large-scale chromatic ascent of the retransition all the more dramatic. In the Finale, Dvořák uses motivic enlargement in a distinctly different way from that in the first movement, and, as was said earlier, he employs a procedure similar to that used by Beethoven in the first movement of the Piano

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Example 12.5. Dvořák, Symphony in D Minor, op. 70, mvt. 1: foreground sketch, retransition, mm. 174–96, showing the chromatic inner-voice enlargement of the Anstieg from D♭ to F.

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Example 12.6a. Beethoven, Sonata in E Major, op. 14. no.1, mvt. 1: beginning of the second subject, mm. 22–30.

Example 12.6b. Beethoven, Sonata, op. 14 no.1, mvt. 1: foreground sketch, mm. 22–30.

Sonata op. 14, no. 1. Example 12.6a shows the beginning of Beethoven’s second subject (mm. 23–30), a foreground sketch of which is provided in example 12.6b.5 For the purposes of this essay, the salient feature found here is the F♯–E–D♯ third progression, indicated by the square brace in the soprano. This progression is supported by the composing out of the dominant via the neighboring-tone prolongation in the bass, which, in turn, arpeggiates down to A♯ before arriving back on B in measure 30.6 When one looks at the development section in the score, it seems at first to consist of a kind of “framing” structure (mm. 61–65, and mm. 81–90) that develops the opening motive of the sonata and that, in turn, encompasses a section (mm. 65–81) with, at best, a tenuous connection with anything which precedes it. The sketch of the middleground (ex. 12.7) reveals something quite different. Specifically, the foreground of measures 22–30 (i.e., the opening phrase of the second subject, shown in ex. 12.6b) is enlarged through the middleground over the entire span of the development section to the start of the retransition (m. 81). Example 12.7 shows that this enlargement includes

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Example 12.7. Beethoven, Sonata, op. 14, no. 1, mvt. 1: middleground sketch of development, mm. 22–81.

all of the elements found in the opening phrase of the second subject (ex. 12.6b): the descending-third progression F♯–E–D♯ in the soprano (indicated by the beams), along with the supporting neighbor note in the bass (this time, C rather than C♯, designated by the flag at measure 65), the descending-third arpeggiation of C–A♯ (m. 75–79), and the return to B in measure 81. In sum, Beethoven has taken the underlying structure of the first four bars of the second subject and enlarged it over the entire development section up to the start of the retransition. Throughout much of this passage, he has done so while seeming to abandon a direct connection to the exposition. The development in the Finale of Dvořák’s symphony matches what happens in Beethoven’s sonata in many particulars, except that what is being enlarged is not the middleground structure of the second subject, but rather a surface motivic fragment that begins the actual melody of the second subject (found in the cello part of the score, starting in measure 103). Example 12.8 shows the entire first phrase of this melody as it appears in the score, with the motivic fragment indicated by the square brace (mm. 103–4). Dvořák makes very clear the importance of this motivic fragment by constantly repeating it throughout the first part of the second subject; some of these repetitions are shown in example 12.9. In fact, this fragment is repeated a full seventeen times from measures 111 to 131, almost as if Dvořák wanted to make sure that it was unequivocally impressed on the mind of the listener. The significance of these repetitions becomes clear only when one examines the middleground of the development section. If one looks at the finished score, the development shows the same kind of framing procedure one finds in the Beethoven, except here all three sections show a clear connection to the exposition: measures 170–209 (the first part of the frame) elaborate on the thematic material found in part 1 of the first

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Example 12.8. Dvořák, Symphony in D minor, op. 70, Finale: opening of the second subject, mm. 103–7.

Example 12.9. Dvořák, Symphony in D Minor, op. 70, Finale: repetitions of the first motive of the second subject, mm. 111–20.

subject (mm. 1–66); the framed section (209–51) develops the first subject, part 2 (mm. 66–103); finally, the second part of the frame, measures 251–81, returns to the development of the first subject, part 1—which also, as in the Beethoven, serves as the retransition to the recapitulation (m. 281). What is immediately striking is that there seems to be no reference at all to any part of the second subject throughout the entire development, even after it has been made clear, by the repetitions cited above, just how important is its opening motivic fragment. Equally striking is Dvořák’s use of enharmonic change and chromatic harmony, particularly in the latter portion of the “framed” section (see especially mm. 233–40). The middleground sketch of the development is given in example 12.10; the framing structure is labeled A B Aʹ. In measures 170–86, two 5–6 progressions serve to compose out the dominant until the arrival of the upper-neighbor notes B in the bass and F♯ in the soprano, while at the same time neutralizing the parallel fifths between the outer voices. The second 5–6 progression involves an implied enharmonic change to F♯ from what is, strictly speaking, a G♭. The resulting ambiguity is reflected in the sketch, since the notation here seems to indicate a reading of this passage (mm. 178–86) as a chromaticism while at the same time labeling it as 5–6 progression. One can only speculate as to the reason Dvořák chose F♯ instead of G♭, but a move to G♭ would have necessitated a direct enharmonic change into the next section (mm. 186ff.),

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Example 12.10. Dvořák, Symphony in D Minor, op. 70, Finale: middleground sketch of development section, mm. 170–281.

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assuming he wanted to avoid the impractical key of C-flat minor; it also would have made the connection to the next section less clear to the players. In any case, from a theoretical standpoint, measures 186–208 must be read as ♯VI rather than ♭VII; in artistic terms, the resulting ambiguity is part of the musical language Dvořák employs throughout this section of the development. Measure 209 is the start of the B section; as stated above, this is where Dvořák begins to develop elements of the first subject, part 2. The harmonic ambiguity mentioned above reaches its zenith in measures 234–41, where after much chromatic movement combined with dissonance resolving into dissonance (at least at the foreground level), the piece finally settles into an apparently stable C-sharp-major tonality (m. 241). At this point, the retransition commences, with further development of the first subject, part 1. “Liquidation” of foreground motivic material is a common procedure in sonata-form developments, and in measures 234–41, with the exception of a one-measure motivic fragment found only in measures 87, 89, 91, and 92, almost all vestiges of exposition material have disappeared. Example 12.10 shows how all of this comes together into a coherent whole. To review, the first five notes of the second subject (mm. 103–4 of the exposition, highlighted by the brace in ex. 12.7) are composed of the series E– F♯–E–D–C♯, with the F♯ serving as being a neighbor note between the first and second Es and leading to an E–D–C♯ descending-third progression. The initial E at the start of the development section (m. 170) is 2^ of the fundamental line, that is, the interruption point characteristic of almost all sonata structures.7 This E is prolonged in the middleground until the start of the recapitulation.8 The first deep-level prolongation involves the upper-neighbor note F♯, beginning in bar measure 186, which in turn, is itself prolonged by an arpeggiation up a fourth to B, until it returns to 2^ in measure 209. Altogether, therefore, measures 170–209 have articulated an enlargement, on a truly symphonic scale, of the first three notes of the motivic fragment under discussion. Now all that remains to complete the process is the enlargement of the descending-third progression from E to C♯. Interestingly enough, the first attempt at enlarging this third (mm. 209– 25) comes to rest on C♮ rather than C♯. One possible reason for this is that Dvořák, at this juncture, did not want to hint at a major tonality, which would have subverted the tragic tone firmly established in the development up to this point. Another possible reason is that he did not want total closure so soon after the end of the exposition. Be that as it may, the choice of C♮ rather than C♯ made a second attempt necessary, partly because of the timing factor just mentioned, but more importantly, because of the clearly audible tritone relationship between the C♮ and the previous neighbor note F♯ in measure 186, which would have precluded any sense of resolution and therefore would not have allowed for a final completion of the third descent. It is significant that

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after this “false” descent of a third that greater and greater harmonic instability ensues, until the appearance of D♯ in measure 234 (notated as E♭ in the score), which is given consonant support by B and then G♯ in the bass. After the D♯, Dvořák increases the instability, partly by motivic liquidation (mentioned above), until finally the descending-third progression is completed by the C♯ in measure 241, supported by C♯ in the bass. The choice of a C-sharpmajor chord, rather than C-sharp minor, is interesting, but makes sense not just theoretically (i.e., it functions as the dominant of the following F-sharpminor chord in m. 251), but also dramatically. Up to this point, the entire development has unequivocally been in minor mode, expressing an equally unequivocal tragic affect. C-sharp major offers needed momentary relief from the seemingly unending despair in a way that is analogous (though not identical) to the well-known use of comic relief in Shakespearean tragedy. The relief is indeed momentary, because after the C♯, the second part of the “frame” (Aʹ) initiates the retransition, with further development of part 1 of the first subject, a return to the tragic mood, and a huge buildup to the big cadential 46 recapitulation that begins in measure 281. This minor-mode cadential six-four finally resolves onto the tonic scale step of D major with the triumphant reappearance of the second subject (m. 316 in the score). The sense of arrival and triumph happens only because of the preceding tragic affect, which, in turn, is given coherence by the motivic enlargements detailed above. Example 12.11, a deep middleground sketch of measures 170–241, shows both enlargements with more clarity. Edward Laufer’s commentary on the development of Beethoven’s op. 14, no. 1, first movement, is equally applicable to what Dvořák has accomplished here: “What wonderful cohesiveness and beautiful simplicity! This recomposing Example 12.11. Dvořák, Symphony in D Minor, op. 70, Finale: deep middleground sketch of development section, mm. 170–241.

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of the main notes of the second subject, over the entire development, is indeed all the more beautiful for being concealed. Such a compositional idea is more than a technical device; it touches upon the character and dramatic sensibility of the work.”9 Like Beethoven before him, Dvořák has managed to combine dramatic necessity with structural integrity in a technical and musical tour de force that one finds only in the greatest of artistic masterpieces.

Notes

1. 2.

3. 4.

5.

6.

7. 8. 9.

Some of the material for this essay has been reworked from my PhD dissertation, “A Documentary Study and Schenkerian Analysis of Dvořák’s Symphony Op. 70” (University of Toronto, 2008). I want to thank Edgar Suski, PhD student at the University of Western Ontario Don Wright Faculty of Music, for the formatting of my hand-written analytical sketches. These observations were communicated to me while he and I were examining Beethoven op. 14, no. 1, first movement. Edward Laufer, “Review of Free Composition (Der Freie Satz): Vol. III of New Musical Theories and Fantasies,” Music Theory Spectrum 3 (Spring 1981): 175. Twenty years later, Laufer revised his analysis of the overall form, but measures 1–8 are not affected, and the later version does not have the brace indicating the relevant motive. See “Revised Sketch of Mozart, K. 545/I and Commentary,” Journal of Music Theory, vol. 45, no. 1 (Spring 2001): 144. See, for example, the opening movement of the Piano Quintet, op. 81. See Kinton, “A Documentary Study and Schenkerian Analysis,” 140–57, for a foreground sketch of the entire movement, where these enlargements are highlighted in detail. Examples 6 and 7 are based on discussions between myself and Edward Laufer about this sonata. See also Laufer, “Voice-Leading Procedures in Development Sections,” Studies in Music from the University of Western Ontario, 13 (1991): 61–120 (see esp. 81). This is probably the most comprehensive article ever published on the topic of sonata-form developments. The overall structure of this movement, communicated to me by Edward ^ Laufer, is that of a five-line, where an inner voice descends from 3^ to 2, thereby constituting, in Laufer’s words, “a different order of interruption.” See Ernst Oster’s commentary in Free Composition on this same issue: Heinrich Schenker, Free Composition [Der freie Satz], trans. and ed. by Ernst Oster (New York: Longman, 1979), 3:139. One exception to this rule is the first movement of Dvořák’s op. 70! See Kinton, “A Documentary Study and Schenkerian Analysis,” 122–57. See ibid., 220–38, for a complete foreground sketch of the finale. Laufer, “Voice-Leading Procedures,” 79.

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Chapter Thirteen

Deliverance and Compositional Design in the “Libera me” of Verdi’s Messa da Requiem Don McLean

Verdi’s Messa da Requiem was inspired by the death of the Italian poet and novelist Alessandro Manzoni (1785–1873), whom Verdi greatly admired. The Requiem had its premiere in Milan on the first anniversary of Manzoni’s death, May 22, 1874. The “Libera me” is the final movement. As such, it functions not only as the conclusion to the work but also as its summation, in part because the verses of the “Libera me” responsory make possible the recurrence of materials from earlier movements in the mass (specifically, the “Requiem” and the “Dies irae”). As is well known, Verdi’s “Libera me” was previously conceived as part of a failed composite mass project planned with twelve other composers in memoriam Rossini (1792–1868). The “Libera me” closing movement, which Verdi completed in 1869 for the Rossini project, made him conscious of its potential for extrapolation into his own complete Messa da Requiem composition.1 In a letter to Alberto Mazzucato dated February 4, 1871, in response to Mazzucato’s praise for the “Libera me” of the Rossini Mass, Verdi refers to his “desire, one day, to write the entire Mass; particularly since, with a little further expansion, I would find that I had already completed the Requiem and the Dies irae, whose recapitulation [riepilogo] I have composed in the Libera.”2

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In addition to materials from these two movements, the 1874 “Libera me” cross-references a number of earlier passages in the work.3 Within the “Libera me” itself, the 1869 version is largely incorporated into the 1874 work; however, the latter version is an altogether more powerful realization, and it is claimed here that a number of the changes Verdi made in 1874 contribute significantly to the motivic continuity and poetic affect that are the main analytic subjects of this essay.4 Following a brief review of the literature, my study begins with observations on the liturgical text and the overall formal and tonal design of Verdi’s setting. It then turns to analytical commentary on a number of specific examples. Noting the structural role played by certain characteristic surface anomalies in harmonic progression, the analysis relies on a Schenkerian approach to show how several standard, indeed schematic, musical figures function as motivic links—unifying compositional elements—that cut across and bind together formal sections, often in some rather fantastical ways. These motivic links include: (1) double neighbor-note and related motions (“DN” in the annotations and analytic sketches); (2) chromatic and diatonic fourth progressions (annotated as “4th-prg.”) often associated with real chromatic sequential motions, as well as (to a lesser motivic extent) cycle-of-fifths (“cyc. 5ths”) and auxiliary-cadential motions (“aux-cad”). The discussion also addresses a number of tonal kinks that pose significant analytical challenges. In particular, (3) the careening fugue subject, with its characteristic seventh-for-second head motive5 and bold cadences, moves through episodic derivations that regularly lead to enharmonic revaluations and tonal entrapments far beyond notational nicety. Indeed, in the context of C minor, a musical deus ex machina is eventually required to overcome (4) the tonal conflict between C♭ and B♮—metaphorically the narrative conflict between flat-side death and sharp-side deliverance. The conclusion of this essay steers these analytical trajectories toward convergence to reflect on the fundamental poetic idea of the movement—the deliverance and compositional design referred to in the title.

Verdi and Schenker, Rosen and Requiem Since the pioneering yet carefully circumspect efforts of Matthew Brown and Roger Parker in the 1980s, Schenkerian approaches to Verdi’s music remain relatively rare.6 Schenker himself was not generally complimentary toward Verdi’s music,7 although two early essays on Falstaff (from Die Zukunft, 1893 and 1894) reveal that the twenty-five-year-old Schenker was quite smitten with the eighty-year-old Verdi’s last opera.8 Schenker’s only direct reference to the Requiem is found in a diary entry for a 1930 radio broadcast under Bruno Walter. Schenker lists the soloists and dismissively comments, “In spite of the

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incomparably beautiful voices, the work gives the impression—now as before— of a concoction [Machwerks], in essence a pamphlet on the sublime poetry. It should be forbidden by the state to write such music to such a text. I use the occasion to read back issues of newspapers.”9 Schenker’s distaste is evidently associated in part with the widely prevalent criticism at the time of the Requiem as a sacred work in operatic guise.10 The claim in the present study is that a Schenkerian approach reveals Verdi’s gift for crafting continuity and coherence through the manipulation and variation of near-schematic motives. Such a claim raises a critical caveat that obtains for Schenkerian and other theoretical approaches to analysis, which has been admirably addressed by Leonard Meyer in his essay “A Pride of Prejudices; Or, Delight in Diversity” (1991).11 Meyer points out that much musical analysis seems obsessed with claiming motivic unity through the identification of similarity relationships rather than the differentiation of syntactic functions, and further that such motivic unity is usually interpreted “synchronically, as a relationship of similarity without regard to temporal ordering” versus “diachronically, as a process of successive development or change over time.”12 In the Schoenbergian analytical world, this becomes the distinction between “thematic transformation” (synchronic) and “developing variation” (diachronic). In the Schenkerian world, relationships between motives are typically manifested as associative comparisons of different passages on an analytical graph. Additional commentary can address the diachronic transformation of motives, sometimes through supplementary graphs, showing how “this” becomes “that.” Otherwise, there is an inherent risk of underarticulated similitude, resulting in the superficial motivic claim “Here it is, here it is again.” This is not what Schenker meant by his epigraphic motto, Semper idem sed non eodem modo—the importance of “always the same” (the paradigmatic) being inseparable from the “but not in the same way” (the transformative). The present study attempts to avert such tautologies by showing how the underlying schematic aspects of Verdi’s recurrent motives become functionally differentiated from section to section, separating significant associative details from larger-scale motivic continuities and harmonic discontinuities, which together contribute to the structural coherence of the work as well as to the realization of its central poetic idea of deliverance. Steven Huebner (2004) addresses the issue of “structural coherence” in Verdi in a wide-ranging review of analytical approaches, observing that “the houselights have dimmed somewhat on the type of musical ‘logic’ in which similarity relationships particular to individual pieces assume primordial importance.”13 Beyond the individual work, Huebner notes, “The structural coherence of standardized forms may be characterized as one of functional relationships in which musical units interlock (syntax and affect) to produce a composite musico-dramatic whole on the level of the number, and function

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as generic and stylistic norms governing the succession of movements and numbers.” In the “Libera me” these considerations pertain to the “standardized forms” governing relationships between sections. This notion also extends to broader stylistic and historical contexts: “Studies of associational relationships—the attachment of dramatic meaning to thematic, motivic, harmonic, and tonal recurrence—are supported by Verdi’s allusions to contemporaneous pan-European musical developments.”14 Huebner’s review of pitch and key relationships in analyses of several works takes a more reflective and less (performance-practice) dismissive approach toward the rationale behind Verdi’s various transpositions. He summarizes: “One might envision a continuum of constraints and purposes spanning structural coherence considered as ‘an accumulation of detail’ within a work (following Parker and Brown), abstract patterns as they apply to individual works, abstract statements about Verdi’s style (which in themselves deal in a certain kind of coherence as manifest in individual works), and broad observations about pan-European musical developments after 1850.” Huebner concludes that “rather than dismiss reductionist statements and the subordination of details to paradigms, we would do well to recognize that paradigms reflect analytical purposes, and that reduction and subordination occur at one level or another in all analysis.”15 In the present study, this dialogue between the paradigmatic and the specific is central to the “analytic accumulation of detail.” The leading scholar on Verdi’s Requiem is David Rosen, and any study of the work, in whole or in part, will be much in his debt. Rosen prepared the superb critical edition for The Works of Giuseppe Verdi (1990), which includes the 1869 Rossini “Libera me” as well as the complete 1874 Messa da Requiem, and his dissertation (1976) first examined “The Genesis of Verdi’s Requiem” in groundbreaking detail.16 In addition to his editorial and dissertation work, Rosen provides two analytically oriented studies that address the “Libera me”: “Reprise as Resolution in Verdi’s Messa da Requiem” (1994) and various sections of his Verdi: Requiem volume (1995) in the Cambridge Music Handbooks Series, in particular chapter 9, “The “Libera me” and Its Genesis.”17 In “Reprise as Resolution,” Rosen refers to “thematic material [that] is first presented as unstable, and a reprise of that material, whether transformed or not, [which] imparts resolution, closure, or at least greater stability than the initial presentation.”18 In the case of the “Libera me” fugue, Rosen points to the irregular structure of the subject, which later in the movement “is transformed in ways that lead to stability and closure, accompanied with a simplification of phrase structure and especially texture.”19 (These variants are noted in table 13.1. Their underlying structural coherence, as fugal subject transforms into episodic figure, is addressed in the analytic examples and commentaries below.) In the Verdi: Requiem (1995) handbook, Rosen organizes the “Libera me” movement into four broad sections:

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“Libera me” (thus including within it the “Tremens”) “Dies irae” “Requiem aeternum” Fugue, which he splits into a. transition, mm. 171–78 and b. the fugue proper, mm. 179–421, which is further divided into three subsections: exposition, mm. 179ff.; middle section, mm. 207ff.; and return, mm. 311ff.20

The present study takes a somewhat more nuanced approach to the formal design, based on the layout of the liturgical text and the form-functional roles of the sections (see table 13.1). Although working from the definitive 1874 version, Rosen includes valuable comments on several of the most significant revisions of the 1869 movement. Some of these revisions affirm analytic interpretations and will be noted where appropriate. Rosen’s handbook also includes concluding chapters on “the unità musicale of the Requiem,” which deals with the large-scale reprises and the familial thematic correspondences (general motivic similarities) spanning more than one movement,21 and on “a question of genre,” which concerns the historical sacred-versus-operatic controversies surrounding the work that also infected Schenker, as noted above.22 Related to this question is the understanding of the meaning of the conclusion of the work, its possible relation to Verdi’s religious views, and its fundamental ambiguity with respect to the hope for deliverance.

Liturgical Text and Overall Formal and Tonal Design In the liturgy, the “Libera me” is sung at the absolution following the Mass for the Dead. In formal terms, it is a reflexive type of great responsory in which individual lines of the choral respond are splayed out to recur between the three verses. The left-hand columns of table 13.1 provide the text of the movement, a translation, and the liturgical layout of the responsory. The respond consists of three lines, shown in table 13.1 as R a, b, and c; also reproduced are the normal Liber usualis markings * for each choral entry and † for the sign of the cross. The second line (R * b, “Quando coeli”) recurs between verses 1 and 2, the third line (R † c, “Dum veneris”) between verses 2 and 3. The whole respond is repeated at the end. The three verses have their distinctive texts: V1d (“Tremens factus sum ego et timeo”), V2e (“Dies irae, dies illa”), V3f (“Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine”). Extraliturgical repetitions of text (italicized in table 13.1) create significant opportunities for formal recapitulation, structural framing, and expressive expansion.

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Table 13.1. Verdi, Messa da Requiem, “Libera me”: Overview of liturgical text and formal and tonal design. Text and Translation (“extra text”) Libera me, Domine, de morte aeterna, in die illa tremenda;

Tonal Schema Design

Form, Idioms (motives)

Mm.

Exx.

001

13.5

Ra

C minor i

scena, solo recitative

quando coeli movendi sunt et terra. when the heavens and earth shall be shaken.

R*b

III, ♭II

007 choral recitative (“tonal fault”; hidden 4th-prg: C–B♭–A♭–G)

Dum veneris judicare saeculum per ignem.

R†c

V♭9

solo recitative (tremolando)

011

viio4/3

(per ignem: dramatic pause)

014

13.5

cad. to i

(4 bassoons interpolation, cyc. 5ths to C♭=>B♮?!)

015

13.8

to V (via ♮VII#–V)

019 (“casts out root” via enharmonic 5-6 motion!)

C minor i (♭vii– ♭vi[o3]–V)

A exposition solo arioso (DN, C–G 4th-prg., real seq.)

020

VI, V

B middle (deceptive motions to VI and V7/V)

024

Deliver me, Lord, from eternal death, on that day of terror;

When Thou shalt come to judge the world by fire.

Tremens factus sum ego et timeo, I am made terrified and frightened,

V1d

dum discussio vernerit atque ventura ira of the time when the trial shall come and of the everlasting wrath. quando coeli movendi sunt et terra.

R*b

13.2 13.4

(standing on V7 028 and V/V) (continued)

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Table 13.1.—(continued) Text and Translation (“extra text”)

Tonal Schema Design

Form, Idioms (motives)

Mm.

Exx.

when the heavens and earth shall be shaken. i PAC . . . plagal ext. I

A´ recap. (ev. cad., 7th-for-2nd, et timeo maggiore)

033

13.1

v (G minor) v/v

presentation: choral tutti (anacrusis 4th-prg., broad DN triplets)

045

13.2 13.4

. . . calamitatis et miseriae,

(back to C minor)

middle: (standing on V, leading to continuation)

065

of disaster and of misery,

o4/i, 3

♭vii,

continuation: (real seq. 4th-prg., incomplete DNs)

075

(E♮=F♭ enh. Nn to ♭VI)

081

086

Tremens . . . et timeo.

Dies irae, dies illa, Day of wrath, day of fear,

V2e

♭vi

dies magna et amara valde. day of great and intense bitterness. Dies irae . . . amara valde.

♭II, o3, V

(anomalous prg.) V arrival

Dies irae . . . amara valde.

V (and V/V) V

090 standing on V (=cont. 4th-prg. now over V pedal)

V

standing on V V♭9 + solo

106

When Thou shalt come to judge the world by fire.

viio4/3

(per ignem: o4/3, cf. m. 14)

112

Dies irae, dies illa

transition

DN around F as V of B-flat

113

Dum veneris judicare saeculum per ignem.

R†c

13.3

(continued)

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Table 13.1.—(continued) Text and Translation (“extra text”) Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine,

Tonal Schema Design V3f

Form, Idioms (motives)

vii (B-flat) choral motet a capella +solo

Grant them eternal rest, Lord,

Mm.

Exx.

132

13.2 13.4

(4th-prg: B♭–F, covered by solo G♭–D♭ with inc. DNs)

et lux perpetua luceat eis.

♭VII (B-flat)

maggiore (G♮–G♭ c.t.)

145

and let perpetual light shine upon them.

closing section

(C♭ Nn, predom: chrom. C–G 4th-prg., 7th-for-2nd in T)

156

postcad. codetta

(4th-prg: B♭– A♭–G♭–F over ♭VI–♭III–iv–I, solo to B♭5)

167

Retransition to C minor

solo recitative tremolando V arrival: PAC into . . .

171

C minor i and v

Exposition: choral fugue (7th-for-2nd head motive)

179

i

ASBT order, s&a, 2 cntr-sub

193

end Exp.

entries s inv: 207 BS(2-m stretto)

“episode”: iv6–iii6– ii6–i6

213 (4th-prg: ST F–C over B A♭–E♭, +A C–G chrom.)

Libera . . . terra.

Fugue: Libera me, Domine, de morte aeterna, in die illa tremenda; Deliver me, Lord, from eternal death, on that day of terror;

Ra

13.6 13.7

13.7

(continued)

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Table 13.1.—(continued) Text and Translation (“extra text”)

Tonal Schema Design

Form, Idioms (motives) entries by desc. cyc. 5ths, s recto, SATB (3-m stretto)

quando coeli movendi sunt et terra. When the heavens and earth shall be shaken.

R*b

Mm. 219

V♭9/g/c/f

B recto, T inv, B 227 recto, cyc. 5ths (6-note var.)

“episode” iv–i6– ♭vii6–♭vi6

239 “tonal kink”: (4th-prg: A♭-E♭ over F-C♭?!; then via cyc. 5ths a♭ = g#, c#, F#, to B?!)

PAC B maj. (♮VII# = C )

Exx.

246

13.9

13.7

Dum veneris judicare saeculum per ignem. When Thou shalt come to judge the world by fire.

R†c

B maj. = V/e . . . B♮ B# C# to PAC e

s inv B (8-note 246 254 var.) s recto 258 AS (5-note var., 2-m. lag; B 5th-prg: E♭– D♭–C♭–B♭–A♭ with DNs worked into bass)

13.7

Libera me, Domine, de morte aeterna

Ra

e♭ . . . “episode”

canto solo espressivo (s 4-note var.: G♭-C/E♭-A♭ 10–7)

262

13.4

♭VI (A 7) ...

+solo forte (arp. 276 B = C♭: G♭5– E♭5–B4!) (A♭ = G# 5–6 enh.)

13.7

in die illa tremenda

(continued)

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Table 13.1.—(continued) Text and Translation (“extra text”)

Tonal Schema Design

Form, Idioms (motives)

Mm.

Exx.

♮VI# (A maj.)

(4th-prg: T A–E 284 over B C–G, +S E–B chrom., cf. m. 213)

. . . de morte aeterna plus quando coeli

♮VII# (B = V/e)

290 (per ignem: o4/3, cf. m. 14) deus ex machina (cf. m. 19!)

13.7

movendi sunt . . . et terra.

G = V/C) V arrival

standing on 311 V (embeds 4th-prg: G–D, + ^ ^ melodic n. 6– 7)

13.9

C minor

stretti: BTAS C–F–C–F (1 m.)

312

TBSA G–C– G–C (2-mm. lag)

320

quando coeli movendi sunt, plus libera me

Libera me, Domine, de morte aeterna, in die illa tremenda;

R*b

Ra

quando coeli movendi sunt et terra.

R*b

quattro sole voci + solo

TABS C–C–C–C 328 (2-mm. lag)

Libera me, Domine . . . illa tremenda

Ra

C minor

337 “episode”: A s (5-note var.) (“home” 4th-prg: C–B♭– A♭–G with elaborated 4th-prg: F– E♭–D–C over A♭–G–F–E♭)

V arrival

(DN turn over V “overdue”!)

350

V pedal

G inner trill, solo espressivo (4th-prg: G–D + instr. 7th-for2nd)

351

Domine, Libera me, de morte aeterna . . . in die tremenda

Ra

13.10

(continued)

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Table 13.1.—(concluded) Text and Translation (“extra text”)

Tonal Schema Design

Dum veneris judicare saeculum per ignem.

R†c

Domine, Domine . . . in die illa tremenda.

Ra

parallel 4/2s, o4/3 of

Ra

Libera me

o4/3

Mm.

Exx.

chorus: B + SAT 367 o4/2; C♭ = B♮?! pushes through to

iv6–p6/4– tutta forza V4/2–i6 . . . (episode 4th-prg: F–C over A♭–E♭ “corrected” cf. m. 213 vs. m. 239 “kink”)

382

13.7

tremendous ECP to PAC C minor

(+ solo ascent to C6, framing 7th-for-2nd! into PAC)

400

13.7

Coda

400 Instrumental (7th-for-2nd + 4th-prg: C–B♭– A♭–G)

13.10

C major

chorus + solo (recalls et timeo maggiore, mm. 41–43)

409

solo recitative

416

Libera me, Domine, de morte aeterna in die illa tremenda Libera me, libera me.

