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BEETHOVEN FORUM I
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EDITORIAL BOARD
Reviews Editor
Michael Tusa
Contributing Editors
William Caplin
Bathia Churgin
William Drabkin
William Kinderman
Richard Kramer
Klaus Kropfinger
William Meredith
Maynard Solomon
Advisory Board
William Benjamin
Sieghard Brandenburg
Alfred Brendel
Ludwig Finscher
David Hamilton
Douglas Johnson
Joseph Kerman
Janet Levy
Janet Schmalfeldt
Ruth Solie
Robert Winter
Assistant Editor
Christina Acosta
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Beethoven
Forum
1
Christopher Reynolds, EditorinChief
Lewis Lockwood & James Webster, Editors
UNIVERSITY OF NEBRASKA PRESS : LINCOLN & LONDON 1992
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Copyright © 1992 by the University of Nebraska Press
All rights reserved Manufactured in the United States of America
The paper in this book meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences – Permanence of Paper for Printed Library
Materials, ANSI Z39.481984
International Standard Serial Number 10595031
ISBN 0803239068
Music engraving and text setting by AR Editions, Inc. in Linotron cuttings of Bembo, and Vendome in display
Book design by Richard Eckersley
Publication of this book was assisted by a grant from the Andrew W. Mellon
Foundation, 1992
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Contents
vi Notes to Contributors
vii Preface
xi List of Abbreviations
1 SCOTT BURNHAM
On the Programmatic Reception of Beethoven's Eroica Symphony
25 JAMES WEBSTER
The Form of the Finale of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony
63 ROBERT N. FREEMAN
New Sources for Beethoven's Piano Concerto Cadenzas from Melk Abbey
81 THEODORE ALBRECHT
Beethoven and Shakespeare's Tempest: New Light on an Old Allusion
93 ROGER KAMIEN
Subtle Enharmonic Connections, Modal Mixture, and Tonal Plan in the First Movement of
Beethoven's Piano Sonata in C Major, Opus 53 ("Waldstein")
111 WILLIAM KINDERMAN
Integration and Narrative Design in Beethoven's Piano Sonata in A Major, Opus 110
147 DAVID H. SMYTH
Beethoven's Revision of the Scherzo of the Quartet, Opus 18, No.1
165 RICHARD KRAMER
Between Cavatina and Ouverture: Opus 130 and the Voices of Narrative
191 JULIA MOORE
Beethoven and Inflation
225 NICHOLAS MARSTON
Review Article: Beethoven's Sketches and the Interpretative Process
243 Contributors
245 General Index
249 Index of Beethoven's Compositions and Sketches
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Notes To Contributors
Beethoven Forum, a series for new studies on the work, life, and milieu of Ludwig van Beethoven, is published annually by the University of Nebraska Press.
For matters of style contributors should refer to this volume of Beethoven Forum. Submissions should be doublespaced, with the notes following the text, and they
should incorporate the abbreviations given at the beginning of this volume. Musical examples require captions that provide titles, bar numbers (in the case of published
works), and complete references to the source of sketch material; these should be included both on the examples and on a separate page of Example Captions.
Please submit three copies of the text (no disks until requested) to Christopher Reynolds, Editor, Beethoven Forum, Department of Music, University of California,
Davis, CA 95616.
Copies of books and materials for review should be sent to Michael Tusa, Review Editor, Beethoven Forum, Department of Music, University of Texas, Austin, TX
75229.
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Preface
This inaugural volume of the annual publication Beethoven Forum appears almost two hundred years to the month after Beethoven's decisive move from Bonn to
Vienna in November 1792. Although the three editors ascribe no specially "commemorative" significance to this conjunction, we do feel something akin to what must
have been his own sense of expectancy and purpose on that occasion.
Our planning has been motivated by the belief that a new publication of this type is urgently needed. In distinction to many other composers of equal and lesser stature,
no yearbook or other comparable outlet for original research devoted to Beethoven appears regularly today. The BeethovenJahrbuch (2nd ser.), published by the
Beethovenhaus in Bonn, has included many fundamental contributions but has appeared irregularly (only ten volumes since 1953 and none since 1983). The occasional
series Beethoven Studies, edited by Alan Tyson, ceased publication after three volumes (1973–82). Although the Beethoven Newsletter, published since 1986 by
the American Beethoven Society, includes brief articles and reviews by authoritative experts, it cannot accommodate the longer or more technical articles characteristic
of primary scholarship. Under these conditions the need for a new annual publication is clear.
We hope that Beethoven Forum will appeal to a broad, international spectrum of specialist and nonspecialist scholars, teachers, performers, and others interested in
Beethoven and his music. We intend to publish the
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widest possible range of material: biographical research and source studies, analytical and interpretative essays, and investigations of Beethoven's relations to earlier
and later composers and to his social and cultural milieu as well as reviews and review essays on recent publications, recordings, and musical performances. As the
title "forum" implies, we also hope not only to accommodate a wide variety of perspectives but to stimulate debate on current issues of general interest, such as the
historiography of music, analytical methodology, and performance practice. In pursuit of these goals, we are fortunate to have assembled an editorial board whose
members' international distinction and breadth of interests speak for themselves.
Since the most recent issue of the BeethovenJahrbuch (1983), the field of Beethoven studies has changed considerably—changes that reflect developments in
musicology as a whole. Many fresh approaches to Beethoven's life and works are reflected in contributions to Beethoven Forum 1. Richard Kramer and William
Kinderman take up issues of musical "narrative" in their analytical interpretations of two problematic works of Beethoven's last decade, the String Quartet in B,
op.130, and the Piano Sonata in A, op.110. Scott Burnham's analysis of the Eroica Symphony reflects current interests in questions of musical reception,
historiography, and hermeneutical interpretation, while James Webster's account of the finale to the Ninth contrasts earlier analytical searches for unity with a newer
"multivalent" approach. And Julia Moore's essay on the economic forces that shaped Beethoven's career testifies to yet another aspect of the increasing tendency to
contextualize the lives and works of even the greatest composers of the past.
But it should not be supposed that traditional approaches to Beethoven and his music are moribund. Source and sketch studies still flourish, as evidenced by Robert
Freeman's study of newly discovered sources for Beethoven's piano cadenzas and David Smyth's account of Beethoven's revision of the scherzo of the String Quartet
in F, op.18, no.1, as well as Nicholas Marston's review article devoted to the complex relations between Beethoven's sketching activity and the final, published work.
Interest in literary and other extramusical sources for Beethoven's music, dormant since the 1930s but recently revived, receives a new impulse from Theodore
Albrecht's suggestion regarding the "Tempest" Sonata. And Roger Kamien's investigation of enharmonic relations in the "Waldstein" Sonata stands in the mainstream of
the Schenkerian analytical tradition.
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The variety and quality of these essays demonstrate the continued vitality of Beethoven studies. Along with other contributions already offered for publication in future
volumes, they provide the ultimate justification for Beethoven Forum.
The editors gratefully acknowledge the assistance of Carol Hancock.
CHRISTOPHER REYNOLDS
LEWIS LOCKWOOD
JAMES WEBSTER
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Abbreviations
Literature
Anderson Emily Anderson, ed., The Letters of Beethoven, 3 vols. (London: Macmillan,
1961; rpt. New York: Norton, 1985)
BS I, BS II, BS III
Beethoven Studies, ed. Alan Tyson, vol. 1 (New York: Norton, 1973), vol. 2
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1977), vol. 3 (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 1982)
CB
KarlHeinz Köhler, Grita Herre, and Dagmar Beck, eds., Ludwig van
Beethovens Konversationshefte (= Conversation Books), 8 vols. (Leipzig: VEB
Deutscher Verlag für Musik, (1968–83)
GA
Beethovens Werke: vollständige, kritisch durchgesehene Gesamtausgabe,
25 vols. (Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1862–65, 1888)
Hess Willy Hess, Verzeichnis der nicht in der Gesamtausgabe veröffentlichten
Werke Ludwig van Beethovens (Wiesbaden: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1957)
JTW Douglas Johnson, Alan Tyson, and Robert Winter, The Beethoven
Sketchbooks: History, Reconstruction, Inventory, ed. Douglas Johnson
(Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1985)
KinskyHalm Georg Kinsky, Das Werk Beethovens: thematischbibliographisches
Verzeichnis seiner sämtlichen vollendeten Kompositionen, completed and ed.
Hans Halm (Munich and Duisburg: G. Henle, 1955)
Klein HansGünter Klein, Ludwig van Beethoven: Autographe und Abschriften,
SPK, Kataloge der Musikabteilung, ed. Rudolf Elvers, Erste Reihe: Handschriften,
vol. 2 (Berlin: Merseburger, 1975)
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NI
Gustav Nottebohm, Beethoveniana (Leipzig and Winterthur: J. Rieter
Biedermann, 1872)
N II
Gustav Nottebohm, Zweite Beethoveniana: nachgelassene Aufsätze (Leipzig:
C. F. Peters, 1887)
N 1865 Gustav Nottebohm, Ein Skizzenbuch von Beethoven (Leipzig: Breitkopf &
Härtel, 1865); English trans, in Two Beethoven Sktechbooks (London:
Gollancz, 1979), pp. 3–43
N 1880 Gustav Nottebohm, Ein Skizzenbuch von Beethoven aus dem Jahre 1803
(Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1880); English trans. in Two Beethoven
Sketchbooks (London: Gollancz, 1979), pp. 47–125
New Grove The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, ed. Stanley Sadie, 20
vols. (London: Macmillan, 1980)
Schindler (1840) Anton Schindler, Biographie von Ludwig van Beethoven (Münster:
Aschendorff, 1840); trans. into English as The Life of Beethoven, ed. I
Moscheles, 2 vols. (London: H. Colburn, 1841)
Schindler (1860) Anton Schindler, Biographie von Ludwig van Beethoven, 2 vols. (3rd edn.
Münster: Aschendorff, 1860)
SchindlerMacArdle Anton Schindler, Beethoven as I Knew Him, ed. Donald W. MacArdle, trans.
Constance S. Jolly (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1966)
SBH
Hans Schmidt. ''Die Beethoven Handschriften des Beethovenhauses in Bonn," BJ
7 (1971), viixxiv, 1–443
SG
Joseph SchmidtGörg, "Wasserzeichen in BeethovenBriefen," BJ 5 (1966), 7–74
SV
Hans Schmidt, "Verzeichnis der Skizzen Beethovens," BJ 6 (1969), 7–128
TDR, I–V Alexander Wheelock Thayer, Ludwig van Beethovens Leben, vol. I (rev.)
continued by Hermann Deiters (Berlin: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1901); vols. IV–V
completed by Hugo Riemann (Leipzig, 1907, 1908); vols. II–III rev. Riemann
(Leipzig, 1910, 1911); Deiters's 1901 edn. of vol. I rev. Riemann (Leipzig,
1917); vols. II–V reissued (Leipzig, 1922–23)
Thayer I, II, III Alexander Wheelock Thayer, Ludwig van Beethoven's Leben, 3 vols. (Berlin:
F. Schneider, 1866–79)
ThayerForbes Thayer's Life of Beethoven, rev. and ed. Elliot Forbes, 2 vols. (Princeton, N.J.:
Princeton University Press, 1964)
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Alexander Wheelock Thayer, The Life of Ludwig van Beethoven, trans.
ThayerKrehbiel into English and ed. Henry Edward Krehbiel, 3 vols. (New York: Beethoven
Assoc., 1921)
Thayer, Verzeichniss Alexander Wheelock Thayer, Chronologisches Verzeichniss der Werke
Ludwig van Beethoven's (Berlin: F. Schneider, 1865)
WegelerRies Franz Gerhard Wegeler and Ferdinand Ries, Biographische Notizen über
Ludwig van Beethoven (Coblenz: K. Bädeker, 1838), suppl. Franz Gerhard
Wegeler (Coblenz, 1845)
Journals
Acta Acta Musicologica
AfMw Archiv für Musikwissenschaft
AmZ Allegemeine musikalische Zeitung
BJ
BeethovenJahrbuch (1908–09) and BeethovenJahrbuch, Zweite Reihe
(1953–)
JAMS
Journal of the American Musicological Society
JM
The Journal of Musicology
JMT
Journal of Music Theory
ML Music and Letters
MQ
The Musical Quarterly
NBJ
Neues BeethovenJahrbuch
19CM 19thCentury Music
Libraries
BL
British Library, London
BN Bibliothèque Nationale, Paris
DSB
Deutsche Staatsbibliothek, Berlin
GdM Gesellschaft der Musikfreunde, Vienna
PrStB former Preussische Staatsbibliothek, Berlin
SPK
Staatsbibliothek Preussischer Kulturbesitz, Berlin
Page 1
On the Programmatic Reception of Beethoven's Eroica Symphony
Scott Burnham
In his short novella Ein Glücklicher Abend of 1840, Richard Wagner probably thought he had made a definitive statement about the proper critical interpretation of
Beethoven's Third Symphony. One of the interlocutors in Wagner's engaging dialogue argues with the borrowed warmth of a recently emptied bowl of punch that the
Eroica Symphony is no portrait of Napoléon, or of any specific hero, but is itself an act of heroism:
He [Beethoven], too, must have felt his powers aroused to an extraordinary pitch, his valiant courage spurred on to a grand and unheard of deed! He was no general—he was a
musician; and thus in his realm he saw before him the territory within which he could accomplish the same thing that Bonaparte had achieved in the fields of Italy. 1
The characterization of instrumental music as a separate world that could be ruled by a masterful composer in the same way that geographic
I owe much to Richard Kramer for the generous spirit and incisive vigor of his criticism in response to an earlier version of this essay.
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realms could be ruled by a military genius was by no means original to Wagner. Music criticism from the earliest years of the nineteenth century increasingly tended to
view Beethoven as the master of the realm of instrumental music. E. T. A. Hoffmann's famous review of the Fifth Symphony in 1810 provides an extroverted transcript
of this recognition, infused with the aesthetic position on music established by the German Frühromantik in the 1790s. It had required a literary musician/critic like
Hoffmann, and a composer like Beethoven, to transform the haunted fantasy of a few writers listening at the fringes of the ineffable into accepted music history and
critical reception.
Wagner's essay presumes to mark the decisive campaign in which Beethoven attained undisputed sovereignty of this newly recognized realm of absolute music. The
young enthusiast of his tale describes the Eroica as an "unerhörte Tat." This assessment lies behind all interpretations and analyses of the work—indeed, this
uncontested perception is the fulcrum on which critics have succeeded in levering the subsequent stages of Western music history. No other musical work is regarded
as having made a more radical leap into the future, and no other composer has ever attained the heroic laurels accorded to Beethoven for making this leap.
Despite the increasing valuation of the concept of absolute music, and despite Wagner's plea against the tendency of nineteenthcentury music critics to look for
realitybound programs in the Eroica, many writers continued to seek the specific hero whose actions and thoughts might be represented by Beethoven's music. Its
welldocumented connection to Napoléon Bonaparte went a long way toward narrowing the search, of course. But several critics of the late nineteenth and early
twentieth centuries announced with confidence that there are other heros informing the musical world of the Eroica. 2 Even in our own age, the urge to understand this
symphony as the musical encoding of an extramusical program lingers on (recently, a programmatic account invoking the legend of Prometheus was published in
Germany).3 Throughout its reception history, detailed pro
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grams abound; cautionary scruples about the triviality of musical tone painting are tossed aside like yesterday's newspaper under the shadow of its title and presumed
working premise.
To illuminate the persistence of this programmatic reception, I will examine the relation between the Eroica's first movement and the various programs that have been
proposed as aids to its understanding; in other words, I wish to find out what it is about the Eroica qua music that causes these critics, literate musicians all, to respond
programmatically. By basing this essay on the first movement—treated by all programmatic critics as a whole unto itself—I hope to circumscribe a manageable
subsection of the entire symphony without losing benefit of a meaningful totality. This investigation will involve a detailed discussion of several crucial musical
passages—the first fortyfive measures, the new theme, the horn call, and the coda—and some of the commentary that has swarmed around each. I will argue that the
proposed programs make explicit metaphorically some of the same grammatical and stylistic aspects of the music that other analytical methodologies do formally and,
further, that these programs respond to dramatic aspects that formalized methodologies do not make explicit. Such programs are metaphorically suggestive of the way
this movement can be heard to project an engaging psychological process similar to the archetypal process depicted in mythological accounts of the hero's journey.
To formulate this thesis is to assume a validity for programmatic interpretations not generally acknowledged today. I believe that these programmatic interpretations
can act as a type of analytical metalanguage, a language about another language, in this case instrumental music. In the early nineteenth century, metaphoric language
was simply the way educated listeners sought to convey musical meaning. The continuing validity of a metaphoric approach to the analysis of music has been explored
from various quarters in recent scholarship. Anthony Newcomb writes that "expressive metaphors are often shorthand versions of structural insights—insights which
subsequent analytical work may allow us to expand and
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refine." 4 The work of Fred Maus seeks to establish a basis for a more humanistically oriented music analysis by appealing to the notion of dramatic agency as a way
to account for musical process. Pieces act like people act; our analytic/critical interpretations involve the same sorts of judgments we use to understand the actions and
motivations of each other.5 The issue of metaphoric analysis is epitomized in Beethoven criticism because of the enduring tradition of such analysis. Even in periods
characterized by a general reaction against extramusical, transcendent interpretations, such as the antiRomantic reaction to Beethoven in German scholarship at the
centenary of the composer's death6 or the structuralist bias of the last thirty years, the impulse to practice criticism from the standpoint of extramusical narrative
remains evident.7
The opening fortyfive measures of the Eroica Symphony constitute one of the most rakedover pieces of musical property in the Western hemisphere. No one denies
the overtly heroic effect of the two opening blasts, and it is almost comic to see programmatic interpreters inevitably rush off with the impetus of these two chords, only
to stumble a few measures later when they realize that something distressingly less than expeditious heroism is implied by the muchdiscussed C# in m.7. The tendency
for critical dis
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course to slow down when passing this spot mirrors the Eroica's inability to get started in a convincing fashion. What kind of a hero would pause so portentously at
the very outset of his heroic exploits?
A. B. Marx and Aléxandre Oulibicheff offer a neat solution to this dilemma in their Napoléonoriented programs, both dating from the 1850s: elements that impede the
forward progress of the music or undermine its tonality are seen as external to the hero Napoléon and do not signify any weakness or vacillation on the part of the
great general. 8 Napoléon himself is stuck in forward gear, and the heroic concept implied in these interpretations is that of a singularly obsessed hero fighting against a
recalcitrant external world.9 For Marx and Oulibicheff, the music of the first fortyfive measures represents morning on the battlefield, thereby establishing a setting for
the ensuing battle. Marx, for example, notes that the theme (which he explicitly associates with Napoléon) first sounds in a lower voice and is raised in three successive
stages to an orchestral tutti statement. His program acknowledges this musical process by casting the entire section as a conflation of the sun rising on the battlefield
with Napoléon rising onto his battle steed. Moments of tonal vacillation, such as the C# at m.7 or, in the next statement, the sequential move to F minor, are associated
with shadows and mists—things that hide the light of the sun (and of the rising hero).10 These moments are always followed by a more decisive statement of the
theme, and a pattern of statementliquidationstronger statement is established. The hero not only persists; he grows stronger.
This pattern, noted in programmatic terms by both Marx and Oulibicheff, can help us identify one of the most striking features of this opening section: it functions
simultaneously as an introduction (setting) and as an exposition of the first theme. That is why the theme cannot appear in full tutti splendor (Napoléon cannot appear in
the saddle) until after the big dominant arrival and prolongation in mm. 23–36. The dual image of sunrise on the battlefield and the hero preparing to present himself to
his troops captures an important aspect of the musical process.
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But there is also a sense of musical development in these first measures. Both Marx and Oulibicheff note that the ambiguity provided by the C# in the bass and the
subsequent syncopated Gs in the first violins works to extend a simple fourmeasure phrase into a thirteenmeasure Satz. 11 That the theme always veers away from
EU266D through the introduction of chromaticism is a mark of developmental instability as well as developmental extrapolation.12 In Marx's reading, this kind of
vacillation contributes to a pattern of action and reaction that extends throughout the entire movement.13 The identification of the main theme with the protagonist
Napoléon, who must exhort his troops to victory, conforms to the theme's tendency to act more as a developmental force than as a melodic entity, even during its own
exposition.
Several twentiethcentury critics give the developmental and transitional features of this opening section a psychological reading. Paul Bekker and Arnold Schering
center their interpretations on the dual nature of these opening measures, hearing the passage in the same way as Marx and Oulibicheff but construing it differently. For
Bekker, the hero vacillates in his mind between "vorwärtsdrängende Tatkraft" and "klagend resignierendes Besinnen." He claims that these two facets of the hero's
inner conflict can be followed throughout the movement (thereby matching the extent of Marx's narrative structure of actions and reactions).14 Thus, Bekker has
transferred the scene of the action from an actual battlefield to a psychological process. At first blush, Schering's controversial interpretation seems to place the conflict
back on the battlefield—and not a battlefield from modern European history but the plains of ancient Troy. Hector is said to be the hero of the first movement, and the
entire symphony consists of selected scenes from the Iliad.15 Yet the starting point for Schering's
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reading is that of Bekker's: an aggressive/passive duality. Instead of hearing this duality as a conflict within the hero's psyche, Schering personifies his hesitating side by
giving the role to Andromache, wife of Hector. 16 Psychology gives way to mythic archetype. The first section of the exposition thus illustrates, for Schering, the
famous scene of Hector's farewell to Andromache in book 6 of the Iliad.
These critics feel the effect of duality and describe it in terms of action and reaction, whether the action is the rising of the sun, the deedoriented drive of the hero, or
the urge of Hector to defend his city, and whether the reaction is morning mists and shadows, the passive contemplation of the hero, or the wifely remonstrances of
Andromache. Among latterday analysts who seek to eschew programmatic interpretation, David Epstein sees this duality in terms of downbeat orientation versus
upbeat orientation.17 This is precisely what is felt by those who account metaphorically for the musical process at work here. Moments of retarded action, which act
as extended upbeats and build to a big dominant, enable a higher level of energy to be attained from which a new downbeatoriented section can follow. Thus, a kind
of systolediastole rhythm permeates the opening section and continues throughout the movement at several different rhythmic levels. At a local level, for example, the
syncopated, upbeat rhythm of the first violins in m.7 initiates a long intake of breath before the downbeat of m.15; globally, the socalled second theme and the so
called new theme provide largescale reactive upbeats to ensuing downbeat sections.
Pausing to take stock of the various readings of the first fortyfive measures, we notice that each critic has identified in some way those aspects of Beethoven's style
that are particularly characteristic of his middle period. These include the alternation of active downbeatoriented sections with reactive upbeatoriented sections, the
liberation of thematic development to the extent that it may take place during the initial exposition of the theme, and the polysemic formal significance of the opening
section, understood as combining the features of introduction, exposition, and development. All the programmatic interpretations mentioned have equated these
innovations with the will of a heroic protagonist—a hero preparing, mentally or physically, for heroic action. Just as the protagonist has not yet gone
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through the fateful trials that will define his character as a hero, so too has Beethoven's theme remained, in a sense, unconsummated: its urge to slide immediately from
EU266D through chromatic alteration, even in its tutti presentation, never allows it to behave as a truly melodic theme with a stable harmonic underpinning and
normative phrase structure; it will have to wait until the coda to be granted full themehood. Thus, there is a strong sense in the opening section that this theme has not
yet submitted to its destiny, exercised its full power, or received its full due. The same might be said of any theme used in sonata form. But the fact that this theme must
do so to become more like a theme is unprecedented in musical discourse. This process establishes a new way in which music can be about a theme.
The programmatic equation of theme and dramatic protagonist makes explicit a certain attitude about the nature of Beethoven's use of thematic development in his
middleperiod style. This dimension of Beethoven's style was felt to be revolutionary and deeply engaging by his first critics; programmatic interpretation allowed them
to address this specific aspect while downplaying the more generic and more easily described categories of musical form and harmonic syntax. There was no analytical
language that could account for overall thematic process comparable to that which could describe periodic structures and other features the Eroica shares with stylistic
practice already codified. Most of these critics were perfectly capable of describing the music in terms of form, thematic structure, and harmony. 18 They simply chose
not to, as these things were not what was most meaningful to them.
For many writers, the most explicitly novel feature of the Eroica's first movement is the theme in E minor that enters in the development section after a climax of
shattering force.19 The newness of this "new" theme has
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been challenged by analysts who have unearthed hidden connections to previous thematic material. 20 Such analytical observations often put on a selfcongratulatory
air of discovery, as if this theme's latent resemblances to other aspects of the thematic, rhythmic, and harmonic arguments of the movement would somehow negate its
overwhelming reality as a new theme. Moreover, it is arguably the only theme yet heard in the movement—none of the thematic utterances within the exposition can
claim the melodic and harmonic character of a theme to the same degree. And it is clearly meant to be heard as a major statement, for Beethoven marks its entrance
with incomparable drama. This is no place, then, for clever compositional subtleties; rather, the new theme somehow bears the brunt of the entire conception of the
movement. How have our critics dealt with it?
In characteristic form, Marx dissociates the new theme from his hero. He leaves the question of the theme's precise meaning open, offering a number of possible
interpretations, all of which represent the utterance of an outside agency reflecting on the sad business of human carnage.21 As such, the theme stands in Marx's
reading as the culminating reaction in a series of actionreaction configurations, which, in the exposition and early part of the development, involved the interaction
between Napoléon and his troops. Here, the reaction is expressed by some greater entity that stands beyond the field of action. Schleuning, in his recent interpretation
of the Eroica as a symphony about Prometheus, recognizes the new theme as a turning point in the musical process, one that signifies an "internally heard higher voice"
warning Prometheus not to destroy his own work (an act he had almost managed in the preceding measures).22 The similarity to Marx's reading is striking.
For Wilhelm von Lenz, the new theme records the moment immediately after the hero is slain. He provides the following stanza as a poetic equivalent for the theme:
Ich hab' gelebt, ich fühl's, für alle Zeiten
Und an die Sterne knüpft' ich meinen Ruhm.
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Die Welt soll's wissen, dass der Löwe stirbt,
Und Wien soll seine Todesfackel brennen. 23
The hero and the music have clearly crossed the line into the afterlife; the otherness of this realm is expressed in the otherness of the new theme. (Lenz's interpretive
stanza also resonates with the Homeric notion of kléos, "glory," a concept to be discussed later.)
Several critics of our century prefer to hear the new theme as indicative of an internal process within the mind of the hero. For Bekker, the new theme represents a
catastrophic impasse reached by the conflicting sides of the heroic personality, resulting in brooding and languishing exhaustion.24 In the Homeric scene envisioned by
Schering, the new theme illustrates Hector's "Christian" reluctance to kill Patroclus after a protracted standoff. This moment of anachronistic morality is Beethoven's
addition to the Homeric tradition, claims Schering.25 Schering's version thus shares with those of Marx and Schleuning the aspect of an outside agency (Christian
humanity) that intrudes at the crucial moment on the action (Hector's urge to kill Patroclus).
All these views emphasize the otherness of the new theme, the effect of supreme disjunction that it brings to the musical discourse. Yet this disjunction is somehow
seen as a necessary stage in the psychological and/or dramatic process of the movement. Marx, the premier nineteenthcentury theorist of form, acknowledges the
disruptive effect of this theme on his notion of sonata form and seeks to assuage his discomfort by appealing to Beethoven's ability to create dramatically compelling
Sätze: each Satz leads to the next in such a way that the listener is prepared to "take it up."26 The new theme is thus made to sound inevitable or, at the least, credible,
and what is unjustifiable in terms of formal analysis is justified in terms of dramatic process. In the interpretations of Bekker and Schering, the new theme is a
necessary, if extreme, component of the hero's psychology.
Schenker fleshed out Marx's intuition about our willingness to accept this "unerhörte Tat" by showing how the motivic preparation for the
Page 11
theme starts some forty measures before its appearance. 27 Furthermore, Schenker understands the remote tonality of the new theme as made necessary by a
chromatic upper neighbor to BU266D in the bass, indicative of the "Aufwärtsdrang," or "urge to ascend," an emblematic trait of the musical process that he tracks
throughout the entire movement (see ex.1).28
Example 1: From Schenker, Das Meisterwerk in der Musik, III, suppl., fig.3.
In terms of harmonic progression, there is a longranging string of rising fifths that starts in the fugato and leads, with some prolongational episodes, to E minor (F
minor, m.236; C minor, m.239; G minor, m.242; D minor, m.245; A minor, m.254; E minor, m.284). The positioning of the Aminor sonority, as a iv6 about to land
on V7 in E minor, undermines its identity as an independent tonicization. Instead, it marks the beginning of a thirtymeasure approach to and elaboration of the
dominant of E minor, culminating in the clash between E and F at the top of the orchestral texture, a clash that makes explicit the implied dissonance respective to the
tonic of the flatsupertonic sonority. The energy of this clash is shunted off gradually in the following measures by the repeated pulses of the dominant with minor
ninth—a toneddown, normative presentation of halfstep dissonance—followed by the dominant seventh. Analysis of this longrange underlying tonal preparation of E
minor, whose path leads locally
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through some disorienting diminishedseventh chords (mm.266–71 and mm.272–73) as well as the harrowing impasse of mm.276–79, supports Marx's insights
concerning our willingness to accept the seemingly unacceptable. If we find ourselves in what may retrospectively be adjudged an impossibly remote harmonic realm,
we are made to feel the ineluctable necessity of the process through which we arrived there. The continuity, both long range and short range, is compelling enough to
make us believe in anything. 29
The movement has reached its antipode.30 This important arrival has occurred in the development section, normally reserved for working on thematic material and
building up to the recapitulation. Again we see one of the central critical intuitions about this movement—its opening theme is somehow less a musical object than a
potential to act, less ergon than energeia—borne out by the progress of the musical discourse. The point here is not to showcase a given theme by exposing it,
moving away from it, and returning to it in triumph; rather, from its outset the theme embodies a process of action and reaction that culminates at the arrival of the new
theme, a kind of photographic negative of the initial theme (possibly a more fruitful way of assessing the hidden features the new theme shares with the main theme).
This arrival is as important to the psychology of the movement as the moment of syntactic climax, the recapitulation. Only here has the first theme engendered its
complement, a true second theme.31
Analytic methodologies that attempt to demonstrate the presence of a web of thematic relations emanating from some initial thematic utterance will perforce neglect the
otherness of this new theme in an aesthetically motivated zeal to assimilate it into a larger organic whole. Programmatic
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criticism, however, does not seek to explain the new theme by showing secret organic connections to the first theme but attempts to understand the effect of this
important disjunction and how it arises by describing the entire process metaphorically. By interpreting the new theme as an important turning point in a psychological
or dramatic process, metaphoric programs suggest a significance at once deeper and more immediate than one based solely on hidden motivic relations.
If the old story is true, the next musical crux in the movement moved even Beethoven to violence at its misapprehension. The impact of poor Ries's boxed ear has
resounded through the years of this symphony's critical reception. In view of this reception, Beethoven's imputed action takes on a symbolic cast, for most of the
programmatic critics interpret the famous horn call as a bold reminder, a recalling to duty, an Ohrfeige for the exhausted hero. For Schering, the horn call brings
Hector back to his senses as if calling him by name. 32 In Bekker's words, "Then, like a spectral exhortation full of promise, the horn motive sounds, leading [the hero]
away from his dusky brooding back into the living world of the deed."33 Commenting on the horn call's apparent temporal displacement, Marx characterizes the
passage as "drifting entirely out of a lost distance, strange, a summons not at all belonging to the present moment but which augurs and heralds those to follow—
namely, the return of the heroic theme after the struggle seemed extinct.''34 With the word "strange" (fremd), Marx implies that, in the world of the second theme and
its aftermath, the first theme itself has become alien, heard from a "lost distance." Here, amid doom, the horn call sounds both as a monitory utterance from the
beginnings we have so utterly left behind and as a premonition of the redeeming glory to come. A reminder from destiny, linking past and future?
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Critics like Oulibicheff and Lenz treat the striking harmonic juxtaposition of dominant and tonic during the horn call as one of the moments in this grand conception
where the idea of the piece overrides musical considerations. As Lenz puts it, "It is not the ear but the idea which acts as judge, when storm cloud and lightning
appear all at once in this manner. … Tragedy need not flatter the senses but ought to uplift the soul, and the Eroica is a tragedy [expressed through] instrumental
music." 35 Schenker, ever the man to deflate such speculation, justifies the moment harmonically by showing that it is based on a rather common mode of dominant
prolongation (see ex.2). Yet even Schenker acknowledges that this specific instance of dominant prolongation serves a poetic effect of ''matchless originality."36
Example 2: Beethoven, Symphony No.3 (from Schenker, Harmony, pp.162–63).
In examining the broader context of the horn call, we can understand how the syntax of this passage has brought on the unanimous programmatic response that
something both momentous and mysterious is afoot.37 Starting as far back as m.338, the retransition section, which eventually includes the horn call, is regularly
articulated in fourmeasure groups,
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generally consisting of one harmony per group. After working slowly up from the BU266D of m.338 to an EU266D in m.358, the bass drops suddenly to CU266D at
m.362, an arrival given climactic status by the prolonged fortissimo and tutti projection of the CU266Dmajor sonority. The energy of this fanfare is slowly dissipated
in the exchanges between winds and strings that follow; at m.378 the bass returns to BU266D, and by m.381 the upper voice has been coaxed down from GU266D
to D. The CU266D in the bass of m.362 has thus taken sixteen measures to complete a longrange resolution to B.U266D
Now the winds drop out for two measures, and the tremolos begin. The CU266D appears once more, as a minor ninth now taking four measures to resolve to the
BU266D in m.386. At m.390 the resolution of CU266D to BU266D is further compressed to just two measures. The drama of this progressive compression is
matched by the sustained suspense of the violin tremolo, now uninterrupted by the winds or any bass articulations. Beethoven carefully prepares the disappearance of
the bass by staging its gradual reduction from quarternote arpeggios (mm.369 and 373) to eighthnote arpeggios (mm.374–77) to singlenote pizzicati in each
measure of the fourmeasure group (mm.378–81) and, finally, to pizzicati in mm.3 and 4 only (mm.384–85 and 388–89).
Everything has died out save the pianissimo violins, yet there is an uncanny energy in the air; the quietly humming presence of dissonance voices a suddenly brimming
sense that an issue is imminent. Progressive textural reductions have reinforced the fourmeasure regularity of this entire section while building dramatic tension in
conjunction with the compressed resolutions of CU266D to BU266D; further reduction or compression is unthinkable. We are being set up: the predominant pattern
of chord change every four measures leads us to expect another chord change at m.394, and the local dramatic conditions demand it. Syntactically, this is a good
place to arrive at EU266D—but are we really prepared for the thematic recapitulation? Can Beethoven let the music simply die away into its heroic return? That
would surely be a resurrectio ex abrupto, for we have been told all along that the arrivals of important statements of the first theme need a strong upbeat to send
them off. 38
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Beethoven has it both ways. He brings EU266D back at the right spot and provides the needed upbeat. The reference to EU266D major supplied by the horn call
becomes in fact the necessary condition for initiating the critical upbeat. For the effect of the horn call overlaid on the continuing pianississimo tremolo of BU266D
and AU266D is to challenge this remnant of V7, releasing the latent energy of its quiet persistence and instantaneously transforming a glowing ember into an explosive
force. The tremolo had reduced the V7 to its barest dissonant combination, the major second, an interval which could preserve the energy for a big move to tonic but
could not resolve there directly. The AU266D needs to attain a higher register—it cannot remain as a bass line. After the explosion in mm.396–97 scatters the voices
of the V7 sonority into a resolutionworthy configuration, the recapitulation may proceed.
Just as striking as the harmonic juxtaposition, with which critics have been exclusively concerned all these years, is the rhythmic juxtaposition of downbeat (reference
to first theme) and upbeat (the move to the recapitulated theme). We have explored the rhythmic pattern of the first theme's presentation in the opening fortyfive
measures as an increasingly intense succession of largescale downbeat and upbeat sections, usually coordinated with tonic and dominant areas, respectively. The horn
call combines in one mysterious utterance the essence of the theme (a triadic call) and the crux of its presentation (the downbeatoriented tonic configuration that
becomes upbeat and dominant oriented). The two poles of this basic rhythmic/harmonic pattern of respiration occur at the same moment, an observation that deepens
the above interpretive characterization of the horn call as both a warning from the past (downbeat) and a premonition of the future (upbeat). Remarkably, the horn call
performs this feat by matching a simplified V7 with the simplest triadic statement of tonic, as if answering the elemental with the elemental—whispering, as it were, the
magic word.
There is yet another dimension to the magic of this word. We must remember that, in terms of the thematic material of this movement, the horn call is nothing other than
a baldly stated twomeasure citation of the first
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theme in its original mode and register. The appearance of the first theme as a military horn call takes on a communicative function hovering suggestively between the
referential and the phatic. In other words, the horn call both represents the hero and summons him by name. As a representation of the hero/theme, this terse reduction
refers both to the musical essence of the first theme, by revealing that component of the theme that remains invariable throughout its many appearances, and to the
poetic essence of the hero, by metonymically symbolizing the hero as a military horn call. But the theme's abstracted essence here heralds, rather than enacts, the
important thematic return, or, semantically speaking, this use of the theme stands not for the hero himself but for his name. Thus, the poetic essence of the hero's
character (a military horn call) names the hero. This is precisely the sense in which the heroes of Greek mythology are often named. Hector, for example, takes his
name from the verb ékho, in the sense of "protect": Hector is named as he who protects the city of Troy. 39
The programmatic interpretations of Marx and Schering recognize the function of naming enacted by the horn call and the powerful effect it has on the musical process,
one of recalling, in a trice, a development that has hurled itself into territory representing the extreme implications of the opening argument (the new theme and its
aftermath) to the return of the argument. Perhaps the most overt aspect of the horn call's effect is simply its reminder of EU266D major at the end of a long retransition
exclusively concerned with EU266D minor—the same utterance that names the hero/theme thus names the home key in its appropriate mode while forecasting the
important formal event of that key's return.
Those critics who, like Oulibicheff and Lenz, interpret the horn call as one of many moments in Beethoven's symphonic works where the Idee overrides musical
considerations are also on to something important about this moment. It is a classic "stroke of genius": the horn call solves a syntactic problem (the arrival of tonic that
cannot yet be the arrival of the recapitulation) while also naming the hero (reminding the music of its original mode as well as its initial thematic and rhythmic premise),
releasing the explosive potential of the major second tremolo, and merging the two poles of the movement's thematic complex—tonic/downbeat over and against
dominant/upbeat—into one synoptic moment. Our Ideeminded
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critics are reacting to a representation of something "unerhört," something that defies convention and defines genius, as conceived in the early nineteenth century. When
they invoke the notion of a poetic Idee to account for this type of passage, they are not simply at their wit's end but realize that more is at stake than a daring harmonic
anomaly: there is a higher significance that goes beyond the local effect. We detect a wonderful symbiosis, for the Idee serves the form (articulates its major juncture),
and the form serves the Idee (provides for a return to the hero's identity after the exploration of some "other" state).
The case of the horn call illustrates my point that programmatic critics are responding metaphorically to something momentous in the musical process, something that
we would today be inclined to describe syntactically or stylistically. From this we should conclude not that we are only now able to understand these aspects of the
music but rather that we are making these same aspects explicit with a different type of analytical language. Neither would I wish merely to reduce earlier metaphoric
accounts of the Eroica to a series of analytical statements closer to our customary discourse about tonal musical processes. To do so would be to treat such
metaphoric language as protoanalytical, to patronize this mode of musical understanding by imputing to it the inchoate glimmers of our analytical discoveries. Much
more germane is the observation that practitioners operating from a range of critical and analytical standpoints notice similar things in this music and express them in the
different languages available to them. There remains, however, a fundamental aspect of the Eroica Symphony that is addressed exclusively by programmatic criticism.
Maynard Solomon has suggested that Beethoven's willful manipulation of musical convention was the result of a desire to express emotional and psychological states
previously unavailable to instrumental music. 40 The expression of these states in the framework of a cumulative process allows works like the Ninth Symphony or the
Eroica to take on a mythological dimension, to become musical realizations of archetypal mythological processes, such as the cycle leading from chaos to order (the
creation myth) or the journey of the hero from life to death and resurrection. Programmatic critics suggest this dimension in the first movement of the Eroica by offering
metaphoric translations of what they feel is operative in the musical
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process, translations that can be read as variants of the mythological archetype of the hero's journey. The music is thus felt to be expressive of the same human
experience that is encoded in the great myths.
To bring this point into focus we must look to the recapitulation and the coda of the first movement as interpreted in the programmatic tradition. Not every critic
bothers to account programmatically for the repeated music of the recapitulation. Marx, for example, skips to the end of the coda in his program, relegating the body
of the recapitulation to the general category of victoriousness and hearing the fourfold return of the first theme in the last section of the coda (from m.631 on) as the
absolute culmination of victory. 41 Lenz suggests that the recapitulation expresses the hero's posthumous fame, in a manner similar to the epic retelling of heroic
exploits.42 This reading, in conjunction with Marx's comments on the thematic return at the end of the coda, could supply us with the final programmatic stage of our
hero's journey: after the hero's life and death, his eternal glory resounds to the heavens.
In the culminating passage of the coda, from m.631 to the end, the first theme is provided with a regular harmonic underpinning of tonic and dominant and regular four
plusfour phrasing. The power of this square treatment is precisely in its presentation: the theme becomes a real theme, an actual melody. That is, in its previous
manifestations the first theme acted more as a bass line in motivating harmonic development, but now it is freed from its role as an unstable, driving force and is able to
enjoy a truly melodic character. Such thematic stability could inform only the final manifestation of the theme, where it marks the tonality of EU266D major in such a
way that we need never again fear its imminent dissolution.
Regarded metaphorically, the thematic process of the movement seems to realize Heraclitus's famous apothegm, "Character is destiny": we are made to hear that the
hero's fully revealed character entails the process of his destiny. In Marx's interpretation, Napoléon can become Napoléon only through the successful interaction with
his troops. For Lenz, the hero must die to obtain eternal glory. This fatal transaction was made explicit by Achilles (Iliad 9.411–16):
I carry two sorts of destiny toward the day of my death. Either, if I stay here and fight beside the city of the Trojans, my return home is
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gone, but my glory [k léos] shall be everlasting; but if I return home to the beloved land of my fathers, the excellence of glory [k léos] is gone, but there will be a long life left for me,
and my end in death will not come to me quickly. 43
Marx's description of the movement's final moments as a culmination of the hero's glory works well with the notion of kléos that Lenz invokes. The standard Homeric
formula for kléos is that kléos reaches the heavens (kléos ouranòn híkei).44 This image aptly captures the impression made by the soaring conclusion: the theme (the
hero) flies to the heavens, liberated from the battles of mortality. His final form is a true theme, a melody, a form forbidden to him until he lived to the uttermost
consequences of his heroic character. As a melody, he can now be sung by posterity. Thus, the heroic journey here envisaged ranges from life to death (or some
related experience symbolizing death) to the eternal glory of epic song.
To increase our understanding of the coherent musical process that informs this kind of reading we must consider one final musical crux: the famous passage at the
outset of the coda, where the music plunges directly through DU266D major to C major (mm.551–63). In his eagerness to get at the movement's final peroration,
Marx omits any account of this striking passage from his program, although he comments on it when addressing Oulibicheff's criticism of the same measures. Both
critics see the passage as expressing the tenacity of the hero's will. According to Oulibicheff, "It is the voice of the hero, the summons of glory. … In whatever land or
whatever circumstances this summons is heard … the hero always wants the same thing, and he is always sure of being obeyed."45 Marx states, in a more Prussian
manner, "The [hero's] word shall prevail! And it has triumphed! And it shall triumph and rule!"46 Do these critics hear the passage in this way simply because its
harmonic syntax seems so willfully arbi
Page 21
trary or is there something in the process of the coda that makes a compact expression of the willful nature of the first theme indispensable at this spot?
The work of Joseph Kerman and Charles Rosen has shown that one of the primary roles of the Beethovenian coda is to finish any business that cannot be transacted
within the recapitulation proper. 47 With this movement, several pieces of thematically related business remain: the new theme, as the essential second theme, needs its
own recapitulation, and the first theme must attain its final form. There is also a tonal agenda that arguably needs to be completed. To understand the nature of this
agenda we must invoke the very beginning of the recapitulation.
The recapitulation in Classical sonata form usually emphasizes the subdominant area before proceeding to the second theme group. As Rosen points out, this
requirement is met in an unusual way in the opening moments of this particular recapitulation. At first it seems as if the music will move toward the subdominant, as the
C# from m.7 drops to CU266E—but the key that shows up is not F minor, standing for the subdominant AU266D major, but F major, the dominant of the dominant.
Beethoven's particular approach to F major neutralizes its function as an applied dominant, however; there is no aural sense that this key will move to BU266D. The
following passage in D plunges into the flat side of EU266D major, as if to compensate for the ambiguous use of F major, and suggests a subdominant orientation for
the entire section.48
One might expect that another, less equivocal move to the subdominant area would be attempted in the coda, if it is indeed the locus for unfinished business. And this
is in fact the case. Beethoven establishes the subdominant area with the key of F minor (heard as the functional representative for the subdominant key of AU266D
major), which we missed at the outset of the recapitulation but which is much more at home here as the tonality of the new theme. The passage at the outset of the
coda sets up F minor by passing in short order from EU266D to C major and then fashioning the latter as a dominant. But can we hear this passage merely as a
grandiose yet awkward preparation for F minor? The notorious chord progression, with its bald
Page 22
parallels, frustrates the search for local harmonic logic and seems to point to some larger requirement.