Form, Idioms (motives)

C major

+ choral recitative 421

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13.10

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For Verdi, the three verses become set pieces: the “Dies irae” and “Requiem” sections are derived from earlier movements, and the “Tremens” functions as the formal “main section” of the movement.23 The three lines of the “Libera me” respond, on the other hand, serve less stable formal functions, including dramatic introduction, fugal apotheosis and framing coda (R a), contrasting middle and standing on the dominant (R b), dramatic buildup (R c) and episode or transition (again R a). The respond lines are at their most formally stable, yet also their most tonally and texturally unstable, when they return as variants of the fugue subject, answer, and episodes—the subject head motive never long absent from the texture, though here too the second (R b, “Quando coeli”) and third (R c, “Dum veneris”) lines generally retain their functions of episodic contrast and dramatic buildup. The middle and right-hand columns of table 13.1 show the tonal design of the movement (keys, harmonic scale steps, progressions), its formal structure (with formal descriptors in boldface) and generic idioms of setting (scena, solo and choral recitative, solo arioso, choral tutti, choral motet, choral fugue, etc., in italics). Table 13.1 also shows important motivic features of this movement. The comments are cued to measure numbers (“mm. #”) and musical examples/ analytic sketches (“exx. #”) in the column at the extreme right.

Synoptic Overview of Table 13.1 The following discussion takes the reader through a synoptic overview of table 13.1. Not all details provided in the table are addressed, and several key points are deferred to the subsequent commentaries on specific analytic examples and to the conclusion.

“Libera me” (mm. 1–19, Moderato, C minor) The liturgical text begins with the central theological, existential, and poetic plaint: “Deliver me, Lord, from eternal death.” This is the recurrent poetic idea of the movement, a personal plea for deliverance from eternal damnation, in particular from its apocalyptic associations of terrifying tectonic and incendiary judgment: “on that day of terror, when the heavens and earth shall be shaken, when Thou shalt come to judge the world by fire.” Verdi uses the opening respond (“Libera me, Domine”) as a kind of introductory scena to the movement as a whole. Its three lines of text are treated as solo (m. 1), choral (m. 7), and solo (m. 11) recitatives respectively. The “Dum veneris” (R c) text shows its tension-building function, standing on V♭9 and leading to the soprano solo’s dramatic pause on A♭5 and viio34 at “per ignem” (mm. 14–15, recurring at mm. 111–12). This is followed by a striking instrumental

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interpolation for four bassoons that apparently tumbles down a cycle-of-fifths abyss to C♭ (notional ♭I = B♮, ♮VII♯), before seizing the dominant by “casting out a root”—a sort of exorcism by 5–6 motion!24 (See more on this remarkable 1874 passage in the discussion of example 13.8 below.)

“Tremens” (mm. 20–45, sotto voce, C minor) The movement feels truly underway once the “Tremens” main section begins. The text reveals the agitated state of mind of the supplicant facing eternal death and damnation: “I am made terrified and frightened, of the time when the trial shall come and of the everlasting wrath.” The solo arioso “Tremens” verse serves as the A section exposition of a small ternary design (boldface A B Aʹ in table 13.1). The recurrence of the respond line (R b) “Quando coeli” (mm. 28–32) is treated as a contrasting B middle section. An extraliturgical repeat of the “Tremens . . . et timeo” text (shown in italics in table 13.1) effects a restatement (recap. Aʹ, mm. 33–41), leading, after some evasion, to the cadence (PAC, m. 40), and the section ends with a postcadential maggiore on “et timeo” (mm. 42–43). Key motivic features include: DN (G–F♯–G–A♭–G), chromatic fourth progression (C–G), and real sequence (i–♭vii–♭VIo3–V), as well as an allusion to the seventh-for-second motive later associated with the fugue subject.25 These features are detailed in the annotated score (ex. 13.1) and analytic sketch (ex. 13.2) below.

“Dies irae” (mm. 45–131, Allegro agitato, G minor) The “Dies irae” section is the famous bass-drum-whacking tutti of terror that here reboots from its appearance in the second movement of the work.26 The choral tutti begins in G minor (upper-fifth divider to C) but soon confirms itself as V of C minor (m. 75, m. 89). The text maintains its apocalyptic pitch. The “Dies irae” verse is presented (m. 45) and repeated (m. 55) with orchestral thunderclaps (bass drum) and lightning cascades. Key motivic features again include: chromatic fourth-progression motions (rising and falling) and broad DN-like triplets (mm. 51–52 and mm. 61–62). Following a middle section standing on the minor dominant (v/v, mm. 65–72), the “calamitatis” continuation (mm. 73–74) initiates some astounding real-sequential progressions: viio34 of i, viio34 of ♭vii, viio34 of ♭vi (mm. 75–80, in C minor), recalling the same succession of scale steps familiar from the “Tremens” (mm. 22–23 and 33–34). A modal conflict on the VI step (♭vi and ♭VI) is embellished by a powerful neighbor-note (Nn) motion, with F♭ spelled enharmonically as E♮ (mm. 80–83), which leads to an anomalous surface harmonic progression (“et amara valde,” mm. 86–89). (The latter passage is deconstructed in the annotations to ex. 13.3 below.)27

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The section continues with numerous extraliturgical compressions of the “Dies irae” text (again, shown in italics in table 13.1) as the real-sequential passage is repeated and dissipated over a V♭9 pedal (mm. 90–105).28 The respond line “Dum veneris” (boxed R c, m. 106) is again used (recall m. 11) to rebuild tension through a standing on V♭9, leading once more to a dramatic pause on “per ignem” (viio34, m. 111; recall m. 14). This is followed by a transition that features further recessive reiterations of the “Dies irae” text deployed around slow-moving chromatic DN turn figures (F–E♮–F–G♭–F) as embellishments of bass F2 (mm. 117–24), the dominant of B-flat minor.29

“Requiem” (mm. 132–170, Andante, B-flat minor) The “Requiem” section is set in B-flat minor (♭vii of the home key, C minor). The text is a peaceful prayer for eternal rest and stands in marked contrast to the anxiety and fear expressed in the sections around it. It is also, notwithstanding the plaintive descants of the soloist, collective rather than personal: “grant them eternal rest” rather than “deliver me from death.” The idiom of the “Requiem” verse is a poignant a cappella choral (+ solo) motet, a marvelous reworking of material from the first movement.30 With the soprano solo leading, the “et lux perpetua” section (mm. 145ff.) shifts exquisitely to maggiore. Though very different in stylistic idiom from the “Tremens” and “Dies irae” sections, the “Requiem” incorporates many of the same key motivic features: the fourth progression (now the diatonic B♭–A♭–G♭–F in the choral soprano) and the DN-like embellishments of the solo line covering G♭–F–E♭–D♭, as well as the modal conflicts on the VI step (here G and G♭, mm. 142–43). The closing section (mm. 156–66, detailed further in ex. 13.2 below) concludes with an imaginative postcadential plagalism involving a framing fourth progression: B♭–A♭–G♭–F (over ♭VI–♭III–iv–I)—the soprano solo rising to high B♭5. It is the last moment of real tranquility in the work. (The motivic features that bind together the “Tremens,” “Dies irae,” and “Requiem” sections are summarized in the analytic continuity sketch of ex. 13.2 below.) Verdi brings back the first two lines of the respond (“Libera me” and “quando coeli . . . terra”) in a dramatic recitative for soprano solo that anticipates and forms the retransition to the fugue.

Fugue (mm. 179–421, Allegro risoluto, C minor) The fugue (mm. 179–400), including its coda (mm. 400–21), constitutes the remainder of the work. It returns the complete respond text (Ra Rb Rc) but also adds extensive extraliturgical repetitions. Table 13.1 uses the abbreviations “s” and “a” for subject and answer, with the capital letters SATB (in various entry orders) for the chorus (with the soprano soloist indicated as solo). The subject

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and its tonal answer feature seventh-for-second head motives and concluding cadential tails (V/V to v and V to i). At least initially, there are two fairly regular countersubjects. (The structure of the subject is reviewed in ex. 13.6 below.) The end of the exposition (m. 207) is marked by the entry of the subject in inversion (bass and soprano, on C and F, with a two-measure lag). The episode that ensues (mm. 213ff.) features a fourth progression in parallel 36 sonorities: F–E♭–D–C over A♭–G–F–E♭, with the inner alto voice articulating a chromatic C5–G4 motion (again recall “Tremens”). This episodic fourth progression, a motivic feature related to those found in previous sections, becomes increasingly significant as the fugue progresses. A series of subject entries, recto and inverse, follows by a descending cycle of fifths (“cyc.5ths”: V♭9 of G minor–C minor–F minor; mm. 227ff.). However, a registral exchange of the episodic fourth progression goes awry: A♭–G–F– E♭ recurs not over F–E♭–D–C (thus staying within C minor) but over F–E♭– D♭–C♭ (mm. 233–39) using a six-note (five-pitch) variant of the subject, which produces a “tonal kink” that slips toward A-flat minor (♭vi6, m. 239; see ex. 13.7 below.) The bass C♭ is soon traded for its enharmonic equivalent, B♮, with a PAC to B major (♮VII♯, m. 246), but the tonal direction has become obscure. Are we still headed to ♭VI (A-flat minor) or hung up on C♭/B♮? (See the boldface arrival points C♭, B♮, e♭, and A♭ in table 13.1.) An inverse subject entry (eight-note variant) on B♮ (m. 246) appears as V7 of E minor (♮iii), but following a complete cycle of fifths (“cyc.5ths”)—B (m. 246) back to B (m. 252)—the bass motion suddenly moves up through B♯ and C♯ (= D♭) to E♭, confirmed by a PAC in E♭ minor (m. 262). Overlapping this cadence, an exquisite episode (Canto solo espressivo, dolcissmo), using a languid five-note (four-pitch) variant of the subject in augmentation, moves through G♭5–C5 over E♭3–A♭2, but the overdue arrival of A-flat (♭VI, m. 276) is short lived (and marred by an added seventh, G♭) as it moves quickly upward via enharmonic chromatic 5–6 motion to A major (♮VI♯, underlined in table 13.1). The episodic fourth progression, A–E over C–G with soprano E–B chromatic variant, seems to confirm E minor (♮iii, m. 284; cf. the same progression in C minor, m. 213). However, a sudden sequential motion, based on the cadential tail of the subject—I–V in E minor (to B major as ♮VII♯) followed by I–V in C major (to G major as V)—creates a deus ex machina escape from the C♭/B♮ entrapments and delivers the major mode and home dominant arrival, standing on it extensively (mm. 296–311). This motion from B♮ (or C♭) to G recalls the casting out of a root found at the end of the bassoons interlude (m. 19). (Example 13.9 provides further analytic detail and commentary.) The fugue now moves to the endgame. Back in C minor, a series of stretti seem initially stunned by their tonal stability and furtive pace (R a at m. 312 and m. 320, and R b at m. 328), the last for reduced forces (quattro sole voci

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+ canto solo soaring above). A more episode-like passage (R a, mm. 337–42) is based on a six-note (five-pitch) variant of the subject, subtended from C– ^ ^ ^ ^ 7–6–5 / B♭–A♭–G, the “home” fourth progression (familiar as the generic 8– I–VII–VI–V of “Tremens,” “Dies irae,” etc.). This is interleaved with an elaborated F–E♭–D–C over A♭–G–F–E♭, which is the home-key fourth progression associated with the first fugal episode (m. 213, returning tutta forza at m. 382), thus bringing the two fourth progressions into juxtaposition. The second big dominant arrival in the fugue (mm. 348–50, cf. m. 310) is marked by an elegant DN turn figure for the soprano solo, which is “overdue” as a motivic marker on V (more on this in ex. 13.4 below). The next section (mm. 351–66) stands on a dominant pedal, with an inner voice G trill. The Solo espressivo inverts the word order, imploring “Domine, libera me.” The motive in the voice is a recursive (embedded) statement of the fourth progression G–D; the instrumental accompaniment moves through the same fourth progression subtending four-note seventh-for-second figures from each note. This reflects the gradual bringing together of the seventh-forsecond and fourth-progression motives (as shown in ex. 13.10 below). The “Dum veneris” (R c) buildup returns for the last time (mm. 367–81); however, the dramatic pause on “per ignem” (recall mm. 14–15 and mm. 111– 12) does not recur. Instead, the o34 sound invokes the critical C♭–B♮ ambiguity (m. 374) and pushes through it in a series of parallel V24 and o34 sonorities to a powerful tutti, Tutta forza (mm. 382–88), “Domine . . . libera me.” This passage is the correction and climactic return of the “home” episodic fourth progression: F–E♭–D–C over A♭–G–F–E♭. The whole moves forward from i6 to a magnificently expanded cadential progress (ECP) culminating in a framing statement of the seventh-for-second motive in the solo soprano from high C6, and closing in a literally tremendous (“in die illa tremenda”) cadence (m. 400). The rest (mm. 400–421) is coda. An instrumental interlude once again shows the convergence of the seventh-for-second and fourth-progression motives, both now subtended from the notes of home fourth, C–B♭–A♭–G. ^ ^ ^ 2–3 maggiore “libera me” (over SAT chorus) that The soprano solo adds a 1– recalls as a structural framing gesture the maggiore on “et timeo” (mm. 404– 8, cf. mm. 41–43). The whole passage is then repeated down an octave (with ATB, mm. 409–16). The last measures (mm. 416–21), framing the opening recitative, leave soloist and chorus murmuring “Libera me” on a single note.

Specific Examples Examples 13.1 through 13.10 provide analytical observations on a number of important passages and key features of the “Libera me,” either in the form of annotations to score excerpts or as reductive sketches.

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Example 13.1 provides an annotated score of the Aʹ reprise (mm. 33–44) from the soprano arioso “Tremens” main section (mm. 20–44). The analytical annotations draw attention to three key motivic features: (1) the agitated double-neighbor note motion (DN) that accompanies the soprano soloist’s hyperventilating “Tremens”; (2) the chilling real-sequential progression of back-related applied chords, which supports a chromatic fourth progression (“4th-prg.”) from C5 to G4 in the upper voice; and (3) the cadential progression, twice evaded (mm. 36–38),31 in which the soprano line also introduces as a detail the arpeggiated seventh-for-second motion that will eventually charac^ ^ 6 substituting for 4^ in the local terize the fugue subject (melodic tones 5^ to 6, structural descent). The bass line features a surface anomaly that incorporates both the A♭–E♭ fourth (cellos, m. 40), which was “due” in the real sequence of measure 35 but displaced by the F-sharp “diminished-third” chord), and a superficial auxiliary cadential motion (“aux-cad”; upward beams on E♭–G–C, cellos, mm. 40–41), the local structural V having potentially already arrived on the downbeat of measure 40.32 The codetta (mm. 41–45), with its rising chro^ ^ 5 oscillations in viola and cello, should not be misread as a matic scales and ♭6– ^ ^ ^ 2–3 extension on “et timeo” (and I fear) is a magbanal tierce de Picardie—the 1– giore of timorous terror (see boxed text).33 Example 13.2 posits a continuity sketch of the main recurrent motivic features of the “Tremens,” “Dies irae,” and “Requiem” sections. The “Tremens” sketch (in C minor) summarizes in analytic form the motivic and voice-leading features found in example 13.1: DN around G4; chromatic fourth progression C5 through G4, with real-sequential chordal accompaniment (generic I–VII–VI–V, here i–♭vii–♭VI [o3]–V); seventh-for-second and auxiliary-cadential details; and the postcadential “et timeo” in maggiore. The “Dies irae” (in G minor as V) displays many of the same underlying motivic features: the chromatic-fourth progression (here an upward D5–G5 and a downward G5– D5, m. 45 and m. 54), DN motion (here a broader diatonic triplet around D5, m. 51 and m. 61), and, in the continuation (m. 74 and m. 90), the DN decorations of the fourth progression from G5 to D5, beginning from the A♭5 incomplete neighbor note over the same real-sequential harmonic goals found in the “Tremens” (again, generic I–VII–VI–V in C minor). Also notable is the enharmonic 5–6 motion over the VI step (E♭–E♮ for F♭–E♭), which is found in expanded form later in the fugue, associated with the same scale step (mm. 276–84). In the transition to the “Requiem” section (in B-flat minor, ♭vii) the DN motive around bass register F2 (m. 114) anticipates the a cappella motet proper (m. 132). Following the initial tonic arpeggiation, a diatonic fourth progression (B♭–A♭–G♭–F) is featured; the continuation then picks up the DN motive as the soloist decorates the fourth progression from G♭5 to D♭5. (The lower voice leads in what is essentially a composed-out plagal decoration of the local tonic, in a cycle-of-fifths sequence from E♭3 to B♭2.) The sketch

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Example 13.1. Verdi, Requiem, “Tremens,” mm. 33–45: annotated score, key motivic features.

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in example 13.2 shows the maggiore dolcissimo incipit of the “Et lux perpetua,” which sets up further trade-offs between G♮ and G♭. The closing section (mm. 156–70) uses C♭ (as ♭II) to decorate the local tonic, and leads to an exquisitely expanded pre-dominant (on C major as II over G♮ and E♭ as iv over G♭, mm. 160–63) that also works in a complete chromatic-fourth progression from C5 to G4 (recall “Tremens”) as well as a seventh-for-second closing gesture (F4– D4–B♭3–G3 to A3 and B♭3) in the tenor voice at the cadence. The postcadential plagal extension posits a framing statement of the opening diatonic-fourth progression B♭–A♭–G♭–F, while the soprano solo lifts to the high B♭5. Overall, the continuity sketch in example 13.2 shows key motivic features that link and bind together the disparate sections of the movement. If the “Tremens,” following the “Libera me” introduction, serves as the main section of the movement, the “Dies irae” resembles a macabre scherzo, the “Requiem” a tranquil slow movement, and the “Libera me” fugue a finale-like apotheosis. The agitation and chill of the DN and chromatic-fourth progression in the “Tremens” become the apocalyptic and terrifying chromatic-fourth progression, broad triplets and real-sequential DN motions of the “Dies irae.” In the “Requiem,” the DN first appears in the bass transition and later in the less restive, though still imploring, “dona eis” soprano solo decorations, while a full chromatic C–G fourth progression (at the original “Tremens” pitch) is subtly worked into the pre-dominant cadential prolongation, and that a diatonicfourth progression, B♭–A♭–G♭–F, structurally frames the section (mm. 135–36 and mm. 167–70). (Discussion of the breakout fugue is deferred to examples 13.6, 13.7, 13.9, and 13.10 below.) Example 13.3 describes a peculiar surface harmonic progression from the “Dies irae” section (mm. 86–90). Example 13.2 has shown the DN decorations of the fourth progression G5–D5 in the “Dies irae.” At various points a “pseudo-fourth,” A♭–E♭, emerges (shown in ex. 13.2 as a dotted bracket)— “pseudo” because, despite the superficial strength of A♭–E♭, the overall structural progression remains G–D (mm. 75–89 and mm. 90–112). Example 13.3 shows an instance where support for the A♭–E♭ temporarily surfaces. The progression forms part of a larger motion from ♭vi and ♭VI to V in C minor (end of the sequential I–VII–VI–V bass motion from the continuation). The somewhat strange succession of chords sets the disruptive text “dies irae, dies illa, calamitatis et miseriae, dies magna et amara valde”—“day of wrath, day of fear, of disaster and misery, day of great and intense bitterness.” The progression ♭II6–♯IV7 (“o3”)–V (mm. 86–87) will be recalled from the “Tremens” (m. 23 and m. 35; cf. ex. 13.1), but it is the upper voice that leads here (basses doubled by violins in an appropriately crushing registral space) in the following tonicization of V (G minor, then G major). The stumbling (stent[ando] un poco) A♭–E♭ fourth progression (mm. 87–88) forms a motivic link with the A♭–E♭ “pseudo-fourths” of the preceding and following measures (mm. 75–80

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Example 13.2. Verdi, Requiem, “Tremens,” “Dies irae,” “Requiem”: overview of motivic links.

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and mm. 90–93). The surface movement of the bass line, connecting C3 with itself (i.e., a 6–5 motion from ♭II6 to iv5 over C3, mm. 87–88), counterpoints a diminished-seventh chord of some motivic but no real functional value. The “day of great and intense bitterness,” with its temporary harmonic support for the fourth progression A♭–E♭ as ♭II6 of G minor (v, mm. 87–88), is then forcibly returned to G–D (and V, m. 89). With Verdi, such characteristic musical syntax is not a matter of Wagnerianstyle chromatic voice leading over slow-moving scale steps; nor is it the sequential iteration of distinctive leitmotivic progressions. Rather, these sorts of brash reorderings and juxtapositions of otherwise common sonorities generate surface anomalies in the harmonic progression. It is a syntax of chordal counterpoint that sometimes seems barely willing to disguise its blatant parallelisms and that, particularly in the late works, appears to lurch toward distant tonal areas with a boldness that often makes the underlying motivic purposes difficult to discern, despite the evident clarity of dramatic effect and affect. Example 13.4 claims that the various recurrences of the DN figure and the fourth progression across different sections are part of a larger underlying abstract schematic design, or a structural “string of tokens”:34 the generic descending fourth progression I–VII–VI–V, or C minor/major—B–flat minor/ major—A-flat minor/major—G minor/G major. Each of these scale steps is further marked by some form of DN and fourth progression. As examples 13.1 to 13.3 have shown, Verdi, particularly in the later works, has an imaginative capacity to extract motivic continuity and variety from fundamentally schematic ideas in different expressive contexts. The DN and fourth progression motives on scale steps I and VII are evident in the “Tremens” and “Requiem” sections, respectively. The same motives on scale step V are associated both with the “Dies irae” section and with the subsequent dominant arrivals in the ^ fugue (m. 310, with its cambiata-like tail of rising melodic scale steps 6^ and 7; and m. 350, with its “overdue” clinching turn figure). When it comes to scale step VI, however, the motivic situation is more complicated. There is no “section” in A-flat minor or major, and therefore no presentational moment for the motives on that scale step. However, the fugue does careen toward A-flat minor in an episodic derailment based on the fourth progression A♭–E♭ (mm. 239ff.); and, though the expected DN motion around E♭ over A♭ as VI does not explicitly occur, it is worked into the bass (mm. 262–76) in the passage that prolongs that scale step. The conflict between A-flat major and minor, more specifically between C♮ and C♭ (and its enharmonic equivalent B♮) is writ large in the work and is key to the central poetic idea of deliverance, as will be described later. (Further details are explored in examples 13.8 and 13.9 below.) Example 13.5 suggests that the structural fourth progression C–B♭–A♭–G, shown in example 13.4, is also anticipated, though somewhat hidden, in the

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Example 13.3. Verdi, Requiem, “Dies irae,” mm. 86–90: anomalous surface harmonic progression.

Example 13.4. Verdi, Requiem: abstract schematic design: I–VII–VI–V and key motivic features.

introductory “Libera me” (mm. 4, 7, 9, 11, and 14). The analytic sketch shows how the choral “tonal/tectonic fault” ♭III–♭II (described in table 13.1 above) projects parallel fifths, E♭–B♭ to D♭–A♭. As the passage begins with i (C minor), even though the tonic is not explicitly stated until the beginning of the main section (“Tremens,” m. 20), it ends with V (G major) and an underlying fourth progression, C–B♭–A♭–G, is implied. The final arpeggiation up to the incomplete neighbor note A♭5 culminates in the soloist’s dramatic pause on “per ignem.” Thus the overall structural motion of this opening section is ^ moving to a dramatic incomplete neigha sustained principal tone of G5 (5) ^ ^ ^ bor note, A♭5 (♭6), with a 3–2 inner voice (E♭5–D5) and an additional, more foreground-level motivic inner-voice motion through the fourth progression C–B♭–A♭–G.35

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Example 13.5. Verdi, Requiem, “Libera me,” introduction (mm. 1–14): underlying schematic structure.

Example 13.6 shows the initial subject-answer exchange of the choral fugue (mm. 179–93). The underlying harmonic progression is i to v in the subject, and V (minor adjusted to major) back to i in the tonal answer. The crashing cadences built into the end of the theme mean that the tail of the subject (or answer) can be strongly directed to a PAC tonal goal (even a fairly remote one as things evolve). The head motive of the subject features a descending Example 13.6. Verdi, Requiem, fugue: subject and answer, mm.179–19.

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seventh-for-second arpeggiation, so called because the stepwise motion from 1^ ^ up to 2^ is displaced by a descending seventh from 8^ down to 2. Notwithstanding the initial descending seventh-for-second gesture, the ^ folunderlying motion of the subject is upward through a fifth (from 1^ to 5), ^ ^ lowed by another fifth (from 5 up to 2, the dominant of v). The tonal answer ^ followed by the is adjusted (B♭ squeezed to B♮) as a fourth (from 5^ up to 8) ^ ^ home fifth (from 1 to 5, the dominant for the PAC back into i for the next entry). The underlying structure however is once again, as in the “Libera me” ^ ^ 2 inner voice motion (E♭ to D) under a sustained 5^ (G). This introduction, a 3– is shown in the upper staff of example 13.6. Example 13.7 provides a high-level overview of pivotal elements in the fugue. After the exposition (mm. 179–207) with its heavy cadential exchanges to V and I, an episode (mm. 214–19) displays a characteristic fourth progression in the home key, F–E♭–D–C over A♭–G–F–E♭, with a chromatic C–G motion in an inner voice (alto). As was noted in the overview of table 13.1, when the linear intervallic pattern 6–6–6–6 is exchanged for 10–10–10–10 in this passage (mm. 233–39), a tonal derailment occurs: A♭–G–F–E♭ is placed not over F–E♭–D–C, but over F–E♭–D♭–C♭, thus shifting off the tonic toward A-flat minor (♭vi6). This suggests that the expected move to a generic VI (♭vi or ♭VI), shown in the abstract design of example 13.4, might actually materialize. The reality, however, is more complex: an extended auxiliary cadential motion (C♭, m. 239; E♭, m. 262; A♭, m. 276) eventually arrives on ♭VI (m. 276), but, in getting there, it exploits conflicts between C♭ and B♮, eventually casting out a root (♮VII♯–V) in the deus ex machina sequence that connects B♮ as V of E minor to G as V of C major to achieve the dominant arrival. (Compare example 13.8, m. 19; further details of this challenging passage are illustrated in example 13.9.) The remainder of example 13.7 shows that the “correct” version of the fourth progression, F–E♭–D–C over A♭–G–F–E♭, is eventually Example 13.7. Verdi, Requiem, fugue: structural overview, episodic fourth progression, and tonal kinks.

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reclaimed (m. 382, tutta forza) and that the structural descent in the home key is achieved at measures 388–400. The overall background of the fugue (and of ^ in C minor which structurally descends to the movement as a whole) is a 5–line ^ ^ ^ 1 only at the climactic cadence, with 4^ supported by ii7 (m. 394), and the 3– 2 motion occurring over an extended V (mm. 394–400). Example 13.8 shows that the central conflict between C♭ and B♮, along with many other important motivic features, is astonishingly prefigured in the parenthetic passage from the “Libera me” introduction that Julien Budden aptly describes as the “sinister clucking and purring of the four bassoons.”36 The passage, which is significantly rewritten in the 1874 version, serves as a parenthetic connection between the dramatically abandoned soprano solo pause on “per ignem” (V♭9, superficially viio34, m. 14) and the beginning of the main section, “Tremens” (m. 20). The bassoon interlude keeps the diminished-seventh sonority alive and then moves through a quick cadential motion in the bass under a DN melodic gesture (C–D♭–B♮–C), with all voices ending up on a hollow tonic (m. 17). (The upward beamed E♭–G–C in m. 19 is marked as “aux-cad” to show its auxiliary-cadential potential, since the local structural V is effectively present before the passage begins.) This passage continues against the sustained tonic with descending parallel chromatic thirds followed by a descending fourth progression (C3– ^ ^ ^ 2–3) that moves from i through an applied V24 of G2 under a rising treble 1– 6 6 iv and an augmented 4 to V46. Between the 46 and its resolution, however, fur3 ther parenthetic fallout occurs: V24 of ♭II6 (D♭) falls through two more fifths (“cyc. 5th”) into the abyss, to G♭ and then to C♭—notionally “♭I.” The home dominant is then abruptly reclaimed via an implied 5–6 motion, “casting out” the octave-jumping root, G. (The box on the upper right details the implied Example 13.8. Verdi, Requiem, introduction: bassoon interlude, “casting out root,” mm. 15–19.

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enharmonics and voice leadings—as noted earlier, a kind of exorcism is performed by the motion from “♭I” to V via 5–6 technique.) It is remarkable that although they seem mere surface anomalies at this point, almost all of these details—the DN, apparent auxiliary cadence, chromatic parallelism, fourth progression, dominant 46 approach and arrival, cycle-of-fifths fallout, C♭/B♮ conflict, and 5–6 “casting out” of a root—are unique to the 1874 version. As has been shown in the previous examples, they become motivic features that create continuities across sections and anticipate the central tonal and poetic conflict of the work. Example 13.9 provides an analytic sketch of the most challenging passage in the fugue, where these complexities—specifically the C♭/B♮ conflict— reach maximum confusion: from the derailment of ♭vi6 (m. 239) to the home key’s dominant arrival (m. 296). The first part of the sketch shows how the ♭vi6 (A-flat-minor in first inversion) might be understood enharmonically as G-sharp minor in the local move to B major (♮VII♯, m. 246). The PAC in B major (at this point, possibly still C-flat) arises from the cadential tail of the subject (see the ascent from B4 to F♯5 and the voice-exchange markings on the sketch). The conflict between B major, as ♮VII♯, and C-flat major, as notional “♭I,” will be recalled from the bassoon interpolation (see ex. 13.8, m. 19). In the context of C minor (and major), C-flat is in the flat-side orbit of E-flat minor and A-flat minor; B is in the sharp-side orbit of E minor, A major, and G major. The next passage seems to confirm the sharp-side orientation as the inverted subject entry from B2 (m. 246, upward arrow on sketch) yields E minor. As the passage continues, however, B moves upward through B♯ and a registrally displaced C♯ (m. 254, enharmonically D♭) to E♭ (m. 257). Following a nod again to A-flat minor (46 in m. 258), a PAC to E-flat minor ensues (m. 262). The sketch shows how the displaced fourth progression C♭–B♭–A♭–G♭ (the altos subtending six-note [five-pitch] variants of the subject from the first two notes) over A♭–G♭–F–E♭ drives toward the cadence, and how additional embedded statements of A♭–G♭–F–E♭ represent the “overdue” fourth progression on VI (♭vi, A-flat minor), matching those that occurred previously on I (C minor) in the “Tremens” section and VII (B-flat minor) in the “Requiem” section, in accordance with the abstract schema (see ex. 13.4). The next passage is the episode-like Canto solo espressivo and dolcissmo section (mm. 262–76). Here, the solo soprano subtends five-note (four-pitch) variants of the subject in augmentation in a motion through a diminished fifth, G♭5–C5, in parallel structural tenths with the bass, E♭–A♭. This is shown as an unfolding in the sketch, since it is in effect a 10–7 motion preparing the G♭ in A♭7 (m. 276). Remarkably, the deep tremolandi and the bass motion decorate each note of the descent from E♭ to A♭ with an accented (^) neighbor (shown as a turn figure with exclamation mark on the sketch). This is yet another variant of the DN motion that, again in the abstract schema, would at some point

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Example 13.9. Verdi, Requiem, fugue: tonal kinks and deus ex machina, mm. 239–311.