The DU266D that makes a momentous appearance at the beginning of the coda (in m.557) is the ultimate manifestation of the C#s at mm.7 and 402, as many have
pointed out; now it sounds as the root of its own triad, and the passing motion of EU266D–DU266D–C is hypostasized with triads built on each tone. Perhaps it is
not too farfetched to argue that the unusual manner of touching on the subdominant that Rosen notices at the head of the recapitulation has left the C#/DU266D with
some latent energy. Or, in terms of a pitch story, the transformation of the C# of m.7 to DU266D is not yet complete in m.402. DU266D plays its greatest role in the
coda—if it is read as a signal of the impulse to move to the subdominant. In its early guise as C# (m.7), it has a "noch nicht" effect; moving to the subdominant here
would be premature and disastrously enervating. But we can read this C# as a latent aspect of the theme to move toward the subdominant or other flatside tonalities.
As with the horn call, the "unerhört" quality of the passage at the outset of the coda can be linked to the simultaneous fulfillment of several requirements of the
movement's musical process. The need to recapitulate the new theme is merged with the transformation of C# to DU266D and the previously suppressed harmonic
necessity of a move to the subdominant area. Thus, the underlying form is again combined with an ongoing, endoriented musical process: the formally necessary coda
is articulated by the clarification of an enigmatic and latent aspect of the first theme.
The related appearances of the DU266D, the subdominant function, and the new theme can be translated into the metaphoric myth of the hero, if we consider that the
recapitulation must recount the hero's chthonic experiences if it is to represent the epic retelling of the hero's exploits. These experiences form a vitally important part of
the heroic journey and take the form of a symbolic death, generally entailing a visit to the underworld. Beethoven's coda uses the DU266D as a direct lever into the
relevant tonality for the recapitulated new theme, which represents the hero's brush with death in the development. And it makes sense that the epic retelling of the
chthonic episode implied by the new theme should be assimilated into a "safer" harmonic area than when it was heard in the "present tense" in the development.
Looking back at the entire movement, may we not speculate that the C# of m.7 represents something like the latent trend toward death inherent in any mythic hero of
epic stature? We should remember that a C# initiates
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the thematic argument in the development that ultimately leads to the new theme. I am referring to the passage at mm.178–86: a 5–6–5–6 voiceleading progression
from C minor through C# minor to D minor. It is clear that the arrival of D minor marks the commencement of an extended section that culminates at the climactic
measures before the new theme. Marx, for example, identifies this scene as the actual battle, which grows to a standoff immediately before the puzzling reaction of the
new theme. 49 The passage from C through C# to D represents another example of Schenker's heroic "Aufwärtsdrang," whose presence is felt again at mm.219–20
and, climactically, at the move from E to F in mm.274–76. The motion from C# to D in the bass of mm.7–9 can be seen as the first glimmer of this powerfully
consequential realization. Only in the recapitulation, the epic retelling, can the C# be transformed into a DU266D. No longer will it initiate the actionoriented
"Aufwärtsdrang." It will henceforth resolve down, as a DU266D, and signal the imminent subdominant area, wherein it is safe to talk of death, symbolic or otherwise.
The coda brings together the main elements of the archetypal process suggested metaphorically by narrative interpretations of the movement: the plunge from EU266D
through DU266D to C represents the hero's will, the fatal consequences of which are symbolized by the recapitulated new theme, which in turn leads to the final
affirmation of eternal glory. The process played out by the entire movement is recapitulated and confirmed in the coda. The momentous events at the beginning of the
coda serve as a local preparation for the culminating repetitions of the first theme at its end,50 a preparation as necessary as the horn call for the climactic
recapitulation proper. Both passages represent downbeats that act simultaneously as upbeats to the successive stages of climactic affirmation needed to balance the
psychologically portentous disjunction in the development section.
Beethoven's first movement is thus expressive of an almost universally accessible psychological process: a dangerous yet necessary exploration of an unconscious
aspect of the psyche is followed by a tremendous sense of reintegration and affirmation. This process is no secret told only to initiates. For every listener who accepts
Schenker's view that the final section of the coda has no structural function, save that of bringing the upper voice
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back to the obligatory register, untold legions will understand the affirmation signaling the triumphant closure of a meaningful process.
To conclude with cautionary clarification, I do not suggest that it is necessary to read and/or practice programmatic criticism to understand works like the Eroica
Symphony. To suggest this would confuse the relation between the narrative programs and the symphony. We must not for a moment think that the symphony is about
these narratives, for it is precisely the reverse: the narratives are about the symphony. Failure to heed this seemingly obvious caveat drastically foreshortens the work's
interpretive horizon and unites critics as outwardly antithetical as Schering and Schenker in the same mistaken assumption—both claim that they are revealing the true
content of the work, either in a literary key or in a reductive graph. Yet it is clear that programmatic criticism can be metaphorically suggestive of underlying and
archetypal processes, paradigms that account for the intense engagement listeners feel when confronted with the music of Beethoven. Narrative programs serve as a
way of communicating the spirit of such an engagement. They imply by analogy that the music functions like myth, as a metaphoric translation of a fundamentally
meaningful human experience.
In our own age, the figural account has largely given way to the analytical account, the metaphoric to the structural. Yet the Eroica Symphony continues to bring its
''shock of recognition" to Western ears, regardless of the variety of analytical and critical languages applied in the many interpretive commentaries that unremittingly
define and redefine our relationship to it. This single work has come to stand for the "unerhörte Tat" that brought music history to what generations have considered a
culminating stage, one against which much of musical practice has been measured: the heroic style of Beethoven's middle period. That we have allowed one style of
one composer to function paradigmatically for a wide range of Western music constitutes perhaps the most pressing issue of Beethoven reception. 51 The observable
tendency in latterday criticism and analysis to equate Beethoven's middleperiod works with the way music ought to go indicates that the narrative urge associated
with critical interpretations of this music may tell more about ourselves than simply the way we hear the Eroica Symphony.
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The Form of the Finale of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony
James Webster
Musictheoretical thought in this century has been dominated by paradigms and methods based on the principle of hierarchical reductionism. Whether the later
Schenker interprets every movement as the contrapuntal composingout of a background tonal structure, or Schoenberg derives every idea in a movement from a
Grundgestalt, or Allen Forte analyzes all possible movements in terms of his system of interval sets—the most influential theories have tended to explain entire
movements, and even whole works, on the basis of a single governing principle. The underlying idea is the belief, derived primarily from Goethe and Hegel, in the
organic nature of the artwork; the symptom of its presence is the search for unity. 1 Theories of musical form have also exhibited this orientation, both in the tendency
to interpret as many movements as possible according to familiar or privileged formal types (such as sonata form) and in the use of concepts like "symmetry" in
analyses of what, after all, remains a resolutely temporal art. Even if, as William Kin
This essay is a revised and expanded translation of "Zur Form des Finales von Beethoens 9. Symphonie," in Probleme der symphonischen Tradition im 19. Jahrhundert:
Internationales musikwissenschaftliches Colloquium Bonn 1989, ed. Siegfried Kross and Marie Luise Maintz (Tutzing: Schneider, 1990), pp. 157–86. I thank William Kinderman
for a critical reading of this version.
Page 26
derman has recently argued, we should distinguish those more helpful "synthetic" or integrative unities that are said to be "transparent" to the work, rather than
distortions of it, from the more dangerous "analytical" or reductive sorts, it remains the case that most twentiethcentury analytical practice has been beholden more to
the latter type than to the former. 2
Today, however, especially in nonGermanspeaking countries and in opera research, such reductive theories are increasingly felt to be overly simplistic. As far as
musical form is concerned, they seem to be yielding to what we may call "multivalent" analysis. Under this concept, a musical work is understood as encompassing
numerous different "domains": tonality, musical material, rhythm, dynamics, instrumentation, rhetoric, "narrative" design, and so forth. In a vocal work, one must add (at
least) the verbal text, vocal tessitura, and relations between vocal passages and those for instruments alone. (A textform is multivalent in its own right: meter, rhyme
scheme, stanza construction, lexical patterns, tone and voice, and ideational content.) The temporal patterns that arise in the various domains need not be congruent
and may at times even conflict. When ''the" form can be said to exist at all, it necessarily arises from their combination—although how this happens, admittedly, often
remains mysterious. On the other hand, the richness and complexity of the greatest music depends precisely on this multifariousness, to which an increased sensitivity
can offer ample compensation for the abandonment of reductive unity. Perhaps the concept of multivalence will become a new analytical paradigm—not only for
operas (where it seems almost inevitable) but for instrumental works as well.3
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All this is relevant to the finale of Beethoven's Ninth. It was controversial throughout the nineteenth century; the introduction of text and voices into a symphony was
widely felt to violate the spirit of "absolute music" (whether as a dubious inspiration of Beethoven's "difficult" late style or, as in Wagner, as a welcome harbinger of the
impending demise of absolute music). And although since World War 11 Beethoven's finale has never been seriously criticized, it has been relatively little analyzed.
Given its continuing importance in our musical culture in the context of the explosion of analysis and theory as autonomous disciplines, this inattention can be
understood only as the result of the widespread prejudice against program music—the obverse of the prestige of absolute music. 4 (Only recently have Beethoven
scholars renewed their interest in those aspects of his art that invite extramusical interpretation.5 )
A second obstacle lies in the complex, multisectional construction of Beethoven's finale. The profession has largely ignored works of this type (fantasies, through
composed works, multipartite vocal works), preferring to move along welltrodden paths labeled "sonata form," "rondo," "fugue," and so forth. And yet precisely its
heterogeneous character suggests the pertinence of a multivalent approach.6 I hear the finale of the
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Ninth as throughcomposed: every section remains incomplete or leads seamlessly to the next in such a way that no largescale closure takes place until the end. (I
make no pretense of having discovered the "correct" analysis. A movement of this magnitude and complexity will always offer new perspectives, sustain various
interpretations.) In what follows I explore some implications of the multivalent method as it applies to this movement (sec.II), discuss the principal earlier analyses
(secs.III–IV), and describe my own reading (secs.V–VI). In conclusion, I briefly discuss (sec.VII) some implications of this reading for our understanding of Beethoven's
program.
II
The sections and subsections of Beethoven's finale are listed in table 1 (and will often be cited according to the boldface numbers in the lefthand column: 1.1, 1.2, …,
2.1, …, etc.). The eleven main sections are defined by ten major division points, which are created by changes in the basic rhetorical content, performing forces, and
musical characteristics (listed in the remainder of the table). Because these changes take place in several domains simultaneously, the resulting division points are more
or less "objective"; indeed, every previous interpretation assumes these same eleven sections. On the other hand, the overall form is not thereby determined; rather, it
depends on the individual analyst's interpretative decisions, in particular regarding (1) the groupings among sections, and (2) their functions in terms of a particular
formal type. 7 Insofar as is possible, a multivalent analysis must proceed one domain at a time, with little attention to what happens in the other domains and without
preconceptions as to the overall form. Of course, this ideal can never be entirely realized: we will always "know" something of what is going on in other domains,
always have some advance sense of the overall form; the analyst's mind cannot become a tabula rasa. But this does not justify the alltoocomforting conclusion that,
since we have lost our historical and theoretical innocence, we may
Page 29
as well be frankly biased from the beginning. To do this abandons all hope of seeing whatever it may be possible to see "in" the piece, before dialectically conflating
this with our own views and desires. For these reasons, table 1 includes no brackets, indentations, labels, or other indications of groupings among the eleven main
sections, and no implication of an overall formal type. The larger units and their relations should emerge only later, on the basis of comparative analyses of the various
domains. 8
A sense of what this entails may be seen in table 2. (In principle, table 2 should list not merely the major sections but all fiftyodd subsections; this is obviously not
practicable.) The table has three parts, each having as column headings the boldface numbers 1–11, representing the eleven main sections listed in table 1. Table 2A
("Domains") charts the major domains that contribute to the form, 2B ("Formal Interpretations") summarizes the most important earlier analyses of the finale, and 2C
("ThroughComposed") is devoted to my own interpretation. Each horizontal row refers to a single domain or interpretation; the vertical alignment in columns permits
direct comparison of them all.
Methodologically crucial in a multivalent analysis such as this is the fact that the variables in any row are (or can be) independent of those in every other row. It follows
that a given section is characterized differently in the various rows, and moreover is shown as resembling and contrasting with a different selection of other sections.
For example, what is the relation between section 1, the search for the Ode to Joy, and section 2, its first, instrumental, working out? In table 2A, section 2 is shown as
similar or identical to section 1 with respect to "Voices vs. orchestra" and "Tempo" (the singers remain silent, and the tempo does not change), but as contrasting with
it in musical topics (Joy is found), instrumentation, meter, and key. The same point applies on a larger scale to the opening pairs of sections 1–2 and 3–4. They are
very much alike in their progression from dissonant recitative to consonant joy and from minor to major, in the construction of the two Joy sections as cumulative
variations, and so forth. On the other hand, 1–2 are purely instrumental, while 3–4 are performed by singers—a
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Table 1: Sectional Organization
Measures2 Text3 Primary Performing Key5 Meter6 Tempo6
Section Content Forces4
1 1–91 Search Orchestra i 2/3 Presto …
Selon le
caractère
d'un
recitative,
mais in
tempo
.1 1–29 Dissonance + Winds/Trp./Timp.;
Recit. bass
.2 30–76 Recalls + Recit. Various; bass Various (+ [Various] +
others) Tempo I.
Allegro [sic]
.3 77–91 Joy: Winds/Trp./Timp.; –I 4/4 Allegro
Adumbration + bass moderato
Recit … Allegro
2 92–207 Joy Orchestra I Allegro
assai
.1 92–115 Theme Bass
(aababa)
.2 116–39 Var.1 Bass + Va. (+
Bsn.)
.3 140–63 Var.2 Strings (+
Bsn.)
.4 164–87 Var.3 Full
.5 188–207 Postlude + Full –V … Poco
development adagio …
Tempo I
3 208–36/1– 3/4
28
.1 208–16/1–9 Dissonance Full orchestra i Presto
.2 217–36/10 "Not these Baritone solo I–Iv Recitativo
–28 tones"
4 237–330/1 Joy I 4/4 Allegro
–94 assai
Leadin 237–40/1–4 Baritone solo (V7)
(chorus)
.1a 241–56/5– I Var. 4a7: aaba Baritone solo
20
.1b 257–64/21 I:5–8 Var. 4b: ba Chorus ATB
–29
.1c 265–68/29 Postlude Orchestra (V/IV)
–32
.2 269–96/33 II Var. 5 ATB < SATB
–60 < Chorus
.3 297–320/61 III Var. 6 TB < ATB <
–84 SATB <
Chorus
.4 321–30/85 III:24 Postlude + Chorus I–V–III
–94 extension
5 331–431/1 March (Joy) VI 6/8 Allegro
–101 assai vivace.
Alla marcia
.1 331–74/1– Intro + Var. 7 Orch.: winds
44 (aaba) + percussion
.2 375–406/35 IV Var. 8a (aaba Tenor solo
–76
.3 407–31/77 IV:27– Var. 8b ba + + male chorus
–101 28 postlude)
6 431– Double fugue Orch.: winds VI–V/vi
542/101– (2' + 5') + strings
212
.1 431– Fugue
517/131–87
.2 517– Extension + … Hr. +
42/187–212 transition punctuation
7 543– Joy I
94/213–64
.1 543– I Var. 9 Chorus
90/213–60 (aababa)
.2 590– Postlude Orchestra –IV
94/260–64
8 595– Chorus IV–V9 3/2
654/1–60 (orch.: +
Trb.)
.1 595– V "Seid TB < SATB IV:I–IV Andante
627/1–33 umschlungen" (twice) maestoso
.2a 627– VI Prayer SATB IV:I–VI Adagio ma
46/33–52 non troppo
.2b 647– VI:36 SA < SATB V9
54/53–60 (+ high orch.)
9 655– Chorus (orch. I 6/4 Allegro
762/1–108 + Trb.) energico
.1 655– I:1–4 + Double fugue:
729/1–75 V:29– Joy +
30 "Umschlungen"
.2a 730– VI Misterioso (B / T / A / iv–V
45/76–91 SATB)
.2b 745– V:31– Hymn V–IV–.
62/91–108 32
10 763– Joy–ecstasy– Solo–chorus– I 2/2 Allegro ma
842/1–80 devotion solo non tanto
Leadin 763– (Joy motive) Orchestra –IV–V–
66/1–4 I
.1 767– I:1–2 Joy (cantabile) Solo: TB/SA
81/5–19 exchanges
.2a 782– I:5–7 Ecstatic round Solo–chorus
806/20–44
.2b 806– I:7–8 Devotion Chorus –IV Poco adagio
14/44–52
.3a 814– I:5–7 Ecstatic round Chorus I Tempo I
27/52–65
.3b I:7–8 Devotion Chorus–solo –VI#–I Poco adagio
827– 6/4
42/65–80
Trans. 843– Orch.: (Str. < 6–5–I Poco
50/[81–88] full orch.) allegro,
stringendo
11 851– Jubilation Chorus I Prestissimo
940/1–90 (orchestra:
.1a 851– V "Umschlungen" (motives) Trb. +
64/1–14 percussion)
.1b 864–
76/14–26
.2 876– V:29– Hymn (motive)
903/26–53 30
.3a 903– I:1
16/53–66
.3b 916– I:2, 1 Devotion 3/4 Maestoso
20/66–70
.4 920– Orchestra 2/2 Prestissimo
40/70–90
Notes to table 1
1. The data are to be understood as generalization, focusing primarily on the differences among the sections. Certain transitional and temporary changes of meter and tempo are
omitted; some of these are noted in table 2 below and the text.
2. From sec.3 on, the first set of numbers is based on a single cumulative numbering for the entire finale (as used elsewhere in tables and examples); the second gives those found in
the Eulenburg miniature score.
3. Stanzas (Roman numerals) and lines (Arabic numerals) in Beethoven's arrangement (see table 3 below).
4. For vocal passages, in general only the singers are indicated.
5. Reckoned from D major as tonic. The symbol IV denotes a halfcadence.
6. Only explicitly notated meter and tempo indications are cited; where none appears at the beginning of a section, the previous indication still applies. For tempi, characterizing and
qualifying phrases such as "sempre ben marcato," "ma divoto," etc., are omitted.
7. Or "theme" (second presentation) (see pp.29–31, 38–39, 43–44).
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difference that might prove as important for the form as all their similarities taken together. In other words, section 2 must be both grouped with section 1 and kept
distinct from it; 3–4 should be interpreted both as a varied repetition of 1–2 and as something fundamentally new. These considerations alone demonstrate that any
characterization of a given section under a single formal principle—section 2, say, as "introduction" or as "exposition"—is doomed to failure. Still less successful would
be an attempt to thus characterize such complex later sections as the slow No. 8 ("Seid umschlungen"), the double fugue on this theme and the Ode to Joy in section 9,
or the rich succession of ideas and contrasts in section 10.
Examination of the text—an essential aspect of any vocal work, even if its composer is named Beethoven—reveals additional complexities. Although Beethoven had
previously contemplated setting the entirety of the first version of Schiller's ode (published in 1785), with its overt references to political revolution, when composing
the Ninth he used the later and slightly shorter version (published in 1803 and reprinted in the collected works in 1812). From its ninetysix lines he selected and
reordered thirtysix (adding three lines of his own for the baritone recitative in sec. 3). 9 Schiller's poem is constructed of stanzas of twelve lines, each stanza divided
into eight lines for a (presumably individual) speaker and four for a "chorus." Beethoven's arrangement is shown in table 3; the lefthand column gives both Schiller's
and Beethoven's ordering of stanzas, while the line numbers displayed with the text refer to Beethoven's alone (I will refer to these in the following). Thus musical
section 4, the vocal workingout of Joy, sets the solo portions of Schiller's stanzas, omitting their chorus passages; section 5 (alla marcia) is based on the chorus
portion of his fourth stanza; and section 8 sets the choruses of his first and third stanzas. Sections 9–11 repeat and conflate portions of these passages.
Beethoven's musical and ideational purposes led him to a different view of the text from Schiller's. From the poet's potentially endless round of
Page 32
Table 2: Relations among Sections and Interpretations of the Form
Page 33
Table 2 Continued
1. For the measure numbers corresponding to the eleven sections, see table 1.
2. Stanzas of the text in Beethoven's arrangement (see table 3). For the specific lines employed in secs.911, see table1.
3. Compare n.18.
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Table 3: "Ode to Joy": Textual Organization
Text 1 Musical Sections2
Schiller / Beethoven
Ia (solo) / I 1 Freude, schöner Götterfunken, 4.1, 7
2 Tochter aus Elysium, lines 1–4: 9.1
3 Wir betreten feuertrunken, lines 1–2: 10.1,
4 Himmlische, dein Heiligtum. 11.3–4
5 Deine Zauber binden wieder, lines 5–8: 10.2–3
6 Was die Mode streng geteilt;
7 Alle Menschen werden Brüder,
8 Wo dein sanfter Flügel weilt.
IIa (solo) / II 9 Wem der große Wurf gelungen, 4.2
10 Eines Freundes Freund zu sein,
11 Wer ein holdes Weib errungen,
12 Mische seinen Jubel ein!
13 Ja—wer auch nur eine Seele
14 Sein nennt auf dem Erdenrund!
15 Und wer's nie gekonnt, der stehle
16 Weinend sich aus diesem Bund.
IIIa (solo) / III 17 Freude trinken alle Wesen 4.3
18 An den Brüsten der Natur; line 24: 4.4
19 Alle Guten, alle Bösen
20 Folgen ihrer Rosenspur.
21 Küsse gab sie uns und Reben,
22 Einen Freund, geprüft in Tod;
23 Wollust ward dem Wurm gegeben,
24 Und der Cherub steht vor Gott!
IVb (chorus) / IV 25 Froh, wie seine Sonnen fliegen 5
26 Durch des Himmels prächtgen Plan,
27 Laufet, Brüder, eure Bahn,
28 Freudig, wie ein Held zum Siegen.
Ib (chorus) / V 29 Seid umschlungen Millionen! 8.1, 11.1
30 Diesen Kuß der ganzen Welt! lines 29–30: 9.1,
31 Brüder! überm Sternenzelt 11.2
32 Muß ein lieber Vater wohnen.
IIIb (chorus) / VI 33 Ihr stürzt nieder Millionen? 8.2, 9.2
34 Ahnest du den Schöpfer, Welt?
35 Such' ihn überm Sternenzelt!
36 Über Sternen muß er wohnen.
Page 35
ecstatic exhortations inspired by the vine, he selected passages that he could order into a goaldirected progression: from joy, through brotherhood and prayer, to their
eventual combination. But it was presumably for musical reasons—the cumulative variations in section 4—that he set the "solo" sections of Schiller's first three stanzas
consecutively, while withholding the choral sections of stanzas I and III (different from the solo ones but similar to each other) for the primary musical contrast in section
8. (The latter is sung by the chorus alone—but then so are secs. 7 and 9, devoted wholly or in part to the "solo" stanza I. 10) Musical and textual form no longer
coincide. A more obviously multivalent relation is seen in the alla marcia section 5. Textually, its somewhat unattractive image of male sunheroes storming through
the heavens to victory is isolated both conceptually and formally: alone among the new poetic ideas introduced following section 4, it never returns. Musically,
however, the alla marcia is multifariously related—to sections 2 and 4, as the next variation of the Ode to Joy; to 6 and 7, by tempo, meter, and runon construction;
to 11, by the "Turkish" percussion; and to the overall tonal disposition, by its composingout of the sixth scale degree (see secs. V–VI below).
More important for the overall form—because more nearly congruent with events in other domains—is the complex textual content of sections 8–11. In section 4, the
motif of brotherhood appears only in passing, that of prayer (stanza VI) not at all. However, both now come to the fore, not only in section 8 ("Seid umschlungen,"
setting both stanzas V and VI), but in 9 and 11 as well (in conjunction with Joy and Elysium). Again, this suggests at least two possible formal interpretations: the entire
succession 8–11 can be understood primarily as a definitive turn to Feierlichkeit (see, in table 2A, the brackets above the row "Text: Form"), or section 8 alone can
be heard as a temporary change of topic (as was the text of the alla marcia sec.5), with 9–11 a return to Joy (brackets under the row). Or, as I prefer (following
Schenker), sections 9–11 can be heard as a combination of both primary motifs.
All this is correlated with similar processes in the music. Section 8 introduces the slow, tonally ambiguous melody on "Seid umschlungen," which in sections 9 and 11
is, again, combined with the Ode to Joy theme (as well as other musical topics). It also leads to the ecstatically prayerful
Page 36
high EU266D triad on the line "Über Sternen muß er wohnen," which Leo Treitler calls "the denouement of the whole symphony" and which William Kinderman has
cogently interpreted as Beethoven's symbolic representation of divinity. 11 Hence, we may also choose whether or not to hear the entire sequence 8–11 as a single
large musical unit (more on this below). Indeed, the sequence of keys itself is ambiguous in this sense (see the last row in table 2A): it implies on the one hand a rondo
like alternation between tonic and nontonic (see the curved lines over this row) and, on the other, a series of more nearly separate units, especially clear at the sudden
entries of BU266D in the alla marcia and G at "Seid umschlungen'' (brackets under the row). Such observations could be extended at will.
If then the individual parameters and domains are multivalent "horizontally," all the more so are the functions of the musical sections themselves. We have already
observed the dialectic between continuity and contrast in the twofold progression from Recitative to Joy in sections 1–4. The alla marcia is similar: the Ode to Joy
theme and the principle of crescendo (solo, then chorus; soft to loud; etc.) remain, but text, tempo, meter, key, and the "Turkish" percussion battery are new. The
climactic section 7, when the entire chorus sings the entire first stanza in powerful homophony, maintains the same tempo and meter as 5 and 6 and enters without
pause; yet the return to the tonic and to the Joy theme in its original form links it strongly to other passages, especially the last variation of section 4 and the beginning
of the double fugue in 9. Even the unquestionably new section 8 relates multifariously to other sections (see above); one can equally well interpret it as an internal
contrast or as a lasting change. The result is clear: "the" form of the finale of Beethoven's Ninth does not exist.
III
This conclusion stands in opposition to most earlier analyses of this finale, which by and large propose unidimensional solutions. (The most important are sketched in
table 2B.) To be sure, nobody has seriously proposed
Page 37
variations or the rondo as the sole basis of the form. In a variation form, the return of the Schreckensfanfare at the beginning of section 3, the largescale repetition of
1–2 in 3–4, and especially the novelty of section 8 would be inexplicable; nor can the orchestral fugue section 6 be understood as a "variation" in the structural sense,
even though it is based on derivatives of the Ode to Joy. If the finale were interpreted as a rondo, the overall form of sections 1–4 would seem puzzling indeed, and
the alla marcia would be ambiguous: insofar as it is a complete statement of the Ode to Joy it would be a main thematic section, but insofar as it is a stylistic and tonal
departure it would be an episode. (In the row titled "Rondo" in table 2B, the brackets above the line refer to the thematic succession, those below the line to the tonal
one.) Nevertheless, both concepts are central. Both the internal construction of sections 2 and 4 and the sequence of sections 5, 7, and 9 are variations. 12 And the
alternation of sections presenting the Ode to Joy in the tonic and other sections based on contrasting material in foreign keys is rondolike indeed; the effect is
especially clear at the simultaneous returns to Joy and the tonic in sections 7 and 9, which function like climactic reprises of the main theme in a rondolike form. What
these interpretations chiefly lack is a sense of the meaning of the movement—of the musical and psychological "problems'' it poses and the solution it offers.
Cited next in table 2 are four common formal readings of Beethoven's finale. They are scarcely less reductionist. All four exhibit two opposed, and uncritically
conflated, scholarly motives: a more or less unconscious reflection of dominant analytical paradigms of the time of writing, and a selfconscious attempt to claim as high
a status as possible for the analysis. Thus, Otto Baensch, whose monograph offers the most comprehensive literary and philosophical account of this movement ever
published, suffers from a "bar"form mania derived from Alfred Lorenz, whose influential Wagner analyses had appeared primarily in the 1920s.13 To be sure, he is
more alert than most writers to different possible interpretations of individual sections (especially 9, which he analyzes as both a parallel successor to 8 and a rondo
like return). And he achieves a persuasive interpretation of the otherwise problematic twofold succession RecitativeJoy in
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sections 1–4, which make up the first two Stollen of a largescale bar form as naturally as could be. But the remainder of the analysis falls apart. Baensch must
postulate not one but two Großabgesänge, sections 5–7 and 8–11. Admittedly, double Abgesänge sometimes occur, but in this case they would have little in
common either structurally or aesthetically. Even though the reprise in section 7 resembles that in 9, the former would be the culminating conclusion of the first
Großabgesang, while the latter would be merely the second Stollen of the second Großabgesang—a grossly inadequate formal interpretation of this overpowering
double fugue.
It was apparently Ernest Sanders who first introduced the now commonplace idea that the Ninth Symphony finale is based on sonata form. 14 And it seems
reasonable enough—notwithstanding the absence of a meaningful tempo change—to hear the succession RecitativeJoy (secs. 1–2) as analogous to the introduction
and allegro of a symphony first movement. (One could also appeal to Beethoven's other late movements that integrate introductory and "main" sections, such as the
opening movements of three late string quartets, op.127, 130, and 132. On the other hand, such double functioning is less characteristic of introductions to finales; the
only possible exception is the very different case of the AU266D Sonata, op.110, in which the Arioso can scarcely count as an "introduction."15) The hypothesis soon
breaks down, however: not only must the putative introduction be repeated along with the repetition of the putative exposition (sec.3 leads to sec.4), but, even worse,
the putative "second theme" (the alla marcia) appears only in that repetition. The hypothesis fares better with the orchestral fugue (sec.6) as development and the
return to the Ode to Joy in the tonic (sec.7) as reprise, but in the sequel it fails again: the central slow section 8 is demoted to a mere "bridge" between two reprises (7
and 9). In addition, it egregiously ignores the lack of any recapitulation of the putative second theme (the alla marcia). The appeal of so untenable a hypothesis can be
explained only by the prestige of sonata form itself, which, ever since A. B. Marx, has been taken as the beall and endall of Beethoven's "absolute music."
Page 39
A similar interpretation by Charles Rosen proposes the closely related variant of concerto form. 16 Compared to sonata form, this has the advantages of a distinction
between a "first exposition" without soloists (the singers) and a "second exposition" that includes them, as well as the postponement of the structural modulation (to
BU266D in the alla marcia) to the latter place. But all the other defects of the sonataform hypothesis remain. A symptom of this is that Rosen's account ignores
everything that follows his putative reprise (sec.7).
An attractive hypothesis is that the finale represents, not any single formal type, but an entire "cycle" of four entire movements. Surprisingly, this notion was first
adumbrated by the barformoriented Baensch (if only in a note); recently it has been enthusiastically revived.17 It is attractive above all because the movement is after
all a finale—and not just any finale, but one that unmistakably functions as the climax of the entire symphony, a context in which, more than any other, a synthesis of
different formal principles might seem normal. Indeed Beethoven composed numerous other "synthetic" finales, of which the most prominent are those to the Eroica
Symphony and the Große Fuge (in its original function as finale to the String Quartet op.130). The interpretation is especially persuasive with respect to the entries of
the contrasting sections: in meter, key, and perhaps even style, the alla marcia resembles a scherzo (but whether this also applies to the tempo is problematic);18 and
section 8, ''Seid umschlungen," is even more effective as a notional slow movement. But the reprise of the Ode to Joy in the tonic in section 7 now seems unmotivated,
standing as it must between a "scherzo" and a "slow movement"; problematic as well, admittedly to a lesser extent, is the use of the "slowmovement theme" with the
Ode in the "finale" (secs. 9–11). Indeed the votaries of this hypothesis have
Page 40
little to say about this internal "finale within a finale" (but then, as we shall see, almost everyone underplays secs. 10–11). A more serious flaw is their failure to discuss
the larger, and problematic, implications of interpreting the finale of a complete fourmovement symphony as a "fourmovement symphony" in its own right.
Sonata form and fourmovement cycle—the two most influential of these interpretations—each functions best where the other breaks down. The orchestral fugue
section 6 and the reprise of the Ode to Joy 7, which are wholly out of place in a "cycle," could make sense as the development and reprise of a sonata form, whereas
the alla marcia 5 and the slow section 8, which no degree of struggle can fit into a "sonata form," offer the most persuasive analogies to a fourmovement plan. Hence
it might seem logical to conflate these two formal principles, as has been suggested by Rosen and Treitler. 19 But neither writer explains the notion in any detail—
sensibly, as after all there is no reason to suppose that the mere superimposition of two opposed hypotheses will conveniently cancel out their respective failings (even
if one called the result a "synthesis"). Moreover, we still have no viable theory of the relations among the four movements of instrumental works of the Classical
period.20 In the absence of such a theory, one can hardly expect success from ad hoc attempts in the analytical domain.
IV
The two remaining interpretations to be discussed here stem from Schenker and Tovey, arguably the two greatest analysts of this century. For both, Beethoven was
the greatest composer of all time, the absolute center of musical aesthetics; each devoted his largest single study of a single
Page 41
Beethoven work to the Ninth Symphony. 21 Their analyses of the finale surpass all others in adequacy of overall conception, correctness of detail, and persuasive
power — owing not least to their avoidance of unitary or reductionist approaches. (Schenker's 1912 monograph long antedates his Ursatz theory, which he
developed only after World War 1.) This implies not that they do not want to explain the form as a whole, but that they resort to no preconceived models, invoke no
formal types. Nevertheless, their analyses are remarkably similar; perhaps they were after all more or less "correct" — at least for the musical sensibilities of the first
third of this century.
Schenker's overriding thesis is that, far from having wanted to compose program music, Beethoven was "guided only by the laws of absolute musical structuring
[Gestaltung]." In the case at hand, he specifies these as the "law of parallelism (repetition)" and as the following "manner of handling two themes[:] first, to treat them
independently, and then, in the further course [of the movement], to develop them together." Hence he asserts that Beethoven's intention (Absicht) regarding the
overall form was,
first, to vary the Ode to Joy … in an independent section of its own; next, to compose the stanza "Seid umschlungen, Millionen" in a second, equally independent section …; in
order, finally, in a third section, to develop the initial ideas of the two preceding sections in a double fugue.22
Thus he finds three large units, comprising, respectively, sections 1–7, 8, and 9(–11). His focus on only two main themselves leads him to interpret section 9 alone (the
double fugue) as the focus of the third and last large unit; section 10 he calls a "concluding cadential section" (see secs. V–VI below), section 11 a "stretta." That is, he
interprets 10–11 in a double manner: as large units independent from and on the same "level" as 1–7, 8, and 9; and as a "concluding chain" (Schlußkette), dependent
on and clinching the culminating double fugue in 9.
The "law of repetition" induces Schenker (alone in the literature) to interpret the two progressions from Recitative to Joy (secs. 1–2 and 3–4) as
Page 42
"antecedent" and "consequent," except that he extends the latter to include the entire sequence of vocal variations (Joy, alla marcia, orchestral fugue, and reprise),
that is, sections 3–7 inclusive. Nor is he troubled by the apparent disproportion among his three large units (the first is much longer and the second much shorter than
their putative average). This has been criticized by later writers, 23 but on what would seem to be insufficient grounds. There is after all no law that the large sections of
a movement must be comparable in length or in internal form, especially not in a free and climactic finale that sets a verbal text with evident extramusical intent. Sanders
himself violates this very principle when he calls the orchestral fugue 6 the development of a sonata form: it is only approximately onethird as long as each of the two
expositions, an impossibly short proportion for late Beethoven.24
Notwithstanding its organicist orientation, Schenker's interpretation of the double fugue in section 9 as a "synthesis" cannot be gainsaid. It not only encompasses the
musical topics as well as the themes but is also confirmed by the important passage 9.2 following the fugue proper, which reverts to the text, key (subdominant), and
prayer motif familiar from 8.2. On the other hand (see below), it seems onesided to elevate this event into the single determining formal feature of the last three
sections as a whole. Elsewhere, Schenker's "absolutizing" orientation leads to dubious results. For example, he interprets the slow section 8 as "independent" because
it introduces the new theme. Tonally, however, it is bound to the larger context: it leads from the subdominant G to the dissonant V9, which in turn resolves into the
double fugue. Even more troubling is his suppression of all comment on Beethoven's extramusical intent. That intent not only comprises philosophy, religion, ethics,
politics, and art — no modest catalog — but, as we shall see, is essential for understanding the musical form itself.
Only the resolutely empirical Tovey refuses to commit himself to a summarizing diagram of the overall form. (That given in table 2 represents my own interpretation of
his various indirect indications.25 ) Nevertheless, his
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overall view is in many respects remarkably similar to Schenker's. The chief difference is that he speaks of only two large units: an "exposition" (of the Ode to Joy, by
means of variations) and a "finale." Perhaps this notion was suggested by other nineteenthcentury compound works like Schumann's Overture, Scherzo, and Finale,
op.52, the many works having the form introductionallegro (or rondo), and of course Beethoven's own Choral Fantasy, whose theme resembles the Ode to Joy (and
which Tovey interpreted as an "unconscious study" for it). Tovey's first large section thus covers the same ground as Schenker's: a chain of variations through section 7
in the tonic, subdivided as 1–2 and 3–7, whereby the orchestral fugue is a mere "episode" or ''interlude," analogous to Schenker's "retransition." But Tovey decisively
(and in my view correctly) differs from Schenker in his interpretation of these two subdivisions: instead of a structural relation (an antecedentconsequent period), he
stresses the difference between instrumental and vocal music:
The voice is the most natural as well as the most perfect of instruments as far as it goes; so that its introduction into instrumental music arrests the attention as nothing else will
ever do, and hence must not be admitted without the intention of putting it permanently in the foreground. … There is no inherent impossibility in … reconciling the claims of
absolute music with those of the intelligent and intelligible setting of words. 26
It is for this reason that he interprets sections 3–7 inclusive, which are devoted primarily to the vocal development of the Ode to Joy, as the first large unit. In
consequence, however, unlike Schenker, he relegates sections 1–2 to the implicitly subordinate role of an instrumental introduction.
Given these interpretations, it is hardly surprising that both Tovey and Schenker felt a slight uncertainty as to the function of section 3, the repetition of the
Schreckensfanfare and the vocal recitative. On the one hand, it is a new beginning, parallel to section 1 and having the same formal function (it leads to Joy in sec.4,
as 1 led to 2), and so Tovey described it in his famous précis; on the other, it is the last section of a preparatory process whose definitive goal is the vocal presentation
of Joy (i.e., linking back to 1), and so he interprets it in his larger essay.27 Schenker went so far as to interpret the return of the horror and recitative following the
achievement
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of Joy in 2 as a "logical lapse, … which happily is rectified, again, only by Beethoven's absolutemusical instinct [Urtrieb] for parallelism." 28 Against such
schematicism, only a multifunctional approach can help. Thus although section 3 unquestionably rhymes with section 1, it does so in at least three different senses
simultaneously: a rounding off (of the largescale preparation for the vocal Ode to Joy), a beginning over (vocal recitative parallel to instrumental recitative), and locally
an introduction to section 4.
Since Tovey calls the entire span from 3 to 11 "choral exposition and finale" and runs the exposition through section 7, his concept "finale" must refer to all four
concluding sections, beginning with 8. These he merely characterizes in sequence: "new theme'' (here one feels a sense of underestimation, which the later epithet
"mighty" and other uplifting sentiments cannot quite overcome), "double fugue," "coda," and "final stretto."29 Again, Tovey's and Schenker's interpretations of these
sections' formal functions are similar; moreover, they are the only writers whose descriptions of sections 10–11 are at all detailed and sympathetic. If Schenker's
musical absolutism often leads him astray, he penetrates more deeply into the musical substance; if Tovey often seems superficial or casual, his feeling for musical
experience, especially in the temporal dimension, remains stronger and more acute. As so often, the analyses of these two great theorists ideally complement each
other.
Each historical period, each observer, sees an artwork differently; new intellectual trends and analytical methods inevitably reveal new aspects of Beethoven's gigantic,
complex finale. It is in this spirit, and not out of any belief in having "improved on" Schenker or Tovey, that I offer a somewhat different analysis. I am concerned not
so much to assign the finale to this or that formal type — not even as an "exceptional" or "transcendent" example — as with Beethoven's use of the techniques of
throughcomposition to create a sense of process, to shape the finale as a progression, which points toward and eventually achieves its goal.
This goal is not merely the Ode to Joy as such, not merely the triumph
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of D major over D minor; rather, it is what can only be called a new musical state of being. This state does not arrive until the end, in the hitherto undervalued
concluding sections 10 and 11, which form the climax of the entire finale. The throughcompositional methods by which Beethoven achieves this include continuous
progressions at the end of sections 1, 2, 3, 5, 6, and 10, which lead to the next section rather than rounding off; avoidance of closure and of structural cadences in the
tonic; destabilizing offbeat motives at the beginnings of sections 1, 3, 5 (once the melody starts), 8, and 9 as well as runon construction without pause at the
beginnings of 4, 6, 7, and 11; continual development of important musical motives; crescendos on the largest scale, affecting not only dynamics but the performing
forces and the phenomenon of synthesis (described below); and, last but not least, the use of all these means in the service of the program — which, following
Maynard Solomon, I would describe as the search for Elysium. 30
The finale avoids any sense of largescale closure until the very end (see table 2C, "Caesuras" and "Structural cadences").31 The final section (II) is the only one that
ends with a full cadence in the tonic and a rest; nowhere else do we hear a caesura following a tonic in root position. Every chord that ends a section and is followed
by a caesura is offtonic: the remote F major (U266DIII) on the end of section 4; the subdominant at the end of 7 and 9; the dominant ninth at the end of 8. Even
though section 10 (called a "coda" by Tovey and a "cadential section" by Schenker)32 ends on the tonic, it projects this chord in the dissonant sixfour position and
without
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functional dominant. Conversely, in every section except 1 and II, the structural cadence arrives before the end and is then undermined by an eliding transition or a
surprise. This avoidance of closure is so important as to require closer examination.
The initial "searching" section 1 admittedly cadences on the tonic (see ex. 1a). Nevertheless, the melody avoids the tonic pitchclass D in favor of 3, F# (Fl.I, Cl.I,
Hn.I); more important, this cadence leads (or should lead) without break or loss of momentum into the Ode to Joy — whereby F# is again heard as the opening
unaccompanied note of the melody. To be sure, in sections 2 and 4 the Ode to Joy cadences twice at the end of each statement (mm.107–15, 131–39, etc.). On the
other hand, these cadences always fall on the weak half of the measure (more on this below). I would also argue that, on the level of the section as a whole, the effect
of so many similar cadences at such regular temporal intervals is more nearly static than climactic; none qualifies as a structural cadence.
Notwithstanding their cumulative increase in dynamics, performing forces, and rhythmic activity, both sections 2 and 4 subvert largescale closure at the end. Section
2, following the orchestral variations of the theme, modulates to the dominant (mm.188ff.) and cadences there (mm.199–203, 207). But this cadence is denied
stability (another reason why sec.2 cannot be heard as a sonata exposition): the dissonant fanfare unexpectedly breaks in again (ex.1b), and the baritone recitative
leads on to the vocal Ode to Joy, again without pause (ex.1c). The continuity at the join between sections 3 and 4 is powerfully enhanced by the entry of the new
tempo and theme at the beginning of section 4 on the dominant (m.237/1); 33 only after four measures of dialogue between baritone and choral basses does the theme
actually begin — and it again emphasizes F#, not only in the melody, but in the orchestral bass as well. Since the entire first statement of the theme is in the bass
register, all its tonic cadences (mm.248/12, 256/20, 264/28) are harmonically weak, with the dominant expressed as V 4/3 rather than in root position. A measure of
stability is provided only by the fourmeasure orchestral postlude (mm.265–68/29–32). At the end of section 4, however, this same postlude becomes the basis of
another modulation into the dominant (mm.321–26/85–90) and from there proceeds to the famous
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Example 1.: Beethoven, Symphony NO. 9, finale: Runon links between sections.
a. Instrumental search (section 1) — Ode to Joy (2). b. Ode to Joy
(2) — Schreckensfanfare reprise (3). c. Vocal search (3) — Ode to Joy (4).
climax on the words "vor Gott," with the deceptive cadence onto the flat mediant F (ex.1d). This F is immediately reinterpreted as the dominant of B, the key of the
alla marcia. The music never comes to a stable resting point. The three sections 5–7 share a single tempo and meter, each join (5 to 6 and 6 to 7) is rhythmically
elided, and both 5 and 6 are outside the tonic; by definition, there can be no closure at the end of either. (The transition from 6 to 7 is shown in ex.3a and discussed
further below.)
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Example 1: (continued), d. Ode to Joy (4 — alla marcia (5). e. Ode to Joy (7) —
"Seid umschlungen" (8). f. Prayer (9) — Joy (10).
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Still more important is the lack of closure at the end of the following section 7 (see ex.1e), where one might most have expected the opposite. We have returned to the
tonic and to the first, triumphant statement of the entire Ode to Joy by the chorus, in powerful homophony. A large unit has come to an end; a fundamentally new note
is about to be struck. But although the cadence, as usual, is elided with the beginning of the orchestral postlude (mm.590–94/260–64), the latter halts abruptly halfway
through, on the subdominant. (If it were to be heard in toto, as it has always been up to this point, four more measures returning to the tonic would be required.) This is
hardly a stable ending. As noted above, the entire long section 8, notwithstanding its musical and programmatic importance, is tonally unstable, moving from IV to V9.
The next section in the tonic is 9, the double fugue; here too, however, the fugue breaks off in a manner somewhat reminiscent of section 7, and we revert to the topics
of prayer (m.730/76) and the hymn (m.745/91). At the end of this hymn (see ex.1f), Beethoven suddenly modulates "modally" away from the dominant and again
closes in IV (mm.757–62/103–08). Thus neither of the two climactic statements of the Ode to Joy in the tonic, sections 7 and 9, effects closure.
Section 10 begins on the same subdominant chord heard at the end of section 9; as in the initial vocal Ode to Joy in section 4, the entry of the tonic coincides with the
entry of the singers in the fifth measure. Although both 9 and 10, as a whole, are in D, the join between them is expressed as a continuous tonal progression, IV–V–I.
34 Indeed section 10 itself, belying its common description as a "cadential" section or a "coda," not only does not follow a structural cadence (as a coda must) but, as
we shall see, reaches no satisfactory closure in its own right. Even the famous cadenzalike concluding passage for the four soloists not only modulates to the remote B
major (#VI) but ends on a dissonant, unstable sixfour tonic chord, from which point yet another transition leads back to the tonic and the final jubilation. The
astonishing result is that the only structural cadences with closure occur in the very last section. There is no more impressive example of throughcomposition in the
entire literature.
VI
A second central aspect of throughcomposition in this finale is what we may call its gestural character: its constant urge to move forward, to avoid
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coming to rest. Even the tonic and the Ode to Joy are affected (see table 2C, "Tonality"). Both D major and the Ode to Joy always enter as the result of a process,
always function as a goal. In sections 2 and 4, they constitute that which is "found" and affirmed; in 7, they become the culmination of the preceding alla marcia and
fugue; in 9, they resolve the dissonances and ambiguity, the fearful ecstasy, of the slow prayer in "Seid umschlungen" (sec.8). In sections 4, 7, 9, 10, and 11, the initial
tonic is the cadence of a progression that has begun on a different chord or in the preceding section (see exx.1c, 3a, 2e, 1f, 3b, respectively). No section stands alone;
none is independent.
Another progressive feature comprises the many largescale crescendos. Many passages, sections, and even sequences of sections develop from soft to loud, from
single parts to the full ensemble, from instruments alone to voices, and so forth. In sections 1–2, the basses are answered by the entire orchestra, in 4 the baritone by
the remaining soloists and then the chorus, in 5 the tenor by the male chorus, and so forth; the cumulative variations in both 2 and 4 constitute a gradual buildup from a
minimal beginning to a grand climax. The soloists themselves usually enter from lowest to highest. Except for the opening fanfare, the normal full orchestra is never
heard in 1–2 until the climax in mm.164ff. (the recitatives in 1 have no upper strings; the buildup in 2 is ex hypothesi a gradual one). The "Turkish" percussion is
withheld for the alla marcia, the trombones for the overtly religious 8–9. Indeed, the only place where all five instrumental groups play together is, again, the
concluding section (see table 2A, "Instrumentation"). Nor is this merely a matter of contrast as such: the larger, fuller, more perfect condition always emerges gradually,
as a climax.
Such procedures affect the motivic content as well (see ex.2). 35 This can be traced primarily in terms of two pitch constellations that are prominent throughout the
symphony: the downward step 6–5 (i.e., BU266D–A or B–A) and the falling fifth A–D. Both function as motives not merely on the surface but in a structural sense as
well. Indeed, these continuities reach back to the very beginning of the symphony.
As is well known, the Allegro ma non troppo begins with the empty fifth A–E (ex.2c), whose function as the dominant of D minor cannot be
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Example 2: Beethoven, Symphony No. 9: Tonal motives A/D and D/B. a. Overview.
b. Finale: parallelism between sections 4–7 and 10–11.
understood until the low D in the bassoons and horns (m.15) and the entry of the main theme. The entire crescendo/accelerando process is thus constructed of fifths
(see the brackets in the example), not only motivically (mm.2–3, etc., as well as the theme, mm.19–20) but also structurally, as embodied in the descent from
dominant to tonic. (All this offers a context for the notorious nonresolution of the tonic sixfour in mm.34–35: the leap from A to D in the bass within a tonic sonority is
itself motivic, as indicated by the x in ex.2c.) But the opening dominant A is also linked to the submediant BU266D (ex.2a): the repetition of the sequence
preparation–theme falls from D to the key of BU266D, and the gigantic second group stands in the same key, separated structurally only by the intervening
prolongation of the dominant (mm.63ff.). Thus by the beginning of the second group both motives, 6–5 and V–I, have been inscribed into the musical substance. As is
well known, the recapitulation transforms the preparatory passage into a huge climax, fortissimo. Instead of sinking from A to D, it descends a half step from F# (I6)
to F (i6; m.315)—and these two gigantically prolonged sonorities are linked precisely by BU266D (VI in mm.313–14; see ex.2a). The further course of the movement
and the coda, as well as the scherzo and trio, alternate D minor and major; the Adagio, again, is in BU266D.
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Example 2: (continued) c. Allegro ma non troppo, opening.
d. Finale: Ode to Joy. e. Finale: tonal plan of sections 7–9.
For all these reasons, the Schreckensfanfare at the beginning of the finale (end of ex.2a and beginning of 2d) seems as if predestined: it transforms the linear/tonal
relation between BU266D and A into a shocking, painful dissonance, while the bass asserts the same F, following the same BU266D, that we were forced to accept
at the recapitulation of the Allegro. (One can also interpret this sonority as the simultaneous statement of both main chords, D minor and BU266D, in first inversion;
see the vertical brackets in ex.2a.) The fifth A–E with which the symphony began returns immediately, at the beginning of the instrumental recitative (mm.8–9; ex.2d)
and still more insistently at the initial entry of the baritone on "O Freunde" (mm.216–17/9–10). Just as this fifth originally prepared D minor, so it now prepares D
major, the tonal goal of the entire work. With the adumbration of the Joy motive in m.77 (and again in m.237/1) and, shortly thereafter, the arrival of this theme in
proper form at last, the succession A–D in the major becomes
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sounding reality in time. The Ode to Joy itself composesout the fifth A–D: except for the single low A, the entire melody moves within the tonal space 5–1. 36
Motives and structure are mutually determinant. Finally, at the expressive climax of the "starry vault," on the excruciatingly high G/EU266D at the end of section 8, the
6–5 motive and the fifth motive are poetically combined (see ex.2e): BU266D, the ninth of the dominantninth chord, is still dissonant, but now it is transformed into
the source of an overwhelmingly teleological resolution; the high bass EU266D moves up to E, from which point it drops two fifths, E–A and A–D (compare the
beginning of the Allegro ma non troppo, ex.2a). The second skip, V–I, engenders (at last) the appearance of A as the resolution of BU266D within a rootposition
tonic triad.
In this context, there is space to pursue only two further aspects of the development of these motives. First, a formgenerating similarity exists between the retransitions
to sections 7 and 11 (the music is shown in ex.3, the structural relation in ex.2b). The alla marcia and the orchestral fugue composeout the submediant 6, in the
varied forms BU266D (U266DVI) and B minor/major (VI#), lending yet greater weight to this tonal degree. The cadenza/cadence for the four soloists at the end of
section 10 is also in B major. The ensuing retransitions (from 6 to 7 and from 10 to 11) are structurally identical: B major is transformed into B minor by the
substitution of DU266E for D#; then the bass steps down from B to A, producing a tonic sixfour; finally, with no explicit dominant to resolve the sixfour, the bass A
proceeds by step up to D, producing a rootposition tonic as the opening sonority of the next section. (Both passages thus recall the first progression of this sort in the
symphony, the nonresolving sixfour in the Allegro, mm.34–35; see ex.2c.) Both retransitions unite the two structural motives—the descending step 6–5 and the
fifth/fourth A–D—precisely at the entry of the most unmediatedly climactic statement of the Ode to Joy (sec.7) and of the concluding section. The motives here
become generative elements of the form.
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Second, even this does not account for the role of the last two sections in bringing about closure. The fifth A–D now appears in new forms that create an
overwhelming effect of finality and perfection. Section 10 com
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Example 3: Beethoven Symphony No. 9, finale: Similar retransitions. a. Sections 67. b. Sections 1011.
prises three paragraphs (mm.763–81, 782–814, 814–42; compare table 1), of which the third is a varied repetition of the second. The instrumental introduction
(ex.1f) already brings a variant of the Joy motive, which descends a fifth in each measure (see the brackets); especially important will prove to be the leap a3–d3 in the
flute, among other reasons because it (at last) creates motivically significant events in the c3 octave. The second paragraph features a new, imitative passage on the
words ''Deine Zauber binden wieder," which attains new heights of ecstasy 37—but at the same time composesout the fifthspan A–D in all registers, just as did the
Ode to Joy (its climax is shown at the beginning of ex.4). Especially prominent is the insistent high A in the soprano (mm.786–801/24–39), which recalls the notorious
high pedal on the same pitch at the end of the double fugue in section 8 (mm.718/64ff.). This passage leads to the choral outburst on "Alle Menschen werden
Brüder" (m.806/44), which suddenly slows down (Poco adagio, m.810/48) over the progression ii–V, E minor to A major. This unexpected change of tempo is
central to the overall form. As Tovey noted, the structural cadence thus implied is evaded by the return of the Tempo primo on the dominant (mm.814–17/52–55).38
Hence, the entire process—"Deine Zauber," "Alle Menschen," Poco adagio—is repeated freely until the soloists unexpectedly break in, precisely on the Eminor triad
(m.830/68) that previously led to the Poco adagio and the implied
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Example 4: Beethoven, Symphony No. 9, finale: Parallelisms in section 10. a. mm. 797–819/35–57.
cadence. Now, however, instead of moving immediately to V across the bar line as in mm. 809–10, that triad persists; while the chorus again calls out "Alle
Menschen" on a unison E, the soloists transform it into the brilliant remote variant, E major, precisely at the second Poco adagio. As the first one progressed ii–V
(predominant–dominant) in D, so this Emajor chord, reinterpreted as a subdominant, leads to the dominant of B major
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Example 4: (continued) b. mm. 825–34/63–72.
and the cadenza and cadence discussed above. The effect of everexpanding devotion is glorious—but there has still been no structural cadence in the tonic!
Thus the only closure in this gigantic finale comes in the final section. This comprises four paragraphs, the last for the orchestra alone (see ex. 5). As Schenker and
Tovey note, it begins with a diminuted version of the main theme of section 8, and on the same words, "Seid umschlungen." Other complex reprises are heard as well.
The ecstatic continuation on the dominant in mm.864/14ff. is derived from both mm.612/18ff. in section 8 (on the same text, "Brüder, überm Sternenzelt") and the
dominantoriented "round" in the preceding section (mm.783/21ff., just described). The homophonic continuation of the second paragraph in mm.880/30ff. is derived
both from mm.607–10/13–16 in section 8 (note the identical progressions, V/e–CU266E–FU266E) and from the pounding high A in the double fugue
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Example 5: Beethoven, Symphony No. 9, finale: Construction of final section.
9—all three passages setting the same line, "Diesen Kuß der ganzen Welt." 39
Structurally, each of the three vocal paragraphs ends with a prominent stepwise melodic descent from A to D, simultaneously with a very strong cadence from a root
position dominant to a rootposition tonic that arrives on the downbeat of a rhythmically strong measure (mm.876/26, 903/53, 920/70). This is crucial: throughout the
entire finale, nothing comparable has been heard. As noted above, all the cadences in sections 1–4 fall on a
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weak part of the measure. Even those in the triumphant later Ode to Joy passages are compromised: in section 7, the apparent downbeat endings (mm.558/228,
590/260) are illusory, for the metric notation here comprises two measures for every one in sections 2 and 4; hence m.590/260 is as weak compared to m.289/259
as, say, the third beat of 292/56 compared to its downbeat. Similarly, the cadence at the end of the double fugue in section 9 (m.729/75) falls on a "weak" bar:
718/64 and 720/66 have been unmistakably established as strong measures by the successive thunderous arrivals on the longheld "Welt," and a regular strong/weak
alternation proceeds without interruption from there through the cadence (which in addition is harmonized by the weak V 4/3 progression, E–D in the bass). After all
this, to be granted such powerful and unambiguous closure in those perfect authentic downbeat cadences, three times running, is overwhelmingly satisfying.
Toward the end of the third paragraph (the concluding vocal passage), the fifthmotive A–D appears explicitly four times in a row (mm.906–15/56–65), alternating
between the chorus (in powerful octaves on the word "Götterfunken") and the winds. The last of these fifths suddenly leads to the Maestoso (m.916) and the final
choral utterance, which ends with two additional A–D cadences in unison on "Götterfunken." But the Maestoso passage is not merely a solemn jubilation; it also
recapitulates—gesturally, if not thematically—the twofold Poco adagio from the preceding section. There, the slow tempo twice failed to produce a full cadence in
the tonic; now it does so, and overwhelmingly. The form is a process that extends across the entire finale. The closure at the end of the Maestoso becomes even more
decisive when we realize that the orchestral postlude brings no further structural cadences (the very fast I–V–I progressions in mm.920–27/70–77 have no such
weight). But the fifthmotive A–D resounds all the more prominently, not least in the very last notes—once again, a3–d3 in the flutes. 40
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VII
For this music, concepts like "sonata form" will not do. Nowhere is this clearer than in these wonderful final sections, which in general have been marginalized as mere
"coda," "stretta," and so forth, when indeed they have not been simply ignored. Needless to say, they also incorporate the codalike effects of rounding off, of final
jubilation. But they are necessary, central components of the form; only there do the tonal and motivic forces of the finale perfect themselves and reach a satisfying
end.
All this fits Solomon's interpretation of the symphony as a striving for Elysium. This can be seen from the sequence of topics alone (table 2C, "Primary topics"). At first,
they are more or less clear and unitary: search, Joy, march, and so forth. But from the slow section 8 on they become increasingly dense and complex—brotherhood,
prayer, Joy and brotherhood, again prayer, ecstasy, devotion, jubilation. Indeed, this appears to offer an explanation for something that has always been underplayed:
the changes of tempo and material that occur within each of the last four sections. Far from being mere "synthesis," this increasing density articulates the most important
aspect of the entire finale: its goaldirectedness, its sense of becoming, its striving for deliverance. Formally, each larger section strives toward a culmination (see sec.v
above, and cf. the brackets and arrows in the bottom part of table 2). In the first three large sections (1–2, 3–4, 5–7), this culmination is the Ode to Joy, but from
section 8 to the end,
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the culmination effect itself is raised to a higher level. Joy, hitherto the result of a process, now becomes but one element in "higher," more complex processes.
Simultaneously, however, the tonal and motivic forces move with increasing urgency toward a simple, definitive, and satisfying state of closure, toward a musical state
of being that can never again be called into question. 41
In the music itself, this double process of culmination—an everincreasing complexity that resolves into the simplest and most fundamental goal of all—has the force of
a deliverance. If we grasp this, we may have begun to sense what "Elysium" meant to Beethoven.
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New Sources for Beethoven's Piano Concerto Cadenzas from Melk Abbey
Robert N. Freeman
In the course of the archival preparations for a jubilee exhibition held at the Benedictine Abbey of Melk, Lower Austria, in 1989, I discovered previously unnoticed
sources containing four cadenzas to Beethoven's Third and Fourth Piano Concertos, ops. 37 and 58. 1 Three of the cadenzas are for the first movement of op.58.
They turned out to be rare contemporary copies of authentic cadenzas included in the volume edited by Joseph SchmidtGörg for the complete edition (see table 1,
nos.6–8, below).2
The fourth cadenza, however, that for the first movement of opus 37 (plates 1–3), cannot be traced to a Beethoven autograph or sketch. It does not correspond to the
wellknown autograph cadenza for that movement, nor does it relate to Beethoven's sketches for two other unfinished or lost
An abridged form of this essay was read at the combined national meetings of the American Musicological Society and the Society for Music Theory, Austin, Texas, October
1989. One of the cadenzas was performed there by Betty Oberacker for the first time in more than 160 years. I am indebted to her for many valuable suggestions offered from the
perspective of a virtuoso pianist.
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Plates 1–3: Cadenza (Beethoven, op. 37, movt. I) copied Robert Stipa (Melk, Musikarchiv).
cadenzas, one in a gathered sheet of sketches associated with the first performance of the concerto given at the Theater an der Wien on 5 April 1803 and another in
the even earlier Kafka Sketchbook. 3 Likewise, the Melk cadenza has little in common with the surviving cadenza composed for the concerto by Beethoven's pupil
Carl Czerny, while the two written by
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Plate 2
Ferdinand Ries for the second performance in 1804, one with an "extremely brilliant and difficult passage" and the other "easier," do not survive. 4 Still another
cadenza that could conceivably come into question, that by Friedrich Mockwitz (1785–1849) said to have been published by
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Plate 3
Breitkopf ca. 1825, could not be located in spite of extensive searches. 5 The Melk cadenza for op.37, in other words, remains a unicum.6
All four of the Melk cadenzas were copied by Father Robert Stipa (1781–1850), a noted virtuoso fortepianist who was active at the abbey from 1801 and served as
its music director from 1828 until 1833. Born in Vienna, Stipa probably acquired his musical training from his father, Mathias (ca. 1751–1809), a freelance teacher
and composer who promoted programmatic keyboard music in the capital during the second half of the eighteenth century.7 Robert Stipa, evidently a less prolific
composer than his father, was known more as an interpreter and collector of music. Only two works have survived bearing his name: a set of a capella antiphons for
the Feast of Corpus Christi and a collection of tiny walzes for keyboard.8 It is very unlikely, therefore, that he would have composed this cadenza himself.
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I discovered the cadenzas in the music archive at Melk, inserted into the piano parts found among the nineteenthcentury performance materials of the respective
concertos. 9 For the Third Concerto, these materials consist of the solo and orchestral parts in the corrected original edition published in Vienna by Riedl in 1815
together with additional manuscript parts supplied by a number of house copyists. This concerto was performed at the abbey, presumably for the first time, on 31 July
1827, just four months after Beethoven's death, as one learns from the date that Stipa wrote on the verso of the title page (see the upper lefthand corner of plate 4).
That this date refers to a performance is made clear by more complete entries on the backs of the title pages of several other works performed by Stipa at Melk, for
example, the London Farewell Concerto, op.132, by Ries.10 Dates on the verso of its title pages show that it was performed twice, on Palm Sundays in 1825 and
1827. A further examination of the performance materials for op.37 indicates that the cadenza was not a later addition but was included in the first performance at
Melk in 1827. A phrase that Stipa added to the end of the cadenza was also inserted by him into the violin parts as a cue (compare plate 3, m.51, with plate 5),
indicating that the cadenza was probably used for that particular production.
The performance itself must have been a mixed one, particularly with respect to instrumentation. No oboists were available, and many of the important wind passages
had to be rearranged by Stipa in such a way that the lead oboe parts were given over to the clarinets. The solo instrument used for the performance, however, might
possibly have been the excellent fortepiano built by Conrad Graf and still preserved at Melk. The number in its opus label (1630) and other characteristics such as the
two foot pedals and sixandonehalf octave range (from deep C to g4) place its construction within the years 1827–35.11
Beethoven's Piano Concerto No.4 may also have been performed at Melk around this time, using the parts issued in Vienna by Haslinger in 1825 and one of the set of
three cadenzas copied by Stipa for the first movement. There is, however, no date recorded on the verso of its title page.
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Plate 4: Beethoven, Piano Concerto No.3, op.37, verso of title page
(Riedl, 1815) with performance date (Melk, Musikarchiv).
On the last folio of the cadenza set, Stipa added the intriguing postscript, "Nach Beethoven's OriginalHandschrift," a note that, if accurate, raises some very interesting
questions. How could a relatively obscure monk residing in a cloister some eighty kilometers west of Vienna have gained access to Beethoven's autographs? And if he
did, could he also have copied the unique cadenza to op.37 from an autograph that is now missing?
I will attempt here to answer these questions by drawing on various kinds of evidence: a comparison of the Melk cadenzas for the Fourth Concerto with the autograph
cadenzas, a discussion of pertinent external factors, and a consideration of the stylistic features found in the unique cadenza that might shed light on the question of its
authorship.
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Plate 5: Beethoven, Piano Concerto No.3, op.37, Violino 1, first staves of p.4 with
Stipa's cadenza cue (Melk, Musikarchiv).
II
Stipa very likely copied the three cadenzas for Beethoven's Piano Concerto No.4 from those in the autographs now located in Bonn. 12 Like anyone confronted with
the challenging task of preparing a copy from a Beethoven autograph, Stipa was compelled to undertake a good deal of editing. He supplied clefs, key signatures, bar
lines, and rests, corrected errors, and spelled out abbreviations. Moreover, he painstakingly added phrase and articulation markings, going far beyond those indicated
by Beethoven and leaving a valuable record of contemporary interpretation of the cadenzas. In the process of editing, however, he inevitably introduced a number of
errors of his own, but, given the appearance of the Bonn autographs, these are remarkably few in number and can often be explained by some kind of special
circumstance. For example, in the Bonn cadenza 7, belonging to the first movement of op.58, Beethoven made an error in the rhythm of the second measure by writing
one too many eighth rests in the right hand (Hess facs., fol.1, system 1, m.2). Stipa corrected this by omitting the second eighth rest, but, perhaps because he was
concentrating on solving this problem, he overlooked a DU266D in the following dominant chord, an important pitch in preparing the next key area (AU266D) (Hess
facs., fol.1, system 1, m.2, last three eighth notes). Two measures later, Stipa omitted Beethoven's typical diamondshaped indication for a crescendo–decrescendo,
clearly because he did not leave enough space for it between the staves. For similar reasons, later in this cadenza (Hess facs., fol.2) Beethoven himself had to place the
tempo indication "Presto" in a kind of noman'sland
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Plate 6: Beethoven, cadenza 7 (op.58, movt.I), mm.20–40, copied Robert Stipa (Melk, Musikarchiv).
between the second and third systems, leading Stipa to place the indication nonsensically near the beginning of his third system rather than near the end where it
belongs (see plate 6). This is a telltale error, indicative of someone working with the original source.
It is in fact the degree to which Stipa retained certain physical characteristics and unusual features of Beethoven's notation, rather than his errors and corrections, that
speaks in favor of his having copied directly from the composer's autographs. He preserved, for instance, the overall sequence of the cadenzas as well as the
superscripts as far as these were indicated by Beethoven, including even the parentheses in the famous ''Cadenza (ma senza cadére)" that the composer scribbled
above cadenza 7. The lengths of the individual cadenzas were left intact–no material was added or de
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leted. In many details, Stipa exhibited a greater fidelity to Beethoven's text than did the editors of the later Leipzig and Bonn complete editions. From the Bonn
cadenza 6, for example, Stipa correctly copied two grace notes that were misread or omitted in both the Breitkopf and the SchmidtGörg editions. At the beginning of
his third system on the first folio, Stipa correctly copied the grace note G before the fermata. Although this note is present in the Bonn autograph (Hess facs., p.3,
system 3, beat 1), Breitkopf omitted it, and SchmidtGörg (m.33) read it as an F. Elsewhere, the rhythmically important grace note G, although difficult to read in the
autograph (Hess facs., p.7, system 4, m.4, beat 3), was accurately copied by Stipa but omitted in both the Breitkopf and the Bonn editions. Stipa also retained
Beethoven's manner of indicating the damper pedal and its release, abbreviated "Ped." with the release marked "O" in the autograph of cadenza 7 (Hess facs., fol.2,
systems 3, 5). This notation was still familiar to Stipa in 1827 (see plate 6, systems 3, 5), but by 1864 it was apparently incomprehensible to the Breitkopf editors,
who, in this instance, omitted it entirely. Still other examples in cadenza 6 could be cited to support the conclusion that Stipa must have copied his cadenzas, as he
stated, "Nach Beethoven's OriginalHandschrift." 13
III
These Melk copies are indeed rarities. Beethoven's cadenzas did not circulate during his lifetime, either in manuscript or in published form, remaining unknown to the
public at large, despite pleas for him to "write down the cadenzas."14 Only one, that to the first movement of Mozart's Concerto in D Minor, K.466 (Bonn no.16),
was published posthumously before Breitkopf reissued it along with eleven others for the first time in 1864.15 Five more cadenzas, including one copied by Stipa
(Bonn no.8), remained unknown until SchmidtGörg published them in 1967.
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Our interest must focus, therefore, on the question of where Beethoven's autographs were located around 1827, the year the Third Concerto was performed with its
unique cadenza at Melk. Here, a brief review of what is known of the cadenzas' previous ownership is in order. Valuable new information has been provided by Susan
Kagan's research on Archduke Rudolph and by Sieghard Brandenburg's study of the archduke's music collection. 16 What had previously been based on mere
supposition is now documented: no fewer than fifteen of the seventeen known cadenza autographs, including the three for op.58 copied by Stipa, made up part of the
archduke's vast library in Kremsier Castle, a library that Rudolph had begun to build even before Beethoven began giving him keyboard instruction in 1803 or 1804.
This collection ultimately encompassed over four hundred works by Beethoven in prints and manuscripts. It even served the composer as a personal repository.
Among the few individuals who also had access to this library was Joseph Fischhof (1804–57), a pianist and music collector active in Vienna from 1822. Fischhof
may at one time have owned the autograph of cadenza 15, and, according to Brandenburg, he was one of the first to make copies of the others.17 In 1833, the very
year that Fischhof joined the staff of the conservatory established by the Gesellschaft der Musikfreunde in Vienna, Rudolph's music collection was transferred to the
Gesellschaft's archive in accordance with the provisions of his will.
Evidently, only the incomplete cadenza for the Piano Concerto No.1, op.15, remained in Beethoven's possession, and it was sold at the estate auction in November
1827 to Beethoven's publisher, Tobias Haslinger. Haslinger had been assembling Beethoven's works over a period of time in preparation for a planned but unrealized
complete edition of the master's
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works. In his announcement of the proposed edition issued with J. N. Hummel's KlavierSchule in 1828, 18 the publisher boasted of already owning twothirds of
Beethoven's works by that year, having purchased many from the composer in 1814 and over forty at the estate auction in 1827. Eventually, Haslinger and his son and
successor, Carl, owned all fifteen of the cadenza autographs that had belonged to Rudolph. It remains unclear, however, precisely when they acquired them.
Fischhof and Carl Haslinger, therefore, were among the figures that were most closely associated with the cadenzas around the year 1827. Both were composition
students of Ignaz Ritter von Seyfried, Beethoven's singularly longlasting friend and assistant. Stipa must have gained access to the autograph materials through this
circle. No other Viennese musician had a closer connection with Melk in the first half of the nineteenth century than Seyfried, whose contacts with the abbots of Melk
can be traced from as early as 1817, the year he began to compose and conduct large works for important occasions at the monastery.19 These ties grew even
stronger after 1819, when he placed his only surviving son, Fritz (later Father Leopold), into the boarding school and novitiate at Melk.20 Seyfried's connections with
the abbey no doubt account for the rich collection of works by Beethoven, nearly one hundred early prints and contemporary manuscripts, acquired at Melk during
Stipa's tenure as music director. New evidence indicates, furthermore, that Seyfried must have developed a friendship with Stipa, as he left at least a portion of his
valuable music library to the Melk priest on his death in 1841.21
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Assuming for the moment that Stipa did copy his cadenzas for op.58 directly from Beethoven's autographs and that through his contacts with Seyfried conditions were
favorable for him to have had access to other autographs as well, we may now consider the musical contents of the unique cadenza for the Piano Concerto No.3.
IV
The attempt to compare the Melk source with the seventeen surviving authentic cadenzas from the standpoint of structure and style is complicated by Beethoven's
ambivalent attitude toward the cadenza in general. 22 On the one hand, he demonstrated an increasing desire to exert greater control over this part of the concerto, as
evident in his writing out of the cadenzas, his explicit instructions to the performers (e.g., "La Cadenza sia corta," op.58, movt.III), and his integration of these passages
into the solo part of his Piano Concerto No.5, op.73. On the other hand, there is evidence of a more relaxed attitude, as indicated, for example, in his permitting Ries
to prepare cadenzas of his own for the Viennese performance of the Third Concerto in the Augarten concert hall (19 July 1804).
Beethoven's flexible attitude is further evinced in the inconsistency of the cadenzas themselves. They vary wildly in length from the miniature fivemeasure passage
composed for the rondo of the Piano Concerto No.4 (table 1, no.11), which Beethoven nevertheless labeled a cadenza, to the enormous 125 and 126measure
cadenzas for the first movements of the Piano Concerto No.1 and the Violin Concerto in keyboard arrangement (table 1, nos.3, 12), the latter aptly referred to by
Hess as "a concerto within a concerto."23 The relation of the cadenzas to the movements for which they were intended varies, as does their character, some being
made up simply of virtuoso pianistic figurations and others containing real thematic developments. Furthermore, in contrast to the design of Mozart's cadenzas, for
which the BaduraSkodas were able to formulate a threepart
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Table 1: Beethoven's Keyboard Cadenzas
Length (mm.)
Number and Identification (after Beethoven Werke, abt.7, vol.VII)
1. Piano Concerto No.1 in C Major, op.15, first movement, "Cadenza" (incomplete) [60]
2. —, first movement 32
3. —, first movement, "Kadenz" 126
4. Piano Concerto No.2 in B Major, op.19, first movement, "Kadenz" 79
5. Piano Concerto No.3 in C Minor, op.37, first movement 65
6. Piano Concerto No.4 in G Major, op.58, first movement, "erste Kadenz"1 100
7. —, first movement, "Cadenz (ma senza cadére)" 1 51
8. —, first movement1 11
9. — ,third movement, "Zweite Kadenz" 34
10. —, third movement, "2ter Eingang" 1
11. —, third movement, "Cadenza" 5
12. Violin Concerto in D Major, op.61, first movement, "Cadenza" (transcribed for piano) 125
13. —, second to third movements, "Eingang" 16
14. —, third movement, "Zweiter Eingang" 6
15.—, third movement, "Cadenz" 15
16. Piano Concerto in D Minor, K.466, by Mozart, first movement, "Cadenza" 66
17. —, third movement, "Cadenza" 44
1. Copied by Robert Stipa.
model, 24 no viable schema for Beethoven's cadenzas can be put forward. There are, nevertheless, some identifiable tendencies; for example, Beethoven begins with
an imitative working out of the head motive of the principal theme in over half his cadenzas, including the one for the Third Concerto sketched in Kafka.
Although the Melk cadenza does not contain this particular contrapuntal device, in other respects, such as its overall length, range, and design, it falls within the scope
of Beethoven's cadenzas. In comparison with cadenza writing of the 1820s, this cadenza is rather conservative. Consisting of fiftyone measures, it is shorter than the
sixtyfive measures of Beethoven's cadenza for op.37 and a dwarf when compared to the 102measure
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cadenza Czerny composed and published in 1824 for this movement. The Melk cadenza was conceived for an instrument with a range of fiveandonehalf octaves
from deep F, a range that can be determined from the way that deep E is avoided at m.21 in the sequential passage beginning at m.15. 25 It is a compass
corresponding to that of the Third Concerto itself and one well within that found in Beethoven's cadenzas, four of which even exceed this on the upper end by as much
as a fourth. By 1827, however, this range must have been considered somewhat restrictive, judging from the keyboard of the Graf piano that might have been used at
the Melk performance. As previously noted, it could go down a fourth lower to C and had well over six octaves.
The Melk cadenza has an overall plan that can be viewed in three sections, each marked off with a fermata. It is a design similar to the Mozartean model: a brief
opening twomeasure flourish over the dominant, a longer middle section consisting of thirtyfour measures developing the principal themes of the concerto, and a
fourteenmeasure retransition or closing section. The reordering of the themes in the middle section, a characteristic not found in Beethoven's longer developmental
cadenzas, is, nevertheless, a procedure used on occasion in his sonata forms, as, for example, in the recapitulation in the first movement of the Fourth Concerto. In this
cadenza the placement of the movement's lyrical second theme before the powerful opening idea produces a progression of increasing tension. At the same time, the
thematic material of the parent movement is given a new perspective. In a similar way, the cadenza contains tonal relations not fully explored in the movement proper.
The tonic C minor and submediant AU266D major are emphasized and juxtaposed in the cadenza's middle section, thereby producing a counterpart to the C minor–
EU266D major polarity set up by Beethoven in the exposition. It is precisely these kinds of relations between the cadenza and the movements for which they were
composed that provide the single common thread in all Beethoven's cadenzas.26
On another level the unique cadenza can be seen as being made up of a series of events or gestures, some thematic in nature, others consisting of pianistic figuration.
Taken together, they resemble what might be termed
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Beethoven's keyboard "fantasy" writing, a style employed at times not only in his concerto cadenzas but also in a wide variety of genres featuring the piano. Except for
the gestures in the Melk cadenza of rather nondescript character, such as diatonic and chromatic scales, one searches in vain through Beethoven's fantasy writing for
identical passages in similar contexts. This is not surprising, as we would not expect Beethoven to draw from a set of clichés, especially in this quasiextemporaneous
style.
It is, however, in the keyboard music of Beethoven's pupils Ries and Czerny that one encounters some of these fantasy ideas more readily. For example, the figure
consisting of a descending minor triad filled in with upper and lower chromatic neighboring tones that makes up part of the opening flourish of the cadenza (plate 1, end
of m.1) appears with some regularity in Ries. We discover it, for instance, in the opening Allegro of his Sonata in AU266D, op.141, published in 1827 (ex.1). Another
example of this fantasy writing is the etudelike chromatic pattern forming a descending chromatic scale near the end of the cadenza (plate 3, mm.44–45). While I
could not find this exact pattern in Beethoven, it is one of the figures contained in an illustration offered by Czerny in his chapter on cadenzas in the Systematische
Anleitung zum Fantasieren auf dem Pianoforte, published in 1836 (ex.2).
The manner in which these ideas are connected within the cadenza is pertinent. There is at times a certain element of hyperbole or abruptness in the
Example 1: Ries, Sonata in A Major, op.141, movt.I, mm.36–42.
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Example 2: Czerny, Systematische Anleitung zum Fantasieren auf dem Pianoforte,
op.200, chap.3, ex.35 (Diabelli plate 3270).
way things are articulated, a characteristic that also tends to bring Beethoven's possible authorship into question. Only the most conspicuous of these instances will be
pointed out here. First, one encounters an exaggerated, operatic cadential figure connecting the opening flourish to the middle section (mm.2–3). At similar points of
articulation — a wellknown one occurs at the end of the slow introduction to the first movement of the "Pathétique" Sonata, op.13 — Beethoven is less likely to
make such an overstatement. The next important juncture comes in the cadenza's middle section, where the two principal themes are linked by a chromatic line at the
end of m.14. Although Beethoven frequently used a brief chromatic figure as a link, here again the connection is exaggerated, this time by a crescendo, a ritard, and
especially the sudden doubling in octaves. Then there are unexpected jumps, such as the one at mm.37–38, when a fouroctave chromatic scale ends by leaping into a
double trill figure, which then rises up
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through the tonic triad. The trill begins at the interval of a fourth, an interval seldom used this way by Beethoven, who preferred octaves or thirds in these kinds of
passages.
Finally, the various indications for expression, tempo, and dynamics must be considered. No fewer than twentythree are crowded into the first fifteen measures of the
Melk cadenza (table 2). This is a density without precedent in Beethoven's cadenzas, with the exception of cadenza 6 for the first movement of Piano Concerto No.4,
one that seems to be conceived in a style later than the others. Many of these indications can be found with regularity in Beethoven's keyboard works, but others are
extremely rare. Noticeably missing from this list are Beethoven's most frequently used signs for accentuation, including that hallmark of his writing, the sforzato,
notated sF, and the only slightly less common but related indications sforzandopiano, fortepiano, and rinforzando. In their place, listed at the top of table 2, the
Melk cadenza exclusively employs Beethoven's leastfavored signs: the accent proper that appears seven times and the forzato notated Fz found three times. The
former can be encountered in Beethoven's keyboard music in very similar contexts, that is, reinforcing a series of syncopations, but the symbol Fz turns up in the
autographs or in editions
Table 2: Expression, Tempo, and Dynamic Indications in the Melk Cadenza for Opus 37, First Movement
Location and Frequency
Sign Notated (in Order of Frequency)
> mm.2, 5–7, 9; 7 times
p: mm.1–2, 52; 3 times
fz: mm.11, 37; 3 times
crescendo, cresc: mm.1, 6; 2 times
ff: mm.1, 15; 2 times
rallentando, rallentando mm.2, 46; 2 times
dimin: m.2; 1 time
f: m.7; 1 time
leggier: m.8; 1 time
espressivo m.11; 1 time
cresc: e ritard: mm.13–14; 1 time
più alleg: m.15; 1 time
marcato m.15; 1 time
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based on autographs with extreme rarity. In the cadenzas it is found only once, on fol.2 of cadenza 17 for the finale of Mozart's Piano Concerto in D Minor, K.466
(Hess facs., fol.2, system 3).
In sum, we can be confident that this cadenza was composed before 1827 and copied by an individual who had firsthand access to Beethoven's autographs. About its
connection to Beethoven, however, no such confidence is possible. Stylistically, it is conservative in its duration, range, and design but more modern sounding in its
musical contents. Several features militate against Beethoven having composed it: the awkward, overdrawn points of articulation, certain features of the notation, and
perhaps the melodic content itself. Since Stipa was proud enough to indicate that he had copied his cadenzas for op.58 from Beethoven's original manuscript, would
he not have done the same if this were also the case for the cadenza to op.37? Nevertheless, the basic conception of the cadenza, the way it relates to the movement
as a whole, also has a certain Beethovenian quality. It complements and elaborates on the ideas heard previously by presenting the themes in a new order and in
unexplored, but related, harmonic contexts.
Yet if we cannot ascribe this cadenza with any degree of conviction either to Beethoven or to Stipa, we cannot exclude the possibility that it might have originated
within the composer's immediate circle of students. When the problem of authorship is considered in this light, both Ries and Czerny emerge as prime contenders, but
the younger Fischhof and perhaps Carl Haslinger, a pupil of Czerny's in piano, are also likely possibilities since both were accomplished keyboardists and active
composers. Haslinger, however, was only eleven years old in 1827. At the very least, we have here a rare example of a contemporary cadenza to this celebrated
work, one that can offer performers a viable alternative to the oftenplayed Parisian source, which until now has been the only extant cadenza to the CMinor
Concerto with a claim to authenticity.
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Beethoven and Shakespeare's Tempest: New Light on an Old
Allusion
Theodore Albrecht
Just read Shakespeare's Tempest,'' Beethoven told Anton Schindler when the fawning amanuensis once asked him the meaning of the Piano Sonatas in D Minor,
op.31, no.2, and in F minor, op.57. 1 Indeed, there is evidence that Schindler did exactly as he was instructed: the Deutsche Staatsbibliothek in Berlin preserves an
1825 copy of Der Sturm, which came as part of his own Nachlass.2 It also appears that Schindler did not find the solution suggested; otherwise, he would surely
have paraded his knowledge more fully than in the prescription he ultimately issued: "The key … is to be found in that play. But where? Questioner, it is for you to
read, to ponder, and to guess."3 By the time Schindler printed this anecdote in his Biographie, op.57 had already been dubbed the "Appassionata" by the publisher
Cranz in Hamburg, so the subtitle "Tempest" fell exclusively to op.31, no.2.4
Over the years, critics and historians have been somewhat skeptical of this literary allusion. They have found only fleetingly general portraits of Prospero, Miranda, or
Ariel in the music and have even pointed out that, while Beethoven's sonata is tempestuous enough, Shakespeare's play, save for the storm that brings his characters
together, is overall one of his least
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violent. Among earlier writers, Wilhelm von Lenz, Carl Reinecke, and Willibald Nagel either ignored the reference or remained negatively ambivalent toward it. 5 In
1919 Hugo Riemann rejected the story in favor of analysis, but two years later Theodor Frimmel suggested that the emotional period in Beethoven's life that gave rise
to the Heiligenstadt Testament may likewise have influenced op.31, no.2.6
Arnold Schering's attempt to link each of the three movements of the sonata with specific incidents or characters in the play was easily dismissed as just another of his
farfetched attempts to associate Beethoven's works with Shakespeare's plays, some of which, it seems, Beethoven had never read. Moreover, although Beethoven
himself had declared that The Tempest might also contain the key to understanding the Sonata op.57, Schering destroyed his own credibility when he posited that the
"Appassionata" had been inspired by Macbeth.7 Calling Schindler's anecdote "dangerous encouragement," Eric Blom delivered a scathing and compelling
denunciation of Schering.8 Donald Francis Tovey, however, formulated the most entertaining attack:
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Beethoven would never have posed as a Shakespeare scholar. … With all the tragic power of its first movement, the D minor Sonata is, like Prospero, almost as far beyond tragedy
as it is beyond mere foul weather. It will do you no harm to think of Miranda at bars 31–38 of the slow movement; but people who want to identify Ariel and Caliban and the
castaways, good and villainous, may as well confine their attention to the exploits of the Scarlet Pimpernel when the Eroica or C minor Symphony is being played. 9
Before making an examination of The Tempest that concerns both Beethoven's life and the sonatas, it is necessary to consider briefly which version of Shakespeare's
works the composer owned. According to Schindler, Beethoven
had the complete works of Shakespeare in the Eschenburg translation. Most of the volumes showed unmistakable marks of careful reading. … He refused to have anything to do
with [August Wilhelm] Schlegel's translation of the great Briton: he pronounced it stiff, forced, and at times too far from the original, which he could deduce only by comparing it
with Eschenburg's version.10
Indeed, Beethoven did own the works of Shakespeare in the translation by Johann Joachim Eschenburg, originally published in thirteen volumes in Zürich between
1775 and 1782. The surviving copies that Beethoven possessed, however, are two double volumes printed in Mannheim between 1778 and 1783 and derived from
the Zürich imprints.11 Unfortunately, these heavily marked books do not include Shakespeare's Tempest.12 The presence of the Mannheimprinted volumes among
his Nachlass in Vienna indicates that he may have owned them as early as his days in Bonn and that
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he became acquainted with Eschenburg's translation in his youth, possibly in the von Breuning household. That Beethoven had not always been opposed to Schlegel's
translations is indicated by his recommendation of them in a letter to Therese Malfatti in May 1810: "Have you read Goethe's Wilhelm Meister and Shakespeare in
Schlegel's translation? One has so much leisure in the country. Perhaps you would like me to send you these works." 13 Thus, even if Beethoven may have preferred
the Eschenburg versions, he was clearly familiar with Schlegel as well.14
One further point needs to be discussed before considering Beethoven's allusion—the chronology for the composition of the two sonatas op.31, no.2, and op.57. Few
sketches survive for op.31, no.2, but the best known follow those for op.31, no.1, in the Kessler Sketchbook of 1801–02 and appear on leaves 65v (first movement)
and 95r/v (third movement). Since the Wielhorsky Sketchbook begins with the Sonata op.31, no.3, Sieghard Brandenburg believes that further extensive sketches for
op.31, no.2, must have existed on separate leaves filled between the periods of the two volumes and since lost, leaves dating from summer and early fall 1802.15 My
investigation into the chronology of Beethoven's Christus am Ölberge indicates that Wielhorsky was used as early as September 1802 and possibly even in
August.16 Thus, the missing sketches for op.31, no.2, probably date from August, those in the latter pages of Kessler from ca. July, and the earliest on leaf 65v
possibly from June 1802.17 Beethoven therefore appar
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ently conceived op.31, no.2, in June and completed it in July and August 1802, during his crucial summer sojourn in Heiligenstadt. Publisher Hans Georg Nägeli of
Zürich, who in effect commissioned the op.31 sonatas, wrote to his Paris associate Johann Jakob Horner on 18 July that he was expecting Beethoven's shipment to
arrive on 17 August. 18 We cannot be certain when they were dispatched, but Ferdinand Ries attests that this had taken place before Beethoven left Heiligenstadt in
midOctober.19 Ultimately, op.31, nos.1–2, were published by Nägeli as issue no.5 of his Répertoire des Clavecinistes in April 1803.20
Elsewhere, I have argued that Beethoven sketched the Piano Sonata op.57 in Döbling during August 1804, that is, just before he offered the sonata as part of a
package to Breitkopf and Härtel on 26 August.21 When Beethoven had not sent the sonata by 21 June 1805, the impatient publisher canceled the agreement and
returned those works that had already been dispatched (including the Eroica Symphony, the Sonatas ops. 53 and 54, and the oratorio Christus). Beethoven's
protests to the contrary,22 he doubtless had not actually finished the sonata and probably did not do so until after the premiere of Leonore was safely out of the way
on 20 November 1805. Indeed, he may even have waited until the following spring, after the opera's revised production, because op.57 did not appear from the
Viennese Kunst und Industriecomptoir until February 1807.23
With this chronology in mind, we can compare Shakespeare's Tempest to events in Beethoven's experience that might have occasioned his remark to Schindler. The
focus is not on the drama as a whole, as in previous studies, but on a single episode in act 1, sc.2. Here, Prospero tells his daughter Miranda of the circumstances that
brought them to this desert island
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twelve years before. Prospero, the rightful duke of Milan, had loved his brother Antonio above almost everyone else and had entrusted him with the management of
his state while he (Prospero) turned to the study of the liberal arts. Rapt in his studies, Prospero soon "grew a stranger to his state" while Antonio became expert at
"how to grant suits, how to deny them, who t'advance, and who to trash." ''Having both the key of officer and office," Antonio "set all hearts in the state to what tune
pleased his ear." Prospero admits to Miranda that, having dedicated everything to introspection and the betterment of his own mind, he had consequently neglected his
worldly affairs. This "awakened an evil nature" in his "false brother": "He being thus lorded, not only with what my revenue yielded, but what my power might exact."