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Example 13.9.—(continued)

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Example 13.9.—(concluded)

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be “due” on E♭ as the upper fifth of A♭. In essence, it is a more loosely and extensively composed-out variant of the bass DN on F2 (m. 114) that, as the upper fifth of B♭, unfolded into the “Requiem” (m. 132). Notable throughout this passage is the recurrent (structurally retained) upper-voice F♯5 (or G♭5, its enharmonic equivalent), which is quite variably supported. (It is the fifth of B, the half-diminished fifth of B♯o7, the third of E♭, the seventh of A♭7, the fifth of C♭, and the ninth of E7—see the asterisks * in example 13.9.) The soprano solo features an arpeggiated C♭/B-major triad on the text “libera me” (G♭5–E♭5–B4, beamed as “? arp. B/C♭” in ex. 13.9), as if to maintain the presence of that conflicted scale step; this motive is a striking addition in the 1874 version. The bass A♭ (mm. 276 and 280), revalued as G♯ (m. 283), moves through a chromatic 5–♭6–5 motion that connects it to A♮ (♮VI♯, m. 284). This strongly recalls the earlier powerful E♮/F♭ neighbor-note motion, also over A♭ (but returning to it; cf. “Dies irae” section, mm. 80–83). In the upper voice, the G♭5 is again revalued as ^ over the ♮VI♯ F♯5 (see “*” and “!” in ex. 13.9), now driving toward E5 (♮3) scale step (m. 284). On a larger scale, there has been a significant shift across this passage (mm. 239–84) from the minor mode and flat side (♭vi) toward the major mode and the sharp side (♮VI♯) via the cycle-of-fifths and 5–6 motions. The “overdue” arrival on ♭VI (A-flat minor) is undermined by the quick shift to ♮VI♯ (A major). The continuation (m. 284) provides a new episodic statement of the fourth progression A–G–F♯–E over C–B–A–G, with a solo chromatic E–B motion; this passage is apparently, and it would seem rather desperately, in E minor. (It is derived from the similar motivic combination and progression in m. 213 in C minor.) This sharp-side major-mode move (to E minor as iii of C major) seems about to be confirmed when the strongly directed tail of the fugue’s subject drives from E minor to a dominant arrival on B major (as V of E minor). However, the cadence to E minor does not arrive. Instead, a sequential repetition of the tail (down a third) drives from C major to G major—and seizes it as the home dominant. (The example also shows how these motions again use voice exchanges as initial springboards.) Remarkably, the arrival points of these back-related dominant progressions (E to B, and C to G) form the same ♮VII♯–V (B–G) “casting out of a root” relation that occurred as the C♭ (=B)–G surface anomaly back in measure 19 (cf. ex. 13.8)! And so the C♭ (= B), which had tumbled into the abyss from an apparently careless sequential overextension in the opening bassoons interlude (m. 19) and passed through the enharmonic crucible of C♭/B revaluations in the fugue (mm. 239, 246, and 276–84), is reaffirmed and overcome, quasi deus ex machina, through the powerful model sequence (mm. 290–96) that achieves the home dominant arrival (mm. 296–311).

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This dominant arrival is the most optimistically striving section of the movement. Over the V pedal, the iteration of “movendi sunt” in ascending scalar fourths, C5–F, D–G, E–A, F–B5, crests on the leading note, and embeds a ^ ^ 4– deeper fourth progression from G5 to D5, a quasi interruption motion, 5– ^ ^ 3–2, over the pedal. (This is beamed in ex. 13.7.) Also embedded is another statement of the (partially) chromatic fourth progression from C5 to (implied) G4 (marked with a dotted line in ex. 13.7). The melodic motion of “et terra” on the raised scale steps 6^ and 7^ (mm. 308–11, boxed in ex. 13.9) recalls and “corrects” the preceding irregular succession of harmonic scale steps, ♮VI♯ (m. 284) and ♮VII♯ (m. 293), effectively exchanging melodic “tokens” for the previous harmonic ones. Example 13.10 shows the end of the fugue (and the movement) in more detail, beginning with the DN turn figure that marks the second big V arrival (m. 350).37 Above the inner-voice dominant pedal (a soft, trilling G–F♯), the basic fourth progression is now explicitly “corrected” to G–F–E♭–D. From each note of this fourth progression is subtended a seventh-for-second motion in the low register, followed by a scalar fourth motion in the upper register; this passage thus brings these two seminal motives into convergence. The displacement (one-measure lag) between them results in a poignant series of colliding sevenths—as if the combined motions are still not quite able to find release from the specter of the double-neighbor note, unable to find the peace and liberation of the soul from eternal damnation. The vestigial anxiety is confirmed when the “Dum veneris” passage returns one final time (from m. 367). This time, rather than the soprano solo, the basses arpeggiate a partial diminished seventh, F–A♭–C♭, once again reaffirming the ambiguity and conflict between C♭ and B♮. A series of parallel 24 sonorities pushes through a o34 tonicization of iv6, leading to the tutta forza passage (m. 382). It becomes clear that part of the impact of this powerful expanded cadential progression (ECP) stems from its remarkable enlargement of the fourth progression—now a diatonic F–E♭–D–C over A♭–G–F–E♭ (i6) in the home key—as well as its broad turnlike (quasi DN) melodic details (recalling the “Dies irae” triplets, mm. 51–53 and 61–63). Once again, however, the effort seems to seek “deliverance” par force. In the cadential progression that follows, the soprano solo climbs to a climactic sustained C6 while the bass composes down a seventh-for-second from C4 to D3. The resulting ii7 chord represents the “background” predominant harmony, which is immediately confirmed by a compressed statement of the same seventh-for-second motive in the soprano solo—a magnificent structural framing gesture of the head motive of the fugue subject! The cadence (one of the greatest in the repertoire) is so powerful that it transcends human entreaty. The focus shifts from the human to the omnipotent, from the plea for deliverance to the power of the deity, from “libera me” to “illa tremenda.”

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Example 13.10. Verdi, Requiem, end of fugue: tutta forza and motivic convergence, mm. 350–421.

The coda (mm. 400–21), collapsing back to the human level, replaces the earlier inner-voice dominant pedal with a tonic pedal (m. 400). Again formed from the combination of seventh-for-second and scalar fourth motions, the passage embeds the home fourth progression: C–B♭–A♭–G (see the brackets ^ ^ ^ 2–3 maggiore gesture explicitly recalls (sans in ex. 13.10). The postcadential 1– text) the “et timeo” postcadential passage at the end of the “Tremens” (mm. 40–43)—thus providing a subtle structural framing (or closing parallelism) that associates the end of the “Tremens” with the end of “Libera me.” This powerful though tacit textual association—“libera me” with “et timeo”—contributes significantly to the darker sentiments that pervade this movement. The end of the work is more resigned than resolved, a tierce-tempered tremor rather than an affirmation of faith.

Conclusion In his essay “On the Fantasy” (1988), Edward Laufer notes that “the term fantasy often denotes a work of improvisatory character, as if without clear direction,

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in which the composer seemingly loses his way, goes astray, and returns to the crossroads, so to speak, to try again. This procedure may be expressed through a kind of motto, or middleground motive, which, restated and transformed, is the carrier of the musical dénouement. In this type of fantasy, then, it is the simple, poetic or programmatic idea which underlies the musical continuity, not a specific formal design.” He emphasizes “the necessity of going beyond the voice-leading technicalities to take into account the underlying compositional ideas,” and characterizes the fantasy as “a form of developing restatements, growing out of a simple programmatic, poetic conception.”38 In the case of Verdi’s “Libera me,” the tonal conflicts between C♭ and B♮ (between the flat side and the sharp side) result in a situation where we—composer, listener, supplicant—appear to lose our way. The middleground motto of the descending fourth progression C–B♭–A♭–G (I–VII–VI–V), along with its various associated DN (and later seventh-for-second) motions, is regularly restated and transformed, returning to the crossroads of motivic correspondence with each new section. Although the “Libera me” employs many formal and generic conventions, there is an underlying poetic or programmatic idea: namely, the concept of deliverance from eternal death. The piece is, in a word, fantasy-like. In examining the text, formal, and tonal layout of Verdi’s “Libera me,” this essay has demonstrated how certain apparent anomalies in the surface progressions can have broad motivic and tonal consequences. It has, in particular, shown how Verdi has fashioned motivic links (as variants on schematic “strings of tokens”) to create unity and continuity of compositional design across formal subdivisions, often in some rather fantastical ways. These motivic links include: (1) the double-neighbor note (DN) motives of the “Tremens,” “Dies irae,” and “Requiem” sections and their poignant remnants in the fugue and its coda; (2) the various fourth progressions—C–G, B♭–F, A♭–E♭, and G–D— that underlie much of the surface motion of the movement, as well as the ^ ^ ^ ^ 7–6–5, or I–VII–VI–V), with its related real sequence i, ♭vii, ♭vi, V (generic 8– implications for the large-scale tonal design; and (3) the seventh-for-second head motive of the fugue, which eventually melds entries and episodes, fourth progressions and sequential motions. In poetic terms, there can be no more profound dilemma for tonal-structural design than (4) an apparent conflict between I and ♭I, an enharmonic confusion of ♭I and ♮VII♯. Verdi’s “Libera me” exploits this conflict, at first almost accidentally (m. 19); later more elaborately, in the enharmonic entrapments and revaluations of C♭ and B♮ in the fugue (mm. 239, 246, and 275–84); and finally, at the point of maximum textual and textural density (mm. 290– 94), through a forcible regaining of the home dominant via a model sequence. This gesture, though it can technically be shown to recall the VII–V motion of measure 19 in a rather fantastic manner, gives a greater poetic impression as a deus ex machina, a kind of tonal rescue by divine sequential intervention.

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As David Rosen observes, in the reception history of Verdi’s Requiem “the fugue seems to have been considered the most problematic part of the entire work.”39 He notes that, though it was praised by Tovey and Toye, the “Libera me” and the “Sanctus” fugues were considered stiff by Hanslick, and Hussey regretted that the work did not end altogether with the “Requiem” reprise, claiming: “The fugue may be admirable as a fugue . . . but its movement has always seemed too jaunty and its style too trivial to make it a satisfactory coping stone to the great edifice.” Toye, more accurately, observes rather that the fugue is “so dynamic and insistent that one seems to sense the clamor of a multitude intent on achieving salvation by violence.”40 That moment of violent salvation is experienced in the deus ex machina sequence and its dominant arrival (mm. 290–311), and again in the divine omnipotence of the tremendous final cadence (mm. 382–400). Although Verdi’s creative capacity for theatrical and musical expression does not require that he “believe” in his operatic narratives, his personal relationship to the Requiem is perhaps more valuable to discern. The question of whether the end of the Requiem is optimistic or pessimistic, or whether it is at best ambiguous or even ambivalent, might understandably be linked to our awareness of Verdi’s own religious views. As Charles Osborne notes: “Manzoni’s liberal ideas were anathema to the church, but there is no doubt throughout his lifetime he considered himself a Christian believer and a Catholic. The composer who contemplated honoring Manzoni’s memory with a Requiem Mass was, however, not a believer but an atheist, willing in his more contemplative moments to soften his attitude to one of agnosticism, but implacably opposed to organized religion.”41 Osborne goes on to quote Giuseppina Verdi’s view of her husband’s lack of conventional religious belief. Frank Walker, on the basis of his extensive review of Verdi’s letters and documents, goes even further: “It seems utterly beyond dispute that at this time Verdi was an unrepentant atheist, and that Giuseppina herself, although deeply religious, in the sense that she believed in a God, a Supreme Being, was yet very far indeed from being an orthodox Catholic.”42 In this context, the unsettled ambiguity of the conclusion of the Messa da Requiem seems inevitable. Of the later sections of the fugue, Toye notes: “Perhaps the most remarkable point about it is the poignant effect achieved when the soprano soloist first enters in augmentation [m. 262], with notes of twice the preceding value; but the whole fugue is charged with an emotional intensity not usually associated with the form, the final section that begins with the words ‘Dum veneris’ [m. 367] suggesting almost a threat of conspiracy!” Of the ending, Toye correctly interprets: “Force has failed; only the appeal to mercy remains, now so abject that it is spoken rather than sung.”43 Rosen points out that this outcome is also found in Verdi’s Stabat Mater and Te Deum, “which reach resounding, affirmative climaxes and then deflate them, falling into doubt and despair.”44

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For Verdi, what matters most in the Messa da Requiem is to convey the deeply human emotional experience normally associated with opera, not the superficial spiritual modeling of sacred music associated with a few ecclesiastical tropes. Verdi’s framing murmur of “libera me,” with its chilling recollection of “et timeo,” leaves us with a frisson of fear and doubt, recognizing that salvation is an unknown mercy, a grace beyond our direct capacity to influence or to comprehend. Throughout the “Libera me” movement, the plaintive neighboring and crushing real-sequential gestures repeatedly project an anguished, parallel, descending-bass motion, I–VII–VI–V. To be sure, the middleground perspective reflected in the analytic graphs assists comprehension of this challenging design. At the same time, such perspective does not gainsay the existential dilemma—the foreground discontinuities, surface anomalies, and tonal disruptions that are composed into the work. Verdi’s solution to the compositional problem—to realize the potential of these conflicts while finding new paths through but perhaps not fully out of their entrapment—is profound. Details and large-scale structures portray a compositional design whose poetic idea allegorically embodies an impassioned and ultimately restless plea for deliverance.

Notes

1.

An earlier version of this paper was delivered many years ago at a Verdi session of the meeting of the Music Theory Society of New York State, Ithaca College, November 13, 1992, when I was on the faculty at what is now the Schulich School of Music of McGill University. I revisited the analysis around 2001 (the centennial year of Verdi’s death) and again in 2013 (the bicentennial of his birth), but, due to administrative obligations, was able to complete only the present significantly revised study for this collection in memoriam Edward Laufer. I was a student of Laufer in the late 1970s and became his colleague at the University of Toronto from 1979 to 1988. He was fond of late Verdi, including Otello and Falstaff, and appreciated the challenges of the Requiem, though it is unknown at this point whether his legacy materials contain any analytical work on Verdi. Verdi’s full title is Messa da Requiem per l’anniversario della morte di Manzoni 22 maggio 1874. The most succinct history of the 1869 planned collaborative mass for Rossini and its relation to the 1874 Manzoni Requiem is found in David Rosen, Verdi: Requiem (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 1–10, and in greater documentary detail in Rosen’s “Introduction” to the Messa da Requiem volume of the complete critical edition of The Works of Giuseppe Verdi (Chicago: University of Chicago Press; Milan: Ricordi, 1990), xi–xx. The Works volume contains critical editions of both versions and includes the 1869 “Libera me” as Appendix 2. The documentary work was first undertaken

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in David Rosen, “The Genesis of Verdi’s Requiem” (PhD diss., University of California, Berkeley, 1976). Letter to Mazzucato: “Il desidero di scriver, più tardi, la Messa per intiero; tanto più che non qualche maggiore sviluppo mi troverei aver già fatti il Requiem ed il Dies irae, di cui è il riepilogo nel Libera già composto.” Verdi, Copialettere (Milano: Stucchi Ceretti, 1913), CXX, 243; translated in Charles Osborne, Letters of Giuseppe Verdi (New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1972), 173. Alberto Mazzucato (1813–77) was a key figure in nineteenth-century Italian music criticism. He was first violinist at La Scala from 1859, director of the Milan Conservatory from 1872, a composer and teacher, and the sometime editor of the Gazzetta musicale. He was also a member of the organizing committee for the failed collaborative venture of the Rossini Requiem. In the 1874 Messa da Requiem, of course the “Libera me” “finale” follows the other movements. However, its materials were composed first for the Rossini project, and thus, with some important modifications, “cast back” to form parts of the earlier movements. From the perspective of a listener to the 1874 work, and without going into laborious detail, examples of materials from earlier movements that recur in the “Libera me” (no. 7) include: (a) From no. 1 (“Requiem e Kyrie”) the “Requiem” opening motive, its sequential continuation (mm. 12–16), and the maggiore “et lux perpetua” (mm. 17ff.). No. 1 is in A minor/major (which, with suitable transitional adjustments, was the original key of the “Requiem” section in the 1869 “Libera me”); in the 1874 version, the modified return of no. 1 in no. 7 is transposed to B-flat minor/major. (b) From no. 2 (“Dies irae”) the opening is recalled in the “Libera me.” In no. 2, this music also recurs at measures 239 and 573. The passage from no. 2 that is set to the Sequence text “solvet saeculum in favilla, teste David cum Sybilla” (mm. 21–28) is set in no. 7 (responsory) to a repeat of “dies irae, dies illa” (mm. 65–72); similarly the passage from no. 2 that is set to “dies irae” (mm. 29ff.) is set in no. 7 to the text “calamitatis et miseriae” (mm. 73–76). (c) A hint of the tuckets that introduce the “Tuba mirum” (no. 2, part 2) appear before the return of the “Requiem” in no. 7. (d) The prominent C♭–B♭ neighbor-note motion over a B♭ pedal, which is found at the end of the “Requiem” section in no. 7, is prefigured in the “Ingemisco” at “Preces meae non sunt digne” (mm. 470–73). (e) The “Lacrymosa” (no. 2, mm. 624ff.)—though derived from a discarded Don Carlos duet “Oui, je l’amais . . . sa noble parole a l’âme révélait un monde nouveau!”—shares not just the B-flat-minor key with the “Requiem” section of no. 7 but is also prepared by the same chromatic neighbor note motion (mm. 620ff.) and includes the same beautiful voice-leading detail in the tenor voice: ^ ^ ^ the seventh-for-second leading to a 6– 7–8 scoop (cf. m. 682, “dona eis,” and no. 7’s mm. 164–66, “luceat eis”). For the derivation of the “Lachrymosa” from the Don Carlos duet, see Rosen, Verdi: Requiem, 76–79. (f) The fugue subject of no. 4, “Sanctus,” has been widely appreciated as a contour inversion of the “Libera me” fugue subject. (g) Finally, the “Lux aeterna,” no. 6, although it features a quite different setting of the “Requiem” verse, anticipates the B-flat minor/major tonality of that

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section in no. 7 and, at the change to major, compresses the distinctive neighbor-note detail, G–F, into an oscillation for high violins and piccolo. The autograph of the Rossini Mass surfaced around 1969, about a hundred years after it was written. It closed speculation about the relationship between the 1869 and 1874 versions of the “Libera me”; David Rosen’s “Introduction” to the critical edition of The Works of Giuseppe Verdi provides editorial details. Although one can agree with Rosen’s general sentiment that the 1874 version is “a revealing but not radical revision of the earlier piece” or with Julien Budden that “the ‘Libera me’ of the composite Mass and that of the Manzoni Requiem are essentially the same,” both authors go on to discuss quite significant changes between the versions, changes that support several key analytical readings in this study. See Rosen, Verdi: Requiem, 10; and Julian Budden, Verdi (London: J. M. Dent, 1985, rev. 1993), 316. “Seventh-for-second” refers to the displacement of the stepwise motion from 1^ up to 2^ by a descending seventh from 8^ down to 2^ (a very common occurrence in the literature, but motivically significant here). A locus classicus of “seventhfor-second” is the opening of Bach’s B-flat-major Prelude from WTC I, where D5 moves down to E♭4, rather than up to E♭5, via a chain-of-thirds sequence, D–B♭–G–E♭; notable is the exquisite crunch of the neighbor-note D4 against the E♭4, binding the sonorities together. Schenkerian approaches to Verdi include: Matthew Brown and Roger Parker, “Motivic and Tonal Interaction in Verdi’s Un Ballo in maschera,” Journal of the American Musicological Society 36, no. 2 (1983): 243–65; and “‘Ancora un bacio’: Three Scenes from Verdi’s Otello,” 19th Century Music 9, no. 1 (Summer 1985): 50–62; Parker, “Motives and Recurring Themes in Aida,” in Analyzing Opera: Verdi and Wagner, ed. Carolyn Abbate and Roger Parker (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1989), 222–38; David Lawton, “Tonal Systems in Aida, Act III,” in Analyzing Opera, 262–75; and Giorgio Sanguinetti, “Dramatic Functions of ‘Tonal Field’: The Second Duet ‘Carlos–Élisabeth’ in Verdi’s Don Carlos,” in Essays from the Third International Schenker Symposium [1999], ed. Allen Cadwallader (Hildesheim: Olms, 2006), 81–102. Less overtly Schenkerian are the two studies of Requiem movements by John Roeder: “Pitch and Rhythmic Dramaturgy in Verdi’s Lux Aeterna,” 19th Century Music 14, no. 2 (1990): 169–85, which includes a discussion of the opening chords (mm. 1–15) and the “scale-degree functions of chromatically adjacent pitch-classes” (175–77); and “Formal Functions of Hypermeter in the Dies Irae of Verdi’s Messa da Requiem,” Theory and Practice 19 (1994): 83–104, which hypermetrically confirms aspects of the motivic design of the fourth progression in that section as it recurs in the “Libera me.” Schenker’s two brief comments in the “Miscellenea” sections of Das Meisterwerk in der Musik question the value of the Franz Werfel–led “Verdi renaissance” and relegate Verdi to “natural history” versus “art history” and to “talent” versus “genius.” See Schenker, The Masterwork in Music, ed. William Drabkin (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press), vol. 2 (1926) [1996], 130, and vol. 3 (1930) [1997], 71. The Miscellanea sections are translated by Ian Bent. Reprinted in Hellmut Federhofer, Heinrich Schenker als Essayist und Kritiker (Hildesheim: Georg Olms, 1990), 44–48 and 85–89.

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10.

11. 12. 13.

14. 15. 16. 17.

18. 19.

20. 21.

22. 23.

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See the diary entry on the radio broadcast of the Requiem (October 29, 1930); an earlier entry (November 8, 1926) makes slightly more positive reference to a performance of Verdi’s String Quartet; full texts for both entries are available from www.schenkerdocumentsonline.org (accessed April 22, 2016). The history of this debate, which includes famous contributions from Eduard Hanslick and Hans von Bülow (the latter countered by Brahms, with Bülow later reneging directly to Verdi) is summarized, critiqued, and elaborated by David Rosen in “A Question of Genre,” in Verdi: Requiem, 89–97. Leonard Meyer, “A Pride of Prejudices: Or, Delight in Diversity,” Music Theory Spectrum 13, no. 2 (1991): 241–51. Ibid., 244. Steven Huebner, “Structural Coherence,” in The Cambridge Companion to Verdi, ed. Scott L. Balthazar (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 139–53; quotation from 140. Ibid., 142. Ibid., 152–53. For Rosen’s dissertation and his critical edition of the Messa da Requiem in Verdi’s Works (1990), see note 2 above. David Rosen, “Reprise as Resolution in Verdi’s Messa da Requiem,” Theory and Practice 19 (1994): 105–20; and Verdi: Requiem, in particular chap. 9, “The Libera me and Its Genesis,” 60–74. Rosen, “Reprise,” 105. Ibid., 114–15 and ex. 5. Rosen summarizes the “progressively abbreviated and simplified” variants of the fugue subject: complete (mm. 179–86, 2 + 3 + 3-measure phrase structure), six-note variant (mm. 233–34), five-note variant (mm. 262–63), and “motivic dialogue” (mm. 351–55, four-note variant for soprano and strings). Rosen counts the rhythmic iteration of the initial note, so that his “six-note version” (mm. 233–34) has five pitches, his “five-note version” (mm. 262–63) four pitches, and the “motivic dialogue” (mm. 351–55, without rhythmic iteration) also four. Rosen, Requiem, 60. Rosen, Requiem, chap. 11, 80–88, and exx. 11.1–11.3. Rosen’s “families of themes” posit loose contour associations within and across movements: descending arpeggiations and conjunct motions through a third or fourth. Such general affinities are more precisely defined in the motivic relations shown in the analytic examples of this study. Rosen, Requiem, chap. 12, 89–97. In terms of the compositional history of the work, the reverse is true—the earlier movements were derived from materials first conceived for the 1869 “Libera me.” The expression “casting out a root” or “addition of a root” comes from Schenker. Free Composition, chap. 3, sec. 2, discusses the “incomplete transference of the forms of the fundamental structure,” including the “auxiliary cadence” (§244–45, fig. 110). The section continues with “the descending third, VII–V” (§246, fig. 111), and in section 3’s discussion of “Addition of a Root” (§247, fig. 112), Oster’s technically helpful translation of Schenker’s

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rather cryptically poetic “Auswerfen eines Grundtones” [literally, “casting out a root”], clarifies the concept. In “Libera me,” measure 19 (shown in detail in ex. 13.8), the VII–V motion is spelled enharmonically “♭I”–V (C♭–G rather than B♮–G), and the G is understood as an “addition of a root” below the C♭/ B♮; or, alternatively, in the implied chromatic inner-voice motion from G♭/ F♯ to G♮ (and from E♭/D♯ to D♮) the G♮ is “cast out” (below the neighboring 5–6 enharmonic motion) to form the root dominant. In the context of the “Libera me” and its plea for the release of the soul at death, given the early entrapment on “♭I” with the subsequent sleight of hand in the move to V (m. 19) and the deus ex machina eventually needed to achieve deliverance and dominant arrival in the parallel passage (mm. 290–94), Schenker’s notion of “casting out” seems particularly germane. See Schenker, Free Composition (Der freie Satz), New Musical Theories and Fantasies trans. and ed. Ernst Oster (New York and London: Longman, 1979), 3:88–90; Der freie Satz, Neue musikalische Theorien und Phantasien (Vienna: Universal Edition, 1935); rev. ed. by Oswald Jonas (1956), 3:137–41. The generic I–VII–VI–V and I–III–V occur in a number of inflections. In specific instances, lower case letters are used for minor chords, upper case for major chords, and C minor is understood as the default key and mode. Thus B major is ♮VII♯, E minor ♮iii, A-flat minor ♭vi, and C-flat-major notional “♭I.” Apart from the liturgical differences in text between Sequence (movement 2) and responsory (here), the music of the “Dies irae” section of the second movement is largely the same as that recapitulated in the “Libera me.” The 1874 version, however, differs from its 1869 predecessor in several significant ways. The shorter 1869 version (1869: mm. 42–103) lacks the introductory orchestral strokes, the dotted anacruses of chromatic fourth progressions, and the slow triplet double-neighbor (DN) motions, as well as their repetition with iconic bass-drum off-beats. These are all central elements in the analytical claim for enhanced motivic continuity in the 1874 version. For a comparison of the 1869 and 1874 openings of the “Dies irae,” see Budden, Verdi, 316–17 and ex. 79. The enharmonic neighbor-note relation (Nn) connecting A-flat and E/F-flat major (mm. 80–83) is enhanced by a powerful syncopation in the 1874 version; see Rosen, Requiem, 65–66, ex. 9.3. The Nn relation is subtly recalled within one of the most tonally challenging passages in the fugue (specifically, mm. 280–82, as annotated in ex. 13.9). The seventh-for-second figure, though composed out, could also be considered built into the soprano line in the motion from A♭5 to B♮4 over the V♭9 pedal (mm. 90–97). In the 1869 version, the modulatory goal is A minor rather than B-flat minor. The move to F (embellished by neighboring B-flat-minor 46 chords) is sequentially repeated on E (embellished by neighboring A-minor 46 chords). In the 1874 version the embellishing chord is a G-flat-major neighbor to F. There is typically a performance practice intonation challenge for the basses: the F2 merely has to be matched from the previous F3 in viio43; however, the tendency for the former to resolve downward means that turning it into a stable

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dominant preparation for the eventual B-flat-minor “Requiem” section often requires some cognitive gymnastics. The recollection of the first movement is in B-flat minor, rather than the original A minor, with the formerly instrumental material (“strings with sporadic choral declamation”; Rosen, Requiem, 67) now fully realized by the a cappella chorus without interjections. Rosen reviews Verdi’s transpositional practice, noting its typical link to the vocal qualities of particular singers, in this instance the soprano soloist Teresa Stolz. The present study, however, claims that any circumstantial rationale for the key change should also take into account its result, which creates the deep-level scale-step succession I (“Tremens,” C minor) to VII (“Requiem,” B-flat minor), as well as its various middleground and foreground affirmations. The concept of the evaded cadence and other form-functional terminology is derived from William E. Caplin, Classical Form: A Theory of Formal Functions for the Instrumental Music of Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven (New York: Oxford University Press, 1998). The phrase-extension aspects of this phenomenon are also discussed in Janet Schmalfeldt, “Cadential Processes: The Evaded Cadence and the ‘One More Time’ Technique,” Journal of Musicological Research 12 (1992): 1–51. This auxiliary cadential motion remains a mere surface detail here, but a far more elaborate version of such a progression, C♭–E♭–A♭, is associated with one of the main tonal kinks in the design of the fugue (mm. 239–262– 276). This is discussed further in conjunction with examples 13.7 and 13.9. Secondary literature on the auxiliary cadence is extensive. Central is L. Poundie Burstein, “Unraveling Schenker’s Concept of the Auxiliary Cadence,” Music Theory Spectrum 27, no. 2 (2005): 159–85. Burstein’s publication stems from a session at the Third International Schenker Symposium (New York, 1999), at which Edward Laufer also presented an overview paper on the same topic. Unfortunately, Laufer’s paper has not been published. The same motion, only marginally more cathartic, returns as a structural framing gesture, sans the “timeo” text, in the coda of the whole movement (mm. 404–8 and 412–16). See the discussion of example 13.10 and the conclusion. The concepts of “tokens” and “strings of tokens” as an abstract set of functional labels that can be subjected to structural-motivic manipulations is developed in Brian Alegant and Don McLean, “On the Nature of Enlargement,” Journal of Music Theory 21, no. 1 (2001): 31–71. ^ ^ ^ ^ The C–B♭–A♭–G (8– 7–6–5) motion is an inner-voice motive that takes place ^ ^ over the unusual surface progression I–♭III–♭II–V. The E♭–D (3– 2) structural inner-voice motion takes place at a deeper level over the main I and V. ^ Technically, the 3^ would be understood to move to ♭2 over the ♭II and then ^ be corrected to ♮2 over the V—although the blatant surface parallels make such voice-leading niceties rather moot. A similar summary motion from C–G might be construed in the transition to the fugue (mm. 171–79): from original C (“Tremens,” deftly recalled in the chromatic fourth progression C–G within the extended pre-dominant of the “Requiem,” mm. 160–63), through B♭ (“Requiem”), and, in the tremolandi strings supporting the rising line from

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38. 39. 40.