"To credit his own lie," Prospero says, Antonio believed that "he was the duke out of the substitution," and, as his ambition grew, Antonio thought Prospero incapable
of "temporal royalties." As for himself, Prospero says, "my library was dukedom large enough." 24
This was a fraternal situation with which Beethoven could identify. In the spring of 1802, probably in April, the composer followed the advice of his physician, Johann
Adam Schmidt, and left Vienna for rural Heiligenstadt. There, he fell into despair over his deteriorating hearing and penned the famous Testament of 6 and 10
October, before returning to the city. While in the country, however, Beethoven also finished entries in the Kessler Sketchbook, filled some sketch leaves now lost,
and then began the first half or so of the Wielhorsky Sketchbook. To the picture usually associated with Beethoven's rural sojourns—his rambling across the fields and
through the woods in consummate enjoyment of nature—must be added, especially in the case of Heiligenstadt in 1802, the image of Beethoven at work, studying the
books and scores he surely brought with him.25 Certainly,
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too, he enjoyed Ries's visits, probably once or twice a week for lessons and a walk through the countryside. 26 Seemingly vexed at Ries for some infraction, but more
likely busy with his own study and work, Beethoven wrote to his pupil at one point during the summer, "You need not come to Heiligenstadt, for I have no time to
waste.''27
As his own work load evidently increased in preparation for an Akademie in April (ultimately aborted), Beethoven began to turn his business affairs over to his
younger brother, Carl. On 22 April the composer wrote Breitkopf and Härtel, "A good deal of business and also a great many worries have rendered me for a time
quite useless for some things. Meanwhile you can rely entirely on my brother, who, in general, attends to all my affairs."28 Actually, it was Carl who gave the first
indication of this situation to the publisher on 28 March: "You must not take offense at my brother because he has not written to you himself, since I take care of all his
business affairs."29 Carl's practical tone evidently soon gave way to a growing arrogance, as can be deduced from a comment that Nägeli wrote to his associate
Horner on 18 July: "An answer from Beethoven's brother has just now arrived. He counsels in a friendly way, however, that … his brother [Ludwig] does not have so
much business sense."30
Indeed, Carl was creating an atmosphere in which Beethoven's abilities to take care of his own affairs would be deemed questionable while he (Carl) could be relied
on for a businesslike solution. Ries, however, provides further evidence of Carl's manipulations: "Beethoven had promised the three solo sonatas (Opus 31) to Nägeli
in Zürich, while his brother Carl (Caspar), who unfortunately always meddled in his business arrangements,
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wanted to sell these sonatas to a publisher in Leipzig." 31 Various scholars have considered Ries somewhat prejudiced in such statements because there was obviously
little love lost between him and Carl. An assembly of diverse data, however, indicates that Carl was attempting to run Beethoven's business affairs in the most
beneficial way possible, even to the extent of becoming less than ethical. On 22 April 1802, Carl had tested the waters with Breitkopf and Härtel concerning the
publication of sonatas: "50 ducats for a grand sonata for piano; 130 ducats for 3 sonatas, with or without accompaniment [i.e., of other instruments]. At present we
have 3 sonatas for the piano and violin, and if they please you, then we will send them."32
With the three Violin Sonatas op.30 offered at 130 ducats, Carl must have eagerly witnessed the progress made during the summer on the three solo Sonatas op.31,
which Beethoven had apparently promised to Nägeli at somewhat less than one hundred ducats. Nägeli's letter to Horner of 18 July also reveals that Carl had
counseled him
that I should enclose with my reply a letter to his brother [Ludwig], with the request that he reduce his price a bit. … Now I am resolved to send him, by the post which leaves
today, a bill of exchange which will bring the total (with that already sent) to 100 ducats, and instead of a reduction in price, ask him for a fourth sonata into the deal.33
Carl was evidently trying to maneuver Nägeli into revising his initial monetary offer downward in order to influence Ludwig to renounce the deal with Nägeli. Carl
could then attempt to wrest more money for op.31 from Härtel. Ries elucidates further:
There were frequent altercations between the two brothers over this, because Beethoven wanted to honor his promise. When the sonatas were ready to be sent off, Beethoven
was living in Heiligenstadt. During a walk the brothers quarreled again, eventually coming to blows. On the next day he gave me the sonatas to send to Zürich, as
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well as a letter to his brother which was enclosed within another letter to Stephan von Breuning, meant for his brother's perusal. Noone could have preached a more beautiful
sermon in a more kindhearted way than Beethoven did to his brother about his behavior the day before. First he showed him the true, despicable character of his conduct, then
forgave him completely, but also predicted a miserable future for him if he did not radically change his life and behavior. 34
Carl must have been an embarrassment for Ludwig, making remark after arrogant remark to friends, publishers, and other business associates; his letters are full of
offensive phrases as he basks in his elder brother's reflected glory. Ries did not exaggerate when he reported to Simrock on 6 May 1803, "Charl [sic] Beethoven is
the biggest skinflint in the world—for a single ducat he would take back 50 words of promise, and his good brother makes the greatest enemies because of him. For
every note that Beethoven plays there is a corresponding base element in his brother's soul." Later, on 13 September 1803, after Carl himself had begun negotiating
contracts with Simrock, Ries observed that "all the publishers in Vienna fear [Carl] worse than fire. Because he is so terribly rude, none will have anything to do with
him."35
The affair over the Piano Sonatas op.31 and the alleged purloining of the Quintet op.29, which followed in the fall, caused heated quarrels between the Beethovens.
Carl wrote Härtel somewhat resentfully on 5 December 1802, "I have already endured two violent storms [from my brother] on your account."36 Nonetheless, with
Ries's anecdote quoted above, the following passage confirms Beethoven's sense of forgiveness and adds further evidence of his isolation:
It did not matter how badly [his brothers] behaved toward him; they needed only to shed a few tears and he immediately forgot everything. He used to say, "He is, after all, my
brother." The brothers eventually had their own way in that many friends retreated from him, especially when his deafness made it increasingly difficult to converse with him.37
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Beethoven must have perceived the extensive similarities between his relationship with his brother Carl and that between Prospero and Antonio. Prospero, the
intellectual elder brother, had retreated into his studies of the liberal arts; Beethoven, the artistic elder brother, likewise submerged himself in a summer of musical study
and more general readings. As Prospero became a stranger to his people, so Beethoven likewise became a "stranger" to his fellow men: he said as much in the
Heiligenstadt Testament. 38 While Prospero delegated the management of his state to his brother Antonio, Beethoven turned the bulk of his business affairs over to
Carl. As his power grew, Antonio used his station to promote or deny favors within the dukedom; Carl attempted to play Härtel off against Nägeli, among other
possibly advantageous but less than ethical schemes in Beethoven's business relations. Antonio usurped his brother's power and ejected Prospero from his realm;
Beethoven and Carl argued and even came to blows over the manner in which the younger brother conducted himself. Carl himself complained of "two violent storms"
from his brother.
Furthermore, after learning of her father's history, Miranda refers to her grandmother and Antonio when she remarks, "Good wombs have borne bad sons."
Beethoven, who reputedly revered his mother, could easily have identified with that assessment while decrying Carl's baseness. In the final scene of Shakespeare's
Tempest, Prospero forgives Antonio—"pardons the deceiver"—while Beethoven likewise forgave his brother repeatedly during the years 1802–06, when Carl served
as his business manager. A resolution of their differences may not have come until the final forgiveness on Carl's death on 15 November 1815. As the composer wrote
Ries a week later, "My poor unfortunate brother has just died. … During his last years the poor fellow had changed greatly, and I may say that I mourn his loss with all
my heart."39 And if Beethoven recognized himself in Prospero and his brother in Antonio, it could not have escaped his notice that his brother's full name was Caspar
Anton Carl. Finally, in this 135line episode, one line in particular would have caught Beethoven's eye and aroused his identification with the characters and their
situation. During his narrative, Prospero repeatedly asks his daughter if she is paying atten
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tion to what he is telling her. One his third inquiry ("Dost thou hear?"), Miranda replies, "Your tale, sir, would cure deafness." 40
But Schindler's original report also associates the Piano Sonata op.57 with The Tempest. The foregoing interpretation construes Beethoven's statement as referring to
a tempestuous situation in his own life, which is essentially comprised of two elements: a period of study and work in some degree of isolation from humanity and
brother Carl's domination of the composer's business affairs during and after such a period, with potentially embarrassing or otherwise disastrous results. To a large
extent these circumstances also applied to Beethoven's life during the period in which op.57 was composed, that is, probably beginning in August 1804, while he lived
in rural Döbling. When Carl was away from Vienna, Beethoven wrote Härtel on 26 August, offering the publisher a large package of works that included the Eroica
Symphony, the Triple Concerto, Christus am Ölberge, and the three Piano Sonatas ops. 53, 54, and 57.41 He suggested no timetable for the delivery of these
works, not all of which were finished. But when Carl returned home, he pressed Härtel for a commitment to rapid publication, implying that the Beethovens would
provide equally rapid delivery. Carl proposed terms to his own satisfaction on 24 November; Härtel agreed readily on 4 December but began having reservations
when the works did not arrive in Leipzig on time.42 The Triple Concerto and the Sonata op.57 were never sent, probably because neither of them was finished (or at
least revised for publication). Härtel, in disgust over Carl's unkept promises and refusal to send a bill of sale, returned everything that had been sent him on 21 June,
telling Beethoven, "In case you are inclined to enter into a publishing contract with us in the future, it must be done without the intercession of a third party."43 Thus,
Carl's swaggering hubris had lost Beethoven a lucrative contract, the goodwill of an established publisher (at least temporarily), and the immediate opportunity
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to reap monetary rewards from the international publication of three or four major works.
The biographical details surrounding the conception of the Sonata op.57, therefore, are similar to those encountered with op.31, no.2: a summer's work isolated from
people, intermittent depression, 44 and the intrusion of brother Carl into a business deal that Beethoven had already begun negotiating, with distressing results for the
composer. Testing Beethoven's reference to the later sonata reveals points remarkably consistent with references to the earlier work—and striking similarities of both
episodes to events described in Shakespeare's Tempest. We cannot yet discern whether Beethoven perceived these similarities as the sonatas themselves were being
written or whether he did so only on reflection years later. But a convincing musical interpretation of Beethoven's alleged remark to Anton Schindler should be made
not on the basis of the entire play but on selected episodes with suggestive parallels to the composer's own life circumstances.
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Subtle Enharmonic Connections, Modal
Mixture, and Tonal Plan in the First
Movement of Beethoven's Piano Sonata
in C Major, Opus 53 ("Waldstein")
Roger Kamien
In music of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, local motivic or harmonic events are often reflected in largescale tonal motions or key successions. These local
events tend to be dissonances or chromatic tones that are "marked for memory" in the diatonic context of an opening theme. 1 Music analysts have investigated the
relation between detail and largescale plan in the works of many composers, including Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert, Chopin, and Brahms.2 As Charles
Rosen has observed, Haydn was a pioneer in "making us hear the direc
I am grateful to Naphtali Wagner and Frank Samarotto for their critical reading of parts of this essay.
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tional force implicit in a musical idea." In his works, "the primary directional element is generally a dissonance which, strengthened and properly reinforced, leads to a
modulation." 3
The relation between motivic detail and tonal structure is particularly close in Beethoven's music. For example, in the opening movement of the Piano Sonata in F
Minor, op.57, the neighboringtone motive C–DU266D–C (5–6–5) appears on many different structural levels and influences the tonal plan of the development
section, as Heinrich Schenker demonstrated.4 An even betterknown instance is the first movement of the Eroica Symphony, where an unexpected C# at the
beginning of the exposition (m.7) is enharmonically transformed into a DU266D that ushers in a tonicization of IID266E at the beginning of the recapitulation
(mm.402–12).5 Owing to the thematic parallelism between these passages, our recognition of this enharmonic transformation is not inhibited by the passage of almost
four hundred measures.
But many works by Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven also contain longrange enharmonic relations that are not reinforced by obvious thematic parallelisms. Although
such subtle connections are hidden by differences of rhythm and thematic material, they often help motivate modulations to strongly contrasting key areas.6 In
evaluating the significance of these connections, the analyst must make sure that elements other than identity of pitch class reinforce the relation between widely
separated tones. For example, an enharmonic connection is more convincing when one or both of
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the tones are repeatedly emphasized, appear in the same register, or are prominently located within a formal section.
The present study will focus on subtle enharmonic connections, modal mixture, and large tonal plan in the opening movement of the Piano Sonata in C Major, op.53
(1803–04). 7 Together with the opening movement of the Piano Sonata in G, op.31, no.1 (1802)—with which it will be compared—the Allegro con brio of the
"Waldstein" is Beethoven's earliest majormode sonataform movement in which the exposition modulates not to the dominant but to the highly contrasting degree
III#.8 I will show that in op.53, as well as in op.31, no.1, the scale degree U266D7 of a U266DVII within the opening theme is enharmonically related to a #6 within
an augmented sixth ushering in V/III#. These two movements are quite exceptional, even for Beethoven. More often, the motivically significant scale degree U266D7
is introduced not within U266DVII but as part of V7/IV. Therefore, I will preface this analysis of op.53 with brief discussions of three Dmajor opening movements in
which this technique is exploited: the String Quartet in D Major, op.18, no.3 (1798–99), the Piano Sonata in D Major, op.28 (1801), and the Symphony No.2 in D
Major, op.36 (1801–02). In each, a highly emphasized CU266E (U266D7) of a V7/IV within the opening theme (ex. 1a) is later enharmonically transformed to B#
(#6) and used to usher in a prolonged C#major chord (ex. 1b). Subsequently, this C#major chord is transformed into an Amajor chord (ex. 1c).
Example 1
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C# major is treated very similarly in the development sections of op.18, no.3, and op.36. In both, a prolonged C#major chord (VII#) functions as a climax at the end
of the development section and is abruptly transformed into the V7 or V6/5 ushering in the recapitulation (op.18, no.3, mm.150–59; op.36, mm.198–215). Before the
shift to the dominant, the C#major chord is suddenly reduced to a piano unison C# in a low register (ex.2a, b). In op.18, no.3, the C#major chord is introduced by
an augmentedsixth chord with B# in the top part (ex.2a, m.149), whereas in op.36 it is introduced by an applied diminishedseventh chord—emphasized by
fortissimo—with B# in the bass (m.197).
Repeated appearances of CU266E in each work prepare for the B#. In the opening theme of op.18, no.3, CU266E is introduced as a melodic and dynamic climax
within VII°7/II (m.16, Vn.I). As the first thematic group continues, this tone appears highlighted by a crescendo in the bass within V 4/2 /IV
Example 2: a. String Quartet in D, op.18, no.3, movt.I.
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Example 2: (continued) b. Symphony no.2 in D, op.36, movt.I.
(ex.3a). Later in the exposition, CU266E is emphasized in the augmented sixth leading to V/V (mm.45–50), in the Cmajor passage preceding the definitive arrival of
V (mm.68–71), and in a sf applied diminishedseventh chord within the dominant thematic group (m.79). Most significant is the appearance of this tone within the
chromatic bass ascent A–BU266D–BU266E–CU266E–C# at the end of the exposition (ex.3b). Within the development section, this ascent is imaginatively
expanded in the top voice (ex.4). 9 The tones BU266D, B, and C# become prolonged chords (BU266D major, m.122; B minor, m.142; C# major, m.150), and
CU266E is enharmonically transformed into the B# in the top voice of an augmentedsixth chord (m.149). Thus, this B# is an important link in a large chain that begins
with the CU266E of m.16.
In the Second Symphony, CU266E also appears in the exposition, but it is much more emphasized within the development section. It is presented three times within
the first group as part of V7/IV (mm.42–43, 49–50, 53–54).
Example 3: String Quartet in D, op.18, no.3, movt.I.
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The second appearance (ex.5a) is quite similar to the analogous passage in op.18, no.3 (ex.3a). The harmonic reduction of ex.5b applies to both ex.5a (op.36) and
ex.3a (op.18, no.3). In the development section, CU266E is first heard within the progression V7 of G minor–G minor (mm.144–46) and then within a Cmajor
passage (mm.156–58). Subsequently, CU266E is highly emphasized in a powerful progression V7 of G–G, in mm.170–82, which is thematically parallel to mm.47–51
in the exposition. As in the quartet, the B# in the applied diminishedseventh chord leading to C# major is prepared by the preceding appearances of CU266E. In
both instances, the B# is part of a rising chromatic line as shown in the bass line of ex.6 and the top voice of ex.4.
Example 4: String Quartet in D, op.18, no.3, movt.I.
The opening movement of op.28 differs from those of op.36 and op.18, no.3, in that the C#major episode appears in the second theme group of the exposition, not
at the end of the development section (ex.7). Also, C# major does not shift abruptly to A major but is transformed gradually into
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Example 5: a. Symphony No.2, op.36, movt.I.
b. Harmonic reduction of exx.5a and 3a.
that chord within mm.77–103, as shown in the voiceleading graph of ex.8. But as in the quartet and symphony movements, the B# of the augmented sixth introducing
C# major is enharmonically related to the CU266E of a V7/IV in the opening theme (cf. exx.7 and 9). This relation is much more apparent in the sonata because both
tones are highly emphasized. CU266E is stressed within the unexpectedly dissonant opening chord of the movement, and the B# of m.76 is emphasized because it
occurs at the peak of a crescendo and at the end of a phrasing slur.
The opening movements of the Piano Sonatas op.31, no.1, and op.53 differ from the works studied above owing to their unconventional tonal structure. In both, the
second theme of the exposition is in the highly contrasting degree III#, which functions over the long time span as a third divider between the opening I and the V at the
end of the development. Beethoven prepares for the III# by transforming the opening tonic into an
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Example 6: Symphony No.2, op.36, movt.I (development section).
Example 7: Piano Sonata in D Major. op.28, movt.I.
Example 8: Piano Sonata in D Major, op. 28, movt.I.
augmented sixth, ushering in V/III#. In each exposition, the III# is followed by IIIU266E, and in each recapitulation the second theme reappears in VI# before arriving
at the tonic. The VI# of the recapitulation provides a tonal contrast analogous to the III# of the exposition.
Analogous harmonic plans govern the opening themes of both movements (exx.10, 11). An opening tonic unit in which V is tonicized is se
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Example 9: Piano Sonata in D Major, op.28, movt.I.
quentially repeated a whole step lower, producing a marked contrast between I and U266DVII. In each instance, a V–I progression appears only near or at the end
of the theme. In op.31, no.1, Beethoven creates an enharmonic connection between the highly emphasized FU266E of the startling U266DVII in m.12 and the E#s of
the augmented sixths in mm.55, 59, 61, and 63 (see the asterisks in exx.10 and 12). 10 Moreover, the ascent E#–F# in mm.55–56 functions as a delicate enharmonic
reply to the descent FU266E–E in mm.19–20 (see the brackets in exx.10 and 12).11 The analogous relation between BU266D (U266D7) and A# (#6) in the Piano
Sonata in C Major, op.53, will be considered within the context of the following analysis of its opening movement.
The "Waldstein" Sonata was composed at roughly the same time as the Eroica Symphony and was similarly conceived on an exceptionally large scale. Its outer
movements have a wider pitch range (up to a3) and are more extended than those of any of Beethoven's earlier sonatas. The first movement was meant to be even
longer, as we learn from the autograph manuscript, which shows a canceled indication to repeat the entire development and recapitulation.12
The subtle enharmonicism and pervasive modal mixture of the Allegro con brio—and of the sonata as a whole—are a consequence of the bold tonal structure of the
opening theme (ex.11). Its opening measures produce a feeling of surprise and temporary tonal dislocation when mm.1–4 are sequentially repeated a whole step
lower, producing a marked contrast between C major and BU266D major (U266DVII), a chord borrowed from C
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Example 10: Piano Sonata in G Major, op.31, no.1, movt.I.
minor. 13 Modal mixture also gives rise to the Fminor (mm.8–10) and Cminor (m.12) chords as well as to the eU266D3 in the top voice of mm.9–11. The graph of
ex.13 interprets the chromatically descending bass from I to V in mm.1–9 in such a way as to emphasize the tetrachord C–BU266D–AU266D–G. The "lowered"
tones BU266D and AU266D help drive the bass downward.
Enharmonic reinterpretations of these tones first appear in the bridge, a long sweep that culminates in the g#2 of the second theme. The bridge begins as a broken
chord variation of the opening theme an octave higher, with accelerated surface rhythms. A marked deviation from the theme occurs in m.18, when the opening four
measures are sequentially repeated a step higher on II rather than a step lower on U266DVII. This upward move drives the a of m.21 (over an Aminor 6/3) to an a#
in m.22 (an augmented sixth), leading to b (ex.14). This modulatory passage is particularly effective
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Example 11: Piano Sonata in C Major, op.53, movt.I.
Example 12: Piano Sonata in G Major, op.31, no.1, movt.I.
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Example 13
because the g#1 and a#2 in the ascending top voice are subtle enharmonic transformations of the BU266D and AU266D of the opening theme's chromatically
descending bass (see the asterisks in exx.13 and 14).
The arrival at B major sets off a rhythmic acceleration based on the descending fifth motive of m.4. The sixteenthnote chromatic ascent g2–g#2–a2–a#2–b2 (mm.24–25)
compresses the same motion in the top voice of mm.17–23. Amid the turbulence of the bridge, the second theme is prepared beautifully. The b2 in the top voice of
m.23 descends at last to the a2 of m.33 and from there to the g#2 of the second theme, the enharmonic counterpart of AU266D in the opening theme. At the
completion of this prolonged descendingthird progression, the second theme continues with a brief descending fifth that rhythmically expands the fifth motive of m.4
(see the bracket in ex.14, mm.35–37). Counterbalancing the long descending third in the top voice are the expansive ascending scalar motions from B and b in the
lower voices, which lead into the second theme (see the brackets in ex.14, mm.31–35). The previous sixteenthnote arpeggios cause us to expect E minor; now these
scales in staccato eighths tentatively reveal the true goal—E major—at the last moment. 14 In mm.23–30, the rhythm insists ever more emphatically on E minor,
making the appearance of E major all the more delicate. In addition, the accelerated repetitions of b2 (mm.23–29) and the rapid repetitions of a2 (mm.33–34) make
the longrange third leading to g#2 very audible.
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Example 14
The process of modal mixture is renewed in the closing section of the exposition (mm. 74–82), which brings a change from E major (III#) to E minor (IIIU266E).
Within this section, Beethoven expressively contrasts the f# of II6 (mm.76, 80) with the fU266E of a Neapolitan sixth (m.82). This fU266E facilitates both the smooth
return to C major (the repeat of the exposition) and the transition to F major (the beginning of the development section).
The development section conveys a heightened drama of accelerated registral, motivic, and tonal changes. Motivically, the development divides into three distinct parts
(mm.90–111, 112–41, and 142–55). These are unified by the sweep of a largescale motion from III# (of the exposition) to V (last part of the development) through
a prolonged passing IV (first part of the development) shown in ex.15. 15 Although dynamically emphasized, the area prolonging a C major/minor chord in mm. 112–
33 is structurally subordinate to the motion from IV to V.
Much of the development's dramatic character is a consequence of modal mixture. In the first and second parts of the development, the modal shifts from F major to F
minor and from C major to C minor are analogous to that from E major to E minor at the end of the exposition (ex.15). The passage in F minor begins with a
descending tetrachord in the bass, F–EU266D–DU266D–C, that recalls the tetrachord C–BU266D–AU266D–G underlying the chromatic bass of the opening theme
(ex.16, mm.104–07). This connection becomes even clearer at the end of the Fminor section when the same tetrachord reappears in the bass in a chromatically
embellished form emphasized by the appearance of a new triplet rhythm (ex.16, mm.110–12).
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Example 15
Example 16
The most imaginative exploitation of modal mixture and enharmonicism appears within the second part of the development. This section, which is based on the triplet
eighth motive in the second theme group of the exposition, begins with a motion from C major to a BU266Dmajor neighboring chord that recalls the confrontation
between these chords within the opening theme (ex.16, mm.112–20). Beethoven leads back from BU266D major to C major by enharmonically transforming the bass
tone BU266D into A# (ex. 16, mm.120–26), a procedure that actualizes the longrange connection be
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tween these two tones in the bass of the first theme and the top voice of the bridge (mm.5, 22). Simultaneously, e is transformed into a d# that rises to eU266D and
contrasts with the eU266D of the Cminor chord (ex.16, mm.124–26, 132). The arrival at the dominant, prefixed by the descent f–eU266D–d, reflects, in miniature,
the longrange and less obvious descent f–eU266D–d in the top voice of the development (see the brackets in ex.15).
Minormode inflections continue at the beginning of the long pedal point on V, one of the most dramatic moments in the movement and a model for a passage in the
first movement of the Fourth Symphony (mm.305–33). Beginning in m.142, minormode inflection is abandoned, as Beethoven generates tremendous tension through
the long, slow ascent from g to the seventh, the high f3. Contributing to the excitement is the crescendo from pianissimo to fortissimo, the ominous sixteenthnote
rumble in the bass, and the progressive foreshortening of a twomeasure motive (mm.146–47) to half and quarter measures (mm.152–53). From the high f3 emerges
the descending scale that brings the resolution to e1 at the return of the first theme.
Example 17
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At the beginning of the recapitulation, Beethoven was faced with the problem of creating enharmonic relations analogous to those in the exposition. While the
augmented sixth a#2 in the bridge of the exposition (m.22) is an enharmonic transformation of the BU266D in the bass of the opening theme, the analogous augmented
sixth d#3 in the recapitulation (m.183) has no such counterpart. Beethoven brilliantly solves this problem with a startling exploitation of modal mixture in the first theme:
the Cminor arpeggio of m.167 unexpectedly leads down to aU266D (m.168) instead of to g, as in the corresponding measures 12–13. This aU266D creates the
effect of a false step from which emerges a tonal detour to a passing U266DIII, EU266D major (ex.17). The excursion to EU266D not only makes the return of the
tonic sound fresh but also provides the enharmonic equivalent for the d#1 of the augmentedsixth chord in m.183 (ex.17, mm.171, 183). Moreover, the implied
chromatic ascent c2–dU266D2–(dU266E2)–eU266D2 of mm.167–71 in this excursion triggers the motion c1–d1–d#1 of mm.182–83 and the sixteenth notes c3–c#3–d3–
d#3 of m.183 (ex.17). 16
Yet another imaginative use of mixture appears in the second theme group, which begins in A major. The second phrase of the theme brings a poignant contrast when
it unexpectedly begins in A minor (VI) and modulates to C major (I), in which key the embellished version of the second theme is presented.
In the gigantic coda, the major mode triumphs over minor, firsttheme motives develop in new ways, and a cadenzalike passage leads to a magnificent concluding
section in which the second and opening themes are juxtaposed. By beginning the coda with low repeated chords, like the exposition, development, and recapitulation,
Beethoven creates the effect of a movement divided into four large sections. The opening of the coda is analogous, tonally as well as thematically, to that of the
development. It begins in DU266D major, a half step above the C major that ends the recapitulation, just as the development begins in F major, a half step above the
E minor that ends the exposition. As at the beginning of the development, Beethoven employs rhythmic compression, but now the excitement is heightened by
syncopated sforzandi and a rapidly ascending bass line that leads up to the dominant (ex.18). The dominant is introduced by an augmentedsixth chord that highlights
the descending half step AU266D–G
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Example 18
(ex.18, mm.258–59). There is a subtle enharmonic connection between the low AU266D and the high ascending passing tone g# (m.275) within the extended
cadential progression of mm.267–84.
The enharmonic pair AU266D/G# plays an even more important role when the second theme returns (mm.284–94) in the concluding section of the coda. This return
is particularly moving because the second theme appears in C major in a hymnlike form for the first time. (In the recapitulation, only the embellished version of the
second theme was presented in the tonic.) By presenting each phrase of the theme in different registers, Beethoven provides a response to the registral shifts in the
preceding cadenzalike passage (mm.279–83). The end of the theme is delayed by the questioning repetition of the theme's penultimate measure in different octaves.
This delay makes the concluding return of the opening theme sound decisively final. The contrast between the passing tones AU266E and AU266D in the repeated
penultimate measure (mm.290–94) reflects the mixture of C major and C minor that is so characteristic of this piece. The AU266D also creates an effective
enharmonic contrast with the G#s in the earlier measures of the theme. 17
Beethoven provides a sense of final resolution at the end of the coda by bringing back the opening theme in a "normalized" form condensed to
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eight measures from the original thirteen (ex.19). Now the chromatically descending bass from I to V7 supports a harmonic progression that establishes a sense of tonal
stability: IV 4/2 /VV6V 4/2 /IVU266DIV6IV6V7.3 18 The
Example 19
chromatic bass tones BU266D and AU266D are deemphasized rhythmically, as if to show that major has finally vanquished minor. Most important, for the first time
the theme brings a decisive linear descent in the top voice from G (5) to C (I). This is a magnificent culmination of a series of topvoice motions that include scales
descending from f3. The series begins with the opening theme, in which the resolution of f3 to the e1 at the beginning of the bridge sounds equivocal owing to the
rhythmic separation between them (mm.9–14). Far more decisive are the resolutions of f3 to e1 ushering in the recapitulation and the return of the second theme in the
coda (mm.155–56, 282–84). Finally, at the end of the coda, the e continues down to c, bringing the movement to a powerful conclusion.
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Integration and Narrative Design in Beethoven's Piano Sonata in A Major,
Opus 110
William Kinderman
Among Beethoven's later works, the Piano Sonata in AU266D Major, op.110, assumes a special and even pivotal position. The drastic contrasts of its design,
embracing moods ranging from the comic buffoonery of the second movement to the radical juxtaposition of Arioso dolente and lyrical fugue in the finale, anticipate
features of subsequent compositions such as the "Diabelli" Variations and the C#Minor String Quartet, op.131. But as in these pieces, Beethoven also infuses op.110
with a particularly rich array of connecting devices while incorporating a network of forecasts and reminiscences of themes no less dense than those in the Ninth
Symphony.
Some of the relations between movements are obvious and familiar, but others are easily overlooked. Their importance for Beethoven is reflected in a complex of
revisions from late in the compositional process, when he strove to impose an evertighter association among the movements of the sonata. The present study concerns
these integrative features and their evolution in Beethoven's compositional process, but it also addresses the issue of Beethoven's musical symbolism and narrative
structure. The symbolism and thematic integration of op.110 are so closely linked that it seems
For helpful comments and suggestions from the earliest stages of this study, I am grateful to Harald Krebs, Eva SolarKinderman, and especially Kevin Korsyn. Research for this
study was supported by the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada.
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arbitrary to separate them in analysis. In spite of its powerful contrasts, the whole work seems to "radiate, as it were, from a central experience," to borrow the words
of J.W.N. Sullivan referring to the last quartets. 1 Integration becomes inevitable, even axiomatic, in op.110 since the piece seems to be posited fundamentally on the
unification, or balancing coexistence, of contrary modalities. Thus, here, and in other late works by Beethoven, as Alfred Brendel has observed, every new complexity
is accompanied by its antithesis, a childlike simplicity, and every innovation by a resurrection of earlier styles. In Brendel's words, the tremendous richness of this idiom
"embraces the past, present, and future, the sublime and the profane."2
Beethoven once gave a name to aspects of this process, in his letter of 29 July 1819 to the Archduke Rudolph. After mentioning his research into earlier music in
connection with the writing of the Missa solemnis, Beethoven described Handel and Bach as masters of genius, praising their superior "solidity" (Festigkeit), while at
the same time stressing both the "refinement of our [modern] virtues that has advanced matters" and the need for "freedom" and "progress … in the world of art, as in
the whole of creation."3 To refer to his own artistic goal in this context Beethoven used the word Kunstvereinigung, or "artistic unification,'' a notion that, as Hans
Werner Küthen has shown, is connected to his intense assimilation of Handel and Bach during these years.4 The enhanced scope of Beethoven's later music was
immediately evident to perceptive critics at the time. In 1824, in the first substantial review of op.110, Adolf Bernhard Marx observed that the fugue in the finale "has
to be studied next to the richest by
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Bach and Handel." 5 Marx also recognized how Beethoven's treatment departed from that of his predecessors and concluded his essay as follows: "That is a
Beethovenian fugue. Look here, how one learns art and then leaves it behind through a liberated spiritual striving."6
The concept of Kunstvereinigung embraces not only Beethoven's interest in Handel and Bach or earlier modal music but also his more general fascination with
preexisting musical material. The "Diabelli" Variations are the greatest single monument to this tendency, through which the commonplace could be transformed into
any number of characters and shapes. Beethoven's use of Diabelli's trivial waltz was by no means confined to its improvement and aesthetic transformation; the theme
served him above all as a medium through which he could explore an encyclopedic range of expressive contexts, including even the ironic and the parodistic, more
biting forms of the humor that had long been an essential dimension of his art.7 Op.110 absorbs commonplace material into its second, scherzolike movement, and
like the Variations and some of the last quartets it confronts the listener—at the shift from the comic Allegro molto to the following recitative, suggesting Passion music,
or between the Arioso and the fugue—with the most radical disparities in character. One thinks in this connection of the transition from the frenetic twentyeighth
variation to the tragic depth of the slow minor group of the "Diabelli," of the shift from the childlike Presto to the Adagio quasi un poco andante in the C#Minor
Quartet, or, inversely, of the finale of the Ninth Symphony, with the sublime "und der Cherub steht vor Gott" yielding to the ''Turkish" processional music in 6/8. And
not unlike the Ninth Symphony is the sense in op.110 of a perspective transcending the individual movements and relating them to one another as part of a larger
whole. The use of recitative to introduce the final movements of both works is only the most obvious landmark in this process.
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Even more than Beethoven's earlier music, these late compositions depict an open universe, in which the quest for the spiritual is not divorced from the mundane but
defined in relation to it. In the Missa solemnis, the fragile prayer for peace in the Dona nobis pacem is juxtaposed with threats to "inner and outer peace," the latter in
the form of music of war. In the Ninth Symphony, the "Joy" theme unmistakably embodies a popular style with claims to social universality, a style that is elevated to
the sublime through instrumental music that transcends words in its capacity to evoke or symbolize spiritual states. 8 In the Mass as well, the priority of Beethoven's
music as an interpretation of the text is affirmed in his largescale formal design in the Credo, with its important symbolic connotations, and in his decision to grant the
most prominent soloistic role not to one of the vocalists but to the violin in the Benedictus.9
In turn, purely instrumental works from these years, such as op.110, tend to evoke the aura of the Mass and to employ some of the same symbolic devices. Each of
the last three sonatas, moreover, displays an analogous sense of teleological progression, whereby the musical phenomena not only are guided by their immediate
context but also move toward a culmination of contemplative, hymnlike character. Op.110 resembles the Mass inasmuch as it contains an explicit turning point—the
recitative—after which the music is focused on the duality of earthly pain and yearning aspiration, leading to an apotheosis of the fugal subject in the closing moments.
An analogous turning point in the Missa solemnis is reached at the dark orchestral Praeludium and in the following Benedictus, with its elaborate violin aria with vocal
accompaniment, an aria that culminates Beethoven's symbolic use of the luminous high register. By comparison, op.110 inverts the teleological progression of the
Mass: its arioso is a lament analogous to the Agnus Dei, and not only does the consoling alternative embodied in the fugue correspond to the Dona nobis pacem, but in
those closing passages of resolution, when the fugal subject is extended into the high register to find its thematic completion, it can also be compared ultimately to the
Benedictus. The explication of these relations re
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quires detailed analysis, especially careful attention to rhetorical and symbolic features of the music that are easily passed over by formalist methodologies.
The term "narrative design" calls for special comment here in view of recent studies devoted to narrative in music. The concept of narration is by no means confined to
literature, and music—which was often compared in Beethoven's day with oratory—clearly offers a medium with its own narrative possibilities. 10 We should not tie
discussion of musical narrative inevitably to analogies with literature; Anthony Newcomb has rightly pointed out that largescale musical patterns without text, whether
within or across movements, can convey meaning properly described as narrative in quality.11 In a musical style as rich in allusion and complex in its temporality as late
Beethoven, the process of unfolding of an integrated network of relations demands careful critical scrutiny. No single analytical paradigm, however, allows more than a
very partial engagement with the musical work of art. A highly systematic application of analytical methodologies can be overvalued and sometimes even risks
distorting rather than clarifying the objects of investigation. The more promising critical approach is to attempt to make analytical concepts transparent to the work
under consideration, testing their relevance in a concrete musical context.12
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For this reason, I have not defined the terms "integration" and "narrative design" too narrowly at the outset; it is a burden of the following discussion to explore their
meaning in the specific context of Beethoven's sonata.
II
Beethoven began work on op.110 in the late summer or early fall of 1821, shortly after his recovery from an outbreak of jaundice, an ominous symptom of the liver
disease that eventually claimed his life. 13 Like ops. 109 and 111, the work was composed as an interruption in Beethoven's labors on the Missa solemnis.
Juxtaposed with his sketches for the sonata is work on the Agnus Dei and Dona nobis pacem of the Mass as well as numerous entries for passages in the Credo. In its
later stages, the writing of op.110 overlapped with work on the final sonata, op.111, as is indicated not only from the rather close proximity of the dates on their
autograph scores (25 December 1821 and 13 January 1822, respectively) but also from the juxtaposition of entries for the last movements of the two sonatas in the
pocket sketch leaves now cataloged as Paris, MSS 51 and 80 in the Bibliothèque Nationale.14 Beethoven's labors on the finale of op.110 are vividly reflected in the
original autograph score, which was so heavily revised that he prepared a new score for this part of the work before returning to the last pages of the main autograph
to enter his final revisions.15
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Of all Beethoven's compositions, this sonata shows perhaps the most powerful directional thrust toward its conclusion, and even into the silence beyond. The division
of the finale into the double statement of a paired Arioso dolente and fugue, the subtle network of motivic and textural relations shared between the movements, and
the symbolic connotations of the themes all contribute to this effect. Important as well is the tentative quality of the first movement. Jürgen Uhde and Renate Wieland
have recently described the opening Moderato cantabile, molto espressivo as "music of expectation" ("Musik der Erwartung"), alluding to the special capacity of the
work to anticipate its own future. 16 The intervallic structure of the fugue subject in the finale, for instance, with its three successive rising fourths (AU266D–DU266D,
BU266D–EU266D, C–F) is already latent in the opening four measures of the first movement. This initial phrase is set apart from the continuation through its
polyphonic texture and fermata and functions almost like a motto for the entire sonata (see ex.1a, b).17 The later fugal subject represents a kind of intervallic
crystallization or even purification of the motto. The vocal character and harmonic consonance of the fugal subject in op.110 bear comparison to parts of the Dona
nobis pacem in the Missa solemnis, and, in its function within the whole sonata, the fugal subject acts like a symbolic counterpart to the "Joy" theme of the Ninth. As in
the symphony, this subject must first be discovered and then allowed to fulfill its potential. The basic character of the first movement, accordingly, is that of unfulfilled
yearning; the music hints at more than it can encompass.
Carl Dahlhaus has described how Beethoven's treatment of "cantabile and thematic process" in the Moderato cantabile, molto espressivo tends to synthesize and
combine materials first heard successively.18 At the beginning of the development, for example, Beethoven brings together the
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Example 1: a. Piano Sonata, op.110, beginning of movt.I. b. Piano Sonata
op.110, beginning of fugue. c. Missa solemnis, op.123, Agnus Dei (mm.107–10).
head of the lyrical opening theme with the accompaniment in broken chords from its continuation (m.5), whereas at the recapitulation he merges the lyrical theme with
the shimmering thirtysecondnote figuration drawn from the transition of the exposition (m.12). In turn, the sequential and registral expansion at the recapitulation as
well as the rapid accompanimental figuration anticipate aspects of the conclusion of the finale, with its comparable accompanimental texture, abandonment of fugal
texture, and penetration into the high register.
But coexisting with these tendencies toward progressive integration are passages that seem blocked and unable to continue organically or are characterized by
withdrawal or reminiscence. The development, for instance, is one of the most static Beethoven ever wrote. The bare descending octaves outlining the third EU266D–
DU266D–C not only preface the development but set in motion a huge falling linear progression through an entire octave, whose momentum is reversed only at the
outset of the recapitulation. Within these sixteen measures, the opening motive is reiterated no less than eight times. It seems powerless to recapture the third bar of its
earlier con
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tinuation at the beginning of the movement. The chain of suspensions passes through various keys, with dissonant suspensions in the inner voice and mysterious,
dynamically inflected scalar figures in the bass. In contrast to the exposition or recapitulation, the music seems aimless, resigned to repetitious descent. The arrival of
the recapitulation in this context sounds not prepared, as the logical outcome of musical architecture, but rather like a surprising turning point, and precisely for that
reason it anticipates something of the character of the fugue that follows the Arioso dolente. Beethoven is composing not merely with a linear succession of ideas in
op.110 but with materials whose relation can be founded paradoxically on disjunction or opposition. 19
Certain passages thus reveal not simply a progressive unfolding, but on the contrary underscore the music's failure to progress, opening a void that is filled through the
reexamination of earlier parts of the discourse. The process is sufficiently complex that analysis of a single passage—such as the final six measures of the first
movement—entails consideration of threads of connection reaching across the entire work (see ex.2). This closing passage marks the last of several striking
withdrawals from the high pitch registers toward the end of the first movement and brings a drop of a tenth from high AU266D to F along with an abandonment of the
thirtysecondnote figuration. The characteristic Beethovenian dynamic intensification of a crescendo leading suddenly to piano here highlights the crucial pitch F,
which becomes the focal point for a concentrated summary of the movement. F is significant in part because the ability—or inability—of the primary thematic complex
to rise from the tonic to the sixth (from AU266D to F) is vital to its narrative and dramatic continuity. At the beginning, F forms the upper compass of the opening
fourmeasure motto as well as the peak of the following period (m.10). And whereas throughout the development the motivic unfolding to the sixth is denied, at the
beginning of the recapitulation the music achieves this goal, and even moves beyond it. The climactic aura at the beginning of the recapitulation thus arises not only from
the synthesis of themes noted by Dahlhaus but also from the new continuation, as the motto rises beyond F to GU266D in the left hand (m.62) while an ethereal thirty
secondnote figuration resonates above it on the high octave
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Example 2: Piano Sonata, op.110, conclusion of movt.I.
AU266D. This passage even brings a momentary change of key to DU266D, opening up passages of developmental character in which Beethoven recapitulates a
portion of the exposition in the flat submediant, E major. The structural importance of F resumes, however, in later passages in AU266D major: it becomes the
registral peak of the second group in the recapitulation, and the mysterious transition to the coda also stresses F as a melodic goal.
Thus in the coda the interruption of the shimmering high figuration through the fall to F, the recall of the extension of the motto in the left hand (drawn from the
recapitulation, cf.m.112; the intervallic parallels are marked in ex.2 with asterisks), and the reiteration of the telltale F in the next measure—all of these summarize a
process that has not yet run its course, one that must carry over into the remaining movements. The passage is at once a reminiscence and a foreshadowing. As he
cadences, Beethoven retains the original polyphonic texture, register, and upper melodic outline of the opening motto—now reduced to the rising and falling semitone
C–DU266D and DU266D–C—while simultaneously preparing the sonority and spacing that is to begin the Allegro molto, namely, the third C–AU266D, which is
about to be reharmonized in F minor. At the same time, the penultimate dissonant diminishedseventh chord containing FU266D (m.115) foreshadows the climactic
dissonant sonority that is to be resolved into the closing AU266D chord at the very end of the concluding fugue.
In both of the other sonatas of Beethoven's final trilogy, ops. 109 and 111, a similar narrative thread can be observed in the codas of the opening movements. In the
EMajor Sonata, op.109, the closing material
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(mm.75ff.) synthesizes aspects of the two main contrasting themes while also foreshadowing, through its repeated stress on the falling whole step C#–B, the melodic
crux of the variation theme of the finale (m.14). The sudden dislocation in register and rhythm at the cadence of the opening movement serves, moreover, to set up the
surprising plunge into the following Prestissimo in the minor. In op.111, on the other hand, the coda (mm.150ff.) balances and resolves the threefold phrases based on
diminished sevenths from the sonata's slow introduction while preparing the following Arietta movement through both its turn to the major and its broadening in
register.
We have yet to consider the second theme group of the Moderato cantabile, molto espressivo of op.110, which not only retains a close motivic kinship with the
opening theme, as Uhde has pointed out, but also points toward events to come. 20 Most striking is its exploration of the high register, especially the high C that
returns as the uppermost pitch of the climatic AU266D sonority five measures from the close of the finale. This registral ceiling of the sonata (and of Beethoven's
piano) is sounded at the beginning at the second theme (m.20) and again eleven measures later (m.31) as the peak of a series of sequences rising out of the lower
register against a descending pattern in the bass. The latter c4 is emphasized both dynamically (sf followed by p) and registrally (the following phrase restores the low
register of m.28). Here, and in the recapitulation where the passage reaches F (a fifth lower), the upward movement peaks on a dissonance and is not sustained. If
these passages project a character of yearning and aspiration, the development, by contrast, marks time in passive repetition, stressing the unfulfilled nature of the
musical narrative.
The second movement serves as a scherzo in form and character, although it bears only the tempo designation "Allegro molto" in 2/4 meter. It shows the humorous
temper characteristic of Beethoven's scherzos, even though the tonic key is minor. As others have observed, Beethoven even absorbed material from two popular
songs, "Unsa Kätz häd Katzln ghabt" ("Our cat has had kittens") and "Ich bin lüderlich, du bist lüderlich'' ("I'm a slob, you're a slob"), into the main section of this
movement.21 The notion of Kunstvereinigung thus takes on different connotations here, reminding us both of Beethoven's tendency to exploit commonplace material
as
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a point of departure and of his interest in humorous parody. The opening phrase, with its use of "Unsa Kätz häd Katzln ghabt," is stated piano before being answered,
in Cooper's words, by a "C major shout," 22 and the sforzandi at cadences contradict the rounded phrase endings normal in Beethoven, and sound comic and
parodistic.
One key to the expressive associations of the Allegro molto rests in the text "I'm a slob, you're a slob." (The source of Beethoven's quotation and
Example 3: a. Popular song "Ich bin lüderlich, du bist lüderlich"
(from Cooper, Beethoven: The Last Decade,) p. 191. b. Piano Sonata,
op.110, Allegro molto, scherzo section (mm.17–21).
the passage in the Allegro molto are compared in ex. 3a, b.) The word "lüderlich" refers to a bedraggled or slovenly individual not fit for polite society. Beethoven
himself was once taken for such around this time when, miserably clothed and having lost his way in Wiener Neustadt, he was seen peering in at the windows of the
houses, whereupon the police were summoned. When arrested, the composer protested, "I am Beethoven," to which the policeman replied, "Of course, why not?
You're a tramp: Beethoven doesn't look like that." ("Warum nicht gar? Ein Lump sind Sie; so sieht der Beethoven nicht aus.")23 But even if there is an
autobiographical resonance in this passage, its main artistic significance lies in Beethoven's assimilation of the lowly, droll, and commonplace into the work, where such
material proves complementary to the most elevated of sentiments
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Structurally, the movement is dominated by the principle of contrary motion, which recalls the second theme group of the first movement. Most extravagant is the Trio,
whose falling cascades of figuration in the right hand seem to compress the thematic fourths into the smallest possible space, as Brendel has noted. 24 Here, contrary
motion forces a crossing of hands and produces relentless rising syncopations through all the pitch registers, played by the left hand. Heard against the intricate
descending figuration, they create a special kind of rhythmic counterpoint.
The Allegro molto would seem to be the least integrated link in the structure of the sonata, whose primary expressive function is contrast; but Beethoven nonetheless
takes pains to connect this movement to the transition to the finale. His primary means is rhetorical, through dynamics and more especially through a purposeful
slackening of tempo. The hesitant, questioning phrases with ritardandi at the end of the scherzo section — which are cut off so abruptly by the cadence in F minor —
assume importance, and since Beethoven prescribes a repetition of the second half of the scherzo after the trio, these conspicuous contrasting phrases are heard four
times in all. Both their thematic contour and their slowing in tempo foreshadow the "coda" to this movement, where Beethoven introduces a series of chords, each one
separated by a measure of rests. He thereby mandates the broadening of tempo through a change in notation.
This coda acts as a platform for the ensuing transition, bringing a change to F major in the final chord, which is to function as the dominant of BU266D minor. A
comparison of the ritardando phrase and the coda is shown in ex.4a, b. Both passages employ the pattern of a rising second followed by an ascending fourth and
falling step, and although the entire phrase is not literally duplicated in Beethoven's coda — where the falling step is a semitone instead of a whole tone and the whole
progression a fifth higher — the sforzati in the coda help underscore this motivic similarity. The hesitancy within the scherzo itself proves to be a signpost toward the
coda and transition, making clear that this contrasting Allegro molto is more a stage within a larger process than a selfsufficient entity. A sense of tension is thereby
embedded within the scherzo itself, which repeatedly attempts to shake off these lingering doubts in brusque selfassertion.
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Example 4: a. Piano Sonata, op.110, Allegro molto, end of scherzo section.
b. Piano Sonata, op.110, Allegro molto, conclusion.
The relationship goes still deeper, however, and a further kinship between the coda and the cadential progression of the scherzo, beginning at the "a tempo" marking at
m.36, consists in the prolongation and reshaping, in these closing measures, of the entire cadential phrase at its original pitch level, with DU266D interpolated before
the repeated high Cs in the highest voice and the resolution to F postponed until the beginning of the next movement. At the same time, still other aspects of these
closing moments of the scherzo relate in subtle ways to both the past and future of the work: the rising eighths in the left hand suggest a free inversion of the falling
figuration from the trio (which is noteworthy in light of the presence of analogous inversions and transformations elsewhere in the sonata); and the high, full Fmajor
chord closing the movement invites comparison not only with the surprising shift to major closing the second arioso, but also with the still higher, more climatic
AU266Dmajor chord which it remotely foreshadows, five measures from the end of the finale.
Another rhetorical gesture in the repetition of the scherzo hints at the underlying motivic affinity between two themes utterly opposed in their affective character,
namely, the opening phrases of the Allegro molto and the Arioso dolente. Beethoven transforms the prominent piano–forte alternations of the first scherzo phrases at
the return of the scherzo by inserting an unexpected ritardando in the second of the falling phrases (mm.104–07). Just as in the other ritardandi, this gesture implies a
hesitation within, or perhaps resistance to, the impetuous, driven character of the movement.
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In the case of the scherzo, as with the coda of the first movement, there are parallel procedures in both op.109 and op.111. At the heart of the Prestissimo in op.109
is an una corda passage devised to slow and then virtually suspend all sense of forward motion (mm.83–104, but esp. mm.97–104). Beethoven accomplishes this
effect by introducing an intervallic retrograde of the basic thematic cell, and he sets the passage apart through tonal and registral means, spareness of texture, and
through the extremely soft dynamic level, pianissimo and una corda, in contrast to the fortissimo and tutte le corde at the following recapitulation (mm.105ff.).
Here, in this still, inwardlooking moment of reflection, the music looks beyond its immediate context as in an act of clairvoyance, distantly foreshadowing the serenity
of the finale. In the first movement of op.111, on the other hand, the contrasting lyrical theme in AU266D major in the exposition is presented parenthetically in
mm.50–55, slowing the tempo and transforming the turbulent character of the work. Although this theme is then cut off abruptly by a resumption of the tempestuous
music of the Allegro, its return in the recapitulation is developed at greater length beginning in C major (m.116), preparing the remarkable transition in the coda to the
Arietta movement. In each of the last three sonatas, Beethoven's use of thematic contrast in his faster movements thus serves the larger function of foreshadowing the
spiritualized final movements; the narrative significance of this procedure is subtle but unmistakable. 25
Beethoven begins the finale of op.110 with music notated partly without bar lines and with a profusion of tempo and expressive directions. An explicit recitative
emerges in the fourth measure and moves for an instant to AU266D minor, the tonic minor of the sonata as whole. For some moments the music dwells
contemplatively on a high AU266E this gesture might be regarded as the vision of a distant goal, a premonition of the ascent into the high register at the conclusion of
the sonata. The recitative then falls in pitch, briefly touching on E major before returning to AU266D minor immediately preceding the great lament. In a sense, the
ensuing Arioso dolente is operatic in character, with a broadly extended but asymmetrical melody supported by expressive harmonies in the repeated chords of the
left
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hand. 26 The recitative already foreshadows the tragic passion of the lament and prefigures some of its motivic relations, particularly the crucial semitone FU266D–
EU266D that, as Kevin Korsyn has observed, is exposed in two registers in mm. 2–3 before appearing in the arioso in mm. 10–11, 14–15, 18–19, and 21–24, with
poignant effect.27 There is even a framing cadential gesture at the conclusion of the Arioso dolente (mm.25–26) that harks back to the end of the recitative (mm.6–7).
The pairing of the Arioso dolente with the fugue in AU266D major has no precedent in Beethoven's earlier piano music; its closest affinity, as we have seen, is with
the Agnus Dei and Dona nobis pacem of the Missa solemnis. The Agnus Dei in B minor is burdened by an overwhelming awareness of the sins of mankind and the
fallen state of earthly existence; by contrast, the Dona nobis pacem represents the promise of liberation from this endless cycle of suffering and injustice, symbolized by
the recurring and ominous approach of bellicose music.28 Significantly, Beethoven's setting of the Dona nobis pacem in D major employs a prominent motive outlining
ascending perfect fourths, which are filled in by conjunct motion. In the similar structure of the fugue subject of op.110, the last of three ascending perfect fourths is
filled in by stepwise descending motion, while smooth conjunct motion is also characteristic of the countersubjects (see ex.1b, c, p.118). The closest stylistic parallels
to this exalted fugal idiom in Beethoven's piano music are the Dmajor cantabile fugal episode in the finale of the "Hammerklavier" Sonata, from 1818, and the superb
Fughetta from the "Diabelli" Variations, written soon after op.110 in early 1823. Each of these works recalls the polyphony of J. S. Bach, assimilating that idiom into
the rich context of Beethoven's Kunstvereinigung.
Beethoven's later fugues tend to make extensive and sometimes exhaustive use of inversion, stretto, diminution, and augmentation. These de
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vices are employed not so much for their own sake as for expressive intensification, especially in the later stages of a work; in op.110 they are concentrated in the
second part of the fugue beginning in the remote G major. A central idea of this finale is the relation between the earthly pain of the lament and the consolation and
inward strength of the fugue. Initially, however, the fugue cannot be sustained; it breaks off suddenly on a dominantseventh chord of AU266D major, which is
reinterpreted as a German augmentedsixth chord, resolving to a Gminor triad. Beethoven's notation at this point implies that the eighth notes of the fugue should
approximately equal the sixteenths of the arioso, linking the sections as complementary moments of a larger process. The dark sonority of G minor is treated as the
tonic for the return of the Arioso dolente, now more despairing than before. The great lyric melody in its two stanzas is now laden with expressive sigh figures and
broken up by rests and additional syncopations. Beethoven writes "ermattet" ("exhausted") above the beginning of the second arioso and in his draft of the passage in
MS Paris 51, parts 1 and 5, contemplated a more consistently syncopated variant of the melody than he retained in the finished work. The bold tonal relation
contributes to the depressive atmosphere of the music, as the entire lament is restated in G minor, but the framing cadential gesture brings a shift to the major, with the
character of a miraculous discovery. Nine increasingly intense repetitions of this Gmajor sonority follow, dissolving into an arpeggiation that leads upward to the
inversion of the fugue subject, which now enters quietly and una corda, in G major.
The similarity between Beethoven's approaches to the second arioso and the following fugue is striking: whereas the Gminor arioso is reached through a falling
arpeggio and eight repeated chords, the later transition to the fugue consists of ten slower, syncopated chords and an ascending arpeggiation. The inverted fugue
subject displays a closer affinity in contour and register to the arioso theme than had the original fugal subject. It now outlines exactly the same pitches, falling from D
to F#, as are contained in the opening phrase of the arioso. This closer link suggests a symbolic drawing of life from despair, an interpretation that is supported not
only by Beethoven's inscription at the head of the fugue, "nach u. nach sich neu belebend" ("gradually coming anew to life"), but also from tonal affinities between the
arioso and the second fugue, which soon passes into C minor and G minor (mm. 148ff.). At the same time, the link between the arioso and the inverted fugue subject
complements the affinity between the first
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movement theme and the fugue subject, contributing to a matrix of relations extending across the entire work.
The concluding fugue thus begins in the key of the leading tone, to remerge only later into the tonic AU266D major in the triumphant final passages. The strong tonal
contrast enhances the power of the conclusion; equally striking is Beethoven's masterful treatment of contrapuntal permutations in the transition from G major to
AU266D major. Not only does the subject accompany itself in diminution and augmentation, but it also appears in double diminution, comprising a decorating motivic
cell that surrounds the sustained note values of the inverted subject (mm.170–74). The entrance of the original subject in m.174 is accompanied by sixteenthnote
figuration continuing the texture of double diminution, giving the effect that the theme is glorified by its own substance. The transition from the darkness and pessimism
of the Arioso dolente to the light and ecstasy of the fugue is now fully accomplished; and even the contrapuntal texture can be left behind, as Beethoven extends the
subject melodically into the high register before resolving it, once and for all, into the emphatic, widely spaced AU266Dmajor sonority five measures before the
conclusion (ex. 5). This structural downbeat represents a goal toward which the whole work seems to have aspired. Yet the true conclusion lies beyond this chord in a
rapport with silence, as (in Brendel's words) the work throws off even "the chains of music itself." 29
Still another feature of this resolution is its use of what Joseph Kerman, writing about Beethoven's codas, has termed thematic "completion."30 Only at the last
appearance of the theme does the upward movement from the tonic AU266D not only reach the sixth, F, but move beyond through GU266D to the upper octave to
affirm first high C at the beginning of the closing arpeggiations and then AU266D in the final chord. In the first movement, the related musical configuration succeeded
only in reaching F, or, more tentatively, GU266D, in the lower voice at the recapitulation; later, the trio of the scherzo had laid great stress on the semitone step
GU266D–F in a different tonal context. Only in the stretto between soprano and bass at the conclusion of the first fugue does the music briefly attain its goal of
AU266D, as it reaches the octave through GU266E and EU266D (m.108), and then sounds the threshold to the
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Example 5: Piano Sonata, op. 110, conclusion of finale.
implied cadence at the dynamically accented dominantseventh chord of AU266D on which the fugue breaks off. The disappointment, even depression of the second
arioso—which so strongly resembles the "Beklemmt" section of the Cavatina of the String Quartet op.130—is a reaction to this failure of the fugue to sustain a
resolution. The following arpeggiations on the dominantseventh of AU266D, unlike the more rapid, ecstatic arpeggiations at the close of the work, lack the energy, or
spiritual strength, to resist the depressive forces embodied in the Arioso dolente.
III
Marx's comment that Beethoven "leaves [art] behind through a liberated spiritual striving" in his fugue in op.110 applies more generally to Beethoven's fugues of the
later years, which serve typically not as ends in themselves but as means to an end. Unlike fugues by Bach, Beethoven's examples tend not to be rounded off and
concluded but instead dissipate suddenly after a peak of climactic intensity created through such contrapuntal devices as stretto, diminution, and especially thematic
combination.
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An example is the great fugue on "Et vitam venturi saeculi Amen" in the Credo of the Missa solemnis. Its twopart structure allows Beethoven to base the second
section on rhythmic diminution of the first, creating thereby a great increase in tension. The climax builds on this process by reintroducing the long note values of the
original subject in combination with the texture in diminution while also extending the primary thematic complex of the movement upward to reach the high referential
sonority that had been foreshadowed in a number of earlier passages. 31 After this climax, the fugal texture has been exhausted, and is discontinued; the continuation is
homophonic. Similarly, the fugue that Beethoven labeled as the penultimate "Diabelli" variation is also constructed from two sections, the second a diminution of the
first. Here again, the fugue receives no closure but dissipates suddenly into a great dissonant chord after a climactic combination of themes, in which the original fugal
subject in longer note values appears in the texture of rhythmic diminution.
In op. 110, of course, the second part of the fugue does not introduce the rhythmic diminution of the subject immediately; rather, it first presents its inversion una
corda in G major. This section then expands the contrapuntal development of the material to its limits through the simultaneous unfolding of both augmentation and
diminution; extraordinarily, the compressed double diminution version of the subject occupies only oneeighth of the temporal space of the elongated subject, posing a
special challenge to performers and listeners. In this work, unlike the fugue of the "Diabelli" Variations, the climax of contrapuntal complexity is not of primarily
dramatic character, but it is reflective and exploratory. Only gradually, as a result of the discovery of the rhythmic texture in double diminution and the rediscovery,
moments later, of the tonic key of AU266D major, are the necessary components assembled for the escape from the fugal labyrinth and the emergence of the closing
hymn of apotheosis. The sonata parallels the climax of the "Et vitam venturi" fugue inasmuch as it extends the fugal subject in rising sequences above the rhythmic
texture in diminution, leading to a climactic sonority of symbolic import. Unlike in the Mass or the Ninth Symphony, however, this sonority forms the close of the entire
sonata.
A suggestive analogy can also be drawn to that earlier work by Beethoven containing a dualistic composite finale, the Fifth Symphony
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from 1808. There, the Scherzo is joined directly to the closing Allegro and is then recalled before its recapitulation. It is even possible to interpret Beethoven's early
movement draft for the symphony as evidence that he regarded these two movements as one, at least at an early stage of composition. 32 Comparison of the sonata
and the symphony not only reveals common ground but underscores the different aesthetic concerns of Beethoven in his later work, concerns also linked to differences
in genre. Unlike the conclusion of the Fifth, which is outward and public in nature, evoking an "éclat triomphal" with ties to French revolutionary music, the sonata finale
presents a more intimate, spiritualized triumph.33 The narrative sequence or quest embodied in both pieces culminates in a weighty finale; consequently, the
anticipations of the finale in earlier stages of each work assume special importance and compromise the autonomy of preceding movements. Three times in the
Andante of the Fifth Symphony the music turns to C major with trumpets and drums, coming to the threshold of what becomes the point of departure for the finale. In
the symphony the direct rhythmic transition to the beginning of the finale makes the latter sound like a gigantic structural downbeat, in relation to which the two inner
movements function as an enormous anacrusis. The regression represented by Beethoven's recall of the Cminor scherzo later in the finale may be a reminder of the
conditional, and perhaps provisional, nature of the conclusion, but the coda is entirely untouched by doubts, as indeed it must be in order to balance the Cminor
tension at the beginning of the symphonic cycle.
If the resolution at the conclusion of op.110 is more tenuous, this effect derives largely from Beethoven's decision to incorporate the function of slow movement into
the Arioso dolente, pairing its appearances with those of the fugue. Whereas in the Fifth Symphony the scales between Scherzo and finale are heavily tipped in favor
of the latter, in op.110 they are del
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icately balanced, with less sense that the final resolution is preordained or inevitable or that the modality of the lament is left so far behind. In this sense, op.110 is a less
optimistic but perhaps more human testament. It is revealing in this connection to analyze the crucial passages at the end of the first fugue, whose climax proves
insufficient to withstand or prevent a return of the bleak Arioso dolente in its Gminor presentation. This brings us to the evidence of Beethoven's compositional
process preserved in his sketches and autographs since no part of the work seems to have posed greater difficulties than the end of this first fugal section.
Beethoven's changes to this fugue were responsible for his writing out a new fair copy to serve as autograph of the last movement. As Schenker and Küthen have
observed, however, that version too was superseded, and Beethoven finally entered the passages we know near the end of the original autograph score. 34 Karl
Michael Komma has transcribed the earlier versions of the fugue as well as other superseded passages in his commentary to the facsimile of the autograph, and
Küthen has provided a detailed concordance of the different versions, incorporating a source for one passage unknown to Komma.35 Rather than focus on these
rejected versions to the fugue, I shall evaluate the changes that Beethoven incorporated into the finished work in conjunction with revisions to other movements from
late in the process of composition. Several of these changes—to the final cadential passages of the first and last movements, to the trio of the scherzo, and to the end
of the first fugal section—show points of contact pertaining to the structure and narrative sequence of the work as a whole.
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Example 6: Preliminary version of cadence to movt. I in the autograph score.
Beethoven's first version in the autograph of the final cadence of the Moderato cantabile, molto espressivo is shown in ex.6, in Komma's transcription. His
incorporation of the version we know links the end of the movement more closely with both the beginning of the Allegro molto and the conclusion of the entire work.
As we have seen, Beethoven facilitates the transition to the scherzo by repeating the final AU266Dmajor chord with the third C–AU266D on top. At the same time,
the dissonant penultimate chord—a diminishedseventh sonority G–BU266D–DU266D–FU266D over the pedal AU266D — is the same harmony as the penultimate
chord at the conclusion of the finale. Both Beethoven's incorporation of this distinctive harmony into the final cadence of the entire work and his later decision to
anticipate it in the first movement can be traced in the manuscript sources. In his early draft for the cadence to the finale, in the pocket sketch leaf Paris 51, part 2, this
chord is not yet present, but it does appear in the canceled draft contained in the autograph, even before other prominent aspects of the passage had been
incorporated (see ex.7). Two measures from the final version are absent, and the treble is also left out in the three measures preceding the closing tonic resolution.
Beethoven's uncertainty related to the continuation of the fugue subject after its melodic ascent to the sixth degree F, the normal ceiling for this thematic material in the
first and last movements. In his subsequent revision, Beethoven incorporated an additional rising sequence to GU266D, resolving to F in the following measure, with
this pattern serving as his model for two further sequences. Melodically, the following measures follow the same pattern up a whole tone, with AU266D resolving to
GU266E, although harmonically the sequence diverges at the diminishedseventh chord. The powerful sense of resolution brought by the final AU266Dmajor chord is
enhanced through its departure from this melodic pattern, as the upper voice now rises to the third, C, falling to AU266D only five measures later.
Entirely on its own terms, Beethoven's insertion of the two measures strengthens the cadential progression through its creation of a threefold ris
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Example 7: Canceled draft of conclusion of the finale in the autograph score
(from Komma, Die Klaviersonate AsDur Op.110 von Ludwig van Beethoven, pp. 53–54).
ing sequence expressed in twomeasure units; it also broadens and extends the threefold ascending sequence contained in the fugal theme itself. But in its final version
the passage can also be heard in relation to those moments in the first movement when the music strives to reach beyond the thematic sixth encompassing AU266D–F,
as occurs at the recapitulation and in the coda. By far the most prominent stress on the semitone GU266D–F occurs not in the first or last movements, however, but in
the trio of the scherzo. The trio begins and ends in DU266D but outlines a GU266D harmony in its third and fourth phrases, with the shift announced by a striking
emphasis on the semitone F–GU266D in the left hand in the high register. Moreover, the return to DU266D is marked by a forceful emphasis on this semitone
GU266D–F, expressed in octaves in the right hand (ex.8).
Noteworthy in this connection is Beethoven's very last revision to the work, his decision to add the first of the two phrases on GU266D to the trio, prolonging the
stress on this harmony while incorporating the half step F–GU266D in the left hand. The revision must date from spring 1822, several months after completion of the
rest of the score, since it is sketched only in the middle
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Example 8: Piano Sonata, op.110, trio of scherzo.
of the following standardformat sketchbook, Artaria 201 (pp.78–79), after the entries for op.111. Unlike so many of Beethoven's sketchbooks, Artaria 201 appears
to be complete, and its entries were evidently made in the order we find them. 36 This final addition to the score was probably made not long before the sonata was
first printed since the first edition was published by Schlesinger by about July 1822. It is interesting that in Artaria 201, but also in the autograph, Beethoven wrote
beside his sketches the single interval F–GU266D, an intervallic relation of importance in the outer movements as well.37 One might even be tempted to associate the
DU266Dmajor context of this motivic relation in the trio with the recapitulation of the first movement, which moves into DU266D major immediately after GU266D is
reached in the left hand (mm.62–63).
Beethoven's final revision of the link between the first fugue and the Gminor arioso must have been made somewhat earlier than his addition to the trio, although it
does occupy some of the last pages appended to the end of the autograph and probably represents one of his last inspirations in the composition of the sonata.
Example 9 shows Beethoven's penultimate version of the last measures of the fugue. A difficulty with this version was surely its premature arrival at high AU266D,
which appears one measure earlier than in the finished work. The AU266D is held excessively long and, instead of being approached in a stepwise, logical fashion,
appears suddenly after a statement of the fugal subject in its original form.38 In fact, scrutiny of Beethoven's draft reveals that it is incomplete in precisely the same way
that his draft for the final cadence at the end of the finale had been: while the upper AU266D was outlined as the linear goal in both passages, he had not
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Example 9: Penultimate version of the conclusion of first fugue in the autograph score
(from Komma, Die Klaviersonate AsDur Op.110 von Ludwig van Beethoven, p.44).
yet figured out how this tonal space was to be traversed. Both are exceptional moments in the work in that the normal ceiling of the fugal subject was to be lifted in
them. At the end of the first fugue, however, a definitive cadence had to be avoided.
Beethoven's solution was to incorporate a double ascent in stretto and diminution between soprano and bass, whereby the soprano reaches the goal of AU266D
through extension of the series of fourths AU266D–DU266D, BU266D–EU266D, C–F, DU266D–G, EU266D–AU266D (see ex.10). The stepwise descending
fourth F–EU266D–DU266D–C from the original subject was thus eliminated and the theme expanded from within. The bass entry similarly sheds this falling
configuration and reaches AU266D a half measure later through the linear ascent F–G–AU266D, following the same thematic pattern of three fourths. One earlier
passage in the fugue, the fortissimo entry beginning in the bass on G, had also extended the series of fourths, but on a different pitch level; this final stretto, with its
prolongation of the fugal subject in both voices through the octave, comes close to stabilizing and confirming the message of the fugue, with its symbolic character as a
consoling alternative to the arioso.
In an exceptionally subtle stroke, Beethoven even builds a melodic foreshadowing of the impending return of the arioso into the descending contours of the highest
voice, just before the breaking off of the fugue (see ex.11a, b). The material here, to be sure, is akin to that of the fugal countersubject, but Beethoven's rhythmic
emphasis on F, his placement of the turn C–DU266D–BU266D, and his stress on BU266D at the trill on the dominant of AU266D
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Example 10: Piano Sonata, op.110, conclusion of the first fugue.
Example 11: a. Highest voice, end of
first fugue. b. Head of Arioso dolente.
make the entire configuration resemble the head of the Arioso, with its opening linear structure 5–4–3–2–3–1. This apparent allusion to the melodic profile of the
Arioso reverses the upward aspirational drive of the music at the very last moment, shortly before the reinterpretation of this dominant seventh as a German sixth casts
the work into the dark key of G minor for the more despairing version of the lament. At this pivotal juncture, the seemingly incompatible modalities of fugue and arioso
are briefly juxtaposed and overlapped, displaying a precarious interdependence and perhaps also a necessary coexistence as symbols of fundamental components of
human experience.
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IV
We may conclude by returning to the implications of Beethoven's Kunstvereinigung in op.110 and to its narrative structure. According to Cooper's interpretation of
the fugal sections, "Beethoven's reply to the human grief and distress of the two arioso stanzas is the contemplation of a harmonious world whose laws are absolute
and objective, neither subject to human passion nor concerned with anything beyond themselves." Yet this judgment would seem to apply far more to the first fugue,
which, as Cooper points out, is "almost immaculately traditional in form," than to the second, whose freedoms go well beyond Baroque models. 39 Indeed,
Beethoven's inscription, "nach u. nach sich neu belebend" ("gradually coming anew to life"), and the related progression from una corda to tutte le corde with a
slowing in tempo, leading subsequently to a restoration of both the basic tempo and the tonic AU266D major when the fugal subject appears in octaves in the bass,
imply that ''contemplation of a harmonious world whose laws are absolute and objective" is insufficient to hold the balance against the despair of the arioso stanzas.
Rather, the contrapuntal matrix of the fugue in inversion, with its detached, remote quality, needs to be infused with a new energy, an energy that arises not naturally
through traditional fugal procedures but only through an exertion of will that strains those processes to their limits and ends by overthrowing the selfcontained texture
of fugue altogether.
In this connection Tovey stresses that, in the closing fugue, Beethoven eschewed an "organlike climax" with its ascetic connotations as a "negation of the world": "Like
all Beethoven's visions, this fugue absorbs and transcends the world."40 This open, comprehensive quality of op.110 is conveyed through Beethoven's incorporation of
the comic Allegro molto, with its use of commonplace material, as well as through his apparent allusion to that movement during the double diminution passage of the
fugue (ex.12a, b). The rhythmic and registral correspondence between these passages renders the beginning of the doublediminution passage transparent to "Ich bin
lüderlich, du bist lüderlich," reinforcing Tovey's
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Example 12: a. Piano Sonata, op.110, Allegro molto.
b. Piano Sonata, op.110, double diminution passage in fugue.
sense of an absorption of the "world"; the parallel is clearly audible, in part because Beethoven compresses the fugal subject in diminution, deleting the second of the
three rising fourths. Both motives stress the fourths spanning AU266D–EU266D and C–G, which are inverted in the fugue, and the placement of faster note values is
parallel.
The rhythmic developments that point the way out of Beethoven's fugal labyrinth distort the subject, compressing it almost beyond recognition while simultaneously
opening a means of connection to the earlier movements of the cycle through what Dahlhaus calls "subthematic figuration." 41 In this sense, the Meno mosso marks a
crucial stage of emancipation from the apparent selfsufficiency of the fugue, with the rhythmic energy introduced through its double diminution becoming autonomous
as it "bursts into flame," in Tovey's words.42 Korsyn rightly regards the return to the tonic AU266D major, with the fugal subject in octaves in the bass and the primary
melodic tone c2 heard in the right hand (m.174), as a "moment of convergence,'' but the music continues to build in tension until the
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end. 43 What remains of the fugal texture after the return to AU266D major is a sequence of entries of the main subject in the bass, alto, and soprano in turn, followed
by an extension based on the syncopated passage from the middle of the first fugue (mm.40–46). The work is then capped, as we have seen, by the expanded
unfolding of the subject beginning in the higher register. The cadential AU266Dmajor chord with C in the uppermost voice (ex.5) arrives as a glorified representation
of the sonority that had begun the entire sonata.
In retrospect, all earlier stages of the work seem to have functioned as means to an end, which is but another way of expressing the allencompassing sense of
integration that embraces the whole. Beethoven's sonata seems to embody a concept of synthetic unity according to which the apparent selfsufficiency of its formal
divisions is again and again exposed as illusion. The dynamic thrust within the sonata surfaces at the recapitulation of the first movement, beginning with the new
combination of thematic elements and continuing into the modulations away from the tonic; the enclosing symmetry of literal recapitulation is thereby rejected. The
Allegro molto, on the other hand, implies the inadequacy of a passive, literal reception of experience through its humorous parody of the commonplace and astonishing
transformation of the basic motivic material in its trio. The elaborate double movement constituting the finale interweaves a complex of baroque forms,44 developing
the vocal quality already present in the first movement on a plane with more explicit expressive associations. Thus certain tendencies within the earlier movements are
distilled in its radical dichotomy. The static development of the first movement, with its constricted, repetitious structure and somber coloring, is subtly linked in its
character to the arioso; the "music of expectation" of the Moderato cantabile, molto espressivo anticipates not only the fugue with its aspiring character, but also the
Arioso dolente, with its depressive modality. Yet even the lament, with its rounded, selfcontained melodic structure, represents but one phase in an openended
narrative; at the very last moment in the Gminor arioso, its cadence is prolonged and transformed in the repeated chords of G major, with this remote tonality serving
as an unprecedented but viable path to the closing passages of synthesis and resolution.
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The overall narrative progression in op.110 is distinguished from a mere succession of musical events through the quality and density of its relations, which create
tension between a linear temporal unfolding, on the one hand, and a cyclic juxtaposition of contrasting modalities such as the lament and fugue, on the other. The
former is largely teleological in character, the latter immanent, based more on complementarity than resolution or transformation. Yet even here, as we have seen, the
inversion of the fugue bears an audible kinship to the head of the second arioso, helping impart a sense of the symbolic transformation of despair into renewed life. The
integration of arioso and fugue does not efface their duality; rather, it uncovers paths of continuity and associations that "overflow the musical scenario, lending a sense
of extramusical narrativity to otherwise untranslatable events," to quote Solomon's description of the Ninth Symphony. 45 In the music of his last decade, Beethoven's
use of special structural devices, such as parenthetical enclosure, often generates a temporal coexistence and interdependence of contrasting modalities that
significantly enriches the narrative possibilities of his forms. In the first movement of op.109, the juxtaposition of the bagatellelike Vivace and fantasylike Adagio
sections assumes such a parenthetical character, conveying the impression of one time enclosed within another. And in the last bagatelle of op.126 a sense of what
Walter Riezler called the ''world background" is embodied in the framing gesture of the Presto fanfare, which provides the raw material and a commonplace point of
origin and return for the meditative Andante forming the main body of the piece.46
Carolyn Abbate has recently discussed the "collapse of the analogy between music and narrative," arguing that music has no past tense and is mimetic, "trap[ping] the
listener in present experience and the beat of passing time, from which he cannot escape." In her view, temporally separated recurrences of musical units, whether as
leitmotivic formulas or largescale recapitulation, form part of what in literature would be described as the "artifice of discourse" and not the "story"; such repetition,
seen in terms of formalist aesthetics, is "structure, architecture, hence stasis: time froz
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zen." 47 In Beethoven's later works, however, the presence of musical gestures both immanent and teleological shows that this distinction misses the point, and that
our concept of narrative should be adjusted to account for the special resources of music. The recitative passages and recall of earlier movements in the finale of the
Ninth Symphony, for instance, take on a twofold temporal function: they operate teleologically, to underscore the role of the choral finale as a transcendence of the
preceding movements, and they also serve immanently to affirm the continuing, valid presence of the earlier modalities of the symphony at the threshold of the finale.
Subsequent allusions to the first movement later in the choral finale contribute vitally to its "dynamically open'' quality and to its symbolic, archetypal import.48 We
cannot consign such relations to an abstract, atemporal status or regard them as mere "artifice"; they are too fundamental to the artistic meaning. On the other hand,
use of the narrative concept in no way denies the immediacy of music, although it does encourage attention to musical relations that transcend a linear temporal
succession, thereby liberating the listener from confinement only to "present experience and the beat of passing time."
The discernment in op.110 of a narrative design of symbolic import—as opposed to a merely literal, programmatic narrative—is of course not a new discovery but a
refinement and amplification of older insights.49 It may be relevant here to recall Beethoven's own enthusiastic response, in his letter of 19 July 1825, to the critical
writings of A. B. Marx and the composer's "fervent hope that Marx would continue to reveal the higher aspects of the true realm of art" as an antidote to "the mere
counting of syllables"—one example among others of an abstract mode of criticism in
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capable of grasping the essential artistic content. 50 Marx, by contrast—as Scott Burnham has recently pointed out—addressed Beethoven's works using the criteria
of "organic wholeness and coherence" and perceived in them a "dramatic narrative" containing "deep psychological truth."51
The analysis presented above has attempted to explore not only the successive musical events and their expressive connotations but also the precise nature of their
interconnection. It is regarding the linkage or integration of a series of musical modalities that some recent writers, such as JeanJacques Nattiez, have underestimated
the possibilities of music. For Nattiez, an "instrumental work is not in itself a narrative"; the narrative is regarded as inevitably a construction of the listener, who
imaginatively fills in gaps left between the musical events. With pieces such as Beethoven's op.110, however, the situation is actually the opposite: it is the work that
seems more fully integrated than any single hearing or interpretation of it and the work's structure that embodies the narrative thread. Nattiez's view that "in the
discourse of music, it is only a question of a play of forms and the reactions which they provoke" betrays the severely reductionist attitude underlying his position. What
I have termed a "narrative design" and Uhde describes as a "form of expectation" ("Gestalt der Erwartung") embracing the musical process as a whole, does not arise
from "the plot imagined and constructed by the listeners from functional objects," as in Nattiez's model, but involves instead the recognition of a configuration of
audible elements inherent in the work of art, a configuration whose relations are to a great extent empirically verifiable and which need to be assessed in context.
Nattiez confesses that, "on the level of the strictly musical discourse, I recognize returns, expectations and resolutions, but of what, I do
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not know." 52 But this is an evasion of the central critical task: to confront the work of art on its own terms. By assuming a priori an overly abstract concept of music,
Nattiez erects an illegitimate ontological barrier between the listener or interpreter and the work, prematurely closing the investigation into artistic meaning.53
Closely connected to these questions is the issue of musical analysis involving an assumption of organic unity or artistic autonomy, which has come under attack
recently for its alleged "tautology."54 In principle, there is no reason why the analysis of artistic unity should divorce works from their contexts or impose conventional
strictures on the music. The problem lies rather in a failure to distinguish between a rich, synthetic unity, whereby perceived relations are carefully tested against the
sound of a work, and a merely schematic, analytical unity, whereby a piece is made to conform to a system external to it.55 In practice, the former concept is not far
removed from the socalled multivalent approaches of some recent studies;56 according to the principle of transparency outlined above, both methods would tend to
converge on identical critical goals.
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The need for caution in applying analytical categories is well illustrated by the conclusion of op.110, where we may detect a significant retrenchment in the treatment of
resolution that is bound up with Beethoven's cyclical pairing of arioso and fugue. The end of the sonata presents a precarious victory, barely sufficient to counteract
powerful forces of dissociation, and it does not linger to celebrate its triumph, as do the Fifth and Ninth Symphonies and (to a lesser extent) the "Hammerklavier"
Sonata. In Solomon's formulation, "Masterpieces of art are instilled with a surplus of constantly renewable energy — an energy that provides a motive force for
changes in the relations between human beings — because they contain projections of human desires and goals which have not yet been achieved (which indeed may
be unrealizable)." 57 In op.110, this surplus of energy proves just adequate to a daunting task; the creative imagination asserts its protest and challenge here against
inertia, banality, despair, even contemplation; these are four of the modalities seemingly embodied in the first movement development, scherzo, arioso, and the first
fugue, respectively. The completion of this sonata signaled Beethoven's personal victory in regrouping his creative energies after a dismal, unproductive period of illness
in 1821.58 None of Beethoven's other sonatas shows a more farreaching narrative design or more explicitly transcendental qualities. And, characteristically for
Beethoven, the transcendental symbol at the end of op.110 is posited not ideologically, in the abstract, but in full recognition of the difficulties of the human
predicament. It is for this reason that the true conclusion of the sonata, more than most other works, is heard not in tones but in the following silence; only here,
beyond sound, can the ultimate synthesis take place.
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Beethoven's Revision of the Scherzo of the Quartet, Opus 18, No.1
David H. Smyth
It is common knowledge that Beethoven presented an inscribed copy of the String Quartet in F Major, op.18, no.1, to his friend Karl Amenda in June 1799 and that
the entire work was thoroughly revised before its publication two years later. 1 In July 1801, about a month after the first three quartets of op.18 were printed by
Mollo, Beethoven wrote to Amenda, saying, "Be sure not to hand on to anybody your quartet, in which I have made some drastic alterations. For only now have I
learnt how to write quartets; and this you will notice, I fancy, when you receive them [i.e., the newly published quartets]."2 This famous remark
Initial work on this project was undertaken during Lewis Lockwood's 1989 National Endowment for the Humanities Summer Seminar for College Teachers on the Beethoven String
Quartets at Harvard University. I would like to express my gratitude for his guidance and for support from both the NEH and the Council on Research of Louisiana State University.
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inevitably appears in discussions of the Amenda version, and several scholars have accepted the challenge that it implies — namely, that by comparing the Amenda
and the published scores one may discover something about how Beethoven learned to write quartets. 3 Because the most obvious and sweeping changes occur in the
revisions of the first and last movements, these have received the most attention. Apart from a brief essay by Lewis Lockwood accompanying the Pro Arte Quartet's
1981 recording of the Amenda version of the quartet, no study of the remaining movements exists.4 I will investigate Beethoven's revision of the Scherzo, focusing on
the interpretation and evaluation of his various alterations.
At first glance, the differences between the Amenda and the published versions of the Scherzo may not appear to be highly significant (in ex.1, the Amenda version
appears above the published score). Both versions contain the same number of measures, phrase beginnings and endings correspond, and the outer voices are almost
identical. Closer inspection, however, reveals a plethora of subtle changes affecting virtually every measure. Although they may not be the "drastic alterations" that
Beethoven described, these revisions deserve careful attention, for they too reveal much about "how to write quartets." Furthermore, by consulting Beethoven's
sketches for this movement along with the later revision, one can discern consistent trends in his overall compositional process.5 As would be
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Example 1: The Amenda and published versions of the Scherzo of the Quartet, op.18, no.1.
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expected, changes at the early sketch stages tend to be radical and revealing; often, a definitive direction emerges only after several successive attempts. This process
is unusually well documented in the sketches for the Scherzo and has important implications for interpretation of the much subtler changes Beethoven made during the
revision stage. 6
The sketches in question occur scattered throughout the sketchbook known as Grasnick 2.7 Beethoven evidently began using the book in late February or March
1799, filling it by August or September, but all the sketches to be discussed below presumably predate the fair copy of the Amenda version, which was delivered in
June.8 The disposition of the sketches suggests that work on the Scherzo took place virtually simultaneously with sketching for the other movements.
Beethoven's initial sketches reveal how markedly his basic conception of the Scherzo changed. The earliest jottings occur at the end of the first system on page 10 of
Grasnick 2 (see ex.2). The label "M." apparently stands for "Menuetto." Although the simple diatonic melody is unfamiliar, the bass clearly resembles that of the
published version. The redundant flat sign in the first measure of the bass is a curious touch, to which we shall return. This sketch breaks off at a tonic cadence after
eight measures. A second attempt, on staves 5–8, employs a melody substantially closer to that of the published Scherzo. This draft progresses to a cadence on the
dominant in its eighth measure and features a rising stepwise sequence in the bass similar to that of the published version. After a double bar with repeat sign,
Beethoven continued through twentyfour more measures, the final eight of which contain a varied return of the opening melody. Apparently content for the moment
with his ideas, Beethoven moved on. The remainder of this page and most of the next are devoted to various sketches for the first and second movements.
Beethoven resumed work on the Scherzo on page 12, arriving at the definitive finitive tenmeasure version of the opening strain (see ex.3). The "Vi" at the double bar
on the first system apparently connects to the "de" on staves 15–16, where Beethoven drafted an eightmeasure descending sequence
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Example 2: Grasnick 2: transcription, p.10.
culminating in a half cadence. If this is indeed a draft for the beginning of the second strain, it seems a rather distracted effort; his earlier attempt at this passage
resembles the published version more closely. Where he broke off (in the middle of staves 1 and 2), Beethoven drafted the first strain of the Trio. Many details
changed before he reached the final version, but already a beginning on the dominant, a subsequent move to U266DVI, the gracenote figure, and the sixteen
measure (four plus twelve) configuration of the first strain are evident. After a few cursory notations relating to the remainder of the Trio (following the double bar on
staves 3–4 and continuing on staves 5–6), Beethoven prescribes a da capo of the Scherzo. He already seems to have decided against repeating the second portion of
the Trio. (Sketches for the theme of the second movement fill the remaining space on staves 5, 6, and 15.)
Several features of these early sketches relate to Beethoven's subsequent revision of the Amenda version (see ex.1). Probably the single most important
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Example 3: Grasnick 2: transcription, p.12.
revision is the change in tempo from Allegro to Allegro molto. 9 The designation "M." on the first sketch suggests that Beethoven's original conception was more of a
stately minuet than a sprightly scherzo. The revised sketch on page 10, while not quite as stolid as the first effort, still displays a conventional design involving an eight
measure first strain, a sixteenmeasure digression ending on the dominant, and an eightmeasure conclusion in the tonic. Only in the third sketch (ex.3) did the less
regular tenmeasure idea emerge, and its effect on the remainder of the movement is profound.
The continuing transformation from minuet to scherzo is also evident in a comparison of the dynamics and articulations in the opening bars of the Amenda and the
published versions (see ex.1): Amenda has cello sforzandi in mm.2 and 4, but otherwise all is piano. In the published version, Beethoven omitted the sforzandi but
added a jolting forte for all parts in m.9. In the opening measures, the viola and second violin parts are reversed (and thus uncrossed) in the revision, and their new,
smoother rhythm in m.5 intensifies the effect of the unprepared and unexpected change in dynamics. The new doubling and tripling of the trills in mm.7 and 9 also make
the published version sound more jocular. From the outset, then, Beethoven's revisions lighten the mood and quicken the pace of the movement. These
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changes show the final stages of a transformation from minuet to scherzo, a transformation that clearly began during the sketching process. 10
Once the tenmeasure version of the first strain was established, the second portion of the Scherzo underwent dramatic expansion. To follow the double bar,
Beethoven had first sketched a twomeasure descending sequence (ex.2, middle of staves 5–6); his next alternative for this passage (ex.3, staves 15–16) was also a
sequence that descends in twomeasure steps, although at a different pitch level. Then Beethoven substituted a threemeasure sequence quite similar to the one
ultimately employed in mm.11–16 (see ex.4, staff 9).11 The DU266Ds of the published version, missing from the first sketch, are also present here. Having reached
AU266D after six measures, Beethoven turned to a variant of the melody from his earliest sketch (see ex.2, first system), leading through a rising sequence (vaguely
resembling mm.17ff. of the final version) to a retransitional dominant. Beginning with staff 10, this sketch corresponds quite closely to mm.37–56 or 57 of the
published version, but it ceases at the alternation of trilled dotted half notes and wideranging leaps. Sketches for an unfamiliar trio in BU266D ensue, temporarily
interrupting progress.
In sketching the second strain of the Trio on this same page, Beethoven replaced the earlier repeated notes (shown in ex.3, staves 1–2) with the octave leaps that
characterize the published version (see ex.4, staff 15). Ultimately, in mm.25–28 of the Scherzo, Beethoven employed a gracenote figure over octave leaps in the cello
and viola, clearly foreshadowing the octaveleap motive that opens the Trio. Perhaps the notion of linking the Scherzo and Trio together in this manner occurred to him
as he drafted both passages on this page.