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D♭5 to G5 in the soprano solo, down through A♭ (and A♮) to the dominant, G, which then drops to the tonic to announce the beginning of the fugue (m. 179). Budden, Verdi, 334. The embellishment is not a mere surface trifle or vocal convention; it provides the “overdue” DN marker into D5 as the upper fifth of V that has been similarly featured on each of the other structural scale steps: I (“Tremens,” m. 20, and “Dies irae,” m. 51)—VII (“Requiem,” m. 138)—VI (fugue, mm. 262–75 worked into the bass!)—and now V (mm. 349–50). Edward Laufer, “On the Fantasy,” Intégral 2 (1988): 99–133; quotations from 99–100, 130, and 133. Rosen, Verdi: Requiem, 69. Rosen, Verdi: Requiem, 69, citing Donald Francis Tovey, “Requiem in Memory of Manzoni,” Essays in Musical Analysis (London: Oxford University Press, 1937), 5:195–209; Francis Toye, Giuseppe Verdi: His Life and Works (London and New York: A. A. Knopf, 1931; rev. ed. 1946), 390–92; Eduard Hanslick, “Verdi’s Requiem,” in Musikalische Stationen: Der “Modernen Oper” (Berlin: Allgemeiner Verein für deutsche Literatur, 1880), 2:3–12; English translation in Music Criticisms, 1846–99, trans. and ed. Henry Pleasants, rev. ed. (Baltimore: Penguin, 1963), 160–66; and Dyneley Hussey, Verdi, Master Musicians, 5th rev. ed. (London, 1973), 208–9. Charles Osborne, Verdi: a Life in the Theatre (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1987), 231, quoting a letter from Giuseppina Verdi to Cesare Vigna. See also Roger Parker, “‘One Priest, One Candle, One Cross’: Some Thoughts on Verdi and Religion,” Opera Quarterly 12, no. 1 (1994): 27–34. Frank Walker, The Man Verdi (London: J. M. Dent & Sons, 1962), 280–82. Francis Toye, Giuseppe Verdi: His Life and Works (London and New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1931; repr., 1962), 443–48, quotations from 447. Rosen, Requiem, 74 and note 27, which quotes Verdi himself that the end of the Te Deum is “moving, gloomy, sad to the point of terror.”

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Chapter Fourteen

Polyphony and Cacophony? A Schenkerian Reading of Strauss’s “Dance of the Seven Veils” Matthew Brown

Heinrich Schenker was never one to mince words, especially about the state of new music. Throughout his career, he criticized modern composers for trying to extend the tonal system before demonstrating that they understood its true potential. In Kontrapunkt I (1910), for example, he claimed that his contemporaries had “lost all authority” over “the secrets” of tones: “With Richard Strauss, Pfitzner, Mahler, and even Reger—with Tchaikovsky, Elgar, and all the rest, it is always the same: they no longer know which effects they can and should seek, and they understand still less how to achieve the effects that should be sought. All is chance and good luck—or (sometimes) bad luck.”1 Schenker complained that modern composers “abandoned the necessity for synthesis” and escaped “to the convenient surrogates of program music, music drama, and similar things.”2 According to him, they “indulge in empty sonorities (leere Klänge)—that is, in a technique which many centuries ago had to be abandoned because it hindered the generation of [musical] content.”3 Schenker was likewise dismayed by the ways in which music theorists tried to explain the structure of such works. Because he believed that tonal music is fundamentally triadic, Schenker was especially perturbed by recent trends in harmonic theory, notably Schoenberg’s concept of emancipating dissonances.4 Citing the Tristan chord, Schenker noted: “Some believed a new theory was needed to explain such composite sounds (Zusammenklänge), while others were

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convinced the time had come when all distinctions between consonance and dissonance would have to vanish, and applied themselves to making this conviction a reality.”5 He added: “The damage inflicted by this misunderstanding has still not been repaired.” Schenker also rejected any attempt to explain exoticisms by invoking alternative scale types rather than the principles of mixture and tonicization: “Think, for example, of Haydn’s and Beethoven’s Schottische Lieder, Schubert’s unique Divertissement à l’hongroise, the Hungarian Dances by Brahms, the Slavonic dances by Dvořák, and the Norwegian Dances by Grieg, as well as Scheherezade by Rimsky-Korsakov, among others. The point in all these cases was not to loosen our system in order to incorporate a foreign one, but, on the contrary, to use our major and minor systems to express the foreign element.”6 Although Schenker rebuked many of his contemporaries, he saved some of his most blistering attacks for Richard Strauss, and above all his opera Salome. Schenker disliked everything about this work. He complained that, by removing so much historical background from Oscar Wilde’s original play, the libretto failed to provide an adequate context and motivation for the grisly events.7 Nor did he like Strauss’s vocal writing: “How erratically the vocal part often leaps about in the music of, for example, Richard Strauss, who treats the voice as if it were simply a keyboard instrument, disregarding the psychological values implied by the leaps!” According to Schenker, “the offense against the nature of large leaps as well as against the nature of the human voice” will become obvious “even to less musical listeners.”8 Schenker was just as unhappy with Strauss’s use of motives. Having attended the Viennese premiere of Salome in the spring of 1907, he jotted down the following entry in his diary: “Strauss’s music, through its motives (one bar long or even less), always resorts to the same trick, the trick of projecting neighbor motions—in the wider context of a trivial, irredeemably poor [process of] development, etc.”9 A few years later, he singled out the Prophecy motive (see ex. 14.1) for special criticism: “[Strauss] intentionally neglects to follow the neighboring tone F4 [see example 14.1a, bar 1] immediately with its principal tone E4, and instead, in order to increase the tension, inserts three other tones, specifically, in bar 2 the harmonic tone C4; then in the same bar, is a neighboring tone to the fifth, A4; and finally in bar 3 the neighboring note D♯4 [example 14.1b].”10 Schenker even lambasted Strauss’s instrumentation: “Despite heaviest orchestration, despite noisy and pompous gesture, despite ‘polyphony’ and ‘cacophony,’ the proudest products of Richard Strauss are inferior—in terms of true musical spirit and authentic inner complexity of texture, form, and articulation—to a string quartet by Haydn, in which external grace hides the inner complexity, just as color and fragrance of a flower render mysterious to humans the undiscovered, great miracles of creation.”11

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Example 14.1. Strauss, “Dance of the Seven Veils”: Schenker’s analysis of the Prophecy motive.

Schenker is, of course, hardly alone in finding fault with Salome: over the years, Strauss’s opera has received more than its fair share of criticism.12 But there is surely more to say about Salome from a Schenkerian perspective.13 To do so, this chapter examines one segment of the score: the “Dance of the Seven Veils.” It is an ideal test case. On the one hand, not only is the dance performed as an independent concert work but it was also written after the rest of the opera. Franz Trenner has shown that Strauss sketched and orchestrated the dance in August 1905, two months after completing the main part of the opera.14 On the other hand, it is dramatically and musically significant. This chapter shows how, despite Schenker’s protests, the dance treats neighbor tones, Zusammenklänge, and exotic scales in ways that, though novel, still fit perfectly within the scope of his theory. There can be little doubt that the “Dance of the Seven Veils” marks a pivotal moment in Strauss’s opera. When the work opens (scenes 1–2), Salome appears as a demure adolescent, cognizant that she is the object of male desire (by Herod, her lecherous stepfather, and by Narraboth, captain of the guard), yet unaware of the pains that rejection can bring. Things soon change when Salome encounters Jochanaan, whom Herod has had imprisoned in a cistern (scene 3). Salome is totally smitten with Jochanaan, but he curses her and accuses her mother, Herodias, of committing adultery. Salome is devastated and remains in a state of shock when Herod and Herodias arrive (scene 4). Herod tries to defuse the situation by asking Salome to dance for him, much to Herodias’s chagrin. During the course of the dance, Salome changes from a child into an adult, from a princess into a potential queen. She exercises her power over Herodias by defying her; over Herod by forcing him to give her anything she wants; and over Jochanaan by revealing to him what he will never have. When the dance is over, Salome’s transformation continues. After recalling her initial encounter with Jochanaan, she emerges as a vindictive monster who will stop at nothing in her desire for revenge. Salome’s actions are so heinous that Herod executes her; even Herodias offers no resistance whatsoever.

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Following Strauss’s own scenario, table 14.1 divides “Dance of the Seven Veils” into six main sections.15 It opens with an introduction in which the band performs frantically as Salome prepares herself. After standing motionless, she rises to her full height and signals the musicians to slow down and play a soft and lilting tune. Salome then performs dance 1. She sways gently on the spot and strikes the pose from Gustave Moreau’s famous painting as she drops her first veil.16 The music accelerates, and she whirls around and tosses her second veil. Salome then approaches Jochanaan in the cistern (transition 1). She tears off her third veil before performing dance 2. She begins this sultry waltz with poses from Gaston Vuillier’s La Danse, goes on to flirt with Herod, and eventually removes Table 14.1. R. Strauss, “Dance of the Seven Veils” Introduction

(mm. 1–30)

mm. 1–15

Salome stands motionless as the musicians play frantically.

mm. 16–30

She rises to her full height and signals the musicians, who slow the tempo and introduce a soft and swaying tune.

Dance 1

(mm. 31–72)

m. 31

Salome begins by swaying on the spot.

m. 43

Salome adopts pose from Vuillier’s La Danse and removes Veil 1.

m. 55

She whirls rapidly round and round.

m. 60

She begins to dance steadily.

m. 70

Salome removes Veil 2.

m. 72

Salome takes four alluring steps.

Transition

(mm. 73–127)

m. 73

Salome takes three slow, menacing steps towards the cistern where Jochanaan is imprisoned.

m. 74

Salome makes a few alluring movements and turns to Herod.

m. 77

Salome recoils softly; then relaxes in the next bar.

m. 80

Salome recalls the swaying movements of the beginning for four bars.

[A minor]

[A minor]

(continued)

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Table 14.1.—(concluded) m. 85

Salome moves in a gentle and alluring manner.

m. 92

Salome makes more passionate movements towards Jochanaan.

m. 101

Salome assumes highly erect pose, much as in “Idyll,” and then relaxes out of this pose. These poses allude from Vuillier’s La Danse.

m. 109

Salome slides into a light, graceful, sidestepping movement.

mm. 114–15

She makes two short, graceful, wooing gestures V/A♭ major* on the 3rd beat.

m. 121

Salome violently removes Veil 3.

Dance 2

(mm. 128–95)

m. 128

Salome starts a new dance using poses from Vuillier’s La Danse.

C# minor*

m. 160

She displays of all her feminine charms (!) to Herod in a livelier manner.

C# major*

m. 194

Salome removes Veil 4.

Transition/ Round Dance

(mm. 196–225)

m. 196

She returns to more disconnected movements and calmer poses.

m. 209

Salome begins a lively round dance.

m. 218

She seems to faint for a moment with exhaustion.

m. 223

She finds new strength and pulls herself together.

m. 225

Salome tears off Veil 5.

Sehr Schnell and (mm. 225–309, 310–49) Conclusion mm. 225–309

Salome removes Veil 6.

m. 310

Salome removes Veil 7.

m. 329

Salome remains for an instant in a visionary attitude near the cistern where Jochanaan is imprisoned.

m. 344

She throws herself at Herod’s feet.

* Mentioned by Strauss

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G# minor*

F major*

V/C# minor*

[A minor]

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her fourth veil.17 Salome catches her breath and embarks on a lively round dance (transition 2) that culminates in the removal of her fifth veil. During the final section (Sehr Schnell/conclusion), she rips off her last two veils and lingers momentarily over the cistern before throwing herself at Herod’s feet. Even from a cursory look at the score, it is clear that Strauss was fastidious about projecting the dance’s six sections both motivically and harmonically. Regarding the former, it is helpful to distinguish between “architectural” motives, which define the basic structure of the dance, and “programmatic” motives, which illuminate the motivations behind Salome’s actions. The distinction is not, of course, entirely rigid: the former often have programmatic implications just as the latter have architectural consequences; yet I believe it offers an easy point of departure for any analysis. Examples 14.2a–c give the three main architectural motives from the “Dance of the Seven Veils.” First and foremost is the chromatic neighbor motive (ex. 14.2a). Primarily scored for the oboe, this gesture vacillates between E and D♯, elaborating E with its upper and lower neighbor tones F♮ and D♯, and D♯ with the flourish G♮–F♮–E–D♯. By acting as an applied leading tone to E, D♯ is a perfect instance of “miniaturtonicization,” that is, treating an individual note as if it were a local tonic.18 Next, there is the diatonic neighbor motive (see ex. 14.2b). This figure, which is related to the motive associated with the Kiss, ornaments the primary tone A with its upper and lower neighbor tones G and B. These latter are important because they anticipate Salome’s revenge motive (see ex. 14.2c). Notice how the diatonic neighbor motive and the revenge motive both end with a rising pattern: G–A–B in example 14.2b and D♭–E♭–F in example 14.2c. As will soon become clear, these three motives articulate the main sections of the dance: the chromatic neighbor figure and revenge motive appear in every section except dance 2, whereas the diatonic neighbor motive mainly occurs in the first and last sections. In addition to the three architectural motives, Strauss interweaves an array of other gestures that convey Salome’s volatile state of mind. Lawrence Gilman, Ernest Newman, and Larry Solomon refer to them by evocative names such as Salome, Charm, Ecstasy, Enticement, Grace, and Allure.19 Diverse in character, these motives are extremely rich in their tonal and programmatic potential. Take, for example, Salome’s motive from the opening of the opera. Example 14.3 shows how it mirrors the chromatic neighbor motive by elaborating its focal pitch (G♯) with upper and lower neighbors (A♮ and F♯♯).20 When these notes are stacked vertically, they create the so-called Salome chord.21 The tonal orientation of this motive is also significant: besides linking Salome with the key of A, it also associates her with C-sharp minor.22 Strauss even includes gestures that allude to other characters or sentiments: these include those associated with Narraboth, the Kiss, and the Prophecy.23 His reuse of the latter is particularly telling, because it oscillates around E and D♯, just as the chromatic neighbor motive does.

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Example 14.2. Strauss, “Dance of the Seven Veils”: architectural motive: (a) chromatic neighbor motive; (b) diatonic neighbor motive; and (c) Revenge.

Example 14.3. Strauss, Salome: programmatic motives.

It is not surprising that, given their central role in the dance, the three architectural motives appear in quick succession at the start of the introduction: the chromatic neighbor figure in measures 6 to 10; the diatonic neighbor motive in measures 11 to 14; and the revenge motive in measures 16 to 19, with diminutions of the rising patterns D♭–E♭–F and C–D–E dominating measures 19–30. The introduction ends with an allusion to the main motive in the bass (E♭ = D♯ in measures 18 and 23, and E in measure 30). Example 14.4 shows how these motives project an overall progression from I to V in A minor, the dance’s principal tonality: the bass line descends by step from A through G, F, and E♭, to E♮. Strauss enhances this progression with some striking surface sonorities. For example, the G-minor triad in measures 16–17 arises from a simple mixture in A minor, with B♭ serving as a chromatic upper neighbor to A. The adjacent sonority on E♭ = D♯ acts as an augmented-sixth chord with F♮ descending to E in the soprano and D♯ ascending to E in the bass.24 By inverting this sonority, Strauss highlights the melodic/motivic role of the bass line.25 Once the introduction has died down, Salome begins dance 1 in a subdued manner, with the violas reiterating diminutions of her revenge motive (ex. 14.5a) and the oboes riffing on the chromatic neighbor motive (see ex. 14.5b). The latter is particularly significant because it no longer simply oscillates between E and D♯: it also descends by step from E through D♯, C♮, B♮, B♭,

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Example 14.4. Strauss, “Dance of the Seven Veils”: tonal structure of the introduction.

and G♯ to A. Strauss subsequently develops this extended version of the chromatic double neighbor motive, compressing it from four to three bars (see ex. 14.5c) and morphing it into Salome’s motive (see ex. 14.5d) and the threenote pattern C♯–C♮–B (see ex. 14.5e). He rounds off the section with another expansion of the chromatic neighbor motive (see ex. 14.5f), variants of Allure (measure 60 to 61), and reminiscences of Salome’s motive (mm. 62 to 63). The supple manner in which Strauss weaves these gestures together ensures that the phrase structure is extremely irregular, with one phrase overlapping with the next. It creates the atmosphere of languid sensuality that pervades the opening sections of the dance. Strauss supports this panoply of motives with a large-scale I–V–I motion in A minor. The tonic is originally asserted by means of the contrapuntal progression A to D♯ over F to A (see ex. 14.6): the startling sonority F/B–D♯–G functions as an augmented sixth, with F and D♯ resolving to E. The G♮ and B♮ are, however, extremely unusual. This function of this chord is eventually clarified in measures 73 to 75 when Strauss adds the missing dominant harmony. With the tonic established at the outset, measures 34 to 49 harmonize the extended chromatic neighbor motive and Salome’s motive with closed I–V–I progressions in A minor. In measures 34 to 36, the progression is unadorned; in measures 39 to 40, it is elaborated by a C-sharp-minor sonority (a simple mixture chord) and passing chords on D and D♯; in measure 47, it is expanded by another rising motion, D–D♯–E. Strauss highlights the three-note pattern C♯– C♮–B in measures 50 to 52 with a sudden shift to A major and an emphatic cadence in E major: I/A = IV/E–♭II7–V7–I. By adding the seventh, D♮, in measure 59, he transforms the local tonic E back into the dominant of A. Strauss rounds off dance 1 with a pair of closed progressions in returns to A minor: the bass ascends from A through C (III), D (iv7), and D♯ (chromatic passing chord) to E in measures 62 to 65, and rises from D (iv7) through B♭ (♭II7) to

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Example 14.5. Strauss, “Dance of the Seven Veils”: transformations of the chromatic neighbor motive: (a) Revenge; (b) chromatic neighbor motive; (c) chromatic neighbor motive; (d) Salome; (e) three-note pattern; and (f) chromatic neighbor motive.

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Example 14.6. Strauss, “Dance of the Seven Veils”: tonal structure of dance 1.

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E (V7) in measures 69 to 72. Strauss’s use of the Phrygian ♭II in measures 70 to 71 recalls the cadence in E major in measures 50 to 52. Strauss continues to develop the chromatic neighbor motive in transition 1, using the revenge motive as an accompaniment. Example 14.7 shows how the section is framed by four statements of the former: the first (see ex. 14.7a) is highly decorated; the second (see ex. 14.7b) enlarges D♯ to make room for a statement of Ecstasy in the violins; the third (see ex. 14.7c) is surrounded by an array of other motives (e.g., Narraboth’s motive, the revenge motive, Charm, and Ecstasy); and the fourth (see ex. 14.7d) ends on G♯ rather than A. As shown in example 14.8, Strauss uses these statements to modulate from A minor to C-sharp minor. The shift is seamless. Strauss moves from A to its dominant in measures 80 to 83. He then shifts toward C-sharp minor by means of stepwise descent in the bass: E, D♮, C♯, C♮, B♭, A, A♭/G♯. Strauss transforms the latter into a dominant seventh by adding F♯ in measures 127 to 128. This chord resolves onto C-sharp at the start of dance 2. In contrast to the fluid structure and irregular hypermetric plan of dance 1, dance 2 presents regularly recurring four- and eight-bar phrases just like those found in any nineteenth-century waltz.26 The first part introduces a new theme (see ex. 14.9a) and propels the upper lines up from C♯4 to C♯5. By alternating between ascending whole and half steps, this span projects an octatonic scale. Example 14.9b shows how Strauss harmonizes this scale in four segments: C♯–D♯ with a motion from I to V♯; E♮–F♯–F♯♯ with a local modulation to D-sharp major; F♯♯–G♯♯–A♯ with a progression onto the dominant of D-sharp major; and A♯–B♯–(D♯)–C♯ by a cadential motion back to C-sharp major. As the line soars ever higher, Strauss includes some striking chromatic chords, such as the prominent augmented sixth B–D♯– G♯♯ in measures 149 to 150. Although the second part of dance 2 is hypermetrically less regular than the first part, it is considerably less adventurous both in its motivic content and in its tonal orientation. Examples 14.10a–b show that the passage is built from reminiscences of Enticement and Ecstasy in the local key of C-sharp major. As example 14.10c shows, Strauss initially uses these gestures to maintain the upward trajectory of measures 128 to 159 with the upper line that ascends by step from C♯ (m. 159) through D♯ (m. 167), and E♯ (m. 177). The melody having climaxed on F♯ in measure 185, Strauss allows the line to spiral down over an octave over a long dominant pedal (mm. 186 to 193). Instead of ending dance 2 conclusively with a perfect authentic cadence in C-sharp major, the music resolves deceptively, thereby recalling the Einleitung to Wagner’s Tristan und Isolde (mm. 43 to 44) and pushing the music back to A major for transition 2. From a motivic perspective, the most remarkable features of transition 2 (measures 196 to 224) are that it recalls dance 1 through statements of the

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Example 14.7. Strauss, “Dance of the Seven Veils”: chromatic neighbor motive in transition 1: (a) statement 1; (b) statement 2; (c) statement 3; and (d) Statement 4.

Example 14.8. Strauss, “Dance of the Seven Veils”: tonal structure of transition 1.

Example 14.9. Strauss, “Dance of the Seven Veils”: dance 2, part 1: (a) new theme; and (b) tonal structure of dance 2, part 1.

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Example 14.10. Strauss, “Dance of the Seven Veils”: dance 2, part 2: (a) Enticement; (b) Ecstasy; and (c) tonal structure of dance 2, part 2.

revenge motive and the introduction through echoes of the rising third E♭–F–G. Although Strauss does not bring back the chromatic neighbor figure in its extended form, he hints at it in the double-neighbor figure E–D♯–F–E (see example 14.11a). Starting in measure 209, Strauss combines Grace (measures 210 to 216 and 217 to 222) with Enticement (measure 216). Again, like the introduction, transition 2 articulates a basic progression from I to V in A minor, though it does so in a quite different manner. Example 14.11b shows that it projects a long string of ascending parallel tenths from A–C through B♭–D, B♮–D♯, C♮–E♭, D–F♯, E♭–G, E♮–G♯, F♮–A, F♯–A♯, G♮–B♮, and A♭– C♮. Notice how measures 205 to 214 are parenthetical. Eventually, in measure 223, the bass line approaches E by half step: D♭–F♮, D♮–F♯, and D♯–F. Marked Sehr Schnell, the final section (mm. 225–350) is dominated by statements of the chromatic neighbor figure E–D♯–E in the upper register (see ex. 14.12a). These are supported by versions of Prophecy, the diatonic neighbor motive, and Salome’s motive in the lower registers. Example 14.12b illustrates how these measures project an elaborate cadential progression in A minor. In measure 310, when Salome rips off her last veil, Strauss initiates a long dominant expansion in which the bass descends chromatically, just as in transition

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Example 14.11. Strauss, “Dance of the Seven Veils”: transition 2: (a) new motive (from double neighbor figure E–D♯–F–E); and (b) tonal structure of dance 2, part 2.

1, and the upper voices ascend in parallel thirds. Strauss marks this expansion motivically with statements of Ecstasy set in counterpoint with the Revenge motive. The latter are transposed up a tritone from A–C–A–E♭–F–G (m. 31) to E♭–G♭–E♭–A–B–C♯ (mm. 317–22) in order to harmonize with the bass descent from B♭ to A. In the final cadence, Strauss even adds a fleeting reminiscence of C-sharp minor, the key of dance 2. This surface detail is marked with an asterisk in example 14.12b. After this discussion of the motivic and tonal structure of the six sections, it is worth stepping back and speculating about how Strauss synthesizes them into a coherent whole. From a motivic perspective, the chromatic neighbor motive clearly dominates the “Dance of the Seven Veils”: it not only rein^ ^ ^ ^ 5 and ♯4– 5 but its forces the Kopfton with upper and lower neighbor tones 6– ^ extended form also mirrors the stepwise descent of the Urlinie from 5^ to 1. Besides helping to define A minor as the global tonic, the gesture motivates the motion through E to C-sharp in transition 1, as well as the climatic arrival on the dominant at the start of the final section. The constant presence of the motive within and between levels guarantees that the dance hangs together as a single unit. Just as Strauss uses the three architectural motives to unify the dance thematically, so he relies on the tonic A minor to anchor it tonally. Example 14.13 shows how the dance projects a background I–V–I progression in A minor, with ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ 4–3–2–1 in the sixth and final section. Strauss composes the Urlinie falling 5– out the opening tonic across the previous five sections by means of a large-scale arpeggiation from A (introduction and dance 1), through E (transition 1) to C-sharp minor/major (dance 2), and back to A (end of dance 2/start of transition 2). Example 14.13 also highlights some of the many ways in which Strauss

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Example 14.12. Strauss, “Dance of the Seven Veils”: Sehr Schnell/conclusion: (a) chromatic neighbor motive; and (b) tonal structure of Sehr Schnell/conclusion.

saturates the foreground both with upper and lower neighbor tones, especially F♮/D♯–E and B♭/G♯–A, and with modal mixture, especially A major/minor and C-sharp minor/major. The principles of tonicization and mixture likewise allow us to explain Strauss’s fondness for augmented sixth chords, which are especially prominent in the introduction, dance 1, and transition 1, and the Phrygian ♭II, especially in dance 1. All in all, then, the preceding analysis has shown just how valuable Schenkerian theory can be in explaining the motivic and tonal structure of Strauss’s “Dance of the Seven Veils.” It has suggested that Schenker was indeed correct in implying that the Salome chord and the work’s other novel Zusammenklänge can be derived contrapuntally by composing out triadic harmonies. Such sonorities do not require searching for a “new theory” or eroding the distinction between consonance and dissonance: one man’s polyphony is another man’s cacophony! Similarly, the analysis has demonstrated that the exotic character of Strauss’s music can indeed be explained as tonicizations and mixtures within the major/minor system. This result supports Schenker’s general point that harmonic systems do not derive from particular scale types and that scales are actually by-products of traditional tonal transformations. The octatonic scale in the C-sharp-minor segment of dance 2 is a perfect case in point. Moreover, the analysis reinforces Schenker’s comments about Strauss’s penchant for neighbor motives, as is demonstrated by the chromatic and diatonic neighbor motives and the gesture that starts transition 2. Schenker’s criticism of the libretto also has a ring of truth. Wilde’s original play is notoriously decadent. The language is self-indulgent, and the story is embroidered with myriad subplots that describe Herod’s thirst for wealth and

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Example 14.13. Strauss, “Dance of the Seven Veils”: overall tonal structure.

power; Herodias’s royal heritage and prior marriage to Herod’s older brother; Herodias’s page’s infatuation with Narraboth, whose parents were deposed and enslaved by Herod; Jochanaan’s exile in the desert; the Roman occupation of Palestine; and the religious upheaval that is sweeping the land.27 When Hedwig Lachmann and Strauss developed their libretto, they reduced Wilde’s text by about a third both by simplifying much of his wording and removing most of his subplots.28 The snag is that these back stories help to explain why Salome is initially infatuated with Jochanaan, why she feels distraught at his rejection, why she despises her mother and her stepfather, and why she ends up destroying Jochanaan and herself. Removing them may have streamlined the plot but, as Schenker notes, only at the expense of its comprehensibility. Schenker’s complaint about Strauss’s handling of neighbor motives is, however, another matter entirely. Schenker clearly exaggerated his claim that Strauss used them at a purely local level in a clichéd manner, and this analysis has shown quite the reverse. On the one hand, Strauss undoubtedly took great care to project the chromatic neighbor motive across larger sections of music and even used an extended form to reflect the stepwise descent of the Urlinie. On the other hand, when Strauss does treat motives locally, he does so for programmatic effect. By switching rapidly and seamlessly from one motive to the next, Strauss is able to capture the complex emotions that Salome feels for the people she encounters: her resentment of Herodias, her disgust for Herod, and her contempt for Narraboth—not to mention the memories of her father, who had been locked up in the same cistern as Jochanaan when she was a

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child. Her head is spinning, something that Strauss captures beautifully in the cascade of motives that appear during the course of the dance. And Salome is simultaneously infatuated and furious with Jochanaan. When she reveals herself to him at the end of the dance, Strauss’s music is both tender and tragic. Although the revenge motive returns as Salome gazes down at Jochanaan in the cistern, these statements do not begin to convey the uncontrollable rage that will consume her later in scene 4. This last point is important because it underscores the fact that when Strauss composed the “Dance of the Seven Veils,” he was not simply intent on creating a self-contained and internally coherent tonal structure; he was also concerned with composing a number that contributed to the meaning and the coherence of the opera as a whole. Something is, therefore, left incomplete in the dance, something that will be resolved only when Salome caresses Jochanaan’s severed head, Herod orders her death, and the soldiers carry out his command. It is at this point that Salome reveals the central point of Wilde’s play: that “the mystery of love is greater than the mystery of death.” In other words, the sense of incompleteness apparent in the dance is entirely appropriate, given the overall trajectory of the drama. It is even reinforced in the opera as a whole: whereas the dance treats C-sharp as a secondary key within the primary key of A, the opera reverses this process by beginning and ending in C-sharp with A as a secondary key. The “Dance of the Seven Veils” is not, therefore, a complete, continuous tonal unit of the sort that Schenkerians normally analyze; it is but one part in a much larger whole. Schenker may have been disappointed that Strauss focused so much of his attention on “program music, music drama, and similar things,” but his decision to do so forced him to adjust his compositional methods to such contexts and to look for other means of synthesizing his material.29

Notes

1.

2. 3. 4.

The author would like to thank William Marvin, Elizabeth Steadman, and the anonymous reviewers for their many helpful suggestions. Heinrich Schenker, Kontrapunkt I, Neue musikalische Theorien und Phantasien (Stuttgart and Berlin: Cotta, 1910), 2:22–23; Counterpoint, ed. John Rothgeb, trans. John Rothgeb and Jürgen Thym (New York: Schirmer Books, 1987; rev. ed., Ann Arbor, MI: Musicalia Press, 2001), 15. Schenker, Kontrapunkt I, XVI; Counterpoint, xxii. Ibid. Schenker was mainly familiar with Arnold Schoenberg’s Harmonielehre (Vienna: Universal, 1911); Schoenberg did not actually coin the phrase “emancipation of the dissonance” until 1926. See Arnold Schoenberg, “Opinion or Insight?”