When Beethoven resumed work on the second strain of the Scherzo at the top of the following page, he returned to the threemeasure sequential
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Example 4: Grasnick 2: transcription, p.20.
idea shown in ex.5a. This sketch is in fact a singleline "continuity draft" of mm.11–67, followed by a rough continuity draft of the Trio. 12 The cryptic numerals over
staff 12 (see ex.5b) suggest calculations having to do with phrase lengths and the metric effect of overlapping imitative entries—concerns present both in later sketches
and in the revision of the Amenda version. Staves 13 and 14 are devoted to a sixteenmeasure experiment in which Beethoven tried to invert the outervoice
counterpoint from the opening of the Scherzo, this time using prominent BU266Es. Ultimately, this idea provided the top voices, but not the bass, for the final
measures of the Scherzo. On staff 16, Beethoven drafted another version of the final measures,
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Example 5: a. Grasnick 2: transcription, p.21. b. Grasnick 2: transcription, p.21.
one still not fully satisfactory. Finally, many pages later, in the midst of sketches for the Scherzo and finale of the G Major Quartet, op.18, no.2, there is more
substantial progress on this passage (see ex.6). Three voices are present. In the published version, the violins double the top line in octaves, and the viola part is
adjusted somewhat. Remarkably, the cello part, with its syncopated thirdbeat attacks (and the rest in the sixth measure
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Example 6: Grasnick 2: transcription, p.62.
from the end), corresponds more closely to the published version than to the secondbeat sforzandi of the Amenda version. 13
Not long after he filled Grasnick 2, Beethoven assembled another sketchbook by sewing together various partially used leaves. This book, Autograph 19e in PrStB,
contained one leaf bearing sketches for the Scherzo of op.18, no.1.14 Two sketches for mm.29–36 from folio 26r (the leaf also bears the page number "89" in the
upperrighthand corner) are transcribed in ex.7. Both sketches bear at least one layer of corrections, but the final version of the second sketch is identical to the
Amenda version. These eight measures simply prolong dominant harmony. What concerned Beethoven here was the exact registral working out of imitative entries of
the fournote head motive and its inversion, strettos of which were already indicated on page 21 of Grasnick 2 (see ex.5a, staves 2–3). The Berlin leaf shows that
Beethoven worked these measures over thoroughly before reaching the Amenda version, experimenting with the motive in various registers and instrumental
combinations. Apparently satisfied with the first five measures of the result, he made only one small change when
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Example 7: Autograph 19e, fol.26r, transcription.
he revised the Amenda score (replacing the viola E at the downbeat of m.32 with BU266D so that it plays in parallel tenths with the cello).
Counterpoint also occupied Beethoven in mm.34–36; however, in this case repeated efforts led to a result he would later reject. In the first Berlin sketch, the cello
plays a descending form of the motive (G, E, D, C), twice reaching its lowest open string in mm.32–35. Because the second of these statements is placed an octave
higher in subsequent versions, the viola and cello parts cross as the motive and its inversion sound simultaneously in m.34. Beethoven revised this, transferring the rising
motive from viola to first violin, thereby allowing the viola to continue its parallel tenths above the cello. In the first Berlin sketch and in the Amenda version, the violins
play the motive in contrary motion in mm.35–36, wedging outward to the diminished twelfth e1–bU266D2, followed by two beats of rest. But in the published version
the second violin takes the rising motive, continuing the alternation of motive statements with the first violin, and the inverted counterpart is omitted altogether. The
three upper parts join to complete the
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dominant harmony on the final beats of m.36, resulting in a strong surge toward the tonic return of the main theme in m.37. Thus, the revision achieves a smoother
succession of attack rhythms as the motive enters and a stronger harmonic drive toward the restatement.
In sum, this series of sketches, viewed in conjunction with the Amenda version and its subsequent revision, allows us to see how a simple, symmetrical minuet evolved
into a complex and irregular scherzo with a harmonically continuous trio that lacks the usual repeat of its second portion. 15 The new, faster tempo required
simplification of the inner parts and the almost total elimination of eighthnote motion. Counterpoint in the final version is generally simpler: lines are smoother, the
texture less dense, and the crossing of inner voices minimized. The viola part of the published version tends to be less independent than that of the Amenda version,
with motion in parallel octaves or tenths with the cello often replacing fully independent viola writing (see mm.23–29, 34, and esp. the final measures, where the busy
eighthnote viola part disappears and becomes a tamer succession of tenths above the cello). Similarly, the second violin is paired more often with the first in the
published version (see mm.5–10, 43–50, and esp. 57–63). Throughout the Scherzo, the cello plumbs its lowest register less often in the published version than in the
Amenda; for example, in the final eight measures low C is touched only twice instead of four times, while in mm.25–28 the low Cs of the Amenda version are entirely
avoided.
Other small but noteworthy changes occur at important phrase junctions. The published version employs BU266E in the rising bass motive at m.37 instead of
BU266D as in Amenda; also new in the revision is the complementary chromatic descent in the second violin, which highlights the chromatic alteration in the bass. In
the sequential continuation, C# replaces C in the cello in m.39, and, as already noted, this "Lydian" version of the opening motive dominates the final bars of the
Scherzo. Other changes in the bass line occur in mm.57–63, measures that lead to the final tonic statements of the principal motive. In the published version, first
inversion Gminor chords (with conspicuous octave leaps in the cello) are used in mm.58 and 62, where Amenda had rootposition chords with several doublings.
Pairs
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of voices now articulate complementary leaps, creating playful imitative exchanges. And in the new cello line one might hear an augmentation of the head motive: F, A,
BU266D, C in mm.56–59. Overall, the revisions effect a cleaner, nimbler passage better suited to its connective function.
The music rises to a climax in mm.64–78. The Amenda version begins forte, and continues to employ the sforzandi from previous measures, but suddenly drops to
piano in m.70. From here, a crescendo builds to the fortissimo of m.78, and this entire segment is placed under a single, remarkably long slur. The revision, on the
other hand, begins its crescendo in m.64, reaching forte at m.70 (where Amenda had piano). The long slur of the Amenda version is broken, and staccato
articulations punctuate the new subdivisions. But the overall effect is paradoxically smoother: in the revision, the crescendo builds to forte for the highest notes, and the
ending from m.64 on is a unified, dynamically strong gesture. The choppy sforzandi and changes of dynamics in the Amenda version undermine this flow, and the long
slur does not successfully counteract their effect. The revision of mm.64–67 also eliminates crossing of the viola and second violin parts, as in the opening measures of
the Scherzo.
In the final eight measures, the published version again represents both a simplification of texture overall (the parts move in pairs instead of as three independent
voices) and a complication of the surface rhythms. The Amenda version strongly emphasizes the downbeats of mm.78–81, and secondbeat sforzandi are reserved
for the final measures. In the revision, sforzandi on the third beats of mm.78 and 80 set up a rhythmically charged syncopation with those on the second beats of
mm.82 and 83.
The sketches draw attention to several aspects of the compositional process that continued to occupy Beethoven as he revised the Amenda version: he moves away
from the regular construction and slower tempo characteristic of a minuet; phrase lengths become less regular; syncopated rhythms gain emphasis; and the music
grows lighter in texture and harmonically more focused. Furthermore, from his earliest sketches through the process of revision, Beethoven showed an interest in the
chromatic alteration of the fourth scale degree (BU266E). Yet, as he reduced the number of statements of the turn motive that pervades the first movement, 16 he also
avoided exces
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sive insistence on this chromatic detail in his revision of the Scherzo: by eliminating the violins' eighth notes in the final measures, he removed two final repetitions of this
pitch.
Ultimately, we cannot be certain exactly what Beethoven meant when he wrote of having made "drastic alterations" and having just "learnt how to write quartets." On
the one hand, his quip is clearly an overstatement: the Amenda quartet is hardly the work of a rank amateur. But in evaluating the revision one should not conclude (as
previous analysts have) that changes involving addition or deletion of measures are the only important ones. In the Scherzo, no such changes were made. Yet the
movement obviously underwent thorough revision—virtually every measure includes changes—and these changes document Beethoven's ongoing concern for those
very elements of structure, character, and expression that emerged in the earliest sketch stages. By studying the sketches alongside the revision, we can discern
important, if subtle, aspects of the composer's progress in learning ''how to write quartets."
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Between Cavatina and Ouverture: Opus 130 and the Voices of Narrative
Richard Kramer
The disintegration of the work, the loss of purity, of an integrity at one with conception, begins at birth. From the outset of what might be called its
Rezeptionsgeschichte, the Große Fuge seemed to distance itself from its source, the String Quartet in BU266D, op.130. It is one thing to take note of the flagrant
incongruities within a work, to read in them the grain of character. It is quite another to malign such disparities as evidence of a flaw in conception, a defect in need of
remedy. In the end, Beethoven acquiesced to the publication of the Große Fuge as a work in itself, separated off from op.130. The new finale, a congenial antithesis
of the old one, makes something different of the quartet. We may wish to believe that Beethoven capitulated here to pressures exerted by his close friends and the
publisher Artaria. But it was Beethoven who had finally to make the decision.
And an astonishing one it remains. For if the narrative of the quartet in its original, "Galitzin" version plots so many preliminary episodes that culminate in this fugue to
end all episodic prevarication, it has even been claimed, on evidence culled from the sketchbooks, that the fugue had itself been conceived as the matrix from which
the quartet would spring. 1 To
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confuse, as I do here, the narrative within the work with some notion of its conception—the voice within and the author without—is to conjure an imbroglio for the
sake of disentangling it, seeking clarity in the process.
This was not the first instance in which Beethoven, heeding the advice of colleagues, withdrew an original movement (never a first movement) in favor of some other
that was seen to be more appropriate in the context. The examples are well known. The finale of the Violin Sonata in A Major, op.30, no.1, was replaced by the
variations movement that we know and recycled as the finale of the "Kreutzer" Sonata. The opulent slow movement of the "Waldstein" Sonata, later published alone as
the Andante favori (WoO 57), was replaced by the Introduzione that now precedes the finale: opulence surrenders to pith. Even the finale of the Ninth Symphony
very nearly fell to similar ambush, if we are to trust Ignaz Seyfried's wellpublicized report on the matter. 2
But the Große Fuge is different, and not only because its relation to op.130 is different in nature from that of those other movements to their source works. Its
difficulties, both conceptually and from the perspective of those string players who must struggle through to the bitter end, are too well known to document here.
Dedicated to the Archduke Rudolph, newly described as "Grande Fugue, tantôt libre, tantôt recherchée"—as much apology as title—the transformation from finale to
Große Fuge is complete. Beethoven even prepared a transcription of the piece for piano four hands. While this is taken as corroborating evidence of Beethoven's
resolve to redefine the fugue as a piece in itself, it must be pointed out that the transcription has its own history, for Artaria had evidently intended to issue all of op.130
in a version for keyboard. But that is another story.3
The extreme position in defense of the fugue as a work in its own right was put forth in a wellknown essay by Warren Kirkendale.4 Kirkendale
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has his own agenda, for his argument on the Große Fuge comes at the very end of a compendious book on fugue in the chamber music of the eighteenth and early
nineteenth centuries. Even its position in the book is calculated to suggest the canonization of a work shown to have been inspired by the fugal instruction in
Albrechtsberger's Gründliche Anweisung zur Composition, in turn the text for Beethoven's own lessons with Albrechtsberger in 1794. And it was further inspired
by Bach's Kunst der Fuge, "its direct prototype," as Kirkendale has it: "The Great Fugue was his Art of Fugue, his summary of the various fugal techniques." 5
In the argument, the Große Fuge is made implicitly to draw up within itself the tradition of fugue in its entirety. What one might by extension read into that implication
is better left to the imagination.
The notion that Beethoven set out to write a kind of fugal Kunstbuch in op.133 is not altogether compatible with its position as the finale in a string quartet whose six
movements display, if superficially, an extreme disregard for one another—"dissociation" is Joseph Kerman's term for it.6 For to acknowledge in it a sense of finale
would mean to understand it as in some manner subsumed in the greater exercise of the quartet as a whole. Kirkendale, sensitive to these implications, argues that the
quartet is in effect better served by its new finale. Of this new finale written to replace the fugue, Kirkendale writes,
It is precisely its freshness and serenity which are astonishing, its exuberance and optimism, its folklike character—properties which give it closer links to the other movements of
this divertimento quartet than the intellectual fugue could ever have had.
This claim for consanguinity is now pointed against the fugue:
In the face of this, the remote thematic resemblance (Erwin Ratz's arbitrary "inner relation") between the fugue and the first theme of the first movement pales into insignificance.
To proceed consistently on this premise, one would have to "reinstate" the fugue as the finale to the quartets Op.131 or Op.132, with which it is far more closely related
thematically.7
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In a studied refutation of Kirkendale's proposition that the Große Fuge has internally less to do with op.130 than with op.132 or even op.131, Klaus Kropfinger has
recently subjected the whole question of the relation of the fugue to the quartet to a scrutiny that makes much of the composer's intentions. 8 The evidence for
intentions, in Kropfinger's understanding of the case, is sought and found among the sketches for the quartet. The notorious corpus of sketches for the last quartets
constitutes a repertory whose size and potential significance for the history of music stands in bleak contrast to the pitifully small access that any of us might claim to
this evidence.9 But even the little that we know—and the relatively little that Kropfinger is able to mine—is telling and provocative.
Kropfinger's case rests neither on the sketches alone nor on intentionality. His essay, as one might infer from the striking phrase in the title—"Das gespaltene Werk"—
reflects in multifarious ways on the nature of the quartet as work. Sensitive to the complexity of issues at play here, Kropfinger puts the question this way:
One might ask whether this revaluation of the original version is only a reversal in the pendulum swing of Rezeptionsgeschichte, or whether the quest for the lost work [die
"Suche nach dem verlorenen Werk"] has in fact reached its end with it—or, rather, whether possibly both versions exist alongside one another, each with its own rights.10
II
These questions may seem commonplace to us now, and if they do, we need to remind ourselves of the magnitude of the issues in question. Here is a work that stakes
some claim to the pinnacle of the repertory. The BU266D
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Quartet is an astonishing work in every respect. In Beethoven's original design, the finale is the movement that must be understood to draw the whole together. The
finale in late Beethoven—or even in a work as early as the Eroica—is the locus at which the disturbance to the equipoise of Classical hierarchies is at its most
extreme. The idea of the work as tending in its unfolding toward some apotheosis, or even transfiguration—for how else might one understand the events of the Große
Fuge as finale—is manifest in any number of other finales from these years. The "Hammerklavier" Sonata, op.106, is of course the closest, even in the sense that its
final fugue is something of a technical Mount Everest for its performers, and even in Beethoven's similar willingness to acquiesce to the publication of the work in some
gespaltene form:
Should the sonata not be suitable for London, I could send another one; or you could also omit the Largo and begin straight away with the Fugue …, which is the last movement;
or you could use the first movement and then the Adagio, and then for the third movement the Scherzo—and omit entirely no.4 with the Largo and Allegro risoluto. Or you could
take just the first movement and the Scherzo and let them form the whole sonata. 11
The Ninth Symphony is similar in different ways. What all three of these finales have immediately in common is that they each begin with music that in some sense
stands outside the movement: decidedly not in the conventional sense that the slow introduction in this or that Classical symphony may be said to stand apart from the
music that it introduces, but rather that in each case the work is shown enacting its own composition, contemplating itself in a way that demands a new mode of textual
understanding. Meaning, by the conventions of a Classical style, is couched in
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Example 1: Ninth Symphony, finale.
the tautological language of selfreferentiality; in these instances from the late music of Beethoven, meaning must be teased out in some hermeneutical dialectic with the
"beyondthework."
When, near the outset of the finale of the Ninth Symphony, thematic material from the first movement is recalled, it appears as though the opening theme has been
quoted. This is illusory: the phrase (shown in ex.1) is altogether new. A commentary, a gloss, the phrase conflates within itself three cardinal events in the first
movement: the uninflected fifth at the outset; the play on that music in the quickened harmonies at the beginning of the development; and the catastrophic inflection—F#
in the bass—with which the recapitulation begins. 12 Three terms fused in the larger syntax of the first movement, these memorable passages are given expression in
one fleet phrase. How, precisely, does this phrase enter into the text of the symphony, standing, as it does, outside both the first movement and the finale proper? We
cannot invoke the phrase when we read the text of the first movement; it cannot alter how the first movement actually goes. The phrase means in a way that no other
phrase—and certainly not the three
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Example 2: Sonata in B Major, op.106, before the finale.
phrases on which it comments—can be said to mean. It is here that a new strategy of interpretation—this hermeneutical dialogue—is called into play.
The probing passage (shown in ex.2) that negotiates between the Adagio sostenuto of op.106 and its finale raises similar issues. If, in the Ninth Symphony, the music
engages in some mysterious dialectic on the nature of Musica instrumentalis—or whatever is meant in the phrase "nicht diese Töne"—the dialectic in op.106 is
different. A process of memory is engaged here, but it extends beyond the piece itself, to genre in some historical sense. Three fugal passages are called up—the first
and the third almost
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expositions—each on its own theme, each in a remote key (GU266D major, B major, G# minor), each meant to evoke some imaginary fugal monument from the past.
"Nicht diese Fugen" is the message. The improvisatory nature of the scene only contributes to this phenomenon of the piece contemplating its own evolution. An author
is invoked. The acts of authorship are strongly felt. The lines of demarcation between the work and its genesis are smudged, if only in metaphor.
The "overture" with which the Große Fuge opens makes no similar demands on the process of memory. But the inscription itself—"Overtura," as it appears in the first
edition, or, better, "Ouverture," as Beethoven actually wrote in the autograph—must signify something beyond the conventional notion of overture. 13 It is common
enough to assert that this opening music (shown in ex.3), menulike, advertises the four main "subjects" of the music to follow, but in reverse sequence. Further, these
four premonitions are precisely that: hints at the music to follow and (again) decidedly not quotations, for each has an idiosyncratic twist that sets it apart from the
music that it means to conjure up. Not one of them recurs verbatim in the course of the piece.
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Two questions ask themselves. Why are these premonitions advanced in reverse order? And why do they stake out a conventional circle of fifths beginning three fifths
away from the tonic? Apropos the first question, it seems not to have occurred to anyone that these premonitions move away from what is clearly the purest statement
of the "theme" (a term used here as the abstraction from which the four "subjects" are extrapolated) in the direction of the obscure. This must then suggest that the
actual course of events in the movement proper is from the obscure to the coherent. Kirkendale, whose clinching argument for an Albrechtsbergian pretext is in this
gapped form of the subject (interruptio, in Albrechtsberger's neologism for Unterbrechung), does not dwell on the curious phenomenon that this most recherché of
permutations is given straight away at the outset and with a vehemence unparalleled in any work by Beethoven.
In this connection, we might contemplate the premonition of the Meno mosso music. It has two forms. The sense of the second, which introduces the characteristic
countersubject of that music, is clear enough. The sense of the first invites speculation. For one, it gives an intervallic bending of the
Example 3: Op.130, end of cavatina; op.133, "Overtura."
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Example 3: continued
subject that occurs nowhere else in the entire movement. The only other statements of the subject in which the second note is notated as U266D2 occur at m.3 of the
Allegro molto e con brio and then again in what might be called the reminiscence of the premonition at m.660. More to the point is the signaling here of a pure pitch
relation in which F and GU266D are prominent—forecasting precisely how the Meno mosso will be approached at a critical juncture in the fugue (at mm.156–59) and
at the same time redolent of an earlier moment, equally critical, in the first movement (see ex.4).
Then there is the circling of fifths, beginning at G. On the face of it, this is a gambit that needs no further justification. But the tonal complexities of this movement, and,
indeed, of the quartet as a whole, aggravate the issue. How does the tonal maneuvering at the outset of the fugue play into the larger tonal thematics of the quartet?
A probe toward an answer might begin in the contemplation of a very late statement of the subject, beginning at m.609 (see ex.5). At once the least "fugal" moment in
the piece and the moment toward which all the previous six hundred measures seem to gravitate, the subject is trans
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Example 4: Op.130, movt.I, from the exposition.
formed into poetry: the artifice of fugue is expunged, and the harmonic implications of the subject are at last realized. As I formulated it in quite another context,
To suggest—as the piece surely does—that the subject of the fugue has been tending toward some apotheosis, expressed in these harmonies, is to invite us to construe it not as
a fugue subject in any conventional sense, but as some inchoate intervallic substance—"pure interval music," in Stravinsky's memorable phrase—an aspect of whose significance
is made luminous at this moment of final, almost inaudible contemplation. 14
This is no willful reharmonization that cuts across the grain of its subject but rather a realization, an incarnation, finally, of unrealized properties in the theme. The bold
rhythmic displacement of the bass only points up the inevitability of the progression.
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Example 5: Op.133, mm.609–20.
To put it another way, the subject (in BU266D) demands the harmonization sketched in ex.6, and these harmonic points are then plotted out in the overture. Here,
too, a process of memory is at play—these very same harmonies underpin the opening phrase of the quartet. But the statement at m.609 does not quite satisfy this
simple formula, for it sags, tellingly, where the A ought to resolve up to BU266D (where the dominant should re
Example 6: Op.130, movt.I, beginning; op.133, abstraction of the principal subject.
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solve). Instead, the dominant is treated as though it were an augmented sixth, appoggiatura to another dominant, where the A is reinterpreted now as an upper
neighbor.
This constellation of pitches (BU266D, A, G#) is not new to the piece. Indeed, it is the matrix from which the quartet draws its first breath. And it calls to mind
another passage toward the end of the Andante con moto ma non troppo where the chromatic slippage that characterizes the opening of that movement is again
played out in yet another circle of fifths (see ex.7).
Example 7: Op.130, movt.III, mm.72–79.
This confronts us finally with these larger questions about the integrity of the quartet in its original version and, more pointedly, about the role that the Große Fuge
might play in the comprehension of the quartet as a whole. In music before 1800, a dislocation of the finale from the body of this or that work might raise similar
questions; surely, the fugue that constitutes the finale of Haydn's Quartet in F Minor, op.20, no.5, establishes
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a no less essential line of argument in the quartet as a whole, nor can this finale be made to function alone, oblivious to the sense of proportion, of harmonic weighting,
that defines it as finale. Still, the aesthetics of Classical style dictate a work in which the individual movements make powerful claim to Selbständigkeit. But in the
music of the 1820s, and nowhere more eloquently than in Beethoven's last quartets, the fragile networking of "fragmentary" pieces together into some work whose
concept depends on the palpable ties between movements—whether those ties are silent and implicit or whether they are actually composed out (as in the interstices in
op.131)—can be said to renegotiate the terms by which the work claims to be a sum of its parts. That, surely, is the significance of the ambiguous semitone with which
the Andante con moto opens. The sense of coupling between Cavatina and Ouverture is yet more extreme: the suggestive silence notated between the movements is
contradicted in performance, where the music itself argues against any such articulation.
This octave G with which the overture begins sets itself apart from the rest of the overture. Wrenched from the pathos of the Cavatina, its graceless grace notes wrest
the two middleregister Gs from that famous simultaneity with which the Cavatina expires and inflate them to an expanse of four octaves. Its forte will be heard as
transitional, for the first statement of thematic substance in the finale is marked fortissimo. 15 This opening G stands apart.
The question now before us might be formulated as follows. By what criteria does the work establish its claim to coherence? Here, I think we must take the widest
possible view of the notion of coherence, thinking not of such limiting criteria as thematic unity but rather of some irreducible element without which the work may be
judged to fall apart. "Il filo"—the thread—was the way Leopold Mozart understood it, in a famous lecture to the son on that indispensable element in composition. The
continuity of the piece, however impalpable, must never be permitted to snap.16
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III
Taking father Mozart's thread a strand further, the model of literary narrative might serve us here. Narratology has lately provoked some swift crosscurrents in recent
efforts to understand how the precepts of literary narrative theory might be brought into play in the reading of the music of the late eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.
By "narrative" is meant emphatically not the sense in which music plays out some literary program but rather how, in its discourse, the continuities of music, and its
discontinuities, are about some sequence of events that might constitute its "story."
"Narrative" is itself a term fraught with ambiguity. With enviable clarity, Gérard Genette, in the introduction to his probing study of Proust's À la recherche du temps
perdu, insists on three distinct senses of the term. The first is of the narrative statement, "the oral or written discourse that undertakes to tell of an event or a series of
events"—narrative as the discourse that tells the story. The second is of "the succession of events, real or fictitious, that are the subjects of this discourse"—narrative
as the story, as the history itself. The third sense is of "the event that consists of someone recounting something: the act of narrating taken in itself." 17
Genette is very clear regarding the nature of the evidence that bears on the reading of narrative. Because what he has to say pertains as well to our reading of the
evidence toward an understanding of the Große Fuge, it is useful to have Genette at some length on this matter:
It is fairly evident … that … the level of narrative discourse is the only one directly available to textual analysis, which is itself the only instrument of examination at our disposal in
the field of literary narrative, and particularly fictional narrative. If we wanted to study on their own account … the events recounted by Michelet in his Histoire de France, we
could have recourse to all sorts of documents external to that work and concerned with the history of France; or, if we wanted to study on its own account the writing of that work,
we could use other documents, just as external to Michelet's text, concerned with his life and his work during the years that he devoted to
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that text. Such a resource is not available to someone interested in either the events recounted by the narrative that the Recherche du temps perdu constitutes or the narrating act
from which it arises: no document external to the Recherche, and particularly not a good biography of Marcel Proust, if one existed, could teach us about either those events or
that act, since both of these are fictional and both set on stage not Marcel Proust, but the hero and supposed narrator of his novel. I do not mean to suggest that the narrative
content of the Recherche has no connection with the life of its author, but simply that this connection is not such that the latter can be used for a rigorous analysis of the former
(any more than the reverse). As to the narrating that produced the narrative, … we will be careful … not to confuse it with the act of Proust writing the Recherche du temps perdu.
18
This last admonition—do not confuse the narrating in the work (as much as we may be tempted to equate narrator with the author) with the act of writing that
produced this narrating—will be seen to caution against a commonly exercised confusion of the musical work with the sketches that stand as partial evidence for the
act of its composition.
How, finally, is any of this germane to a reading of the BU266D Quartet? Is there a narrative here? If there is, do we speak of narrative discourse or rather of events
that together constitute a story to be told? Can we identify some quality inherent in the work that would enable us to distinguish between the pure act of narrating and
some mimetic suggestion of the act? We might begin with that mantic G between Cavatina and fugue, set off in isolation by its fermata and by the forte that
distinguishes it from the music that follows. The bare vision of it—diction stripped of all artifice—at once dispels the world of the Cavatina—repudiates even the genre
that it means to represent—and resets the balance between story and telling. In some ideal reading, one might even imagine this G attacked directly, without
articulation, from the dying phrase of the Cavatina, and quitted in some cosmic Luftpause before the onset, fortissimo, of the Ouverture proper. In some sense, the
G—this G—has more to do with the Cavatina than with the fugue.19
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A set piece, a complaint sung by some fictional soliloquist, the Cavatina establishes a theatrical milieu that this G brazenly repudiates. 20 Here we need to remind
ourselves that in the music of Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven the reciprocity of genre between stage and chamber is a convention of highest sophistication. The
characters in Mozartean ensembles continually plot out sonata movements—gambits they often remain, for the theatrical plotting subverts them—while the sonata
movements in this or that quartet are forever acting out some imaginary scena.
But the G in question seems to take this genre mixing a step beyond. The effect is perhaps closer to some fantastical scene from the fictions of E. T. A. Hoffmann. The
mock cavatina is shown to be just that: an act of fantasy, not really a cavatina. The repudiation is all the more painful because the music is in any case very real. The
beauty of the thing is real, not simulated. The G, when it sounds, dispels this fantasy within the fiction or, rather, establishes some putative relation between an event
narrated and the narrative voice itself.
The narrative that follows constitutes what Genette would term "prolepsis" ("any narrative maneuver that consists of narrating or evoking in advance an event that will
take place later")—just as the opening music of the finale of the Ninth Symphony partakes of a rhetorical "analepsis" (by
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Genette's definition, ''any evocation after the fact of an event that took place earlier than the point in the story where we are at any given moment"). 21
This discrimination between event itself and the evocation of the event as though in some narrative discourse is to my mind very important here, for it leads to the
supposition that, in Beethoven's late music, we are witness to a deliberate play with the literary conventions of voice. To speak of music that defines itself as standing
outside the discourse proper is to recognize the distinction that I mean. Who speaks this music that stands outside the discourse proper? The author is of course
invoked, or at least some figure, authorlike, who speaks in the first person and is yet given to shift voices at will: the narrative is manipulated from within. Reminding
ourselves of Genette's lucid distinctions, we must be clear that, even if the work invokes its author, it is as some fictional representation of the author. The author
himself is doomed by definition to remain outside this work that he creates.
"Does music have a past tense?" Carolyn Abbate asks many times over, probing into the spaces between music and narrative. The issue here is whether this distinction
of tense, as a sign that distinguishes the story from the telling of it, is a distinction that music is empowered to make. Abbate's own complex discourse hugs closely to
music affiliated with text, whether with program or sung poem. One especially bold insight will set us to thinking about some of these old temporal chestnuts in a fresh
way:
Perhaps musical works have no ability to narrate in the most basic literary sense; that is, to posit a narrating survivor of the tale who speaks of it in the past tense. But this
incapability cannot be said to impoverish music; rather it lends music a terrible force to move us by catching us in playedout time. When music ends, it ends absolutely, in the
cessation of passing time and movement, in death.22
A provocation this is, but one that forces us to distinguish a music that tends in its diction toward a mode of narrative discourse from the events in past time from which
the discourse is itself constructed and that must always lie implicitly within the discourse. In literature, the actual events from which the story has been woven remain
mute, even fictive—but we
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are meant to suppose them. In music, these events are at another remove. We cannot even comprehend how they might go.
In music that pretends to narrative discourse, the story and the telling of it are indistinguishable—are by definition one and inseparable. The opening measures of
Schubert's Impromptu, op.90, no.1 (shown in ex.8), spring to mind: yet another solitary and mantic G announcing a music with narrative pretensions (and likely
composed in the same year as op.130). 23
Example 8: Schubert, Impromptu, op.90, no.1, opening mm.
What is this story? It is in the nature of music that the question cannot be answered. Yet we ask it continually, or show ourselves to be unmoved by the music. This
paradox of narrative in music is the extreme symptom of the Romantic condition: music tells its story in a language that cannot be deciphered. From the accents of the
narrative, we try to understand, yet to claim to understand the story is, paradoxically, to disenfranchise the mu
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sic. Who needs it if the story can be told in some language of cognitive discourse?
When the quartet sounds its horrific G between Cavatina and fugue, it is as though we have experienced a shift from what the narratologists would call erzählte Zeit to
Erzählzeit: as though a narrative voice intrudes, a voice that, in a structural sense, can be said to supersede the voice that sings the Cavatina. Similarly, the
fragmentary premonitions that follow are not of the fugue but formulate a narrativelike prolepsis. At the inception of the fugue proper, the voice again changes. Fugues
do not engage in narrative discourse. They do, however, enact what might be thought of as the events from which a discourse might be formulated—they play out
narrative in Genette's second sense, "the succession of events … that are the subjects of this discourse." In a similar way, the opening of the finale of the Ninth
Symphony engages in this narrative shift: a Cavatinalike music, dispelled in the Schreckensfanfare, gives in to the narrativelike intonations of the double basses. For
that matter, the ominous octave Fs in the Largo of op.106 are positioned to liquidate the passions and sentiments—and indeed the F# minor—of another set piece
with operatic pretentions.
That the Cavatina is not demonstrably fictional in the sense that I have asserted above is much to my point. This G that we are worrying to its death is a difficult note to
construe because it seems to assert that the Cavatina is fictional, its lines sung by some fictional character in a mode known as "mimesis": the poet plays the
interlocutor, posing as the character who speaks these lines. We cannot have a sense of mimesis until this preterite G—which says something like, "And now the
Cavatina is over"—casts the Cavatina into the past. The music of the overture is not mimetic but rather diagetic; it engages in narrative discourse in its purer sense. The
poet interprets. With poetic omniscience, he forecasts events yet to come and puts the poet's spin on those events, hinting at some salient aspect of each of the fugal
tableaux about to be displayed.
When the fugue begins, music is returned to its conventional theater. This brief interval of narrative discourse between Cavatina and fugue vanishes, a convoluted whorl
of narrative layering that is in effect irrelevant to what might be taken as the bare structural essence of the piece: Cavatina in EU266D; fugue in BU266D. Yet it is
precisely this intrusion that lingers in the mind, the poet's meditation on a juxtaposition of musics that must otherwise stand together in blind antagonism.
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IV
Toward the end of his discussion of the sketches for the BU266D Quartet, seeking to repudiate the extreme (and by now too familiar) view articulated by Douglas
Johnson on the irrelevance of the sketches to an analysis of "internal relationships," Kropfinger invokes the sketches in the greater argument about the integrity of the
quartet and about the place of the original finale in that conception. 24 Let several passages stand for the argument (here Kropfinger is speaking of a criticism based on
"aesthetic reflection''):
This is a criticism which must contend with more than simply the protest against the relevance of specific motivicthematic relationships between first movement and fugal finale
for the deciding of the question about the authentic closing movement. It has to do not only with precise analytical facts, but, yet more pressing, with Beethoven's compositional
intentions, with the historical and aesthetic context of the composition. Beethoven's sketches are their most important source. …
The analysis of the sketches, its probing with regard to fixed and sustained compositional intentions, thus demonstrates that the fugal finale of the Bflat quartet was not
something arbitrary, but rather the decisive Schlußgestalt of the cyclic configuration of the work based upon an original intention and confirmed, made fast, worked out and finally
realized als Ganzes. …
Thus the analysis of the sketches—even when the transcription of specific places does not yet represent the final state in all detail—has the power to augment and support the
analysis of the work. And it challenges assertions about the structural and aesthetic qualities of the work which leave behind the concept of "internal relationships."25
In the end, it seems to me that Kropfinger is right in his understanding of the Große Fuge as integral to a conception of the work that is damaged when the new finale
replaces it. His formulation at the very end puts the
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matter squarely: "The second finale takes up traits which make sense; but it is a sense that remains on the periphery, that does not—as does the fugal finale—really
'sum up' the piece in its entirety." 26 It would be hard to fault Kropfinger's understanding of the sketches as an important source for an understanding of certain aspects
of the "history" that lurks behind the composition of the work—by some definition they are the single source. But it is precisely this invocation of the sketches as critical
evidence toward an argument about the composer's intention that traps Kropfinger in a dangerous aesthetic game.
Works of art, once their existence is certified, shed their authors. This is axiomatic. The Brooklyn Bridge, the expression of an equiponderant deep structure, of a
geometrically conceived surface of parsimonious elegance, and of an iconic significance that extends beyond its "text," stands as the ultimate "intention" (if that is the
right word) of some design born and shaped in the mind of its architect. But the evidence for an understanding of architectural intention is distinct from, and in one
sense irrelevant to, an understanding of the bridge itself. To speak of some narrative implicit in the bridge—how it ''signifies" as a bridge in both the structural sense and
the metaphoric—is again to address the thing itself, the narrative inherent in the work. Historical context—the dynamics of connection, say, between Brooklyn and
Manhattan in the 1880s (political, sociological, and so forth)—may inform that narrative and may thus become implicit in the edifice and deducible from it. The work
does not acquire its meaning, even in this regard, from some such statement as, "I intended the bridge as a symbol of. …" To take such a statement as evidence of
how the bridge "means" is, again, to disenfranchise the work as itself the embodiment of such evidence. When we say that the relation between Manhattan and
Brooklyn was perceptibly altered by this bridge, we take cognizance of the powerful eloquence of icon and metaphor to shape thought and action. The bridge, in one
of its aspects, has been understood. Blueprints, even the rejected ones, may teach us much, but they cannot be invoked as the evidence of "intentions."
To speak of a composer's intention—to claim that evidence toward an understanding of what the composer intends in the work (evidence that
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must by definition stand outside the work itself) is ipso facto evidence toward an understanding of the work—is to confuse an understanding of the composer with an
understanding of the work. To seek the composer's intention is to obscure what ought to be the real task: to seek the meaning of the work.
The meaning of the Große Fuge as an aspect of op.130 surely resides in very much more than those internal relations that both Kirkendale and Kropfinger find
insufficient and misleading. But the measure of this work lies neither in Albrechtsberger's Gründliche Anweisung (no matter how compelling the evidence that
Beethoven learned something about fugal artifice from that text) nor in Beethoven's sketches—neither, that is, in some paradigmatic historical model nor in the putative
discovery of the composer's intentions.
The quartet is what it is. The certification of the "Galitzin" version is a relatively simply matter, and it really has nothing to do with sketches. The dismantling of the
quartet is a long story, and the evidence is complicated. What remains is what might be called a psychoanalysis of the quartet. How is it that this monumental fugue, at
once sublime and grotesque, comes in response to the ultimate Cavatina whose address is in the direct, pure language of the lover's soliloquy, altogether without
artifice? This rude juxtaposition of contraries is not entirely new to Beethoven. Even if some syntactic coherence could be demonstrated in how all six movements are
governed—an idealized Schenkerlike graph, one would suppose—this question remains unanswered. For we are now pondering the significance of the music itself,
as substance and idea. Here, where the discontinuities of the music seem to drive it to the edge of comprehensibility, the poet intrudes. The text is rescued.
It is a commonplace that in Beethoven's music, and especially in the late music, the work seems to have as its mission an understanding of itself, a probing of its own
limits. This in turn suggests a wrestling with aesthetic contradiction, a confusion of author (in this fictional sense) and work. But that seems to me entirely characteristic
of Romantic art. When the author violates the sanctity of the text, entering into its bounds, he by this act disqualifies himself as author—makes of himself a fictional
"other voice." The play between the real author and his fictional Doppelgänger forces on us a more complex game for the separation of the text from its genesis,
encoding the rules that in turn govern the separation. The author and his
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work move together through three phases: these are his creative spasms that bring the work into being; his trace—the trace of authorship—is ingrained in the work
and endows it with authenticity; finally, he gives up the work, breaks the cord. It is this third phase that is improperly understood. Pride of authorship gives way to
revulsion ("What is this that has been brought forth in my name?"). The author repudiates his work—dissociates himself from it. That, surely, is the subtext of the letter
to Ries on op.106. We learn to control the impulse to destroy our offspring. But the impulse is there. 27
There can be no question that the idea of fugue was something of an imponderable for Beethoven: a technical nemesis to be conquered, a specter from the days of
those difficult lessons with Haydn and Albrechtsberger, and simultaneously (and paradoxically) a genre whose power to reduce music to some irreducible element held
out very great allure. All this is nourished in the music of J. S. Bach, the letters of whose name had by the 1820s become an insignia, an arcane cipher woven into the
fabric of much Romantic music, nowhere quite so tellingly (if elusively and even subconsciously) as in Beethoven's last quartets.28
There is some manner of exorcism at play in the Große Fuge. This is not the rational ricercar, the exercise in symmetry and decorum, that some want to hear but
rather an extravagant essay toward both the reconciliation and the renunciation of all those disparate musics in op.130. Severed from
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op.130, the sublime idiosyncrasies of the fugue are debased, made eccentric. It is a finale in concept. The permutations of its thematic material echo, and its tonal
proportions ground, the music of earlier movements. Did Beethoven, capitulating under the pressure to compose a new finale and agreeing to publish the fugue
separately, think that we might not notice?
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Beethoven and Inflation
Hol' der Henker das Ökonomischmusikalische!—Beethoven to Christoph Härtel, 21 August 1810 1
Julia Moore
Appraisals of Beethoven's financial status have differed widely. According to various biographers he was either well off or poor, careless or cautious with money,
shrewd or inept in his business dealings. These discrepancies have a common source: a failure to account for the effects of inflation in comparisons of the monetary
values over the course of his lifetime. All conceivable conclusions are possible when based on comparisons of monetary values that are not legitimately comparable.
Because Beethoven's residence in Vienna corresponded with a period of high inflation, this inflation itself must be studied and measured as a precondition for a
legitimate evaluation of his personal finances.
This research was supported in Vienna during 1984–86 by two Fulbright grants. I extend thanks to the staff of the Austrian Fulbright Commission and acknowledge generous
contributions of time and expertise by several Austrian scholars. Roman Sandgruber provided essential advice concerning many economic issues, notably construction of the
consumer price index. Eveline Oberhammer, director of the Hausarchiv Liechtenstein in Vienna, provided invaluable assistance with collection and interpretation of food price data.
Hannes Stekl relocated the uncataloged Liechtenstein household accounts, which he had discovered during his own dissertation research, and also helped me find food price data
in the Haus, Hof, und Staatsarchiv. I am grateful for assistance from the staffs of the Wiener Stadt und Landesarchiv, especially Helmut Kretschmer; the Wiener Stadt und
Landesbibliothek; the Haus, Hof, und Staatsarchiv; the Österreichische Nationalbibliothek; and the libraries of the University of Vienna, the University of Illinois, Urbana
Champaign, and Syracuse University.
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Most biographers have accepted Thayer's dismissal of Beethoven's latelife obsession with money matters as merely neurotic. In the absence of information about
inflation, this conclusion is understandable. During these same years, Beethoven's obsession with his nephew Karl was indeed neurotic. 2 These two obsessions were
linked since it was for Karl, and not himself, that Beethoven wanted desperately to earn and save as much money as possible. An emotionridden debate concerning
the bank shares he had set aside for the future of his underage nephew broke out immediately following Beethoven's death.3 From his deathbed, Beethoven had
begged a large sum from the London Philharmonic Society. As soon as this generous donation to his welfare became known, the cry arose that once again the
Viennese had allowed a musical genius to live and die there in poverty, and just three and a half decades after the death of Mozart. Viennese honor was vigorously
defended with the argument that Beethoven, after all, had savings in the form of bank shares, and his failure to exhaust these funds before requesting outside assistance
was branded dishonest. The same defense of Viennese honor following Mozart's death had shifted "blame" to Mozart himself, who was called morally deficient and a
spendthrift. In Mozart's case, all soon rallied to provide for his widow and two young sons, who, one naturally hoped, would grow up to be musical geniuses also. No
such concern was forthcoming for Beethoven's nephew, who, at age twenty, clearly had not grown up to be a genius like his uncle.
The circumstances of Beethoven's situation were further muddled by conflicting statements over the course of many years from Anton Schindler, who was in the best
position to provide an accurate evaluation. Ini
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tially, Schindler took Beethoven's side, describing how little there was to eat in the house until the donation from London arrived. Three decades later, apparently
under intense pressure from the Viennese musical establishment, Schindler reversed himself, praising Vienna's honorable treatment of Beethoven and placing the "sole
responsibility for his poverty" on the composer. The following excerpts illustrate the entirely different positions Schindler expressed in 1827 and 1860.
His cash assets included seven bank shares and several hundred gulden Wiener Währung. And now the Viennese are screaming and scribbling loudly and publicly that he didn't
need help from a foreign country, etc., without considering that Beethoven, fiftysix years old and anxious, could have passed for seventy. If from that time on he had been unable
for years to work, as his doctors told him, he would have been forced to sell his bank shares one after another, and for how many years could he have lived from seven bank
shares before he found himself in the direst need! … The Philharmonic Society had the honor of burying the great man, since without their money we could not have arranged a
decent burial. 4
The master's state of affairs brings to mind the reproach often leveled at the whole German fatherland: that it leaves its great men to live in want or die of hunger. This complaint
was trumpeted abroad throughout the world after Beethoven's death and recently has been revived, again in the most exaggerated terms, with the deaths of Lortzing and Konradin
Kreuzer. Those who shout the loudest generally choose to ignore the bad temper, the capriciousness, and the mistakes (usually capriciously made) on the part of artists, poets,
and scholars to the detriment of their own material interests, and heap the
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blame for their misfortunes on Germany alone. … Beethoven himself bore sole responsibility for his poverty. 5
The first section of this essay presents information about Austrian economic crises during Beethoven's lifetime that is essential for an appraisal of his financial situation:
hyperinflation of consumer prices; the state bankruptcy; the currency devaluation; and some measurements of inflation and the currency devaluation as he would have
experienced them. The second section is devoted to the watershed year 1803, when Beethoven initiated his middleperiod style and when he first began to suffer the
effects of inflation. His financial decline from 1803 until mid1820 is the subject of the third section. During these years, his financial need generally had few
consequences for his compositional plans. The topic of the fourth section is the last decade of Beethoven's life, when his financial difficulties were most severe, his
compositional decisions were most influenced by financial considerations, and financial considerations assumed significance at an early stage in his compositional plans.
His unhappy financial situation had other causes besides inflation; these causes are considered here in a concluding section. In the preindustrial, preconsumer
economies of early nineteenthcentury Europe, hardly anyone managed to earn a cash income sufficient to purchase a comfortable living standard. Beethoven's
financial distress had multiple causes.
Until the final decade of his life, Beethoven usually composed whatever he wanted without regard for profit. He generally sold publication rights when a composition
was completed or was approaching completion. He infrequently offered to publishers works that he had not yet begun, simply to facilitate the sale of his recent
compositions as a single group, not to determine if a sufficiently high fee for a proposed work was possible. During the 1820s, however, he reversed this process: first
he negotiated prices, then he composed. The fees he received during the 1820s were many times higher than those of earlier years. His largest works, then, including
the Missa solemnis, the Ninth Symphony, and three of the last five string quarters—were sold twice, once as a commission or subscription and again to a publisher.
During earlier years, he had infrequently composed on commission and had rarely sold his works by means of subscriptions.
The pivotal sale of the Missa solemnis demonstrates Beethoven's new approach to musical economics. It served as the "bait" in a game of "bait and
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switch" with potential publishers. Over the course of four years, he offered the Mass to seven publishers for the enormous price of 1000 silver gulden. Disappointed
publishers who had agreed to this unprecedented price for the Mass were then offered subsequent compositions at prices far higher than Beethoven had ever received
throughout nearly four decades of publication sales. Although the Missa solemnis, the Ninth Symphony, and the late string quartets are certainly not commercial art in
the usual sense of catering to popular tastes, they were indeed composed "for money" in that they likely would not have been composed had it proved impossible to
negotiate exceptionally high fees for them in advance. While working on the Ninth Symphony in April 1823, Beethoven commented on the significance of financial
considerations for his music:
I cannot write what I would most like to write because I must write whatever will bring me the money I need. Let it not be said, however, that I write merely for money. When this
period is past I hope finally to be able to compose my Faust, a subject of great artistic significance, which is also close to my heart. 6
It seems particularly unfortunate that Beethoven's financial distress during the 1820s corresponded with his achievement of an international reputation as the greatest
living composer in Europe. Over the course of twenty years, as his artistic reputation increased, his financial situation worsened dramatically (see tables 1 and 2). On
his arrival in Vienna in 1792 as a twentytwoyearold student, he immediately attracted the attention of Vienna's highest nobility, and he lived comfortably, if not
luxuriously, on income from various musical activities until 1802 or 1803. During the summer of 1801, he described his situation in a letter to his childhood friend in
Bonn, Franz Wegeler:
You want to know something about my present situation. Well, on the whole it is not at all bad. Since last year Lichnowsky … has disbursed for my benefit a fixed sum of 600 fl on
which I can draw until I find a suitable appointment. My compositions bring me in a good
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Table 1: Austrian Currency Abbreviations
Bankozettel (in circulation until 1811)
Paper gulden:
Wiener Währung (in circulation from 1811)
Silver gulden: Conventionsmünze (out of circulation 1809–18)
Other gulden of different weights and values were
used elsewhere in Europe
fl gulden (florin)
BZ Bankozettel
WW Wiener Währung
CM Conventionsmünze
d ducat
k kreuzer
deal; and indeed I am offered more commissions than I can carry out. For every composition I can count on six or seven publishers, and even more if I want them; people no longer
come to an arrangement with me, I state my price and they pay. So you see how pleasantly situated I am. For instance, I see a friend in need and it so happens that the state of my
purse does not allow me to help him immediately; well, then, I have only to sit down and compose and in a short time I can come to his aid. … If I remain in Vienna for good, no
doubt I shall contrive one day for a concert every year. I have given a few concerts. … I will send you all my works, which I must admit now amount to quite a fair number, a
number which is daily increasing. … Hardly have I completed one composition when I have already begun another. At my present rate of composing, I often produce three or four
works at the same time. … I will write to you more fully about Ries's son, although I think he could make his fortune more easily in Paris than in Vienna. Vienna is flooded with
musicians and thus even the most deserving find it difficult to make a living here. 7
Nothing is known about this stipend beyond the information contained in this single letter. Beethoven might have continued to receive it until his
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Table 2: European Currency Values
__________________________________________________________________________________________
Austria—Stable Values
1 gold ducat = 4.5 silver gulden CM
1 gulden = 60 kreuzer
1811–12:
1 fl WW = 5 fl BZ
After 1820:
1 fl CM = 2.5 fl WW = 12.5 fl BZ
1 d = 11.25 fl WW
Austria—Unstable Values
Exchange rates for silver and paper gulden varied between 1796 and 1818. Tables of exchange rates (monthly and annual) are available in Alfred Frances Pribram,
Materialen zur Geschichte der Preise und Löhne in Österreich (Vienna: Carl Ueberreuter, 1938), pp. 54–55; and Julia Moore, Beethoven and Musical
Economics (Ph.D. diss., University of Illinois, UrbanaChampaign, 1987), pp. 123–24.
All monetary figures are not comparable in purchasing power from the mid1790s onward unless adjusted for inflation. Concerning inflation rates and purchasing
power adjustments, see pp. 200–201, table 4, and the appendix.
Other European Currencies, 1800–18
Adjustment to prevailing exchange rate of Austrian paper gulden is necessary.
England (before 1800 and after 1818 only):
£1 = 11 fl CM = 2.4 d = 20 shillings
Germany (before 1800 and after 1818 only):
3 Reichsthaler = 1 d = 4.5 fl CM
France (before 1800 and after 1818 only):
1 Louis d'or = 2 d = 9 fl CM
Italy (before 1800 and after 1818 only):
1 zecchino = 5.5 fl CM = 10 English shillings
__________________________________________________________________________________________
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break from Prince Lichnowsky in 1806, but we must also consider the possibility that it was discontinued sooner. It could have broken off in early 1803 with
Beethoven's recently increased prosperity (more about this below). His financial complaints and fears later that year, and especially his concern that he would have to
move to a less expensive city, suggest that he no longer had the security of a stipend. In any case, beginning in 1802 he needed to find additional sources of income in
compensation for rising prices for food, rent, clothing, and other necessities. Clearly, Prince Lichnowsky did not cover Beethoven's rising expenses with an increased
stipend; thus, the onset of his financial distress corresponded precisely with the worsening of the Austrian economic situation.
1. Inflation, Its Causes, and Its Effects
Beethoven's thirtyfiveyear residence in Vienna unfortunately coincided with the Austrian government's first experiment with paper currency, an experiment that failed
because of inadequate understanding of the dangers of printing too much paper currency. 8 From the mid1790s until the conclusion of the Napoléonic Wars in 1814,
Austria's military expenses were extremely high (most of the fighting was done on Austrian territory, so the French army lived off the local population while the
Austrian army had to be paid), and its government frequently paid war expenses by simply printing more money to avoid the popular unrest that inevitably
accompanied tax increases.
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Table 3: Annual Circulation of the Bankozettel and Its Discount against the Silver Gulden, 1796 to the Austrian State Bankruptcy
Circulation of Bankozettel (in Number of BZ Equivalent to 100 Silver
Year millions) Gulden
1780 7 100.00
1788 28 100.00
1795 36 100.00
1796 47 100.13
1797 74 101.61
1798 91 101.06
1799 141 107.83
1800 200 114.91
1801 262 115.75
1802 337 121.67
1803 339 130.75
1804 337 134.24
1805 377 135.25
1806 449 173.01
1807 487 209.43
1808 502 228.15
1809 864 296.03
1810 942 492.12
January–March 1061 500.00
1811
Source: Alfred Francis Pribram, Materialen zur Geschichte der Preise und Löhne in Österreich (Vienna: Carl Ueberreuter, 1938), pp. 53–55.
Initially, a paper gulden (Bankozettel) had the same value as a silver gulden, but in 1796 foreign bankers began to treat the paper gulden as less valuable than the silver
gulden. Table 3 shows declining values of the paper gulden as measured against the silver gulden. In 1796 discounts for the paper gulden were still quite small: 100.00
silver gulden had the same value as 100.13 paper gulden. These discounts soon rose substantially, however. By 1807 two paper gulden were worth less than one
silver gulden, and by late 1810 a paper gulden was worth only about onetenth of a silver gulden.
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As its currency became nearly worthless, the Austrian government found itself in a precarious situation, and in February 1811 it declared a state bankruptcy. The
terms of the bankruptcy, the socalled Finanzpatent, included a fourfifths currency devaluation. 9 A new paper gulden, called the Wiener Währung, was introduced
in place of the former Bankozettel, which was no longer considered legal tender and had to be turned in to the government. For each five Bankozettel turned in, one
received just one Weiner Währung gulden. Silver gulden had previously been removed from circulation in December 1809.10 The government also announced that all
prices would be divided by five following the currency devaluation, but enforcement proved impossible. Initially, there was a fivefold reduction of prices, but within
months inflation was once again severe; within a few years prices rose fivefold and more, attaining and then exceeding predevaluation levels.
During the next few years, as a result of the combined effects of inflation and currency devaluation, those who held cash assets effectively lost fourfifths or more of
their wealth, while salaried employees lost fourfifths or more of their incomes' purchasing power, unless they could negotiate salary increases. (State officials were
granted a fivefold salary increase in the Finanzpatent.) Pensioners suffered most, while the aristocracy was least hurt, either by the currency devaluation or by
inflation, since it held most of its wealth in the form of land. The devaluation caused numerous bankruptcies and suicides among the small "second aristocracy," that is,
the wealthy uppermiddleclass bankers and industrialists, many of whom had attained aristocratic lifestyles and patents of nobility.
As with the old Bankozettel, the new Wiener Währung gulden failed to retain a stable value as measured against a now theoretical silver gulden. The next few years
saw increasingly severe inflation, nearly causing another state bankruptcy in 1816. The Austrian economy was by now so unstable that the conclusion of the
Napoléonic Wars brought recession, not economic recovery. Finally, between 1818 and 1820, the government suc
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ceeded in gradually reintroducing a silver gulden, in stabilizing its value at two and a half paper gulden, and in bringing inflation under control.
Beethoven's income and expenses involve monetary figures expressed in several different types of gulden that were not equal in value. In the past, this point has not
generally been well understood, nor has it been clear that, even when Beethoven's earnings are expressed in the same type of gulden, a consumer price index is
required for evaluation of these earnings during the years of severe inflation. If, for example, consumer prices doubled from one year to the next, then a 50 fl fee
earned during each of these years would not buy the same amount of goods. During the second year, this same fee would purchase only half as much; thus, with
respect to the previous year, a nominal fee of 50 fl would have a purchasing power of only 25 fl. To compare monetary amounts from different years, one must adjust
for inflation, which means knowing annual rates of inflation throughout the period of Beethoven's residence in Vienna.
Using the price index shown in figure 1 (the data is provided in table 4), monetary figures from throughout the period 1795–1827 may be adjusted for inflation to a
common, preinflation standard: the 1795 fl BZ. 11 Figure 1 is actually a graph of food and rent inflation only. Since food and rent accounted for 75% or more of the
annual expenditures of the Viennese Kleinbürger, or lower middle class, to which Beethoven and most artists belonged, a price index based solely on food and rent
data adequately represents the effects of inflation as experienced by most artists, and by most Viennese. The sources for the price data on which this index is based
were primarily archival (see the appendix), including the kitchen account books of the princes of Liechtenstein and similar data in other formats for the imperial
household. Published data was available for government
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Figure 1: Food and rent costs, 1795–1827, indexed annually, ratio
(semilogarithmic) scale. Sources: See the appendix.
controlled prices for beef, bread, and a few other food items, as was data on rent taxes paid by owners of houses and apartment buildings.
Figure 1 is a semilogarithmic graph of food/rent inflation: it shows annual increases in rates of inflation. If inflation had remained constant at, for example, 20% per
year, this graph would be a straight line. The increasing steepness of the graph during, for example, the period 1800–16 indicates worsening rates of inflation from year
to year. By 1816 prices had risen to nearly forty times their 1795 level. Today, fortyfold inflation over a twentyyear period might not constitute hardship because
wage inflation is often indexed to consumer price inflation. This was not the case, however, in early nineteenthcentury Vienna. Fortyfold price increases consti
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Table 4: Food and Rent Costs in Vienna, 1795–1827, Indexed Annually
Food/Rent Index Food Index Rent Index
Year
1795 100 100 (100)
1796 99 (99) 100
1797 99 (98) 102
1798 98 (96) 104
1799 98 95 107
1800 108 108 107
1801 124 128 113
1802 139 145 122
1803 160 169 132
1804 173 183 143
1805 185 198 144
1806 205 224 149
1807 198 210 160
1808 222 239 169
1809 287 318 195
1810 377 427 227
1811 516 583 316
1812 1287 1356 1078
1813 1103 1002 1405
1814 1556 1563 1533
1815 2341 2571 1649
1816 3246 3709 1856
1817 3479 3970 2007
1818 1823 1756 2022
1819 1368 1154 2009
1820 1715 1304 2949
1821 1896 1500 3085
1822 1928 (1500) 3212
1823 1950 (1500) 3301
1824 1949 (1500) 3295
1825 1941 (1500) 3262
1826 1943 (1500) 3270
1827 1940 (1500) 3259
Source: See the appendix.
Note: Parentheses indicate that the figure in question has been interpolated from other data.
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tuted unimaginable hardship at a time when wage inflation was almost unknown. From this price index, as well as from contemporary reports, it is clear that the
Viennese population first became aware of the seriousness of inflation during the year 1802, when prices achieved a level 40% higher than that of the 1790s. Around
this time Beethoven too seems to have become aware that the normal sorts of price fluctuations had been transformed into an everincreasing upward spiral of prices.
Unfortunately, most of his efforts to increase his income in compensation for inflation were unsuccessful, and his financial situation therefore deteriorated from late
1803 until early 1809.
During the winter of 1802, Beethoven tried unsuccessfully to engage a theater for a public concert. He had previously held just one benefit concert in Vienna, in April
1800, and, as expressed in his 1801 letter to Wegeler, he believed that, as his reputation increased, he would be able to hold annual concerts. However, the
availability of theaters was limited to the few nights each year when operatic performances were not held, and even then access to them was tightly controlled by the
court theater management. In fact, Beethoven never attained easy access to the court theaters, and he managed to hold only eight benefit concerts during the thirtyfive
years of his Vienna residence.
2. The Watershed Year, 1803
At the beginning of 1803, Beethoven was presented with a welcome opportunity when Emanuel Schikaneder, director of the private Theater an der Wien,
commissioned an opera from him. This contract also provided a free apartment in the theater complex and the use of the theater for an evening concert, which took
place on 5 April. Thanks to unusually high ticket prices, Beethoven earned 1800 fl BZ, an amount that compares favorably with the highest concert earnings reported
in Vienna during this period. Later, his concerts were usually not financially successful, above all because the police refused him permission to charge ticket prices
above the normal scale for theatrical performances.
The 1800 fl BZ earned from this concert may be evaluated with respect to information on living expenses provided by the Vienna guidebook author Johann Pezzl. 12
For the year 1804, Pezzl provided an austere annual
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budget of 967 fl BZ for a single man. On this budget, it was possible to live "independently"; that is, rather than living with multiple families crowded into a single room
with attached kitchen, as the vast underclass of Viennese lived, one could afford a tiny, dark, poorly furnished room of one's own. 13 Pezzl's budget tells us little about
the cost of a comfortable middleclass living standard since his purpose was delineation of the lowest reaches of the Kleinbürgertum from the underclass. While
Pezzl's "philosopher" might have managed for nearly two years on 1800 fl BZ, Beethoven would have exhausted these funds far sooner with his expenses for piano
rental, music copying, and a socially presentable wardrobe, among other things.
By late summer 1803 Beethoven was already worrying about money again. In September he wrote to his publisher Franz Anton Hoffmeister, "Please remember that
all my acquaintances hold appointments and know exactly what they have to live on."14 In August Ferdinand Ries wrote to the publisher Nikolaus Simrock,
"Beethoven will stay here at most for another year and a half. He is then going to Paris, which makes me extraordinarily sorrowful."15 High inflation was confined to
the Habsburg lands, with their unsuccessful experiment with paper currency, and Beethoven would indeed have faced less difficult financial circumstances elsewhere.
Also in 1802 Beethoven began his long association with the prestigious Leipzig publisher Breitkopf and Härtel. His first sale to Christoph Härtel was the String Quintet
in C Major, op.29, for 50 d, a generous fee. Unfortunately, since this fee greatly exceeded the level of compensation he later obtained from this firm, it was probably a
poly to lure Beethoven into doing business with them. Such practices were apparently normal; there is a pattern among Beethoven's publishers of higher fees paid for
first sales. By September 1803 Beethoven and Härtel were already haggling over prices, and these negotiations became increasingly extended in subsequent years.
Greater discrepancies developed between the fees Beethoven requested and the level of compensation he ultimately had to accept. The fees he received usually
represented about onethird of the amount he had initially requested. Until the 1820s the level of his nominal fees (the amount actually paid) remained constant. That is,
publishers continued to pay
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about the same amounts for similar kinds of compositions. His real fees (their purchasing power) declined at the rate of inflation, however. As his expenses rose, he
could only persist in increasingly extended fee negotiations with publishers, negotiations that did not, however, prove successful. Moreover, during these fee
negotiations, the purchasing power of his fees declined since the later he received payment, the lower its purchasing power. 16
Thus, 1803 represented a turning point for Beethoven financially. As inflation worsened, he had to look around for sources of additional income. Early in 1803 it
seemed he had succeeded with his commission for an opera, a high fee from a new publisher, and a large profit from a concert as well as the possibility of holding
further concerts in the same theater. Yet, as inflation accelerated during 1803, he again had to try to increase his income. By fall he was attempting to extract higher
nominal fees from Härtel, and he was considering leaving Vienna.
Another momentous event in 1803, the composition of the Eroica Symphony, represents perhaps the single most significant artistic turning point of his life. The timing
of this composition, its new style, and its ushering in of a new period in his creative development have been treated at length in countless studies of Beethoven's life and
music. The stylistic watershed represented by the Eroica Symphony is unquestionably related to the personal watershed described in the Heiligenstadt Testament of
October 1802. There was, of course, a financial component involved in Beethoven's recognition that his hearing difficulties were irreversible and incurable. The
inevitable end of his teaching career meant that sooner or later this source of income would have to be replaced. As a pianist, he managed one last public virtuoso
performance at the end of 1808, but even in late 1802 he was already uncomfortable in the social setting of aristocratic salons, which diminished his desire to perform
there. The frequency of his private performances from this time is not known, but it seems likely that they were often restricted to friendlier circles. He tended to find it
difficult, however, to accept payment from aristocratic patrons with whom he was on friendly terms.
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Despite all that has been written about the "new way" of the Eroica Symphony at this point in Beethoven's development, the significance of its composition
immediately after his concert of April 1803 has not yet been considered. 17 Although to us the most striking attributes of this "new way" are aesthetic, these go hand in
hand with functional attributes of music conceived for performance under particular circumstances before a particular kind of audience. The Eroica's expanded
proportions, heroic style, noisiness, dramatic elements, and rhythmic intensity make it suited for performance in a large hall before a large audience. We must consider
the possibility that Beethoven conceived this symphony as the centerpiece for his next public concert, an occasion he could hope for but that did not arise.
The most important composition on the 5 April program had been the cantata Christus am Ölberg, rapidly composed just prior to the concert. The announcement in
the Wiener Zeitung emphasized the significance of this single composition as its centerpiece: "On 5 April Herr Ludwig van Beethoven will produce a new oratorio set
to music by him, Christus am Ölberg, in the Theater an der Wien. The other pieces to be performed will be announced on the large billboard."18 These "other
pieces" were the First and Second Symphonies and the Third Piano Concerto. The critical reception to Christus was unfavorable, and Beethoven himself was not
satisfied with it. But the First and Second Symphonies drew rave reviews,19 and we may speculate that Beethoven too was pleased with the effect they created. In
any event, he turned almost immediately after the concert to work on another symphony (while composing the Violin Sonata, op.47, the "Kreuzer," for a benefit
concert given on 24 May by the visiting virtuoso George Bridgetower). Although he was supposed to be composing an opera on commission for the Theater an der
Wien, he instead devoted the rest of the year to composition of a new kind of symphony, an enormous dramatic symphony that, entirely without singers and without a
text, could have served as the centerpiece of his next concert.
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But the Eroica Symphony did not serve as the featured attraction of Beethoven's next public concert since he obtained use of a theater again only in December 1808;
by then the Eroica had been performed on other occasions, and he had many new compositions (too many, actually) to reveal to the Viennese public. Despite his
difficulties with Christus, he continued to feature large dramatic vocal compositions at most of his later public concerts, and, as with Christus, he tended to compose
these works hurriedly, just prior to a concert. For the Akademie on 22 December 1808, he composed the Choral Fantasy, op.80; and, for the opening festivities of
the Congress of Vienna, he composed the cantata Der glorreiche Augenblick, which he repeated shortly thereafter at his own benefit concert on 2 December 1814.
His concerts in 1824, on 7 and 23 May, were organized for the purpose of providing a hearing for two other dramatic vocal works, the Missa solemnis (selections
only) and the Ninth Symphony. Only one of his subsequent benefit concerts lacked a dramatic vocal work as its centerpiece. For this concert though, on 2 January
1814, he had a proven crowd pleaser — Welington's Victory — which had been enthusiastically received a month earlier at two charity benefits for wounded
Austrian and Bavarian soldiers.
If the Eroica Symphony was intended as the centerpiece for an occasion that never materialized, then clearly Beethoven changed his mind about using dramatic
symphonies, rather than dramatic vocal works, as the main attractions of his public concert programs. The mixed reception for the Eroica would have provided
sufficient reason for a change of mind. Its many admirers were probably not all won on first hearing; for example, a reviewer who counted himself among Beethoven's
"sincerest admirers" was disturbed that this symphony lacked overall unity as a result of many "glaring and bizarre" elements. 20
Although we lack clear evidence that Beethoven conceived the Eroica in connection with plans for a public concert, we should still consider the possibility that his
"new way" was shaped by financial as well as aesthetic considerations. In evaluating the concert of 5 April, he may have envisioned for his next concert a kind of
purely instrumental composition that, even without a text or human voices, could achieve all that a dramatic vocal work did. This new musicalaesthetic conception
was in part shaped by
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practical circumstances, namely, real financial need and perceived financial opportunity. The historical concept of "multiple determination" — that a momentous
historical watershed generally has multiple causes, of which each alone might appear sufficient — provides an apt description of the stylistic watershed represented by
the Eroica. Beethoven's hearing difficulties, his concomitant greater seriousness with regard to composition (as opposed to virtuoso performance), his increasing
compositional maturity, his fascination with Napoléon and with heroism — these all contributed psychologically and musically to the "new way" of the Eroica
Symphony. Yet only the financial considerations connected with the concert of 5 April 1803, together with the disappointment of his oratorio, would have triggered its
composition precisely in May 1803.
3. Financial Decline, 1803–19
During the next five years, publication fees provided Beethoven's chief source of income. Until 1807 he usually received payment for publication sales in Bankozettel.
He then began to insist on payment in a metal currency, at first silver gulden, later gold ducats. Until the 1820s the nominal amounts of his publication fees remained
essentially the same despite his ever more urgent pleas for higher fees in keeping with his rising living expenses. Foreign publishers were unconcerned with inflation in
faroff Vienna (although Beethoven endeavored valiantly to educate them about the local inflation), and Viennese publishers were too badly hurt by the Austrian
economic crises to be able to increase his nominal fees. Before adopting extreme measures to extract higher fees from publishers during the 1820s, he generally earned
15, 25, or 30 d for large works such as a string quartet or chamber composition, a symphony, a piano concerto, or a sonata. Arrangements and occasional pieces
earned 10–20 d. He rarely earned more than 50 d for a composition, and fees of this size were tied to special circumstances beyond a composition's artistic or market
value. 21
Table 5 shows reduction by inflation of the purchasing power of a fee paid in paper gulden. The sample fee shown here, 225 fl, was equal to 50 d during the 1790s,
before inflation became problematic. The value of Beethoven's fees declined by about 50 percent before he switched in 1807 to payment in metal currencies. Table 6
shows the declining purchasing
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Table 5: Declining Values of a 50Ducat Fee Paid in Bankozettel
225 fl BZ (1795 % of 1795 Year 225 fl WW % of 1795
Year fl BZ) value (1795 fl BZ) value
1811 44 20%
Source: Table 4.
power over time of a 50 d fee. Because of discrepancies between currency exchange rates and inflation, the purchasing power of fees paid in ducats remained very
high from 1807 until the state bankruptcy in 1811, but during later years it declined substantially. By the 1820s Beethoven's fees retained only twothirds of their
preinflation purchasing power.
In early 1807 Beethoven unsuccessfully petitioned the Imperial Theater management for a contract to compose one opera a year for 2400 fl BZ, and he claimed he
would have to leave Vienna without this income. Repeated petitions to the Imperial Theater management during the concert seasons 1806–07 and 1807–08 did elicit
promises of a hall for a benefit concert, but this was not forthcoming until December 1808. The allotted evening was highly disadvantageous since the popular Widows
and Orphans Charity concert was held at the same time in another theater. Beethoven's concert
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Table 6: Declining Values of a 50Ducat Fee Paid in Ducats
50 Ducats % of 1795 Year 50 Ducats % of 1795
Year (1795 fl BZ) value (1795 fl BZ) value
Source: Table 4.
Note: NA = Not applicable.
was an artistic success but a financial failure. 22 It represented his last appearance in the role of virtuoso.
Before this concert Beethoven's financial situation had become desperate, requiring him to move in with a patron, the Countess Anna Marie von Erdödy. He could no
longer support himself in Vienna, and even before the concert he had decided to accept a Kapellmeister appointment in Kassel. Following the concert, however, he
was promised a stipend of 4000 fl BZ from three aristocratic patrons, the Archduke Rudolph and the Princes Lobkowitz and Kinsky, which allowed him to remain in
Vienna. Although it was far lower than the Kassel salary, this stipend was, at the outset at
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least, a generous one that should have allowed him a comfortable living standard since he could continue to earn income from publications and the occasional public
concert. 23 The 4000 fl stipend alone represented two and a half times the amount of Pezzl's austere budget for a single man.
Unfortunately, a rapid worsening of the Austrian economic situation destroyed the benefits of this plan before it had been fully put into effect. By midsummer of 1809
Beethoven had not yet received the first payment from all three patrons, yet food prices had risen at incredible rates since the arrival of Napoléon's army in Vienna.
The departure of the French in the fall brought no relief. The economy had by then entered a state of hyperinflation, which worsened rapidly until the state bankruptcy
of early 1811, and the stipend contained no provision for increases to compensate for rising living expenses. The story of Beethoven's lawsuit against two of the
patrons who paid this stipend is well known, although his real need for fivefold multiplication of the stipend in compensation for the currency devaluation of the
previous year has yet to be appreciated. Table 7 shows the stipend's declining purchasing power from 1809 onward. An 1809based index is shown in col.4 (the
figures from the 1795based index have been divided by 287 — the index value for 1809). The four columns to the right show the payments made by the three
patrons (all figures are shown in Bankozettel). The total annual payments (col.5) are adjusted to 1809 purchasing power in col.3. The stipend began during the second
quarter of 1809, so Beethoven was entitled to receive 3000 fl BZ during the first calendar year. Not only was Kinsky's late payment inconvenient, but by the time
Beethoven received it, its purchasing power had been substantially reduced by higher prices. By the end of 1810, all three patrons were up to date in their payments,
Beethoven had received 7000 fl BZ for twentyone months, yet the 1809 purchasing power of these payments amounted to just 5734 fl BZ. Inflation had already
deprived him, in essence, of one quarterly payment.
From 1809 to 1814 the cost of living increased 542%, so the 4.25 multiplication of the stipend Beethoven won in 1815 did not fully compensate him for purchasing
power lost to inflation. Moreover, by 1815 prices had risen 816% since 1809. The large retroactive payments Beethoven received in 1815 from Lobkowitz and the
Kinsky estate on settlement of the lawsuit
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Table 7: The Declining Purchasing Power of Beethoven's Stipend, 1809–27
% of 1809 1809 Value Inflation Total Paid Archduke (fl Lobkowitz Kinsky (fl
Year Stipend (fl BZ) Index (fl BZ) BZ) (fl BZ) BZ)
1809 41% 1,650 100 1,650 1,125 525 0
1810 102% 4,084 131 5,350 1,500 700 3,150
1811 116% 4,625 180 8,325 6,000 525 1,800
1812 82% 3,272 448 14,659 7,500 0 7,159
1813 49% 1,953 384 7,500 7,500 0 0
1814 35% 1,384 542 7,500 7,500 0 0
1815 117% 4,664 816 38,062 7,500 15,167 15,395
1816 36% 1,426 1,131 16,125 7,500 2,625 6,000
1817 37% 1,475 1,212 17,875 7,500 4,375 6,000
1818 63% 2,539 635 16,125 7,500 2,625 6,000
1819 94% 3,747 477 17,875 7,500 4,375 6,000
1820 71% 2,843 598 17,000 7,500 3,500 6,000
1821 64% 2,572 661 17,000 7,500 3,500 6,000
1822 63% 2,530 672 17,000 7,500 3,500 6,000
1823 59% 2,375 679 16,125 7,500 2,625 6,000
1824 63% 2,504 679 17,000 7,500 3,500 6,000
1825 63% 2,515 676 17,000 7,500 3,500 6,000
1826 64% 2,566 677 17,375 7,500 4,375 5,500
1827 22% 897 676 6,061 1,792 836 3,433
Average 69% 2,757
Sources: Table 4; Martella GutiérrezDenhoff, "'O Unseeliges Dekret': Beethovens Rente von Fürst Lobkowitz, Fürst Kinsky und Erzherzog Rudolph," in Beethoven
und Böhmen, ed. Sieghard Brandenburg and Martella GutiérrezDenhoff (Bonn: Beethovenhaus, 1988), pp.140–45; Verlassenschaftsabhandlung, Ludwig van
Beethoven, Wiener Stadt und Landesarchiv.
should, at least, have made this a boon year. With prices at very high levels, however, these retroactive payments were worth little more than one year's stipend
payment in 1809 fl BZ (117%). The purchasing power of the payments Beethoven received was lowest during the years 1813–14, when only the archduke was
making payments, and during 1816–17, owing to
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the highest price levels of this entire inflationary period. His windfall income from the concerts of 1814 eased the financial strain of these years. On average over the
period 1809–27, the purchasing power of the stipend represented only 69% of its value as initially conceived. Given its severely reduced purchasing power in 1816, it
is not surprising that Beethoven wrote in May to his friend Charles Neate that he could hardly live alone for three months on his stipend, a situation considerably
worsened since he had recently taken on the expense of raising his nephew. 24
Until 1812 Beethoven's compositional decisions were infrequently influenced by financial need, whereas from this time onward financial considerations played an
increasingly significant role and were rarely absent from decisions concerning which largescale works were to progress from planning to actual completion.25 He
spent most of 1811 and 1812 composing the Seventh and Eighth Symphonies, which were probably his last largescale works conceived with little regard for financial
need or financial gain. His only completed composition during 1813, except for a couple of songs and a march, was Wellington's Victory, from which he and Johann
Nepomuk Mälzel hoped to reap large profits during a European tour with Mälzel's mechanical orchestra, the socalled panharmonicon. Relations between Beethoven
and Mälzel turned acrimonious, however, when Beethoven made an orchestral arrangement of Wellington's Victory for his benefit concert, from which he alone
benefited financially. The success of Wellington's Victory was one reason that Beethoven earned more from public concerts during the single year 1814 than during
the entire period before and after. More important, however, were the occasions for concerts provided by the assembling of European monarchs for the Congress of
Vienna. For the first time, Beethoven accumulated savings, which he later converted into bank shares to provide for his nephew Karl in the event of his own death
(since his stipend included no pension for dependents). Beethoven's high visibility during 1814–15 before the crowned heads of Europe, each with a large entourage of
noble retainers, established his preeminence as the greatest composer of his time.
Beethoven's obsession with obtaining guardianship of his nephew Karl during a period extending from the death of his brother Carl Caspar in 1815 until his legal
success in 1820 accounts for a striking decline in his
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compositional activities. Excluding light works, he composed in 1815 only the two Cello Sonatas op.102, in 1816 only the Piano Sonata op.101 and An die ferne
Geliebte, and in 1817 and 1818 only the "Hammerklavier" Sonata, op.106. During these years, he also began to sketch works whose "composition" belonged to the
1820s. Still, his artistic productivity during this period was remarkably low in comparison to other periods of his artistic maturity. Without the large profits earned from
concerts in 1814, he could not have afforded loss of his usual steady stream of publication fees, and, despite the distraction provided by the timeconsuming custody
battles, this compositional hiatus would have been impossible.
4. Composing "for Money," 1820–27
The news in early 1819 that Archduke Rudolph would be elevated in March 1820 as cardinal and archbishop of Olmütz stimulated renewed compositional efforts.
Beethoven began the Missa solemnis, intended for Rudolph's elevation ceremonies. His progress was poor, however, until well after the ceremony, when, in July
1820, the custody battle was concluded and the distraction removed. Now not only did he have the greater expense of Karl's education (for which he had been
paying for some time), but he also had to plan for Karl's future — and, most worrisome, for Karl's security after his own death. While few Viennese earned enough to
set aside savings, most relied on their employers to support them in their old age and to provide pensions for their surviving dependents. Middleclass occupational
groups (i.e., selfemployed craftsmen) supported the dependents of their deceased members in the old tradition of the guilds. 26 Beethoven's stipend, however, did not
provide a pension for dependents, nor was it increased to compensate for lost income from other sources when he was ill and unable to work. His health was poor for
about a decade before his death, so when he gained custody of Karl, he feared he could die at any time, leaving his underage nephew financially destitute.
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From publication of the Missa solemnis Beethoven earned 1000 silver gulden, and he sold nine manuscript copies to European monarchs at 50 d each. With a
copying cost for each manuscript of 60 fl CM, 27 the profit per copy was 165 fl CM, or 36 2/3 d. His total profit from publication and subscription of the Missa
solemnis was 2485 fl CM, or 552 d — comparable to eleven major compositions sold to publishers at 50 d each. Even though he spent most of four years
composing the Missa solemnis, peddling it to subscribers and multiple publishers, and correcting the manuscript copies purchased by subscribers, it is unlikely that he
could have composed and sold eleven individual large works at 50 d each during this same fouryear period. His singleminded effort to earn the maximum profits
from one extraordinary work thus paid off in financial terms. We can, however, speculate on the results had the considerable time spent selling the Missa solemnis
been devoted instead to projected and uncompleted compositions such as his Tenth Symphony, his String Quintet in C Major, an overture on B–A–C–H, a requiem,
an opera, an oratorio, and a concerto.
The Ninth Symphony earned a profit comparable to five major works sold to publishers for 50 d each. The publication fee was 600 fl CM, and the London
Philharmonic Society paid a commission of £50, equal to 550 fl CM. In July 1822, six months before he progressed from sketches to actual composition, Beethoven
approached the London Philharmonic Society concerning their fee for a symphony written on commission. They replied in November 1822, and Beethoven sent his
acceptance the following month. He began composition in early 1823 and completed the symphony a year later. His sketches for this symphony extended back many
years.
Also in November 1822, Prince Nikolaus Galitzin asked Beethoven to write for him one, two, or three string quartets, and Beethoven agreed for 50 d each — a
rather standard commission. On completion of the Ninth Symphony, he set to work on the Quartet in EU266D Major, op.127, which he was soon offering to
publishers for 50 d. For each of the four remaining quartets, written in rapid succession, he obtained an unusually high fee of 80 d. As with the publication sale of the
Ninth Symphony, the size of these fees was enhanced by the "bait and switch" tactic he had set in motion with sale of the Missa solemnis.
During this last decade, Beethoven's financial distress determined which compositional projects he pursued, namely, those that could be sold twice,
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once as a subscription or commission and a second time to a publisher for an unusually high fee. To some extent, these financial considerations caused his artistic plans
to grow more ambitious and grandiose. He set very high prices for his works at an early stage of composition and then had to justify these fees by producing works
large in scope and original in style. The fees preceded the compositions and exerted some influence on work in progress. It is more revealing than ironic that
Beethoven's works composed ''for money" are his least accessible in style. During the 1820s he did, in fact, attempt — with limited success — to sell juvenilia and
other typically commercial works, but he was rebuked by Carl Peters, who sent back several bagatelles and songs in February 1823 with undiplomatic remarks that
such trifles were unworthy to appear under the name Beethoven. 28 His public no longer much cared whether they understood his works, he soon discovered, and
they were moved to inordinate admiration of works by the great Beethoven, works they could not understand. Without the added cachet of their inaccessibility, his
lateperiod works probably would not have commanded publication fees many times higher than those he extracted from his publishers for popular works from his
"middle period."
As with the many factors involved in creation of his middleperiod style, it is difficult to weigh the significance of the financial benefit of composing inaccessibly against
the aesthetic breakthroughs represented by the lateperiod style. Again, as in 1803, compelling biographical factors — his ill health, bitterness, alienation, and the
further hearing loss that necessitated use of the conversation books — contributed to his new musical style. In the end, we can only marvel at the strange and
remarkable circumstances by which Beethoven's stylistic periods and financial periods were interlinked. His personality was more inspired than daunted by seemingly
insurmountable obstacles, so perhaps the financial distress he faced in 1803 and in 1820 stirred his creativity on an atavistic level, and not merely with regard to
practical matters. It is clear that his financial difficulties led to no abandonment of his aesthetic standards in pursuit of commercial gain. To the contrary, he responded
by forging new aesthetic ideals against which the best musical talents throughout the next century measured themselves and at times found themselves wanting.
Whereas the most striking effects of Beethoven's financial difficulties on his compositions occurred during the last decade of his life, his financial sit
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uation from 1803 to 1820 was not without significance for his creative activities. A detailed discussion of his living standard lies beyond the scope of this essay, but
essentially he struggled to maintain a lowermiddleclass living standard, unremarkable in itself. Besides domestic servants and the enormous underclass, the only other
large group in Vienna was Kleinbürger, who, including Beethoven, lived in some discomfort. The inadequacy of Beethoven's income affected the most basic elements
of his living standard: diet, living quarters, furniture, and clothing, all of which were thoroughly kleinbürgerlich. 29 Some acquaintances criticized his spending habits as
too free, some as too stingy, and some accused him of both excesses. It seems that among Kleinbürger, with their perpetually straitened circumstances, nearly
everyone had a better idea concerning the ideal allocation of his neighbor's assets. In any event, there is no reason or evidence to suggest that Beethoven squandered
much money. Like his living standard, his income seems to have been kleinbürgerlich. Until 1803 Beethoven could write a single letter to a publisher and obtain a
satisfactory fee for his compositions. From 1803 onward the selling of his works and negotiations over prices became ever more difficult and time consuming, robbing
him of composition time and thereby depriving us of works that he could have written under less harsh economic circumstances.
5. "Incomes" in Early NineteenthCentury Vienna
The unfortunate effects of inflation on Beethoven's financial situation are dramatic and obvious. Yet, had there been no inflation, it remains doubtful that he would have
fared much better. He obtained the stipend from these three aristocratic patrons only after his financial distress had become acute. Under less extraordinary
circumstances, he very likely would not have received such a stipend, although he would still have needed one. His difficulties in holding public concerts were unrelated
to inflation, as were the frequently unfavorable financial results of his concerts. Other musicians active in Vienna during these years rarely fared better.30 The grand
excep
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tions were Haydn, whose concert successes were achieved in England, and Paganini, whose financial successes in Vienna in the late 1820s marked the beginning of a
new era, when changed conditions permitted the fantastic careers of Liszt, Clara Schumann, and other highly paid virtuosos. By present standards, publication fees
were very low since publishers were not protected by enforceable copyright against piracy. During the two centuries since then, few composers have managed to earn
comfortable livings from publication fees, even when well protected by copyright and compensated for performing right. 31
The situation of the middle class in the early nineteenth century differed so radically from its situation today that we must set aside innumerable modern conceptions to
come to terms with Beethoven's financial status. Throughout the first half of the nineteenth century, the Austrian economy remained preindustrial and preconsumer. As
the historian Rudolf Stadelmann has pointed out, the condition of a large German city at midnineteenth century more closely resembled its condition during the
fourteenth century than its condition at the end of the nineteenth.32 The same is true of the modern middle class that developed during the later nineteenth century (as a
result of the Industrial Revolution) as compared to an entirely different kind of middle class in existence from the middle ages until the midnineteenth century.
Historians have characterized the Biedermeier era of the first half of the nineteenth century as "the Indian summer of a disappearing world."33 An extraordinary
discontinuity occurred be
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tween the membership of the old middle class before 1848 and that of the new middle class that developed during the Industrial Revolution. As their occupations were
mechanized, very large numbers of formerly middleclass Handwerker sank into the new proletarian class when they were forced into factory employment. 34
During the early nineteenth century, most of the middle class were Handwerker, and most Handwerker were Kleinbürger. Handwerker comprised primarily two
groups, artisans and tradesmen, along with a few other, more socially marginal occupational groups. Musicians were Handwerker. At the top of the middle class were
two thin layers of privilege: the wealthy (bankers and large industrialists) and the educated ("academic officials," who included some lawyers and fewer doctors,
professors, and government officials).35 Like the aristocracy, the miniscule upper middle class (less than 1 percent of the population) exerted an influence greatly
disproportionate to its numbers.36
The regulated nature of the guilds meant considerable standardization of incomes, and the inefficiency with which artisans operated prior to industrialization — or even
rationalization of production — meant that incomes were very low for astonishingly long hours of highly skilled work. Within each occupational group of Handwerker
there nevertheless existed a wide range of incomes, even though few incomes fell at the outer extremes. Upward mobility was unlikely but not impossible, nor was it
impossible for Handwerker to sink below minimum standards of a kleinbürgerlich existence. Studies of tax records for Handwerker in many German cities show
that great numbers of them earned less than starvation incomes
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(as established by local authorities). 37 How then did they survive? Their survival was, in fact, unremarkable since this was not a cashbased but rather a cashpoor
economy. Very few people supported their living standards with cash income. Few salaries were paid entirely in cash. The cash portion of a salary often represented
merely pocket money, while the employer provided food, lodging, clothing, medical care, and burial expenses, along with allowances of firewood, wine, and even such
trifles as hair powder, all paid in kind.
Most of the population was still engaged in farming, and even residents of the larger cities often raised livestock and grew their own vegetables, despite strenuous
efforts by city authorities to combat the stench of swine emanating illegally from the courtyards of apartment buildings.38 Urban middleclass families made their own
candles and soap, brewed their own beer, and sewed their own clothing.39 In prosperous families these chores were performed by servants, and indeed servants
were kept by nearly everyone who was not himself a servant. Kleinbürger obtained servants merely by providing food and clothing, pocket money, and a mattress to
be rolled out at night in the kitchen.
Comparison of Beethoven's financial status to the usual status of educated members of the middle class is potentially confusing. While the similarities are striking, at the
outset we must understand the dismal situation of the educated. Those privileged few with lucrative court positions were exceptionally fortunate. Wellpaying
government positions were largely monopolized by the lower nobility, and most middleclass government officials were so badly paid as to require another source of
income, such as a small inheritance.40 It was necessary to work some years entirely without pay before a miserable salary was paid at all. These government positions
were eagerly sought after because of the high value placed on education and its social prestige. Between a choice of poverty with social prestige or without prestige,
preference for the former is understandable. The modern idea
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that musicians can expect to receive cash fees for performances had not yet developed. Indeed, such an idea was foreign to a cashpoor economy, whose rewards
usually took the form of gifts or of intangible rewards — prestige, reputation, admiration. Throughout most of his life, Beethoven's financial status corresponded rather
closely to that of the beleaguered government officials. The comfortable existence he enjoyed during his earliest years in Vienna was largely due to Prince
Lichnowsky's patronage. His later stipend from the three aristocrats represented compensation not merely for inflation but for the deficiencies of an economy in which
one could not expect to live independently on cash earnings. Inflation soon destroyed the value of Beethoven's later stipend, and if no one then stepped forward to
lend assistance, it was because his financial difficulties were altogether unremarkable.
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Appendix: Sources for the Index of Price Inflation
Hausarchiv Liechtenstein, Vienna and Vaduz, Küchenrechnungsbücher (under various
Food Price Data names). Complete food price data provided in Julia Moore, Beethoven and Musical
Economics (Ph.D. diss., University of Illinois, UrbanaChampaign, 1987), app.1.
Haus, Hof, und Staatsarchiv. Obersthofmeisteramt. Akten.
Alfred Francis Pribram, Materialen zur Geschichte der Preise und Löhne in
Österreich (Vienna: Carl Ueberreuter, 1938), tables 585–93, 614, pp.382–85, 445.
Constantin M. Humpel and A. Hensinger, Statistische Tableaus über die Bewegung
der Erwerb, Einkommen und Hauszinssteuer Verhaltnisse in der k. k. Reichs,
Haupt, und Residenzstadt Wien, vom Jahre 1810 bis 1861 (Vienna: Jaspers,
1860), table 11.
Tabelle über die gestiegene Teuerung der Lebensmittel in Wien, Wiener Stadt
und Landesbibliothek 40 968 E.
Consumption Data Roman Sandgruber, Die Anfänge der Konsumgesellschaft (Munich: R.
Oldenbourg, 1982).
Versuch einer Darstellung der österreichischen Monarchie in statistischen
Tafeln, vol.1 (1828), table 95; vol.11 (1829), table 91.
Johann Pezzl, Neue Skizze von Wien (5th ed. Vienna: J. B. Degen, 1805), 1, 161,
178–79.
Rent Data41 Versuch einer Darstellung der österreichischen Monarchie in statistischen
Tafeln, vol.1 (1828), table 101.
J. V. Goehlert, "Historischstatistische Notizen über Niederösterreich," Blätter des
Vereines für Landeskunde von Niederösterreich, n.s., 6, Jahrgang nos. 10 and 11
(1 November 1872), 183.
Humpel and Hensinger, Statistische Tableaus, table 1.
Ernest Mischler, Österreichisches Städtebuch: Statistische Berichte der grösseren
österreichischen Städte aus Anlass des IV. internationalen demographischen
Congresses (Vienna 1887), 1, 14–15.