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in Style and Idea: Selected Writings of Arnold Schoenberg, ed. Leonard Stein, trans. Leo Black (London: Faber & Faber, 1975), 258–64. 5. Schenker, “Fortsetzung der Urlinie-Betrachtungen” in Das Meisterwerk in der Musik 2 (Munich: Drei Masken Verlag, 1926), 29; “Further considerations of the Urlinie: II,” trans. John Rothgeb, in The Masterwork in Music, ed. William Drabkin (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), 2:12. 6. Schenker, Kontrapunkt I, 43–44; Counterpoint I, 28. Schenker discusses specific exotic scales in Kontrapunkt I, 31–34 (Counterpoint, 20–22), and he describes mixture and tonicization in Harmonielehre. Neue musikalische Theorien und Phantasien. Vol. 1 (Stuttgart and Berlin: Cotta, 1906); see Harmony, ed. Oswald Jonas, trans. Elisabeth Mann Borgese (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1954). For more on Schenker’s view about the theoretical status of scales, see Matthew Brown, Explaining Tonality: Schenkerian Theory and Beyond (Rochester, NY: University of Rochester Press, 2005), 140–70. 7. To quote Schenker: “Auf der Bühner aber ohne solchen Hintergrund, ohne wahrnehmbare Voraussetzungen und Ursachen blos auf sich selbst gestellt, vermag die grauenvolle Pointe der Handlung überhaupt gar nicht zu wirken, geschweige zu erschüttern. Die Handlung bleibt dem Zuschauer innerlich ferne, und nur Langeweile ist die Wirkung (sofern freilich Ansteckung der Nerven durch Reklame und d[er] gl[eichen] außer Spiel bleibt).” Tgb. 25.V.1907, in Helmut Federhofer, Heinrich Schenker. Nach Tagbüchern und Briefen in der Oswald Jonas Memorial Collection (Hildesheim: Georg Olms Verlag, 1985), 258. 8. Schenker, Kontrapunkt I, 120; Counterpoint I, 350n23. 9. Schenker, “Die Musik von Strauss ist in ihren ‘Motiven’ (eintaktigen und noch kürzeren!) immer wieder auf denselben Trick gestellt, den Trick der Spannung der Nebennoten, —in den breiteren dagegen von einer Trivialität ohnegleichen Schlechte Durchgänge usw.” Tgb. 25.V.1907, in Federhofer, Heinrich Schenker. Nach Tagbüchern und Briefen, 258. The Viennese premier of Salome was performed by the Breslau State Theater under the baton of Julius Prüwer, with Fanchette Verhunk in the title role. The Vienna State Opera did not stage Salome until October 1918. See Leon Botstein, “Strauss and the Viennese Critics (1896– 1924): Reviews by Gustav Schoenaich, Robert Hirschfeld, Guido Adler, Max Kalbeck, Julius Korngold, and Karl Kraus,” in Richard Strauss and His World, ed. Bryan Gilliam (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1992), 316. 10. Schenker, Kontrapunkt I, 95–96; Counterpoint, 67. He made similar claims about Strauss’s use of nonharmonic tones in Till Eulenspiegels lustige Streiche (see Kontrapunkt I, 251, 252, 254, 257, exx. 257, 259, 264, 268, 269) and Ein Heldenleben (see Kontrapunkt I, 95, exx. 65–67). Schenker also discussed Also Sprach Zarathustra and Don Quixote, Op. 35 in Harmonielehre, 292–93, ex. 256; and 299–304, ex. 262 (Harmony, 220); and Till Eulenspiegels lustige Streiche in Ein Beitrag zur Ornamentik (Vienna: Universal, 1904/1908), 42, fig. 37. See “A Contribution to the Study of Ornamentation,” ed. and trans. Hedi Siegel, Music Forum 4 (1976): 85–87, ex. 31. For an overview of Schenker’s comments, see Larry Laskowski, Heinrich Schenker: An Annotated Index to His Analyses of Musical Works (Stuyvesant, NY: Pendragon Press, 1978), 153.

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11. Schenker, Kontrapunkt I, XVI; Counterpoint I, xxi. 12. For responses to Salome, see John Williamson, “Critical reception,” in Richard Strauss: Salome, ed. Derrick Puffett (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), 131–44; Mary Bronach Callaghan, “Richard Strauss’s ‘Geheimnisvolle Musik’: Unveiling the Meaning of Salome” (PhD diss., Queen’s University, Belfast, 2003), 168–383; Lawrence Gilman, ed., Strauss’ “Salome”: A Guide to the Opera with Musical Illustrations (London: Lane, 1907); Alma Mahler, Gustav Mahler: Memories and Letters, ed. Donald Mitchell, trans. Basil Creighton, rev. ed. (New York: Viking, 1969), 88–89; Robin Holloway, “‘Salome’: Art or kitsch?” in Puffett, ed., Richard Strauss: Salome, 149–51; Puffett, “Postlude: Images of Salome,” in Richard Strauss: Salome, 162. 13. Schenker’s influence can be felt in several studies of Strauss’s music: Felix Salzer, Structural Hearing (New York: Charles Boni, 1952); Robert Morgan, “The Delayed Structural Downbeat and Its Effects on the Tonal and Rhythmic Structure of Sonata Form Recapitulations” (PhD diss., Princeton University, 1969); Norman Dinerstein, “Polychordality in Salome and Elektra: A Study of the Application of Reinterpretation Technique” (PhD diss., Princeton University, 1974); Richard Kaplan, “The Musical Language of Elektra: A Study in Chromatic Harmony” (PhD diss., University of Michigan, 1985); Timothy L. Jackson, “Richard Strauss’ ‘Winterweihe’: An Analysis and Study of the Sketches,” Richard Strauss-Blätter 17 (1987): 28–64; Jackson, “The Last Richard Strauss: Studies of the Letzte Lieder” (PhD diss., City University of New York, 1988); Jackson, “Compositional Revisions in Strauss’s ‘Waldseligkeit’ and a New Source,” Richard Strauss-Blätter 21 (1989): 55–83; Marie Rolf and Elizabeth West Marvin, “Analytical Issues and Interpretative Decisions in Two Songs by Richard Strauss,” Intégral 4 (1990): 67–103; V. Kofi Agawu, “Extended Tonality in Mahler and Strauss,” in Richard Strauss: New Perspectives on the Composer and His Work, ed. Bryan Gilliam (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1992), 55–75; Timothy L. Jackson, “Metamorphosis of the Metamorphosen: New Analytical and Source-Critical Discoveries,” in Richard Strauss, ed. Gilliam, 193– 241; Jean-Michel Boulay, “Monotonality and Chromatic Dualism in Richard Strauss’s Salome” (PhD diss., University of British Columbia, 1992); Richard Kaplan, “Tonality as Mannerism: Structure and Syntax in Richard Strauss’s Orchestral Song ‘Frühling,’” Theory and Practice 19 (1994): 19–29; Matthew Schneider, “Les Metamorphoses de Richard Strauss éraint-elles à l’origine de forme lied?” Cahiers Franz Schubert: Revue de musique classiques et romantiques 13 (1998): 17–38; Margus Pärtlas, “Transformation of Classical Tonal Models in Richard Strauss’s ‘Das Rosenband’ Op. 36, No. 1 and ‘Mein Auge’ Op. 37, No. 4,” in A Composition as a Problem III: Proceedings of the Third International Conference on Music Theory, ed. Mart Humal (Tallinn, Estonia: Scripta Musicalia, 2003), 122–38. See also Benjamin McKay Ayotte, Heinrich Schenker: A Guide to Research, Routledge Music Bibliographies (New York and London: Routledge, 2004), 320; and David Carson Berry, A Topical Guide to Schenkerian Literature: An Annotated Bibliography with Indices, Harmonologia Studies in Music Theory 11 (Hillsdale, NY: Pendragon, 2004), 509–10.

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14. Franz Trenner, Der Skizzenbücher von Richard Wagner aus dem Richard-Strauss Archiv im Garmisch (Tutzing: Schneider, 1977), 21–26. Most of Strauss’s sketches for the dance appear in Sketchbook 15, with a few other jottings in Sketchbooks 11–14. 15. This figure is adapted from Strauss’s own scenario, which seems to date from the 1920s. Willi Schuh discovered this document and described it in his essay “Zum Tanz der Salome,” Straussiana aus vier Jahrzehnten (Tutzing: Schneider, 1981), 93. The scenario is reprinted in English as Appendix A in Richard Strauss: Salome, ed. Puffett, 165–67. 16. Strauss came across this picture in Gaston Vuillier’s book La Danse (Paris: Hachette, 1898), 12. 17. Vuillier, La Danse, 11. 18. Schenker, Harmonielehre, §144, 363–64; Harmony, 272–73. 19. See Gilman, Strauss’ “Salome” (Motive V, 65; Motive IX, 69; Motive VII, 66; Motive XII, 71); Newman, More Opera Nights (London: Putnam, 1954) (Motive 9, 18; Motive 12, 22; Motive 10, 18; Motive 14, 23); and Solomon, Salome’s Leitmotifs and Keys (2002), http://solomonsmusic.net/salome_leit.htm (accessed April 27, 2016), (Motive 9). 20. This motive is described by Gilman in Strauss’ “Salome” (Motive I, 61); and by Newman in More Opera Nights (Motive 1, 14). 21. Tethys Carpenter, “Tonal and dramatic structure,” in Puffett, ed., Richard Strauss: Salome, 101–2. 22. For an extensive discussion of key symbolism in Salome, see Carpenter, “Tonal and dramatic structure,” 92–108. 23. Gilman, Strauss’ “Salome” (Motive II, 62; Motive VIII, 68; Motive XIII, 73); Newman, More Opera Nights (Motive 2, 14; Motive 13, 22; Motive 19, 27). 24. Regarding descending leading tones, see John Rothgeb’s note in Schenker, Free Composition, ed. and trans. Ernst Oster (New York: Longman, 1979), §10, 13n4. 25. Schenker discusses the melodic/motivic function of bass lines in Harmonielehre, §88, 218–19; Harmony, 172–73. 26. For a brief analysis of dance 2, see Larry J. Solomon, Salome’s “Allure” from the “Dance of the Seven Veils”: A Tonal-Harmonic Analysis” (2002), http:// solomonsmusic.net/Salome.htm (accessed April 27, 2016). 27. Gary Schmidgall discusses the decadent aspects of Wilde’s play in his book Literature as Opera (Oxford: New York, 1977), 247–86. 28. Roland Tenschert, “Strauss as librettist,” in Puffett, ed., Richard Strauss: Salome, 26–50. 29. Similar strategies can be found in other works of the period such as Debussy’s masterpiece Pelléas et Mélisande. See Matthew Brown, “Pelléas, Mélisande, le grotesque et l’Arabesque,” in Regards sur Debussy, ed. Myriam Chimènes and Alexandra Laederich (Paris: Fayard, 2013), 137–50.

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Chapter Fifteen

A Force of Nature Debussy and the Chromatically Displaced Dominant Boyd Pomeroy

In some pieces by Debussy we encounter an exotic tonal anomaly: the marked displacement of the dominant chord, in its typical formal and tonal-structural contexts, from the diatonic scale degree 5^ to one of its chromatic counterparts. By way of an introductory example, consider the case of “Jeux de vagues” (La Mer, second movement). All three structural tonics (E major), marking the movement’s main formal divisions—exposition, recapitulation, and coda—are preceded by a dominant ninth chord on scale degree ♭5^ (B♭9), which effectively usurps the role of dominant preparation for the tonic arrivals (see below, ex. 15.13, mm. 28, 153, 215).

Historical Perspective Debussy’s B♭9 chord appropriates the formal contexts of dominant preparation, as well as its rhetorical and gestural import, but transferred to the wrong chord. From a historical perspective, this technique might be related to the tendency, in chromatic tonal music, of dominant-functional harmonies to take on an ever increasing superfluity of pitch-class content—from Wagner’s and Bruckner’s diatonically saturated dominants to Scriabin’s tritone oscillations, and even Berg’s dominant-as-full-chromatic-aggregate in the Interlude from

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act 3 of Wozzeck. Daniel Harrison’s conception of the temporally expanded reach of dominant-functional territory in chromatically extended “Dominant charges” and large-scale sequential “Dominant accumulations” is also relevant here.1 Even so, whereas all these techniques build on traditional scale-degree projections of dominant function—however extravagantly extended— Debussy’s is fundamentally different in its aspect of wholesale substitution. It raises questions of perceived functionality: why hear it as ♯V rather than ♭VI, or ♭V rather than ♯IV?

Alternative Explanations There have been several alternative explanations of Debussy’s “wrong chord” dominants. Matthew Brown, Douglas Dempster, and Dave Headlam seek to relate them to some other scale degree as a prolonging chord. From the argument that the notion of the scale step ♯IV/♭V has been a consistently problematic one for harmonic theory (notably for Schenker, Schoenberg, and Tovey), they develop the thesis that the tritone relation from the tonic usefully defines (by exceeding) the very limits of possible tonal transformation. According to their “♯IV (♭V) Hypothesis,” in genuinely tonal music, apparent chords of ♯IV or ♭V can relate to the tonic only indirectly, through the mediation of another chord.2 Conversely, the absence of any such demonstrable indirect relation would call into question the music’s tonal credentials. Among other examples, they apply this to a passage from Debussy’s “Rondes de printemps,” where an apparent ♭V is explained away contrapuntally, as a prolongation of ♭II, and hence “passes” their test of tonal viability. I will return to this passage later.3 Some writers have posited an altered tonal system: Arthur Wenk (with specific reference to those B♭9 chords in “Jeux de vagues”) suggests that Debussy devised a modified form of the tonal system, replacing perfect fifths with tritones—either a tritone “dominant” from the tonic or (less radically) a tritone alteration above the root of the diatonic dominant.4 But this explains very little, arbitrarily conflating two very different techniques. Whereas one preserves the system’s consonant foundation, the other would seem to deny it, imperiling the entire edifice of tonal relations. Arnold Whittall circumvents this problem of arbitrariness by invoking a dualistic system in which a piece’s tonic pitch generates two pitch-structural bases: diatonic tonality and a whole-tone, tritone-based alternative. He couches this in terms of a dramatized opposition, showing how certain works play out a conflict between the two as an organizing principle.5 Others have invoked some combination of altered and dualistic systems, as Simon Trezise (again with reference to “Jeux de vagues”) seems to have in mind when he speaks of

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an opposition between “syntactical” tritone dominants and the diatonic dominant as a “relic” of outmoded convention.6

The Chromatically Displaced Dominant: Conditions Alternatively, the “tritone dominant” could be conceived as a chromatic abnormality at work within the frame of reference of the traditional tonal system, standing in for the normative diatonic dominant in certain well-defined tonal-formal contexts. Chromatic displacement in this sense has more usually been invoked in connection with a different twentieth-century compositional aesthetic, neoclassicism, with its piquant wrong-note effects. With reference to this feature in the music of Prokofiev, Richard Bass speaks of the “wrong” chromatic note, or chord, as fully assuming the role of the “diatonic shadow” it displaces.7 This would certainly seem to fit Debussy’s B♭9 chords in “Jeux de vagues.” More generally, we can specify two tonal-formal conditions necessary for the chromatically displaced dominant’s coherent perception as standing in thus for its diatonic shadow: 1.

2.

Tonal-syntactical equivalence to the diatonic dominant. The dominant chord subject to displacement will function in one of the following roles: a. Cadential (resolving to the final tonic, in the context of a wellformed Ursatz or its lower-level parallelism); b. Half cadential (the dominant as a phrase-ending goal, with harmonic interruption if followed by a re-beginning); c. Embellishing (in contrapuntal embellishment of the tonic, especially through upper-voice neighboring motion);8 or d. Introductory (dominant preparation for an initial tonic arrival, in the context of an incomplete progression). Balance in the larger tonal-structural context. The chromatic abnormality can be meaningfully apprehended as such only in the context of a welldeveloped surrounding tonal structure, in practice entailing such a structure’s articulation, at some stage, by the diatonic dominant as a normative foil to its chromatically displaced counterpart. In other words, chromatic displacement will not be a license for structural amorphousness (the perennial problem with “altered tonal system” explanations).9

Diatonic Shadow versus Real Chromatic Alteration: Comparisons From a voice-leading perspective, harmonic progressions involving chromatic displacement work at two levels. Although in one sense the “ideal” form of

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the underlying voice leading resides in the chord’s absent diatonic shadow, in another the chromatically displaced chord members relate in real ways to the chord they resolve to. In this sense, the effect of literal scale-degree resolutions sometimes coincides with, and is audibly reminiscent of specific chromatically altered versions of the diatonic dominant chord. Example 15.1 illustrates various aspects of the chromatically displaced progression ♭V7–I. Example 15.1a shows its voice leading in a major-mode context: the root of the chromatically displaced chord yields a tritone bass; the ^ ^ 1; and third, a modal “leading tone”; the fifth, the “Phrygian” resolution ♭2– ^ ^ the seventh, the enharmonic common-tone resolution ♭4–3 (for which I coin the term “common-tone neighbor,” or CTN). This common-tone connection is an important feature, going a long way to counteract the effect of a violent dislocation of the voice leading elsewhere in the progression. Example 15.1b shows the voice leading in a minor-mode context: although the root, third, and fifth resolutions are the same as in major, the seventh now restores an idiom^ ^ 3. The remaining two examples draw atic falling (semitonal) resolution, ♭4– attention to certain common features shared by these progressions and chromatically altered forms of the diatonic dominant. In example 15.1c, V7/♭5 and ^ in example 15.1d, V7/♯5 and the enharthe common effect of the Phrygian 2; monic common-tone connection, when resolved to a minor tonic in denial of ^ ^ 10 3). the chord’s chromatic leading-tone tendency (♯2– Example 15.2 repeats this exercise with respect to the chromatically displaced progression ♯V7–I. Example 15.2a illustrates the voice leading in a major-mode context.11 The root now yields an augmented-fifth bass (with the potential for a whole-tone scalar descent if filled in); the third is now an enharmonic common tone (the “enharmonic leading-tone” effect; compare the sim^ ^ 1, ilar effect of the seventh in ♭V7); the fifth yields the augmented second ♯2– ^ ^ or (for better voice leading) the upward semitonal resolution ♯2–3; and the ^ ^ 3. seventh the traditional downward resolution, albeit in the exotic form of ♯4– Example 15.2b again compares the chromatically displaced chord with a chromatically altered diatonic one, not the dominant in this case, but the “shortcut” progression Ger+6–I, where the augmented sixth chord resolves directly to the tonic in a minor-mode context:12 see the common-tone resolutions of the fifth and (especially) third above the bass, the latter reminiscent of the chromatically displaced “common-tone leading tone” effect. The analyses that follow illustrate both conditions (tonal-syntactical equivalence and formal/tonal-structural balance with the diatonic dominant) in varied and complementary ways. “Dialogue du vent et de la mer” (La Mer, third movement), illustrates the systematic displacement of cadential and halfcadential dominants, with a notably balanced disposition of displaced and diatonic dominants on the largest scale. “La Cathédrale engloutie” (Préludes, book 1) features displacement of a different kind of dominant (introductory), with

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Example 15.1a–d. ♭V7–I: voice leading and comparisons.

Example 15.2a–b. ♯V7–I: voice leading and comparisons.

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programmatic implications relating to the prelude’s extramusical inspiration. In “Rondes de printemps” (Images for Orchestra, III) the displacement is again of the introductory dominant, but in the different formal context of a large ternary form with interrupted voice leading at the deep middleground, and balanced by dramatized diatonic compensation in an extended coda. “Jeux de vagues” introduces displaced dominants in varied embellishing and structural settings in one of Debussy’s most individual formal designs. Here, displacement and diatonic correction are related to a conjectural narrative of natural evocation. A word on the larger question of taking a Schenkerian approach to Debussy’s music is perhaps in order. Though few would dispute that Debussy’s music is tonal at some level, it is also a given that his tonality is in many respects radically different from that of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century common practice, and indeed often lacking in the very features that make that repertoire (“Bach to Brahms”) such a natural fit with Schenkerian theory. This is by no means always the case, though. Debussy was in fact a more linear, contrapuntal composer than has often been recognized. A Schenkerian approach has much to tell us—not about all of his music, to be sure, but about much of it, especially the orchestral music and many of the larger piano pieces. There is a well-established tradition of Schenkerian-derived approaches to his music, beginning with Schenker’s own students Adele T. Katz and Felix Salzer.13

“Dialogue du vent et de la mer” The form of “Dialogue du vent et de la mer” resembles a rondo, alternating a refrain with episodes. The refrain is period-like, with an antecedent phrase whose consequent consistently dissolves into the surrounding “sea” of the larger form (and it is also tonally open-ended, but on a higher level).14 Example 15.3, a foreground graph of the antecedent phrase, shows how the half-cadential dominant’s chromatic displacement effectively constitutes a chromatic warping of the V46–35 paradigm (mm. 62–64). Scale degree 3^ (E) initially forms a sixth over the diatonic dominant (G♯) in the bass, but at the point where the upper voice would normally move to 2^ over the dominant 35 (m. 64), the supporting harmony is displaced to a V7 on G♮. The chromatic chord is further embellished by the melody’s suspension of 3^ (E), and an embedded chromatic fourth descent in the bass (from C to G, briefly suggesting the displaced V’s preparation by its own “tonic,” C). Note how the caesura between the displaced V7 (interruption) and the consequent’s tonic re-beginning is filled in by the passing motions D–D♯–E (inner voice, to the third of the tonic ^ chord) and G–G♯–A (upper-voice melody, to the returning appoggiatura 6): The chromatic passing tones D♯ and G♯ might at the same time suggest the

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Example 15.3. Debussy, La Mer, “Dialogue du vent et de la mer,” main theme: foreground graph.

fleeting correction of notes from the displaced chord to its diatonic shadow, but in the absence of reinforcement from the bass, their effect of chromatic passing motion is stronger. Chromatic dominant displacement plays a prominent role throughout the movement. Example 15.4 presents a bird’s-eye overview of the middleground voice leading: the refrain/episode scheme framed by an introduction and coda. At the highest level, the two-part division reflects the large-scale modal trajectory, as minor- and major-mode branches respectively of an interrupted Urlinie.15 The form’s rondo-like periodicity results in an unusually (for Debussy) “architectural” disposition to the large-scale harmonic rhythm. To better convey this aspect, all the dominants in example 15.4 are notated diatonically, with the displaced ones highlighted by directional arrows applied to their diatonic shadows.

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Example 15.4. Debussy, La Mer, “Dialogue du vent et de la mer,” whole movement.

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The chromatic-displacement process is anticipated in the introduction, whose framing V is momentarily knocked off course—displaced downward, then corrected upward (mm. 53–55, not shown in ex. 15.4). Structural displacements then occur in refrain antecedents 1 (as described above in ex. 15.3) and 3 (the same downward displacement of the half-cadential dominant, but now over a diatonic V pedal in the bass). These minor-mode statements frame a central major-mode one (refrain 2), whose antecedent moves, by contrast, to the diatonic dominant over a tonic pedal (note the neat reversal of the situation in refrain 3). Here chromatic displacement is itself (formally) displaced, from the antecedent to the dissolving consequent, whose half-cadential dominant is displaced in reverse direction (upward, uniquely in the movement). This process culminates in the coda, where Debussy saves his most dramatic stroke for the very last moment, in the downward displacement of the structural cadential dominant—a wildly exhilarating effect, amid the swirling ff maelstrom of the final pages. Example 15.5 shows the context of this moment, in a large-scale V prolongation beginning in refrain 3: V46, minor mode (antecedent; see ex. 15.4, m. 245) turning to major (dissolving consequent, m. 254), through V7 (supporting 4^ of the Urlinie’s descent) to V35 (cadential V support^ chromatically displaced). The prolonged V’s three stages are interwoven ing 2, with the coda’s chorale breakthrough (from the coda of the first movement, “De l’aube à midi sur la mer”) on VI, itself prolonged by an anticipatory breakthrough of the final tonic, D♭ (m. 270). Example 15.5. Debussy, La Mer, “Dialogue du vent et de la mer”: coda.

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As stipulated in Condition 2 above, the chromatic dominant displacement must be counterbalanced by the diatonic dominant as a foil in the larger tonalstructural context. And to a remarkable degree the two kinds of dominant do indeed seem to exist in an artfully calculated equilibrium (see ex. 15.4). At the highest level of the interrupted Ursatz, the coda’s displaced cadential dominant is balanced by the diatonic half-cadential dominant of the first branch (m. 137). At the lower level of the refrain antecedents, the first is displaced, the second diatonic, and the third both, in its displacement over a diatonic pedal. And the one time Debussy deploys the diatonic dominant in this context (refrain 2), he offsets it with chromatic displacement (uniquely upward) in the dissolving consequent. Some expressive and programmatic implications of these choices in their formal contexts will be considered in the final part of this paper.

“La Cathédrale engloutie” We encounter a different kind of tonal-syntactical dominant displacement (introductory) in the prelude “La Cathédrale engloutie.” The form (ex. 15.6) is binary, in a repeated process of two protracted V–I discharges: two cycles through the tonal structure, at the same structural level, the first diatonic (V–I), the second with chromatic displacement of the dominant (♯V–I). The two tonic resolutions take the form of the C-major “organ theme,” in opposite dynamic settings: the first time resounding ff, as the culmination of a long crescendo, the second time recollected in a ghostly pp. Linking the two cycles is a stepwise descent from the tonic C to ♭VI (A♭), which is then enharmonically transformed to ♯V (G♯). The enharmonic shift is real, not merely notational; example 15.6 reflects both Debussy’s chromatic notation and the real-time listening process. Structural parallels between the two halves are shown in examples 15.7a and 15.7b. In the first cycle (ex. 15.7a) the prolonged dominant unfolds in three stages: Example 15.6. Debussy, “La Cathédrale engloutie”: middleground graph.

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Embedding the tonic, at two levels: the diatonic arpeggiation V–III–I (mm. 1–15), itself nesting the chromatically displaced tonic C♯, within III, arising from the reinterpretation of E as a chordal minor third (mm. 7–12). This sows the seed for the later structural dominant displacement in the second cycle. In the first cycle, it has the effect of a parenthetical insertion into its surroundings—tonal, textural, and thematic, introducing a new idea of pronounced ecclesiastical character (both chant- and bell-like), complete with a suggestion of contrapuntal archaism: subject (C♯ minor, mm. 7–9)– tonal answer (dominant G♯ minor, mm. 9–11).16 In a slow climb through a symmetrical major-thirds cycle (B–E♭–G, mm. 16ff.); From the regained dominant chord (m. 22), a stepwise V–I descent in the bass.

Example 15.7b shows the second cycle: a prolonged ♯V, unfolding in parallel fashion in three stages: Example 15.7a–b. Debussy, “La Cathédrale engloutie”: foreground graphs.

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With the return of the (formerly embedded) chromatically displaced tonic, now as C-sharp-minor 46 (m. 47), in an exact parallel to measure 7, including the “tonal answer” in its own dominant, G-sharp minor.17 But instead of exiting the displacement and returning to the diatonic dominant, as in the first cycle, the bass now gets stuck on the chromatic G♯. In place of the symmetrical interval cycle, now a slow linear unfolding of ♯V from triad to dominant seventh in the middleground upper-voice third D♯–F♯, measures 51–64; From the finally gained ♯V7 chord (m. 64), a parallel stepwise ♯V–I descent in the bass—or rather, its elliptical suggestion through initiation in the bass’s move down to F♯ (ex. 15.7b, m. 68). Furthermore, the entrance of C♮ later in the same measure sounds at first like the displaced dominant’s chordal third, B♯, which effectively evaporates into the tonic in an ingenious enharmonic pun (ex. 15.7b, mm. 64ff.; cf. ex. 15.2a, the “enharmonic leading-tone” effect).

As is well known, the prelude’s extramusical program relates to an old Breton legend of a watery catastrophe befalling the inhabitants of the mythical cathedral city of Ys.18 In the first cycle, the diatonic dominant’s crescendo to the organ theme (ff) vividly conjures the mythical city and cathedral as real. In the second cycle’s chromatically displaced replay, the dynamic arch crescendo-diminuendo to the theme’s return (pp) evokes the underwater world through a distorting prism, from the city’s slow engulfing to agonized harmonies (half-diminished sevenths over the G♯ bass pedal, mm. 52–62, not shown in ex. 15.7), to the faint sounding of the organ theme from the watery depths.

“Rondes de printemps” In “Rondes de printemps,” the main (A) part’s arrival at the tonic A major is preceded by an introductory section prominently emphasizing E-flat major, whose rhetorical treatment bears all the hallmarks of a chromatically displaced stand-in for the diatonic dominant E (see ex. 15.8). E♭ is prolonged by B♭ as its upper fifth, unharmonized at the beginning, later as the root of a B♭9, which supplies the direct resolution to the A section and the arrival of the tonic.19 Over and above this local Phrygian connection, at the middleground level ♭V7 relates to the tonic as a “common-tone neighbor” chord (CTN; see below, ex. 15.10). The interpretation of E♭ as a chromatically displaced dominant is corroborated by a later turn of events, when the E♭7 chord returns in the retransition preceding the tonal/thematic reprise (ex. 15.9). The chord’s reappearance here, again approached from B♭, forms a clear parallel to its earlier role in the introduction. This time, B♭’s function as the applied V of E♭ is much clearer,

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Example 15.8. Debussy, “Rondes de printemps”: foreground graph, mm. 1–22.

and E♭ itself now proceeds directly to the tonic with no mediating Phrygian connection (thus bringing the CTN resolution to the surface). The resultant voice-leading structure has two strands, shown in example 15.10: The (A–B–Aʹ) ternary form proper comprises a prospective interrupted ^ whose first branch moves to the chromatically displaced domiUrlinie from 3, nant E♭; the resultant augmented-second voice leading (C♯–B♭) is smoothed by the B section’s passing C♮. The second branch does not descend; instead, the returning (presumptive) Kopfton 3^ merges at a higher level into the coda’s descent from 5^ (E). Unlike in “La Cathédrale engloutie,” where the counteractive diatonic dominant foil appears at the outset, in “Rondes de printemps” it is withheld until the coda, which compensates for the earlier chromatic displacement by emphasizing an extended diatonic cycle of fifths. The effect of this ^ is the delay of the structural descent until the coda, with its new Kopfton of 5, retroactive consignment of the preceding ternary form’s (prospective) interrupted 3^ line to an inner voice.20 The coda (Debussy’s longest) is a hugely expanded structure in four parts (see ex. 15.11). Its goal is the restoration of the diatonic order (as a

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Example 15.9. Debussy, “Rondes de printemps”: retransition.

Example 15.10. Debussy, “Rondes de printemps”: deep middleground graph.

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Example 15.11. Debussy, “Rondes de printemps”: coda.

requirement for the piece’s structural closure—see Condition 2 above), but it accomplishes this in decidedly unconventional fashion. In the course of the ^ the dominant chord appears only once, as V7 supUrlinie’s descent from 5, ^ ^ ^ 3 span as an “unsupporting 4. Normally such a strategy would implicate the 5– ^ But if we do ported stretch,” leading to a structural (cadential) V supporting 2. harbor any such expectation of tonal-structural orthodoxy, Debussy subverts it: ^ ^ 1) is in fact a quasi-plagal one the only remaining cadence (Urlinie descent: 2– (mm. 202–6). Although B is the lowest-sounding pitch of the literal “II7” chord here, I interpret it as the “tenor” above an implicit bass note of D in example 15.11. It is as if Debussy has one “dominant token” to spend once, but no more. The result is a tonal structure in which an unsupported stretch and cadential closure are both present, but strangely appear in reverse order (see ex. 15.10). Other aspects of the coda suggest that the piece’s earlier history of chromatic displacement is not so easily forgotten. One striking feature of this section is its surprising early withdrawal to pp reverie in G-sharp minor. In its larger context,

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this is a consonant stabilization of the VII scale step, eventually absorbed into the realm of the tonic via a circle-of-fifths segment to the diatonic V7. But another rationale for this unusual tonicization might be sought in its relation to the chromatically displaced dominant: as a rapt glimpse into a different world that might have been, had the displaced dominant been the real one. Pursuing this train of speculation, is it too fanciful to hear the E♭ salvos launching the coda’s third part (mm. 196, 198; deflected first to G minor, then G♭ [= F♯]) as a last exorcising or neutralizing of that pitch’s history of dominant potential?

“Jeux de vagues” For my last example, I return to my initial illustration of the phenomenon in “Jeux de vagues.” The movement’s form is one of Debussy’s most original, a ^ ^ ^ 4–3 neighunique hybrid partaking of features reminiscent both of ternary (3– bor motion) and sonata form (an exposition-like section of I–V tonal framework, exhibiting prominent thematic duality),21 the whole framed by an introduction and coda. This movement begins off tonic on F-sharp minor, from which point the introduction approaches the tonic, E, by descending fifths: II–V–I.22 Example 15.12 elaborates this three-chord framework, into which chromatic displacement is introduced in stages: 1.

2. 3. 4. 5.

The diatonic progression II–V7–I, with 4^ bridging the first two chords as a common tone before resolving (as an incomplete upper neighbor) to 3^ over I, to which we add A line in upper thirds; V7 now becomes V9/7, embellishing the tonic resolution with a 6–5 suspension. Embellishment of the added upper line by the chromatic passing tone C♮; ^ and Chromatic displacement of V to ♭V: 4^ (N)–3^ becomes ♭4^ (CTN)–3, 9/7 C♮ becomes the ninth of ♭V . Embellishment of the opening II with its own 5–6 motion; filling in of the II–♭V diminished fourth via a passing chord (G-sharp major, resulting in a whole-tone motion in the bass); and filling in of the diminished-fifth bass ♭V–I with a scalar descent (again whole-tone).

Example 15.13 presents an overview of the whole movement: between the introduction and coda, the main body of the piece consists of an alternation of the exposition and two recapitulatory sections with two episodes. The presence of two recapitulatory areas requires comment. The first (in the subdominant, A major) recapitulates material from the introduction as well as the “second theme” from the exposition (m. 92 = m. 9; m. 104 = m. 60), while the second (in the tonic) functions as the standard “double return” (thematic/tonal)

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Example 15.12. Debussy, La Mer, “Jeux de vagues,” introduction: derivation of ♭V7.

of the main-theme material from the beginning of the exposition. Thus the return of material from the first half of the form is distributed, reordered, over a large expanse in the second half. The two episodes (in F major and G minor) stand apart from this process, in clear thematic and tonal contrast. As for the tonal structure, the three chromatically displaced (B♭9) dominants show remarkable variety in Debussy’s adaptation of this technique to the typical embellishing and structural contexts of tonal form. We have already considered the first one (m. 28, introduction–exposition: tonic prolongation by incomplete CTN; see ex. 15.12). The second (m. 153) participates in a middleground tonic prolongation (I–IV–♭V7–I) spanning exposition–recapitulation 1–recapitulation 2 (mm. 36–163); note how this combines both the diatonic and the chromatically displaced versions of the upper-neighbor ^ ^ ^ ^ 4 (♭4)–3. The third and last (m. 215) forms the goal of a deep midmotion 3– dleground motion through recapitulation 2, in a chromatically displaced version of the bass arpeggiation I–III–V. It also participates in the background

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Example 15.13. Debussy, La Mer, “Jeux de vagues”: middleground graph.

cadential progression from recapitulation 2 to the coda, ♮2^ (F) standing in for diatonic 2^ (F♯) in the Urlinie’s descent. But the situation not so straightforward; we will recall from “Rondes de printemps” the necessity of the diatonic dominant for tonal-structural purposes, and this turns out to be the case in “Jeux de vagues” as well: although the chromatically displaced dominant serves to initiate the cadential process, its completion requires the dominant’s diatonic correction (m. 237, considered in more detail below). In the bigger picture, the chromatically displaced dominants ultimately play a prolonging/embellishing role, with the (partial) exception of the last one. In addition to the structural correction of V in the coda, diatonic counterbalance (Condition 2) is provided by the internal tonal scheme of the exposition (I–V) (see ex. 15.13, m. 48).

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The Chromatically Displaced Dominant: A Force of Nature? In “Jeux de vagues,” chromatic displacement might strike us as directly suggestive in a programmatic sense, the repeated chromatic fracturing of the V–I relation an apt musical metaphor for a breaking wave. Indeed, we could think of the recurring B♭9 chord as a “wave motive” of sorts, breaking with increased force at each appearance. Its third and last appearance (m. 215) makes the biggest wave. At the same time, its strictly musical demands are correspondingly greater: coming at this critical formal juncture, it must shoulder the burden of large-scale structural closure. As we have seen, this entails its diatonic correction. Debussy’s solution is characteristically both subtle and audacious, in a protracted fragmentation or scattering of the components of the V–I resolution over the recapitulation 2–coda divide, in several stages (see ex. 15.14). First, the wave itself: unlike in its first two appearances (mm. 36, 163), the sheer force of the climactic third one requires more time to dissipate, in a slow downward arpeggiation. The tidal force of the third wave has drastic fallout for the ensuing tonic (first tonic resolution, m. 225, marking the beginning of the coda), which is all but obliterated, reduced first to a lonely E in the bass, to which an unstable sixth (C♮) is added (m. 227, suggesting a contrapuntal “6” to an unsounded “5” in an implicit 5–6 motion). Consonant tonic harmony fails to materialize; instead, a shadowy chromatic passage, suggestive of the wave’s swirling, eddying aftermath (see mm. 231–36), clears the way for the arrival of the diatonic V, pp, in a clearly recessive context. Note that Debussy retains the crucial Phrygian 2^ as a conspicuously audible common-tone connection between the two dominants (mm. 215, 237). In the upper voice, ^ ^ is rectified to the diatonic neighbor (♮4) in an the CTN from ♭V7 ♭4) inner voice. Only with the second tonic resolution (m. 245) does the Urlinie ^ at the same time, the chromatic ♮6^ (C♮) from the first tonic finally attain 1; resolution yields to diatonic C♯ as a contextually stable added sixth to the tonic triad. So we have two dominants and two tonic resolutions: the first shadowy, ambiguous, and retrospectively highly provisional in light of the definitive second one. The overall process reflects the dissipation of an elemental natural force to an aftermath of diaphanous sunlit tranquility. The place of the diatonic dominant in the scheme is telling, in the inverse relation between structural weight and rhetorical/formal salience. Whereas the more obvious strategy would have been to have the diatonic correction form the wave’s climactic apex before breaking, Debussy instead delays it until after the wave’s comprehensive dissipation, well into coda territory. Nature, of course, supplied the direct inspiration for much of Debussy’s music, with many other examples besides the few discussed here.23 However,

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Example 15.14. Debussy, La Mer, “Jeux de vagues”: coda.

what is interesting about these particular cases, which share the technical feature of chromatic dominant displacement, is their common theme of the representation of specific, elemental kinds of natural phenomena. Three of the four are concerned with the sea: breaking waves and windswept seascapes in two movements from La Mer; the “pagan rite of the sea” as the backdrop to the legend evoked in “La Cathédrale engloutie.”24 The theme of the fourth piece, “Rondes de printemps,” is the spring thaw and reawakening of the natural world.25 On a more specific level, the violent dislocation of chromatically displaced voice leading might be thought of as an apt metaphor for the dynamic agency of the natural phenomena evoked. But if chromatic displacement thus reflects the elemental side of nature, is there any corresponding association of the diatonic dominant with its other side—a state of natural calm or order? Here it is more difficult to generalize, indispensable as the diatonic dominant is for large-scale architectural balance and tonal-structural coherence. But we might observe how Debussy holds the diatonic dominant in reserve for the role of restoring natural tranquility in such passages as the coda of “Jeux de vagues,” and the midpoint of “Dialogue du vent et de la mer” where, rising from the rubble in the wake of a veritable pre-dominant cyclone (mm. 118–32), the diatonic dominant’s long-breathed lyrical unfolding (mm. 133–56) so memorably sets the stage for the major-mode, still heart of the movement (refrain 2, m. 157). In his erstwhile capacity as music critic, Debussy could be caustic on the subject of other composers’ attempts at representing nature in their music. Above all, he objected to any suspicion of resorting to naively literalistic imitation. On

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one occasion he famously took Beethoven to task for “wooden nightingales” and “Swiss cuckoo-clock cuckoos” in his “Pastoral” Symphony. He continues, however: But certain of the old master’s pages do contain expression more profound than the beauty of a landscape. Why? Simply because there is no attempt at direct imitation, but rather at capturing the invisible sentiments of nature [original emphasis]. Does one render the mystery of the forest by recording the height of the trees? It is more a process where the limitless depths of the forest give free rein to the imagination.26

Debussy’s remark seems to suggest that a composer’s response to nature should be one of imaginative transformation, from nature to musical analogy—not one of surface detail (“recording the height of the trees”), but rather reflected in a larger, deeper sense in the music’s structure. Did Debussy accomplish this goal in his own music? If so, how? In keeping with his stated aversion to naively pictorial effects such as Beethoven’s bird calls, Debussy’s evocations often seem to work in more musically abstract ways, paralleling a natural process through tonal-structural means. In this connection, the first movement of La Mer (“De l’aube à midi sur la mer”) furnishes an illuminating comparison with the other two movements, discussed above. It exhibits an unorthodox tonal structure in the form of an ascending Urlinie—a singularly apt reflection of the music’s programmatic idea, the ascent of the morning sun over the sea. Here, the sea as unchanging backdrop to the changing light conditions finds its musical analogy in a kaleidoscopically evolving five-part form (see ex. 15.15). More to the point here, from the perspective of its dominant-chordal vocabulary, it is surely no accident that the one movement of this work not concerned with the sea’s elemental aspects is also the one where the diatonic dominant reigns unchallenged by its chromatic counterpart. Whether or not this was conscious on Debussy’s part, the examples of chromatic displacement discussed here suggest a similar process of imaginative transformation, from the evoked natural phenomenon to its purely musical abstraction in specific tonal-structural techniques. The Russian pianist Sviatoslav Richter had this striking observation about the effect of Debussy’s music on the listener: “There aren’t personal experiences in Debussy’s music. It strikes you with greater force than nature itself. Looking at the sea doesn’t have such impact as listening to La Mer.”27 Richter’s emphasis on the essential impersonality of Debussy’s art seems to capture the same distinction from another perspective. Paradoxically perhaps, the very abstraction or impersonality of Debussy’s imaginative process intensifies rather than diminishes the music’s evocative qualities, which, unconstrained by conventionally pictorial surface effects, are instead reflected deep in its very

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Example 15.15. Debussy, La Mer, “De l’aube à midi sur la mer”: middleground graph.

structural fabric. Certainly, no one would want to deny the effectiveness of these pieces at the level of their surface details—the exquisitely judged effects of melodic arabesque and harmonic and orchestral color. But the music’s uncanny capacity to evoke a truly elemental power perhaps derives from something deeper: the composer’s rare ability to capture, through creative transformation of the most basic elements of tonal structure, a direct musical analogy for the essence of a natural process.

Notes 1.

Daniel Harrison, Harmonic Function in Chromatic Music: A Renewed Dualist Theory and an Account of Its Precedents (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1994), 110–12, 159–60.

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3. 4. 5. 6. 7.

8. 9.

10. 11. 12. 13.

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Matthew Brown, Douglas Dempster, and Dave Headlam, “The ♯IV (♭V) Hypothesis: Testing the Limits of Schenker’s Theory of Tonality,” Music Theory Spectrum 19 (1997): 155–83. See note 19 below. Arthur Wenk, Claude Debussy and Twentieth-Century Music (Boston: G. K. Hall, 1983), 68–69, ex. 20. Arnold Whittall, “Tonality and the Whole-Tone Scale in the Music of Debussy,” Music Review 36 (1975): 261–71. Simon Trezise, Debussy: ‘La Mer,’ Cambridge Music Handbooks (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), 63–64. Richard Bass, “Prokofiev’s Technique of Chromatic Displacement,” Music Analysis 7 (1988): 197–214, especially 199–200. Although the principle is essentially the same, Prokofiev’s displacements tend to be much more motivically integrated into their larger contexts than Debussy’s, as reflected in Bass’s analyses, which are very much concerned with pursuing the larger motivic consequences drawn from displacement. Debussy’s displacements, by contrast, tend to stand apart from their surroundings as vividly sculpted sonic objects set in high relief. This is not to say that they do not have their own kinds of consequences for deeper-level structure (in fact they very much do, as explored in my analyses below), just that they do not permeate the motivic fabric the way Prokofiev’s do. Passing motion in the bass would be more problematic, owing to chromatic displacement of the bass note. Concerning my graphic representation, and in particular the tension between Schenkerian voice leading and chromatic displacement: for the most part, the chromatically displaced dominants will be represented at face value, both to avoid unnecessarily complex notation and to draw attention to the dramatized interplay between diatonic and chromatically displaced versions of the dominant chord, which is an essential aspect of all the works analyzed here. See Richard Strauss, Tod und Verklärung, measures 28–29. Since there are no examples of the hypothetical minor-mode version in Debussy’s music, I do not include it. As in Brahms’s Symphony No. 3, third movement, measures 96–99. See (selectively) Adele T. Katz, Challenge to Musical Tradition: A New Concept of Tonality (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1945; repr., New York: Da Capo, 1972); Felix Salzer, Structural Hearing: Tonal Coherence in Music (New York: Boni, 1952; repr., New York: Dover, 1962); Matthew Brown, “Tonality and Form in Debussy’s Prélude à ‘L’Après-midi d’un faune,’” Music Theory Spectrum 15 (1993): 127–43; Brown, Debussy’s ‘Ibéria’ (New York: Oxford University Press, 2003); Brown, “Composing with Prototypes: Charting Debussy’s ‘L’Isle joyeuse,’” Intégral 18–19 (2004–5): 151–88; Boyd Pomeroy, “Toward a New Tonal Practice: Chromaticism and Form in Debussy’s Orchestral Music” (PhD diss., Cornell University, 2000); Pomeroy, “Debussy’s Tonality: A Formal Perspective,” in The Cambridge Companion to Debussy, ed. Simon Trezise (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), 155–78; Pomeroy, “Tales of Two Tonics: Directional Tonality in Debussy’s Orchestral Music,” Music Theory Spectrum 26 (2004):

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14.

15.

16.

17.

18. 19.

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87–118; Pomeroy, “Debussy’s G♯/A♭ Complex,” in Debussy’s Resonance, ed. François de Medicis et al. (Rochester, NY: University of Rochester Press, forthcoming); Olli Väisälä, “New Theories and Fantasies on the Music of Debussy: Post-Triadic Prolongation in ‘Ce qu’a vu le Vent d’Ouest’ and Other Examples,” in Essays from the Third International Schenker Symposium, ed. Allen Cadwallader (Hildesheim: Olms, 2006), 165–95. For a dissenting view, see Richard S. Parks, The Music of Claude Debussy (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1989), chap. 1. I use the term “dissolving consequent” by analogy with this type of sonataformal transition in Sonata Theory. See James Hepokoski and Warren Darcy, Elements of Sonata Theory: Norms, Types, and Deformations in the Late-EighteenthCentury Sonata (New York: Oxford University Press, 2006), 101–2. In keeping with Debussy’s expressly symphonic ambitions in La Mer (subtitled “trois esquisses symphoniques”), the darkness-to-light trajectory is dramatized with an overtness that is rare (indeed unique) in his music. On La Mer’s relation to the symphonic tradition, see Trezise, Debussy: ‘La Mer,’ 45–48. Even so, there is much subtlety in the ways in which this minor-major dichotomy permeates the movement at many levels: for example, within the predominantly major-mode world of the Ursatz’s large second branch, embedded within the succession episode 2–refrain 3 (and within refrain 3 itself); and as a surface melodic detail of the refrain, in the inflection of its characteristic dual appoggiaturas (A–G♯; A♯–G♯), with a reversal of diatonic/chromatic signification depending on the modal context (compare mm. 56–59 and 159–62; as an added subtlety, at a slightly higher level the second appoggiatura becomes a passing tone en route to B). The parenthetical effect is enhanced by the rhythmic notation of doubled note values, famously at odds with Debussy’s own performance practice (in which the new half note in measure 7 is equated with the old quarter note, as preserved on his piano-roll recording). On the possible reasons for this notational anomaly, see Roy Howat’s introduction to Claude Debussy, ‘Préludes, Book 1’: The Autograph Score (New York: Dover, 1987), vii–viii. By “formerly embedded,” I imply that the return to the C-sharp-minor idea (m. 47) now starts the new cycle directly, with the third descent C–A♭ (mm. 40–46) functioning as a link between the two cycles. Although this does seem the most likely hearing of the passage, in another sense this third descent can be heard as parallel to the opening one, G–E (mm. 1–5), thus implying an earlier start to the second cycle and conferring an embedded aspect to the return to C-sharp minor. See, for example, E. Robert Schmitz, The Piano Works of Claude Debussy (New York: Duell, Sloan & Pearce, 1950; repr., New York: Dover, 1966), 155–58. For a different interpretation of the E♭ in the introduction, see Brown, Dempster, and Headlam, who explain it as a contrapuntal chord prolonging ♭II (B♭) (“The ♯IV (♭V) Hypothesis,” 178, ex. 7). This reading does not stand up well to scrutiny, however: First, the opening measures have been comprehensively rewritten (!), making B♭ appear much more stable than it actually is, by replacing Debussy’s B♭ octaves and diminished triad with a nonexistent

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21.

22.

23.

24. 25.

26.

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B-flat-major triad and passing motion (F–F♯–G) to the E♭7 chord at measure 7. Although B♭ does provide the immediate (Phrygian) voice-leading connection to A major at the other end of the introduction (m. 21), to extrapolate from this detail the conclusion that it must therefore harmonically govern the introduction as a whole seems unwarranted. Second, they consider the introduction outside the context of the parallel passage in the retransition, where the priority of E♭, and its direct relation to the tonic, A, is even clearer (see below). This is analogous to the situation described by Ernst Oster in the course of a long footnote on p. 139 of Heinrich Schenker, Free Composition, trans. & ed. Ernst Oster (New York: Longman, 1979; repr., Hillsdale, NY: Pendragon, 2001). The sonata resemblance is perhaps coincidental here. Nevertheless, this is not the only orchestral movement by Debussy that displays exposition-like tonal and thematic processes: see also “Fêtes” (Nocturnes, second movement) and “Par les rues et par les chemins” (Images for Orchestra, “Ibéria,” first movement). Note that this harmonic procedure is a mirror image of the first movement (“De l’aube à midi sur la mer”), where the slow introduction approaches the tonic by way of two ascending fifths: IV/IV–IV–I (see below, ex. 15.15). This is surely not coincidental and shows Debussy’s fine-tuned sensibility to tonal relations, as well as its dramatic aptness: passive ascending-fifth motion for the stillness of the sea at dawn versus active descending-fifth motion for the kinetic play of waves. On the importance of a nature aesthetic to Debussy’s music, see Matthew Robert Morrow, “‘Complex Impressions’: Nature in the Music and Criticism of Claude Debussy” (PhD diss., University of Rochester, 2011); and Brooks Toliver, “Debussy after Symbolism: The Formation of a Nature Aesthetic, 1901–1913” (PhD diss., University of California, Los Angeles, 1994). Schmitz, Piano Works, 155. Not all of Debussy’s “elemental” nature pieces incorporate this phenomenon. An example of one conspicuously lacking it is the prelude “Ce qu’a vu le Vent d’Ouest” (book 1). And other pieces engage with the idea of chromatic displacement in different ways: see, for example, the chromatically displaced tonics in “‘Les sons et les parfums tournent dans l’air du soir’” (book 1) and “Brouillards” (book 2), and the displaced chord progressions in “Canope” (book 2). Sometimes an apparent chromatic displacement of the dominant really does imply semitonally related keys, as in the humorous clash of competing dominants in measures 46–50 of “La sérénade interrompue” (book 1). Claude Debussy, review of a concert conducted by Felix Weingartner, Gil Blas, February 16, 1903, in François Lesure, Debussy on Music: The Critical Writings of the Great French Composer, trans. and ed. Richard Langham-Smith (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1977; repr. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1988), 117–19. Quoted in Alexander Melnikov, “Wisdom and Compassion for Chopin and Debussy,” notes to CD BBC Legends BBCL 4021-2 (1999) (Sviatoslav Richter plays Debussy and Chopin, from concerts 1961-67).

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Appendix An Interview with Edward Laufer Stephen Slottow

In the summer of 2003, as part of research for a talk (later an article) on Schenkerian pedagogy,1 I spent two days interviewing Edward Laufer at his house in Glen Haven, near Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada. The interviews were recorded, and later were partially transcribed by David Huff. This appendix presents excerpts minimally edited for readability. They convey, I feel, a strong sense of Laufer’s analytical emphases, pedagogical preferences, keen intelligence, predilection for precision, aversion to pomposity, and wry sense of humor. They also occasionally demonstrate how, under a somewhat deceptive appearance of meekness and shyness, he could express very firm opinions indeed.

1. Early Musical Training SS: Would you say something about your early musical training, before you got into Schenkerian analysis? EL: I grew up in Halifax and, like so many young aspiring musicians, I learned to play an instrument, which was in my case the piano. But I was also very interested in composition. I studied for one year at Dalhousie University in Halifax, and then in Toronto. Would you like me to mention some of my teachers there? SS: Yes. EL: Well, I studied with Oscar Morawetz,2 a very well known Canadian composer, and with John Weinzweig3 for a year or two, also quite well known. One of my great delights at that time was going to rehearsals of the Toronto Symphony

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Orchestra. They did some very interesting programs—I used to go to their rehearsals regularly with scores and listen to the rehearsals. There were many outstanding conductors who came to conduct the orchestra; for example, Sir Thomas Beecham and Sir Malcolm Sargent, whom I remember very well. In those early years in Toronto—I guess it would have been the late fifties—the Mahler symphonies were receiving their first performances in Toronto under a conductor named Heinz Unger,4 and I very enthusiastically went to all of those. In my very first year in Toronto the orchestra was still conducted by Sir Ernest MacMillan,5 who was certainly very well known in Canadian music circles. I went to Toronto in the late fifties, I think around ’55, and was there for three or four years. After that I was accepted into the Juilliard School of Music as a pianist, where I studied piano under Edward Steuermann,6 who was a close friend and associate of Schoenberg. He recorded all of Schoenberg’s piano music. He was the first performer of the Piano Concerto [op. 42] and the pianist on the recording of Pierrot lunaire, which was conducted by Schoenberg. So I remember that when I had to audition for Juilliard, in my program was a Schoenberg piano piece, I think op. 11, but Steuermann, of course, didn’t want to hear it. Anyway, by that time I somehow knew that piano . . . I don’t mean to pun, but piano was not my forte. When I was in New York, studying with Steuermann, I continued my old ways, namely going to concerts and that sort of thing. I heard a great many different performers at different concerts; it was a very rich time in New York— many different things going on every night of the week. Possibly even richer than it is now: there was a great deal of musical activity. Gunther Schuller had a new music series. At the old Met we could get what were called “score seats.” For two or three dollars you could get, through the school, a seat at the opera. You didn’t see very well. These were seats higher up; there was a lamp and you could follow along with the score, and if you craned your neck around you could see a bit of the stage. And I went to the opera very frequently. I remember hearing Pelléas conducted by Ernest Ansermet.

2. Studies with Roger Sessions EL: At that time I was especially interested in composition and I met a number of composers when I first went down to New York. But the one who struck me most forcefully was Roger Sessions. He was very kind and accepted me as a pupil, and in my first two years in New York I studied with him privately, going down to Princeton every week or so. I would bring what I had been writing and he would make comments, and so forth. And he was a wonderful person. I had the greatest admiration and respect for him, and of course he had the greatest admiration and respect for Steuermann, with whom he knew I was studying.

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SS: Were you studying theory or composition with Roger Sessions? EL: Composition. Roger Sessions was not really one for theory, I would say. He of course knew Schenker’s work and was perhaps one of the very first to have read and studied it when it first came out. I’m thinking of Der freie Satz. But as much as he admired Schenker I still remember him saying: “Schenker had gone much too far.” He believed that Princeton—I guess that was one of his reasons for saying this—had too healthy an emphasis on theory and on analysis, especially in the way it was being done. And, from a composer’s point of view, he didn’t feel it was the right thing. There were places where of course the two fields crossed constantly, but he didn’t believe that a composer should be the analyst of his own music or in fact allow analysis to get in the way of the compositional process. As his students, in one of his classes, we were always after him to do some analytical work with us and he never really would; [he covered] only general matters, or some specific matters having to do with composition. He refused to discuss any one particular piece or to go through it analytically. And it was only years later that I somehow understood more forcefully what he meant. The kind of attitude to music which he left with us, his students, was certainly very, very important to me. You may know his books on music: The Musical Experience of Composer, Performer, Listener and Questions about Music.7 He discusses in those books what I would call a sort of philosophy of music or attitude to music, which in their own way are very important and easily overlooked by people who get involved with, well, the specifics of analysis or analytical approaches. But it’s a kind of musical good sense which he favored. He was a man of very great learning, very great culture. He knew many languages, [and] he knew the musical literature thoroughly. But on one occasion, going back to what I was saying before, he did agree to discuss one piece of music with us and I remember that it was the minuet movement of Beethoven’s Piano Sonata op. 2, no. 1. I still remember some of the comments that he made about it: for instance, the contrast between the F♮ and the F♭ in the early part of the piece. And I remember also very clearly, after having discussed various matters having to do with phrase structure and form and certain kinds of motivic details, he slammed the book down on the table and said, “And that’s that!” He felt that’s as far as it should go; he didn’t need to go beyond that. I perfectly understand what he meant in terms of a composer. A composer’s not someone who is constantly watching himself and analyzing every note he writes and questioning everything, [or] he wouldn’t get anywhere. And he believed very much in—well, what should I call it—the well-trained musician’s intuition. He once described composing as “hearing what comes next.” So it’s not something that you plot about as some students do in a very mechanical form on a piece of paper, graph paper, or whatever. Not at all. It was a different process for him all together. SS: If I may interject?

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EL: Sure. SS: I’ve been teaching eighteenth-century counterpoint, and in class I almost always compose counterpoint by improvising at the keyboard and then working with whatever emerges. It’s an entirely different process from analysis for me. EL: Well, there’s something about, let’s call it a composer’s memory, which entails or includes what analyzing music comes up against. Of course the composer doesn’t think of all of these things as he works on his music. I suppose students have often asked you about a certain piece of music: “Did the composer think of that?” SS: Yes. EL: They always ask me, anyway, and I always give them an answer like this: “Well, you know when you start learning to play the piano, when you play the C-major scale, you have to think about where to put your thumb and so forth, but once you know that, you don’t have to think about that anymore; you just do it.” And I say, “Also when you’re speaking a language, let’s assume it’s English, you don’t have to think when you’re going use the plural verb or if you’re going to use the subjunctive or if you’re going to do this or that. If you know the language, if you’ve learned it well, then you’ll know it and you don’t think about these things consciously.” I think the compositional process is like that too. You learn certain things and that’s just what it is. You don’t have to think “why this” and “why that,” you don’t have to think about the reasons; it’s just what it is. And then we little dwarves come along and we analyze the music by a composer. We have to think about it. I don’t think they have to. SS: You were talking about Roger Sessions. . . . EL: Well, Sessions often said he had learned a great deal from Schenker, but—and this is nothing against him—I don’t think he ever made what we would call a Schenkerian analysis in his life. He was certainly very intrigued by Schenker’s insights. I suppose one would think of Schenker’s work with Beethoven’s Third or Ninth Symphonies, of his other works, and many of the insights which are contained in Der freie Satz about individual pieces. Sessions was not a friend of the rather methodical approach that Schenker took in Der freie Satz. Well, we would perhaps regard Der freie Satz not so much as a book which one reads but rather as a kind of compendium of technical procedures—something like that, at least. But Sessions was concerned with the kinds of insights that Schenker had to offer and he admired Schenker’s approach very much. This was really quite something at a time when Schenker’s work was not at all known and when in fact it was being deprecated from—well, really from everywhere—because it was threatening to what was being taught, what teachers knew, and what musicians were doing. And Sessions wrote a number of articles defending Schenker.8 In any case, Sessions was a very strong influence on me not only as a teacher, but as a person, and certainly also as a

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composer. I always very much admired his music and, well, I admired everything about him.

3. Early Interest in Musical Analysis SS: What kind of analysis were you doing before you were exposed to Schenker? EL: I certainly studied musical form ever since I was a little boy, since I was ten years old, I suppose. SS: So that was a matter of finding . . . EL: A person who loves music wants to know how it’s put together and how it works. SS: . . . finding the formal structure and the major key areas and those types of things. EL: Yes, and analyses of sonatas and fugues. I don’t know when I started, but I was trying to write compositions of my own and I had to look at how other people wrote music and how it was put together. SS: And you also did conventional harmonic analysis? EL: I remember, quite specifically—talking of conventional harmonic analysis—trying to figure out the Chopin Prelude in F-sharp Minor and using the conventional terminology and the Roman numerals and all of that sort of thing, and feeling that it was utterly unsatisfactory. It just was a bizarre system whereby one translated one kind of written language to another, and you were none the wiser for it. So I found that very confusing and not at all satisfactory. And, in relation to analysis, I think I was twelve years old when I passed the exams for the Royal Conservatory of Music. I don’t mention that for any other reason than to say that we had to analyze fugues and sonata movements, and that even at that age I was studying music.

4. Exposure to Schenkerian Analysis EL: I had somehow heard about Schenker in some obscure way—I can’t quite remember what it was—while I was still a student at Toronto in the late fifties. I remember reading little articles about him, and there was something, I think, in the Harvard Dictionary of Music,9 but not under the heading “Schenker,” of course. I never really understood what was going on, but there was something about it which intrigued me right from the start. Then in the years that I was at Princeton many people talked about Schenker; the name was very loosely thrown about. I had the impression then that people didn’t really know what they were talking about. Nobody really knew; everybody was talking

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about him but nobody had really studied his work. Well, how would you study his work? You’d have to study it with somebody who had studied with him, and I didn’t think anybody there had. Well, in retrospect, I would have to say that Milton Babbitt was certainly very well informed; I don’t know who else was. But I was interested, in a certain sense, in Schenker’s work; and I was able to get a copy of Der freie Satz and spent a whole summer here in Nova Scotia reading it, and trying to understand what he meant, and not getting on too well with it. And, from [a] rare book dealer in Germany, I got a copy of Oswald Jonas’s book.10 I read it with great interest and understood, I think, a little bit more about things at that point.