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Review Article: Beethoven's Sketches and the Interpretative Process
Nicholas Marston
Sins cannot be undone, only forgiven," said Stravinsky of his Perséphone. 1 The theological metaphor is admittedly a little high handed (and its pursual here not a little
tongue in cheek), but it is tempting to read Barry Cooper's valuable Beethoven and the Creative Process somewhat in the spirit of an atonement for his earlier
controversial "completion" of the first movement of Beethoven's putative Tenth Symphony.2 To presume to complete a Beethoven work, above all one for which the
sources are as delicate and complex as are those for the Tenth Symphony, is an undertaking unlikely to endear one to the scholarly world. Beethoven sketch studies,
however, represent a venerable branch of scholarship, the legitimacy of which few would dispute.
I have no intention of questioning that legitimacy here; nor do I proclaim myself happy with either the processes or the results of Cooper's sym
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phonic "completion." I wish instead to point out the extent to which both activities, completion and sketch studies, require us to perform the ultimately impossible task
of reading the composer's mind. In the one case, we take a body of fragmentary material for a work and ask what the composer might have done with it, how he
would have developed it; in the other, we try to recreate the chain of compositional decisions that leads through the sketches to the final version of the work we
know. The question is not, What would Beethoven have done? but rather, Why did he do what he did?
For Gustav Nottebohm, the answer to this second question was not to be found in the sketches: "The demon has dwelt in these sketchbooks. But the demon has
vanished; the spirit that dictated a work does not appear in the sketches." 3 On the contrary, the continuing fascination of Beethoven's sketches for Cooper and other
scholars a century after Nottebohm is testimony to the belief that enough of the "demon" remains to hold our interest. We can surely see more traces than Nottebohm,
thanks to the work done on sketchbook reconstruction since the 1970s. Moreover, we are more confident in our ability to transcribe all but the most difficult passages
in the sketchbooks. This new confidence in what the sketches say at the most basic level, a necessary preliminary to deciding why Beethoven did what he did, has at
times found paradoxical expression. William Drabkin, for instance, reviewing Sieghard Brandenburg's exemplary transcription of the Kessler Sketchbook, noted that,
in recent sketchbook editions, "the transcription volume is showing increasingly less resemblance to its accompanying facsimile." He went on to suggest that
if the transcription can, some day, look sufficiently different to persuade us that it indeed represents the composer's true intentions—as far as the professionally trained eye can
perceive them—might we not think about dispensing with the luxury of a facsimile volume?4
The issue here is the increased role played by interpretation in sketch transcription. The newstyle transcription represented by Brandenburg's Kessler edition
substituted meaningful musical interpretation of Beetho
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ven's notation for the preservation of the quirks and eccentricities in the sources that had previously characterized the Beethovenhaus publications. 5 But the more
interpretative the transcription, the greater the necessity for access to what Beethoven actually wrote in some form or other. From a contemporary perspective,
indeed, we should give serious thought to the reverse of Drabkin's argument. The main reason for transcribing Beethoven's sketches is to investigate the genesis of a
particular work, and most scholars pursuing this aim choose to make their own transcriptions. Thus, the whole idea of an authoritative Skizzenausgabe in facsimile
and transcription seems increasingly questionable. One "professionally trained eye" will never see quite the same thing as the next. An edition in facsimile alone would
at least facilitate the matter of training all eyes on the source material itself.
Interpretation lies at the heart of Beethoven sketch studies. Before we ask why Beethoven did what he did in composing any work, we must decide what we think he
wrote in the sketches. And the interpretative processes that fuel transcription go well beyond the routine of supplying all the clefs, key and time signatures, accidentals,
and other notational commonplaces, habitually ignored by Beethoven, that need to be restored editorially in a transcription. In addition to transcribing what we see in
the sketchbook, we perform something akin to reconstruction or realization: we mentally supply bass lines, inner voices, even dynamics and instrumentation, to
Beethoven's singleline drafts. In many cases, our interpretation of the pitches in a tricky passage will be informed by assumptions about the implied harmonic
background as well as by the finished work. Building on our interpretation of the sources, we reconstruct the likely order in which the sketches were written before
seeking their interrelations and their relation to the work itself. In stressing the subjective element, I mean not to question the legitimacy of the discipline but to address
questions of interpretative position.
Perhaps it was an unwillingness to engage the material on a higher interpretative plane that inspired Nottebohm's overly pessimistic view about the absence of the
"demon" from the sketchbooks. Douglas Johnson, however, has argued that it is the greater sophistication of our analytical ar
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mory that enables us to find "more of the mature organism there than Nottebohm was willing to admit." 6 But whether we side with Nottebohm or with Johnson, we
must realize that investigation of a composer's creative process involves more than the study of his sketchbooks. Cooper knows this as well and accordingly devotes
part 1 of his book to a study of "Factors Affecting Beethoven's Creative Process." In four chapters, he deals respectively with Beethoven's artistic aims; the
professional pressures under which he worked; the influence on his music of extramusical factors, such as biographical events or matters of attitude and belief; and his
use of recurring ideas or "the various ways in which ideas from his earlier works reappeared in later ones" (p.59). The relation of this last chapter to the subject
announced by the part title may seem somewhat obscure, and one might question the rather easy equation made between stylistic unity and the frequent recall of
"numerous individual musical ideas and devices or combinations of devices" (p.70). But Cooper draws closer to his main theme with those instances in which initially
abandoned material in the sketchbooks resurfaces, sometimes many years later, in a new context. To the cases listed in his table 3 (p.67) may be added the slow
movement of the Ninth Symphony, whose origins lie in sketches for a projected movement that Beethoven later tried to resurrect as the first movement of the
notorious Tenth Symphony.7 The habit of leafing through his old sketchbooks in search of inspiration is clearly a conspicuous and important aspect of his creative
process.
Within these four chapters, the discussion of "Beethoven's artistic aims" raises the most questions about critical subjectivity and interpretative stance. Cooper
reconstructs Beethoven the creative artist in a way that is all too solid, given the number of imponderables involved. For example, he asserts that it was Beethoven's
desire "to create music of the highest artistic worth, … which necessitated all the sketching and related labour" (p.21). Are we to believe that artistic worth can issue
only from such working procedures? The importance of sketching to Beethoven cannot be denied, and any major discussion of his creative process must grapple with
the question of precisely why he made so many sketches and why he hoarded them throughout his life. I suggest that Beethoven's compulsive
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sketching must have been at least partly related to his loss of hearing: the visible stimulus of notation increasingly compensated for the lacking aural stimulus of sound. It
seems safer, at any rate, to locate the explanation for such habits in psychological or physiological traits rather than to take refuge in such slippery aesthetic concepts as
"artistic worth." Cooper's fearless application of such concepts is evident in a passage expounding Beethoven's remark that "the best thing of all is a combination of the
surprising and the beautiful!" Whereas many lesser composers fail to achieve a proper balance of these two elements,
Beethoven, by contrast, always managed to keep within the bounds of artistic sense and beauty, maintaining a certain inner proportion and logic even in his most original
creations, and this ability to combine the surprising and the beautiful was an important element contributing to his greatness as a composer (p.22).
There is an unnerving air of authority and certainty about such statements.
In general, Cooper avoids discussing what role, if any, the sketches have in the analysis of Beethoven's finished works. But when he does approach this matter, it is
with the same unequivocal opinions as those just observed. For Cooper, analyses of the finished works can sometimes "be demonstrably refuted by the
sketches" (p.11), which seems to imply that music analysis and sketch studies always share the goal of elucidation of the compositional process or the composer's
intentions. 8 Not surprisingly, he also believes that the sketches have the power actually to verify an analysis: for example, Edward Cone's suggestion that the trio
section of op.126, no.4, functions first as a trio and then as a coda "is confirmed by the fact that Beethoven originally wrote a different coda" (p.26, n.52; my italics).
What I object to here is the undue strength of Cooper's language. The sketches often do open new analytical perspectives, and the knowledge that Beethoven did at
first write a different coda may indeed make Cone's analysis more attractive or persuasive to us, but the abandoned coda certainly cannot validate the analysis in the
sense that Cooper wants to believe.
Part 2, "Beethoven's Compositional Methods," focuses more narrowly on the sketchbooks themselves. In some ways, this is the most valuable section of Beethoven
and the Creative Process. Here, Cooper draws together the conclusions from many studies devoted to particular manuscripts or
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compositions to present a detailed summary of the sketchbooks and their use, the visual appearance of the sketches, and the types of and relations among sketches
that are to be found, before going on to discuss the ways in which aspects of form, key, melody, and other details of a composition may be worked out. Although
specialists will find little new here, they may wish that such a guide had been available during their first attempts to garner meaning from the notational morass so often
presented by a Beethoven sketch leaf. Newcomers should now find the way a good deal more straight and narrow.
Cooper's tendency to offer pat judgments on complex matters mars this section of the book. Thus, he claims that Beethoven's awareness of the increasing complexity
of his music dictated changes in his method of sketching and that "he soon found that the extra 'elbowroom' thereby created enabled him to expand his style
considerably" (p.83). The evidence of the "Hammerklavier" Sonata must be set against the ensuing suggestion that the very nature of works like the Eroica Symphony
or the Missa solemnis was directly related to the sketching methods employed. Arguably Beethoven's most intensely unified work, and certainly one of his largest, the
"Hammerklavier" appears to have been composed without the aid of a desk sketchbook, Beethoven's principal sketching format from 1799 to the end of his life. 9
Later, in trying to relate the emphasis on transitional passages in the sketches to the importance of such passages in Beethoven's music, Cooper claims that the two "go
hand in hand: because [Beethoven] wanted forward thrust he had to work particularly hard at the transitions, and because he did so the music acquired this sense of
thrust" (p.130). If this reasoning is not circular, it is decidedly elliptical; such simplistic causal explanations cannot go unchallenged.
Part 3 is entitled "Stages in the Creative Process" and is devoted to six case studies of individual works: the Piano Sonata in D Minor, op.31, no.2; the String Quartet
in BU266D, op.130; "Meeresstille" from op.112; the Egmont Overture; the late bagatelles; and the Piano Concerto in BU266D, op.19. Cooper's interest here is not
so much in the unique genesis of each work as in the extent to which a particular compositional issue or "problem" is illustrated in each case. As he states, the chapters
are
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arranged so that they reflect the growth of composition[s] from the earliest to the latest stages of their evolution, while at the same time revealing something of the range of
compositional problems that was likely to confront Beethoven at different periods of his life and in different types of work (p.177).
Readers will probably find this the most interesting part of the book and the one to which they will most readily return. But part 3 is in some ways the most
problematic, calling into question the conception of the book as a whole. In short, how much should we prize a generalized notion of Beethoven's creative process,
independent of its illustration in specific works? Of course, an understanding of Beethoven's general working habits is essential to a proper evaluation of the sketches
for a particular work. I do not mean to suggest that Cooper's is an unworthy cause, and, in general, I commend his treatment of it. Nevertheless, what the sketches
can reveal about the genesis of, say, the Eroica Symphony, Fidelio, or the C#Minor Quartet is more important than whether they exemplify particular, relatively
constant features of Beethoven's creative process. We turn to the sketches because we know and love the works. What will grip readers most firmly in Cooper's
study of the "Tempest" Sonata, then, is likely to be the relation between the two sketches for the first movement (Cooper's exx.12.3 and 12.7) and the final version
rather than the observation that "the initial sketches can be among the most significant for a work as a whole" (p.196).
But if our interest in the sketches centers on knowledge of the creation of an individual work, it is nevertheless we who impute meaning to the sketches through our
"reconstruction" of them. What we learn from the sketches will depend on our interpretative position and on our particular interpretation of the work in question
(notwithstanding that the evidence of the sketches may in turn inform and deepen that interpretation). The following detailed examination of Cooper's case study of the
String Quartet in BU266D, op.130, is offered in the spirit of these thoughts. 10
One of the most conspicuous features of Beethoven's late style is a constant
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preoccupation with form. This is manifest not only in the remarkable originality of many individual movements but even more so in a radically new attitude toward the
order and combination of movements in a multimovement work. The "Ciclus von Kleinigkeiten" (Beethoven's own term), published as the Bagatelles op.126,
demonstrates the extent to which the composer had moved beyond conventional generic models inherited from the Classical tradition toward the conception of a
musical work made up of a number of strongly contrasting miniatures. 11 But if the late bagatelles directly adumbrate such incontrovertibly Romantic works as
Schumann's piano cycles, they may also have been a stimulus to Beethoven's experimentation in the larger, more public genre of the string quartet. The String Quartet
in C# Minor, op.131, goes furthest along the road mapped out in op.126. Its sevenmovement form, the palpable connection between each movement and the next,
and the cyclic element represented by the return in the last movement of a transformation of the opening fugue subject all contrive to cast doubt on the precise status of
the individual movements (or numbered sections, as they appear in the score) and of the total work. The C#Minor Quarter "is neither, strictly speaking, one long
movement nor a succession of independent movements";12 its total form lies somewhere between these two extremes.
The Quartets in A Minor, op.132, and BU266D, op.130, are somewhat less extreme, but both go beyond the conventional fourmovement form. And Beethoven's
approach to the order and combination of movements in op.130 is the focus of Cooper's second case study, headed "Planning the Later Movements." The main
arguments may be summarized here. After fixing the first two movements of the quartet as we know it today, Beethoven was unsure how to proceed. The large
number of concept sketches following the sketches for the Presto bear witness to Beethoven's uncertainty about the best key for the third movement and to his
vacillation over the kind of movement it should be. He seems temporarily to have settled on a tripletime slow movement in DU266D, the thematic material of which
"eventually evolved into the Cavatina" (p.203). The Cavatina, in the new key of EU266D, was eventually shifted to fifth place in the sixmovement cycle.
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But DU266D remained the key of the third movement, and before developing the Cavatina ideas in any detail, Beethoven composed the Andante, which stands third
in the cycle, in a relatively short space of time: "Beethoven spent far longer deciding what sort of movement to have as the third in the quartet than he did in drafting the
entire movement itself" (p.208).
At this stage, Beethoven was clearly thinking in terms of a fourmovement work, for finale sketches follow the end of work on the Andante. Various ideas for the finale
are tried out, and it is clear that "the Große Fuge was by no means Beethoven's first idea" (p.209) for this movement. Surprisingly, the first sketch material directly
pertaining to the fugue is not the subject (which, however, had apparently been conceived much earlier in connection with the EU266D Quartet, op.127) but the
countersubject in running sixteenth notes that enters in GU266D in m.160 of the final version. This, however, seems to have been intended as the movement's main
thematic material at this stage, for in one sketch it is labeled "anfang" (see p.211 and ex.13.15). Moreover, it seems that, even once he had decided to use this material
and the eventual fugue subject, Beethoven had still not definitely decided that the finale of the quartet would be a fugue.
Cooper attaches much significance to the evidence provided by the sketches that the Große Fuge was by no means a cornerstone of the quartet from its inception. 13
Rather,
it is clear that when he was composing the first three movements of the quartet, the sort of finale he had in mind was not unlike the substitute finale—in character if not in theme.
… There was certainly no intention of writing a mammoth fugue at that stage (p.213).
Thus, Beethoven's eventual decision to replace the fugue with a new finale strikes Cooper as less aesthetically problematic than many writers have found it. In his view,
the order of sketches for the last three movements of the original version suggests that the decision to write a sixmovement work came once Beethoven had realized
that the finale would be a substantial movement that might threaten the overall balance of a conventional fourmovement quartet. Thus, the inclusion of the Danza
Tedesca and the Cavatina was dictated by the demands of the evergrowing final fugue. No
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doubt some readers will disagree with Cooper's conclusion that since the Große Fuge can now
be seen as something of an intrusion into the quartet, rather than the germ from which the work sprang, Beethoven's decision to replace it with a different movement, more in line
with the others and with the finale he had intended while writing them, must seem entirely justified (p.214).
Nonetheless, the material that Cooper uncovers here makes a substantial contribution to our assessment of Beethoven's formal experimentation in the late quartets.
But the discoveries about Beethoven's vacillation over the shape of op.130 might have been put in a wider context. At the beginning of his study, Cooper imagines
Beethoven musing on various possibilities: "Should he, as in the Quartet in E flat Op.127, retain the old fourmovement form, or would it be better, as in the newly
completed Op.132 in A minor, to experiment with five or even more movements?" (p.197). Brandenburg has shown, however, that the EU266D work was not
always destined to retain the traditional fourmovement form. The sketches reveal that Beethoven planned a sixmovement structure, with a movement entitled La
Gaieté placed between the eventual first and second movements and an Adagio introduction (in E major!) preceding the finale and using some of its thematic material.
14 Thus, his indecision about the structure of op.130 was nothing new; one might argue that Beethoven was coming to terms here with some of the alternatives that he
had eventually shunned in the earlier quartet. Brandenburg's evidence certainly adds a layer of interest and complexity to Cooper's investigation of the issue.
Concerning a detailed assessment of Cooper's own work, one is hampered by not having access to all the sketch sources for the quartet. Cooper lists the important
ones (p.198) and argues that Beethoven's difficulties about the number and nature of the movements are most clearly documented in the Egerton pocket sketchbook
(SV 189), now in the British Library. As for the main sketchbook in use at this time, the de Roda book, Cooper claims that "the section contemporary with 'Egerton'
… gives fewer insights into [Beethoven's] structural problems. …, since the evolution of the work seems much faster here, with far more gaps" (p.198).
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Cooper inverts the normally observed relation between desk and pocket sketchbooks, whereby the pocket sources preserve often disconnected "snapshots" of
Beethoven's work while the desk sketches develop the material in more detail. While Cooper's assessment is not necessarily wrong, a more extended discussion of the
de Roda sketches and their relation to those in Egerton would have been welcome. 15
Before examining Cooper's interpretation of the Egerton sketches, two relatively minor additions to his inventory of the material (table 1, p.199) are worth noting. The
concept sketches on fol.4r, which Cooper lists as being in 4/4, make use of triplet eighths; therefore, the effective meter is 12/8. In view of the frequent use of
compound time in sketches on the surrounding pages, this may be significant. Also, the list of sketches on fols. 12v–13r should include reference to material for the third
movement (Andante con moto ma non troppo) of the quartet (fol.13r, staff 4).
Cooper writes that fols.4v–54 of Egerton contain "an extended draft of nearly thirty bars in E flat major and 3/8" (p.202), and he transcribes part of this draft in
ex.13.4. The material to which he seems to be referring is transcribed in full here in ex.1, although the total number of measures actually runs to more than thirty.
Cooper observes that this material may be connected with an earlier plan to write a movement in EU266D that modulates to C minor since the melody "twice veers
into that key" (p.202; see p. 200 for the earlier plan). If my transcription in ex.1 is correct, there appear to be not two but three deflections toward the relative
minor.16 A more serious issue, however, is whether ex.1 really does constitute a single, continuous draft. There are two reasons to suspect that the material beginning
on staves 8/9 belongs to a phase of composition separate from that which produced the preceding music: the pencil used in the sketches changes noticeably after
staves 6–7, and there is no reliable physical (as opposed to musical) continuity between the passage on staff 6 (or its variant on staff 7) and that beginning on staves
8/9. Cooper may be conflating two independent sketches into a single draft.
Immediately after discussing this EU266D material, Cooper refers to "a distinctive new theme (ex.13.5)," which is found on fol.6r, staff 6. "This sketch," he says, "is
fairly extended (about twenty bars), continuing on to
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Example 1: BL, Egerton 2795, fol. 4v–5r.
the next page, where the D flat melody is answered by nine bars of a minore section in C sharp minor" (p.202). This time there is no problem concerning sketch
continuity, but Cooper's measure counting again seems awry: the DU266D material runs to thirtyfour measures before the minore begins. (The complete sketch is
transcribed in ex.2.) Beyond the issue of its length, Cooper's description of this as "a distinctive new theme" is somewhat exaggerated: the sketch may start beyond the
beginning of whatever movement Beethoven had in mind. Finally, Cooper's use of the adjective "new" is questionable; a comparison of exx.1 and 2 shows that
mm.18–27 of the latter are a transposed variant of the sequential passage beginning on staves 8/9 in the former. Another detail linking the two sketches is the
sharpened rather than the diatonic fourth as a lower neighbor to the dominant at cadence points (see ex.2, m.30, and ex.1, m.25). The EU266D and DU266D ideas
illustrated in Cooper's partial transcriptions (his exx.13.4–5) are more closely related than he admits, although their musical relation reinforces his suggestion (p.203)
that Beethoven conceived EU266D and DU266D (and even G major) as alternative keys for the quartet's projected slow movement.
The most pressing interpretative issue that arises from Cooper's discussion of these and other sketches in Egerton is not the precise nature of their musical content and
interrelations but their exact point of contact with the
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Example 2: BL, Egerton 2795, fol.6r–v.
Cavatina in op.130. Cooper claims that ex.2 (his ex.13.5) "can be considered to contain the germ of the fifth movement [of the quartet]—the Cavatina—and most of
the subsequent sketches in 'Egerton' can be seen to build on the ideas presented here" (p.202). But he does not specify what constitutes the "germ" of the Cavatina or
demonstrate the way in which the later sketches "build on" this material. Put more bluntly, are the Egerton sketches truly "sketches for the Cavatina in op.130"? I think
not. Neither the sketches discussed so far nor any of the later ones in Egerton that Cooper considers seem to me unequivocally related to the Cavatina as we know it
in the final version. Indeed, the most that Cooper is able to show in the way of relations are a few melodic correspondences—the ''ray'fah
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me" pattern (p.203 and ex.13.8), for example, or the 3–4–5–4–3 pattern shown in his ex.13.9 and found in many sketches in Egerton. At best, we can claim that at
this stage Beethoven seems to have decided on DU266D as the key of the third movement—a decision retained in the final version—and that it seems to have been
planned as a slow composition: at any rate, slower than the eventual third movement (Andante con moto ma non troppo).
The Egerton sketches may not show any great affinity with the Cavatina in op.130, but they do relate in a compelling way to the slow movement of another late
quartet, the F Major, op.135. Cooper notes this connection only once, in passing, when describing a sketch on fol.8r of Egerton (ex.13.7 and p.204). He remarks that
none of the "characteristic melodic shapes" of the op.130 Cavatina is present in this short sketch. Yet several notable features of the op.135 variation theme can be
identified: the middleregister writing, the use of the melodic space aU266D–dU266D1–f1, and the use of imitative writing over a dominant pedal at a cadence point
(compare mm.1–6 of the op.135 theme and the cadential m.10). 17 Cooper describes this sketch as marking "a fresh start," but it is worth pointing out two respects in
which it may be related to ex.2 above, beyond the obvious shared key signature and meter. First, there is the similarity of register and melodic outline—again the use
of the space aU266D–dU266D1–f1—at the beginning of ex.2. Second, the end of the DU266D section in ex.2 dips down to aU266D before rising to cadence on a
repeated dU266D1, as in Cooper's ex.13.7: might not this represent a different projected cadential formula for the earlier, more extended sketch?
There is a more striking relation between the sketches with which Cooper deals and the slow movement of op.135, although he does not mention it at all. Example 2 is
one of a number of sketches in Egerton that project a movement combining DU266D major and C# minor; ex.3 shows another, in which the tonal succession is now
C#–DU266D.18 The same combination of
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Example 3: BL, Egerton 2795, fol.7r.
tonic major and minor is found in the Più lento section (mm.23–32) of the slow movement of op.135. There is also a connection to be made back to the sketches for
the EU266D Quartet, op.127, here: La Gaieté, the movement that Beethoven originally intended to place between the opening Allegro and the slow variation
movement, was to be in C major with a minore section in the tonic minor.
These observations take us beyond the relatively modest aim of Cooper's case study, which seeks basically to dramatize the fact that when composing in a
multimovement genre Beethoven often had no clear idea of what lay beyond the particular movement on which he was working. The embryonic ideas in Egerton for a
DU266D/C#minor slow movement to be placed third in the Quartet op.130 may represent both a renewed interest in possibilities left unrealized in op.127 (and here
we should also recall the appearance of an early version of the eventual Große Fuge subject among the sketches for op.127) and the seeds of a movement that would
not find its true place in the late quartets until the composition of op.135. Tellingly, the op.135 variation theme was in existence prior to the rest of the quartet: Robert
Winter showed some years ago that Beethoven planned to use the theme as the conclusion to the finale of op.131, the next quartet composed after op.130. 19 With
so much work on the genesis of the late quartets remaining to be done, it may be irresponsible to draw conclusions. But if these suggestions can bear the weight of a
tentative hypothesis, they add
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to an emerging picture of the late quartets as works related in a particularly intimate way at a genetic level, whatever the analytical evidence garnered from the final
versions may suggest. 20
If I have one overriding criticism of Beethoven and the Creative Process, it is that Cooper seems as undaunted by my second question (Why did Beethoven do
what he did?) as he was by my first (What would Beethoven have done?). Perhaps only one who dared "complete" the first movement of the Tenth Symphony on the
basis of the few available (and often equivocal) sketches would allow himself to appear so comfortably at home in the furthest recesses of the composer's creative
imagination as Cooper often does. Nonetheless, Cooper's book is in many respects an important contribution to the literature and likely to remain useful for a
considerable time, not least because it encourages us to reexamine precisely why we are interested in Beethoven's sketches and what we expect from them.
I have stressed my faith in the legitimacy of the discipline of Beethoven sketch studies. Douglas Johnson, writing in the late 1970s, saw fit to question the role that
sketches have to play in analysis. The kind of analysis he had in mind was dedicated above all to explaining "what Carl Dahlhaus calls the 'functional coherence' of
individual works"; or, as Brandenburg expressed it in his reply to Johnson, "the subject of analysis is the work of art in the immutable form bequeathed by the
composer in the final score."21
Analysis of this kind is not openly concerned with questions of compositional intent; if we understand analysis in this way, we must accept the irrelevance of the
sketches except inasmuch as they may alert us to previously unnoticed relations within the work. Thus, Beethoven's sketches for op.126, no.4, might lead us to Cone's
analysis of the "double function" of its trio, but in accepting this interpretation we have no more need of the sketches. I have already stated my disagreement with
Cooper's statement that an analysis can sometimes "be demonstrably refuted by the sketches." Nevertheless, while an analysis does not stand or fall depending on how
well it mirrors the composer's intentions, there is no doubt that much analytical writing tacitly assumes—or even openly states—that certain rela
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tions revealed by analysis were indeed expressly created by the composer. Surely, the impulse to analyze in this sense—the unrealizable desire to know why the work
is as it is—leads us to the sketches. Time and again, we are tempted to believe that the workings of genius might yet yield themselves up.
Whatever our motives for analysis, we do indeed appeal to "the work of art in the immutable form bequeathed by the composer in the final score." But one of the
boldest and most clearsighted interpretative positions adopted by Cooper in his book is to question the very status of a Beethoven work as opus perfectum et
absolutum. In chapter 10, "The Sketching of Melody," he discusses the wellknown image of the sketches as documents revealing the slow and painful transformation
of initially unsatisfactory ideas into their ''ideal" form, as if Beethoven "had some clear notion of the totality embodied in the final version even before he had reached it."
On the contrary, Cooper argues, a more realistic perspective regards "the final version of a melody as one possible realization, and the best Beethoven could think of
at the time, … rather than as the only possible outcome" (p.132). At the end of part 2, he refers to Beethoven's own expressions of dissatisfaction with his earlier
works, and the book closes with the thought that
Beethoven's creative process did not stop once he had written out a full score: his fertile mind was continually seeking, and was continually able to find, improvements to a work,
and it was only lack of time that eventually persuaded him to call a halt and move on to his next project (p.303).
From this perspective, the immutability of the final score begins to seem more provisional, even arbitrary, than is traditionally assumed. Conversely, the sketches might
be more profitably viewed as interim final versions of particular segments or features of a composition, that is, more as legitimate compositional statements than as
"failed experiments." 22
Whereas, in Johnson's formulation, it was the burden of the sketches (more properly, sketch studies) to justify themselves in the face of a received analytical tradition,
we may now be witnessing a reversal of roles. At least one other author has noted the implications for music analysis of
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a view of the musical work as less autonomous and immutable than has usually been supposed:
What, for example, would be the analytical implications of a model whereby a score represented a provisional stage in a theoretically endless cycle of revisions (admittedly, a false
idea; but so, I am suggesting, is the first)? While the provisionalevolutionary model would be untenable on its own, it is also true that much structuralanalytical thought today
simply could not tolerate a view which defined the "work" as operating within definable limits of deviation. It would be a profitable exercise for analysis to explore the limits of this
territory. 23
Such thoughts strike at the heart of some of our most cherished interpretative beliefs. While studies of Beethoven's sketches will no doubt continue to catalyze new
insights into the structure of the works, in the sense that they may alert us to previously unnoticed details and relations, their most radical effect may yet be to
undermine that sense of permanence, of immutability of the text, that is taken as the necessary condition of the very possibility of interpretation.
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Contributors
Theodore Albrecht, a professor of music at Park College and music director of the Philharmonia of Greater Kansas City, is the author of Beethoven: A Guide to
Research (forthcoming), translator and editor of Letters to Beethoven and Other Correspondence (forthcoming), and editor of Alexander Wheelock Thayer's
Salieri: Rival of Mozart (1989).
Scott Burnham, an assistant professor of music at Princeton University, is completing a study on Beethoven and the heroic concept in the age of Goethe.
Robert N. Freeman, an associate professor of music at the University of California, Santa Barbara, has contributed articles to Die Musik in Geschichte und
Gegenwart 2 and scholarly, practical editions for Musikhaus Doblinger, Vienna.
Roger Kamien, who holds the Zubin Mehta Chair in Musicology at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, is the author of Music: An Appreciation and the editor of
The Norton Scores: An Anthology for Listening (1977).
William Kinderman, a professor of music at the University of Victoria, is the editor of Beethoven's Compositional Process (1992). He is working on a
comprehensive critical study of Beethoven's life and works.
Richard Kramer, the dean of humanities and fine arts at the State University of New York at Stony Brook, is the author of Distant Cycles: Schubert and the
Conceiving of Song (forthcoming). His Beethoven essays have appeared in Beethoven Studies, 19thCentury Music, and Journal of the American Musicological
Society, for which he serves as editorinchief.
Nicholas Marston, lecturer in music at the University of Exeter, Devon, England, is coauthor of The Beethoven Compendium, ed. Barry Cooper (1991) and has
written books on Beethoven's Sonata in E, op. 109, and Schumann's Fantasie, op. 17.
Julia Moore, a lecturer in music at the University of California, Santa Barbara, previously held the Schragis Faculty Fellowship at Syracuse University. She is working
on two books for Oxford University Press entitled Beethoven in the Marketplace and Mozart and Haydn in the Marketplace.
David H. Smyth, who teaches music theory at the Louisiana State University School of Music, has published articles and reviews in Theory and Practice,
Perspectives of New Music, Journal of the Arnold Schoenberg Institute, and Music Theory Spectrum, and has contributed to The New Grove Dictionary of
Jazz.
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General Index
Proper names and titles within footnote citations are cited for discursive passages only. Entries in boldface refer to captions for music examples.
A la recherche du temps perdu. See under Proust, Marcel
Abbate, Carolyn, 14142, 182
Adorno, Theodor W., 11516n.12
Albrechtsberger, Johann Georg, 167, 173, 187, 188
Gründliche Anweisung zur Composition, 167, 187
Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung (AmZ), 94n.5, 208n.20, 211n.22
Amenda, Karl, 147, 159, 159n.13, 162
Anderson, Emily, 169n.11
Artaria & Co., 165, 166
Bach, J. S., 11213, 126, 129, 167, 167n.5, 172n.13, 188
Klavierübung, 172n.13
Kunst der Fuge, 167
BaduraSkoda, Eva, 74
BaduraSkoda, Paul, 74
Baensch, Otto, 3738, 39
Beethoven, Carl, 8792, 192n.3, 214
Beethoven, Karl, 192, 192n.3, 214, 215
Bekker, Paul, 67, 10, 13
Benedictine Abbey of Melk, 63, 67, 73
Binder, Carl, 73n.21
Blasius, Leslie David, 12n.29
Blom, Eric, 82
Bonaparte, Napoléon. See Napoléon
Brahms, Johannes, 93
Brandenburg, Sieghard, 72, 84, 159nn.13, 14, 226, 234, 235n.15, 240
Breitkopf, 66, 71
Breitkopf and Härtel, 85, 87, 88, 205
Brendel, Alfred, 112, 123, 128
Breuning, Stephan von, 84, 89
Bridgetower, George, 207
Burnham, Scott, 143
Chopin, Frédéric, 93
Cone, Edward T., 45n.31, 229, 240
Cooper, Barry, 82n.8, 84n.17, 22526, 22841
Cooper, Martin, 122, 138
Cranz (publisher) 81
Czerny, Carl, 6465, 65n.4, 76, 77, 78, 80, 211n.22
Systematische Anleitung zum Fantasieren auf dem Pianoforte, op.200, 77, 78
Dahlhaus, Carl, 2627n.3, 117, 119, 139, 240
Diabelli, Antonio, 65n.4, 78, 113
Drabkin, William, 116n.14, 22627
Epstein, David, 7
Erdödy, Countess Anna Marie von, 211
Eschenburg, Joachim, 8384, 84n.14, 91n.40
Faust (Beethoven), 195
Fischhof, Joseph, 72, 72n.17, 73, 80
Forte, Allen, 25
Frimmel, Theodor, 82
Galitzin, Prince Nikolaus, 216
Genette, Gérard, 17980, 18182, 184
Ein Glücklicher Abend. See under Wagner, Richard
Page 246
Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von, 25, 84, 86n.25
Wilhelm Meister, 84
Graf, Conrad, 67
Gründliche Anweisung zur Composition. See under Albrechtsberger, Johann Georg
Handel, George Friederic, 11213
Härtel, Christoph, 8891, 191, 20506
Haslinger, Carl, 73, 80
Haslinger, Tobias, 67, 7273
Haydn, Franz Joseph, 8n.19, 9394, 181, 188, 219n.30, 156n.10, 161n.15
Symphony No. 45 ("Farewell"), 8n.19
String Quartet, op.20, no.1, 161n.15
String Quartet, op.20, no.5, 17778
Hegel, 25
Heiligenstadt Testament, 82, 86, 90, 90n.38, 206
Heuss, Alfred, 6n.12
Histoire de France. See under Michelet, Jules
Hoffmann, E. T. A., 2, 181
Hoffmeister, Franz Anton, 205
Horner, Johann Jakob, 85, 87
Hummel, J. N., 73
KlavierSchule, 73
Iliad, 67, 1920
Achilles, 19
Andromache, 7
Hector, 67, 10, 13, 17
Patroclus, 10
Troy, 6
Industrial Revolution, 21920
Johnson, Douglas, 185, 22728, 24041
Kagan, Susan, 72
Kant, Immanuel, 144n.55
Kerman, Joseph, 21, 128, 162n.16, 167
Kinderman, William, 26, 36
Kinsky, Prince Ferdinand, 21112
Kirkendale, Warren, 16668, 173
Koch, Heinrich Christoph, 45n.31, 172n.13
Komma, Karl Michael, 13233
Korsyn, Kevin, 126, 139
Kretzschmar, Hermann, 12n.31
Kreuzer, Konradin, 193
Kropfinger, Klaus, 16566n.1, 168, 18587
Küthen, HansWerner, 112, 132
Lenz, Wilhelm von, 910, 13n.34, 14, 17, 1920, 82
Lichnowsky, Prince Karl von, 195, 198, 222
Liszt, Franz, 219
Lobkowitz, Prince Franz Joseph, 21112
Lockwood, Lewis, 61n.40, 148
Lorenz, Alfred, 37
Lortzing, Albert, 193
Macbeth. See under Shakespeare, William
Malfatti, Therese, 84
Maria Stuart. See under Schiller, Friedrich von
Marx, Adolf Bernhard, 56, 8n.18, 910, 12, 13, 17, 1920, 23, 38, 11213, 129, 14243
Marxsen, E., 73n.21
Maus, Fred, 4
Mälzel, Nepomuk, 214
Metastasio, 86n.25
Michelet, Jules, 179
Histoire de France, 179
Mockwitz, Friedrich, 65
Moscheles, Ignaz, 211n.22
Mozart, Leopold, 17879
Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus, 8n.19, 7475, 9394, 181, 192
Piano Concerto in D Minor, K.466, 71, 75, 80
Die Zauberflöte, 56n.37
Papagena, 56n.37
Papageno, 56n.37
Nagel, Willibald, 82
Nägeli, Hans Georg, 85, 8788, 90
Répertoire des Clavecinistes, 85
Napoléon, 12, 56, 9, 19, 209, 212
Nattiez, JeanJacques, 142n.49, 14344
Neate, Charles, 214
Newcomb, Anthony, 3, 115
Norrington, Roger, 39n.18
Nottebohm, Gustav, 226, 22728
Odyssey, 20n.44
Oulibicheff, Aléxandre, 56, 14, 17, 20
Paganini, Niccolò, 219
Peters, Carl, 217
Pezzl, Johann, 20405, 212
Powers, Harold, 26n.3
Prometheus, 2, 6n.15, 9
Proust, Marcel, 17980
A la recherche du temps perdu, 17980
Ratner, Leonard, 12n.30, 23n.50
Ratz, Erwin, 167
Reinecke, Carl, 82
Riedl (publisher), 67
Riemann, Hugo, 82
Ries, Ferdinand, 13, 65, 74, 77, 80, 87, 8889, 169n.11, 196, 205, 211n.22
London Farewell Concerto, op.132, 67
Sonata in A, op.141, 77
Riezler, Walter, 141
Page 247
Rosen, Charles, 2122, 39, 40, 9394
Rudolph, Archduke, 72, 112, 166, 211, 213, 215
Sanders, Ernest, 38, 42
Schenker, Heinrich, 1011, 11, 14, 2324, 25, 27, 35, 4045, 58, 59n.39, 60n.40, 94, 132, 187
Schering, Arnold, 67, 10, 13, 17, 24, 82
Schikaneder, Emanuel, 204
Schiller, Friedrich von, 31, 35, 142n.49
Maria Stuart, 142n.49
Schindler, Anton, 81, 82, 82n.8, 83, 83n.11, 85, 9192, 19293
Schlegel, August Wilhelm von, 8384, 84n.14, 91n.40
Schlesinger, Adolph Martin, 135, 143n.50
Schleuning, Peter, 23n.3, 910
Schmidt, Johann Adam, 86
SchmidtGörg, Joseph, 63, 71
Schoenberg, Arnold, 25
Schubert, Franz, 93, 183
Impromptu, op.90, no.1, 183
Schumann, Clara, 219
Schumann, Robert, 43, 73n.21, 232
Op.52, 43
Seyfried, Fritz, 73
Seyfried, Ignaz Ritter von, 7374, 166
Missa solemnis in honorem in D, 73n.19
Shakespeare, William, 81, 82, 82n.8, 8385, 86nn.2425, 90, 92
Macbeth, 82
Tempest, 8183, 85, 9092
Antonio, 86, 90
Ariel, 81, 83
Miranda, 81, 83, 8586, 9091
Prospero, 81, 83, 8586, 90
Simrock, Nikolaus, 87n.26, 89, 205
Solomon, Maynard, 18, 45, 61, 141, 145
Stadelmann, Rudolf, 219
Stipa, Father Robert, 64, 6674, 74n.21, 75, 80
Stipa, Mathias, 66
Stravinsky, Igor, 175, 225
Perséphone, 225
Sullivan, J. W. N., 112
Systematische Anleitung zum Fantasieren auf dem Pianoforte. See under Czerny, Carl
Tempest. See under Shakespeare, William
Thalberg, Sigismund, 66n.6
Thayer, Alexander Wheelock, 192
Treitler, Leo, 36, 40
Tovey, Donald Francis, 14n.37, 21n.48, 4041, 4245, 56, 58, 6061n.40, 8283, 13839
Tyson, Alan, vii
Uhde, Jürgen, 117, 121, 143
Wagner, Richard, 12, 2627n.3
Ein Glücklicher Abend, 1
Webster, James, 8n.19
Wegeler, Franz, 195, 204
Widows and Orphans Charity, 210, 215n.26
Wieland, Renate, 117
Wiener Zeitung (journal) 207n.18
Wilhelm Meister. See under Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von
Winter, Robert, 35n.10, 116n.14, 239
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Index of Beethoven's Compositions and Sketches
Entries in bold face refer to captions for music examples.
Compositions
Op.13: Piano Sonata in C Minor ("Pathétique"), 78
Op.15: First Piano Concerto, 72, 74, 75
Op.18: Six String Quartets, 14748, 155n.9
No.1 in F, viii, 14763 passim
No.2 in G, 15859n.13
No.3 in D, 95, 9599, 159n.13, 161n.15
No.4 in C Minor, 161n.15
No.6 in B, 156n.10
Op.19: Second Piano Concerto, 75, 230
Op.21: First Symphony, 207
Op.22: Piano Sonata in B, 159n.14
Op.28: Piano Sonata in D, 95, 9899, 10001
Op.29: String Quintet in C Major, 89, 95n.8, 100, 205
Op.30: three Violin Sonatas, 88
No.1 in A Major, 166
Op.31: three Piano Sonatas, 85, 8789
No.1: in G, 84, 85, 95, 99101, 102, 103
No.2: D Minor ("Tempest"), viii, 8192 passim, 230, 231
No.3: in E, 84
Op.35: Piano Variations in E, 84n.16
Op.36: Second Symphony, 95100, 207
Op.37: Third Piano Concerto, 6369, 72, 7480, 207
Op.43: ballet The Creatures of Prometheus, 23n.3
Op.47: Violin Sonata in A Minor ("Kreutzer"), 166, 207
Op.53: Piano Sonata in C ("Waldstein"), viii, 85, 91, 93110 passim, 166
Op.54: Piano Sonata in F, 85, 91
Op.55: Third Symphony (Eroica), viii, 124 passim, 27n.6, 37n.12, 39, 40n.19, 83, 85, 91, 94, 101, 169, 20607, 20809, 230, 231
Op.56: Triple Concerto, 91, 95n.8
Op.57: Piano Sonata in F minor ("Appassionata"), 81, 82, 84, 85, 9192, 94
Op.58: Fourth Piano Concerto, 63, 67, 6871, 72, 74, 75, 76, 79, 80
Op.60: Fourth Symphony, 107
Op.61: Violin Concerto, 74, 75
Op.67: Fifth Symphony, 2, 62n.41, 83, 13031, 143n.50, 145
Op.70, No.2: Piano Trio in E, 95n.8
Op.72: Leonore (1805), 85
Fidelio (1814), 231
Op.72a: Leonore Overture No.2, 95n.8
Op.72a: Leonore Overture No.3, 95n.8
Op.73: Fifth Piano Concerto, 74
Op.80: Choral Fantasy, 43, 208
Op.84: Egmont Overture (part of the Incidental Music to Goethe's Egmont), 230, 231n.10, 232
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Op.85: oratorio Christus am Ölberge, 84, 85, 91, 207, 208
Op.91: Wellington's Victory, 208, 214
Op.92: Seventh Symphony, 37n.12, 214
Op.93: Eighth Symphony, 214
Op.97: Piano Trio in B ("Archduke"), 95n.8
Op.98: song cycle An die ferne Geliebte, 215
Op.101: Piano Sonata in A, 215
Op.102: two Cello Sonatas, 215
Op.106: Piano Sonata in B ("Hammerklavier"), 95n.8, 126, 141, 145, 169, 17172, 184, 188, 215, 230
Op.109: Piano Sonata in E, 116, 12021, 125, 141
Op.110: Piano Sonata in A, viii, 38, 11145 passim
Op.111: Piano Sonata in C Minor, 116, 12021, 125, 135
Op.112: cantata Meeresstille und glückliche Fahrt, 230
Op.120: Variations on a Waltz by Diabelli, for piano, 111, 113, 126, 130
Op.123: Mass in D (Missa solemnis), 36, 112, 114, 116, 117, 118, 126, 130, 145n.58, 19495, 208, 21516, 230
Op.125: Ninth Symphony, viii, 18, 2562 passim, 111, 113, 114, 117, 126n.28, 130, 141, 142, 145, 166, 16971, 181, 184, 194, 195, 208, 216, 228
Op.126: Six Bagatelles for Piano, 141, 230, 232
No.4 in B minor, 229, 240
Op.127: String Quartet in E, 38, 216, 233, 234, 239
Op.130: String Quartet in B, viii, 38, 39, 129, 16589 passim, 230, 23138, 239
Op.131: String Quarter in C# Minor, 111, 113, 167, 178, 231, 232, 239
Op.132: String Quartet in A minor, 38, 39, 167, 168, 232, 234
Op.133: Große Fuge, 38n.15, 39, 16589 passim, 23334, 239
Op.135: String Quartet in F, 95n.8, 23839
Op.136: cantata Der glorreiche Augenblick, 208
WoO 57: Andante favori, 104n.14, 166
WoO 58: cadenzas to Mozart's Piano Concerto in D Minor, K.466, 71, 75, 80
Unfinished Works
BACH Overture, 188n.28, 216
Tenth Symphony, 216, 225, 228, 240
Sketches
Artaria 195, 145n.58
Artaria 197, 132n.35
Artaria 201, 132n.35, 135
Bonn, Beethovenhaus, BMh 71 (SBH 647), 64n.3
Bonn, Beethovenhaus, SBH 680, "de Roda" Sketchbook, 168n.9, 23435
Egerton Sketchbook, 23439
Grasnick 1, 148n.5
Grasnick 2, 148n.5, 15359
Kafka Sketchbook, 64, 75
Kessler Sketchbook, 84, 86, 86n.25, 226
Paris, BN, MS 51, 116, 127, 132n.35, 133
Paris, BN, MS 80, 116, 132n.35
Wielhorsky Sketchbook, 84, 86, 86n.25