5. Studies with Ernst Oster EL: Then years later, probably about ’67 or ’68, a friend and classmate of mine told me that Ernst Oster was giving a seminar on Schenkerian studies at Princeton. By that time I had already graduated, but I was very interested. Of course I didn’t have any real entitlement so far as attending a course was concerned, but I went down and introduced myself to Ernst Oster, asked him if he would mind if I simply sat in as a visitor, and he said, “All right.” And I was so entranced and impressed by what he did in that first class (which wasn’t his first class with them but was the first class for me) that I asked him right away if I could study with him privately in New York, and he agreed. So then I went to the classes at Princeton and studied with him privately. I was a student of his for many years, and even after the more formal student years were over I continued to study with him on a private basis for years after that. Even after I had moved to Toronto, I would come back to New York as often as I could and would show him what I was doing, and try to take lessons with him if it was workable. In those years he was teaching at the New England Conservatory and he would, for example, come back to New York after a stint there and be exhausted—sometimes he wouldn’t feel like doing too much, he was just worn out—but we would still get together and talk. I would ask him questions, sometimes by mail, and he was always very wonderful about responding. And I knew him also very well, let’s say, socially. We would often—after a lesson, for example—go out and have a meal. I was a student of his right from about ’68 to pretty close to the time that he passed away [in 1977]. I remember so often going up to his apartment on 72nd Street thinking, “Well, this time I think maybe I’ve got it right”—whatever it was I was working on—and I came out much sobered. He was a most remarkable teacher. He had the most wonderful knowledge of the literature of any musician I’ve ever known, the most astonishing insight; utterly amazing, just wonderful. On a couple of occasions we even played music together. I remember one occasion in particular. After

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a lesson he suggested that we should play something, and he got out a volume of Dvořák’s four-hand music, and we sat down and played it. I did the best I could—I was a little bit nervous. He had the most beautiful, the warmest, richest tone when he played. It was such a feeling of energy and love—“intensity” maybe is a better word—and that was wonderful. It was one of my great fourhand experiences. I guess it was [one of the] Slavonic Dances. Well, there’s a great deal I could say about Oster, I think. SS: It would be good to say more. His apartment was at 72nd and what? EL: Between Broadway and Amsterdam. SS: He studied with Jonas? EL: Yes. SS: In Germany? EL: I don’t know exactly where. Oster was from Hamburg. I never wanted to ask him about personal matters, so I don’t know if he studied with Jonas there. I doubt it; I think Jonas probably was in Vienna with the rest of the Schenker crowd.11 I know that Oster emigrated to the United States, and it was not really until years later that I realized that in his own situation he had been in danger from the Nazis. I didn’t know that he came from a Jewish background. I didn’t know that until years later. I thought that he was simply a very high-minded person, which he certainly was, who left out of disagreement with the regime. SS: Can you say anything about how Oster taught? Either in the classroom at Princeton or in your private lessons? EL: Well, I can’t at the moment remember exactly which pieces he discussed with his class at Princeton. I remember that he started off, I guess before I was in the class, with some quite simple pieces, probably the Mozart G major theme from the piano sonata [K. 283, I]. He went over these pieces very thoroughly, very carefully, and would write a few notes on the board but not at the greatest level of detail. I remember he did a Schubert song with the class fairly early on, and although he had told the students to look at the text, I guess he didn’t really believe that they would. So he took the trouble to copy it out, and discussed it with us some of what it meant in terms of the musical setting. I’m ashamed to say that that was something quite new for me, because in my previous training when we studied a song we didn’t pay much attention to the text. It was quite a striking experience for me, that text-music relationship. Well, it’s obvious, certainly to you as it is to me now, but at that point it was for me really something rather different. And he went over excerpts from Mozart and Beethoven sonatas. SS: First themes, for instance? EL: Well, for example, beginnings, first theme areas, or passages from here and there—starting with simple readings and progressing to more difficult ones, obviously. Later in the year he rather more quickly wanted to show us how larger pieces worked. I remember him speaking about some Brahms intermezzi, a bit

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of the slow movement from Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, some Chopin, something from the D-flat-major Scherzo [no. 2, op. 20], which people always say is in B-flat minor because they’ve never looked beyond the first few bars. And those he did rather more quickly. He didn’t discuss them in great detail; he wouldn’t have had time, and I had the impression that there were many things that he could have said about the pieces which he did not say. I remember him once saying to me, during the time that I was teaching at Mannes [1973–74]: “Well, one can’t say everything.” So certain points perhaps would be singled out, which he would discuss with the class; and he might write a few notes on the blackboard, but not always that much. And occasionally he would give us handouts of some of his sketches, maybe not for all the piece, but just for certain difficult sections of the piece, and he would explain to us how that worked. SS: So he wouldn’t write that much on the board? EL: Well, no, he didn’t, actually. But he was, at the same time, very generous with his own sketches. When I was studying with him he gave me quite a few sketches of works which I was studying with him. And later, when he was teaching at New England, he taught a special course on Schubert songs, and would occasionally give me a copy of a handout that he had given to his students there, because I was obviously very interested in anything he was doing. But at the time also he was working on the translation of Der freie Satz, as you know, and he was very insistent that that should come first: Schenker’s writing should come first, before the work of any of his followers, any of his students, or any of Oster’s own work. I remember once asking Oster why he didn’t publish more of his sketches, and he said that his work was somehow in a state of transition. I remember that some Schubert sketches he showed me contained various dated revisions. Oster felt that publishing involved pinning down his thoughts, but if he later changed his mind or had new thoughts or found a better reading, then he would incorporate that. He did not want some older reading to be thought of as his final word. However, it was certainly the case that Schenker would have changed many of the readings in Der freie Satz had he lived. Some of the readings were obviously wrong, and some of these Oster pointed out to me. For example, [Schenker’s] reading of the development section of [Beethoven’s] op. 14, no. 2, the G major [piano] sonata, is obviously not correct in any way. But the point is that there would always be something in these readings which would be, let’s say, not quite right, even though there would be some grain of truth in it, some kind of insight, something which might be important even if it wasn’t quite the way it went altogether. SS: You met with him once a week? EL: More or less, yes. And we would sit at his piano and play a few notes here and there. SS: How much would he give you? Perhaps a section such as the exposition, or maybe just the first theme area? Or would he give you entire pieces?

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EL: Well it was really quite flexible. The first time we met, he asked me to prepare a Bach three-part invention. So I brought him whatever I could do with that, and it wasn’t very good, I can tell you that. But after that, he wouldn’t necessarily assign a piece. He would ask what I wanted to work on, and I would pick, perhaps, a Mozart sonata, and go as far as I could. Or else he would suggest something. Typically, we worked on Schubert songs, or an exposition or a development section from a Mozart or Beethoven sonata, or maybe a Chopin piece. SS: Was it your sense, when you suggested pieces, that Oster had always analyzed them beforehand? Or perhaps there were some that he hadn’t done yet? EL: Almost always they were pieces which he knew thoroughly. SS: So you never suggested one that he didn’t know? EL: Yes, that happened too. I remember once some Schubert piece that he said “all right” to, and obviously he was kind enough to take the time to go through it and try to explain it to me. I would have got it all wrong, of course. SS: Did he have you graph to a number of levels, usually? EL: No, usually it was a foreground sketch. SS: With bar lines? EL: No. And for some reason he never used the word “graph,” and I never did either. I always used the word “sketch,” which I still use—“analytical sketch.” But he would also sometimes lend me his own sketches, which would often show a sort of middleground and foreground reading, sometimes vertically aligned and sometimes not. Very often his sketches would show a great many slightly different readings of the same passage. When I say different, I don’t mean that they would mean different things but that they were expressed in slightly different ways to make the meaning absolutely clear, and I would say that I learned a great deal from that. Now, you mentioned bar lines. Later on, in my own work with students, I began to put in bar lines, sometimes heavy bar lines, to indicate phrase structure or that sort of thing, simply to help them, so they would know exactly where we were. And occasionally in the latter years I would also show the music on top so that, again, it would be easier for students to follow. Students didn’t always prepare the pieces that well, you see, so they didn’t really know the music thoroughly. I remember that once in a class, I had the impression that most of the students were not prepared, so I said, “Fine. Now we’ll all close our books. Nobody will look at the music. We’re going to do the whole thing by memory.” That was of course not difficult for me because I knew the piece rather well, but it was very puzzling for them. They were very disconcerted; and I think that’s the last time that so many of them came so unprepared. But at any rate, with Oster I suppose it’s very much as it would have been with a student taking an instrumental lesson: you came, you showed what you had prepared, and he corrected it. I also had various questions about Der freie Satz. Similarly, with the Jonas book there were some things which I didn’t understand, and he would

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explain them to me. But he didn’t go over things technically; he didn’t say, for example, “Now I’m going to show you what is meant by the term ‘auxiliary cadence,’” for example. He never did that.

6. Teaching from the Piece EL: We had been talking about some of Oster’s teaching methods, and I was just trying to suggest that in a certain sense he wasn’t methodical. That is to say, he didn’t try to explain in any methodical way various (let’s call them) Schenkerian techniques. SS: So he would work more from the piece? EL: He would work from the piece. And I remember once he said to me, “Well, this is something which you probably don’t know,” and he discussed this very briefly; and, as it turned out, it was called an “auxiliary cadence.” He was quite right—at that time I didn’t know what it meant. I [had] read what Schenker had written in Der freie Satz, but I didn’t know what that meant. I didn’t understand it. SS: But would Oster talk about techniques that came out of the piece— for instance, would he talk about “reaching over” or “register transfer” or the Ursatz or Urlinie or all of these various things? EL: Well these terms came up, but . . . SS: Perhaps in German? EL: No. SS: Oh, that’s right. He was translating Der freie Satz, so he would be thinking of the English equivalents, too. EL: Well, I’m going to drop a little aside in here. This is not really so much Oster’s view, because I don’t know what his view was, but it’s certainly mine: I’m always a little bit put off when people mix in German terms when they’re speaking in English about some of these matters. For instance, when they speak of (let’s say) “reaching over” they have to say Übergreifen or something like that, or [they say] Ursatz or whatever just to show that they know the German words. Well, there are perfectly good translations in English. And what occasionally would happen is that a student would use one of these words, and I would say, “Well, either speak in English or in German, but don’t mix them up.” To me it always sounds so . . . SS: Pretentious? EL: Yes, so pretentious. After all, when we speak English we don’t speak about Paris [French pronunciation]; we don’t say Moskva. SS: Unless we want to impress people. EL: Unless you want to impress people, in which case you say, I don’t know . . . people always say Munich [stressing the glottal “ch” sound]. There’s no such

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word in English and no such word in German because the Germans say München and we say Munich, but they want to show that they’re very knowledgeable and that they know all the languages of the world. We have very good English terms for which we can thank Ernst Oster, and I think that we should use them. SS: So getting back to my earlier question, did he get into the fundamental structure, the Urlinie and Ursatz, which is of course on a rather abstract level— would he get into that as well? EL: No, not too much, depending on what was necessary in discussing a particular piece. But it was never the technique as such, and he was clearly of the opinion that these were terms which could be given more importance than they deserved. For example, in certain institutions (I have none in mind, by the way), people try to make a very clear distinction, let’s say, between levels of middleground and foreground and . . . SS: Yes, “the fifth level of the middleground.” EL: . . . all these kinds of things, and he said, “Well, you know, where does one end and the other begin?” It’s not so clear and it’s not so important. And he even said to me once that he had got a letter from somebody, I think from ^ everything Yale, insisting that maybe one shouldn’t read any pieces from 5, ^ should be read from 3. He was upset by that, and said, “It’s not even that ^ Of course it makes some difference. It’s important if you read this from 5^ or 3. a difference in emphasis in certain situations, but fundamentally it’s going to be pretty much the same thing, isn’t it?” And he felt that people put much too much emphasis on some of what we might call the “academic niceties.” That was his attitude. And, by the way, I might mention that I knew Greta Kraus12 fairly well, who was the last surviving Schenker pupil. She died a number of years ago; she lived in Toronto. SS: Wasn’t there an interview recorded with her? EL: Yes. SS: Do you have it? EL: Yes. I don’t know if it’s here or if I left it in Toronto. But, at any rate, she said pretty much the same thing. She said that people make much too much fuss over these academic matters, and she said, “That’s not at all what Schenker meant. That’s not at all what he had in mind.” And to the extent that Der freie Satz tries to be very clear, tries to be very concise about these matters, she nonetheless insisted—and I think it was Oster’s view too—that these are technicalities. And the music wasn’t there to illustrate these technicalities, but the other way around. I’ve seen that, well, not infrequently in the work of various Schenkerian scholars these days; they want to be very precise about some of these technicalities, but Greta Kraus always insisted that’s not at all what Schenker meant. And I believe that Oster felt the same way. What belongs to the foreground, what to the middleground? Sometimes it’s hard to say. I mean, it’s not like there’s some cut and dried rule for that.

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7. Oster and Salzer SS: How did Oster regard Felix Salzer and his work? EL: Well, I will say this: I only met Salzer once. It was a concert at Mannes, which I went to with Ernst Oster. I knew that Oster didn’t really like Salzer—I’ll get to that in a moment—but he introduced me to Salzer in a very cordial way. We shook hands and that was more or less it; that’s more or less my relation to Salzer. But what was the source of Oster’s disinclinations (let’s say) as far as Salzer is concerned? Well, as you know, Oster had a very hard time of it in New York. He didn’t have any formal teaching positions, such as at a university or a major music school, at least [not] at the time I was studying with him. He had a very, very modest apartment in New York on 72nd Street, and I always had the impression that financially he didn’t have such a good time of it. At the same time, Salzer was always represented to me as having been a very wealthy person: he came from an extremely wealthy background and so forth. What Oster resented was that Salzer was promoting his own work before that of Schenker, so that before Der freie Satz was translated and published, Structural Hearing13 by Salzer had been out for a long time, and Oster didn’t like that in principle. He didn’t like the kinds of revisionist tactics that Salzer had taken, [such as] certain notational features. For instance, Salzer would lengthen note stems and would have this funny kind of beaming which Oster didn’t like. I don’t know if Oster didn’t like it because Salzer used it, or if it was the other way around. But he resented that, and he also resented what he thought was a sort of sloppiness in some of Salzer’s work. For example, when Five Graphic Analyses14 was republished by Dover—if you saw that first edition, which I have—Schenker was spelled “Shenker.” Well, you know, friends might say: “This is [just] a misprint; somebody made a mistake and we won’t worry about it.” But it infuriated Oster. He showed it to me and pointed to it, and was really very angry. And there were various analyses published in Structural Hearing which Oster regarded as wrong. I remember that once he noted one of these with some piece that I was studying and said, “Well, in the Salzer book it’s right, unfortunately.” That was rather a stinging comment. And even in the book by Salzer and Schachter,15 there were some analyses which Oster knew were not correct, and he put the blame for these squarely on Salzer’s shoulders, and felt that Carl knew that they perhaps weren’t so good, but that out of deference to his teacher Salzer he went along with it. Oster didn’t like that, and felt that it wasn’t really honest dealing with regards to Schenker’s work. He was angry that before Schenker’s own work would be published, such as Der freie Satz and some other analyses which were more or less ready, that before all of this would come out, Salzer would use his resources to, well, to promote himself. That was against Oster’s ethical views. Now, what other kinds of personal situations may have arisen

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between them, I don’t know. I never asked; I never wanted to. It didn’t seem to be my business. SS: What did he think of Salzer’s extension of analytical repertoire back to the Renaissance and forward to the twentieth century? EL: I never asked what he thought about extensions to the Renaissance. Oster, in that sense, was . . . SS: Actually, well before the Renaissance. EL: Well, at any rate Oster was . . . he believed that Schenker’s ideas were complete and didn’t have to be extended, [that] they didn’t have to be developed further, that somehow Schenker had summed things up and that’s just what it was. He didn’t believe that his ideas had to be undone and redone, so to speak, and so excursions into the twentieth century were not something that he liked. Now you may know the article which Oster wrote . . . SS: Roy Travis? EL: . . . concerning Roy Travis, in which he essentially points out that Travis makes blunders in his analyses of not-that-difficult classical works, and that therefore what he does after that is very suspect.16 That essentially was the thrust of the article, but it’s very interesting and much more detailed. And I think, if I may say so (this is a bit of editorializing on my part), I think that’s how he felt toward Salzer as well. He thought Salzer was trying to expand an approach which was already in its own way complete, and that it was not necessary. I suppose he was suspicious of Salzer; he thought Salzer was in some ways trying to put himself on the scene alongside Schenker, and he felt that was wrong. I shudder to think how he would have regarded some of my essays in this field—I would like to think—a little bit more leniently.

8. Analysis of Post-tonal Music SS: Do you ever teach atonal or twelve-tone music and your concept of the primary sonority? EL: In every course, there are going to be a few students (composition students primarily) who will ask: “This is very interesting. Can you apply this to twentiethcentury music?” And I would have to say, “Only with certain qualifications,” and point out that I never tried to apply it in any conscious way, but nevertheless found myself approaching the music in a linear fashion. I would always add that this is not, strictly speaking, part of Schenker’s work and that I would prefer for the time being to leave it out; but that if we have a little bit of time toward the end of the term, yes, then let’s take one or two classes to look at some twentieth-century pieces, and I’ll tell you what I think and how one might read those pieces from a

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linear point of view. Students were always very interested, but I preferred to avoid doing that until we have covered some ground in classical repertoire. SS: I’ll be teaching a course in twentieth-century analytical techniques in the fall, and while I’ve taught a similar course, basically a set theory course, I’m not quite satisfied with set theory, and I want to get into some of what you’re doing. EL: Well, my feeling is that one should choose some relatively short pieces. SPS: Such as? EL: Well, you know, something from Mikrokosmos. SS: Like “From the Island of Bali” or “Diminished Fifth”?17 EL: Well, like so many of the short pieces in Mikrokosmos, volumes 3, 4 (4 is especially good), and 5. Not so much volume 6; they’re longer and more difficult. And I think that you can make quite a convincing case there, because it’s quite clear how Bartók will take, for example, a triad, major or minor, and will modify it by adding certain notes, or by leaving something out and adding something else on. There’s a tonal sense. You can’t call it C major or C minor, but there is a kind of tonal basis, only not in the sense of pure triadic tonality. The music moves away from it, let’s say, or comes back to it, or however it works. There are quite a number of pieces I’ve looked at that are very clear in this respect. SS: Do you have any graphs of Webern pieces? EL: Well, in the one which I’m trying to prepare now, there would be, I think, two Webern pieces, one from the opus 27 Variations, and one from a pre-twelve-tone piece. SS: I would be very interested in seeing them. EL: Well, you know one has to take these with a grain of salt, maybe a teaspoon of salt. . . . SS: I’ll take them with as much salt as I can, but nonetheless . . . EL: . . . but I do feel that there is, let’s call it, some kind of tonal organization in those pieces. It’s not just twelve notes applied here or there at random just because they follow a certain sequence, or whatever it is. Another piece which would be in that collection, let’s say, is the first Dirge Canon from Stravinsky’s In Memoriam Dylan Thomas. SS: Those are serial . . . EL: Yes, they’re serial five-tone pieces. Now, there is an analysis of the song [“Do not go gentle into that good night”] that appeared very soon after Stravinsky wrote and published it, and it is by Hans Keller, who was a wonderful musician. And, disappointingly enough, all he does is to count the notes and to show how they work, and that’s it. That’s in an issue of Tempo in the fifties; I don’t remember the date.18 Well, I have great admiration for Hans Keller, but if you look at an analysis like that, that’s the sort of thing which we

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used to do years ago, too, which was to count up to twelve and then count up to twelve again, and so forth, make your other observations, and that was it. But that’s not it, because that’s not how one perceives the music. They are certain tonal points which come back. By tonal point, I mean certain notes which come back, certain registral features which are very significant. Anyhow, it’s a bit too complicated to delve into now, but it’s too dangerous to give to students without a certain kind of background, because otherwise they think that anything goes, and unless one develops certain principles, it’s difficult to refute that idea—why is it this and not that? SS: Do you always feel that there is a primary sonority, or do you sometimes feel that there are voice-leading patterns without the primary sonority? EL: Well, I don’t know. The thing is that one simply cannot have motives, or even complex motivic features just floating around on nothing. SS: There has to be a sort of tonic sonority. . . . EL: They have somehow to be placed on some framework, on some sort of basis, and essentially that’s what happens in Schenker’s work too. This is, say, a piece in G minor, and it goes to the mediant, and so forth. You shouldn’t take that for granted, that’s the basis. But it doesn’t tell us very much, because there will be 100,000 pieces which do that sort of thing. SS: But in these pieces you have to sort of intuit, perceive, or decide what your primary sonority is. It’s not going to necessarily be a major triad. EL: No, it’s not going to be a major triad and it’s not going to be a minor triad, it’s going to be some other sort of sonority, and it is difficult sometimes. But if it’s too difficult, then it becomes something of an academic exercise. I think that if it doesn’t have a certain kind of directness, if it’s not in some way—I hate to use the word obvious, but that’s what I should say, perhaps—then it’s wrong. It’s not the primary sonority. It really has to stand out as such. SS: Do you think that every good atonal or twelve-tone piece has such a thing? EL: I don’t know every good atonal piece. But I know what you mean. I would say, of the pieces I’ve looked at, I believe that is the case, but maybe there’s something else. Maybe it’s a sonority that only develops throughout the course of the piece. Maybe it only appears at a later point. SS: Or arpeggiated . . . EL: It might be arpeggiated throughout the piece. Or it might move to such a sonority. Up to now I believe that it occurs at the ending of a piece. Maybe that’s not always true. I don’t know enough of the other literature to say. But of the pieces that I’ve studied, I believe that to be the case, and I believe that it moves to the final point of the piece. I may be wrong.

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9. Motive SS: Can you say something about the role of motive in Schenkerian analysis? Because it’s certainly a mark of Oster’s work and of the work of Oster’s students, especially yourself. EL: Oster felt, and he said as much to me in different words, that writing out an analytical sketch of something, which in a certain sense amounts to a kind of reduction, is not all that there is to a piece of music. That’s not the lifeblood of the piece: just to make a reduction and then say, “Oh, that’s it,” and put it away. There is a kind of compositional intent behind all of that, and if one studies the piece from a voice-leading point of view and prepares this kind of reductive sketch as a technicality, then on that basis one can see how the motivic features are placed. And it’s difficult for me, after all these years, to separate his ideas from some of my own, whatever they might be. It’s not really a matter of just having motives floating around in space, not attached to anything, like pieces of dust in a large cathedral. They have to be placed on some kind of basis, some kind of framework. That’s the voice-leading sketch, whether foreground or middleground. Well, one can’t say which came first, the motivic idea or the middleground idea; we don’t know. Oster would point out many of these concealed motivic relationships to me, things of course which I would have missed. These might appear as enlargements of a motive, as smaller motivic details; or (as often would be the case in Haydn) a motive would move from one voice to another and then to another. That’s very typical of Haydn’s way of composing, where different motivic elements move about, between different voices. Brahms does very much the same thing. When I was a student of [Oster] I didn’t know any of that. Motive to me was something that would appear in the right hand or maybe very obviously in the bass or another voice, but it had to be fairly obvious. Oster taught me to understand that some of these motivic ideas were in fact transformations of each other; they weren’t literal, perhaps. And it was so clear in the music when he showed it to me that I couldn’t doubt it. Now, in my own work, which I would say is a development of what I learned from Oster, what I always found fascinating was a certain kind of musical continuity: how one thing became another, how things continued. It’s so typical of Mozart’s writing that it sounds different every two bars—if you look at it the foreground it seems to be different—and yet there are connecting features. A good example which I often bring up with my classes is the beginning of the Mozart Piano Sonata, K. 280. It seems that one thing happens and then something else happens and then something else happens. I would say to my student that if I brought this to a composition teacher, he would say, “Well,

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that’s impossible. You can’t do it like that; you have to restate the motive.” But one can demonstrate how certain less obvious features continue, such as a motive on the surface; or [in] some detail; or what some people, including myself, would call a “middleground motive.” And in a very real way I learned that way of thinking from Oster: not necessarily the specific pieces or the specific instances—that, certainly not—but that kind of viewpoint is something that I learned from Oster’s pointing out these kinds of features to me in some of the works which we studied. Now, he didn’t say everything about a piece of music. For example, I remember that once we were looking at Chopin’s F-sharp-major Impromptu and I made some comment about how the last section of the piece was in some sense really meant as a kind of return of certain exploits from the beginning. The same thing is true with the F-minor Ballade, a very difficult passage in thirds and so forth, which is in some sense recapitulatory. And Oster agreed, but he never was specific about it, as if to say: “Well, that’s true, but you find out for yourself how it works.” He could be like that. He could sort of hint at things without being terribly explicit.

10. Notation SS: Maybe this would be a good time to go into notation. EL: You enter some kind of Tower of Babel at a certain point . . . SS: Yes, of course. EL: Students used to complain to me. They would say something like this: “Well, I understand the piece, I understand this section, but I just don’t know how to notate it.” And I would always either tell them, or secretly think: “If you really understood it, you would find a way to notate it.” Although it’s not always quite as simple as that. It sometimes takes a lot of thought and a lot of trying different procedures to find a clear way of notating something. The notation which I developed over the years comes, as much as possible, from what I learned from Oster. He would lend me some of his sketches just so I could see how he had done it, how it worked, and the way in which he felt things should be expressed. He had very strong views upon this matter. I remember once I asked him about beaming (let’s say) from one note to the next, and how some practitioners start the beam and then they have a series of dots, like hyphens. He said that he didn’t do that. I asked him why not, and I still remember his reaction. It was a quick angry snort, and he said, “Because it’s ugly!” He didn’t like that. I never use that. SS: What about the dotted slur? EL: The dotted slur connecting two notes? SS: Yes.

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EL: That’s different. SS: But they’re both used to depict a retained tone. EL: Yes, but Oster never used the dotted beam. If you look in Der freie Satz, there are all sorts of different kinds of notational procedures because these are sketches which Schenker had made during the course of his many years, during the course of the development of his ideas. I remember Oster saying to me that Schenker really had a kind of genius for expressing things notationally. One knows what he means, but if one compares different sketches by Schenker, they’re not consistent. But one knows in each case what he meant. And Oster—maybe it came from Jonas, I don’t know—Oster had a very consistent notational procedure, and I think that’s very important. In my own classes one thing that I am very stubborn and dogmatic about is notation. I think it’s wrong for people to invent their own systems of notation. We have one, it’s a good one, and we should use that. We don’t invent our own French verbs or past tenses or subjunctives or whatever; they’re given. That’s just what it is, like it or not. We have a very clear notational system available. Let’s use that and let’s be consistent with it.

11. Prerequisites for Schenkerian Study SS: What would you regard as the prerequisites of Schenkerian study? What should a student have already mastered to some degree? EL: I think a student should have some basic knowledge of harmony and certainly of counterpoint. SS: Species? EL: Species counterpoint, [and] also what people call “eighteenth-century counterpoint.” One needs some basic musical ground, because you can’t ask a beginning student to be able to approach a piece of music intelligently if he just doesn’t have this basis. He may have his opinions, but that’s not much good. In this connection, what is always very irritating to me is when a student says, “Well, I hear ‘blank-blank-blank.’” This sentence occurred, I remember, in a class which Oster had at Princeton years ago. That’s as far as the student got, because Oster snapped back at him, “Well then, try to hear it correctly!” He didn’t even say, “well then”; just “try to hear it correctly!” And that was the end of the discussion. So without any basis in knowledge and musical experience, that sort of student can’t say “I hear” and then expect that that is going to have any kind of technical validity. I mean, we’re not ear doctors, we don’t want to know what’s going on in the ear; we want to know what’s going on in the music, so some kind of technical basis is needed. SS: But that’s different from presenting another interpretation and in a sense defending it.

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EL: Yes, that’s quite a different thing. One of the difficulties nowadays, and I’m going to be a little cranky now, is that there are a lot of—I won’t say “doit-yourself Schenker” people around—but there are many people who are teaching Schenker who have, to be frank, rather inadequate knowledge of the topic. They get things mixed up. And I know that Oster was very discouraged about the way in which Schenker studies were proceeding. He would have been absolutely enraged by some of the things which occur at talks and in publications and conventions and that sort of thing. He was a person of the utmost integrity. He believed very much that this kind of integrity was essential. I remember once in a Princeton class a certain young lady referred to the Neapolitan chord in the opening of the “Appassionata” as “weird,” and he flew into a temper. He was enraged by that. He couldn’t laugh it off. He was very angry about that. It was for him a very insulting term, and it didn’t tie in at all with his sense of what music was and what it meant. He could be very kind, of course, and very considerate, and he was very wonderful in many ways, a great many ways, but he could be very sharp and he could have a very acidic tongue. One of his phrases (I think I have used this before) which he used to describe people whose abilities he didn’t have much confidence in, was this: he would say that so-and-so “couldn’t correctly analyze four bars of a Beethoven sonata.” I guess he felt that the topic was being watered down to some extent by people who would take a one-semester course with, say, Carl Schachter or Charles Burkhart, and then go out into the world as a self-proclaimed expert. So that goes back to what we were saying a few minutes ago: to get a good grounding and to understand what’s going on, one really does have to study with a competent teacher and one has to go through a great deal of literature. But not everybody has had the opportunity to do this. Many people, I think, are sort of being led astray by “quasi-Schenkerians”: people who, let’s say in all good faith, have an inadequate knowledge of what they’re doing and somehow are watering things down. And I think that frightened Ernst very much, [and] discouraged him very much too. But, if one is lucky, I think one can make some progress by oneself. When I first went to Toronto, I suggested a course in Schenkerian analysis. I’m sure there were many things I did then that were not so good and that not all of my analyses were correct; I’m sure I made many mistakes, and I’m sure I make many mistakes now too. But I think I’ve made a lot of progress along the way. SS: Well, I’m glad we got that on tape. Think we should bring it to a close? EL: Yes. SS: Well, thank you very much. It’s been a lot of work on your part.

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Notes 1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

8.

Stephen Slottow, “Schenkerian Pedagogy in the Oster and Salzer Teaching Lines: An Oral History Approach,” Fourth International Schenker Symposium, Mannes College of Music, New York, March 17, 2006; later published in Essays from the Fourth International Schenker Symposium, ed. Allan Cadwallader (Hildesheim, Zürich, and New York: Georg Olms, 2008), 259–78. Oskar Morawetz (b. Svetla, Czechoslovakia, 1917; d. Toronto, 2007) was one of Canada’s leading composers. He taught composition and music theory at the University of Toronto from 1946 until his retirement in 1982. “Morawetz, Oskar,” Encyclopedia of Music in Canada (2015), http://www.thecanadianencyclopedia.ca/en/article/oskar-morawetz/ (accessed April 28, 2016). John Weinzweig (b. Toronto, 1913; d. Toronto, 2006) was a composer, teacher, and advocate of Canadian music. He cofounded the Canadian League of Composers (along with Harry Somers and Samuel Dolin) in 1951, and taught at the University of Toronto from 1952 until 1978. “Weinzweig, John,” Encyclopedia of Music in Canada (2015), http://www.thecanadianencyclopedia. ca/en/article/john-weinzweig-emc/ (accessed April 28, 2016); also Sheffin, Eric, “Biography,” John Weinzweig: One Hundred Years 1913–2013, http:// www.johnweinzweig.com/biography (accessed April 28, 2016). Heinz Unger (b. Berlin, 1895; d. Toronto, 1965), known especially as a Mahler specialist, conducted concerts in Toronto between 1937 and 1965. “Unger, Heinz,” Encyclopedia of Music in Canada (2013), http://www.thecanadianencyclopedia.ca/en/article/heinz-unger-emc/ (accessed April 28, 2016). Sir Ernest MacMillan (b. Toronto, 1893; d. Toronto, 1973) was a major figure in Canadian music during the twentieth century. He was music director of the Toronto Symphony Orchestra (1931–56) and the Toronto Mendelssohn Choir (1942–57), dean of the Faculty of Music at the University of Toronto (1927– 52), principal of the Toronto Conservatory of Music (1926–42), president of the Canadian Music Council (1947–66), and a cofounder and the first president of the Canadian Music Centre (1959–70). Edward (Eduard) Steuermann (b. Sambor, Austro-Hungarian Empire, 1892; d. New York, 1964) was a pianist and composer. He played in the premieres of Schoenberg’s Pierrot lunaire and of most of his later works. Roger Sessions, The Musical Experience of Composer, Performer, Listener (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1950); Questions about Music (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1970). Roger Sessions, “Heinrich Schenker’s Contribution,” Modern Music 12, no. 4 (1935): 170–78; “Escape by Theory,” Modern Music 15, no. 3 (1938): 192–97; “The Function of Theory,” Modern Music 15, no. 4 (1938): 257–62. Sessions’s three articles do not simply “defend” Schenker’s work, as Laufer seems to suggest, but are instead both explanations and critical appraisals of Schenker’s principles in Harmonielehre and Der freie Satz. “The Function of Theory” compares the relative merits of Der freie Satz, Hindemith’s Unterweisung im Tonsatz and Krenek’s Über die neue Musik.

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348 9. 10.

11.

12.

13. 14.

15. 16.

17. 18.

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Victor Zuckerkandl, “Urlinie” and “Ursatz,” in The Harvard Dictionary of Music, 1st ed., ed. Willi Apel (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1944). Oswald Jonas, Das Wesen des musikalischen Kunstwerks: Eine Einführung in die Lehre Heinrich Schenkers (Vienna: Saturn-Verlag, 1934). Trans. and ed. John Rothgub, Introduction to the Theory of Heinrich Schenker (New York: Schirmer, 1982) Reprint: Musicalia Press (Ann Arbor, 2005). According to Schenker Documents Online, Oster studied with Jonas in Berlin ca. 1930. http://mt.ccnmtl.columbia.edu/schenker/profile/person/oster_ ernst.html (accessed April 28, 2016). Greta Kraus (b. Vienna, 1907; d. Toronto, 1998) was a student of Hans Weisse, and a member of Schenker’s “Friday Seminar,” conducted in Vienna 1931– 34. She taught at the University of Toronto from 1963 to 1976. Schenker Documents Online, http://www.schenkerdocumentsonline.org/profiles/ person/entity-002498.html (accessed April 28, 2016). Felix Salzer, Structural Hearing (New York: C. Boni, 1952; reprint, New York: Dover, 1962). Heinrich Schenker, Fünf Urlinie-Tafeln/Five Analyses in Sketchform (New York: David Mannes Music School, 1932). Reprint: Five Graphic Analyses/Fünf UrlinieTafeln, ed. Felix Salzer (New York: Dover, 1969). Felix Salzer and Carl Schachter, Counterpoint in Composition (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1969; reprint, New York: Columbia University Press, 1989). Roy Travis, “Towards a New Concept of Tonality?,” Journal of Music Theory 3, no. 2 (1959): 257–84; Ernst Oster, “Re: A New Concept of Tonality(?),” Journal of Music Theory 4, no. 1 (1960): 85–98. Béla Bartók, Mikrokosmos, vol. 4, no. 109, “From the Island of Bali”; no. 101, “Diminished Fifth.” Hans Keller, “In Memoriam Dylan Thomas: Stravinsky’s Schoenbergian Technique,” Tempo, new series, no. 35 (Spring 1955): 13–20.

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Contributors Mark Anson-Cartwright is associate professor of music theory at Queens College and the Graduate Center, City University of New York. He has published widely on music of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. His study of transformations of fugue subjects in works by Bach recently appeared in the Journal of Music Theory. His current research focuses on tonal and formal aspects of the vocal music of Bach. David Beach is professor emeritus and former dean of the Faculty of Music, University of Toronto. He has also held academic appointments at Yale University, Brooklyn College of the City University of New York, and the Eastman School of Music, where for many years he was chair of the Department of Music Theory and later University Dean of Graduate Studies at the University of Rochester. He is known primarily for his work in Schenkerian analysis. He has published over forty articles in refereed journals and several books. His most recent publication include Advanced Schenkerian Analysis (Routledge, 2012) and Analysis of 18th- and 19th-Century Musical Works in the Classical Tradition (New York and London: Routledge, 2012), coauthored with Ryan McClelland. Matthew Brown is a graduate of King’s College London (BMus) and Cornell University (MA, PhD), and a member of the Society of Fellows, Harvard University. Brown is currently professor of music theory at the Eastman School of Music and has taught at Harvard University, Louisiana State University, the University of Texas at Austin, and the Mannes Institute for Advanced Studies in Music Theory. He is the author of three books: Debussy’s ‘Ibéria’ (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), Explaining Tonality (Rochester, NY: University of Rochester Press, 2005), and Debussy Redux (Bloomington: University of Indiana Press, 2012)—and forty articles or reviews in such periodicals as the Journal of the American Musicological Society, Music Theory Spectrum, and Science. Brown is currently the editor of Theory and Practice and is coauthoring A Companion to Heinrich Schenker’s Theory of Harmony with Robert W. Wason and William Drabkin (Rochester, NY: University of Rochester Press, forthcoming).

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Charles Burkhart holds graduate degrees from Colorado College and from the Yale University School of Music, where he studied with Paul Hindemith, David Kraehenbuehl, Ralph Kirkpatrick, and Donald Currier. He taught at Goshen College, the Manhattan School of Music, and Queens College and the Graduate Center of the City University of New York before retiring in 2000. He studied Schenkerian analysis privately with Ernst Oster and Felix Salzer, and he has been an active participant in and teacher of Schenkerian analysis since the 1970s. He has published numerous articles and is the author of the widely used Anthology for Musical Analysis (six editions). L. Poundie Burstein is professor of music theory at Hunter College and the Graduate Center of the City University of New York. He also has taught at Mannes College of Music and Columbia University. His essay “The Off-Tonic Return in Beethoven’s Piano Concerto No. 4 in G Major, Op. 58, and Other Works,” published in Music Analysis, vol. 24, received the 2008 Outstanding Publication Award of the Society for Music Theory. He was president of the Society for Music Theory in 2013–15. Timothy L. Jackson currently holds the position of Distinguished University Research Professor at the College of Music of the University of North Texas, where he directs the Center for Schenkerian Studies. His interests focus on the music of the eighteenth through twentieth centuries, Schenkerian theory, and the intersection of politics and music. He is well known for his work on the music of Richard Strauss and has written on a wide range of topics in an array of music theory journals, including the Journal of Music Theory, Music Analysis, In Theory Only, and Theory and Practice. His books have been published by Cambridge, Oxford, Duke, and Princeton University Presses. Currently, Jackson is writing a history of the Schenkerian movement in Germany and Austria in the 1920s and 1930s. Jackson studied music theory and composition with Edward Laufer, Carl Schachter, Saul Novack, George Perle, and Allen Forte. Roger Kamien holds the Mehta Chair of Musicology, emeritus, at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. He also has taught at Hunter College, Queens College, Bar-Ilan University, the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, and the Jerusalem Music Center. A graduate of Columbia College, Kamien earned his PhD in musicology at Princeton University and studied Schenkerian analysis with Felix Salzer and Ernst Oster. He has published widely on this subject in top-ranked journals and essay collections devoted to Schenkerian analysis and is author of the best-selling textbook Music: An Appreciation (McGraw-Hill). A student of Anna Kamien, Nadia Reisenberg and Claudio Arrau, Kamien is also an active pianist and has performed in thirty-one countries on five continents.

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Leslie Kinton is associate professor of piano performance at the University of Western Ontario. He studied the piano with Pierre Souvairan, Boris Berlin, Jeaneane Dowis, and Karl Ulrich Schnabel, as well as composition with Samuel Dolin. He also holds a PhD in music theory from the University of Toronto with a specialization in Schenkerian analysis. His dissertation, an exhaustive study of Dvořák’s Symphony No. 7, was supervised by David Beach and Edward Laufer. Since 1976, as a member of the Anagnoson & Kinton piano duo, Kinton has performed over one thousand concerts and given radio broadcasts and master classes throughout North America, Europe, and Asia. The Anagnoson & Kinton duo has a discography of nine recordings. Su Yin Mak is associate professor of music theory and at the Department of Music of the Chinese University of Hong Kong. She holds a double PhD degree in musicology and music theory from the Eastman School of Music, University of Rochester, and received the Emerging Scholar Award from the Society for Music Theory in 2008. Mak’s approach to musical scholarship is interdisciplinary in nature and explores the relationship between musical structure and expression in tonal music. Her recent work on the music of Schubert and Schumann has appeared in the Journal of Musicology, EighteenthCentury Music, KronoScope, and essay collections by Ashgate, Publications de la Sorbonne, and Cambridge University Press. Her book, Schubert’s Lyricism Reconsidered: Structure, Design and Rhetoric, was published by Lambert Academic Press in Germany in 2010. Ryan McClelland is acting dean and professor of music theory and associate dean for academic and student affairs in the Faculty of Music at the University of Toronto. He is the author of Brahms and the Scherzo: Studies in Musical Narrative (Farnham, UK: Ashgate, 2010) and the coauthor (with David Beach) of Analysis of 18th- and 19th-Century Musical Works in the Classical Tradition (New York and London: Routledge, 2012). His articles concerning Brahms, Schenkerian analysis, rhythmic-metric theory, and performance studies have appeared in Music Theory Spectrum, Music Analysis, Theory and Practice, Intégral, Journal of Music Theory Pedagogy, Intersections: Canadian Journal of Music, and the Dutch Journal of Music Theory. His current major research project, funded by the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada (SSHRC), involves expressive timing in the music of Brahms. Don McLean has been the dean of the Faculty of Music of the University of Toronto and professor of music theory since January 2011. His research interests include Schenkerian theory and analysis, the music of the New Viennese School, the emotional impact of music on the listener, and the changing context of music in the academy and society. From 2001 to 2010 McLean was the

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dean of what became the Schulich School of Music of McGill University and Chair of the Board of CIRMMT (its Centre for Interdisciplinary Research in Music Media and Technology). On the announcement of his return to Toronto in 2010, the Maclean’s Magazine columnist Paul Wells described McLean as “perhaps one of the most successful faculty heads in any discipline in any university in the past decade.” He received the Queen Elizabeth II Diamond Jubilee Medal in 2013 in recognition of his contributions to innovation in infrastructure development and interdisciplinary teaching and research. Boyd Pomeroy is associate professor of music theory at the Fred Fox School of Music, University of Arizona. He works on Schenkerian analysis, nineteenthcentury sonata form, and the music of Debussy. His publications include articles and reviews in Music Theory Spectrum, the Journal of Schenkerian Studies, Music & Letters, and 19th-Century Music Review, as well as chapters in volumes on Schenkerian analysis; studies of the music of Beethoven, Brahms, Bruckner, and Debussy; and the entry on Schenkerian analysis for Oxford Bibliographies Online. In recent years he has become a regular visitor to teach summer courses at the University of Costa Rica. William Rothstein is professor of music theory at the Graduate Center and Queens College of the City University of New York. He is author of Phrase Rhythm in Tonal Music (New York: Schirmer Books, 1989; reprinted by Musicalia Press, 2007) and the coauthor (with Charles Burkhart) of Anthology for Musical Analysis, 7th ed. (New York: Cengage Learning, 2012). He has published many articles on nineteenth-century music, with special emphasis on Beethoven, Chopin, Bellini, and Verdi. His principal teachers were Ernst Oster and Allen Forte. Frank Samarotto is associate professor of music theory at Indiana University–Bloomington, teaching there since 2001, and was previously at the College-Conservatory of Music at the University of Cincinnati. He was a workshop leader at the Mannes Institute for Advanced Studies in Music Theory Summer Institute in Schenkerian Theory and Analysis in 2002 and a workshop leader and invited presenter at the first conferences in Germany devoted to Schenkerian theory and analysis held in Berlin, Sauen, and Mannheim in June 2004. He gave a week of lectures on voice leading and musical time at the Sibelius Academy in Helsinki in 2007. His publications have appeared in Schenker Studies II, the Beethoven Forum, Theory and Practice, Music Theory Spectrum, Music Theory Online, and Intégral, and in conference proceedings, as well as a Festschrift for Carl Schachter and a recent anthology on sonata form edited by Gordon Sly. He is currently working on a book on Schenkerian theory and analysis.

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contributors

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353

Stephen Slottow is an associate professor of music at the University of North Texas. His interests include American traditional music, the American ultramodernists, and Schenkerian analysis. He has been published in Music Theory Spectrum, Intégral, Theory and Practice, the Journal of Schenkerian Studies, the Journal of the Society for American Music, Res Musica, Composition as a Problem, and the Journal of Music Theory Pedagogy. His book, A Vast Simplicity: The Music of Carl Ruggles (Hillsdale, NY: Pendragon Press), was published in 2009. His current research includes French baroque keyboard music, the role of sequences in Schenkerian theory and practice, and the Americanization of Zen Buddhist chanting. Lauri Suurpää is professor of music theory at the Sibelius Academy, University of the Arts Helsinki. His main research interest is analysis of tonal music. In his publications he has often combined Schenkerian analysis with other approaches, such as programmatic aspects, narrativity, form, musico-poetic associations in vocal music, eighteenth-century rhetoric, and romantic literary theory and aesthetics. He is the author of Death in “Winterreise”: Musico-Poetic Associations in Schubert’s Song Cycle (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2014) and has published articles in many journals (e.g., the Dutch Journal of Music Theory, Intégral, the Journal of Music Theory, Music Theory Spectrum, and Theoria) and essay collections.

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Index Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung, 63–65 Anstieg, 232. See also initial ascent apparent tonic, 32, 130, 139 auxiliary cadence, 5, 7, 154n6, 169, 176n24, 180, 181, 188, 202, 217, 242, 257, 265–67, 279n24, 282n32, 337; quasi-auxiliary cadence, 7 Babbitt, Milton, vii, xiin1, 333 Bach, C. P. E., Rondo in G major (H. 268, Wq 59/2), 26–41 Bach, J. S., Fugue in C major, WTC I, 3–11; Prelude in B-flat major, WTC I, 278n4; St. Matthew Passion, 12–25 Bartók, Bela, Mikrokosmos, 341, 348n17 bass arpeggiation, 7, 319 Beethoven, Ludwig, 61, 62, 65–67, 84–85, 90, 95n28, 95n33, 124, 163, 176n13, 226, 240, 323; An die ferne Geliebte, 189, 195; Christus am Ölberge, 156; Egmont, 156; Fidelio, 156; König Stephan, 156; Piano Sonatas, 334, 336, 346; op. 2, no. 1, 176n18, 330; op. 13, 162, 176n17, 176n18; op. 14, no. 1, 226, 232–36, 239, 240n1; op. 14, no. 2, 335; op. 27, no. 2, 154n5,; op. 31, no. 2, 176n18; op. 57, 163; op. 81a, 166, 176n8; Schottische Lieder, 284; Septet, op. 20, 124; Symphony no. 1, 63; Symphony no. 2, 63; Symphony no. 3 (“Eroica”), 61, 63, 74–77, 79, 84–85, 87, 91n1, 331; Symphony no. 9, 124, 331, 335 Berg, Alban, 303; Wozzeck, 304

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Berlinerische musikalische Zeitung, 63–66 Brahms, Johannes, 201, 232, 279n10, 284, 343; Capriccio, op. 116, no. 1, 201, 222; Clarinet Trio, op. 114, 201, 222; “Die Liebende schreibt,” op. 47, no. 5, 201, 209–15, 217; “Nachtigallen schwinden.” Op. 6, no. 6, 201–9, 210; “Die Schale der Vergessenheit,” op. 46, no. 3, 201–15; Symphony no. 1, 159; Symphony no. 2, 125; Symphony no. 3, 325n12; “Verzagen,” op. 72, no. 4, 222; “Wie Melodien zieht es mir,” op. 105, no. 1, 225n1 Bruckner, Anton, 303 Burkhart, Charles, xi, 154n6, 346 Caplin, William, 59n6, 60n11, 140n8, 140n9, 169–70, 176n22, 176n23, 196n10, 281n31 Cartellieri, Antonio, 62, 90, 92n3, 92n4 Chafe, Eric, 12, 18, 23, 24, 24n1, 25n7, 25n10 Chopin, Fryderyk: Ballade in F minor, op. 52, 344; Etude in A-flat major, op. 10, no. 10, 154n4; Impromptu in F-sharp minor, op. 36, 344; Mazurka in F-sharp minor, op. 59, no. 3, 154n4; Nocturne in E major, op 62, no. 2, 154n4; Nocturne in G major, op. 37, no. 2, 154n4; Prelude in A minor, op. 28, no. 2, 154n6; Prelude in B-flat major, op. 28, no. 21, 142–54; Prelude in E minor, op. 28, no. 4, 154n6; Prelude in F minor, op. 28, no. 18, 154n6

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chromatic displacement. See dominant, chromatic displacement of closure (structural), 37, 41, 112, 118, 125, 131–32, 138, 143, 154n6, 156, 163, 178, 181, 184, 187, 195, 213, 215, 317, 321 coherence (structural), 243–44, 322 composing out, 169, 232–38, 257, 271, 280n28, 297 counterpoint, dimentional, 127; species, 345 covering tone, 99, 100, 111, 112, 118, 120 cyclic associations, 178, 195, 196n4 Debussy, Claude: “La Cathédrale engloutie,” Préludes, 305, 312–15, 322; “De l’aube à midi sur la mer,” La Mer, 323, 327n22; “Dialogue du vent et de la mer,” La Mer, 305, 307– 12, 322; “Fêtes,” Nocturnes, 327n21; “Jeux de vagues,” La Mer, 303, 307, 318–20, 322; “Par les rues et par les chemins,” Images, 327n21; Pelléas et Melisande, 302n29; Préludes, 327n25; “Rondes de printemps,” Images, 304, 307, 314–18, 320, 322 design: compositional, x, 124, 241–42, 274, 276; expressive, xii; formal, ix, 55, 57, 70, 75, 84, 118, 215, 242, 245, 253, 274, 308; formal-structural, ix, x, xii, 45–46, 52–53, 55, 61, 66, 69, 89–90, 95n34, 123–25, 143; formalstructural in conflict, ix, 60n12, 66, 118, 124–25, 127, 132, 139–40, 166; formal-tonal, 99, 100, 111, 242, 245; motivic, x, xii, 278n6, 124; rhetorical, 128; thematic, 127, 139; tonal, 124–26, 129, 132, 242, 245, 252, 274 divider (dividing dominant), 45, 127, 139, 238, 253 dominant, chromatic displacement of, 303–6, 308–9, 311–15, 317–22; conditions for, 305, 312 dramatic unit, 13, 22 Dvorák, Antonin, Symphony in D minor, op. 70, 226, 228–40

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Eberl, Anton: Concerto for Piano, op. 40, 62; Concerto for Two Pianos, op. 45, 62; Symphony in E-flat Major, op. 33, 61–74, 87, 89, 91n1; Symphony in C major, Wo07, 91n1; Symphony in D minor, op. 34, 77–84, 91n1; Violin Sonatas, opp. 49–50, 89–90, 96n4 elision, metric, 29; tonal, 22 enharmonicism, general (conflict, equivalence, involving 5–6 motion, reinterpretation/shift), 30, 32–33, 35, 40, 63, 77, 79, 242, 255, 257, 262, 271, 274, 280n24, 280n27; enharmonic common-tone and leading-tone resolutions, 306, 314; enharmonic treatment of harmony, 100, 115, 118, 218, 236 expression, 64, 181–82, 184, 187–88, 190, 193, 195, 223, 275, 323. See also narrative extended upbeat/lead-in, 100, 115, 122n3 fantasy, 27, 39 form. See design, formal fundamental line, 74, 112, 118, 125–27, 137–39, 143, 154n5, 154n6, 238. See also Urlinie Gilman, Lawrence, 288, 302n19, 302n20, 302n23 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von, 155, 175n3, 209 Haydn, Joseph, 62, 65, 90, 95n28, 343; Piano Sonata in G major (Hob XVI: 44), 176n20; Symphony no. 12 in E major, 48; Symphony no. 38 in C major, 49–51; Symphony no. 43 in E-flat major, 50–52 hemiola, 33, 151 Hepokoski, James and Warren Darcy, x, xiin6, 58n1, 58n3, 59n5, 59n6, 163, 176n17, 190, 196n11, 197n16, 326n14 Huebner, Steven, 243–44, 279n13, 279n14, 279n15

index Hummel, Johann Nepomuk, Piano Quintet in E-flat minor, op. 87, 156 hypermeter, 122n3, 150, 278n6, 293; hypermetric placement, 217, 220 improvisation, 27, 35 initial ascent, 112, 228. See also Anstieg interpolation, 79, 181, 253, 267. See also phrase expansion interruption (structural), 70–71, 74, 77, 79, 84, 111, 118, 137, 139, 238, 240n6, 272, 305, 308 Jommelli, Nicolo, Trio in D for two flutes and continuo, 53–55 Jonas, Oswald, 300n7, 333–35, 348n10, 348n11 Jones, David Wyn, 66, 68, 92n7, 94n24, 95n29 Kessler, Deborah, 124, 137, 139, 140n3, 140n12, 140n14, 140n15 key, characteristics of, 156, 175n6; relationships, ix, 12, 244; schemes, 123, 127, 139 Koch, Heinrich Christoph, viii, 43–45, 52, 57, 58n2, 59n4, 59n9 Kopfton, 25n6, 208, 222, 296, 315. See also primary tone Krommer, Anton, 90 Laufer, Edward, vii, viii, x–xii, xiin3, xiin4, xiin5, 96n34, 96n35, 226, 289, 240n2, 240n5, 240n6, 240n9, 273, 281n32, 282n38, 328–46 linear progression, 118, 157. See also Zug liquidation (motivic), 238–39 Liszt, Franz, 156, 159 Marx, Adolf Bernhard, 155, 157, 176n14 Mendelssohn, Felix, 209 metrical consonance vs. displacement, 201; metrical dissonance, 157; metrical overlap, 180; metrical shift, 29 Meyer, Leonard, 243, 279n11, 279n12

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mixture (modal), 128, 206, 284, 289, 290, 297, 300n6 motive, ix, xi, 9, 20, 27, 67, 77, 79, 136, 140, 140n7, 149–50, 157, 159, 161– 63, 193, 201, 210, 213, 215, 226, 234, 240n2, 242–43, 252–53, 255–57, 260, 262, 264, 271, 284, 288–97, 302n19, 302n20, 302n23, 321, 342, 343–44; architectural vs. programmatic, xi, 288; concealed association, 79; enlargement, xi, 9, 37, 67–68, 79, 84, 226, 228, 232, 234, 238–39, 240n4, 272, 281n34, 343; harmonic, 128, 140n8; linkage, xi, 20, 22, 40n14, 142, 150, 153, 242–43, 260, 274 motto, 99, 112, 115, 118, 120, 274; motto theme, 99, 100, 104, 107, 111 Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus, 61, 65–66, 90, 91n2, 95n28; Piano Sonata, K. 280, 343; Piano Sonata, K. 283, 47–49, 57–58; Piano Sonata, K. 545, 226, 228, 240n2; Rondo in A minor, K. 511, 154n5; Symphony in F major, K. 43, 52–53; Symphony No. 38, K. 504, 55–56; Symphony No. 40, K. 550, 63; Symphony No. 41, K. 551, 63 narrative, ix, 177–78, 181–82, 184, 187–88, 190, 193–94, 195n2, 196n3, 242, 308 Newcomb, Anthony, 178, 189, 196n5, 196n6, 196n13 one-part structure, 111, 118. See also undivided/uninterrupted structure Oster, Ernst, vii, viii, xiin1, 126, 176n21, 240n6, 279n24, 327n21, 333–40, 343–36, 348n21 parenthetical insertion/ interpolation, 7, 29, 79, 96n35, 295, 326n16, 313. See also phrase expansion performance practice, xi, 7, 9, 143 phrase expansion, 35, 79, 100–101, 104, 107, 111–12, 180–81, 208, 220, 265

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phrase overlap, 132; with metric reinterpretation, 180 phrase structure, 59n7, 179–81, 244, 279n19, 290, 330, 336 primary tone, 20, 67, 70, 79, 84, 99, 107, 111, 118, 122n2, 122n10, 125– 28, 136–38, 226, 228, 232, 288. See also Kopfton prolongation, ix, x, 5, 9, 13, 15, 18–20, 40n11, 42, 46–47, 55, 66–69, 71, 74–75, 89, 99, 104, 107, 115, 123–24, 127, 136, 139–40, 141n11, 157, 168– 69, 176n18, 184, 190, 212, 220, 226, 228, 234, 238, 260, 304, 311, 319. See also composing out reaching over, 18, 100, 161, 337. See also Übergreifen referential sonority, viii register transfer, 337 reversed recapitulation, 65, 79, 84, 94n23, 96n36 rondo form, 26, 37; principle, 26 Rosen, David, 244–45, 275, 276n1, 278n4, 279n10, 279n18, 279n19, 279n20, 279n21, 279n22, 280n27, 281n36, 282n39, 282n40, 282n44 Rossini, Gioachino, 241, 244, 276n1, 277n2, 277n3, 278n4 Salzer, Felix, 122n2, 301n13, 307, 325n13, 339, 348n13, 348n15 Schachter, Carl, 125, 140n4, 154n5, 154n6, 339, 346, 348n15 Schenker, Heinrich, vii, x, xi, 12, 24n2, 25n6, 37, 60n12, 74, 75, 77, 88, 95n32, 95n34, 124, 154n5, 157, 169, 175n11, 176n20, 242, 243, 245, 278n7, 230n24, 283, 284, 285, 297, 298, 299, 299n4, 300n6, 300n7, 300n9, 300n10, 301n13, 302n25, 304, 308, 330, 331, 332, 333, 334, 335, 337, 338, 339, 340, 342, 345, 346, 347n8; Five Graphic Analyses, 338n14; Free Composition, xiin3, 140n5, 176n12, 176n21, 176n23,

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240n6, 279n24, 302n24, 327n20, 339, 347n8; Harmonielehre, 302n18, 347n8; Kontrapunkt, 299n1, 299n2, 299n3, 300n6, 300n8, 300n10, 301n11; Meisterwerk, 178n7, 33n5; Tonwille, 24n2 Schenkerian: analysis/interpretation/ reading; vii, viii, ix, x, 55, 283, 328, 331, 332, 337, 343, 346; approach, x, xii, 140n8, 242, 243, 278n6, 308, 331; literature, ix, x, 75, 88; notation, 74; perspective, 18, 225n4, 285; research, viii; studies, viii, ix, x, xii, 333; theory, xi, 12, 226, 297, 308 Schoenberg, Arnold, 283, 299n4, 304, 321; Farben, op. 16, no. 3, viii; Four Songs, op. 22, viii; Klavierstück, op. 33, no. 2, viii Schubert, Franz: “Der Neugierige,” 209; Octet (D803), 123–41; Quartet in A minor (D804), 123; Quartet in D minor (D810), 123; Symphony in B minor (D759), 99–122 Schumann, Robert: Fantasie, op. 17, 195; Genoveva, 155; Manfred Overture, 155–76; Second Symphony, 177–97; Szenen aus Goethes Faust, 175n2 Scriabin, Alexander, 303 sentence (musical), 28, 47, 112, 122n8, 170, 183 sequence, 18, 33, 35, 101, 102, 104, 107, 115, 130, 253, 257, 265, 271, 274–75, 278n5 Sessions, Roger, vii, 329–32, 347n7, 347n8 Smith, Peter, 127, 140n6, 201, 225n3, 225n4, 225n9 sonata form, viii, ix, x, 42–43, 48, 61, 65–68, 74, 77, 88–90, 95n34, 124–28, 140, 140n8, 157, 170n19, 179, 318; super sonata form, 65, 94n21 sonata rondo, 189, 190 Strauss, Richard, “Dance of the Seven Veils,” Salome, 283–302; Tod und Verklärung, 325n11

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Stravinsky, Igor, In Memoriam Dylan Thomas, 341 stretto, 3, 7, 142 structure (tonal/voice-leading), x, xi, 9, 15, 42, 45–46, 48, 51, 60n9, 70, 79, 84, 88, 99, 118, 124–25, 128–29, 131–33, 136–37, 143, 178, 183, 187–88, 193, 195, 201, 206, 208–9, 213, 218, 222–23, 235, 240n6, 265, 276, 296–97, 299, 305, 312, 315, 317, 319, 324; ambiguity of, 132, 139; fundamental, 118, 124–25, 279n24, 338; harmonic, 194; interaction with formal design, x, xi, xii, 46, 52–53, 55, 61, 66, 80, 89–90, 95n34, 123–25, 127, 139–40, 215 (see also design, formal-structural, formal-structural in conflict, and formal-tonal); phrase, 179, 181, 244, 279n19, 296, 330, 336; undivided, 84, 111, 138; unorthodox, 323 subdominant recapitulation, 126 Suurpää, Lauri, 55–57, 60n12, 60n13

Übergreifen, 161, 337. See also reaching over undivided/uninterrupted structure, ix, 84, 126, 138, 168. See also one-part structure unfolding, 267, 313, 314n2, 322 unsupported stretch, 317 Urlinie, 37, 157, 161, 163, 168, 180, 215, 296, 298, 309, 311, 315, 317, 320, 321, 323, 337, 338. See also fundamental line Ursatz, 45, 124, 188, 305, 312, 337, 338. See also structure: fundamental

Talbot, Michael, 189, 195, 196n14, 197n17 thematic/motivic transformation, 178, 243, 343 tonal coherence, 26 tonal rhythm, 28, 40n7 three-key exposition, 123–25, 129

Wagner, Richard, Faust Overture, 159; Tristan und Isolde, 293 Weber, Carl Maria von, Der Freischütz, 156 Webern, Anton, Variations, op, 27, viii, 341

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Verdi, Guiseppe, “Libera me,” Messa da Requiem, 241–76; Stabat Mater, 275; Te Deum, 275 voice exchange, 20, 77, 271; chromaticized, 19, 55–56, 67–69, 77, 125, 136, 212 voice-leading paradigms, ix, 45–46, 48, 51, 57, 88, 124–26 voice-leading structure. See structure

Zug, 75. See also linear progression